I’m a Max-Level Taoist Master, and You’re Throwing Me Into a Rules-Based Horror Game?! - Chapter 142

Chapter 142: Because He Is the Most Dangerous One!

“Big bro, want a smoke? I’ve got premium hand-rolled cigs, a reward from my last mission.”

“Big bro, I’ve got some strong homemade booze—pure stuff, aged just right.”

“Damn it, last time I asked you, you said you didn’t have any!”

“Of course I didn’t have any for you—this is for the boss!”

“Big bro, you full yet? I’ve got a chicken leg saved from my last trip to the Hall of Repentance. Been keeping it in my pocket just for you.”

Zhang Yangqing watched the death row inmates fawning over him with mild exasperation.

Someone must have leaked that he was a seven-star powerhouse. Now these hardened criminals—men who’d strike fear into others—were practically groveling at his feet.

They were offering their most prized possessions just to catch his attention.

The food might’ve looked rough, but it was the best they had.

Truthfully, Zhang Yangqing wasn’t hard to get along with—as long as you approached him the right way.

Faced with their enthusiasm, he didn’t brush them off entirely.

The death row prison had three levels, each with multiple cells.

Every corner was under surveillance.

The place felt oppressively heavy.

If the regular prison was like a coop for livestock, this was a cage for beasts—every bar and wall reinforced to an extreme degree.

Compared to the strict discipline in the regular blocks, the death row section was slightly more relaxed.

But only slightly. The guards turned a blind eye to minor infractions, but rules were still enforced.

With recent releases, there were plenty of empty cells despite the two new arrivals.

There were no assigned bunks. Inmates who survived the day’s labor would claim a cell at night. Those who didn’t return… well, their spots stayed empty.

It was now around 10 PM. According to the inmates, lockdown was at 11:30, lights out by midnight.

This was the time for socializing—and choosing cells.

First come, first served.

Most inmates holed up early, especially the loners.

That was the unwritten rule.

But tonight was different.

Every death row inmate was standing outside.

Cell selection? That privilege went to Zhang Yangqing first.

His presence had shattered the prison’s status quo.

A seven-star powerhouse was the apex of this world. Offending him was unthinkable.

Bad temper? Anti-social? None of that mattered in the face of absolute strength. You’d smile and bear it.

But cell choice wasn’t just about comfort—two deadly rules loomed:

Prisoner Rule #4: Nights in prison are cold. Do not lend your clothes to anyone.

Prisoner Rule #6: After labor hours, return to your cell immediately. Choosing the right cell is crucial.

As a veteran of the supernatural trials, Zhang Yangqing recognized the hidden triggers.

Rule #4 mentioned clothing. While no challenger would willingly sleep shirtless, the rule hinted at danger.

Reverse the logic: if you wanted someone dead, you’d take their clothes tonight.

Not that Zhang Yangqing needed such tricks—killing was effortless for him.

Rule #6’s meaning was clearer.

Remember the crazed prisoner attacking guards during intake?

That wasn’t just intimidation—it was a clue.

Why was he outside when everyone else was locked up?

The answer dictated cell selection: pick one with sturdy bars or intact locks.

Miss that, and you’d pray luck was on your side.

Would you be hunted by the frenzied—or become one of them?

In the death row block, Zhang Yangqing accepted the inmates’ deference and chose a decent cell—one with an actual cot.

Most challengers would be sleeping on cold concrete.

No wonder the rules warned against lending clothes.

A few clever challengers had scrounged extra layers in the Botanical Garden or Hall of Repentance.

The cells were grimy, but the Snake-Eyed Underling cleaned Zhang Yangqing’s spotlessly before he entered.

In his eyes, the boss’s comfort came first.

Other inmates glared, as if he’d stolen their chance to serve.

Competition here had devolved into who could scrub floors better.

After tidying up, the underling took the adjacent cell—close enough to respond instantly if called.

Ambitious inmates crowded nearby too.

From the moment Zhang Yangqing stepped in, he’d become the prison’s nucleus.

Such were the perks of undisputed power.

Other supernaturals might hesitate to flaunt their strength, unsure of dominance.

Zhang Yangqing didn’t care. If he acted, it meant he feared nothing.

Why no fear?

Because he was the most dangerous thing here.

…..

Turban Nation’s challenger, Abdul, was also navigating death row—posing as a guard to befriend inmates.

Outside, he’d been an ordinary man, devoid of supernatural training.

But here, enhanced to six-star status, he commanded respect.

Even unrestrained, his physicality felt unreal.

To curry favor with tomorrow’s releases, he exploited his guard status for perks—like smuggling in contraband food.

That’s how ordinary evolution-path challengers built alliances.

In these trials, NPC goodwill could be lifesaving.

Abdul had to work for it.

Zhang Yangqing? He just sat there, and favors came to him.

Even guards and wardens greeted him deferentially during patrols, asking if he needed anything.

Viewers marveled: Other challengers are prisoners. He’s a VIP on an inspection tour.

If Abdul’s approach was diplomacy…

Others resorted to flattery.

In general population, challengers had no cell rights—they begged gang leaders for protection.

Every step demanded caution.

What was trivial for Zhang Yangqing could be fatal for them.

Surviving three deadly trials only to die tonight? Unthinkable.

…..

Pasta Nation’s Greco had finally stopped fixating on removing his restraint.

Whether by divine favor or newfound wit, he was playing smarter.

His goal matched the regular prisoners’: Survive three days.

Had he known this morning, he’d have scoffed. Three days? Easy.

Arrogance made him underestimate this world.

But after glimpsing outside the steel fortress, reality humbled him.

Powerful didn’t mean infinite.

Now he collaborated earnestly with the mad scientist.

Put bluntly: this dimension had taught him respect.

Without focus, death was likely.

Apart from Zhang Yangqing, no challenger dared dismiss the supernatural threats.

…..

By 11:30 PM, all challengers were locked in, awaiting nightfall.

The once-noisy prison fell dead silent.

An eerie void gnawed at them.

Humans naturally dread the unknown.

Time crawled. Many tossed on cold floors, clutching rose petals from the Botanical Garden—their likely lifeline.

Bear Nation’s Goncharov had it worst.

His gang leader was dead, leaving him alone against the coming apocalypse.

Lying in his cell, despair weighed heavy.

Even Bear Nation’s viewers and analysts saw no hope—only a miracle could save him now.

Other challengers had evolved or found protectors. He had nothing.

Just as exhaustion tugged at eyelids—

CLICK.

The lights died.

Pitch blackness. No moon, no glow.

Pure, suffocating dark.

Goncharov’s drowsiness shattered into primal fear.

The day’s grueling trials had drained him.

The icy floor denied sleep.

Half-conscious, he fought to stay awake—terrified that closing his eyes might be permanent.

Then, the anomalies began.

A strange scent seeped through the bars.

Floral, yet meaty.

Irresistibly appetizing.

In his mind’s eye, a guard wheeled a cart laden with sizzling steaks, crispy chicken, frosted beers—his favorites.

The imagery was so vivid, he nearly rose to unlock the door—

—until logic screamed: It’s pitch black! How can you see food?!

Panic spiked. He fumbled for the rose petals in his pocket.

Gone.

Had he lost them? Been pickpocketed?

Despair surged.

His survival odds were already slim. Was tonight the end?

The hallucinations intensified. Dizziness. Pain.

Kneeling, he slapped himself, bit his arm—nothing helped.

His mind unraveled.

On screens worldwide, viewers saw only darkness.

The isolation, the torment—only Goncharov and others like him understood.

Like waiting for death, utterly alone.

“Am I dying?”

He’d been a childless, unmarried outdoorsman—selected for his survival skills.

But real trials defied theory.

Each role, each environment demanded fresh adaptation.

True experience belonged solely to Zhang Yangqing.

In past trials, Goncharov might’ve fought common ghosts.

Here? He was bottom-tier prey.

He’d swallowed pride, become a gang leader’s lackey—only for his protector to die.

With no family to live for, willpower crumbled.

His heart hammered violently—whether real or illusion, he couldn’t tell.

At the brink of surrender, he glanced at the “steak and beer” beyond the bars.

If I survive, I’ll eat whatever I want!

The craving ignited resolve.

Calm down. It’s all fake.

Clarity struck.

If the visions are false… maybe the “missing” petals are too?

Perhaps his hand had found them—but the hallucination masked it.

Adversity sharpens the mind.

Goncharov tried again.

Fingers touched nothing, yet he grabbed “air,” shoved it into his mouth, chewed vigorously.

No taste, no texture—just relentless mimicry of eating.

Gradually, the illusions fractured.

The feast vanished. Darkness returned.

His heartbeat steadied.

It worked.

The trials weren’t hopeless. Survival bred solutions.

Despair clouded judgment. Clarity brought hope.

Precedent meant nothing here. Improvisation was key.

As relief washed over him, an allergy tickled his nose—

—then a metallic CREAK.

A cell door swinging open.

Footsteps, faint but distinct.

Goncharov’s nerves snapped taut.