Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 277 The Survivor of Sunshine

Not everyone who returns had ever left.
Not everyone who is alive is whole.

Fate does not distinguish between life and death.

Only dawn can reveal who perseveres and who has been forgotten.

Si Ming sat on a half-collapsed wreckage, with scorched earth and broken metal that had just cooled down beneath him, and behind him was a ruined factory area that had not yet been restored to power.

The twisted steel skeleton lay on the ground like the bones of some dead beast, sunlight slanting down from its fractures, scattering fragments of light that wove mottled patterns of light onto his face.

He stared silently into the distance, his eyes unfocused, as if he had just woken from a long and abyss-like dream.

Behind them, the gray and enclosed "Empty Corridor" domain had not completely dissipated.

The boundary of Irostia's domain stood solemnly like a mirror, as if leaving all the illusions, tortures, and strippings he had experienced within it on the other side.

It was so quiet it was almost cold, like a silent temple that had just completed a self-sacrifice in which the gods no longer responded.

Herman sat lazily beside him, leaning against an undamaged metal truss, a half-burnt piece of dry rations in his hand. He took a bite and chewed as he spoke:

"You look like you've just stumbled and fallen."

Si Ming raised his hand and rubbed his temples, his voice low and deep: "To be honest... it does look quite similar."

"The moment you came back, the expression on your face was like you had just memorized the lines of an entire script."

Herman squinted, "And he even forgot which chapter he was the protagonist of."

"I've long since lost sight of who I am." Si Ming shrugged, his tone tinged with a self-deprecating ease.

"But this time... even Irostia has started to question me."

Herman chuckled, his voice slightly hoarse: "Welcome to the 'Club of People Who Question Their Existence Through Cards.' I remember we're missing someone who can write their own lines."

Si Ming didn't reply, but just smiled and looked down at the star chart that appeared on his left wrist.

The tenth star burned quietly, unlike the others which twinkled. Instead, it was like a sealed ice lamp, its cold light steady and weighty.

“Speaking of which…” Siming looked at the eerily quiet camp outside the empty corridor, raising an eyebrow, “Where are the others? Why are you the only one left?”

Herman bit off a corner of his dry rations, speaking casually as if he were talking about the weather: "After you plunged headfirst into that god-like interview last night, Mad Thirteen certainly hasn't been idle."

"At the start of the fifth night, the system logged off as usual, and Vera led the others to continue the game."

He spoke as if it were just a routine matter, as if they were merely employees reassigned to work overtime, rather than players forced to confront life and death.

Siming's brow twitched, and he gently patted his forehead, his eyes filled with helplessness.

"Oh... I almost forgot."

"Crazy Thirteen's games never wait for anyone."

Herman raised an eyebrow: "Don't worry. They'll be fine."

"They are much stronger than you think."

Just then, the figure that had been lying slightly supine moved.

It is Xiao Lianyin.

She leaned against Celian's leg, her head resting on the tightly closed tail feathers of the fox-eared summon, making her look like a half-shadow blown away by the wind.

Her face was still pale, and her lips were grayish, but her eyelids slowly opened, revealing a sliver of moist, peach-blossom eyes.

Her lips curved slightly, her voice weak, yet still carrying her usual sharpness and teasing:
Are you worried about someone else?

"Forget it, Si Ming... you've always been very shrewd."

"They're not children anymore. You should be more worried about whether you're still alive than whether they're worried about you."

Si Ming looked at her and gave her a somewhat tired but still warm smile.

"You're just putting on a brave face again."

Xiao Lianyin did not refute, but the smile in her eyes deepened.

She gently closed her eyes, her breath as shallow as the lingering breath of a fox flame.

"Pretending to be strong... isn't that a standard trait for those with a destiny-based personality?"

After those words were spoken, even Hermann fell silent for a moment.

The sunlight grew brighter.

The color temperature of the sky gradually changed from cool blue to light gold, and the city ruins in the distance shone with a metallic matte luster under the light, like steel skeletons washed clean by war.

Si Ming looked up, watching the sun rise slowly.

Golden light pierced through the gaps in the steel, falling on the three of them and on the ravaged earth, as if laying a reluctant blessing on this scarred morning.

"What are you thinking about?" Herman asked.

He didn't make any more jokes or teasing.

Sima Ming did not answer immediately.

He simply gazed into the distance, where pillars of light constructed by the system were slowly rising, like silent journeys home.

That was the guide for those who had completed the trial to return to their units.

The first one, rises.

The second light comes on.

The third way...

He spoke in a low voice, as if to himself:
"I hope to see more people come back."

"Those who came back alive."

Selene hugged her knees, huddled in place, and looked up into the distance.

She didn't speak, but her fingertips tightened slightly, as if she were holding each returning beam of light in her palm.

The sunlight shone on her profile, dispelling the trembling of the night, but it couldn't take away the stubbornness that hadn't yet subsided in her eyes.

The wind rises, stirring up dust from the edges of the broken metal.

The shadow behind the [Empty Corridor] has completely disappeared into the sunlight.

The gates of destiny are temporarily closed.

And a new day has just begun.

In the silence, a faint whisper suddenly reached Siming's ear.

The voice wasn't the malicious, mocking murmur of the Thousand-Faced One, but a deeper, more distant, yet strangely familiar and unsettling whisper—

It was Irostia's voice.

"Death and survival are nothing but illusions."

"The person who returns may no longer be the same person they were before."

The whisper seemed to come from an endless void, carrying a cold and rational echo that stirred ripples in Si Ming's mind.

He raised an eyebrow, then smiled silently, a smile that carried a hint of mockery, but also a touch of relief.

He let out a soft breath, smiled wryly, and muttered, "It's getting more and more lively."

And from within that invisible darkness, another voice, deliberately sharp, tore through the silence:

The Thousand-Faced One: You think that by binding yourself to the Sub-Secret, you'll have a voice? That's just another fool's game.

Irostia: At least he had something to say. What about you? Your entry has long been forgotten by time, buried in the dust of old rules.

This invisible debate was like a storm in his mind, stirring up a jumble of chaotic thoughts. Si Ming raised his hand to rub his temples, a hint of weariness showing between his brows.

"It was already annoying enough with just you chattering away, but now there's another chatterbox here, it's really giving me a headache."

He muttered to himself as he looked down at the card that was floating silently in his palm.
The card, engraved with the cracks of fate, seemed to respond to his gaze, slowly emitting a pale golden glow.

[World System, High-Tier, Bound Mystery]

The Corridor of Illusion and Emptiness

On the card, a black and white corridor, like a chessboard, slowly emerges, one end extending into the shattered end of a mirror, while the other end gradually dissipates amidst the lingering whispers.

Imperceptible energy danced gently on the card's surface, as if whispering secrets beyond the rules.

A new inscription is quietly appearing—

Rule Three | The Handwriting of Anonymous Individuals

Siming's fingertips slowly traced the golden inscription, as if caressing an old vow.

His gaze was clear as the first light of dawn, carrying a long-lost calmness.

“Crazy Thirteen…” he said softly, his voice carrying a hint of contempt, yet also a distant, lingering emotion, “Don’t you love writing screenplays the most?”

“Then I’ll write a story—one you’ve never seen before.”

A slow smile crept onto his lips, a smile so bright it seemed almost out of place in this broken world.

"I hope that once you finish writing this story, you can close your eyes in peace and get a good night's sleep."

At this moment, the first rays of dawn break.

The sun's golden rays pierced through the cracks in the ruins, casting gentle yet unreal patches of light amidst the charred remains and debris.

The fog had not yet completely dissipated; amidst the thin mist mixed with dust and cold air, beams of light rose from the city's ruins, shimmering with an eerie silvery-white glow.

Those were the guiding pillars of light awakened by the rules, rising from the ruins like a ladder to heaven, slender and firm, eventually converging in the sky and pointing to the same remaining space—the plaza of the abandoned arsenal.

Si Ming slowly stood up, his back stretched long by the beam of light.

He gazed silently at the figures that gradually emerged in the distance, as if he could hear the echoes of time and fate in those footsteps.

The sound of broken footsteps gradually became clearer, echoing through the chaotic ruins, just like the countdown to the end of a game in the past.

The first figure stepped into the pillar of light.

It's Natasha.

Her coat was torn, with bloodstains that hadn't dried yet on the hem, and her long hair was a mess from the heat and sand.

She was dragging a badly damaged, shattered firearm, with burn marks even visible on the barrel. Her other hand was waving it in the distance.

"Hello--!"

She shouted, her voice hoarse yet carrying a familiar arrogance, "You little brat, how can you still rest so peacefully?"

Si Ming was taken aback, then helplessly raised his hand in response, saying in a resigned tone, "I didn't do it voluntarily either."

"Ha! Of course you're not." Natasha walked slowly, but each step slammed heavily on the ground, as if crushing an indomitable will.

"But seeing that you're in good spirits, I'm too lazy to pursue the matter further."

She raised her hand and made a casual gesture, a mischievous smile spreading across her lips: "You've been promoted, haven't you, Little Siming?"

Si Ming blinked: "...Little Si Ming?"

Natasha smugly snorted, "You've already advanced to a ten-star Mystic Master, if I don't give you a nickname, you'll just fly to the sky!"

After saying that, she plopped down next to Celian as if she had dropped a heavy burden, tilted her head, and rested it on his shoulder.

"I don't care who lives or dies tonight," she said, closing her eyes. Her voice was lower, but more genuine.
"I need to get some sleep first, otherwise I'll have to gamble with my head again tomorrow."

Si Ming gazed at her weary smile, her nose reddened, and the corners of her eyes still bearing traces of dust and blood. Her expression was so real that it was impossible to ignore.

He finally let out a soft sigh, and the tension in his heart slowly eased.

The second group of figures emerged from the pillar of light. Vera walked at the front, expressionless, her shoulders and back as straight as a tower, the star map projection slowly rotating behind her, carrying a faint metallic sheen.

Following closely behind were Zhuang Yege, Lin En, and Mijinin Nobuna.

Despite the varying degrees of abrasions and battle damage on their bodies, the spirit in each of their eyes remained undiminished.

"Congratulations." Zhuang Yege approached, her smile elegant and composed, carrying a string of wind chimes-like soul bells in one hand, like a soul guide returning from a magnificent finale.

"Ten-Star Mystic Master, Lord Siming." His words carried no hint of jest, but rather carried a sense of ceremony, as if confirming a transfer of some kind of power.

Si Ming shook his head, a slight smile playing on his lips: "Don't flatter me, it's all thanks to luck."

“But even the chosen one must draw lots,” Zhuang Yege said softly. “And you drew the card that says ‘alive.’”

Vera simply walked over, patted him on the shoulder, and said nothing, but her expression conveyed a quiet affirmation.

"Remember to handle the follow-up."

Si Ming nodded: "Okay."

Lynn looked at the cards in his hand, her expression complex yet tender.

"You are bound to the World System."

She spoke softly, a flicker of light in her eyes, "This way, when we face those monsters..."

She paused, then slowly smiled, "...It seems, I've finally seen hope."

Si Ming nodded in the morning light, his voice firm:
"Don't worry. Leave the World System matters to me."

More figures followed, slowly returning from the pillar of light.

Duan Xingzhou, Rudolf, Mu Sisi, Lin Wanqing, Eileen, Lilith, Fujimiya Sumi, and even the taciturn Xu Jinxiao.

They walked through the morning mist and embers, their bodies covered in wounds but their eyes clear.

Some carried the seriously injured, while others supported their companions with broken bones. Some remained silent, some wept, and many simply nodded gently.

Their steps had an astonishingly synchronized rhythm—

Exhaustion, anxiety, pain...

Yet it retains a certain underlying strength:
victory.

They are back.

In the fifth night meticulously planned by Madman Thirteen, they were not completely wiped out. Si Ming also did not perish.

Their anchor of light is still there.

At this moment, the sunlight finally shone completely on the ruins, bathing the figures of these returning travelers in a kind of sacred glow.

The charcoal fire was lit, and the stove, made of several steel plates temporarily pieced together, was rough but emitted streams of warm heat.

A simple vegetable soup is bubbling away, the steam carrying spices, old ingredients, and a slightly charred aroma, evoking a long-lost sense of homely warmth.

Even if it's just scraps salvaged from the ruins, this pot of soup offers an indescribable comfort at this moment.

The team members sat in twos and threes around the campfire, their clothes covered in dust and bloodstains, their shoulders weighed down with exhaustion from the uncertainty of life and death.

What they wore were not medals of honor or halos of victory, but the silence of those who survived five nights and a tacit understanding that needed no words.

Si Ming, holding a rough pottery cup, sat on the outermost stone stool.

His gaze slowly shifted between the firelight and the shadows, familiar yet unfamiliar faces appearing and disappearing in the interplay of light and shadow.

In the realm of empty corridors, he had clashed with "them" countless times—those shadows, those projections distorted by bizarre rules.
Their past, their future, and even their transformations under certain extreme conditions.

But now——

They were sitting right in front of me, alive and well, laughing, arguing, talking, and shoving each other, like a group of ordinary survivors.

He suddenly couldn't tell whether the scene before him was reality or some kind of "ideal version of them" in his heart.

"What, can't get out?" Herman walked over, still looking nonchalant, and tossed a compressed energy biscuit onto his lap. "You're back now, and you're still not used to human temperature?"

Si Ming smiled and calmly broke the cake in half, handing one half to Selian beside him.

"Didn't you just say I was a stranger?"

"You're quite close now."

Selene snatched it away and snorted coldly, "Don't overthink it, I'm just too tired to do it."

"Oh?" Si Ming raised an eyebrow, a hint of provocation in his smile. "Aren't you worried about me?"

"I'm worried about you?" She took a bite of her dry rations and said vaguely but decisively, "You're more difficult than anyone else."

"You can single-handedly take on two dungeons like Crazy Thirteen, and you can even conjure up a divine entity to play with in the card game world. Now you're even discussing philosophy with two mysterious cards—"

"If something really happens to you, it will be the end of the world."

"...But I thought you didn't believe in 'natural justice'."

"I believe you."

This straightforward and unadorned statement is like a sharp yet warm short blade, piercing directly into the softest part of Siming's heart.

There was a two-second silence.

The flames were still flickering, and the wind was still whistling through the broken walls, but no one spoke.

Selene didn't look at him again and continued to eat her dry rations.

Si Ming exhaled softly, her voice so low that only she could hear it: "...Thank you."

"Shut up and eat your food."

Not far away, Lynn and Fujimiya Sumire were talking quietly, their faces showing a rare relaxed expression.

Mu Sisi and Lin Wanqing had already started doodling and drawing, and with a smile, they completed a hasty and exaggerated "Sketch of the God of Fate," which they pasted on the side of the stove and solemnly declared to be a "house-guarding deity."

Zhuang Yege sat on a half-fallen tree stump, her fingertips twirling the string of soul bells. The bells rang low and ethereal, as if commemorating something, or as if bidding a gentle farewell to a soul that could not return.

Vera did not join the commotion. She stood on a high pile of stones, clasped her hands together, and whispered quietly, praying for the names that would never return.

Si Ming's gaze swept over her figure, and a sudden realization flashed in his eyes.

No matter how peaceful and warm the scene before them may seem, they all knew that it was merely a brief respite granted by fate.

The wind will rise again, and Madman Thirteen's whispers will inevitably ring out once more.

And each of them is destined to embark on a journey once again.

But at this moment, in this place—

They sat in the light.

They are clear, complete, and vivid to each other.

That's enough.

As the sun rose higher, its rays pierced through the cracks between the broken tiles and rubble, casting a warm, white glow on a tattered iron plate.

The metal sheet was slightly warm from the morning light, as if it were a sign that something was about to be ignited.

Si Ming quietly left the fire, walked through a patch of ruins still wet with dew, and sat down at the outermost edge.

He carried no cards or weapons, as if he were empty inside, with only a heart that had just emerged from the darkness.

He looked up at the sky, which was tinged with a faint light, and closed his eyes.

The sunlight fell on his face, carrying the scent of dust, burnt iron, and dried blood, yet it was unexpectedly gentle.

He murmured to himself, "Are you still there?"

A familiar voice reached my ears, like a low murmur surging from the depths of my consciousness—

"I always."

“Irostia never left. It’s just that you have too much noise, and it’s hard to tell which one… is me.”

The sound seemed to come from underwater, quiet and gentle, yet it penetrated the depths of consciousness like nails.

Si Ming chuckled: "You talk more than the Thousand Faces now."

"The Lord is destiny, I am but illusion."

"The Most High wields the pen, and I am but a lie written by Him."

"Aren't you getting a headache sitting between two narrators at the same time?"

Si Ming raised his hand to rub his temples and sighed, "I really have a headache."

"Then why are you still writing?" Irostia's voice rang out softly, relentlessly pursuing the question.

Sima Ming did not answer immediately.

He looked down at the card floating in his palm—"The Empty Corridor".

Golden patterns flowed across the card like water, and he still remembered that moment when Rule Three appeared, and he wrote down that sentence with his own hand—

"The Handwriting of an Anonymous Person"

It's not about gaining power, but about reminding myself: I am still "creating".

He said in a low voice, "Because if I don't write, I can only be written."

"And what about you?" The usually cold and aloof Thousand Faces suddenly interjected, his voice carrying a hint of malicious chuckle.

"Aren't you afraid that what you write is just a sentence I made up for you?"

"Yes, I am afraid," Si Ming said frankly.

"But I can only keep writing."

His voice softened as he gazed at the still-lit horizon.

The beams of light still lingered in the distance, tracing streaks across the city skyline like star trails. The theater curtains seemed to be slowly closing.

"Don't you find it interesting?" he laughed, as if asking them, but also as if asking himself.
“Even though we all live in other people’s territories, as long as I open my mouth, those words—are mine.”

He gripped the cards as tightly as he would a pen.

"Didn't Crazy Thirteen want us to put on a show?"

"Then I'll write an ending for him."

"An ending that belongs to me."

Even if—

"Even the moment I put pen to paper is the only truth."

In the wind, the line of golden characters trembled slightly, as if Irostia was laughing.

"very good."

"Then let's continue writing."

"Write until no one can say which version of you they remember..."

Si Ming looked up at the sky and said nothing more.

He sat there like a pensive writer, waiting for the next page to fall silently.

"Someone sits by the fire, regrouping blood and fame."

Some people are still dreaming and haven't woken up yet.
But some things are gathering in the wind.
Some darkness has already crept in during the dawn.

(End of this chapter)