I’m a Max-Level Taoist Master, and You’re Throwing Me Into a Rules-Based Horror Game?! - Chapter 18

Chapter 18: “This Area Ahead—Let’s Explore It Later!”

“If whatever’s inside poses a threat, I’ll need a way to stop it from getting out. But first, I have to gather information—figure out what it actually is. Maybe it’s not what I’m assuming.”

Rahman analyzed the situation calmly.

After all, charging in blindly would be no different from sticking your face into a bush without checking. Who knew if a gang of thugs was lying in wait?

So Rahman had a clear goal. The map showed an employee lounge and an archives room—maybe clues were hidden there.

With that, he headed to the second floor.

The third floor’s left path led to the storage room, but there was another, far eerier area: the right side after ascending.

Many had noticed this zone, yet most chosen ones dared not explore it.

A faint, dark-red glow emanated from the signs above the doors—no cameras needed to see the two blood-like words: [DANGER].

And it wasn’t just one door. The entire row was marked the same.

As everyone knew, places storing hazardous chemicals or toxic materials often bore such warnings. In this world of the supernatural, though, “danger” could mean something far worse.

One bold soul took a single step into the right-side area—

A crushing pressure surged instantly, twisting their gut with dread.

It was as if a phantom whisper hissed in their ear:
“This area ahead—let’s explore it later!”

And so, even the brave withdrew, retreating downstairs. The third floor’s aura was too unnerving to linger.

The second floor also had two paths. The left side held familiar spaces: the exhibition hall, dining area, and surveillance room.

According to the map, the right side housed the power distribution room, employee lounge, and archives.

Zhang Yang stepped into the power room first, scanning the equipment—circuit breakers, meters, nothing unusual.

The displays showed stable temperatures. On a sweltering night like this, the climate control had to stay active to keep the wax figures from melting.

Some meticulous chosen ones even inspected the wiring for faults. A system failure would doom them all.

Once satisfied, they exited. The room required keycard access, so as long as everything inside was functional, temperature-related risks were mitigated.

Next was the employee lounge—a resting area for the wax museum staff.

But the moment chosen ones approached the door, they recoiled, tense.

Through the peephole, a pair of blinking eyes stared back.

After two rounds of horrors, they knew: Something unnatural was inside.

And if there was one thing they’d learned, it was to avoid walking into a nest of the uncanny.

Had the map not been in the exhibition hall, who’d have ventured in? Now, no one wanted a repeat.

Just as they turned to leave, a note slid out from under the door.

Then—knock, knock—two gentle taps, as if urging them to read it.

While others hesitated, Zhang Yang picked it up without pause.

The message read:
“I’m an employee here. Someone framed me—I ate something I shouldn’t have and turned into… this. I can’t speak now, but please believe me.”

Only the security guard’s keycard could open doors with access control, even from the inside.

This design clearly existed to contain certain things.

Meaning: whatever lurked in that room couldn’t escape.

Realizing this, some chosen ones cautiously took the note, hungry for intel.

In the Rules World, more knowledge meant better odds—even if some of it was deception.

Rahman pondered.
Rule 2 states: “You are the only one in the wax museum. If someone calls out to you, ignore them and leave immediately.”

But this thing hadn’t called to him—it passed a note. Did that violate the rule?

His meticulous mind recalled another detail: the bowing creature he’d encountered earlier couldn’t speak either, and it seemed weak.

In contrast, the female spirit and the child could speak—and were far stronger.

Was this another harmless, mute type?

A theory formed: the silent ones wanted out, while the talkers didn’t seem to care.

Testing the waters, Rahman asked, “Can you hear me?”

Another slip of paper: [“Yes.”]

After a pause, he cut to the chase:
“What do you want? Or—what’s in it for me?”

No point dancing around it. Supernatural beings never approached without an agenda.

There had to be a clue here. Let’s hear its pitch.

This time, the reply took longer—more words:
“At 4:30 AM, a freezing wax figure descends from the third floor. It turns ordinary wax figures into special ones… and kills every living thing. If you want to survive, follow my instructions. But my condition is simple: free me first.”

Rahman frowned.

Why did ordinary wax figures crave escape, while the special ones didn’t?

Was leaving the only way for them to revert?

The “freezing wax figure” had to be the entity locked in Room 3-2.

Rahman had passed it earlier, feeling its unnatural chill.

Unlike other areas, that room lacked access control. If the being inside was intelligent, it could come and go freely.

Should I barricade it?

But he couldn’t fully trust this “employee.” Its desire for freedom might be genuine, yet Rahman stayed wary.

First, the archives and surveillance room—more intel, then decisions.

For now, he brushed off the lounge creature: “I’ll come back later,” then left.

This stage played out differently for everyone, but the core questions were the same:
What do you want? What must I do? How do I survive? What do you know?

It was all about extracting intel to judge its intentions.

Almost no one dared open the door. Outside, analysts scrambled to compile data from global screens, dissecting every detail.

Except for Zhang Yang.

He swung the door wide and strolled in like he owned the place—so casually that the entity inside froze in shock.

Who’s haunting whom here?

Zhang Yang sauntered to the sofa and sank into it. The employee lounge’s leather seats were a far cry from the保安室’s rickety stool.

Relaxing into the cushions, he crossed his legs, arms folded.

His posture was regal—tall, composed, exuding authority.

Sharp eyes, a defined nose, and pressed lips carved an image of unshakable command.

He might as well have been a CEO waiting for a subordinate’s report.

“Go on,” he said. “Try to win my trust. I’m listening.”