I listened carefully. The barking was real—sharp and guttural—followed by a sound that made my skin crawl: the unmistakable noise of something being devoured, punctuated by disturbing satisfaction.

This building concealed something far more dangerous than corpses.

It was alive—and it ruled this place, sitting confidently atop the food chain.

The image of the six-eyed dog painted on the ceiling of the old school bathroom flashed vividly in my mind.

Whatever "it" was, I had no illusions about my ability to avoid it. Dogs possess a keen sense of smell, and it would locate me soon enough, no matter where I tried to hide. As long as I was trapped within these walls and this gate, escape was impossible.

I needed to find the key to unlock the iron gate. That was the only way out.

I had to believe there was a reason why I’d been placed here, on the third floor of this building.

The six-eyed dog mural wasn’t just art; it felt alive, as though it breathed in ways beyond my understanding. Whoever left it there—whether human or something else—had intelligence.

Think about it: would an intelligent entity go to the trouble of setting up a trap only to dump me and others into this savage world, expecting us to die like maggots?

No, if this was orchestrated by a mind, they would leave clues—hints to survive.

My logic was sound.

This floor seemed temporarily safe, but the doors lining the hallway were ordinary, offering no obvious leads or places where a key might be hidden. This wasn’t a police station or an armory; there wouldn’t be anything stronger than the fire axe I was holding. It was likely the only weapon available.

So, I had to go up—to face whatever was on the next floor. The most valuable treasure always lies in the place guarded by the fiercest beast.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

If the architect of this place was truly intelligent, this was their crude yet straightforward test.

Yes, this was a survival game. That was my conclusion.

I wasn’t afraid. Not even a little.

I ascended the stairs one deliberate step at a time, gripping the axe tightly in both hands. Each drag of my cigarette lit a tiny ember, the smoke curling like the breath of a dragon.

Though you wouldn’t guess it from my appearance, I’d been nicknamed “Fearless River” as a child.

Back then, danger was just another game. We climbed trees, swung from monkey bars, balanced on narrow railings, leapt from high stairs and rooftops, scaled walls, and practiced daring stunts. Scrapes, bruises, and broken bones were badges of honor. We even stepped on frogs and roasted grasshoppers without a second thought—just to earn a reputation for bravery.

Adults, of course, disapproved.

“How could you do such reckless things? It’s too dangerous!”

“Who’s your leader?”

“Gao Chuan. He’s amazing.”

“Stop playing with him! Do you hear me? I’ll speak to his parents! That child needs discipline!”

After a stern lecture, my friends gradually drifted away, one by one.

As we grew older, the adults taught us fear.

At first, I resisted, continuing to run across rooftops and walls. But when it became a solo act, I realized there was no thrill in it without an audience. It was boring—foolish, even. The gawking eyes of others made me feel like a sideshow performer.

So I became a model student. I gave up my dangerous hobbies and steered clear of sports, devoting myself to academics. By middle school, I’d set my sights on becoming a specialist in dynamics—a career that required top-tier education.

Now I presented myself as the perfect student: neatly groomed, my short hair always combed, my face exuding intellect and composure. Sometimes, I even wore non-prescription glasses. My uniform was impeccable, fitting my slender frame like a second skin. I joined the student council, participated enthusiastically in academic competitions, and consistently earned glowing remarks on my evaluations at the end of each term.

Yet, deep down, I believed the fearless courage of my childhood still simmered within me. It lingered in my muscles, my soul, my very blood.

Each step I took awakened that dormant strength. My muscles twitched and hummed with energy, as though rubber bands stretched to their breaking point. My blood surged; my heartbeat roared in my ears.

I wanted to scream—a primal yell that built pressure in my chest, ready to explode.

Even with my eyes closed, I knew I could find my way forward.

The barking faded, replaced by an oppressive silence.

It hadn’t left. I could feel its gaze—a predator sizing up its prey. This was its nature: to wait, to hide, to strike only when the moment was right.

That wasn’t cowardice. It was cunning.

Where was it hiding?

I stopped just before reaching the final step.