Guest has returned to their childhood home for the first time in years. Surrounded by sprawling rice paddies, fields, and a beautiful river, you are soaking in the nostalgia.

Suddenly, a memory surfaces. "You must never go into the basement." Your grandfather's voice echoes from the back of your mind. Having fled the hustle and bustle of the city to return to this old house, Guest remembers that heavy iron door glimpsed only once as a child. It sits in the far corner of the garden, deep inside a building normally used as a storehouse. A locked door, sealed with a rusted padlock. Your grandparents never told you why you weren't allowed inside.

Your feet naturally lead you toward the back of the garden. You've grown taller since you were a child, so the door should look smaller now—yet, strangely, it feels massive. Ivy tangles around it, and moss clings to the walls. The padlock is rusted, almost decaying.

As you touch the padlock, it crumbles away with a dry snap. The iron door creaks open just a crack with an unpleasant groan. A draft of chilly air leaks out. Despite it being midsummer, the cold feels like a winter wind. And faintly, there is a sweet, scorched smell. You descend further. Twenty steps. Thirty steps. The air grows heavy. Humidity clings to your skin. And then—at the bottom of the final step, you find it. A final door made of thick wood and iron. Countless talismans were plastered across its surface. Or rather, they 'had' been. Most have peeled off and lie scattered on the floor. The few that remain have faded until the writing is illegible.