Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 479 The Postman Delivers the Letter, Calamity Will Surely Arrive

No one can return the letter.

Calamity never delays.

—"The Hell Postmaster: Disaster Files"

The fragments of Mirror Lake vanished in the night wind, the ripples and illusions returning to nothingness.

Si Ming's figure flickered as he stepped back onto the shattered street, his feet pierced by scorch marks and craters, the air still thick with the smell of gunpowder and the remnants of scorching fire.

The Apocalypse Tank on the street corner was still radiating heat. Reinhardt leaned halfway out of the hatch, a cigar dangling from his lips.
With a click, the lighter lit up, reflecting the sparks in his eyes, which were becoming increasingly bloodshot with fervor.

When he saw Si Ming, he raised his hand in a military salute as if he were seeing a long-lost comrade-in-arms, and then laughed: "You're back? The stage is just missing a protagonist."

Not far away, Isabel crouched among the ruins, her white gloves stained with ash, yet she still moved with elegance.

As she picked up the scattered mystery cards with tweezers, she muttered to herself, as if recording some data:
“The third one, not completely burned… its performance is poor, worth studying.” Her glasses reflected the firelight, her expression indifferent, as if this were not a battlefield, but a laboratory.

Han Zhenya leaned against a crooked street lamp, humming a tune softly. Blood was splattered on her dance dress, and burnt paper scraps were still stuck in her hair, but her smile was as if she had just finished a curtain call.

She touched the ground with her toes and spun slightly, as if listening to the applause from the audience.

Her eyes were vacant and intoxicated, carrying a dangerously yandere aura—she seemed to still be enjoying herself.

Wayne stood silently in the middle of the block, his black robe fluttering in the wind.

The half-skull's face was shrouded in shadows, and he raised his withered finger, pointing into the distance.

His voice was low and hoarse, like the cold wind seeping from a tomb: "...Our long-awaited guest has finally arrived as ordered."

As soon as he finished speaking, the air around him suddenly tensed up, and the darkness at the end of the street seemed to be pushed aside by an invisible force.

From the depths of the shadows came heavy, rhythmic footsteps, each step like a giant hammer hammering into an anvil, cracking the street and causing the lights to flicker violently.

Si Ming raised his head, a slight smile playing on the corners of his lips beneath the mask.

—The real "stage" has finally begun.

At the end of the block, the darkness was torn open.

A colossal figure slowly emerged from the void, with a bull's head and a human body, standing over twenty meters tall. Its two horns were coiled with leaping black lightning, resembling two pitch-black iron towers piercing the night sky.

Its body was not made of flesh and blood, but of countless tattered mailbags pieced together, with hideous cracks in the leather from which ashes and flames constantly spilled out, as if each crack was a disaster of burning.

It dragged two long whips of calamity, their blades like black rivers, sparking rune-like sparks as they rubbed against the ground.

With each slight sway, the air twists and turns.

The whip tip splits into hundreds of fine threads, as if carrying all the suffering in human history.

"Thump—" It landed one step.

The ground cracked instantly, with magma churning in the fissures, and a volcanic illusion rose from the ground.

"Thump—" The second step: mold grew wildly on the street corner, black spores spread with the wind, and the air was filled with the stench of disease.

The third step involved countless severed limbs and skeletons emerging from the dust, forming a phantom horde of corpses that rolled around beneath their feet.

This is—the incarnation of the Hell Postmaster.

The squad instantly went into battle mode.

With a flick of his wrist, Si Ming unleashed a mysterious card that transformed into flames that burned in the air. The roar of the vengeful necromancer tore through the sky, and the massive figure of the fiery knight descended once more, glaring angrily at the minotaur monster.

Reinhardt, cigar in mouth, laughed like cannon fire: "Shall we first give Your Excellency a friendly greeting?"

Han Zhenya licked her lips, her eyes burning with fervor: "Friendly? How about we hunt Him?"

Isabel, unusually, stopped laughing, pressed her hands to the ground, and whispered a mysterious incantation:

"O Tree of Life, may your roots be with me."

The ethereal shadow of green tree roots spread out around her, and her gaze became more solemn than ever before: "Be careful... anyone who sees Him will encounter calamity."

The giant shadow raised its head, and images of volcanic eruptions, spreading plagues, and surging hordes of corpses flashed in its empty eye sockets.

Its steps continued forward, and the entire block trembled as it did.

“Fire—!”

Reinhardt suddenly waved his hand, and sparks from his cigars flew everywhere, instantly illuminating the entire street.

Boom! The cannons of the Apocalypse Tanks roared in unison, and scorching shells drew arcs through the night sky as they slammed into the enormous minotaur.

The streets shook, and rubble and flames surged, like the opening act of an apocalypse.

Overhead, Black Hawk helicopters flew in formation, missiles whistling down from their wings, and a series of explosions tore the streets into a sea of ​​fire.

The Magnetic Storm Infantry lined up simultaneously, their hands crackling with electric arcs, and the entire street seemed to be swallowed by a thunderous tidal wave. The blue-purple flashes made the sky lose its color for a moment.

This is a symphony of warmongers, a grand arms extravaganza for Reinhardt.

however--

Amidst the roar, the colossal shadow continued its advance.

The postmaster, transformed into an ox, stepped into the sea of ​​fire. The artillery fire struck its body, turning it into burning, grayish-white scraps of paper that scattered in the wind.

The missile exploded beside it, but the flames from the blast wave were absorbed by the mailbag that had split open on its shoulder, turning into flying ashes of letters.

"Boom-"

It took another step.

The earth split open, and flames and ashes erupted together.

"Boom-"

One more step. The ruins in the neighborhood collapsed with a roar, as if stamped by an invisible postmark.

Reinhardt's eyes were bloodshot as he roared and continued to order the firing, as if insufficient firepower was a disgrace.

But under the relentless bombardment, the giant shadow only slowly approached.

The footsteps were heavy and even, each step like a giant bell falling from the sky—

"Thump—thump—thump—" The oppressive feeling was suffocating.

Si Ming half-raised his eyelids, his gaze locking onto the giant bull-headed figure amidst the mist and firelight, the smile on his lips long gone.

He gave his first serious, low-pitched assessment:

"This guy... ordinary mysterious card attacks are completely ineffective against him."

The Hell Postmaster raised his long whip, the black filaments at the tip trembling gently in the air, like countless lists of deaths being signed for, unfolding one by one.

The bull-headed postmaster slowly raised his arm, and two long whips, like black celestial rivers, dragged down from the void.

Its eye sockets are empty, yet a thousand calamities and hardships flash within them.

"—Sign for receipt."

With a low growl that sounded like a judgment, the long whip suddenly lashed down.

First lash: Plague.

The air suddenly froze, and a layer of gray-green mist filled the battlefield.

The spores scattered like stardust, landing on the steel of the tanks, instantly corroding the steel plates and leaving festering spots on the armor of the Magnetic Storm Infantry.

Someone screamed and coughed up black ash, and the next moment their whole body turned into flying scraps of paper.

The Apocalypse Tank's tracks roared, but broke and collapsed while speeding along, turning the vehicle into a pile of empty ashes.

Second whip: Volcano.

The whip lashed the ground, and the block split open with a deafening roar, spewing forth fiery red magma from the cracks.

The ruins of the high-rise buildings were melted into a torrent of molten iron, and the streets were instantly transformed into a furnace.

The Black Hawk helicopter flew low, but was deflected by the shockwave of the spewing molten lava, and the entire aircraft plunged into the sea of ​​fire, turning into a charred steel skeleton.

The third whip: Earthquake.

The ground beneath its feet rumbled and churned, as if the entire city were being crushed under the pressure of a postmark.

The earth tore apart layer by layer, and buildings tilted and collapsed with a deafening roar, crashing down like toy blocks and crashing into the surging lava.

The survivors at the end of the street had not even had a chance to stand properly before they were swallowed up by the collapsing earth.

Fourth Whip: War.

The final blow seemed to unlock a valve in some abyss.

The night sky was suddenly illuminated by evil flames, and countless Ghost Riders charged out from the fiery driveway, their chains whistling.

The hellish postmen, carrying mailbags, stepped out of the crack.

Further away, a convoy of hellish mail trucks roared and rolled into the streets.

In an instant, the entire city was engulfed by this symphony of "four calamities".

Plague, flames, earthquakes, war—four acts played out simultaneously, like an apocalyptic symphony from the past.

Reinhardt's eyes widened. The roar of the cannons paused for a moment. He muttered, "Damn it... this is no longer a war, this is—the funeral of the world."

At the end of the street, Si Ming raised his mask, his eyes flashing coldly in the reflection of flames and ashes.

The sense of oppression had reached its peak.

The street is no longer a street.

The roar of the fiery knights and the howl of the hellish mail wagons mingled with the roars of volcanic eruptions and earthquakes, creating a symphony of the apocalypse.

Han Zhenya stood barefoot atop the collapsed building, her green hair flying wildly, her blood-red dance dress seemingly burning in the flames.

She sang wildly, her vocal range expanding to its limit, the sound waves slicing through mist and fire like knives, forcing the fiery knights to convulse and dance uncontrollably to the rhythm. She laughed until tears streamed down her face.

"Can you hear that? The world is playing its accompaniment for me! Audience—scream until you die!"

With his arms outstretched, Wayne propped up the black necromancer castle on the trembling ground. The towers shattered and reformed, and the skeleton legion charged out one after another.

The banshee wailed, her cries tearing through reason.

But no matter how many souls perished, they were still eroded by the plague and haze, their bodies collapsing one by one.

Wayne's face split into three expressions: the tenderness of young Arist, the roar of the venomous personality, and the whisper of the delusional personality.

Three voices intertwined as he whispered to the succubus, "Don't be afraid, princess, this is just the prelude to the wedding..."

Reinhardt, covered in blood, still stood atop the Apocalypse Tank's cannon, arrogantly raising his cigar and laughing wildly to the sky: "Hahaha! More firepower! More war! I'll make the whole hell hear my symphony!"

Behind him, Apocalypse Tanks were swallowed by lava one after another, but new vehicles roared out of the arms base.

The Black Hawk helicopter crashed into a sea of ​​fire, yet he still roared with fervor: "War is victory itself!"

Isabel spread out the roots of the Tree of Life, the roots intertwining to form a semi-transparent shield, forcefully resisting the lashes of the chains of Fiery Inferno.

Her glasses reflected a glint of calamity, her pen scratched softly on the notebook, and her voice was as gentle as if she were telling a bedtime story:

“The data… is perfect, absolutely perfect… the number of death samples is beyond imagination.” An almost morbid smile appeared on her lips.

In the very center of this purgatory, Si Ming slowly turned around.

His white clown mask gleamed coldly in the mist and firelight.

That smile was dramatic, cold, and unquestionable.

His voice was low, yet it pierced through the apocalyptic ensemble, landing in everyone's heart:
"Gentlemen, our Cataclysm—it's time to go all in."

In an instant, everyone was jolted and realized: this battle was not about winning, but about going all in.

Some people believe that disasters are accidental.

But the post office knew—

All calamities have already been archived in the files.

—The Postmaster's Notebook, Volume 9

(End of this chapter)