Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 398 The House Never Loses

"The difference between a gambler and a house is that the former only focuses on their slim chances of winning."
The latter had already secured the entire betting opportunity.

All miracles and possibilities are just numbers on a coin.

You can fool yourself, but you can never fool fate.

—Excerpts from "The Bookmaker's Perspective"

The gambler of fate slowly opened his arms, like a beautiful yet cold master of ceremonies on a stage, revealing to the void the gamble that had left an indelible mark on the fate.

Before him, the gambling table silently appeared, and the familiar yet cruel scene was restored in an instant—the cold, icy gambling table surface gleamed with a metallic sheen.

On the table, the game that determined fate that day was reproduced with unparalleled precision. The order, angle, pattern, and even the smallest crease of the river card were exactly the same, so exquisite that it was frightening.

Siming's heart skipped a beat, and he subconsciously lowered his eyes to stare at the two face-down cards in front of him.

He didn't need to look; he already knew perfectly well that the two cards were exactly the same as those from that day.

A complete ragtag bunch.

It has neither a straight nor a flush, and it can't even make a basic pair, let alone any other hand that it can rely on.

This was the terrible hand he chose that night, hoping to turn the tide with a crazy bluff.

Meanwhile, the gambler opposite him—the uncle who had once disguised himself as a clumsy gambler—sat there leisurely and at ease.
A confident yet sly smile curved his lips as his fingers casually and skillfully manipulated the chips.

The coldness and mockery flashing in his eyes were like a sea monster lurking in the abyss, ready to swallow its prey whole at any moment.

For the first time, Si Ming felt so truly powerless and alienated.

He vaguely understood that the man before him, whether in terms of pretense, scheming, or control over people's hearts, far surpassed him—he was the true mastermind of destiny.

That night, you presented yourself with a rigorous and rational demeanor, calculating every hand meticulously and placing every bet with calm certainty.

But in this one game, you chose to abandon all calculations and gamble everything with a terrible hand that you had absolutely no chance of winning, hoping to bluff your way to victory…

The gambler of fate murmured softly, his eyes filled with piercing mockery and a hint of disdain.
His fingertips deftly and skillfully flipped the chips on the table, as if they were humble and pitiful souls.

"So, now, Sir, shall we continue playing that unfinished game?"

Si Ming remained silent for a moment, but finally couldn't help but whisper the question that had been lingering in his mind:

"why?"

"Why?" The gambler of fate laughed wildly, as if he had heard a great joke, his laughter filled with chilling mockery.
"You're actually scared? How embarrassing, you were me in the past."

After all these years in casinos, you still haven't realized: what truly determines winning or losing is never the chips or the cards you're dealt, but the insurmountable fear deep within your heart.

Si Ming's fingertips trembled slightly. He couldn't deny that an unprecedented fear and despair were welling up inside him.

This gamble had surpassed all his experience and control; his opponent's planning and intellect were far superior to his.

"Unfortunately, you have no choice at all, because I am the dealer in this round."

The gambler of fate slowly reached out his hand, pointing to the lone black chip in front of the God of Destiny.

Si Ming's heart skipped a beat. That chip was the very one that had crushed the opponent's last shred of courage years ago.
Now, however, it has locked onto him like a shadow, waiting for him to place his final bet.

"You desperately want to leave here, don't you? You yearn to take your companions, imprisoned in the dream cocoon by the dream weaver of fate, don't you?"

The gambler's voice was as deep and seductive as a snake's.
"Then let's finish this round. This is my game, my rules—win, or you'll be handed over to me!"

Si Ming's forehead was covered in a fine layer of cold sweat.

Every detail of the past betting game flashed through his mind. He desperately replayed his opponent's betting methods, psychological tactics, and the probability calculations for each card.

Ultimately, he arrived at a brutally honest conclusion: the odds of winning were minuscule, a paltry two percent.

The opponent has countless possible hand combinations, while he only has a hopeless, terrible hand.

With trembling fingers, Si Ming slowly revealed his trump card, a faint glimmer of hope still lingering in his heart:

"At least... at least it shouldn't be that same bad hand again..."

However, reality cruelly shattered his hopes.

That suffocatingly bad hand of cards appeared before his eyes, exactly as he remembered it, as if the entire universe was mocking his futile struggle.

Si Ming closed his eyes, and a deep, overwhelming despair gradually surged from the depths of his soul, slowly engulfing him.

The gambler of fate had a gaze as sharp and cold as a blade. He laughed loudly, unrestrained and arrogant, making no attempt to hide his mockery and disdain.

"What's wrong, Siming? Weren't you very confident before? Now you're like a gambler who's lost his last chip, lacking even the most basic courage?"

Si Ming remained silent, his trembling fingertips slowly reaching into the depths of his pocket—where his final trump card lay: [The true lie, the thousand-faced weaver of destiny].

The gambler's eyes suddenly turned sharp and cold, and the mockery at the corner of his mouth became even more obvious:
"Are you begging for mercy from fate? Do you think the Thousand Faces can grant you another miracle of victory?"

He laughed wildly, his voice deep and terrifying, like an ancient god rising from the darkness:
"You've forgotten? I personally delivered it to you."

The gambler of fate slowly spreads his hands, like a god ascending to the highest peak, looking down upon the insignificance of mortals:
"I have witnessed its true form, I have confronted its most essential existence, and I have stood at the pinnacle of destiny!"
And you—you're nothing but a pathetic worm, clinging to life under its favor. My past self, you have truly disappointed me utterly.

The words pierced Si Ming's heart like sharp knives, and he finally understood that at this moment, he could only gamble everything to face the inevitable cruel end.

Si Ming's heartbeat was violent and chaotic, like a drumbeat that had lost its rhythm.

He tried to capture that ever-faithful whisper from the endless void, but was horrified to discover—

A dead silence.

The whispers that the Thousand Faces once knew as well as breathing were now completely severed by some more powerful and profound force.

The ever-present "favor of fate," the mysterious phrase that had protected him countless times in the darkness, was now like a broken string, utterly silent.

"No, that's absolutely impossible..."

Si Ming's heart sank suddenly, and fear surged like a tide, drowning out his last shred of reason in his struggle.

Only then did he fully realize that this gamble had already exceeded the limits of what he could control.

"Are you surprised?" The gambler of fate chuckled lazily, a mocking and arrogant smile playing on his lips.

"Of course you can continue to struggle, cheat or whatever, just bring out all those pathetic and fragile secret cards of yours."
And those fragments of the Star Calamity you humbly picked up from the back room—come on, use them, stake your last shred of dignity and pride.

His voice gradually rose, his tone revealing unparalleled arrogance and madness:

"However, don't forget to remind you that even above the Cataclysm, there are still insurmountable gaps between sequences."

You've only just stepped onto the threshold of the Star Calamity, and those fragments are merely the lowly Sequence Thirteen. And me?

The gambler's eyes burned with a light as brilliant and dangerous as a burst of stars:

"I am the true Sequence 1 in the gambler of fate sequence—the house of fate!"

His laughter grew increasingly manic, and the entire space seemed to tremble slightly with it.

"Do you know? I am so far from that supreme divine position—Sequence 0 'Wheel of Fate'?"
Just one step away, and that crucial step is you! You, who still hold countless possibilities and a future within you!

He took a step forward, his voice like a devil's whisper, carrying endless temptation and oppression:

"Admit defeat, Siming! You know perfectly well that you have completely lost this final decisive game of the tournament."

Fold your cards, and become a part of me! We merge into one, becoming the most perfect god of destiny!

Si Ming remained silent, fine beads of sweat sliding down his cheeks from his forehead.

His hand slowly pressed down on his trump card, his fingertips trembling violently, as if he would give up completely at any moment.

The gambler's eyes suddenly blazed with light, his pupils reflecting an almost frenzied excitement and greed.

He couldn't wait to imagine what he would be like after merging with the Fate Master and ascending to the position of Sequence 0 God—an unparalleled ruler of destiny.
He once again set foot on the land of the end, looking down upon all living beings with the bearing of a god.

He had waited for this moment for countless years, experiencing countless cycles of reincarnation and failure, and now, that almost hopeless glimmer of hope has finally arrived once again.

He opened his arms wide, as if the taste of victory was within reach.

"Fate, supreme being! In the end, you are nothing more than a lowly pawn in my hand!"

He laughed wildly, his tone almost manic:
"From this moment on, I am finally above you!"

However, at that moment, Siming's fingers suddenly stopped.

He slowly raised his head, calmly and openly looking into the pair of eyes opposite him, eyes filled with greed and fanaticism.

Then, he suddenly laughed.

This calm and gentle smile slightly froze the arrogant grin on the gambler's face.

“Yes, you’re right… I’ve never been a good gambler.”

The voice of the God of Destiny was extremely soft, yet exceptionally clear, as if whispering some truth to some being in the void, with an unprecedented calmness and resolve in its tone.

He slowly stood up and looked up at the strangely interwoven sky above.

There, flesh and stars intertwined like the body of some unknown behemoth, as if it would devour all living beings that stepped into its territory at any moment.

Si Ming smiled again, but this time the smile contained a hint of self-mockery and a chilling madness.

“I have never cared about winning or losing the bet. For me, gambling is just a means of making a living. The real fun is in manipulating people’s hearts.” He muttered to himself, but what he pulled out from deep in his pocket was not the mysterious card of the ‘Thousand Faces’ that symbolized miracles and blessings, but six slightly worn and tattered banknotes.

“I once had a survival rule: every day I would go to the casino with 600 silver coins. 300 coins would be used to pay for the hotel overnight, and the rest…”

Si Ming stared at the crumpled banknotes, the curve of his lips gradually becoming more relaxed, revealing a chilling confidence and composure:
"That's my 'entertainment fund' for that night."

A firm and clear light rekindled in Si Ming's eyes, the original essence of a gambler and the belief he had never truly lost.

Under the shocked and astonished gaze of the gambler of fate, he slowly slammed the banknotes in his hand onto the gambling table, and declared as if making a declaration:
"The game has only just begun."

For others, poker may simply be a game of probability and psychology.
But for Si Ming, its true essence will always be only one thing—[role-playing].

In every game, he precisely portrayed a specific role, presenting a false version of himself to his opponents.

This creates the illusion that the other party is in control of the situation.

When their confidence reaches its peak and their vigilance drops to its lowest point, the God of Destiny will calmly and ruthlessly deliver a fatal blow.

"The opponent's real weakness is never in their chips or hole cards, but in their mind."

Si Ming slowly raised his head, his gaze like a drawn sword, piercing straight at the gambler of fate opposite him.

A slight smile played on his lips, and a hint of amusement and confidence gradually replaced his earlier wavering and panic.
"You think you've won? But why is there such impatience and longing in your eyes?"

His voice grew colder and sharper, each word like a sharp silver needle piercing the defenses of the gambler of fate:
"Was it the endless wait that eroded your patience, or... is it that you are actually the one who can't afford to lose?"

A mocking yet confident smile appeared on Si Ming's lips. It was as if he had finally seen through the secret buried deep within the gambler of fate:

"Yes, you can't afford to lose! Because the rules of the tournament have never changed, only those who lose all their chips can truly leave the table."

Your sudden fold and hasty departure that day has always been hard for me to understand... but now your eagerness to force me to give up has finally made it clear to me—”

The voice of the God of Fate grew increasingly resounding and clear, echoing like thunder in this strange and distorted space:

"You set these rules yourself, didn't you? If I win this round, I can leave the back room forever, taking my companions who are imprisoned in the dream world by the Dream Weaver of Fate!"

Every word he spoke was like a sharp blade, piercing the deepest, most hidden fears of the gambler of fate, whose eyes involuntarily revealed undisguised panic and unease.

"You are the dignified Destiny Dealer of Sequence 1! Since you set the rules, do you really want to break them yourself?"

Or are you actually already afraid, afraid of losing this bet?

The gambler's previously unrestrained smile froze for a moment, then he burst into unrestrained and manic laughter, trying to mask his panic and anxiety:
"Lose? Hahahaha! How could I possibly lose! You're just making pointless bluffs!"

However, since you're so confident, then I'll tell you, in the name of fate, if you do indeed manage to win this round...

All your wishes will come true! It's just a pity, you have no chance of winning!

Si Ming quietly shook his head. In his life, he had seen countless gamblers like this—those who believed they held a 99.99% chance of winning.

Yet, people crumble before that tiny 0.01% miracle;
I've also seen those guys who thought they had victory in the bag, only to be eliminated by sheer bad luck in the end.

The voice of the God of Fate became low and calm, yet it exuded unparalleled majesty and domineering aura:

"Before coming before you, I asked the Dream Weaver of Destiny,"
What are my chances of making it this far alive? Do you know what that tells me?

A fearless and unrestrained flame ignited in the eyes of the Fate Master:

One in a billion.

His gaze was unwavering, like a dazzling star rising in the night:
"But I still came, because I believed I would win."

As soon as he finished speaking, Si Ming revealed his trump card without hesitation.

It was indeed a completely hopeless and terrible hand.

However, his eyes showed no fear or hesitation, but rather an unprecedented intensity and determination, like flames about to engulf his opponent.

"You're telling me this terrible hand only has a pitiful 2% chance of winning? Do you think I'd just fold?"

He sneered, his arrogance and boundless confidence proclaiming his deepest conviction:

"Have you forgotten? This is the final table of the tournament!"

From the moment I set foot here, I have already staked everything on it!

At this moment, I have no way out, so—"

The voice of the God of Fate was like a thunderclap, shaking the entire space:

"I, Si Ming, will never fold!"

He took a sudden step forward, his voice filled with unwavering resolve and determination:

"That's right! My hand is terrible, no flushes, no straights, and not even a single high card!"
But what I'm betting on is never my hand, but yours—I'm betting that your hand is worse than mine!

The god of fate's eyes blazed with a resolute and insane fire, like the Grim Reaper wielding the sharpest scythe, aimed directly at the heart of the gambler of destiny:
"Come on! Flip the card! Let me see what your hole card is!"

At this moment, Si Ming seemed to have finally returned to his original essence—the man who dared to bet everything on a 0.01% probability, the gambler who dared to punch fate without fear.

The gambler's face turned pale and ashen in an instant. He stared at the Master of Fate's confident and intense gaze with fear and disbelief, finally feeling an unprecedented sense of dread and oppression.

Si Ming may not have won the bet yet, but at this moment, he has already completely taken control of this duel that is destined to be recorded in the annals of fate, both in terms of momentum and mentality.

Dusk falls on the foggy city of Alleston.

The setting sun slowly closed like the eyes of a dying person, and the sky gradually lost its vitality in an eerie dark red.

Thick fog swept over the city like a tide, carrying a suffocating sense of oppression and an ominous undercurrent, quietly swallowing everything.

Pedestrians hurried along the street, as if chased by some indescribable fear, fleeing back to their homes in haste to avoid the approaching night.

In the small, old shoe repair shop on the street corner, old shoemaker Barton sighed wearily and slowly packed away his greasy, worn-out tools.

He stretched his stiff, aching back, hesitated, and straightened up, gazing at Areston as it was gradually swallowed by the thick fog.

In the distance, the blood-red moon, like a mysterious eye peering into the mortal world, slowly rises, looking down upon the city that is about to sink into darkness.

"The nights in Alleston... are coming earlier and earlier."

Old Patton's voice was low and deep, as if he were talking to himself, but it was more like he was telling a secret hidden in the shadows: "The moon... is getting redder and redder."

Before long, the streets and alleys were completely silent, as if the whole city had fallen into a stifling slumber.

Only the orderly and solemn footsteps of the soldiers and police echoed in the silence, along with the dull thud of the church knights' armor clashing, constantly reminding the residents that the threat behind the night had never truly gone away.

They loudly proclaimed the necessity of the curfew, claiming it was to guard against the remaining henchmen of the "Reflection King," but perhaps only they themselves knew the true truth.

Meanwhile, in the church of the Twelfth Diocese, Rex continued to preside over the evening prayer service as a priest.

The pale, dim candlelight flickered eerily, making the believers' dazed and numb faces appear even more indistinct and eerie.

Their expressions were tired and empty, as if some unknown force was gradually draining their vitality away.

Rex closed the yellowed copy of the "Psalms of Mary" in his hand, raised his head, and gazed at the worshippers who had long since lost their spirits.

A deep unease involuntarily surfaced in his eyes.

"Mira... what you predicted, perhaps it's already approaching..."

He murmured to himself, his right hand instinctively stroking the monocle over his right eye.

This lens is a mystery; it is a high-level fate-related cursed artifact left behind by his lover, a siren named Mira.

He had long sensed that as night fell, every soul in the city was silently weakening.

Life force is being gradually stripped away by some invisible and terrifying force.

Yet, despite his relentless pursuit, he has still failed to uncover the truth hidden deep within the darkness.

Meanwhile, in a side courtyard of Morningstar Manor, Alan Herwin had just stepped through the gate when he heard his mother's panicked and anxious voice coming from inside the house:
"Alan, come quick, your brother... he's sick again!"

Alan's heart skipped a beat, and he rushed into the house, where he saw his younger brother lying on the bed, his face deathly pale.
The fragile body, like a candle about to burn out, is slowly sliding towards the edge of darkness.

Alan looked up at her mother, her eyes filled with anxiety and unease: "How could this happen? Didn't the doctor say yesterday that he just had a common cold?"

The mother shook her head wearily, her voice trembling and weak:
"Yes, I don't understand either. After taking the medicine prescribed by the doctor, he didn't get any better. Instead, he became weaker and weaker, and even... colder and colder..."

Her voice suddenly stopped, and she looked fearfully out the window at the sky gradually being stained with blood, her tone revealing deep fear and confusion:
"And... he kept talking in his sleep, saying he saw... a blood moon?"

Alan shuddered, as if his heart had been suddenly gripped by cold claws, and fear surged through his body like a tidal wave.

He slowly turned his head, his gaze trembling as he looked out the window—the thick fog had completely engulfed Alleston.
Only the blood-red moon shone ever brighter, more eerie, and more blinding, like a cold and enormous eye coldly watching over every soul in the city, trapped in despair and fear, from high above.

At this moment, Alleston was completely shrouded in a silent shadow, as if the entire city had become a cage imprisoned by an unknown entity, awaiting the arrival of its inescapable fate.

"When the blood-red moonlight envelops the foggy city, all prayers will become futile whispers."

Night will devour the warmth of life, devour all warmth and hope.

In this city, the deepest darkness is not the night itself.

Rather, it is people's despair at being powerless to change the future.

—From *The Book of Despair in Chongqing: Night Falls*

(End of this chapter)