Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 460 The Price of Stars and Lies

"The calamity is a gift of fire, and an inextinguishable debt. Each blaze brings us one step closer to madness."

—The End of the Secret Records: The Gambler's Chapter

The roar of the train reverberated through the iron walls, like a heart pounding in your ears.

As Si Ming walked along the narrow corridor, he raised the semi-transparent identity plaque.

The card was jet black, as if the ink hadn't dried, yet a line of cold, clear numbers appeared on it:

The Lie Weaver

Cataclysmic Value: 1619 / 1790
Si Ming gently tapped the cards, but his heart was not at ease.

—1790, this is his trump card when he's at his peak.

In the Battle of Ussum, a single instance of "telling a lie as truth" and borrowing the evil fire of the "Great Sage of the Burning World" consumed 170 points.

"Just one lie can cost nearly a tenth of lives."

Si Ming clicked his tongue inwardly, a half-smile playing on his lips.

"The Great Old Ones... are indeed not people you can easily fool with lies."

He lowered his head and extended his left hand.

The life chart on the back of his hand resembled a miniature night sky, with twelve stars arranged in sequence. At this moment, three of them shone with a cold, eerie light.

Those were traces of his mysterious abilities.

Each time it is lit, it represents a star of reason burning out.

"Fate's favor once, but illusion splits into two."

"With the damage taken during the Ussum Cataclysm, my current condition is no longer secure."

Si Ming shook his hand, and the star map disappeared deep into his skin.

The price of mystery is the loss of reason; the price of catastrophic events is existence itself.

There are nine Stars of Reason remaining, and the Cataclysm Value is 1,619.

This is all the "bargaining chips" he has at this moment.

He looked up at the tightly closed iron gate at the end of the road and murmured softly:

"I need to be careful... I don't want to be forced to lie again in front of the Tower of the End."

The iron gate creaked open, and a smell mixed with tobacco and gunpowder wafted out.

Si Ming stepped in sideways, glanced up, and couldn't help but raise an eyebrow slightly.

There was no mess of bloodstains in this carriage, only a round table in the center, with two people sitting facing each other, as if they were enjoying a leisurely gathering.

A tall, thin man wearing a cowboy hat spoke first. He hooked his finger on the brim of the hat, revealing a hideous scar that ran diagonally down his brow bone.

He grinned, a chill creeping between his teeth:

"A new player? Perfect. This little game feels too lonely with just two people."

The burly man opposite him slapped the table heartily, but his laughter carried a heavy sense of oppression.

His entire jawline was covered in stubble, and his voice was rough, like gravel.

"Death Revolver, ever heard of it? Friend. It's more fun with three people. Want to join?"

Si Ming raised an eyebrow, his gaze sweeping between the two.

He walked to the side, casually took a bottle of wine from the food cart, as if he were already used to this scene.

With a click, he filled his glass, took a small sip, and then slowly sat down, forming a cool triangle with the two of them.

The air seemed to freeze in that instant.

Three pairs of eyes stared at each other, the tabletop so empty it seemed as if a fire might erupt at any moment.

Si Ming smiled, his tone relaxed, but his eyes were sharp:
"I'd be happy to oblige. But how big are your stakes?"

The cowboy spoke first, pointing his finger lightly into the air.

A green light appeared, and a line of names and numbers hung above his head:
[Mark Fairwhale] - 19 points.

The bearded man nodded in agreement, and the light and shadow illuminated the scene:
[Luo Wei] - 22 points.

Si Ming smiled gently, and with a flick of his finger, his name appeared as well:

【Si Ming】—32 points.

Three beams of light intersected in the center of the carriage, like three cold torches illuminating the impending carnage.

"good."

Si Ming raised his wine glass and gently swirled it, the wine reflecting cool ripples under the light.

He whispered, "So, the living get all the benefits—the dead get nothing?"

The cowboy and the bearded man exchanged a glance, grinned maliciously, and answered simultaneously:

"Of course. That's what makes it interesting, isn't it?"

The wine glass clinked against the table, making a crisp sound, like the opening gong of a death game.

A cold smile crept across the cowboy's lips.

"Since you're a newbie, I'll explain the rules to you so you don't die without knowing why."

He reached out and tapped on the table, his fingertips creating a rhythm on the wood grain, the sound mingling with the vibrations of the wheels.

"This is a three-player game. In each round, one person must be the banker. The banker bets first, starting with two points. The other players can choose to call, one point, or raise the bet. Whoever raises the most becomes the new banker."

The bearded man snorted and continued, "But don't forget, the house pays a higher price. For every cent you bet, you have to shoot yourself. Two cents, twice, five cents, that's five times. Six chambers, one live bullet—get it?"

The cowboy grinned and added, "If the banker dies, the points in the pot are split equally among the players. If they survive? All the points belong to the banker. Then the banker changes, and the game continues. Until someone's points run out, or their life ends first."

Si Ming held the wine glass and gently swirled it around; the liquid in the glass reflected the smile lines on his white mask.

The rules are clear enough—betting is fate, and the house is both gambler and executioner.

He looked up and saw the two people opposite him exchange glances, their eyes holding a familiar understanding. It wasn't just the excitement of a gambler, but the smile of a hunter who had found his prey.

In their eyes, he seemed to have become a superfluous "third person," merely prey placed on the table.

Si Ming's lips curled slightly, his fingertips tracing the tabletop, as if he was already used to this hunter-prey relationship.

He keenly noticed that in the shadows of a corner of the carriage, several corpses lay sprawled, each with a different manner of death—some had charred chests, others had their foreheads bruised. The blood had long since dried, but still carried the smell of metal.

Clearly, someone has already been unlucky enough to fall victim to this "death revolver."

The cowboy snapped his fingers, and an old six-shot revolver appeared out of thin air on the table, its magazine clicking as it spun.

"Alright, the rules are clear. Now—let's begin the first round."

The cowboy slammed his hand on the table, his laughter rough and hoarse.

"—Game begins!"

As soon as he finished speaking, an old revolver suddenly appeared out of thin air in the center of the round table, its cold metal gleaming eerily under the overhead lights of the carriage. The gun slowly spun, the clicking of the magazine seeming to explode in everyone's ears, accompanied by a rhythm that pressed on their hearts.

“I’ll be the dealer for the first round.” He lifted the brim of his cowboy hat slightly, revealing his scarred face, and pushed a green chip in his hand onto the table.

— "Two points."

The color pool immediately flashed, and the value jumped to [2].

Si Ming sat in the lower position, his fingertips lightly flicking a chip, as if casually pushing it out.

"I'll bet one point."

A flash of green light appeared, and Siming's points decreased, while the value of the color pool immediately increased to [3].

The bearded man opposite him sneered, his thick beard trembling. He didn't say much, but simply pushed a chip into the pot.

"One point."

The value of the color pool is [4].

The three people's eyes met, and the atmosphere on the table suddenly became tense, as if even the air itself had frozen.

The cowboy grinned and reached for the revolver. The movement was as practiced as caressing a lover, a cruel smile twisting his scarred lips.

He spun the magazine, and with a click, the six rounds echoed and hummed on the table.

"The dealer fired two shots." The cowboy's tone was casual, yet it sent chills down one's spine.

He slowly raised the gun and pressed it against his temple. The cold muzzle against his scar looked like a silent venomous snake.

The only sounds in the carriage were breathing and the ticking of the clock.

The bearded man held his breath, Si Ming held his wine glass, his eyes indifferent, the amber liquid gently rippling.

The cowboy grinned, revealing his broken teeth, and muttered under his breath:
"bring it on."

His finger was on the trigger.

——Click.

Between death and wealth,
The gambler chose to pull the trigger.

Because only bullets are available.

Only then will they tell you who the winner is.

—From *Death Revolver: Gambler's Notes*

(End of this chapter)