Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 327 Blood Resonance

"Fate never favors anyone; it is just more interested in those who think they can escape it."

—Page 9 of The Book of a Thousand Faces

The tide of blood and mirrors has not yet receded.

The Crimson Night Well still swirls its silent abyssal vortex, and the Fate Master stands alone in the unreconstructed remnants of a void space.

The surrounding mirrored walls were shattered into irreparable fragments, light was gone, and the sense of time was disordered, as if the entire space consisted only of "him" and "them".

Only beneath his feet, a shadow entangled in blood still writhed, like a dying animal struggling to return to order, yet unable to find the right shape.

He hasn't left the fight yet.

No, he hasn't even started yet.

Because they are still here.

The twin princesses are still hunting him.

From the very first second of the confrontation, the situation was never in his hands.

He was no match for them. He was merely a footnote that shouldn't have intruded onto a certain page of the story.

They are not enemies.

They are calamities.

Twin beings, bound together by gluttony and greed, coexisting in harmony, their fates centered on blood and curses, forming a "causal devouring logic" within the mirror realm.

Their speed wasn't like physical movement, but more like time itself skipping frames:

A flash.

one strike.

A single blood vine pierced through the air.

Si Ming's eyes suddenly turned cold, and he leaped up in a flash, drawing a card with his backhand. The card flipped over, and a gust of wind rose between his fingers.

High-tier card in the Fate category: "Elegy of the Fated Gambler"

The covenant entry for "Cursed Tool Manifestation" states: "Manifests a mutated deck of cards, with four suits corresponding to four effects: Explosion, Slicing, Poison Mist, and Mental Disruption."

Cards shatter, psionic energy surges.

Fifty-two distorted playing cards suddenly appeared in the void, their edges like blood saws, their faces surging with low-pitched audio tracks like reliefs, the cards themselves "humming".

He swept his hand diagonally, and ten cards instantly flew through the air.

The three hearts exploded, and blood flames rose, reflecting the disintegration of the vine shadows;

The Nine of Spades flew like a whirling blade, severing three blood vines;
Plum Blossom Seven spun up, and after turning into mist, it released a layer of mental disturbance, stirring up the flow of blood and qi!
All three effects hit, but the enemy was nowhere to be seen.

They weren't defeated.

Instead, it used speed to surpass his next prediction, quietly flanking in from outside the battle lines—

"Top left".

He whispered the directions and shifted his body an inch to the side.

Snapped!
The blood vine pierced his left shoulder, pinning him directly into the shattered mirror in mid-air. Blood flowers exploded, and shards of light and bone flew everywhere.

Before the second blow landed, the third blow had already arrived.

He rolled over, spread his fingers, and tossed five more playing cards around to protect himself, but—

Before the card even hit the ground, the vine had already arrived.

The five cards exploded and became useless the moment the blood vine touched them.

They learned it.

They cracked it.

It doesn't rely on intelligence, but on "memory transplantation after ingestion".

They already knew the logic behind this "life-or-death" hand of moves, its effect algorithm, and the time delay.

Their voices rang out simultaneously, a double chord, like two snake bones intertwined on a single marrow:
"You are not fate."

"You're just gambling."

They chuckled softly, their voices like the sound of a broken thread echoing from a loom:

“We’ve tasted the flavor of every single one of your cards.”

"Now, we want to try—you."

The fourth blood vine attack came suddenly, like a rainstorm.

A blood-red thorn pierced through the illusionary structure from the side, piercing directly through his right shoulder, splattering blood everywhere.

The next instant, he was pulled to the ground by the blood thorn and slammed into the mirror image with his bare body!
boom! !

The mirror surface was concave, cracks scattered like a spider web, and blood-red light rippled up a wave ten feet high.

Si Ming slowly crawled up from the blood mist, his left arm hanging limply, the sound of bones cracking clearly audible, blood dripping from his fingers.

But his eyes were even colder than before.

He looked up at the twin princesses slowly swirling in the void, like a bloodthirsty whirlwind, and uttered a hoarse yet piercing sentence:

"...You guys seem to be having a lot of fun?"

He swayed unsteadily, his cloak tattered.

The playing cards were scattered on the ground, like fragments of a broken prophecy.

Only three cards remain.

They swayed and floated around him, like autumn leaves about to fall.

The [Illusory Corridor] is still there, but the shadow body—only one remains.

They saw it.

Of course they saw it.

They laughed in unison, their smiles like flames on sharp blades.

"The last clone."

"This time, we're going to eat—very slowly."

Before the words were even finished, blood streamed down like a sudden rain!

Sixteen piercing shadows descended from the sky, crisscrossing as they shot down, pinning Siming firmly to the mirror image!

This is not killing.

This is a dish.

They approached slowly, their steps deliberate, no longer in a hurry to tear each other apart.

They were like ladies of leisure, smelling the aroma of red wine and scrutinizing the plating and cutting angles before a grand feast.

They were no longer hungry.

They just wanted him to know:

He will be remembered, bite by bite.

They slowly placed their fingernails on his chest, like lightly touching the tip of a knife to the center of an altar.

The claws of the vampire progenitor gleamed with a moist, dark red sheen. With almost no force applied, it was as if the entire space suddenly sank at that touch.

They drew closer, their lips whispering in Si Ming's ear, their voices icy yet tinged with nauseating pleasure:
"This time, you will not turn into fog again."

"We want to see you break through."

The next second, a blood-red thorn pierced Si Ming's chest without warning!

There was no loud popping sound.

Yet there's a "peeling sensation" that's indescribable in words—

It's like a layer of reality being torn apart in a mirror, his true self being dissected into a line of bloody words.

Blood splattered high into the air, splashing onto the mirror domain like a suddenly blooming red lotus, slowly falling into the spatial rift and disappearing without a sound.

"ended."

"Si Ming."

The twin princesses looked at each other and smiled softly. Their lips touched his wound, and their tongues lightly licked the drop of hot blood that had just flowed from his heart.

however--

Just at this moment.

He smiled.

That smile, piercing through the pale face still bleeding and unhealed, was like a horizontal stroke tearing open the "ending" of a script.

He raised his head, his eyes showing no resentment, only an unsettling calm.

That kind of contempt, that "you've never really understood me," flowed from his eyes.

"you……"

He spoke in a low voice, like the final prayer of a dying man, yet it contained a sharp undertone:
"You really think... I'm still that 'rookie mystery master' from back then?"

"You are wrong."

He slowly rose, coughing up blood, but a smile remained on his face. That smile did not belong to someone on the verge of death.

"I am already a ten-star Mystic Master."

"The master of destiny".

"The Supreme Being—the God of Fate."

In that instant, the blood thorn piercing his chest turned into mist.

It's not about withdrawing, it's not about dodging.

Rather, that body was never his.

That was his last "illusory body".

The gray fog exploded and dispersed, like a memory fault line going out of focus in vision, causing the entire structure of the mirror field to tremble.

The twin princesses suddenly turned their heads!
Their nerves were intertwined, sharing a single point of anger.

They saw it—

The God of Fate is stepping through the air, standing above them.

His cloak fluttered as he stood high in the Mirror Realm, his feet seemingly touching nothing, yet as solid as a physical object.

The wind was silent, yet it seemed as if the entire space trembled at his arrival.

His gaze was calm and composed, lowered and looking down, like a god looking at a group of unnamed, failed creations.

Behind him, the void gently tore open—

A white mask appeared.

Then the second, the third, hundreds, thousands.

The masks seemed to peel off from the bottom of the world, appearing one by one and floating in the air.

The first one, crying.

The second one is a smile.

The third one roared as if tearing apart a face.

……

The 976th mask, whispering and rotating slowly, surrounds the God of Fate, like the silent lament of the gods before judgment.

He gently raised his right hand, and a mask automatically adhered to his palm; his left hand slowly caressed his face, and his voice echoed throughout the shattered blood domain.

"I should not have been born."

"But you—want to write about me."

"Then please let me rewrite it first."

He swooped down, not very fast.

But it is like a stapled pen, impossible to refuse.

He wasn't attacking, but rather offering his own words.

He is—the beginning of a new chapter.

The twin princesses roared, and a surge of blood mist erupted!
Dozens of blood-red tendrils shot out from around them, like ten thousand snakes sealing off a domain, attempting to tear apart this will from outside the narrative.

But every single blood streak—deviated just an inch before touching him!
It wasn't that he dodged.

They were the ones whose lives were written wrong by fate.

It is the attack landing point, whose direction has been "rewritten" in the logical definition.

"You didn't miss the mark."

"You are simply not favored by fate."

The mirror domain oscillated.

Blood and energy collapsed, and space froze.

Time begins to "flip the pages".

Si Ming, dressed in a torn gentleman's evening suit, was like an old god emerging from a crack in the curtain of a play, stepping into the air with each step, coming against the light.

The thousands of masks swirled around, some angry, some crying, some laughing, some with their mouths open as if to speak but never uttering a sound.

His cloak remained unmoved.

Yet the entire Wind Domain seemed to become deafening because of his unwavering presence.

He is a mystery master.

The writer.

Yes, the drama that once tried to be swallowed up has been reopened—by a new writer.

He took the final step, his steps unhurried, yet it seemed as if he had broken the edge of some irreparable world.

As the soles of the boots landed, they stepped right into the center of the blood-patterned rune array between the twin princesses, an array that had not yet completely dissipated.

The blood-red patterns were still writhing, like living circular incantations, but they paused for a moment beneath his feet.
It was as if even it dared not be sure whether it could still regard "him" as a target.

The twin princesses turned around abruptly.

Their eyes flickered between anger, confusion, and a nameless tremor.

They sensed danger, but couldn't pinpoint its source.

Si Ming stood there, his back straight, not veering off course.

His right hand hung down at his side, while his left hand slowly lifted a mask.

That's not any fighting stance.

It was more like a playwright giving a final hint to an actor who hadn't understood their lines.

He spoke.

It wasn't a roar.

It is not a declaration.

It was just a whisper, like the first gust of wind in the morning mist:
"...Is this the City of Fog?"

They frowned, their expressions unreadable.

The God of Fate did not stop.

His gaze was calm, and his tone, like a footnote destined to be misunderstood, slowly continued:
"No, the fog here is too deep... so deep that you can't even see its face."

"It is the Eternal Night Blood Alliance."

"And you are the guests who were rejected by it."

He looked up.

His gaze was like a deep well reflecting the moon's image, as if he could see through their unspoken origins.

"This was true in the past, it is true now, and it will be true in the future."

That wasn't a line from a script.

That's a phrase used to implant a command lie.

The next instant, among the white masks floating in the air,
A shattered mask riddled with cracks slowly emerged, like an editor's note suddenly appearing in an unfinished script.

The mask cracked slightly.

The fragments transformed into semi-transparent characters—chains of runes—which suddenly fell from the sky and ensnared the twin princesses!
Their bodies trembled violently, and their faces began to contort in pain.

It's not because of pain.

It's not because of a misaligned memory structure.

The one on the left was breathing heavily, his eyes glazed over.

"I...was rejected?"

The one on the right answered himself in a low, broken voice:

"Aren't we... beings who sit atop the throne?"

"No...we are...things blocked outside the door..."

They began to doubt their existence within the "permission structure" of this world.

Even a moment's hesitation is enough to turn this "lie" into the "system default." [The Real Lie]: As long as the audience's beliefs are lower than the world's default logic, fiction can be incorporated into the rules of reality.

The chains began to materialize.

It's not rope, not steel binding, but a "narrative link" composed of strings of words, labels, indexes, and judgments.

They rose from beneath the blood array, cold white, silent, and intricately constructed, like annotations bestowed by the gods.

They encircle the twin princesses' ankles, waists, and throats:
[Identity: Not recognized]

[Status: Not allowed to eat]

[Power: Access permission denied]

[Personal lineage: Isolated case, unusual, unverifiable]

"They were not attacked."

“They are defined as not belonging to this place.”

This space, this entire mirror domain, is excluding them as illegal entries.

Their skin began to freeze.

The blood-red lines ceased to grow and instead began to bind themselves from the inside out.

Like their bodies beginning to believe they shouldn't exist.

The one on the right, driven by greed, let out a sharp, furious roar, like an old, out-of-control prayer being played in reverse:

"You're lying to me—!!!"

She opened her mouth to roar, but could not bite through the chains made of definitions.

Si Ming smiled gently.

He stepped forward and slowly brought the mask to his eyes with his left hand.

His tone remained gentle, like a clerk calmly sealing away a history book deemed a forgery in a library:
"Yes."

I'm lying to you.

A chilling sincerity surfaced deep within his eyes:

"But unfortunately—this is a true lie."

He paused, slightly lifted his mask, and said in a low voice, word by word:

"It is not for your belief."

"It's to make the world believe."

At that moment, space echoed, and the structure froze.

They are no longer "predators".

They became superfluous commentary outside the drama.

—If your name isn't mentioned in the play, the world can't recognize you as real.

They have been taken away by the play itself.

The twin princesses' eyes exploded completely in an instant, their blood-red pupils bursting like shattered flames, scattering hundreds and thousands of scarlet light arrows that hovered and fell back in the high sky of the Mirror Domain.

They simultaneously unleashed roars that seemed to tear space apart, so sharp they appeared to rip the area into shreds from its very structure.

However, there is no crack in the space.

Their wills are clashing, and the "tearability" of the space has been rewritten as: "No unregistered guests allowed to operate."

Their claws, their teeth, their spells crashed against that invisible "narrative wall."
It was as if he had tried to bite through the cover of the author's notebook time and time again, all in vain.

Blood vines swirl, chains burn, the logic of space is like a script about to burn out, but it leaves only the last page for him.

The God of Fate no longer looked at them.

He slowly turned around, as if turning the pages of a book in an instant, old sentences not yet finished, new sentences already born.

"Next—you will tear each other apart."

"I did not do that."

“It is you yourselves… who have finally come to believe that you are not one.”

This statement, rather than a threat, is a formatted statement that triggers a "cognitive split detection" at the domain logic layer.

At that moment, the second mysterious structure belonging to the Lord of Destiny, the Thousand-Faced One, had already completed its operation.

The twin princesses trembled.

They looked at each other, but could no longer understand each other's eyes.

The left-hand man, gluttonous and growling, drooling blood:
"It was you—you stole my drop of primordial blood!"

The right-hand creature, with its greedy shriek, pierces the barrier of cognition:

"It's you! You stole my dessert! You smeared my delicious food!"

They began to scream, to argue, and to bite each other.

They are not "divisive".

They never merged.

Si Ming chuckled softly, his tone gentle, yet it was like the final footnote severing cause and effect:
"Destiny is never about connections."

"Fate is a misunderstanding."

He turned and extended his right hand. The silver mask that had been slowly rotating in the air suddenly derailed, turning into a streak of light and falling into his palm.

The mask had no carvings, no facial features, only one word:

"Knitting".

He spoke softly, his voice low, yet it was as if he were a weaver who had already read the ending:
"Then... finally, it's my turn to weave your destinies."

The blood mist had not yet dissipated, and the chains remained.

But it is no longer a confrontation.

Rather, it is the probationary phase of the trial.

They are no longer one.

No, it never has.

They are simply two entities that are mistakenly identified as "coordinate subjects" in "incorrect syntax".

Si Ming stood in the center of the mirror domain, his right hand raised high, the silver mask resting on his palm and rotating silently.

He recited in a low voice, as if describing a patch file that the world had not yet uploaded:
“Fate has not bound you together.”

"It's so that you can... share the burden."

The words fall.

Mirror domain reconstruction.

Lord of Destiny, Thousand-Faced One, First Mystery, Weaving of Destiny—Activation.

-

Space trembled, and the blood-red light froze.

In the void, strands of light rose from all directions. They did not rely on the ground or connect to the star map, but unfolded along a path of certain "narrative logic".

Like threads on a loom, they crisscross and intertwine in the air, forming a vast, invisible net.

Each thread is woven from fragments of ancient divine language, scattered story pieces, and discarded pages of the fates of defeated characters.

The center of the net —

Two figures were pinned to the intersection of the spools.

It's not physical restraint, but logical confinement.

They screamed, struggled, and cursed, blood mist swirling within their masks, yet they could no longer drive any truly meaningful "behavioral behavior."

These lines are not physical structures.

These are the "identity rule runes" that were engraved on the star layer from the very beginning of their existence.

Si Ming lowered his head, and the mask slowly slid off his face.

He opened one eye from behind the mask.

That's not a human eye.

It is the void of destiny formed after the star chart has burned out, without pupils or light, yet it can see through anything that is not recognized by the world.

His voice held a mixture of the weaver's coldness and the judge's final pity:

"You are not sisters."

"You are each other's punishment."

"From the moment you were born, you were destined to feed on each other."

The thread passed through their bodies.

It doesn't cause pain, but it severs their understanding of "who they are".

The left-hand man remembers:
"I was the first to drink the royal blood... I was the first one chosen..."

The one on the right growled:

"No, I was the one who received the invitation to the sacrificial position first! You are nothing but a rotting lump of flesh that I am dragging along!"

"I am the true master!"

"You are nothing but... my possession!!!"

Roars, screams, and cries of anguish shattered from cognition.

These are not attacks.

Instead, it is a structural "entanglement exponential overload" reaction.

Their density of existence exceeds the "logical consistency" that the trajectory of fate can bear.

They can no longer be defined by the world "simultaneously" as "one person".

Their names began to peel off from the cards.

—They are falling apart.

Si Ming slowly raised his head.

The mask swirls.

He did not move.

But this chapter of the story is already finished.

Si Ming gently raised his right hand, as if a playwright were turning the last page of a script.

The fingers moved steadily and slowly, yet it was as if the "end" button of an old world had been pressed.

"This page is finished."

He pressed his left hand against the silver mask and slowly slid it off.

And beneath the mask, the "face" was finally revealed—

That wasn't the face of the God of Fate.

It is no longer a human outline, and no longer belongs to the category of "face".

It was a bottomless, illusory abyss of stars, its outline like a cracked sky, with empty spaces where facial features should have been.
Only countless lifelines intertwine and swirl within, like stars falling or a script spontaneously combusting.

His face is not made up of organs.

It was a page number of a divine book that had not yet been closed.

At this moment, he was no longer someone's "fate master".

He is a footnote to fate itself.

The lifeline suddenly surged, and the threads rose like a tidal wave from behind the God of Fate.

They flew out, tearing through the boundaries of the territory, like a divine miracle.

All the lifelines converged and pierced into the twin princesses' bodies—

It penetrates bones, entangles nerves, severs consciousness, and reverses the blood and soul.

The loom reverses.

They began to "see" the holes in each other's bodies.

That is evidence that the soul has been misplanted, copied, and contaminated.

The man on the left, trembling, reached out his hand, his fingers like hooks, and landed on the man on the right's shoulder.

The one on the right gritted his teeth in greed, his low growl tinged with fear.

They are not divided.

Rather, they were never integrated from beginning to end.

They were simply given the wrong label of "community" and misunderstood by the world.

They reached out at the same time, piercing each other's hearts.

Biting the other person's cheek, teeth digging into flesh, as if trying to rip half of oneself out of the other person's body.

Biting, screaming, mutual repulsion, breaking.

That wasn't a battle.

That was a desperate self-examination of "who am I".

It is the self-destructive error-correction mechanism of existence itself—automatically executed under the light of fate.

The threads of fate trembled violently in the air, intersecting to form countless "abandoned annotations," like burning paragraphs extinguished in the sky.

Star chart closed.

The masks scattered.

The God of Fate landed slowly, his cloak billowing in the wind, his robes brushing against the shattered, blood-stained mirrors scattered on the ground. He uttered not a sound, yet his presence spoke volumes.

Beneath his feet, the bloodstains gradually faded, leaving only a pool of extinguished remnants of life.

Even the highest-ranking progenitors are ultimately just characters who have been misnamed.

Illogical footnotes deserve to be removed from the script.

He stood quietly, gazing up at the void above the domain.

There, snow is falling.

But that wasn't snow.

That was the "True Blood Crystal" of the vampire progenitor.

Their divine bodies began to degrade after death, and the primordial will in their blood froze into crystals, peeling off from the high sky above the realm.

Each crystal is as white as bone and as vibrant as congealed blood, falling silently as if the world were scattering the final page to mark the quiet end of this scene.

He whispered:

"Strange weather."

"...The snow came really early this year."

Footsteps followed.

is her.

As Celian stepped into the wreckage, her evening gown was mangled beyond recognition by the blood and rain.

She was carrying two unconscious assassins in one hand, while her other hand rested on a crack in her shoulder.

Her hair was wet, her clothes were wrinkled, and her eyes held a hint of weariness, yet she still smiled languidly.

"Can't you hurry up?"

She threw the two assassins to the ground and stood beside him.

"Okay, let's go back."

"I'm hungry."

She paused for a moment, stretched, and lowered her voice.

"...I'm sleepy too."

Si Ming turned his head and said nothing.

His gaze swept across her face, like looking back from the last page of a completed masterpiece at the opening of the first chapter, at the heroine of that first chapter—

They were the first two strokes of the pen.

They are also the reason why they are not devoured by each other.

The night is over.

The wind is still blowing.

The snow hasn't stopped.

But some scripts have already reached their final chapter.

And for them, there's a next page.

"They were born as a pair, but died with only one name in their destiny."

"They were defeated by fate, not because they were weak, but because—they were wronged by fate."

(End of this chapter)