Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 296 The Lord of Destiny - His True Name Revealed
Fate wasn't something he disguised too well.
Instead, you always thought he hadn't written anything.

"Perfect."

Crazy Thirteen stood atop the constructed platform, his tone low and calm, like a conductor gently waving the baton that symbolizes the end before the final movement of a musical piece.

Beneath his feet lay the remains of twelve mysterious skeletons that had just been wiped out, their broken limbs and star-patterned fragments piled up haphazardly.

It was like a torn draft, which he ruthlessly discarded at the end of the chapter.

Behind him, the "Gate of Rebirth" was slowly opening.

There was no firelight or steel behind the door.

It is a deeper fear—an unprecedented fusion of miracles: the intertwining of flesh and fragments of rules, the distortion of the boundaries between life and cards.

That is no longer "existence," but a construct forcibly defined by the drama, a patchwork of logic and flesh.

The new secret remains have transcended the mere replication of a single face.

Their physical structures carry all the combat data, life rune remnants, thought models, and even high-precision simulation fragments of the vocal cord spectrum of the seven protagonists—

They are—

The Fates.

Madman Thirteen flicked his sleeve, and the light screen on the platform instantly lit up, displaying seven thousand lines of destiny. The lines, like tides, densely intertwined to form a sea of ​​numbers.
Every single detail is derived from the protagonist group's combat records, casualty curves, reaction speeds, emotional fluctuations, skill algorithms, and more since the beginning of the City of Bones... leaving nothing out.

"thank you all."

His lips curved slightly, his smile carrying a twisted sense of gratitude.

"Thank you for writing down all your struggles for me."

"From among them, I have chosen your sharpest, most uncontrollable, and most destructive side."

"Then, I used it to carve the prototype of my 'Godly Race'."

The mirror skeletons began to move forward slowly.

They are no longer just enemies, but rather a kind of "comparison set," a re-released version of the human spirit of resistance, after being tampered with, packaged, and armed.

Selene was panting heavily, her knees trembling slightly. The Wild Hunt state had pushed her strength to its limit, but at the cost of her consciousness gradually slipping out of its stable boundaries.

Deep in her ears, she could even hear the whispered hallucinations of "Si Ming," as if a corner of her reason was collapsing.

She looked up at the fused mirror-like remains, her pupils contracting slightly, her voice almost a whisper:
"This thing... isn't me anymore."

She gritted her teeth and muttered to herself:

“These are the seven of us. We were thrown into a black pot, cooked into a pot of porridge, and then poured into a corpse.”

Natasha remained silent.

She didn't respond, but skillfully changed the magazines for her two guns, her knuckles turning slightly white, as calm as an executioner facing her final trial.

Lynn looked down at the pocket watch in her hand. The instrument, which should have been accurate to the second, had a broken corner. She temporarily embedded the star chart into the watch movement to maintain a minimum level of cooling circulation.

A fine sheen of sweat trickled down his cheeks, but he didn't hesitate at all.

Zhuang Yege's breathing became rapid. Behind him, the Death Tide Lantern seemed like a dying soul lamp, with only a faint blue light remaining, like a struggling heartbeat, not yet extinguished.

Herman knelt beside a collapsed, broken statue, half of his body wrapped in dried blood.

His regeneration mechanism has completely cooled down, and at this moment, he is a true "mortal."

Nobuna's Book of Fate turned the pages with her fingertips, but made three mistakes in a row, failing to copy it.

The data font kept regressing; her powers had collapsed to the point that she could no longer continue to the next page.

They were all standing.

But they were all on the verge of collapse.

Si Ming ignited the sixth Star of Reason.

The thread of fate flowed from his fingertips, but when it reached the third arc, it trembled violently, a sign that it was about to break under the strain.

He gritted his teeth and maintained his "favor of fate," buying everyone a second of delay—

Delaying this will only lead to a doomed outcome.

Madman Thirteen stood in the center of the high platform, arms outstretched, as if welcoming a god.

His voice became ethereal, as if it were drifting from another dimension:
"I once recorded and sang praises for you."

He slowly lowered his head, his expression hardening, his voice suddenly turning cold, like a sharp blade piercing his chest:
"Now, the music is over."

"Failures should quietly offer up their souls."

"I do not want your resistance."

"I want your extermination."

This is no longer an insult.

This is the conclusion.

It is the screenwriter's reckoning with "redundant characters".

They were even struggling to breathe.

Madman Thirteen's voice rose high, like a priest proclaiming the final invocation on an altar:

"game over."

Si Ming stood quietly, without moving.

The wind blew from behind Madman Thirteen, and the light curtain at the edge of the Fate Weaves Death Square shattered, like torn pages, fluttering into petal shapes and slowly falling in the air.

Everyone held their breath, all their senses locked onto Madman Thirteen, waiting for him to utter the final verdict.

But at this moment——

Si Ming suddenly smiled.

It wasn't a sneer, nor was it mockery.

That smile carried a bewildering madness, like someone digging out a wisp of embers from ruins with their fingernails, and then saying to the darkness:
"It's not over yet."

That was a kind of arrogance, a kind of obsessive laughter that stubbornly clung to the "impossible."

Crazy Thirteen tilted his head.

At that moment, for the first time, he showed a hint of confusion.

Si Ming's smile was like a chapter he had never read, a draft he had never written.

That smile wasn't in the script he had written.

“Crazy Thirteen,” Si Ming said in a low voice, his tone steady, each word piercing the heart.

"You said you obtained all my data and copied all my entries."

“Even…” he paused slightly, his eyes slicing through the paper like blades, “simulated my ‘mystery of fate’.”

He lowered his head and gently exhaled, as if awakening something that had been dormant for a long time.

"Then let me ask you—"

He raised his head, his eyes swirling like a star map, his voice not loud, yet it pierced through space with clarity, like a command at the structural level, implanting itself into the consciousness of everyone:

"Have you seen my 'Master Mystery' manifested?"

—

The room was deathly silent, like a sinking sea of ​​stars; even the sound of the wind seemed to be shaken apart by those words.

Natasha subconsciously turned her head, her gaze locking onto Siming's profile, her brows furrowing slightly.

A sharp glint suddenly flashed in Hermann's eyes, as if a forgotten string had been plucked: "...No, that's not right."

Lynn held his breath, his voice so low it sounded like a truth was slowly surfacing: "He never...manifested it."

Yes.

Never.

Si Ming has never summoned his own secret magical artifact.

They had seen him use the side card "Elegy of the Fated Gambler," and they had also seen him manipulate unbound cards, control the threads of fate, cast "true lies," and invoke "the favor of fate"...

But his true secret—the card that truly belongs to the name "Divine Fate":

【The Master of Destiny, the Weaver of a Thousand Faces】

It never appeared.

It never appeared!

A momentary turmoil flashed in Crazy Thirteen's eyes, and for the first time, his nonchalant smile faltered and broke.

Si Ming slowly reached into his robe and pulled out the card.

That's not a regular card design.

That is an "absolute authority component" that is refused to be analyzed by the logic of the world.

The card's border is covered with a reflective layer featuring a pattern of fate, upon which the reflection of the twelve constellations is engraved, while the four corners of the card...
The four golden rings of the laws of fate are rotating in an extremely slow but unstoppable trajectory.

That is—the "real name card" that has been sealed and has never been unlocked.

Empty Fame: Lord of Destiny

Real Name: Truth and Lies, the Thousand-Faced Weaver of Destiny

Si Ming slowly pressed his left hand against his chest, his fingertips sinking into his skin, as if igniting some kind of core of destiny.

His voice was so soft it was almost a whisper, yet it reached the structural level.

It's not meant for humans to hear.

It is addressed to the "world" itself:
"I never summoned you because you were not meant to be summoned."

"You are meant to—end the entire script."

Madman Thirteen's expression suddenly turned cold, the light in his eyes narrowed sharply, and his voice lowered:

"what are you up to?"

Si Ming did not answer directly, but instead took out a long-sealed tube of secret medicine—a specialty of Mirror Village, the last gift that Lian Yin had secretly given him before she left.

"Remember to pull the fuse before burning."

His voice was so soft it was as if he were reciting a farewell.

Siming tilted his head back and swallowed the secret medicine in one gulp. The medicine was as hot as fire, flowing into his spiritual veins through his throat.

He lowered his head, exhaled slowly, and his fingertips trembled slightly.

The star chart—begins to fade.

One.

Two.

Three.

He is destroying his own "room for calculation".

He is going out, in order to awaken that one point that is truly impossible to simulate.

"Turn off—"

"one two three."

He gently raised his right hand, and the card slowly rose, hovering above his palm.

It has no light, but it is brighter than any card.

It was silent, but its silence seemed to cover the beginning and end of the entire script of Madman Thirteen.

At that moment, he fell silent.

He just—

Whisper it in a low voice, silently.

It's not about skills.

It is the "real name".

"The Most High".

"The Lord of Destiny".

"—In the name of a thousand faces."

"Advent."

His words struck like a bell, piercing through the very bottom layer of the manuscript of Madman Thirteen's play.

Because this time—

He is no longer the "fate master".

He is the original bearer of that card.

Yes—a thousand-faced destiny, the sole writer.

The space suddenly collapsed.

boom--! !

It wasn't a tremor, nor an explosion, but rather the entire logical structure being torn apart from its root by some kind of power.

The first Star of Reason exploded in the Star Chart of Destiny.

It no longer emits light.

It burns.

But that wasn't flame; it was—the flame of words.

—

“First star.” Siming murmured softly, his voice seemingly emanating from the depths of his throat, carrying a scorching metallic tremor.

The flames rose from his fingertips, transforming into a stream of characters made of language, like the opening words of a dictionary, burning into his bones word by word.

Flame patterns coiled around his metacarpal bones, spread to his wrist, climbed up his forearm, and bit into his joints like snakes.

"Second star".

The gray-gold veins climbed upwards, across the elbows, and up to the shoulders.

The charring of every inch of skin is like stripping away some kind of "human factor".

It was no longer a burning sensation on his skin, but some indescribable structure that was slowly—drawing "humanity" out of his body.

"Third star".

Si Ming's left eye trembled violently, the muscles at the corner of his eye quivered slightly, and a thin but unmistakable gray-gold tear trail meandered down his cheek.

Those weren't tears of pain.

Rather, it is a narrative overflow caused by a severe imbalance in the structure of fate.

A kind of "logical breakdown" that only writers can experience.

—

"Fourth star".

Natasha turned her head sharply, her pupils contracted, and she screamed in alarm:
"Si Ming—enough!"

"Fifth star".

Zhuang Yege tried to reach out to stop him, but as soon as he raised his arm, an invisible force of rules instantly froze him in place.

He realized that space was no longer space—it was slowly freezing into language.

"Sixth Star".

Selene roared, her voice filled with barely suppressed fear and shock:

"Are you insane?! That's the price for summoning ten stars or higher! You'll burn yourself out!"

"The Seventh Star".

Hermann's pocket watch suddenly reversed direction, his sense of time completely distorted, and a chill ran down his spine to the back of his head. His voice was low, like a spell:
"You intend to—forcefully summon the supreme destiny!?"

—

"Eighth star".

At this moment, the skin of the Fate Master has begun to peel away, and beneath the flesh and blood is no longer bone or veins, but rather—the physiological structure of the Line of Fate.

Gray-gold lines replace blood vessels, flowing not with blood, but with narrative energy.

"The Ninth Star".

In the square, all the light sources suddenly went out.

Madman Thirteen's domain was completely suppressed, and the text covering the star map began to be written in reverse, as if the Book of Destiny was being torn apart upside down, signifying that control was being transferred.

"The tenth star."

The star map—completely shattered!
—

Boom——! !

That wasn't the sound of reason exploding.

It is something that transcends language systems, looking up at the world.

That was the resonance brought about by the Lord of Destiny opening his eyes anew.

—

A mask slowly appeared in the air.

It has no eyes, no mouth, and not even facial features.

Only layers of interwoven language and text are wrapped around a pure white mask, as if "a thousand possibilities" have been crushed and kneaded into a blank draft paper.

Immediately afterwards——

The second one.

The third one.

The fiftieth one.

The hundredth one.

...A thousand faces.

A thousand faces slowly rotate around the God of Fate, like a nebula storm, encircling his body.

Each mask represents a possibility he wrote down in the past; each crease represents a fate that was denied.

That's not just a concrete representation.

That was the tearing apart of his heart—all the failed endings, all the hopes that had been erased.

Si Ming slowly raised his left hand, and a mask descended from the sky, landing in his palm.

The mask instantly adhered to him, as if grafting a soul onto his body, fitting perfectly to every line of his palm.

His right hand held a pen—a symbol of language and destiny.

It's not a fountain pen.

It's not a feather pen.

It is the narrative authority that shines through the tip of the pen, pulsating with the rhythm of destiny.

That is the mark of the god of fate.

It is the only supreme component in the Book of Destiny that can "rewrite the main storyline".

At that moment, Madman Thirteen finally fell silent, his smile frozen on his face, and an unprecedented tremor appeared in his eyes.

Siming—

No longer a "role".

He is gradually moving from being a "character in the play" to becoming the "master of the play".

Lord of Destiny, the Thousand-Faced Weaver of Fate.

The true form descends.

For the first time, Madman Thirteen truly fell silent.

His twelve mysterious skeletal creations remained motionless, not moving an inch.

They seemed to sense some irresistible force—the "narrative priority" had been stripped from them, and even their actions had become invalid commands.

Madman Thirteen spoke slowly, his voice filled with hesitation, confusion, and even fear:

"...This is not a card."

"Is this... a projection of destiny?"

—

Si Ming opened his eyes.

At this moment, twelve layers of destiny meridians appeared in his left eye, each rotating in reverse, as if the wheel of time was reconstructing itself.
In his right eye, countless faces are reflected, layered, shimmering, and changing, as if he himself were the observer and author of fate.

He neither laughed nor got angry.

He simply said calmly:
"Crazy Thirteen".

"Your story is well written."

He paused, his gaze sharp as a pen tip.

"But—from now on, it's my turn to write about you."

His voice was deep, as if a command were embedded in the laws of nature, like awakening slumbering cosmic principles:

"Lord of Fate, Authority: The Weaver of Destiny."

Si Ming slowly raised his right arm, and the Thousand-Faced One hovered behind him like a silent storm of masks.

Thousands of illusions, like the shadows of priests, dreamlike figures, and the faces of ancient gods, slowly peered into the air, gazing at the world and whispering incessantly.

—

The next second—

The entire square "collapsed".

It is not a physical sinking, nor is it a structural collapse.

Rather, it is the collapse of the logic of real-world language.

A deconstruction of language quietly unfolds in the space.

The threads of fate appeared in the air, like light trails crisscrossing, with seven main lines.
Spinning around the tip of the Fate-Bearing Pen, it forms a web of destiny—a dream catcher specifically designed to "weave characters."

At the very center of the network, the key target—is none other than Madman Thirteen.

—

Crazy Thirteen finally moved.

He raised his hands, and the rules gathered like mercury, as if he wanted to forcibly release the final ultimate structure in the core of the life seed—the fusion creation.

He roared, his voice revealing panic for the first time:

"Can you write about me?"

"You are the character!"

"I am the creator—!"

Si Ming approached step by step, his gaze as calm as the night sea.

He picked up a thousand-faced mask with his left hand, his fingertips slowly caressing the curved surface woven from structural characters, his tone gentle to the point of cruelty:
"Name it and you own it."

"You think creation is giving existence."

"But fate is never a construct."

“Destiny is first given ‘meaning’.”

He slowly placed the mask over his right palm.

The pen tip falls, drawing a sharp line, like a paper cutter slicing through a script:

"I name you—the False God."

—

boom--! !

The stellar structure built behind Madman Thirteen instantly emitted a mournful sonic boom and shattered into pieces.

Those fused remains all knelt down, as if their very foundation had been uprooted from the very core of the system.

They are no longer considered "target objects," but merely props in the play that have been written incorrectly.

Their fate was rewritten.

—

The God of Fate continued on his way.

With each step he took, a mask slowly ignited beside him, transforming into a new node in his destiny, as if each step was a paragraph, each sentence a judgment.

He wrote the second sentence:

"I name you—Version 2, Test Subject."

"You want to become a god?"

"But you have never been 'defined'."

"Your existence is merely an unfinished, deleted sentence in my draft."

—

Madman Thirteen roared and struggled, his howls like shattered chapters rolling:
"No! I am the spark of free will! I am the creator of destiny!"

The God of Fate's gaze sharpened, and his brush fell as if severing destiny:
"You are not the spark."

"You are my discarded draft."

—

At this moment, the rules and authority within Madman Thirteen's body began to collapse.

His life essence core reversed wildly, trying to unleash any skill in an attempt to regain control—

But the next instant, his skill bar was altered by the Thousand Faces to read:

[Failed Creation - The Entry is Meaningless]

His access permissions were marked as "unresolvable".

—

The true power of the Lord of Destiny is never about changing reality.

Rather, it's about the right to name.

As long as the Fate Master writes a certain word into the "core structure of destiny".

That would mean that the world itself would recognize this word as "truth".

"And you-"

"I have already defined him as a 'loser'."

—

Madman Thirteen coughed up blood violently.

It wasn't because of an injury.

Rather, it's because his "right to define" is being stripped away little by little.

A self-proclaimed god is being erased from the linguistic level.

—

Selene stared blankly at the figure writing step by step in the arena, and murmured:

"He... is writing about Death."

Lynn's pupils trembled violently, his voice low and trembling:

"No, it's... 'degrading' a god."

Hermann, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, looked up at the sky constructed of words and murmured:

"This is so well written... I'm going crazy."

Crazy Thirteen staggered backward, his steps unsteady, as if he had been uprooted by some invisible force.

This was the first time he had truly shown fear.

It's not because of failure.

Rather, it was because he finally realized that he had not been defeated.

Instead, its meaning has been erased.

His existence is "denied" in the narrative.

Si Ming slowly raised his head, his eyes still seeing the twelve wheels of destiny spinning, surrounded by a thousand faces of radiance.

He spoke softly, as if reciting a final countdown:
"Six minutes left."

His voice immediately deepened, leaving no room for further elaboration:
"You want to finish writing about us."

"But now, I'll burn your page first."

The next instant, he flicked the pen in his hand.

The threads of fate suddenly tightened, like a spider scrambling in a web, and the barrier exploded with a thousand rays of light.

All the masks of the Thousand Faces bowed their heads in unison, looking down as if the gods were judging the playwright.

Madman Thirteen suddenly reached out, using his last bit of willpower to try to release the twelve fused remains once more.

The portal to creation slowly opened, and the data link and physical structure rapidly constructed in the void. He gasped for breath, murmuring:
“My creation…”

"They are the seeds of a new era, the propagation of my spirit—"

His voice grew louder and louder, like that of a mad priest preaching to a god who had not yet descended:

"They will help me achieve transcendence—!"

"I will sacrifice you as samples of 'failure'—!!"

But at that very moment...

The God of Fate picked up his pen.

A thousand faces rose and swirled behind him, the threads of fate flowing backward like the Milky Way, looping and converging, covering the entire arena.

He picked up the fifth mask with his left hand, and the life pattern on his palm lit up, activating the naming right.

His gaze was unwavering, and as he wrote, it was as if a bell had struck the final hour of judgment.

He didn't write it into the card.

He wrote directly on the "future structure" of the battlefield:
【The Lord of Fate, the Supreme Judge】

[A creation not acknowledged by me]

[Upon its appearance, it will be considered an "undestined being" and will be obliterated.]

The words landed.

The entire reality began to collapse.

It wasn't an explosion, it wasn't a tearing apart.

Instead, logic is backfiring, and the world refuses to acknowledge the "state of existence" of these creations.

The unreleased secret remains of Madman Thirteen—

In the instant it materialized—

Beginning to disintegrate.

It wasn't broken.

Rather, it is that the "definition" cannot be found in the map of destiny.

Unable to name.

It is equivalent to not existing.

—

"You can't kill my creation!!" Madman Thirteen roared, his voice tearing through the space and echoing.

The God of Fate remained unmoved.

He simply put down his pen, his tone low and solemn, as if announcing a global moment of mourning:
"I didn't kill them off."

"I am telling fate—"

"They shouldn't exist."

"You use the Cataclysm to spawn them."

"I use fate to deny them."

—

At this moment, the "authority of creation" within Madman Thirteen's body began to break.

His life-seed layer turned completely black, the structure reverted to self-destruction, and the construction domain broke down.

All the summoning links behind him went out one by one, like a lighthouse losing power, and the entire Creation Matrix system collapsed abruptly.

For the first time, he took a step back from the high platform.

It wasn't because of an injury.

Rather, it was the trembling of divinity crumbling away.

—

The entire room fell silent.

The seven main characters staggered to the edge of the battlefield, their clothes soaked with sweat and their weapons stained with blood.

For the first time, they saw Madman Thirteen alone, exposed in the center of the battlefield—

There are no secret remains, no fusion bodies, and no logical protection.

He was merely an out-of-control storyteller, a creator consumed by the story itself.

Natasha raised her head, pointing the gun at him, her tone as cold as iron:
"Now finally..."

Nobuna continued, her voice weak yet sharp as a knife:
"...It's our turn to see him."

—

Si Ming slowly closed his eyes.

The tip of his pen was still slightly hot, the residual heat lingering between his knuckles, as if he were writing the last sentence that was not yet finished.

He whispered a sentence:
"It's your turn."

Crazy Thirteen looked up, his lips trembling slightly, and the usual condescending look in his eyes was finally gone.

That is no longer a god, no longer a screenwriter.

That was—the character pulled back into the text.

He whispered hoarsely:
"You... you turned me from an author... into a character."

Si Ming slowly opened his eyes, the thousand-faced radiance still lingering.

He looked at Madman Thirteen, his voice like a manuscript fragment covered with countless deletions:

"Do not."

"I just got back the pen that you stole."

You thought he hadn't made a move yet?

Actually, he is that one—

Hidden in the tip of your pen within your story.

(End of this chapter)