Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 295 Anchor of Destiny, Path of Illusions
God did not come in through the door.
He was there before the door opened.
He already knew who was waiting for him.

That was seven hours before Crazy Thirteen picked up his pen.

In a corner of the City of Remains, the remains of the former Star Bridge Gate still stand, as if time has not completely erased them, but has merely temporarily placed them on the edge of the post-apocalyptic ruins.

The remains of those numbered individuals had long been cleared away, and all fragments capable of resurrection and re-engagement had been melted down and burned.

All that remained was scorched earth, as if licked by a raging fire, with cracks on the ground winding like the veins of the dead.

It was the remains of a recently deceased body, still warm and smelling of burning.

Si Ming sat quietly under the broken traffic light pole, his back against the jagged metal frame.

He remained silent, gazing into the distance—where a withered birch tree was slowly emitting smoke, its branches charred black, like an epitaph written in embers.

A campfire flickered weakly nearby, its flames swaying gently, and sparks fell like silent stars at their feet.

This was originally supposed to be a rest period for the main characters.

But at that moment, a piercing communication notification suddenly broke the silence, ringing out unexpectedly in the night.

A green light flickered between Natasha's fingers, and the communicator vibrated like a pulse.

She frowned, stepped out of the firelight's range, and connected the signal: "...This is Natasha."

On the other end, a long-lost yet familiar voice came—Ruoli.

Her voice was as calm and composed as ever, as if it had never been touched by the flames of war:
“Your location has been confirmed,” she stated calmly. “We are ready to establish a back anchor connection. Please confirm your coordinates and be prepared to maintain the energy node for at least ten minutes.”

Natasha glanced back at Si Ming and Zhuang Yege, and repeated in a calm voice:
"She wants to come in."

The sound of the wind seemed to stop completely at that moment.

All eyes turned to Zhuang Yege without prior arrangement.

“I’ll do it,” he said.

The sound was low and steady, without any ripples, like the echo of the midnight tide surging on a deserted shore.

He offered no further explanation, as if those words had lingered in his heart for many years.

Si Ming looked at him, her eyes revealing complex emotions: "Are you sure?"

Zhuang Yege nodded, her movements calm yet exceptionally firm:

"Although my Underworld Death Tide Realm suffered heavy losses in the battle against Angela, as long as I don't open the Gate of the Underworld, I can still maintain a stable anchor point."

As he spoke, he slowly raised one hand.

The lantern of the Dead Tide flickered to life, its deep blue oil pulsating with an unreal light.

Within the wick, faint ripples still linger from the other side of the Star Bridge, like the last breath between worlds.

“As long as I’m still standing,” Zhuang Yege said softly, “they… can come back.”

But Si Ming remained silent for a moment, and finally slowly shook his head.

"No." He said it very softly, but it struck him like a hammer blow to the heart.

He turned to meet Zhuang Yege's gaze directly, his tone calm, but his meaning sharp as a knife:
“By enduring the Yellow Springs Domain once, you are not consuming combat power.”

"It's the structural level—the inherent loss."

"And what we're going to face next is—Madman Thirteen."

He paused, each word sounding like a heavy weight:

"We can't let you become damaged prematurely."

Zhuang Yege's expression changed, his brows furrowed slightly, and he attempted to explain:
"But as long as the Gate of the Underworld remains untouched, I—"

"No," Si Ming interrupted calmly.

He stood up and slowly walked towards the still warm open space.

He pulled a card from his pocket and gently smoothed the mysterious edges covered with gray patterns.

The Corridor of Illusion - Irostia.

Si Ming spoke in a low, clear voice:

"If all you need is an anchor."

"A connection point."

A slight, almost imperceptible smile appeared at the corner of his mouth:
"No lights are needed."

"One illusion is enough."

Lynn was the first to react; a hint of surprise and admiration flashed in her eyes:

"You want to use the corridor of illusion... as a concealed anchor point?"

Hermann raised an eyebrow, his expression carrying a hint of uncertain mockery:
"A dream world connecting to reality? You're planning to let Ruoli—come in from a dream?"

Si Ming nodded, his expression unwavering:
"Under the illusion, everything can be reconstructed with a logical path."

"Irostia is one of the three powers of the Dream Realm."

"He can hold up an entrance that is not observed by fate."

Natasha looked at him, her brow furrowed slightly: "How many stars are you planning to ignite?"

Si Ming calmly replied, "Three."

Everyone's hearts were shocked.

Burning three stars, not engaging in combat—this is an extremely rare choice, symbolizing absolute trust in the intelligence judgment of the Deputy Mysterious One, and also meaning:

"I bet this card can give us a future."

The God of Fate slowly extended his right hand.

The mysterious card with its gray-gold border and dreamlike, hazy appearance slowly emerged, swirling and surging beyond the boundary between light and darkness. Between reality and illusion, the name of Irostia gradually appeared.

[Secondary Mystery - World System: No. 781 The Void Corridor - King of Illusion - Irostia]

The God of Fate spoke softly, as if reciting a prayer, or making a promise to the unknown:

"Irostia".

"In my name."

"With the Realm of Dreams".

"Betting on the future."

Show yourself.

As soon as he finished speaking, he twirled his fingertips.

Three stars of reason suddenly ignited in the star chart, like the spindle of fate spinning in the dark.

The light gathered in his palm, like three threads of time intertwining to form a critical point in a dream—

A bridge to the unknown is under construction.

"Star number—three!"

Lynn blurted it out, his voice seeming to explode from his chest.

It was a judgment born of instinct, an intuitive reaction to the threshold of authority.

The next second, the temperature of the world plummeted, as if the surrounding heat had been instantly sucked away, and the air was as if it had been trapped in a piece of frozen glass, making even breathing difficult.

Every heartbeat seemed to be a beat slow.

In the void, feather-like threads began to fall silently—neither light nor shadow, but an "unawakened illusion" from another dimension, forgotten by the world.

They entwine around the edge of reality, like dreams quietly taking root on the border of reality.

From beneath Siming's feet, a chessboard-like space of gray and black slowly unfolded, surrounded by water and mist, like fragments of space soaked in an ocean of dreams, enveloping, overflowing, and flowing, its outline completely indefinable.

Even light and sound seem to have been rearranged after entering this area, presenting a non-linear and unstable state.

Then--

A figure slowly emerged from that gray dream.

Its appearance was without divine revelation or royal majesty.

It is neither a crown nor a cape.

It was merely a robe woven from the "reflection" itself, the robe flowing with dreamlike traces like shattered mirror images—

Those unfinished lies, forgotten names, and scripts destined to perish before they were even born floated lightly on the robes, like an undetermined book floating underwater.

Irostia.

One of the three powers of illusion, the King of Deception.

It has no fixed face. Its face, like a hundred thousand reflections after a mirror has shattered, overlaps, floats, and trembles.
Every second, different stories recombine, rapidly disintegrate, and are reconstructed on its face.

One moment there is the cry of a child, the next moment the sigh of a god, and then—silent emptiness.

It spread its arms, its posture solemn and unfathomable. Its figure seemed to swallow the surrounding dream threads, enveloping this entire space and time in the "unknown dream" it constructed.

It opens.

The sound wasn't from a single source, but rather like three people whispering to each other simultaneously—

One person tells the story of their past life, another murmurs about their fate, and a third person... is telling you an ending you can't understand at all.

"A land of illusion, neither real nor unreal."

"You use stars as your pen, and I use dreams as my shell."

"The old bridge is broken."

"I... left you with a 'what if' that should never have existed."

Each syllable seems to tear a crack at the edge of reality.

Its language is not logic, but "proof of existence by contradiction".

As Irostia took each step forward, the remnants of the star bridge began to twist, like words splashed on water, their surface folding into an undecipherable corridor of fate.

It is not a portal.

It's more like a door to a possibility that has already been "named" but has not yet happened.

An "if".

Si Ming stared intently at the gradually clarifying path of dream traces, his eyes showing no hesitation, only resolute calm:
"Using the corridor of illusion as an anchor."

"Using the logic of dreams to cover it up."

"She comes in."

"A madman—he wouldn't know."

He spoke slowly, but it sounded like a verdict.

He wasn't talking about a "plan"; he was issuing commands to fate.

Irostia nodded slightly, her posture elegant and mysterious.

It bent down gently, its fingers moving slowly in the air without leaving any trace, but the entire dream realm seemed to pulsate violently with its movements.

Like a string plucked at the boundary of reality, the membrane of dreams is pierced—

An invisible crack in the star map quietly lit up from the depths of the dream.

It is silent and invisible, but the bone-chilling "alienation" surges in like a tide, as if the entire reality is making way for this crack.

Everyone present, even those who weren't perception-based sorcerers, could clearly realize:
That's not a spatial rift.

That is—the structure level was actively altered by the logic at the "story level".

That was a dream, a hole made to accommodate the "future".

Madman Thirteen, however, was unaware of this.

Deep within the Starry Sky Secret Realm, the [Huangquan Star Bridge Main Hub] sensed the pull of the dreamlike corridor constructed of logic and began to resonate at a low frequency. The sound was extremely low, like the heartbeat of a colossal beast slowly opening its eyes from the depths of time, the vibrations penetrating the structural layers and pointing directly to the very origin of the structure.

Ruoli's door—began to respond quietly.

Between the layers of floating platforms surrounding the main tower of the Starry Secret Realm, star magnetic particles drifted endlessly, like the afterimage of the Milky Way flowing silently, as if the entire space was whispering and waiting.

In the deepest part of the "Hall of Celestial Secrets," the stellar magnetic tides converge at a single point. Here lies the core of the guild's record and preservation of the history of the Bridge of Fate—the "Heart of the Gate."

All the starbridge structures that once connected to the City of Bones have been archived, frozen, and slumber in an untouchable layer.

Unless someone has "domain-level permissions", those dormant links can never be awakened.

Ruoli stood in front of the Bridge of Fate.

Behind her stood Leng Ji, who stood silently, like her shadow, and also her last source of support.

She was not wearing the robes of the Secret Council today, nor was she wearing any ornaments that symbolized authority.

She stood quietly at the heart of the bridge, simply as the purest and most fundamental "Executor Above the Star Calamity".

Her three main mystery cards floated quietly around her.

The cards rotated slowly, like three stars yet to awaken, their light extremely compressed, low and restrained, just like her state of mind at this moment—calm, but never asleep.

at this time--

The air seemed to be gently stirred, producing a very faint "whoosh" sound, almost inaudible.

Immediately following, an ancient bell tolled from the depths of the underworld. The bell's sound was deep and devoid of human rhythm, yet it contained an irresistible summoning power.

On the floor, rings of life patterns, interwoven with verdigris and night gray, began to emerge, as if activated by some ancient power.

Then, a dark shadow appeared at the bottom of the space, and an old man wearing a withered gray robe slowly stepped out.

His footsteps were silent, as if he had come from another era, like a witness to a bygone age.

His robe was covered in white bone ash and sand. With each step he took above the Bridge of Fate, an anchor point would appear in the air, a projection mark connecting to the "Gate of the Dead".

His voice was not like human speech, but more like the trembling of memory itself:
"I will guard the tomb at the gate."

“A bridge was also built for the grave.”

"You're going to... walk back?"

Ruoli raised her head, her silvery-white pupils like frost, her tone calm yet carrying an undeniable firmness:
"Where is he."

She didn't need to explain, and the old man didn't need to ask any more questions.

He simply raised his withered hand, and three fingers, like branding irons, slowly touched her three mysterious cards.

thump—

thump—

thump—

The three mysterious sounds were unlike the ordinary pulsation of star patterns; they sounded like a door breathing, or like some sealed will gradually awakening.

That wasn't the echo of a card activation, but rather—the door, responding in a low voice.

The old man spoke softly, as if reciting a preordained destiny:

“You are a further step in ‘life’.”

"I grant you the 'right to turn the page' on your path to stardom."

As soon as she finished speaking, Ruoli's three mysterious cards suddenly stopped spinning.

They rearranged.

It is no longer a separation of powers and independent entities.

Instead, they converge, overlap, and intertwine behind her, forming a dazzling triple star map folded structure, constituting an unanalyzable star-level logic device.

In that instant, light and information flashed:
[Destiny Anchored]

【Life Infusion】

[World·Reverse Shaping]

The triple structure is like three doors opening simultaneously, redefining Ruoli's existence as an existence variable that "transcends structural levels".

The old man took a step back, his figure gradually blurring, his robe tattered, turning into wisps of dust that drifted away with the wind.

His last words were like a prayer, yet also like a farewell:
"May the Lord of the Gate protect your journey."

Lord of the Underworld, depart.

A low growl emanated from the depths of the Stargate Core, as if the entire main tower was trembling slightly.

A crack constructed in reverse, like a dream forcibly torn open above logic.
Slowly unfolding from the core of the Starry Sky Tower, it leads directly to the unknown Dream Anchor—

A journey that does not belong to any predetermined path, yet is about to be trampled upon, is taking shape.

Vera approached slowly, her figure emerging from the faint light at the edge of the stargate. Her movements were as light and steady as ever, yet they seemed to carry an unshakable calmness.

Ruoli looked at her, her voice extremely soft, like snow falling on a branch.

"you sure?"

Vera did not hesitate; her voice was clear and firm, like a stone falling into the waters of fate.
"Only if we go will he have a chance to come back."

This statement, like an unavoidable definition, is both logic and emotion, and is the sole reason for her trip.

Leng Ji stepped forward, a rare look of hesitation in his eyes. His throat moved slightly, and his voice was so low it was almost swallowed by the wind:
"...You'll come back, right?"

Ruoli paused for a moment, then turned to look at him.

The coldness in her eyes faded slightly, leaving only a calm sharpness.

She smiled gently, a smile that was genuine yet as sharp as a blade reflecting light:
"I will not stay in the script he wrote."

Her tone was like a vow, like tearing up the predetermined ending of her own line on the manuscript of fate.

Then, she turned around, her steps calm yet unstoppable, and stepped into the stargate with Vera.

-

Fate weaves a square of death.

"—Madman Thirteen's madness is raging."

The pocket watch in Lynn's hand seemed to be violently interfered with by a high-frequency signal, its entire surface shimmering with a white-hot crystallization.

The hands were stretched into afterimages, and the time anchor point collapsed out of control like shattered ice.

The divination pen of the God of Fate showed an unusual delay, a break in logical operation, and a lag in conception;
Zhuang Yege's Death Tide Lantern's light and shadow shattered, and the domain became unstable;
Hermann's pocket watch second hand spun wildly like a top, the gears rattling incessantly.

Nobuna's destiny book kept flashing back and forth, and the originally clear destiny patterns were repeatedly covered by "retrospective writing" on the pages, and even the "future" began to blur.

Natasha's dual pistols were constantly locked in place. Every bullet, as soon as it left the barrel, was reshaped by the reverse structure, and the backflow of air whistled back like sharp spikes.

For the first time, the entire main cast couldn't even be sure what they would do next.

Madman Thirteen stood atop a high platform constructed of twelve layers of creation, his cloak fluttering in the wind, his body upright as if holding a scribe on an altar.

His eyes gleamed with a mad light that had deviated from the semantic norms of the dictionary; it was a distorted projection of the writer's boundless desire for the manuscript.

"It's still a little worse."

"After the next round, I won't need you to say any lines anymore."

"You will become—an image in my ink."

His voice was ethereal, yet every word pierced the core of logic, as if the terrifying structure emanated from the very "writing intention."

Si Ming raised his head, the bloodline between his brows almost breaking off. His consciousness, like a broken sentence in a web, grasped the meaning of words and forcibly wove together a logical channel that was not yet shattered.

Hermann gritted his teeth, the smile long gone, replaced by anger and anxiety, and growled:

"We can't hold on much longer!"

—

At this very moment——

Om-!
Deep within the plaza, atop the ruins of the old Star Bridge.

At the edge of that dream realm known as the "Silent Zone," a ripple of grayish-blue suddenly appeared, like a lone wave rising from the deepest part of the sea, its vibration subtle yet chillingly clear.

The corridor of illusion began to slowly rotate.

A whisper echoed deep within the mind of the Fate Master.

That's neither language nor thought.

That is a low-frequency resonance at the structural level, a kind of "systemic textual oscillation" that transcends semantics.

"The vital point (Mingmen) trembled."

"The dream has been connected."

Siming suddenly opened his eyes, his pupils flashing with starlight.

He got it.

—She is on her way.

Lynn murmured softly, almost as if echoing from a dream:

"Star Anchor... docking complete."

Hermann burst into laughter, as if he had found a way out of a dangerous situation:
"Reinforcements are coming!"

Natasha remained calm and composed, her eyes sharp and unwavering.

"how long?"

Si Ming closed his eyes, his consciousness sinking into the logic of the dream, sensing the surging structural resonance of Irostia.

Then, he opened his eyes, his gaze as deep and intense as a fire burning in the night.

"fifteen minutes."

—

Silence, as if all sounds had been compressed into a single line.

Then, everyone understood:

These fifteen minutes represent the final, unfortunate gap between them and Madman Thirteen.

If Madman Thirteen writes the last page before going completely insane—they will die.

If they can hold on, until that door finally closes completely—

That real door will—sever this chapter for them.

Si Ming took a deep breath, returned the writing brush to its place, and spoke in a deep voice, like the tolling of a bell:

"Hang in there."

“If you’re going to write—then let’s burn your ink before you go mad.”

—

Crazy Thirteen chuckled softly.

That wasn't sarcasm, nor was it pleasure.

It's a kind of pity that comes with the fascination of a god nearing the end, watching the final struggles of the characters he created.

He slowly raised his hand, the movement like a writer turning the pages of a manuscript, yet carrying the "final judgment" of a deity's pen:
"Okay."

“Then I’ll write you a 15-minute ‘Final Struggle’ chapter.”

You can't arrive without the stargate opening.
Rather, it was you who once put your name...
It was written in advance—

On the way home.

(End of this chapter)