Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 338 The Night of the Black Seal
Fate does not loudly announce its malice.

It simply closes the door and then sees where you escape to.

—Page 1 of "The Night Watchman's Handbook of Life Marks"

In the depths of the foggy night, the last window of the classroom on Broken Tower Street slowly closed.

A gust of wind rises outside the window, and a low pressure spreads between the stone bricks, like a deep tremor before the surface of water is about to break.

The streetlights on the corner flickered slightly, their light dancing erratically, as if they knew that the remaining light would soon be extinguished by the wind.

There were incantations, whispers, and footsteps in the wind.

Ian stood at the classroom door, his gaze passing through the dim streetlights at the end of the street, landing on the shadow that was slowly gathering—densely dressed in black robes, its aura sealed, like a judgment emerging from the night.

He held the Wind Whisper Scroll horizontally in his palm, his eyes lowered, as if exchanging a tacit understanding with the wind:
"coming."

—

A wind-whispering stone silently lit up, and in the dim light, Rex's voice came from the other end, calm and restrained:
“High Street, Canguang Lane, Old Salt Bridge... four sets of detection traces have been found.”

"Following Feng Bu, the exact number of people is unknown."

"I've taken my position, on the rooftop of the barren building. The wind is on my side, one kill in three seconds."

Ian nodded, put away the Wind Whisper Stone, and turned to look at the forty-odd children behind him.

They had lined up, each carrying a book of destiny patterns. Some had hidden small dream lamps in their bosoms, while others clung tightly to the hem of the person next to them, their knuckles turning white.

They did not cry.

But every drop of sweat that falls to the floor seems to make a scalding sound.

—

The back door of the classroom opened quietly.

Selene stood in the shadows, dressed in a deep black gown, holding a dark gold cane, her eyes cold and clear, like a crescent moon atop a tall building in the night.

She spoke softly, her tone elegant, yet devoid of any warmth or human touch:
"I will protect the west side alley."

“Anything that gets in my way… I won’t show any mercy.”

"The action begins."

Si Ming stood at the end of the procession, his voice like a morning bell and evening drum, neither hurried nor slow, yet leaving no room for doubt.

He raised his right hand slightly, and a map of illusory light appeared in the wind, unfolding in mid-air. Five evacuation routes emerged with life-like veins, quickly dividing them into groups.

Each group has a guardian.

Ian led the first group, retreating through Fenggu Road towards the East Street workshop.

Selene led the second group down the sewers and around to the old dock safe house.

Rex, positioned at a high vantage point, was responsible for sniping and wind direction guidance.

Alanhewyn guarded the third group, escorting the seven youngest children, and led them through Chimney Street straight to the Nameless's Abode.

Si Ming guards the outer perimeter of the fifth group alone, and his route is never written on a map.

Everyone knows that his presence is not for escorting, but for finishing off the ashes beyond the flames.

He spoke softly, like a farewell incantation:

"Grouping complete."

"The wind won't run for you."

"But it can cover you up."

—

The wind barrier was gently pulled open, and a wave of energy, like ripples on water, spread across the streets, as if the tides were gently caressing the ground of the foggy city.

The first group of children emerged from the street, with Ian leading the way. As the wind barrier rose, he simply swept his sleeve, and a layer of runes shielded the sentry at the street corner from perception.

Selene's footsteps were almost silent as she led the second group stealthily into the Black Stone Passage. The children behind her moved with a gait as light as feathers in the wind.

Silently following this noble and aloof guardian was like following a silver wolf through the woods.

Alanhewyn protected the third group, which consisted of seven children: three boys and four girls.

He walked at the front, his life runes activated, the Sunwalker card floating beside his palm, its silver spine shimmering slightly. He spoke in a low, clear, and firm voice:
"Follow me."

"We'll be safe once we cross Chimney Street."

He knew this wasn't a promise, but a gamble.

—

At this moment, Rex's whispered words rang out again, as concise as a death announcement:

"The target has entered the edge of the wind field."

"Six cultivators, dressed in silent holy robes, their life patterns completely concealed."

"They can't speak."

"But their swords—will speak for them."

Ian chuckled lightly, his gaze sharp and cold:
"Then I'll shut off their ventilation first."

With a flick of his finger, he unleashed a mysterious wind technique; the incantation patterns spread out like a net in the air in an instant.

The wind field stagnated, like a transparent rope, trapping all the approaching cultivators within it.

The wind is no longer just about movement.

It became a chain.

—

[World-Type High-Tier Mystic Card] No. 106 "Wind Whisper Fantasy Realm"

Wind Master - Domain Expansion
Within the Whispering Domain, the five church monks instantly lost their balance—

They tried to draw their swords, but it was as if they were trapped in an invisible liquid, their movements slow and dreamlike.

They tried to speak, but found that the wind had swallowed all the syllables, and even their breath was frozen deep in their chests.

—

Ian lowered his head and chuckled softly:

"Don't be afraid."

"I will not let you suffer."

His gaze sharpened, and the wind wall tightened abruptly, binding the five people tightly like a net being pulled in—

The wind said, "You are only fit to remain silent even in your dreams."

The five people crashed heavily to the ground, like scrap metal falling to the ground.

—

Almost simultaneously, Rex's sniper shot landed.

A cold light from the rooftop pierced the foggy night, like stars falling to earth.

Every bullet accurately hit the cultivator's vital points: the carotid artery, the life-mark lock, and the spine mark, without missing a single one.

He didn't say much, only softly uttering:

"Next stroke."

—

On the line of Selene, no one was left standing.

She needs neither wind nor light.

Her existence is the last line of defense against the enemy.

She stepped over the corpses scattered on the ground, her skirt untouched by a speck of dust. With a flick of her cane, the splattered blood was instantly carried away by the wind.

She turned around, as if she had just finished an exit ceremony at an aristocratic banquet:
"Cleaned up."

She looked at the children who were still quietly following behind her, smiled and nodded, her voice as elegant as a gentle awakening in a church cloister:
"Keep going, children."

"Our dream lamp—is just one lamp away from being lit."

At the most inconspicuous end of the street, Si Ming stood quietly under an old street lamp, the dim light shining on his shoulders, as if even the wind dared not approach.

He watched the children's backs as their silhouettes gradually disappeared into the night, silently vanishing in the wind.

He didn't say a word, but slowly unfolded a black card from his sleeve.

[World System: Illusory Corridor]

The field unfolds.

The boundary between light and shadow began to loosen, and the ink-like night folded and twisted the streets.

Fragments of light appeared in the wind, and on each path leading away, the figure of "Fate Master" quietly emerged.

He did not move, yet he seemed to exist simultaneously in all directions.

In the eyes of the monks, the enemy they were tracking was roaming the city in countless guises.

They misjudged each other and chased after each other.

And they—won't remember.

Siming lowered his head, the scroll of life runes slowly unfurling in his hand. He picked up his brush and wrote the final line within a silver ink circle:
"The Handwriting of the Anonymous - Activation"

The light flashed and disappeared in an instant, and all the church monks who came into contact with the area would lose their identity, memories, mission, and objective in this battle.

They will wake up, return to the church, their feet stained with unfamiliar blood, their hearts filled with nameless hatred.

But I don’t know why.

Si Ming sealed the pen and looked up at the night sky. The rain had not yet fallen, yet it seemed to hesitate on the edge of the city, while the wind swept through the alley and brushed against his collar.

He gazed at the clouds and whispered:
"A night of wind passed."

"The spark has not been extinguished."

"very good."

He turned and disappeared into the wind without a sound, as if he had never existed, as if he were just a part of the night.

The ignition of the star map does not necessarily mean battle.

Sometimes, it's a struggle for survival.

Sometimes, it is a resistance to death.

But tonight, under the night sky of Broken Tower Street, the ignition of the life-destiny markings has only one meaning:
I'm not running away anymore.

—

[Old Coal Lane, Sixth Division of the Parish, Target Number: Group B3]

There are three more streets.

Alanhewyn stopped at the street corner and looked back at the seven children following behind him.

The youngest among them was only eight years old, and the oldest was no more than fifteen.

Three of them were her older sister's classmates during her evening classes, while the other four were freshmen who had escaped from the church's "intervention zone."

There were no tears in their eyes.

There is only silence.

It was a kind of repression that couldn't be expressed through crying and shouting; it was an awareness that made one not even dare to turn around.

The sound of metal scraping against the ground came from afar.

A street lamp was kicked over, its flame dying out hoarsely in the rain-soaked puddles, like a star being roughly crushed.

Alan Herwin suddenly stopped, and the life lines on his palms shot up like a hunting dog.

He slowly raised his right hand, and the card that had been bound to his bloodline for a long time quietly appeared.

[Life-type Mid-tier Mystic Card] No. 2143 "Vampire - Daywalker"

Empty Fame: Warriors Bathed in the Bone-Piercing Morning Light

Real Title: Blood Flame Never Sleeps: The Last Oath of the Herwin Family

His life veins began to heat up, and golden-red light exploded layer by layer on his forearm, like flames burning repeatedly in his blood.

That was the pain he was familiar with.

It is an awakening etched into one's very being.

He murmured to himself, as if gritting his teeth, or perhaps reminding himself:

"My sister once said—the real mystery will never let go of you."

"So, I will bite back."

—

At the alley entrance, two church monks dressed in "soundproof robes" slowly emerged from the shadows. Their movements were not hurried, but precise, like a program.

Their life markings were completely sealed in the sacred cloth, their fingers were hidden in their sleeves, and their footsteps were silent.

They didn't speak.

Because they are the hounds of the church's "silence department".

No announcement or verdict is required.

They just need to execute.

Alan stood at the very front, his figure as steady as a nail, blocking the children from the shadows, like a thorn driven into fate.

His back view was silent, yet it carried more weight than any vow.

He wouldn't back down an inch.

Before him, two monks dressed in the Church's "Echo Robes" slowly stepped forward. The leader reached out and a white light pattern condensed in his palm, summoning a card with unfolded wings.

【The Holy Son of Light】.

That was a low-ranking angel's card of life, used to judge heretics.

The monk raised his staff, the card flipping between his fingertips, light gathering in his palm, like a divine miracle, a two-winged angel looking down upon the earth in the light.

He thought the boy in front of him was just a user of the life rune who was "participating in night classes".

He was wrong.

They are not facing teenagers who recite "May you achieve academic success" in the classroom.

They were facing the Herwin family's vengeful spirits.

He was the younger brother who carried his sister's body back from the military and police morgue's cold storage.

—

Alan raised his hand, and his life runes lit up, the golden-red light like sparks bursting from his bloodline.

"Star One - Ignite".

The golden-red specks burst forth like sparks of fire.

His boots pounded the ground, cracking the stone bricks. He charged forward suddenly, initiating his Instant Step.

The Daywalker has appeared!

Blood-patterned armor took shape on his body, covering him from his shoulders to his chest, with red steel embedded in his bones and runes embedded between his ribs like fiery tattoos.

His eyes were bloodshot, and his gaze was faster than the enemy's sword.

He was no longer a boy.

Those were weapons that burned with the oath of House Herwin.

All for the sake of finding the "light" that was stolen away overnight.

—

The battle erupted in an instant.

The Holy Son of Light waved his staff, attempting to activate the Mystic Suppression, but before he could complete the incantation, Alan's low growl pressed down:
"You—are not qualified."

He stomped his foot hard on the ground, the floor tiles cracked, and he leaped up like lightning.

Both fists converged with the burning flow of life energy; the left fist dispelled the spell, while the right fist struck straight at the heart meridian!
The two fists, like burning hammer blows, carrying the weight of blood and fire, slammed heavily into the chest of the Holy Son's projection.

The card went out of control and instantly vanished, its light breaking.

The monk was sent flying seven meters away like a rag doll, crashing into an entire stone wall at the street corner, splattering blood everywhere.

—

Four bodyguards attacked simultaneously from behind.

But Alan did not retreat; instead, he accelerated his approach.

He knew he couldn't back down.

Because behind them are the last batch of children, the last spark of the night class.

He couldn't let their life lines fall into the "archived" category as well.

"Star Two - Continued Burning"

His life runes burned again, his right arm instantly deformed, bones cracked, and blood runes transformed into beasts, covering his fingertips.

Their claws were like blades, sharpened by blood.

The first claw tore open the throat of a guard, and blood spurted three feet out.

The second claw severed the wrist of the other person holding the card, and the life rune core exploded in mid-air.

The third claw aimed straight at the cultivator's face—

boom! !

A clean, sharp sound as it cut through the air.

In the distance, Rex's sniper rifle had arrived.

High in the sky, a cold light fell like a star, precisely blocking the last guard's escape route and forcing him to be injured head-on.

—

Five seconds.

Five strikes.

Five people fell to the ground.

Blood fell like rain, splattering on the stone bricks and flowing down Alan's boots.

He stood in the fog, slightly out of breath, his shoulders heaving. Sweat and blood mingled with the drizzle, sliding down his forehead and wetting his eyelashes.

—

Behind me, the children didn't scream.

They just stood there quietly, watching the boy.

Then, as if slowly recalling "the actions in class", they stepped forward one by one and held each other's hands again.

They knew they were alive—not because of the power bestowed upon them by the runes of destiny.

It's because someone shielded them from the "cost of writing."

—

One of the girls approached, her eyes filled with fear, yet also with unspeakable gratitude.

She tilted her head back and asked softly:
"Brother Alan...are you scared too?"

Alan paused for a moment, then slowly curved his lips into a smile that looked almost like he had bitten them open.

He answered in a low voice:

"Yes."

"I'm afraid."

"But when my sister died... no one protected her."

"So this time, I can't let you have no one to protect you either."

—

Rex's voice came again from the wind, calm as ever, but with a hint of weariness from the release:
"East Street cleared. The church has been defeated."

"Your side... is almost done too, right?"

Alan took a deep breath, and the life mark gradually faded away. The blood mark slowly receded from his right arm, revealing the life mark that had not yet healed under the skin.

He whispered:

"Third group, evacuation complete."

The wind swept through the street, stirring up the bloodstains on the hem of the fallen monk's robe. In the darkness, a group of children silently turned and stepped into the next intersection.

The fire is still burning. But they are crossing the line of fire.

The streets remained quiet as ever, as if nothing had happened in the fog.

The wind blew across the church's murals and the abandoned dream lampstand, carrying neither smoke nor blood, only a deathly stillness.

Wherever the flames of fate flashed, circles of scorch marks were quietly left beneath the floor tiles, so subtle they were almost imperceptible, yet undeniably present.

Like a word that has been ignited, it has left an indelible mark on the nerves of this city, a mark that should not be forgotten.

The night was past midnight.

The domain of the wind whispers is slowly closing in. The bloodstains, reflections, and broken life lines that once floated in the air are gradually disappearing, like the edge of a dream as the tide recedes.

The city is burying itself.

But there is still one person who is "writing".

—

Si Ming stood in the shadows of the foggy city, with his back to the flames of war, and never intervened in any direct conflict.

But from the moment the first drop of blood fell, he began to rewrite every single page.

He opened his palm, and the card, already deeply bound to his mind, slowly appeared:
[World-Type High-Tier Mystic Card] "Illusory Corridor"

As the card appeared, the life runes quietly lit up beneath his feet, the light spreading like ink wash across the street bricks.

He stood at an empty street corner, surrounded by a jumble of light and shadow.

The next moment, five figures silently slipped away from him, like lingering shadows echoing in a dream, their footsteps silent, their faces speechless.

They went in different directions.

Together, they marched towards the scorched earth of Ian's battlefield.

A streak of light swept across the rooftop shadows of Rex's firing range.

One sound, an echo from the sewers after Selene was killed.

Together, they climbed up the crumbling rooftop of the alleyway guarded by Alan.

The last one quietly turned around and returned to the empty classroom on Broken Tower Street.

They are all oracles.

Neither of them are the God of Fate.

This is the second mysterious rule of the "Corridor of Illusion"—the Split of Illusion.

—

But the real clearing process has only just begun.

Si Ming's fingertips trembled slightly, and a dark silver feather slowly slid out from her sleeve and landed gently in her palm.

He closed his eyes, his lips moved:

"The Handwriting of the Anonymous - Activated"

Then, he whispered the ancient formula already etched into his destiny, as if reading out an irreversible sentence for the world:

"who are you?"

"What are you here for?"

Whom have you seen?

"...You forgot."

—

On the other side of the city, a monk who was still unconscious struggled to his feet from the rubble, a broken blade with a life-marking pattern embedded in his chest, blood already flowing up to his knees.

His eyes were blurry, yet he was still instinctively trying to piece together his memories. His mouth was slightly open, and he managed to utter a few syllables:
"Heretical...is—"

Si Ming stood beside him, neither drawing his weapon nor activating his secret technique.

He simply raised his hand slowly, gently pressing the tip of the pen against the cultivator's forehead, a single stroke, like turning the pages of a book:

"That's not a line you should be reciting."

The next instant, the cultivator's pupils dilated, his expression became completely dazed, and he mumbled incoherently:

"who I am……?"

He collapsed to the ground, still breathing, but his mind was broken and his consciousness module had collapsed.

From then on, he would be unable to utter any words related to "life marks," "sacred fire," or "night lessons"—

Language and identity are erased from cognition.

—

The "Deities of Fate" throughout the battlefield were simultaneously clearing the area:

In the ruins of Ian's battle, he erased the coordinates of the Whispering Wind's range and blocked the memory of the entire area.

From Rex's high vantage point, he altered the visual memories of all "kills" and "ballistics".

At the site of the bloody battle of Serian, he sealed the semantic center of the remaining monks, rendering them unable to describe who "she" was.

On the street where Alan lived, he slowly crossed out the names of all the fallen on the threads of fate, stroke by stroke, along with the evidence of their existence.

The God of Fate does not kill.

He only erased it.

He did not eliminate the "enemy," but rather ensured that they—in history—never became an "obstacle."

—

Finally, the last wisp of wind in the fog carried him back to Broken Tower Street.

The classroom door was empty; the dream lamp had long since cooled, and half of the cursed paper, blown away by the wind, was pasted under the door frame.

He approached and slowly wrote the last sentence on the door frame with his life-printing pen.

The handwriting was extremely faint, using the slowest and most unstable ink particles in the art of writing life patterns.

That means that only those who have truly "taken this lesson" can understand this line of text.

"They're all gone."

"Who are you talking about?"

After finishing writing, he smiled slightly, lifted the corner of his clothes, took out the core secret fragment of Irostia from the inner layer, and erased the writing permission for this sentence.

From then on, it became a fragment beyond language, a flame "existing only in the heart".

No one can understand this sentence.

Apart from those children who once lit up the star map here with their own hands.

The wind finally stopped.

Like a gear that is turning, being slowly brought to a stop.

In that brief silence, Si Ming seemed to hear echoes from within the city—the church was organizing a new round of "guidelines for action."
The executive officer reviewed each remaining trace of fate and reconstructed the trial documents.

But when they closed the execution file for that night, they only saw a series of blank fields:

[Responsibility Objectives] - Missing

[Participation in heresy] - Details unknown

[Life Pattern Fluctuation Level] - Blur

[Survivor Report] - Unreadable
The church judge slammed his fist on the table and angrily rebuked the priest in charge:

"Is this the testimony you submitted?"

The priest's eyes were unfocused, his lips were pale, and sweat beaded on his forehead. He stammered, but kept repeating only one sentence:

"I...forgot...who that was..."

—

The illusory corridor slowly closed in.

The true form of the Fate Master stood on the streets of the Fog City, the cursed runes beneath his feet returning to silence.

He tucked the pen into his sleeve, the wind ruffling his clothes, and glanced back at the distant street corner still faintly lit.

There—the last group of children has not yet returned.

He gazed at the still-burning traces of fate, his voice as low as a whistle in the wind:

"Liseria... will you come?"

Then, he stepped into the rain.

The figure slowly faded away in the wind, as if it had never existed.

Rain falls on the foggy city.

This time, it wasn't a harbinger, but a true arrival—mixed with mud, old ash, the smell of blood, and silent weeping.
It flows from the spire to the cracks in the bricks, and drips from the rails into the wick of the dream lamp.

The entire city seemed to be in mourning.

—

Under the stone bridge arch at the north entrance of Pota Street, five children who had missed their evening classes huddled together to avoid the sound of rain.

Two men and three women, the youngest of whom hasn't even had his complete life line written yet.

They embraced tightly, the book of destiny in their hands was wet with water, the ink had blurred, turning into a dream that was not finished before the starlight descended.

No one speaks.

They just moved closer together, as if trying to squeeze out some proof that they were still "together".

—

Street intersection.

A black robe appeared.

The church's "silenced monks" are still pursuing it.

Their steps were light, and they brought neither light nor shouts. They did not come to preach or to interrogate.

This time, it's not just about recycling life runes.

Instead, they wanted to take away the "living witnesses".

One person held half a black chain, the iron rings making a low, dull metallic sound on the ground.

The other person silently chanted an incantation, their lips tightly closed, yet ancient syllables emanated from their life lines:

"Heretical with markings, underage."

Article 17 of the Religious Rules.

“Seale your heart, seal your words, seal your knowledge.”

The voice was cold and devoid of emotion, like a mantra being chanted over a corpse.

—

They lifted their feet, preparing to forcibly drag the first child away.

The child cowered in terror, the Book of Life and Death slipped to the ground, and when washed away by the water, it turned into scattered remnants of the curse.

Just then, a faint yet clear footstep came from deep within the stone path.

Keng.

Not fast, not heavy, but with a clear rhythm.

It was as if even the sound of rain deliberately gave way, making room for the footsteps.

Then—she appeared.

He wore a navy blue cloak with silver trim, and carried neither a sword nor any life-bound markings.

Her golden hair was unbound and slightly ruffled by the wind and rain, but she didn't look disheveled at all. Instead, she looked like a statue that had stepped out of a drawing.

She walked into the rain without an umbrella.

It was as if even the rain dared not fall on her shoulders.

—

The two monks suddenly stopped.

Because they saw that face clearly.

Liseria Trean.

The youngest royal daughter, a "mild danger" for the future of the foggy city.

She was neither a priest nor a military leader, yet the throne referred to her as the most unpredictable variable.

—

"you……"

One of the monks tried to speak.

But he only managed to utter the first syllable.

Because his language privileges have been obscured by higher-level rules.

It was a kind of "logical strangulation," like an invisible finger that directly severed the lifeline leading to the speech system.

He could only utter a few meaningless syllables through his dry throat, his face full of shock, but he couldn't say anything.

—

Liseria didn't look at them.

She simply looked down at the five children who were soaked by the rain.

She didn't say "Don't be afraid," nor did she say "I am a princess."

She simply bent down and took out an old playing card from her sleeve, its edges faded and yellowed.

That was a "Certificate of Legal Learning and Registration for Life Patterns".

She handed it to one of the children and said softly:
"You wrote your fate."

"Then you are not ashes."

Then, she turned around and slowly stood in front of the children.

Standing between them and the monks.

There was no light, and no life runes appeared.

But the fact that she stood there was already a wall built by fate itself.

It neither moves nor retreats.

The cultivator finally gritted his teeth, his face contorted, and roared in anger:

"If you protect heretics, then—"

Before he could finish speaking, he abruptly stopped.

His eyes suddenly changed.

It was as if, in a fleeting instant, the center of gravity of the world had shifted.

Because—he saw a person emerge from the depths of the dark alley, from the heavy, inky rain.

The man was holding an invisible umbrella.

The umbrella wasn't made of cloth, but rather of tattered pages from a script, silently turning in the wind and rain, as if he himself were a character that had been unprinted from an ancient printing press.

He wore a misty gray robe and walked slowly, each step seeming as if he were treading on dialogues that monks were not allowed to write.

His figure seemed as if it shouldn't exist in reality.

But then he appeared—like a modifier being reversed, like a period arriving prematurely.

He did not look at the monk.

He only looked at the girl.

He only looked at the princess standing in the rain without a sword.

The God of Fate smiled and asked softly:
"Am I late?"

Liseria slowly turned her head.

There was no surprise in her expression, only a calm certainty, like someone who has lit a dream lamp looking back at the first ray of morning light.

"You are always on time."

—

The God of Fate stood before the cultivator.

He looked down at the law enforcement officer whose lips were trembling and whose fingers were quivering slightly.
Looking at the mysterious and rational star on his life line, it was still trying to focus, but began to fail due to some inexplicable deviation.

He's not in a hurry.

He simply stood there quietly, like a playwright scrutinizing an actor who was trying to rewrite his lines.

"Who do you want to say she is?"

"The God of Fate asked softly."

The cultivator gritted his teeth, his Adam's apple bobbing, but he couldn't open his mouth. He clearly had a voice, but he couldn't say a name.

Si Ming smiled slightly, his eyes showing no anger, only regret:
"I can't bring myself to say it."

He walked slowly forward, raising his hand as he spoke.

"because I--"

He drew a line with his index finger, and the structure of the illusory corridor of fate appeared in his palm, as if the handwriting left a mark in the air.

"Not allowed."

He took another step forward, his voice like a judgment.

"Fate will not allow it."

"She is a line of poetry you cannot read."

—

The cultivator suddenly let out a hoarse scream, as if his vocal cords had been ripped out by some unspeakable rule.

He opened his mouth, but could only let out broken gasps of "gurgle—gurgle—", like a character in a script whose lines were cut, meaninglessly repeating non-existent words in place.

His life line was sunken in a corner of his chest, as if a page of memory had been forcibly erased.

His eyes went unfocused, his consciousness collapsed, and the next second, he fell straight to the ground, unconscious.

—

Si Ming turned around, and raindrops fell on the edge of his cloak, like old paper slowly unfurling in the water.

He looked at Liseria and nodded slightly:

"Thank you."

These two words, without any elaborate honorifics, seem to express gratitude to a lamplighter who once illuminated a world for him.

Liseria looked at him silently, without saying a word.

She doesn't need to answer.

Because she knew he wouldn't stay long.

He is not a member of the kingdom.

He is a playwright who transcends fate, the one who writes "if" and "never," and the pen that leaves blank spaces beyond every period.

—

The rain got heavier.

Led by her, the children turned and left.

Their silhouettes, in the rain, resembled tiny, unextinguished flames.

Si Ming watched them leave, then slowly put away the non-existent umbrella.

He walked into the rain, his figure gradually blurred by the raindrops, eventually disappearing into the depths of the night, like a chapter that had been turned.

It's not over yet.

But it has already been written.

"You see her back, like a stroke of fate that was once written wrong."

So you changed it back.

—From "The Handwriting of an Anonymous Person," page 13

(End of this chapter)