Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 432 The Other Side of Fate

"Fate is not a straight line; it turns pages and shows you the side you least want to see."

—From the Lost Ship's Logbook, fragments

At the very moment when the blood moon was at its peak, Siming suddenly felt a sharp pain in his chest.

That dull pain flowed from my heart straight to my fingertips.

Si Ming put down his pen and looked up.

It's Celian.

The other end of the lifeline was trembling, and a burning sensation mixed with the smell of blood came through—it was a sign of impending death.

He turned toward the city, and across the ruins of several streets and the mist of the blood moon, the outline of the Tower of Saint Chastity looked like a cold needle piercing the boundary between heaven and earth.

Si Ming closed his eyes.

She was on the tower.

Liseria was there too.

His intuition told him that these two things were not a coincidence.

He slowly stood up, the force on his shoulders like an undercurrent beneath the surface of water, pushing him toward the heart of the city.

At this moment, everything he had prepared was complete.

The array of lies laid out at Dawn Manor, the yellow-clad stories circulating in newspapers and on street corners, and the cognitions and memories he wove himself—all have become a web.

His strength and condition are at their peak.

The God of Fate raised his palm.

The lines on his fingertips seemed to melt into the starry sky, countless tiny points of light were born, flowed, and vanished in his palm, and the threads of fate surged between his fingers like a tide, weaving and cutting as he pleased.

Just then, hurried footsteps came from deep within the manor.

Dr. Taran burst through the door, his forehead beaded with sweat and his hands still smelling of herbs. "Editor-in-chief! Outside... outside there are monsters everywhere, and the number of infected members is increasing! We should—"

Si Ming stepped forward and placed his hand on Taran's shoulder. The pressure was light, but it calmed Taran's breathing.

"Taran, hold the line. Make sure the remaining patients, wounded, and survivors are properly cared for. Do not leave Dawn Manor."

His tone was more like stating a fact than making a request.

"B-but-"

"Leave the rest to me."

Si Ming's voice was very soft, yet it sounded like a bell being struck in a stone chamber.

He pushed open the double doors of the main hall.

Outside, the misty light of the blood moon was slowly pressing down on the garden walls of the manor.

He raised his hand, and illusory ripples spread out like a curtain, circle after circle, layer upon layer, transforming into a huge illusory corridor that enveloped the manor.

The air grew still, and the mist lingered outside the barrier of light, like an audience member separated from the stage.

Si Ming glanced back at the survivors gathered under the porch, his gaze sweeping over Taran, the nurse, and several mothers holding their children.

“Remember, as long as I live—this is the last sanctuary of Alleston.”

He paused, a hint of amusement in his eyes, "No demon or its familiar can step into this illusory realm."

His back turned as he turned toward the city, his cloak billowing in the wind.

His next step was to step into that blood-red abyss.

The wind in the southern suburbs carried the stench of blood and dust, as if it were delivering news of the tragedy that had struck the city.

Si Ming walked north along the stone path, his pace neither hurried nor slow.

What I'm stepping on is what was once the main thoroughfare of Alleston—Twilight Bell Street.

This street used to be the place he walked the most.

People would always greet him from the second-floor balcony of the tavern;

The mill girl would hand you freshly baked bread;

Further ahead—Mirror Street, the headquarters of the Morning Times.

The three-story stone building was unusually quiet.

He recalled that in the past few days, the editorial department was still brightly lit, with editors, reporters, and printers working late into the night, and the sounds of the oil heater and typesetting machine filled the building like heartbeats.

Today's turn of events made him afraid to guess—how many of them were still themselves, and how many were no longer human.

Si Ming pushed open the newspaper office door.

The familiar scent of wood has been overshadowed by the stench of decay.

The once messy desk was now splattered with blood, and papers, ink, and intestines were intertwined together.

On the floor were severed limbs and half a skull, and an arm with its flesh torn off was hanging from under the table leg.

A low chewing sound came from behind.

He looked up and saw three or five familiar figures crouching in the corner, their backs bent like wild beasts, tearing and biting at something.

That's a person.

He saw the man's hand trembling with pain—

He recognized the hand; it belonged to one of his chubby editors.

He was a kind-hearted man who had a habit of bringing tea and snacks to his colleagues late at night.

Now, half of his face has been torn off, and all that remains in his eyes is a longing for death.

Si Ming sighed softly and raised his hand.

A deck of cards is flipped between fingers.

Seven of Clubs, Five of Diamonds, Queen of Hearts.

Whispering mysterious incantations, the cards transformed into three swirling trails.

Plum Blossom Seven—slicing through the air, disappearing into the chubby editor's neck.

The toxins, like a gentle tide, carried away the pain in an instant.

The five of diamonds spun around and sliced ​​through the limbs of the two attacking monsters, sending bones and flesh flying, and silencing their roars.

The Queen of Hearts – A queen knight in armor, wielding a spear, emerges from the thick smoke.

She knelt on one knee, raised her spear slightly, and then charged like a cheetah, the spearhead piercing the chest of the leading monster, before exploding into flames and steel fragments in the next instant.

As the flames ignited, the paper and wooden beams were set ablaze.

Si Ming turned and walked out the door.

He didn't look back.

Behind them, the stone building of the Morning Times collapsed amidst the explosion, and flames engulfed the last manuscript and type, turning into black ash that drifted towards the blood-moon-covered sky.

At the end of Muzhong Street, the road turns into a long market alley.

The stalls were overturned, the fruits and vegetables rotted on the ground, the oil lamps were crushed, and the air was filled with a mixture of burnt and sweet smells.

Si Ming's steps stopped with a sob.

The crying sounded as if it came from very close by, or as if it were crawling out from underground.

From the shadows at the alley entrance, a familiar figure slowly emerged—

Marlene.

Her upper body was still that of a meek little maid, her hair disheveled, tears streaming down her cheeks, but her eyes were empty and vacant.

But from the waist down, it is replaced by a jet-black spider body, with eight slender legs tapping lightly on the ground with an uneasy rhythm.

Even stranger, there was another face on her back—the same face as herself, with her eyes closed and constantly whispering prayers.

Marlene cried, repeating over and over, "I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."

But at the same time, her jaw opened, revealing sharp teeth, and she bit open the chest of her prey—a newsboy whose body was half-parasitized by the Blood Moon—and slowly rolled his internal organs into the sac in her abdomen like a spider spinning silk.

Si Ming stood at the alley entrance, watching this scene, his brows slowly furrowing.

He hadn't seen Marlene since Liseria was imprisoned, and he never expected to meet her again in this state. Sensing his presence, Marlene's crying stopped abruptly.

She turned her head, her face streaked with tears, while the back of her face remained etched with whispered prayers.

The next moment—a piercing scream.

She pounced forward, her eight legs stomping, her spider claws piercing straight through Siming's chest.

The power was enough to tear through armor, and the claws churned within him, searching for his heart.

Marlene gritted her teeth and growled, "I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."

But what she heard was not the sound of flesh tearing apart.

She looked up and saw only Si Ming's expression—compassionate and quiet, as if he were looking at a lost child.

His hand gently landed on the top of her head.

“Marlene,” his voice was low and gentle, “there’s no need to apologize anymore.”

None of this is your fault.

The "Master of Fate" in her hand suddenly turned into swirling smoke, dissipating from her claws.

The true God of Fate stood quietly behind her.

He raised a hand, and countless fine threads spilled from his fingertips, floating out like living things, wrapping Marlene's body inch by inch, tightly and gently.

"Rest in peace, Marlene." His voice seemed to be proclaiming a new chapter for her, "I have woven a new destiny for you—a destiny no longer that of a monster."

The moment the threads were gathered, Marlene's cries and prayers ceased simultaneously, and her eight legs slowly folded over, transforming into a quiet, curled-up cocoon.

Si Ming withdrew his hand, the silk threads scattered in the wind, and the cocoon turned into white dust, carried by the wind towards the direction of the blood moon.

He glanced back at the empty alleyway and said softly, "Next."

The white dust dissipated in the wind, and Marlene's cries and prayers fell silent.

Si Ming withdrew his hand, his gaze lingering for a moment at the empty alleyway, as if closing the last page of a certain memory.

Suddenly, his gaze turned to the southeast.

There—a familiar aura lingered, still clear amidst the filth of the blood moon.

whoosh-

A flash of cold light pierced through the air, embedding itself in the beam beside him like a bullet.

Si Ming narrowed his eyes slightly.

That wasn't metal; it was a monocle lens.

The edges of the lenses are inlaid with silver lines, and the inside shows fine water ripples, as if another world might be reflected at any moment.

The God of Fate recognizes it.

Rex's Mysterious Card - High-Rank Fate Type, "The Siren Who Peeks at Fate".

This is Rex's eye, and also his gun.

He had heard the name Mira countless times.

Rex had once told him Mira's story while smoking a dry cigarette on the deck of the Lost One:
—That was his lover, a siren with eyes as deep as the sea.

She died in a naval battle that wiped out her clan, leaving behind only pearls that resembled tears.

Later, Rex used her belongings and a mysterious ritual to seal her into this lens, allowing her to accompany him for the rest of his life in the form of a siren.

But today, this lens was shot right in front of him.

Si Ming reached out and took it down; the mirror in his palm trembled slightly.

The next instant, a rapid, almost screaming voice exploded in his ears:

"Save him! Sir! Save him—!"

It was Mira's voice.

It was the dampness and anxiety of waves crashing against the deck, carrying a desperate salty taste.

Si Ming's fingers slowly tightened, her knuckles turning white.

He looked down at his glasses, his eyes as deep as the night sea, utterly calm.

But the heartbeat in my chest felt like it was about to crack my ribs.

"…Rex."

He carefully put the lens away, as if he were putting away a most important letter.

The next moment, he turned around, his cloak billowing as he sped along the street.

He left the light of the blood moon behind, and the illusion, like morning mist, spread beneath his feet.

Direction—Cathedral.

"Save him, even at the cost of everything—"

His voice was shattered by the wind, yet it carried an undeniable determination.

The cathedral in Alleston has changed its appearance under the blood moon.

The towering spires were entwined with blood-red vines, the stone statues had broken wings, and flowing eyeballs emerged from their eye sockets.

The originally white exterior wall was wrapped in a dark red film, as if it were wrapped in a huge placenta, with a faint pulsation visible.

Si Ming stopped and looked towards the church steps.

—There, a person was standing.

He was dressed in a priest's robe, with a blood-stained holy sash draped over his shoulders.

In his hand was no longer the familiar Destiny Sniper Rifle, nor the monocle that always hung in front of his eyes, but a thick sacred book—the cover was sewn from human skin, and the spine was inlaid with writhing flesh and blood veins.

Blood seeped from the gaps between the pages and dripped onto his knuckles.

Rex.

The prodigal son of the sea, the most astute lookout and the most steady sniper on the Lost One, now appears as if fate itself is mocking him.

He lowered his head, chanting incessantly:

"May the Holy Mother have mercy...May the Blood Moon last forever...May our Lord be crowned Medici..."

Each syllable carries an emotionless devotion, like a sound borrowed from someone else's tongue.

The God of Fate clenched his fists at his sides.

The voice was like a knife, repeatedly slicing through my memory of Rex, who grinned on the deck and said, "It's all right, bro."

“…I will save you,” Si Ming whispered, as if making a promise to himself.

But the distance between him and the cathedral was more than just a few dozen steps.

Below the steps, the plaza had become a sacrificial site for the blood moon.

The Blood Moon cultists lay prostrate on the ground in droves, their backs split into bloody flowers, as they whispered the name of Medusa.

Their eyes were all vertical pupils, their tongues were forked, and their voices wove a thick web of incantations in the air, making it difficult to breathe.

The Blood Knights formed a semi-circular defensive line around the believers.

Their armor had become one with their flesh, and beating hearts protruded from the cracks in their breastplates, while the spears in their hands were covered in congealed blood frost.

Every movement was steady and indifferent, like a guard carved out of a corpse.

The light of the blood moon poured down from the rose window at the top of the cathedral, turning everything into a still, oppressive scene of ritual.

The god of destiny's gaze passed through the believers and knights, and landed firmly on the figure on the steps.

He wants to go in.

He would save Rex—even at any cost.

"Some people you thought you'd grow old with on the deck; but when fate turns, you realize they've become the page you have to draw your sword on."

—From the Lost Ship's Logbook, fragments

(End of this chapter)