Forbidden Rules

My creed is simple, even a bit crude: "There's nothing in this world that money can't solve, and money you can trade your life for is even better money."

My name is Nick, a professional gambler, a speculator who constantly dances on the gray line between human nature and rules. My life is one big gamble, and I always bet on the side that promises a full pot. So, when that pure black invitation, sealed with crimson wax, slid under my door, the blood vessels in my eyes bulged with excitement.

The handwriting on the letter was elegant and venomous: "Crimson Manor cordially invites you to a game unlike any other. The final victor will receive the sole key to the 'Endless Treasury.' Wealth, power, everything you desire, lies within."

"Endless Treasury." Those two words, like four red-hot branding irons, seared through my reason and branded themselves upon my greed. I could almost smell the soul-trembling aroma of centuries-old gold coins mixed with decaying banknotes. The enclosed one-way ticket had no address, only a time, as if to say: When you are ready to bet your soul, fate itself will guide you.

I embarked on the journey without hesitation.

An unlicensed black sedan dumped me in front of a desolate Gothic manor. Crimson vines, like dried blood vessels, morbidly clung to the mottled stone walls. The moment I approached, the heavy, ornate iron gates swung open silently on their own, emitting a teeth-grinding creak like a suppressed sigh. A butler in a tailcoat, his face as pale as aged bone china, bowed to me. His movements were as stiff as a marionette's.

"Welcome, Mr. Nick. The game is about to begin."

He led me through a long, gloomy hall into a lavish yet lifeless grand hall. A fire blazed in the enormous fireplace, but its flames cast an unnaturally cold light. Instead of warmth, it made the shadows on the walls twist and dance like a legion of demons.

Three people were already standing in the hall. They would be my "playmates," or rather, the stepping stones on my path to the treasury.

A woman with gold-rimmed glasses and a scholarly air; I'll call her "the Scholar," her name was Evelyn. Her gaze was sharp, clearly analyzing everything with logic. A bald, muscular brute with a face full of savage flesh, they called him Mike, was impatiently cracking his knuckles, which popped like a beast about to break free from its cage. And a timid young girl, who looked barely of age, clutching a faded cloth doll. I didn't even bother to remember her name, let's just call her Lily—a classic cannon fodder.

Me? I quickly completed my assessment of them. The scholar is useful but indecisive; the brute is a threat but simple-minded; the girl is a burden and a perfect scapegoat. As for the butler... I narrowed my eyes. He was unreadable, but the very first rule emphasized respecting him. This meant he was both the referee and a piece on the board itself.

The butler gave us no time for pleasantries. He clapped his hands, the sound as crisp as a bone snapping. He gestured for us to look at a large notice board in the center of the hall, draped in velvet cloth.

"Before the game begins, I must ask you all to memorize and adhere to the rules of Crimson Manor. Violators will be dealt with by the manor itself." His voice was flat, as if rising from a deep well.

He yanked off the velvet cloth. Several lines of rules, written in what looked like wet blood, branded themselves onto our retinas, carrying the sharp tang of rust.

[Crimson Manor Rules of Residence · Public Edition]

Always maintain courtesy and respect towards the butler. The butler is the embodiment of the manor's order; he will answer all your queries.

After the clock strikes twelve each night, you must remain in your assigned room until the morning bells at six. Do not leave your room for any reason during this period.

The candlelight in the manor's corridors is your guide. Do not blow out or damage any candle. They are fragile.

The library is open to all guests, but you are absolutely forbidden to touch, move, or read any book with a red cover. They are the master's private collection.

If you hear the sound of children's laughter anywhere in the manor, cover your ears immediately, bow your head, and count to thirty. Do not attempt to find the source of the sound.

Dinner is an important part of the manor's hospitality. Please be on time. No guest may refuse any food served to you by the butler.

The goal of the game is to find the 'Heart of the Manor' hidden somewhere on the estate before dawn. Only the one who finds it will receive the key to the 'Endless Treasury.' The remaining survivors may leave on their own after dawn but cannot take anything from the manor.

I licked my dry lips, the greed in my eyes almost taking physical form. Rules? Rules were just a map marking traps and shortcuts. To me, these constraints weren't limitations; they were the roadmap to the Endless Treasury.

Evelyn frowned in thought, Mike looked disdainful, and Lily was pale with fright.

I, on the other hand, put on my most sincere smile, bowed slightly, and asked first, "Excuse me, respected Mr. Butler, when you say 'dealt with,' what exactly does that entail? A deduction from the prize money, or direct elimination from the game?" I needed to gauge the price of a lost bet first.

The butler's unfocused black eyes turned to me, his lips pulling into a stiff, terrifying smile. "Mr. Nick, the manor's methods are always... thorough and final."

A chill went down my spine. Got it. Physically "thorough."

At that moment, Lily timidly raised her hand, her voice trembling. "Mr. Butler, I... I'm scared. I want to quit. Can I?"

The butler's smile widened. "Of course, Miss Lily. The manor respects the choice of every guest."

As soon as he finished speaking, the heavy oak door behind us slammed shut with a BANG. The sound of the lock clicking into place was like a coffin lid being sealed. Lily screamed, rushing over to pull frantically at the door knocker, but the door seemed fused with the mountain itself; it didn't budge.

"The door... the door won't open!" she cried, collapsing to the floor in despair.

The butler slowly adjusted his bow tie, his tone utterly emotionless. "My apologies, Miss Lily. You may leave with the other survivors after dawn. For now, the game has begun."

I sneered inwardly. Naive. In a place like this, it's easy to get in. Want to leave? Only if you're carried out.

The butler distributed room keys. My room was at the end of the second-floor corridor, behind a door carved with a dying swan. The room's interior was opulent but couldn't mask the faint, corpse-like stench of decay emanating from the corners. I didn't rush to search for clues. My first priority was to check the door and windows. The windows were welded shut with twisted iron bars, and the old-fashioned lock on the door was unusually sturdy. It seemed Rule 2 was an iron law.

I pressed my ear to the door, listening intently. The corridor was dead silent, save for the crackling of firewood in the distant fireplace, which sounded like a demon's whisper. I examined the brass key in my hand; it was engraved with a complex crest. A clue, perhaps, but right now I was more concerned about what this so-called "Heart of the Manor" was.

Time ticked by, creeping closer to midnight. I checked every potential hiding spot in the room—under the bed, in the wardrobe, behind the heavy curtains—to ensure I was the only "living" thing present. One of my tenets: survival first. Money is great, but you need to be alive to spend it.

Suddenly, a soft knock came at the door.

Knock, knock, knock.

I flinched. Peeking through the peephole, I saw Lily standing outside. Her face was tear-stained, and she clutched her doll tightly, looking pitifully at my door.

"Mr. Nick... I'm scared. Can... can I stay with you?" she asked, her voice choked with sobs, like a lamb to the slaughter.

I frowned. Bringing this deadweight along? Absolutely not. But my mind raced, and a plan instantly formed. I could use her, perhaps to test the limits of some of the rules.

I cleared my throat and spoke in a gentle, regretful tone. "Lily, I'd love to help, but Rule 2 is very clear. We must stay in our own rooms after midnight. If I let you in, we could both be in danger. I'd hate to lose such a lovely friend as you."

"But my room... there are noises in my room!" she cried even harder. "It sounds like... like someone is breathing under my bed!"

My heart sank. Was there something in her room? Or was it just her anxiety playing tricks on her? Either way, she was a perfect "pathfinder."

"Listen to me," I lowered my voice, feigning concern. "There are still a few minutes until twelve. Go back to your room, lock the door, and barricade it with a chair. No matter what you hear, don't come out, and don't go looking. Remember, the rules are our best protection."

That's what I said, but in my mind, a cold calculation was running: if there really was something in her room, she'd be the first to die. Her death would be a perfect way to verify just how "thorough" the manor's punishment was.

Lily seemed persuaded. She nodded through her sobs and ran back towards her room.

I breathed a sigh of relief and quietly waited for the bell of judgment.

Dong—Dong—Dong—

The ancient grandfather clock struck twelve times. The dull chimes felt like they were striking each of our hearts. The moment the last bell fell silent, I felt the very air in the manor change. The temperature plummeted, and the candles in the hallway flickered bizarrely, their light turning dim and yellow, like a hundred spying eyes.

I held my breath and strained my ears.

A few seconds later, a bloodcurdling scream tore through the manor's silence. It came from the direction of Lily's room.

The scream stopped abruptly, as if cut off by an invisible hand squeezing her throat.

It was followed by a sickening, wet chewing sound and the crunch of bones being crushed.

My scalp tingled, and my back was instantly drenched in cold sweat. The sounds continued for about a minute, and then everything returned to a dead, profound silence.

She was dead. The little girl was dead, just like that.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to calm down. Fear is a demon; it makes you misjudge. I had to analyze how she died.

She went back to her room and locked the door. She had obeyed Rule 2. So, what went wrong? Was there something in her room from the start? Or... did she violate another rule?

I remembered what she'd said: "There are noises in my room... it sounds like someone is breathing under my bed!"

And then there was Rule 5: If you hear the sound of children's laughter anywhere in the manor, cover your ears immediately... Do not attempt to find the source of the sound.

Was what she heard really breathing? Or was it the so-called "children's laughter"? In her terror, did she fail to cover her ears, or worse, did she try to look under the bed?

My gaze drifted to the space under my own bed. A chill shot up from the soles of my feet to the top of my head. I slowly backed away until my back was pressed against the cold wall.

This manor never intended for everyone to survive. The so-called "assigned rooms" were traps themselves. Some rooms were safe, while others were pre-arranged slaughterhouses.

And we were like chips pushed onto a gambling table, blindfolded. Life and death depended entirely on luck and... choice.