Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 293 The Final Theater: Fate Weaves a Deadly Battle
It's not that you've been seen through.
Instead, it's you—who has already been written into the page that someone else has already formatted.

The city square was deathly silent.

The silence is not caused by emptiness, but by a kind of "formatted" stillness.

The seven people stood in a circle around the center formed by the long-extinguished bonfire.

The wind stopped.

Even the stars remained still throughout the night.

Just as heaven and earth are waiting for a true writer to arrive.

-

In the distance, a figure slowly approached.

His steps were slow, yet each step felt like stepping on the edge of a page—

It was as if he was stepping not on paving stones, but on the gaps between sections of a script that had not yet been written.

He walked very slowly, but very steadily, each step pushing the "sense of reality" an inch behind him.

There was no wind to stir the hem of his clothes.

There was no sound recording of his movements.

He doesn't seem to be getting close.

He was more like someone who had stepped out of an unfinished manuscript.

-

Crazy Thirteen.

It was no longer the shadowy figure that had appeared in their eyes several times, nor the mysterious skeleton model with a distorted voice, cloaked in the shell of a data mastermind.

Rather, it is a complete person.

White clothes and black boots, long and slender like the brushstrokes of an old era.

His black hair was half-down, and his pupils were deep gray, devoid of light, yet extremely bright.

He did not bring any cards.

Yet it seemed as if he held the fate of the entire city, and even the starting point of these seven people, in his hands.

He stood before them, like a speaker who hadn't appeared in a long time, finally walking to the center of the stage.

He smiled.

That smile wasn't evil.

She was even somewhat restrained, like a student stepping onto the stage for the first time, polite and quiet.
"You've finally finished writing this chapter."

His voice was very soft, so soft it didn't sound like he was speaking; it seemed to come directly from behind each of their consciousnesses.

like-

A note stolen from their minds.

-

Si Ming stood at the front, his face expressionless, but his brows were slightly furrowed.

He felt it.

It wasn't murderous intent.

It's not an aura either.

Rather, it's the feeling of "being read."

It's as if I am a book.

And this person—is turning the page.

Crazy Thirteen turned his head to look at him, his smile as gentle as a teacher praising a top student's exam paper.

"You write very well."

“Especially the structural grammar of ‘the Lord of Fate’.”

He raised his hand, his fingertips tracing a virtual "square" shape in the air, like a text box layout command in an editor.

"I've always been curious about what the brushstrokes of the Supreme Mystery would taste like."

His eyes curved slightly, as if he had savored the lingering taste of a dish:
"do you know?"

"Very sweet."

He seemed to be genuinely praising him.

But that sweetness—was like icing sugar on rotting flesh.

-

Natasha frowned, her voice crisp and deep:
"who are you?"

Crazy Thirteen turned to look at her, his eyes showing no anger, only a strange tenderness.

Like a teacher facing a student who asks, "Will the story have a happy ending?"

He answered softly:
"I am Crazy Thirteen."

"Also—the first stage of the Destiny Seed Creator."

His tone was as calm as when he was declaring his identity, without the slightest emotional fluctuation.

"You call me a madman—I accept it."

"But even a madman can finish it."

As he spoke, he slightly raised his right hand.

Thousands of spiral symbols, logic curves, fragments of numbered structures, and radiant light of consciousness codes suddenly appeared in the void.

Every single one is rotating, every inch is fitting memory, simulating and deducing.

They gathered together like stars, leaping in his palm.

"The City of Remains, as an experimental platform, has completed the collection of life behaviors."

"From the initial generation of the numbered destiny to your own destruction of Angela."

"The simulated matrix has ended, and the divine structure has fractured."

"Full data collection".

He paused for a moment, then lowered his head and added softly:
"I...should go too."

No emotions.

There was no lingering attachment.

He doesn't seem to be leaving the battlefield.

He was like a character stepping out of a chapter of a script.

As for the next chapter, no one knows who wrote it yet.

Lynn asked in a cold voice:
"Go? Where?"

Her tone was calm, yet it was like a dagger hidden in the night—clean and sharp.

Crazy Thirteen chuckled softly, his voice low, as if it were some pre-written line:

"I want to get out of here."

"Go to the real world."

He slightly raised his chin, his gaze sweeping over the sky above the city's ruins, that dark, fractured, seemingly collapsed dome.

That's not the sky.

That is the inner shell of the world behind the door, the final pixel structure built by the rules of the world.

"This is a model."

"I'm no longer a person here."

He spoke gently, yet without a trace of regret.

—

Nobuna pulled out the Book of Fate, and the vermilion brush turned to a new blank page.

She looked at him, her tone as sharp as a judge's gavel:
"Then what did you leave behind?"

Madman Thirteen Smiles.

He stretched out his arms, like a symphony conductor, waiting for the final note to fall.

"Gift."

“Each of you has given me enough experimental material.”

"It is my turn to give your world a final performance."

He closed his eyes, as if in a whispered prayer, or perhaps stitching together the opening remarks of some cruel celebration:

"I will use your deaths..."

He paused for a moment, his breath rising like flames before a shrine:
"...to hold a celebration for my creations of the Star Calamity."

Madman Thirteen slowly opened his arms.

His posture seemed to be both welcoming applause and summoning some kind of "destined divine oracle".

He looked at the seven of them, his gaze slowly sweeping over them.

Calm, gentle, even bordering on pity.

“I know you don’t want to hear this from me.”

"But you will eventually understand—I am not against you."

"I am writing you into a perfect experiment of fate."

As he spoke, he made a light sweeping motion in the air with his right hand.

In the void, a gray-gold spiral pulse appeared, like a hidden "structural umbilical cord" drawn from the bottom of the world.

It doesn't connect to anyone.

But it caused the light and shadow in the entire square to momentarily freeze.

In that instant, Si Ming suddenly felt a shiver run down his spine.

It's not the chill.

Yes—the feeling of being written about.

Madman Thirteen slowly turned his head, his gaze falling on him, a rapturous smile playing on his lips:
"You are the most precious sample in my experiment."

“I’ve been waiting for you—to use that card properly.”

His gaze was gentle, his expression calm, yet it was more unbearable to look directly at than any murderous intent.

"The Thousand-Faced Weaver of Destiny".

Everyone was startled.

Madman Thirteen seemed to be whispering, or perhaps reciting lines of poetry from a data contract:
"One of the supreme mysteries of the Fate system, the Lord of Fate."

It is hailed as "the tip of the pen that narrates destiny" and "a copy of the divinity of destiny".

"When you use it, it might be for survival, to save people, or to deceive the enemy."

He chuckled softly, his fingertips tracing the air as if savoring a glass of wine he hadn't yet tasted.

"But for me—it was a gift from heaven."

He took a deep breath.

It was as if one was savoring the rich aroma of that "fate data": "Every time you use 'true lies' or 'the favor of fate'..."

Even that one stroke of 'unknown handwriting'.

"I'm watching them all."

"Everything is being recorded."

His tone was slow and low, the end of his sentence like falling snow—cold, but not heavy.

"You let me... for the first time, taste the true aroma of data from the Supreme Mystery."

"Then I understood."

He looked up at the sky, as if speaking to a deity who had not yet appeared, or as if returning a reply to an answer he had written down.

"To become the creator of destiny—one cannot merely create weapons."

"Create yourself."

The light in his eyes was no longer madness.

Rather, it is a kind of tranquility that has "already completed its self-naming".

Like the narrator's final gaze before putting pen to paper:
"I am Thirteen."

"I am also a structure of existence that is not written down by you."

Si Ming spoke in a low voice, his tone calm yet carrying an undisguised question:
"So you copied me?"

Crazy Thirteen gently shook his head, a calm expression on his lips that was neither mocking nor disdainful of rebuttal.

"No, I am using you to elevate myself."

He paused, his tone low yet clear as water:

"You are not a template—you are dye."

“My destiny seed already possesses the ‘fate adaptation factor under supreme observation’.”

"And I... should return your gift."

—

As he spoke, he waved his right hand.

The entire square was instantly illuminated by twelve gray beams of light.

A beam of light rose from the ground behind him, like a crack "cut" directly out of a black curtain, or like a page of an old script that had just been torn open.

"This experiment needs an ending."

He whispered, his tone like a curtain falling on a stage.

"The stage is right here—the square where fate weaves death."

“I have prepared the final twelve ‘actors’ for you.”

—

Twelve figures slowly emerged from behind him.

It is not a remanufactured skeleton, nor a replica of an abstract template.

Rather, it is a high-level mirror image creation of the Destiny Seed, reconstructed based on the seven of you through data fusion and structural optimization.

Their build resembles yours.

Their eyes, cards, steps, even the slightest pauses and breathing rhythms, are just like yours.

Crazy Thirteen spread his hands, like a playwright who had finished reviewing the final draft, his tone calm yet imbued with a sense of inevitability:
“You say I cannot become a god.”

"Then I will use your resistance to build a more perfect you."

—

He raised his hand gently.

Finally, he gave a smile.

The smile was neither arrogant nor smug.

It's more like a line a director says to the lead actor before the premiere:
"Then—let's begin."

"The final deathmatch game."

“Write until—you are all dead.”

—

boom!
Twelve beams of light pierced the plaza's dome, tearing open the spatial curtain above like thunder.

Madman Thirteen stood with his arms outstretched in the center of the pillar of light, like a priest presiding over a grand ceremony.

But those born beneath his feet were not believers.

Rather, it is a divine machine.

Twelve high-level life forms emerged one by one from the gaps between flesh and blood and rules.

They are not simple "alignment" copies.

They are perfect evolutionaries that extract the "most crucial superior factors" from each person's structure and then enhance them.

—

The madman pointed to each of his thirteen fingers, his voice as gentle as if he were giving a graduation defense:

【ID α-01: Mirror Fate Master】

Its appearance resembles that of a god of destiny, and its card structure features a dual main configuration of "destiny + world". It excels at weaving, deduction, and domain sealing.

"More stable than Si Ming, not swayed by emotions, and never doubting the logic behind every stroke of the pen."

“He never hesitates when he puts pen to paper.”

—

【ID α-02: Snow Hunter Na】

Slender figure, short silver-white hair, pupils that are rangefinder lenses, and dual pistols with modular tactical mechanisms.

“She is calmer than Natasha; she doesn’t wait for emotions to surface.”

"She didn't shoot for justice—she shot to end the algorithm."

—

【ID α-03: Lin, the Remnant Ashes Secretary】

The gray tower seal hangs in mid-air, the pocket watch floats, time interference can be covered by the area, and priority can be manually decided.

"She won't hesitate about who should be saved and who should be abandoned."

"She is not a survivor."

"She is the writer."

—

【No. α-04: The Heartbroken Scribe - Letter】

The Book of Fate unfolds, the two ghosts merge into a stable state, and their attack trajectories are written like decrees.

"Nobunaga will bow down for the dead."

"She won't."

"With a stroke of her pen, anyone—can be expelled."

—

【ID α-05: Blood Flame Nine Devours - Sai】

The Berserk mode is always active, its tail flame is like a blade, and its mobility speed is 2.3 times that of its main body.

"She has no servant attributes."

"She is a pure high-ranking vampire princess, incapable of love—only capable of killing."

—

【ID α-06: Memories of the Lost - Hermes】

A closed pocket watch with the ability to actively forget interference and ignore causal chains.

"Hermann created chaos."

"And he—is chaos."

—

【No. α-07: The Final Lamp of the Underworld - Zhuang】

The Dead Tide realm has an embedded self-circulation mechanism, and the Netherworld's judgment is given mandatory priority.

"He won't get tired."

"He doesn't need to catch his breath."

He doesn't ask if you're willing—he only asks if you're ready.

—

The remaining five are [blank evolution forms]:
—Reconstructed from residual data of high-level mystics collected by Madman Thirteen from past battles of the Mystic Corpses;

—Results of his behavioral conception experiment on the “next generation of life”;
—Or, to disrupt the logic between friend and foe, a randomly generated "target misleading module".

—

Madman Thirteen slowly descended the steps.

With each step taken, a "fate calculation network" appears beneath one's feet.

As fine as blood vessels, as regular as bone patterns, what shines is not light, but "probability".

He whispered:

"From this moment on, the game is no longer about guessing and solving puzzles."

"This is a deadly battle between fates."

"And you—are characters from the old version of the storyline."

He stopped.

I looked at the seven of them.

A smile, a tone as powerful as the final line in a play:
"Now, please speak with your own 'divine version'—"

"duel."

—

The square was chilly.

The twelve celestial calamities are slowly approaching.

Of the seven people, not one retreated.

They knew:

Now, it's no longer a question of "who will survive".

But:

Who can prove, through a real fight to the death, that their true self is more worthy of existence than any "imitation"?

You think you're rebelling against fate?
So, the page you called a halt to?
It was he who left you with the blank line that said, "I lost."

(End of this chapter)