Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 286 The Power of the Name Hunter

Truly powerful people

It's not about making the world remember who he is.

Instead, let the world—

To acknowledge who the other person he named is.

Not a recorder of memories,
Rather, they are the empowerers of existence.

He is not a god.

But he said "yes".
Then it will be.

Siming slowly raised his right hand, the cards at his fingertips quietly flipping between light and gray.

The card had no dazzling brilliance, yet it seemed sharper than any blade and heavier than any field.

The wind has stopped.

The gray mist solidified, the flames lingered, and even Irostia's whispers fell silent for a moment, as if the whole world held its breath, waiting for him to place that final stroke on the paper—

That will decide everything.

The God of Fate spoke softly, his eyes indifferent, yet his tone was like a curse, each word sung slowly and deliberately, as if written in the air and on destiny itself:

"You said I'm a storyteller."

"So today, I'll tell you a story—the story of their return."

He inserted [Fate System: Mysterious Mystery: The Thousand-Faced Weaver of Fate] into the intersecting seams of fate.

The void shook.

With a soft "click," it sounded like an ink pen piercing through the paper.

A wisp of gray-white life pattern spread through the air, like a spider web, gentle yet impossible to escape.

It tears through space, drawing out the lingering echo of a name that has long been forgotten.

From within the gray fog, familiar yet unfamiliar figures slowly emerged.

The first one emerges from the shattered Black Mist Theater:
Dressed in a platinum gown, she moved with the grace of a spider, her hands holding countless threads.

At his feet lay the scattered remains of puppets; behind him lay a collapsed theater, its curtains half-drawn, the empty seats silent.

He lowered his head and chuckled softly, his lips moving beneath the golden mask, uttering only one word:

"Leo".

—The puppet king has returned to his rightful place.

The second one stepped out from between steel and flames:
He was dressed in tattered military uniform, carrying artillery rails and incubator wreckage on his back, his hands still wielding chainsaws and steam arms.

His steps were steady, solemn like a professor lecturing, and his eyes held no madness, only silent dignity.

He leaned on a metal plaque covered in military inscriptions and softly read out his name:
"Von Brandt".

—War and wisdom, joined forces once again.

The third person stepped out from the crack in the mirror:
She treads upon fragments reflecting the sun, her body enveloped in fox flames.

Her witch's robes were torn, but her divinity still burned.

That wasn't the madness that followed her fall, but rather the unwavering adherence to her dying divine nature—she was maintaining her existence through sheer willpower.

She slowly raised her eyes, which held a flame, yet also a glimmer of humanity.

“My name is… Minako Mijinin.”

—Those whose divinity has shattered are called upon once more in the name of humanity.

At that moment, Wang Yichen's pupils dilated sharply.

His consciousness began to crumble, and the recognition module kept flashing error alerts.

He retreated frantically, roaring as he unleashed the spell code:

[Scan Error]

[Numbering Conflict]

[Data limit exceeded]

[Module duplication error]

He gritted his teeth, as if he wanted to burn all this injustice to ashes:
"No! This is impossible!"

"I clearly stole their keywords! Their cards! Their—death!!!"

A cold smile appeared on the lips of the judge, but his voice was no longer that of a calm narrator; instead, it was the low murmur of a pronouncer:

"What you stole were cards."

"What I summon is a name."

"They are the ones I remember."

"It's the story I told them."

"And you—you only have a number."

This sentence cuts like a knife through bone.

Wang Yichen was filled with shock and rage, and roared furiously:

"You are fake! You are lies!! You are imitations!!"

Leo slowly turned around, his movements elegant, the string in his hand swaying gently.

His tone was soft, yet the echo fell like a judgment:
"But isn't your belief that you're alive also a lie?"

Minako walked slowly forward, her eyes gleaming with a fox-like brilliance.

"Siming remembers our names."

"And you, you only have a number."

Von Brandt pressed the nameplate on his chest; it represented his tactical authority and his personal mark.

"I am not a slave to entries."

"I am a mystery master."

They stepped out of that void gate, each step seeming to proclaim their past as if they had been erased, like stars returning to their place, like oblivion being given a new name.

Fate and illusion intertwined on them, their light scattering like shooting stars.

Before Wang Yichen, the inverted sun began to sway.

He should have written the final chapter of the Divine Fate.

Now, he himself has become the last blank page.

Wang Yichen's doomsday bell slowly tolled.

Not because he is going to be defeated.

Rather, it's because—someone finally finished writing it.

Wang Yichen took three steps back, his steps unsteady, as if he had been pulled back to his physical body from some kind of spiritual platform.

The life-pattern core on his chest throbbed violently, almost exploding, and the emerging identification net projected a large red warning light array across his entire body.

If the alarm screen is forcibly filled to the maximum, the system is on the verge of crashing.

He frantically flipped through the cards, trying to awaken the remaining fragments of words within him. His movements were hurried, and his tone was no longer clear, but rather a mixture of longing and anger squeezed from his throat.
[Phantom Summoning: Fake Tamamo-no-Mae] - Ineffective

[Rule Simulation: Deterioration of the Marionette Throne] - Incomplete Construction

[Plunder Dungeon: Brant Attack Logic Pack] - Conflict Error

[Entry conflict! The original owner's rights override the current control logic!]

Warnings continued to mount.

He stared intently at Si Ming, then turned to look at the three figures—

Leo, von Brandt, and Minako Mijinin.

They are not "summoned" cards.

It is not a template, not an afterimage, and not a manifestation of an entry.

—It is themselves.

Named by the triple threads of the memories of the God of Fate, the power of illusion, and the authorization of destiny, the existence of "Return to its Place" is formed.

They are no longer "the dead".

Instead, they are "living beings" whose lives have been rewritten.

"You can't control them!" Wang Yichen roared, his voice almost tearing his throat.

"They're clearly dead!! I possess their power!!!"

Si Ming stood silently amidst the gray mist, like a stone tablet, devoid of sorrow or joy.

"What you possess are their remains."

His voice was not loud, but it was as deep as a deep bell:
"And I—have their names."

"A name is a quote from existence."

"It is fate that leaves an anchor in the story."

He waved his hand gently.

"Now—it's their turn to speak."

—

The first to make a move was Leo.

He still stood in that dilapidated theater, like a movie star on stage, gently raising his hand.

Thousands of silver threads extended from his palm, pierced through the void, and landed on Wang Yichen.

Each line precisely captures every flaw in Wang Yichen's recognition logic.

"The Marionette Throne: Theater Opens."

He said softly:

"You are not a chess player."

"You're not the director."

"You are not an actor."

His eyes were cold and sharp, and the silver threads in his hair suddenly tightened:

"You are—an out-of-control puppet."

Snapped--

A silver thread pierced his brain, and Wang Yichen instantly lost control of his legs, his body fell forward, his face contorted, his mouth twitched, and his consciousness was forcibly severed for a second.

—

Second is von Brandt.

He slowly raised his heavy right arm, the chainsaw arm hit the ground with a deafening roar of gears turning, and rust and firelight rose like embers from a battlefield.

"War is not a word."

"War is a matter of will."

"Taking my card is like stealing gunpowder but forgetting to take the flint."

He activated the [Real War Simulation Field] in a deep voice, creating a three-line advance space that spanned the logic front of destiny, completely locking down Wang Yichen's movement channels.

Wang Yichen's expression changed drastically as he attempted to activate the [World-Type Simulation Card - Unique Battlefield] to counterattack.

Cards appear—

But it exploded in half a second!
[Recognition failed]

[Reason: The account holder has priority access]

[Entry being claimed in reverse...]

von Brandt sneered:

Who is the master of 'war'?

—

Finally, there's Minako Mijinin.

She slowly stepped out of the mist, holding the Divine Mirror in her hand, her witch robe fluttering, and the mirror's surface spreading like water beneath her feet.

Behind her, Tamamo appeared half-real and half-illusory, her nine tails cascading down like a magnificent curtain, their flames gentle yet untouchable.

"What you have plundered is my false god."

“And I—am her original patron.”

She gently turned the mirror so that it was facing Wang Yichen.

"The Altar of Reverse Seal, open."

boom--

A violent shockwave swept through Wang Yichen's mind, and in the midst of this mental storm, the fragment of his "summoning Tamamo-no-Mae" was forcibly erased!
Card access has been revoked.

[Summoning Channel Closed]

Sovereignty identification in progress...

Tamamo-no-Mae then vanished from his side and returned to Minako's side, gently turning her head to glance at him.

She smiled slightly.

That smile, though devoid of murderous intent, was like a blade that pierced the heart.

"You... are not my master."

"You are just a heretic who eavesdrops on divine pronouncements."

Wang Yichen suddenly spat out a mouthful of black blood, his body arched violently backward, his identification number became disordered again, and his facial nerves twitched like a puppet with broken strings.

At this moment, he finally understood——

The power of plunder has no owner.

What truly gives meaning to existence is not power.

It's a name.

They are the ones who remember you.

The one who writes you into the story is the one who truly owns your "copyright".

Wang Yichen's breathing became increasingly rapid.

At first, there were only short tremors, then it felt as if the entire chest cavity was collapsing, and breathing felt like being hit by a blunt object, breaking into useless gasps.

His body began to disintegrate inch by inch, visible to the naked eye.

It's not a "disintegration" in the physical sense, but rather—the stripping away of one's sense of existence.

He was still standing.

However, his "standing" posture was no longer recognized by the identification system.

His shadow began to blur, its edges like ink spreading on paper;

The numbered markers on his body went out one by one, like dead stars falling silently.

[Numbering error]

[Failed to identify the seed nucleus]

[Ownership lock broken]

Current identity: Undefined

[Status: Residual term/pseudo-position alive]

Lines of system prompts appeared in his mind, like tombstones being erected one by one.

He is no longer "Seed Number One".

It is not number X-01 either.

He couldn't even utter the name "Wang Yichen" anymore. He opened his mouth, his lips trembled slightly, and a faint breath escaped his throat.

That was the name he had repeatedly called himself and boasted about.

That mark he thought was etched into his bones and destiny.

But at this moment, it has been stripped away so cleanly.

He wanted to shout.

But no language acknowledged him.

Those three words seemed to have been deleted from the world's lexicon.

Even those who "deny" him no longer allow him to be "named".

He has completely lost the logical coordinates that define his "existence".

—

Von Brandt slowly retracted the steam chain cannon from his right arm, his movements steady, like closing the last lock of a ceremony.

He whispered:

"ended."

There was no excitement, no celebration.

It was as if this was not a victory, but an ending that had to be written.

Minako Mijinin still stood on the fragment of the sun wheel.

She did not say a word.

The fox flames floating beneath her feet slowly extinguished, gently receding back around her, like the gradual ebb of divinity, leaving only reality and silence.

She lowered her eyes, as if mourning for someone, or as if closing the last chapter of her past.

Leo slowly retreated, giving Wang Yichen one last look.

His eyes held neither excessive pity nor pleasure.

He simply left behind a single sentence:
"You could have been a different story."

This sentence is like a letter that was never sent, carried on the wind.

He didn't say "You should have been a hero," nor did he say "You don't deserve to exist."

What he said was—"You could have."

That "can" is a "possibility" that once existed.

Unfortunately, he burned it.

He tore himself out of the pages of fate's manuscript and erased himself from the pages of destiny.

At this moment, Wang Yichen remained kneeling on the spot.

He was powerless to struggle, and the light in his eyes gradually faded, like a terminal that had been shut down, unable to even recognize "failure".

He is not a loser.

He is—a variable whose privileges have been revoked.

Under the gaze of the one who named him, he had been completely reduced to zero.

The battlefield is silent.

Like a page that has just been turned but has not yet fallen, it is empty and clean, yet it bears a heavy burden.

The gray fog still lingered, and the remaining flames of the life-seed flickered in the distance, like a belated footnote.

The God of Fate walked slowly towards her.

He wasn't in a hurry, and he didn't even show any expression.

He seemed to be walking along the edge of an old dictionary, one step at a time, as if he were walking into an ending that had not yet been finalized.

Each step is a polyphony of a sentence.

Wang Yichen remained kneeling, looking up at him.

His pupils were unfocused, filled with uncongealed bloodstains and struggle; his lips moved like a poorly edited audio recording, futilely trying to return to the source of the words.

He seemed to want to say something, but could only utter broken syllables:

"I am……"

"who I am?"

He once possessed power, a number, and the parameters and definition of victory.

He was the first Destiny Seed, a being meticulously calculated, and the most "suitable" character in Thirteen's writing.

But now, he has even lost the right to be a "loser".

He is a variable stripped of his role identity, removed from his identifying features, and deprived of his terminology markers.

The God of Fate stood before him.

His shadow was elongated by the dim light and fell on Wang Yichen. It was so light that it was weightless, yet it was like words on a monument, impossible to erase.

He did not look down.

He stood in a higher position, yet showed no contempt whatsoever.

He remained silent.

A silence in the face of "those who tried to live".

He slowly raised his right hand.

At the fingertips, a gray-white writing brush quietly emerges, like a feather picked up from the dust.

That is the handwriting of an anonymous person.

It is also the [Namer's Seal].

It was not an attack.

This is the last time—to give.

He said softly:

"You were once Destiny Seed Number X-01."

"You were once an ordinary person who was forcibly dragged into the game, powerless to struggle, died, and was then used."

He took a deep breath, and what appeared in his eyes was neither pity nor forgiveness.

Rather, it is the most honest respect for "identity".

He put pen to paper—

The grayish-white writing marks gently unfolded in the void, forming three characters.

Those three words were not incantations, not entries, and not identification markers.

is a person.

"You are now—Wang Yichen."

The strokes are like light feathers falling on snow, skimming through the gray mist, like the last stroke on rice paper.

Wang Yichen was suddenly jolted.

He suddenly looked up, his pupils regained focus, and his breathing became erratic yet real.

In that instant, he seemed to have "become human again."

It's not a serial number, not a weapon, not a string of semantic fragments following a project number.

Rather, it is a human being with a name, a beginning, and an end.

He lowered his head, trembling, looking at his scarred hands, and murmured to himself, as if waking from a dream:
"Wang Yichen... My name is... Wang Yichen."

“I… am not a number… am not a divine species… am not a creation.”

He looked up at the blood-stained sky, and tears finally welled up in his eyes.

It's not about admitting defeat.

Rather, it was so that—finally someone would remember his name.

Si Ming looked at him and slowly took a step back.

No more words.

He left only one sentence, as calm as the last page of a manuscript:
"Rest in peace, with your name on your head."

The grayish-white light spreads like water ripples.

Wang Yichen's figure slowly disappeared from the ground.

There was no explosion.

There was no cry of pain.

He did not struggle or resist.

He was like a sentence gently crossed out, carrying a touch of regret and a hint of redemption—softly, "finished" from this world.

His form disintegrated into fragments of light, rising with the wind like dust, like fragments of a narrative, slowly fading into silence.

He was not killed.

He is—completely written down.

The final tremor of "The Corridor Without an Eye" saw the gray dust silently sink at the boundary between illusion and fate.

Like the period before the curtain falls.

Silence descended.

At this moment, in the center of the battlefield, the three "named ones" slowly turned around.

They did not loudly proclaim victory, nor did they cheer for their return; they simply completed this rewritten return in their own ways amidst the gray fog and embers.

Von Brandt stood upright, wearing a tattered uniform with missing epaulets but still clearly visible insignia.

He nodded slightly to the God of Fate. It was neither an order nor a response, but rather a general paying the highest tribute to the last historian who knew his origins.

Thank you for remembering us.

The voice was deep, yet it sounded like a bell tolling on a monument.

Leo did not speak.

He simply turned around, his figure disappearing behind the stage wreckage, his countless silver strands silently curling back, like a curtain quietly falling at the end of a curtain call.
The lights in the Fault Theatre slowly went out, leaving darkness, but without regret.

Minako Mishinin stood amidst the cracks in the mirror, her divine robes already tattered, yet her posture remained as proud as when she first ascended the altar.

She looked at Si Ming, a complex emotion flashing in her eyes – a sense of relief after the silence, and regret for having been troubled by “forgetting”.

"I once thought that being forgotten by God was a relief."

“But you made me realize that ‘being named’ is the salvation.”

She bowed slightly, her head bowed like a penitent, but she looked more like a goddess who had finally recognized her own name.

The fox flames then died down, the mirror shattered, and the fragments fell like petals, disappearing into the depths of illusion along with her figure.

The three of them left.

No longer the deceased, no longer an entry, no longer a number.

They are—the "people" who have been written down.

The God of Fate stood silently for a long time before slowly withdrawing his writing brush.

He turned around and, step by step, walked out of the still-open area.

The "Corridor of Illusion" quietly closed behind him, the gray and white checkerboard automatically shutting down, and beams of light, like folded pages, folded back into place, returning to the grammar of the world.

Colors returned to their proper place, light and shadow returned to the logic of reality, and the wind—finally regained its flavor, carrying a mixed aroma of blood, dust, and fire.

—

At the edge of the domain, Celian still stood there.

She never left from beginning to end.

The firelight flickered on her blood-red claws, the nine-tailed fox flames had long since weakened, yet they still outlined her tall and imposing silhouette.

Her clothes were torn, and there was blood on her forehead, but her eyes remained as clear as ever.

She saw Si Ming come out.

Watching him step by step, step out of the "last page" that belongs to the narrator.

She didn't rush to greet him.

He didn't shout "Are you alright?" or say "You won."

She merely frowned slightly.

"The role you assigned me is so uninteresting."

Si Ming paused in his steps.

She continued her tirade, speaking with self-righteousness:

"Watching the whole thing from the sidelines? They barely had any lines."

"My screen time is less than that of Tamamo-no-Mae's projection."

Si Ming paused for a moment, then suddenly smiled.

That smile wasn't the ecstasy of victory, nor the relief of exhaustion.

Rather, it's the kind of laugh a writer would have when they hear a reader still remember the subplot they wrote for a supporting character.

"Next time, I'll write about you as the main character."

Selene pouted.

"It's too late. You owe me this time."

She held out her hand.

Si Ming reached out and clasped her hand tightly.

They stood side by side, their gazes slowly turning to the other side of the battlefield.

The battle over there is not over yet.

The army of the Fate Seeds continues its advance, and the raging tide has not yet subsided.

The barriers between Xin Nai and Lynn's domains had already shown signs of cracking, and Natasha and Herman's guerrilla lines were also retreating step by step, their firepower dwindling.

Death has not completely stopped.

The fear has not completely dissipated.

“Wang Yichen…this is only the first chapter,” Celian whispered.

Si Ming nodded, his eyes as clear and bright as ever.

"Then let's go write the second chapter."

Wind blows.

They walked hand in hand into the still-burning fire and blood.

Narrator and attendants.

Falsehood and the flames of blood.

Once again—standing side by side on this fragmented scroll,
An indescribable protagonist.

Naming is not the end.

Naming is the beginning.