Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 414 The Dice Roller
"Fate is nothing but a deception; as long as the dice keep spinning, the actors will continue to lie."

—The King in Yellow: A Play Within a Play, Act One

The dim oil lamp flickered in the faint light, and the Morning Star Times office was as quiet as the heart of the dead—the old printing press lay in the corner like a sealed coffin, the type rack covered with a thick layer of ink dust.

The air was filled with the dry smell of old paper and the sweet scent of mold, like a breath that had crawled back from a bygone era.

The yellowed star chart in the corner trembled slightly, as if someone in some invisible dimension was adjusting its latitude and longitude with their fingertips.

The lines of the star trails slowly twisted, as if being quietly rewritten by an unseen hand—each shift was redrawing an ending yet to unfold.

Si Ming sat behind the old oak desk in the editor's office, spinning a die between his fingers.

It was entirely black, and its edges were worn so badly that it didn't look like it was used for gambling; rather, it looked like fragments of fate carved by fingernails over thousands of years.

The dice face had no numbers or words, only a few bottomless cracks, like tiny fissures leading to other lands, gleaming faintly under the light.

Each turn produces a soft yet fragile thud, like a silent interrogation—asking who will be responsible for the next scene.

"Click—"

The door opened slowly, and a gust of cold wind entered the room before the footsteps could enter.

Within the doorway, the white-gold imperial robe and the radiance of the star map almost merged into one. The newcomer stood tall and imposing, his gaze like a cold, authoritative arsenal, carrying the invisible pressure of divine judgment.

She walked alone into the heart of the newspaper office, without any entourage or guards. Medusa Trean entered the office alone.

“You knew I would come.” Her tone was calm and cold, as if she were announcing a judgment rather than starting a conversation.

"Of course." Si Ming's lips curled slightly, the dice in his hand stopping on the table, but he was too lazy to look at the faceless result.
It's as if the very act of throwing itself is victory. "You've always liked to read the script before the curtain rises."

“The script?” Medici took a step forward, a fleeting glint of light flashing in her eyes, like a spark leaping in cracked ice.

"You call the turmoil in this city a script? You call the nameless, the madmen, the rumors, the blood, the gods, the yellow-clad... you call it all a performance?"

Si Ming didn't answer, but simply pulled out a printed sample copy and spread it between the two of them. It was an upcoming special edition of the Morning Star Times, with the masthead prominently displaying:

The King in Yellow: Act II of the Crown

"You are a truly impious jester."

Medici's gaze lingered on the paper, her expression cold and scrutinizing. "You want to use the theater to erode the foundations of the monarchy, to let faith crumble on its own—to make this city believe it has gone mad in your ink."

Si Ming raised his eyes, his expression almost gentle, as if gazing at a lost but stubborn traveler.

"You've misunderstood, Your Majesty."

His voice was low and slow, with an inappropriate temperature: “I don’t need to drive Alleston crazy—I’m just taking off the mask it’s been wearing and letting it look in the mirror.”

These words were like a nail, driven into the last remaining barrier of reason between the two.

Medici walked to the window, where the blood moon was half-hidden in the night.

She slowly removed her golden gloves, revealing the mysterious "Our Lady of Fertility" ring. The ring face shimmered with a milky white light, as if invisible threads were extending from her veins.

“You are weaving lies,” she said, her tone calm and resolute. “But I hold sacred truth.”

Si Ming closed the newspaper, as if closing the last remnant of an absurd play.

His eyes, deep and unfathomable under the lamplight, held countless stories that had been performed and forgotten.

“Your truth is too heavy, Your Majesty—heavy enough to crush the truth.”

He smiled and added in a low voice, "And I only give people a lie they are willing to believe."

The silence stretched out, like a long curtain, obscuring the direction of the wind between the two.

“This isn’t a conversation,” Medici finally spoke, her voice low. “This is a provocation.”

“You’re right.” Si Ming slowly stood up, adjusting his cuffs as if performing the final ritual for a premiere. “This is the opening.”

A sudden gust of wind rose outside the window, causing the star map on the wall to shake violently. Amidst the interplay of light and shadow, a blurry yellow mark briefly appeared before quietly disappearing.

The dice bounced lightly on the table, making a final, crisp sound:
"Click".

—The second act has already begun silently.

"I used to think you were just a heretic."

Medici's voice was clear and distant, like the sound of a bell tolling on the dome, ethereal yet carrying an undeniable pressure.

She stood amidst the lamplight, her blonde hair and white robe bathed in the glow of the butter lamp, reflecting a radiance almost like that of a saint.

The mysterious ring symbolizing the "Holy Mother of Fertility" trembled slightly between her fingers, emitting a barely audible hum, as if the will within the ring was instinctively rejecting the presence of the Goddess of Fate.

“But now,” she turned, her gaze sweeping over the editor-in-chief’s office, a space shimmering with light and shadow.

"I'm starting to wonder if you're not even human."

"Who are you?" she asked directly, no longer hiding her true question.

“A gambler,” Si Ming answered without hesitation, his polite smile as thin as ice.
It perfectly conceals a disturbing abyss. "A pitiful human being who treats fate like a dice cup."

Medici raised an eyebrow, a chill emanating from her voice: "Don't respond to me with such cheap sarcasm."

"Okay, let me put it another way."

Si Ming slowly sat back in his chair, clasped his hands in front of his chest, his tone calm and resolute.
"I am the apostle with a thousand faces, the screenwriter in yellow, and the audience on the edge of the abyss. Which answer would you choose?"

Medici remained silent, as if trying to discern whether this was some kind of test of spiritual pollution.

A moment later, she uttered only two words: "You're crazy."

“Of course.” Si Ming’s voice was as light as if he were stating a trivial fact, but without a trace of mockery. “Only a madman is qualified to see the truth.”

His gaze was fixed on her face, a face like that of an ancient deity—smooth, solemn, devoid of joy or sorrow, as if it did not belong to this world.

“You are trying to masquerade as authority,” the Fate Master said slowly, a hint of pity flashing in his eyes.

"But you're just an actor. You've only been wearing a mask for so long that you can no longer distinguish between your role and yourself."

Medici laughed, a laugh that flashed like a blade in the light:

“I play the role of the Virgin Mary? No, I am Her true representative. I nurture life with my own life, and this ring carries Her will.”

She moved forward slowly, her gold and white robes rustling softly on the floor: "And He—hates lies."

“But He doesn’t dislike the script,” Si Ming replied softly.

Medici frowned slightly: "What do you mean?"

"Faith is the script for believers; law is the script for nobles; commandments are the script for cities."

Si Ming raised a finger and pointed at her, "You are a better actress than I am, Your Majesty. The script you have written has buried more people than these few pages of mine."

Her expression finally showed a subtle change.

“You spread the lies of the King in Yellow in my name,” Medusa whispered. “You believe in no gods, Fate, you believe only in authority.”

“Wrong.” Si Ming tapped his fingertips lightly on the table, the sound like water dripping into a deep well. “I don’t believe in authority, I only believe in choice.”

He slowly rose, took two steps closer, and stood shoulder to shoulder with the queen who had instilled fear and divine power in countless people.

“I give them choices in their illusions,” Si Ming said softly. “You give them the oppression of reality.”

“So what?” Medici retorted, her tone as sharp as ice. “You want them to embrace the flames of illusion? Flames that can’t even ignite a real altar.”

“The ridiculous thing is,” Si Ming leaned down slightly and whispered in her ear,

“They will be grateful for that false flame. Because at least it doesn’t burn their children.”

A flash of anger crossed Medici's eyes, but she suppressed it into a cold laugh: "Your flames are the faith of a madman. The script you've sown will one day turn on you."

"Perhaps." Si Ming sighed, looking down at the cracked die in his palm. "But I have to make it roll one last time."

As the lights dimmed, in the shadows, Medici's face lost the cold radiance of the icon, resembling neither a saint nor a queen, but rather a piece of gray stone that had remained unbroken despite being scorched by the sacred fire.

She spoke slowly: "Do you really think Alleston would applaud the script you wrote? Do you think they yearn for the return of the true king to erase everything between us?"

"They don't need to believe." The Fate Master's smile was like a page turned to its corner.
"They only need to turn their heads and take one look to find that the role on stage has already been changed."

Medici remained silent.

She gazed at Si Ming, as if trying to glean the ultimate answer from his eyes. But those eyes were empty—only a folded page of a script, being slowly and silently turned by an unseen hand.

"Then let me ask you a question."

Medici stood before Si Ming, her gaze sharp as a blade, her voice like silver fire flowing across it, cold yet deadly.

"A speeding train has five civilians tied to the tracks ahead. You only need to pull a trigger to derail it, killing only one stranger. What would you do?"

Si Ming did not answer immediately, but just stared at her quietly—his expression was like gazing at a holy image frozen in time: the Virgin Mary's expression was solemn, but there seemed to be a slight, imperceptible tremor in the corner of her eye.

Are you conducting a moral interrogation?

He slowly countered with a question, his fingertips twirling the mottled die, as black as a pebble scooped from the bottom of an abyss, "Or... are you looking for an excuse for your own judgment?"

“This is not an excuse.” Medici’s voice was as still as a frozen river. “This is humanity—and the bottom line of civilization.”

Si Ming chuckled softly, as if listening to an ancient and laughable fable:

"Civilization? Do you really think that there is any civilization left in Aleston? The moment you offered it up to the Blood Moon, it became a city of living sacrifices—naked, insane, and without any moral bottom line."

He lowered his head, tossed the dice up, and caught them again. The crisp sound of the dice echoed in the dim office, like the beat of fate striking in the shadows.

"You ask me which side should be sacrificed?" he finally spoke, his tone calm to the point of cruelty.
"I'll ask you in return—are there really only two tracks?"

Medici frowned slightly.

"Why should I choose an answer from your script?" Si Ming said calmly.
"The dilemma of five people or one person is just a manipulated illusion, a test for the mediocre. Real gamblers never bet on a set table—they overturn it."

His gaze locked onto her, a calm expression revealing an undeniable sharpness:
"If one side must be sacrificed, then all of them must be sacrificed. If fate must be paid for with lives—then I will burn fate itself."

Medici's breathing became slightly sluggish.

“You are denying all ethical principles.” Her voice was as soft as a string breaking in the wind.

“Wrong.” Si Ming’s voice was cold and steady. “I am denying your ethical principles.”

He paused, his lips twitching slightly, as if announcing an ending—

“I never said that I have ethics.”

As these words were spoken, the air seemed to be filled with some unfathomable shadow.

For the first time, Medici's expression showed a rare hesitation.

At that moment, she was no longer a cold and aloof queen, nor the incarnation of the Holy Mother, but merely a mortal standing on the edge of an abyss, looking down at the writhing shadows below, suffocated by a distant and immense power.

“You’re not human anymore,” she whispered, almost inaudibly.

"Perhaps," Si Ming replied calmly, "but I once was."

His gaze swept across her face, and his sharp, razor-sharp whisper cut through the air—

"And you? Are you even human anymore, Medici?"

She was silent.

Outside the window, the low chimes of the clock tower rolled down, and the midnight bells, like some kind of invisible pronouncement, entered the room.

"Did you hear that?" Siming murmured, as if talking to himself.

"This is the tolling of fate. It is not to judge any one person, but to announce—the entire theater is about to change its curtain."

Medici's expression finally turned completely gloomy.

"You are opening the door for the King in Yellow."

“Of course.” Si Ming smiled, but his voice was colder than the night. “I’ll be in charge of drawing back the curtain.”

He walked to the window and pushed open the heavy wooden door. A sea of ​​fog churned in Alleston, and the streets, bathed in red light, twisted into eerie silhouettes.

The distant church bells and wails mingled together, as if coming from another collapsing city.

He stood with his back to her, like an observer completely detached from the crowd, looking down at the world engulfed in yellow fog.

“You asked me a question about trains,” his voice carried on the night breeze, “now I’ll ask you one too—”

He turned around, his gaze deep and penetrating to the soul:
"Would you be willing to sit in one of those five seats?"

Medici remained silent. There were no answers in her eyes—only the mist and the blood moon, reflecting each other's shadows in the slowly closing night.

"Do you know, Si Ming?"

Medici's voice echoed slowly from the depths of silence, like an unfallen scepter suspended in the sky, carrying the weight of judgment yet to be released—once it falls, it will be enough to shatter a sanctuary.

“I shouldn’t have come to you in person. A person like you should be bowing down at the altar to atone for your sins, not preaching to me here.”

Si Ming remained standing by the window, his back to her, as yellow mist swirled outside the glass. He smiled softly.
“But then, you came, Your Majesty Medici. You didn’t come to punish me, but… to try to persuade me.”

He turned around, his eyes, illuminated by the lamplight, possessing a quality that teemed with both tenderness and sarcasm, as if he saw through all pretense: "Are you afraid of me?"

Medici paused for a moment before stepping into the room. Her footsteps pounded on the old wooden floor like the even rhythm of a pendulum.

"I am not afraid of you, Si Ming." Her tone was gentle, yet carried a chilling indifference that seemed to look down upon all things.
"I'm just worried that you'll drag the whole world down with you."

Under the oil lamp, her shadow was stretched long, solidified into a saintly statue that appeared with the passage of time.

The mysterious ring, symbolizing the "Holy Mother of Fertility," trembled slightly in the light, as if repelling the presence of the God of Fate.

"You think I want to destroy it?" Si Ming tilted his head slightly, his tone laced with almost pitying sarcasm. "No, I'm just taking out a mirror so it can look at its own face."

"You have overturned the order." Her voice was like a slowly falling verdict.

"I have merely shattered the illusions you have woven with sacred words and royal power."

Medici walked up to him, clasped her hands over her chest like a patriarch delivering a divine oracle before an altar: "What this country needs is stability and order."

Her gaze was as cold as the eyes of a holy icon. "And the yellow robe rumors you've fabricated are tearing the city apart—causing nobles to doubt the monarch and the church to fear the faith. You are the source of division."

Si Ming chuckled softly, as if listening to a monologue that had been rehearsed long ago: "It's just an illusion. I'm just a playwright who wrote down the lines from the audience's dreams. You've wanted to say them for a long time, but you just didn't dare to."

He took a step closer, his gaze like starlight piercing through the mist, pointing directly at her mask:
"You think they revere you because you are the spokesperson for the Virgin Mary? No—they fear you because they don't know what the world will have left without you."

“I give them direction, and you give them nightmares.” Medici’s cold laugh was like a slender blade flashing in the candlelight.

"Nightmare is the first step to wakefulness." Si Ming's whisper was like a pebble dropped into deep water, creating invisible ripples.

“You are intoxicated by delusion,” she rebuked. “Everything you do is nothing more than to prove your existence. You are a failed gambler, trying to turn the tide with lies.”

The God of Fate remained calm, as if reciting an ancient proverb:

"Yes, I've gambled with my life—gambling on the wind at sea, on the sand table, on fate at the card table. I've lost, lost everything. But I learned one thing—"

He leaned forward slightly, his voice low and deep, like the tide plunging into an abyss: "Winning isn't about taking the right path, it's about making everyone think you're on the wrong path."

Medici stared at him for a long time before slowly saying, "You are deceiving everyone, including yourself."

"Perhaps." A hint of indescribable serenity lingered in Si Ming's smile.

"But I will make everyone choose to believe that lie. Because when faith collapses, the only thing that can sustain people is a lie that is beautiful enough."

Medici slowly turned around, a wisp of dust rising from the hem of her robe, like a blade slicing across the ground.

She looked at the old painting on the wall: the throne of the Lion King had faded into a shadow, and below it were a row of blurry faces with their heads bowed.

“True faith is not afraid of lies,” she declared, as if giving a proclamation. “It will swallow lies and transform them into new precepts.”

A cold, resolute glint flashed in her eyes: "I will build a divine kingdom for them. And you, Si Ming—will be buried beneath the ruins of lies."

Si Ming didn't chase after her; he simply gazed at the old painting and murmured to himself:
“If the kingdom of God is built of lies, then… I am the first one to burn that kingdom.”

The lights were dim, and the shadows in the corner seemed to slowly creep along.

The distant clock tower chimes rang out again, heavy and slow, as if some unseen destiny was whispering to the whole city that the time for the curtain to fall had come.

Medici stopped at the doorway, the dim light casting a long, thin shadow on her back, sharp and silent, like a spear piercing the cracks of reality.

Her voice broke the silence, steady and solemn, like a night bell hanging from the dome—each syllable carrying an irresistible weight:
"One last question, Master of Fate."

Si Ming raised an eyebrow, leaned back in her chair, and tapped her fingertips rhythmically on the table, as if responding to an invisible prompt: "It is my greatest honor, Your Majesty."

What is your path to celestial disaster?

Her eyes were like a frozen sea, unfathomable. "I want to know, what exactly have you relied on to get to where you are today? Is it the trickery of manipulating people's hearts? Is it fate itself? Or is it that the god under the yellow robe who bestowed this madness upon you?"

The air froze for a few seconds.

Si Ming chuckled softly—the chuckle was not an arrogant provocation, but rather the calm sigh of a seasoned gambler before revealing his hand.

He slowly rose, walked to the window, and pushed the blinds open a crack. The night wind, carrying damp, cold mist, rushed in, and in the brass lamplight, it seemed like tentacles overflowing from a foreign land, gently caressing the room's breath.

Do you want the truth, or do you want to hear a lie that's compelling enough?

“I’m asking for the truth.” Medici’s voice was even lower, like a sharp sword hanging in mid-air.

Si Ming turned around, his expression revealing an almost gentle mystery: "I am—'The Lie Weaver'."

She frowned slightly, a fleeting, unreadable emotion flashing in her eyes, but remained silent and did not respond.

"I can't wield a sword, nor can I summon the blood moon, and I'm not good at rituals."

Si Ming spoke slowly, his voice like the prelude to a play, “But I will write the script—a script where everyone can find a role. I will set the stage, and you… are already standing in the spotlight.”

“And,” he smiled slightly, with a fatal certainty, “he acted exceptionally well.”

Medici's gaze wavered slightly for a moment, then returned to its icy coldness.

"A liar? You think I'd believe that?" she said coldly.

“You don’t have to believe it.” Si Ming sat down again, turning the pitch-black die with his fingertips—one of the six sides had no characters on it, so black it seemed to swallow up light.

"You just need to decide whether this is what I want you to believe."

Her pupils contracted sharply, as if she had realized something: "So you are—"

"Lying? Of course." Si Ming interrupted her, his smile like a sealed mask.

"The significance of a lie lies not in whether it is true or false, but in the fact that it allows the listener to actively choose the story they want to believe."

He looked down at the dice: "Meddess, you've already made your judgment, haven't you?"
You decide whether I am a 'liar' or someone who shakes the dice at the table of fate.

He looked up, his gaze like a card turned over in the night, carrying an undeniable declaration: "Since you've already defined me, why should I deny it?"

Medici's eyes were as cold as iron. She turned and left, her cloak sweeping across the ground, leaving behind a low, judgment-like echo:
"You will die in your own script, Si Ming."

The door closed, and the room fell into a deathly silence.

Si Ming's expression remained unchanged. He lowered his head and looked at the dice on the table—it lay there quietly, like a seed of destiny waiting to be rolled next.

He drew a mysterious card.

The card surface gleams with a dark, flowing light, while the back is plain and unadorned, yet it seems to be covered by countless layers of masks, or like a dark mirror that reflects the deepest self of the gazer.

【Fate System - Supreme Mystery Card: The True Lie, the Thousand-Faced Weaver of Fate】

The card trembled slightly, flipped itself, and produced a barely audible hum—a sound like the tide, like an ancient chuckle, or like a god whispering to an old friend in a dream.

"Oh... my dear screenwriter... you've told another lie."

"She believed it, didn't she? She really believed it."

"Your eyes didn't even flinch for a moment; they were as perfect as an unbreakable mask."

"The most touching lie is one that makes the audience willingly identify with the character... Isn't she now the best leading lady?"

"That's really something... You planted a false name in her heart, yet she built a palace for it with her own hands."

Si Ming closed the card, his eyes as deep and unfathomable as the undercurrents of the ocean, a barely perceptible smile playing at the corners of his lips. The whisper in his ear continued:
"Don't stop, keep lying. In the next scene, we'll witness the collapse of fate."

"You will be the final narrator... or the playwright who falls on the stage."

"But that's alright—I'll be in the audience, applauding for you."

Si Ming slowly closed his eyes, as if listening to some kind of sacred chant.

A breeze rushed in through the window, causing the yellow-clad still image on the wall to sway gently. In the dim light, he murmured softly:

"...The curtain has not yet fallen, and the audience has not yet left their seats."

"The real ending has not yet begun."

"The curtain was never drawn, yet you had already entered the scene."

“Every audience member is written into the script, they just don’t realize it yet.”

"You think you are watching, but you are actually being stared at."

—From the Book of Calxus, Audience Notes, Line 13

(End of this chapter)