Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 201 The Soul-Guiding Bell Rings Three Times
"In some places, so many people have died that even death itself has become blurred."

A deathly silence reigned before the jigsaw puzzle wall.

The moment the red light went out, the air seemed to freeze into a solid glacier, pressing heavily on the heads of the crowd, making it feel as if their breaths were being held back by a thin thread.

"Only three are correct."

The fat doll's voice was like a rusty saw tooth scraping across the nerves, leaving a faint echo, yet it was enough to send chills down one's spine.

Everyone looked at the spelled words—F, E, A, S, T.

Five letters, like five thorns, were driven into their beliefs, pinning down their false hopes.

Rudolf stared intently at the wall, veins throbbing on his forehead, his voice almost distorted: "Which three are correct? Which three!?"

The walls were silent. There was no response; even the silence itself seemed to carry a mocking tone.

Wang Yichen stood there, his shoulders trembling slightly.

A silent storm raged in his eyes; it wasn't just simple regret.

Rather, it was a deeper kind of tearing apart—he seemed to see himself writing a wrong script and directing a wrong performance.

“I… I remember it wasn’t like that…” His voice was hoarse and almost inaudible.

But in an instant, he forcibly withdrew all his expressions and emotions, and when he looked up, his face had already returned to that familiar "confident captain" look.

However, this time, the smile carried an undeniable crack.

He turned around, like a trapped beast cornered, his tone cold and sharp, as he approached the three mystery masters step by step, especially—Si Ming.

“You,” he gritted his teeth, enunciating each word clearly, “from beginning to end, you just stood by and watched us die one by one?”

"Aren't you three high and mighty 'mystic masters' supposed to be able to travel across realms?"

We risked our lives to sample the food, gamble on jigsaw puzzles, and even died in front of you, and you just watched as if it were a performance!

He finally almost shouted, "Who are you people? What...what kind of show are you putting on?!"

Eileen's sobs mingled softly beside her, her emotions like a dam about to burst.

Duan Xingzhou gritted his teeth, his gaze gradually shifting to Zhuang Yege, his expression heavy with an almost questioning tone.

Rudolf remained silent, but clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white.

The air felt like it was filled with gunpowder; just one spark away from exploding into a heart-wrenching storm.

And finally, the God of Fate made his move.

As if he had waited for the perfect moment, he slowly walked out from behind the crowd, his hands in his pockets, his steps unhurried.

"what do you want?"

His voice wasn't a loud rebuke, but rather calm—a sharp, unavoidable, icy interrogation.

"You want me to risk my life for you?" Si Ming tilted his head slightly.
"Or do you want me to have a taste of that pastry filled with the bones of my comrades?"

He walked up to Wang Yichen, and the aura he had cultivated by navigating the casinos and desperate situations suddenly unfolded at that moment.

"What else do you want us to do?" He stared intently at Wang Yichen, his tone like a knife: "Shouldn't we applaud every time you make the wrong choice?"

Or would you rather we choose for you, die for you, and admit for you—that you're just an ordinary person?

He paused, then gave a cold laugh.

"Or do you actually know all along that you shouldn't be standing at this poker table—but you insist on dragging everyone down with you, making them gamblers?"

Wang Yichen was forced to retreat step by step by Si Ming's words, and finally stopped. The pretense on his face was like a paper mask, cracking and peeling off under Si Ming's cold gaze.

At that moment, he finally resembled an ordinary person whose true nature had been exposed by fate, standing on the edge of this abyss of gambling, speechless.

Vera didn't move; she simply stood aside, quietly watching the emotional turmoil and backlash unfold.

Zhuang Yege gave a low snort, her tone carrying a barely perceptible chill: "You thought you were the guide, but you were just the first one to step into the trap."

No one spoke anymore.

The wind blowing past the red paper lanterns at the street corner is like the lingering echo before the curtain falls on a yin-yang drama.

Syrup dripped silently from the edge of the stall on the street corner, splattering a dark red, rotten stain on the ground.

It seemed to be mocking everyone—your arguments cannot change the fate of being sacrificed.

Vera slowly stepped forward and stood between the two, her voice gentle yet clear, like a drop of water falling into a cracked porcelain plate, stirring up a long-dormant sense of unease:

"Now is not the time for a life-or-death struggle."

“You say we’re standing by and watching—well, now’s the time to show you who we really are.”

Her gaze shifted, and she nodded gently: "Zhuang Yege."

Without saying a word, Zhuang Yege steadily walked to the jigsaw puzzle wall.

He unfastened his cloak and removed a leather pouch from his waist, his movements steady and ancient, as if he were unsealing a tomb.

He took something out of the leather bag—

A card whose face is a bronze bell.

The bell is mottled, and the runes have been worn away by time, making them blurred and indistinct. Only the line of gold-plated inscription below the bell mouth is still clearly visible in the corner of the eye:

"The instrument for guiding the soul rings three times."

Zhuang Yege said in a low, solemn voice, "This is a secret passed down from the 'Fengdu Gate World,' the Soul-Guiding Bell."

“It doesn’t summon souls.” He paused, his gaze grave. “It only summons afterimages.”

“All those who die at this feast, as long as their consciousness has not been completely erased—will return after the bell rings three times.”

His tone was calm, as if it were a sentencing ceremony.

The God of Fate slowly emerged from behind, raised his hand and clapped his hands in the air, revealing black and gold life patterns—a sign of destiny's favor.

A semi-transparent "luck" symbol, resembling a fan-shaped protective array, rapidly unfolded from his palm, enveloping Zhuang Yege like a twilight barrier.

"I'll take charge."

Vera also took a step back, her right palm pointing to the sky, golden light flowing from her fingertips, forming a circle of shimmering light that surrounded everyone: "Those who are not involved, stop here. Any interference will be considered hostile."

She swept her gaze across the ordinary people, her tone gentle yet firm: "Stand outside the barrier, and do not touch any 'shadows'."

Everyone held their breath, and there was complete silence.

Zhuang Yege closed her eyes, chanted a spell softly, and gently shook the bell in her hand.

The first time, the bell rang low and deep, as if struck from the depths of the earth, carrying an echo of something cracking the earth and rocks.

The second time, the bell's tone suddenly changed, like a drop of blood falling into still water, creating sticky ripples that spread out in circles into the air.

The third time, the bell rang, its notes extremely short, yet they felt like a thousand-pound stone falling on the soul.

After the three sounds subsided, the air suddenly turned cold.

Extremely cold.

Extremely quiet.

It was as if the time of an entire street had been dragged into another tributary.

"I saw it," Mu Sisi said in a trembling voice.

The first thing to appear at the "Fish Soup for the Soul" stall is a grayish-white color.

It was a wisp of mist, initially just a blurry image, then slowly taking on a human form—the facial contours were indistinct.
His body was contorted, but his expression clearly showed a mixture of pain and madness.

He squatted there, as if searching for something, or perhaps constantly chewing on the air.

The next second, he raised his head, put a spoonful of the "invisible soup" into his mouth, and then his whole body shuddered, his face suddenly contorting.

He seemed to be devouring his own tongue, his throat constricting, and before the next sip of soup even entered his mouth, he was already screaming.

The cry didn't belong to any language; it was a... dying longing. Then, a second shadow appeared.

Liu Jingyu's Images —

She sat in front of the stall, smiling, and repeatedly put the red, gelatinous "dessert" into her mouth.

With the first bite, her smile shattered in a stiffness; with the second bite, she began to tremble; with the third bite, her abdomen swelled, and fleshy tentacles burst forth from her body.

But she didn't die.

Instead, he died three times.

Each death was slightly different: once his intestines were pulled out of his mouth, another time his facial features merged into a blank face.
Another time... she laughed, her entire upper body turning into a pot of thick soup.

“The copy is replicating her,” Si Ming said in a low voice, his eyes as dark as an undercurrent, “using her pain to test variables.”

Fujimiya Sumi let out a suppressed sob, tears welling up in her eyes.

“And…and not just her.” Rudolf’s voice was hoarse as he looked at the stalls on both sides of the street.

At each stall, the lingering shadows of the dead seemed to appear—

Mu Sisi covered her mouth and burst into tears.

Lin Wan'er's legs went weak and she knelt on the ground, her eyes losing focus.

Vera chanted softly, weaving a temporary spiritual barrier for them, but everyone knew it was only a temporary protection.

The real nightmare is yet to come.

Because this is not their time to face "food".

This is their moment to confront "themselves".

Si Ming murmured, "Everyone... could become the next shadow here."

Zhuang Yege put away the bell, and for the first time, murderous intent appeared in his eyes: "The madman isn't feeding us."

"He's feeding the entire instance—humanity's 'choice'."

"These are all..." Eileen's voice caught in her throat, and she finally couldn't help but squat down and vomit violently.

She vomited not just the remnants of her stomach, but also an instinctive aversion to a scene "unbearable for humans."

Duan Xingzhou stood there, his fingers gripping the seam of his trousers tightly, veins bulging, his face ashen, like a tombstone dug out of a graveyard.

He tried to maintain his posture, but even his legs began to weaken.

Fujimiya Sumi huddled in the street corner, clutching her knees tightly with both hands, like a frozen bird, her eyes revealing a shattered self.

The other survivors remained silent, their eyes vacant.

Those recurring images of death weren't from a horror movie, nor were they a dream; they were a "prelude to the future."
It's as if some screenwriter of fate is reviewing the script in advance, drawing up a predetermined ending for them.

They initially thought this was a nightmare, a test, a dungeon they could "clear".

But now they know.

This is not a dream.

This is a living graveyard.

Zhuang Yege slowly retrieved the Soul-Guiding Bell, its body still trembling as if the lingering resonance had not yet dissipated.

He stood in the center of the bell, his face like solidified ice, his voice so deep it almost vibrated against his bones.

"The dead here... cannot be received by the underworld."

"They have nowhere to go."

“I can’t sense the afterglow of the soul lamp, nor can I find any trace of the ‘underworld’—they are not ‘dead,’ but rather deprived of the right to die.”

He raised his head, his gaze as deep and heavy as the long night on an altar, each word like an epitaph:
"This is not a normal copy."

"This is—a sacrificial site."

The street fell eerily quiet, with only the neon sign on the puppet stall still flashing mechanically, its light shining on the jigsaw puzzle wall as if some deity was watching the offering.

The lingering images of the dead continue to play on a loop in the streets, as if feeding a machine that keeps restarting with death.

A figure was burned by the boiling broth of the hot pot until the skin and flesh were peeled off, but a "delicious" smile still lingered on the corner of his mouth;
Someone was struggling in the oil pan, their skeleton crackling as it was fried.

Some people sat in front of a dessert stall, eating their own hands one bite at a time, until the last piece of hand bone was bitten off and swallowed.

But they never scream.

All sounds seemed to be swallowed up by the city itself, leaving only a "silent chewing" echoing in the space.

Wang Yichen stood at the end of the street, his face expressionless. His lips were slightly parted, but he could not utter a word.

His knuckles dug into his palms, his nails digging deep, as if trying to awaken himself through the pain.

Vera slowly walked to Zhuang Yege's side, looked up at the jigsaw puzzle wall at the end of the street. The light had long been extinguished, leaving only dark cracks floating on the wall like withered bones.

“These afterimages…were not generated naturally.” Her tone was unusually cold.

"This is not a game."

“This is a series of ‘tastings’—using humanity as seasoning, death as condiment, and cruelty as chopsticks.”

"Greedy Feast Street is not a testing ground."

She paused, her gaze darkening, like a judge staring at ruins:
"This is a sacrifice node. It's specifically designed to consume 'living people'."

Zhuang Yege nodded, his voice like a hammer blow:
“And the forms of sacrifice are ‘eating’ and ‘being eaten’.”

Si Ming finally stepped forward slowly and stood in the middle of the street, as if he were the only audience member on this stage, and also the only outsider.

He raised his head, looking at the street, at the sky, at the stalls, the lights, the jigsaw puzzle wall, and calmly said, word by word:

"He's crazy."

"He wasn't playing a game."

"He's writing a script—using our deaths to continue a complete chapter of a nightmare."

"When each person dies, a lamp is lit; when each dish is finished, a card is played."

He sat at the far end of the audience section below the stage, munching on popcorn made of human flesh, waiting for us to finish our performance—and then applauding.

Mu Sisi finally couldn't hold back her tears and cried out, "Then... what should we do now?"

Si Ming twitched the corners of his mouth, lowered his head and chuckled, but that chuckle was colder than the entire street:
"Keep acting."

But this time—

He slowly raised his head, his gaze revealing a sharpness devoid of fear.

“Let us write the script.”

Zhuang Yege continued to shake the Soul-Guiding Bell, the sound becoming increasingly clear and crisp. The afterimage spread like ink painting, covering the oppressive and weary feeling as thick as a fog.

—This is not a copy.

—This is an altar.

They are not players.

They are food.

But now they know.

"Greedy Banquet Street is not a mystery."

It was an empty bowl that someone had left behind.

Waiting for you to jump in yourself.

(End of this chapter)