Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 326 The Mirror of Ten Thousand Mirrors Unfolds
"People think they are leaving the theater, but they are just walking into the next audience seat."

—From *The Book of Theatre: Fragments*

The night in the foggy city is never complete.

The night seemed to be torn open from the sky by a pair of unspeakable hands, the silk-like clouds were ripped apart, revealing the deep, unhealed crack.

Those who dance in the upper echelons of the city will never see where this crack leads.

They could only catch a trace, colder than the wind, in the flickering light of the streetlights as they walked home drunk.

At the intersection of Huanlang Street and Chenyin Avenue in the southern section of Tadao, three figures quietly stepped into the stone brick street after the rain.

The footsteps were extremely light, as if falling on memories that had not yet dried, each step seeming to crush a page of an unread manuscript.

Si Ming walked at the front, wearing a gray-black cloak custom-made by Morning Star.

A tiny, thick drop of scarlet blood had somehow appeared at the end of the cloak, like a period falling from the corner of an unfinished script.

He didn't speak, but calmly scanned the glass windows on both sides of the street, which were shiny from being washed by the rain, as if assessing which ones could still reflect "reality".

Selene stood a step behind him, still in her evening gown, her red hair damp and slightly disheveled, hanging down her shoulders.

Her steps were extremely light, her heels barely making a sound, whether it was due to lingering etiquette or instinctual warning.

Her nose twitched slightly, like a wild beast smelling rust in the wind.

Ian arrived last, coming from the lower level of the tower, carrying a package of sealed documents he had just stolen from the "black market" in his right hand.
The movements may seem casual, but in reality, everything is under the pressure of a state of combat readiness at the neural level.

That was a data node in the lower levels of the Morning Star newspaper in the capital, which was secretly searched this evening. The mouse network channel was completely cut off, and the package was still slightly leaking water.

"Something's wrong."

Ian said in a low voice, his vocal cords tightening, his enunciation as sharp as cutting iron.

"Ah."

Selene sniffed the air, her gaze freezing:
"The blood and qi... are neither fresh nor human."

Si Ming stopped and turned his gaze forward.

That's the path leading to the side gate of Morningstar Manor. There should be three lights always on, symbolizing the night guard on duty.

But now, only a single flickering lamp hangs in the sky, its light dim and flashing, as if waiting for someone to return, or trying to refuse someone entry.

Rainwater was still slowly seeping into the cracks between the bricks.

The strangest thing is that, judging from the speed of the water flow, this area seems to be slowly being "pulled" in a certain direction by an invisible force.

It's not a physical attraction, but a logical tilt.

It's as if the entire space is sinking towards somewhere at an extremely low frequency.

"Your sense of time is off."

Ian frowned. "I just looked at that clock, and the minute hand... jerked twice."

"Don't go in."

Selene whispered a dissuasion, her tone unusually hesitant.

The God of Fate answered in a low voice:
"Too late."

He looked up at an old-fashioned mirrored window with rust on the street corner.

Their three reflections were shown in the window. But the scene in the mirror—

There is no ground.

Only three isolated shadows floated in the space of some kind of transparent liquid, like prey being watched by the eyes of some giant creature.

"Click."

A soft sound.

Just like a hidden door beneath a secret compartment in a theater, slowly being unlocked.

The next moment, the world shattered.

It wasn't an explosion. It wasn't a flash. There was no vibration.

Suddenly, from beneath their feet, a layer of extremely fine mirror-like folds spread out, like a spider web, from the floor tiles to the walls, and then into the rain.

Even the light and shadow of the streetlights were dragged and slowly rotated.

The rainwater flowed upstream, and the direction in which the fallen leaves drifted began to reverse.

The space where the three of them were located seemed to be completely swallowed up by a mirror that was "unfinished projection".

The last thing that caught Si Ming's eye was Selian's outstretched hand—

She tried to pull him back.

But the hand was half a second too late as it approached his face.

It's like being forcibly recorded by another theater using "delayed frames".

A soft, cold whisper, like a broken grammar, echoed in the air:

"World-type card, high-tier - 'Maze of Mirrors', domain fully deployed."

Si Ming's sea of ​​consciousness suddenly tightened. He forcibly pulled out his spiritual consciousness, only to find that he had been locked into a six-dimensional spiral mirror space.

There is no weight, no sense of direction, and all six walls are mirrors.

Each mirror reflects "himself at different points in time":
—On one side, they were fighting, their bodies covered in blood;
—On one hand, he is writing, and what he writes is his own narrative;

—On one hand, there is retreat and doubt;
—On one hand, he was dying, his breathing stopped, his eyes empty.

—There are two more sides, not yet visible, the mirror surface is obscured, and the light and shadow flow like snakes.

He exhaled slowly, and his palm slid down through the cloak to reveal an engraved card.

【The Illusory Corridor】.

He did not activate it immediately.

Not urgent.

Now is not the time when this card is most needed.

He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, looking around at the mirror—

There are no enemies.

But each mirror is slowly creeping, intersecting, and approaching.

Like some kind of giant brain structure that is thinking about "how to feed him in".

He realized that the other party did not want him to die immediately.

Instead, he intended to let him see with his own eyes every possible version of himself in death.

Then, die.

He said softly:

"...It was truly an exquisite ball that came to a close."

The mirror did not respond, but the light had begun to distort, like ink seeping from the cracks in the glass, revealing the original draft of reality.

The first mirror door slowly opened.

The battle began silently at that moment.

Si Ming slowly opened his eyes.

He didn't move immediately; he simply looked down and stared at his feet.

That's not floor tiles, not stone slabs, not a structure that can be made of any real material.

He stood in a still mirror.

The reflection in the mirror is myself.

Another layer of yourself.

Space has undergone multiple folds. The place where he is is like the core of a six-dimensional inverted spiral theater, and he is imprisoned in the infinitely extending, never-repeating heart of a myriad of mirrors.

Each mirror was slowly rotating, like the gazes of the audience taking turns staring intently.

Each side reflects a certain state of "him"—

Some roared, some smiled, some fell to the ground, and some were bowing their heads to write their future.

He watched as one of his reflections in the mirror fought, blood gushing from his throat like mist, yet his body remained unbroken;

Then I saw another version of myself, smiling in front of the mirror, the corners of my mouth slightly twitching, as if saying goodbye to someone.

This is not a battlefield.

This is a rehearsal based on his story.

One of the mirrors suddenly cracked.

The first assassin stepped forward silently, clad in light armor, his face covered in cursed markings, his eyes lifeless.

The moment his figure fell, it was projected onto the three mirrors simultaneously, as if it were divided, or as if it were approaching from three places at the same time.

He drew a card with red runes and pressed it directly into the vein in his arm.

Blood churned, and incantations glowed.

Mid-tier Life-type Mystic Card: Wolf Bone Leap Killer

The covenant's inscription: Summons the "Wind-Eating Bone Wolf" secondary form to assist in hunting.
Secret Entry: "Leap Kill Combo": Each time a target is hit, the user's attack power increases by 10%, up to a maximum of 200%.
The bone wolf appeared as soon as it appeared.

It is not a living organism, but more like a conceptual entity "leaking" from a crack.

Its skeleton is hollowed out, its body is made of translucent wind blades and bone blocks, and its mouth has three rows of backward-growing fangs, like the logical remnants left after a dream has been interrupted.

Two wolf shadows, one on the left and one on the right, darted back and forth, the one in front being real, the one behind being fake—but Si Ming knew they would switch places.

Just as he was making his judgment, a second assassin quietly appeared from behind the mirror.

He was dressed in a gray robe, expressionless, and raised a silver pocket watch in his right hand, the face of which was engraved with reversed numbers.

He didn't speak, but slowly unfolded a gold-plated card. The card quietly ignited in his palm, and the inscription spun like a blazing sun.

Mid-tier Fate-type Mystic Card: "Predetermined Zero"

The "Legacy Contract" entry: Conjures a pocket watch, delaying the target action by 3 seconds.

Secret term: "Deferred Command": If the target launches an attack, the result is forcibly written as "failure" within the next second.

He turned the pointer.

In an instant, the air pressure in front of the God of Destiny suddenly dropped, and the spatial density slightly folded.

It's not that space has changed, but that the "pre-defined structure of time" has been secretly rewritten.

If he takes action, he will "fail" within three seconds—this is the cancellation of the binding on the "future possibility" of the action.

The third assassin appeared even later.

He held an old, rolled-up piece of parchment, which, when unfolded, revealed a page of a book.

Before the words appeared, he lowered his head, picked up his pen, and slowly began to write on the parchment.

Mid-tier Fate-type Mystic Card: The Page Prophet

The "Legacy Contract" entry states: "Fate Script" materializes, recording the target's actions for the next 5 seconds.

Mysterious term: "Rewriting the causal structure": Once written, the target's actual behavior is enforced by the written content.

He wrote: "The Fate Master will choose to evade by using his shadow form rather than confront the enemy head-on."

The pages burned, the words turned to ashes, and as they rose, they were imprinted in the air as gray-fire characters, imprinted into the logic of space.

The next moment, Si Ming's shoulder twitched slightly, as if preparing to slide and hide in a blur on the left.

That is exactly what was written in the prophecy.

That is precisely the trap.

The three worked together with precision down to the point of being "foreseeable in the future".

Card logic, mind guidance, and physical attacks constitute a perfect framework for surrounding and killing the Mystic.

But he did not summon it.

He didn't play a card.

Instead, in this theater-like space, from behind the audience seats, a person—an actor who shouldn't have been there—slowly walked out.

The [Illusory Corridor] unfolds quietly.

There are no lines, no pre-show animation.

In an instant, five Fate Masters appeared.

Not a clone.

It is "conceptual layer replication".

—A man walked towards the first assassin, taking a step but not touching the ground, leaving behind a gradually distorting "illusory body" that was about to explode into shadow lightning in the next moment;

—A person bent down and lightly touched the mirror with their fingers. A "shadow vein" that looked like a claw or a vine extended outward from the bottom of the mirror and climbed up the back of the bone wolf's neck.
—A person stands in front of a mirror, raises a pen, and writes a line of words backwards on the unburned script paper;

—A figure appeared behind the watch assassin, but stood with his back to him, as if reading his future;

—And the first one did nothing, just looked up and quietly watched them.

He looked at them like a director looking back at his actors.

Five "he"s breathe and move in unison, making it difficult to distinguish between reality and illusion, both inside and outside the mirror.

There was no explosion.

No attack alert was received.

But the three assassins' expressions suddenly changed.

Because of their cryptic mechanism, at this moment, they are unable to lock onto any "real" target.

The mirror began to twist, and the structure began to disintegrate.

The battle has not yet begun.

And they—

I've started to doubt whether I ever existed in this play.

—

The wolf-bone leaping killer suddenly dodged and pounced on the illusory figure, but in the next instant, it was caught in a trap by a tail spike curled like a fishhook.

His shadow body shattered, and his true body momentarily lost its position, revealing its imbalance.

The watchmaker raised his hand and turned the Wheel of Fate, calmly delaying the attack of the God of Fate by three seconds—but he did not realize that his "future strike" had never been written from beginning to end, and the logical path was not closed at all.

The prophet of the book simultaneously witnessed "the scene he wrote about" begin to come true.

Si Ming turned to the side, seemingly avoiding the situation as if following a script.

He was overjoyed, but the next second, he felt as if he had fallen into an ice cave.

"It wasn't that he was prophesied."

"It was me... who wrote the wrong version of 'him'."

This statement is not based on logical reasoning, but rather on intuitive fear.

The pages burned out, the script shattered, the cards triggered a backlash, and the Fate-type sorcerer felt a tightness in his throat, suddenly tilting his head back and spitting out blood.

It's not slander, but rather—the pain of having one's consciousness torn apart by the reversed "cause-effect difference." The future floods the brain, and logical disorder turns into a wheel of implosion.

The mirror did not shake.

Only three people fell to the ground almost simultaneously. Their deaths differed, as quiet as if they were being erased page by page from a script.

And at this time——

The fourth assassin, a vampire female assassin who stood at the farthest edge of the Mirror Realm and seemed to have never existed, finally made her move.

In fact, she never made a move from the beginning.

She stood there, her clothes still, her eyes bloodshot, her sleeves drooping, looking at Si Ming as if it were a memory that should not have awakened during some kind of ritual.

Si Ming walked slowly forward and stopped seven meters away. He neither pulled out the card nor made a move.

He spoke softly:
"It's time for you to make your move."

She smiled softly, like a bloody dream murmur overflowing from the silence.

Then, she pulled an ancient card from her bosom.

Its surface is stained with blood, and the floating texture exudes a temperature that is almost hateful.

This is not an attack card.

It was a cursed, blood-patterned, mysterious card, carrying the "poisonous karma" of time and ethnicity intertwined.

She parted her lips slightly, her voice a mixture of praise and curse:
"Using the curse of the Twin Princesses as a medium..."

She bit her index finger and dripped blood onto the card.

"By my command, draw their gaze."

In an instant, the card burned, and unrecognizable ancient characters emerged from the edges, like whisperers writing scriptures in blood.

The mirror shattered, as if the "boundary rules" of the entire space had suddenly become overwhelmed and began to break.

Beyond the Mirror Realm—

One eye opened.

That's not hers.

It doesn't belong to this world either.

Those are—the eyes of the Twin Princesses.

The next moment, a long-lost curse mark appeared on Siming's wrist.

Ancient, intricate, spiraling like chains, serpentine runes scorch the skin—not with intense heat, but with the burning pain of being "seen."

The vampire assassin cast the card into the void, and the card transformed into countless rotating star-shaped symbols, swirling and then stagnating in the air. The air in the Mirror Realm began to change.

It wasn't a sudden drop in temperature.

Instead, the density increases sharply.

The rain stopped, and the wind froze.

Breathing became sluggish and choking, as if I had drunk thick blood plasma.

Each suspended water droplet began to collapse, as if squeezed by blood pressure into "sensory needle pricks".

A "door" appeared in the air.

That's not a passageway.

It was a facade made of blood itself, oscillating slightly in space like a hemolytic membrane.

Not magic.

It wasn't a summoning either.

That is—the coordinates of the curse.

It is the "corridor" they left behind—a turning point sewn with blood and fixed with resentment.

"You entered the eternal night, yet you paid no price."

The female assassin's voice was as low as the breath of a tomb.

She reached out and placed her hand on the Blood-Mirror Gate.

She whispered:
She said, "You don't deserve to be forgiven."

The door opened.

It's not "open".

Instead, it split open on its own.

Like a torn lip, it opened wide with a cold laugh. The red light shining through that crack was not light.

That was a liquid command.

The God of Fate sensed it.

It wasn't the fear of being targeted, but the fear of being recognized.

The curse marks within his body ignited completely.

The sea of ​​consciousness began to become disordered.

The star map began to drift.

The first layer of star orbits automatically broke and reassembled, causing the trajectory of fate to deviate.

The second-layer star map is blurred, all prediction logic fails, the future projection delay rises to 1.8 seconds, and symbol information is intertwined into garbled text.

The third layer has not yet been expanded and has already been judged as "permission pollution".

This is a structural breakdown in the fate-based deck.

Because he is no longer on the timeline where "a script can be written".

They have already seen him.

On the other side of the mirror, a bare foot stepped out.

The instep was pale, with blood vessels like rings wrapped around the ankle, the toe bones slightly curled, and it landed silently.

Then came the hem of a skirt.

The blood mist swirled, and the hem of her skirt rolled up slowly in the water like flower petals, as if a noble woman had emerged from the deep sea, her skirt billowing out, her aura as heavy as an abyss.

But their upper bodies did not descend.

Only half of the "blood form" was reflected in the mirror.

The God of Fate knows.

This is not the complete arrival.

It was just a "traction-level response"—

This was a warning that made him realize he was still being watched.

That's enough.

His brain seemed to stop suddenly, like a clock.

All tactical models are interrupted.

Even thoughts were torn to pieces by "her".

"She's here, not to kill you."

"She has come to take back the drop of blood you once owed."

The female assassin raised her head, her eyes reflecting the hem of the Blood Ancestor's skirt.

She whispered softly:
"Please drink it."

The sound seemed to come from a thousand layers of echoes.

Si Ming abruptly pulled out the card, activated the residual image of the [Illusory Corridor], and attempted to escape through the crack.

But the Mirror Realm is no longer his.

This is no longer the "Maze of a Thousand Mirrors".

Yes—[The Well of the Crimson Night].

The Twin Princesses were not fully summoned, but they forcibly invaded the structure through resonance anchor points and star map pollution, covering and reconstructing the original mysterious domain.

The rules have changed.

The story no longer belongs to "Si Ming".

The mirror field began to reverse.

Each shadow, which should have obeyed the command of the God of Fate, was now gradually deviating from its course and converging towards him—

It wasn't to protect its master.

Rather, it was to become him.

The "tactical images" he created are now converging, as if his thoughts are regurgitating.
Imitate his breathing, calibrate his rhythm, and even echo the words he just said, word by word.

They are no longer weapons, but gradually becoming aware of their own alien counterparts in the mirror.

"They begin...to rewrite your own story."

"Even the possibilities that you split off want to—become blood."

That wasn't a sound.

That was the annotation of the Mirror Realm itself, slowly resounding behind his ears, as if an "observer" was adding a footnote to him in the voice of a deity.

Si Ming took three steps back, her cloak billowing, and the curse marks spread like vines from her wrists to the center of her chest.
It meandered around the rhythm of his heartbeat, as if preparing to crush his heart in the next second.

He already knew:
This is not a fight.

This is "the last second before the hunted awakens".

At this moment, he is not a chess player, not the protagonist, and not a mystery master.

He is a corpse being written, a page being devoured by fate itself.

He gritted his teeth, strained his will, and forcibly restored the first star orbit to its original position, like pulling back a swaying cable, trying to stabilize the main thread of fate that had not yet broken.

He dared not summon the Lord of Fate.

not now.

Not under their gaze.

He squeezed out a sentence in a low voice, as if tearing his throat:

"Not...enough."

"I haven't finished writing yet."

The space shook again.

This time, it wasn't the mirror that was moving.

Rather, it is the salt of destiny—"extracted" from the mirror.

It was a byproduct of the stripping away of causal crystals, resembling frost in shape and salt powder in texture, with an absolutely silent refraction.

She finally moved in the mirror.

From within the blood-red dress, a pale, bone-like finger extended, pointing towards the center of Si Ming's brow.

No murderous intent.

That was a verdict.

A "line of rules" shot out from the center of his head, completely anchoring him to the Mirror Realm, as if condemned by the code of law, from which there was no escape.

Three seconds later, his reason will be exhausted and his consciousness will dissipate.

But he did not close his eyes.

He saw it.

He saw a corner of his own shadow awakening—

It is a pen.

It is not a physical pen, but a conceptual writing tool, a figurative object symbolizing the "creator's power," as if his remaining "right to narrate" is still struggling.

But he didn't have time to grasp it.

That blood-red door—fully opened.

Two figures slowly walked from the other side of space.

They coexist, are one, and are intertwined.

Below the shoulder bone, flesh and blood intertwine, with the sternum embedded, like a flower in mirrored flow, or a pathological sculpture that collages "two times" together.

The one on the left wears a tattered golden crown, her eyes are forever closed, and a drop of blood hangs from the tip of her tongue, dripping without falling, like the unspoken conclusion of eternal judgment—she represents gluttony.

The woman on the right has flowing hair, long pupils in her eyes, and a slightly trembling nose, as if one could smell the "scent of fear" itself—she symbolizes greed.

They don't need to speak.

Existence itself is punishment.

The God of Fate knelt down.

Not because of surrender, but because his body lost strength on its own, the curse marks cracked to his collarbone, and his star chart cracked to the sixth layer. The next second—his lifeline was about to be bitten off.

They opened their mouths.

It wasn't a bite.

It's not swallowing.

Rather, it is a "drinking-out-of-all-trades" action.

They don't drink blood.

They were drinking "What are you?"

Drink up your identity, your memories, and your role.

This is not a fight.

This is a manifestation punishment of the gods born from the Old Blood Alliance, who are carrying out structural predation.

"You have disturbed our long slumber."

"You tore apart our celebration."

"Now, we will lick out the memories of that night from your body, bit by bit."

The tone was ruthless, yet it was like a eulogy, so tender it was heartbreaking.

Si Ming looked up, the card in his hand still unburned.

The flow of spiritual energy has been interrupted.

He has lost control.

A blood-red color rose from under the tongue, bitter like the water in a well of corpses.

Consciousness was crushed like a thousand blades, about to fall.

At that very last moment—

He heard a sentence.

It did not come from him.

It doesn't come from them.

"She came, not to kill you."

"She's here to reclaim—that drop of blood you once owed."

The vampire assassin looked up, her pupils reflecting the hem of the True Ancestor's skirt, and slowly opened her mouth, almost murmuring:
"Please drink it."

Her voice was as light as a spark, yet it was enough to burn through the logic of space.

Si Ming finally pulled out the card.

The final [Illusory Corridor] illusion was activated, forcibly escaping.

The mirror domain began to collapse, but it was no longer his [Maze of a Thousand Mirrors].

That is--

【The Well of the Crimson Night】.

The twin princesses were not fully summoned, but they reversed the core structure of the domain by using "resonance anchor points + star map pollution" to forcibly replace the original rules with a punitive spatial architecture.

The mirror no longer reflects anything.

It begins to "memorize".

The domain no longer belongs to the God of Fate.

He was merely an intrusive passage that they did not allow to "exist."

Just as the twin princesses' lips were about to touch his Adam's apple—

One stroke, and it's done.

Time did not stop, but that one second of "death sentence" was torn apart at the boundary where reality and narrative intersected.

It's not about avoiding or interfering; it's about being forcibly crossed out from the world's "literal logic."

Above the Mirror Realm, a long, silver-bone brush appeared.

It does not penetrate space.

Instead, it extends directly from the "narrative layer"—above all records, rules, and causality.

A horizontal scratch marks out, like an eraser wiping away an entire line of narration from God's manuscript.

The moment the scratch landed, the Twin Princesses' fangs shifted two inches, biting off only a lock of black hair from Siming's ear, not his throat or vital organs.

The air suddenly turned cold.

That wasn't a change in temperature; it was the Mirror Realm itself hesitating.

The result of disturbing the narrative layer is not to change reality, but to make reality itself uncertain.

Then, a figure walked in from outside the Blood Mirror.

He wore a robe with totem patterns, his face was blurred, and his eyes were empty, like a lingering shadow that had fallen from the blank space of the text.

He came against the flow of the story, entering through the backlash channel of the logical structure, and effortlessly and steadily detached himself from the remaining structure of the [Corridor of Illusion].

He didn't come to save people.

He is the true consciousness of that card.

【Irostia: The Pen of the Anonymous】

World-type High-Rank Mystic Card [Illusory Corridor] - True Name Manifestation
Not a savior.

They are not allies either.

It's just a spontaneous write-back mechanism at the narrative critical point of the card, a final-level code that protects the "remaining self of the cardholder".

He picked up his pen.

There are no words written down.

There was only one scratch.

What was wiped away was the verdict of "he will be drunk to death" from that very moment, the complete annotation of death itself.

The twin princesses paused, as if their biological instincts had been disrupted, causing them to hesitate for 0.7 seconds.

Their gazes finally focused.

For the first time, I truly saw him.

The one on the left, gluttonous, coldly observes:

"You... are not him."

The one on the right, greedy, licks his lips and smiles:

"But you... smell like his script."

Irostia lowered her eyes, her tone calm, carrying an unyielding authority:

"This is a paragraph written on the card."

“Stomachs that don’t belong to you.”

The blood mist instantly swirled wildly.

The twin princesses, enraged to the extreme, became calm, their coldness transforming into a chilling whisper.

Instead of maintaining the stability of the domain, they directly tore open the underlying logic of the mirror domain and used the previous structure as food.

The blood maid's mangled body exploded into blood plasma in the center of the mirror.

They used it as a sacrifice, melting their remains back into vessels for blood offerings, forcibly continuing the process of their descent.

The blood-stained skirt ripped apart, and the eighty-meter-long mirror wall cracked.

They no longer adhere to the structure.

They began to devour the rules themselves.

"Since the pen is blocking my speech."

"Then we'll—eat your book."

Irostia's pen trembled slightly.

Not fear.

Instead, he was trying to maintain the "minimum readability" of the mirror world—he knew that once the mirror world was completely "eaten up,"
The card structure will become a "blank format", and even retraction will no longer be possible.

"You can no longer write back now."

"His survival has reached its limit."

“Write it again—and you will put yourself in his shoes.”

He turned his finger and stopped writing. Instead, he stretched out his right hand and gently touched the forehead of the God of Fate.

"You were not saved."

"You're just—not finished yet."

Then, he turned around, stepping over the fragmented text, and left against the flow of the narrative.

His steps, like a series of withdrawn footnotes, gradually erased himself from this history.

The blood mist followed.

The twin princesses whispered in unison:
"You are not a playwright."

"You are the character in the script—the one that no one reads until the very last page."

They laughed.

The corners of their mouths still bore the traces of his "future body temperature" from his skin.

The mirror domain began to collapse, twisting, rotating, and cave in.

The mirror no longer reflects people.

Instead, it devours people.

The seventh layer of the star chart has burned out, and the lifeline is in grave danger.

Si Ming collapsed to the ground, coughing up blood violently, his consciousness shattering like an anchor on the seabed.

He is not dead.

But he knew.

Next time—when I put pen to paper, if I want to live...

"It won't be the card that saves me anymore."

It was he himself who wanted to write that line of words that could change his fate.

"The theater is not destroyed, and the lights are still on."

"But all the seats were empty, and the actors were still kneeling."

"They're still watching."

(End of this chapter)