Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 482 Lies are entropy, truth is also evil

Chapter 482 Lies are entropy, truth is also evil
"Lies are entropy."

Entropy is collapse.

Every word is a lie,
They are all cracks in the world.

—The Book of Calamities

dark.

The heavy black envelope completely sealed the Fate God, cutting off both light and air.

He couldn't feel the weight of his body; only the cold, hard paper wrapped around his limbs, like a corpse being stuffed into a coffin.

Then, the envelope was torn open.

It wasn't torn apart by an external force, but rather it cracked open on its own, like a cut. Behind the crack, there was no light, but a dim, yellowish hell.

This is the Hell of Tongue Pulling.

Iron chains descended from the void, binding Siming's hands and feet, nailing him to a black iron rack. The air was filled with the stench of blood and burnt flesh.

The ground beneath their feet was not soil, but rather a pile of stacked letters. The paper was covered with dense writing.

He recognized all those words and phrases.

"If I win this one game, I can turn things around."

"Don't worry, I have a solution."

"The game is under my control."

"I am the One with a Thousand Faces."

"The King in Yellow is already in your heart."

Every sentence carried his familiar voice, yet it sounded like someone else's malicious imitation.

These words flashed incessantly, like branding irons, burning into his skin one by one.

The God of Fate trembled all over in pain.

He wanted to argue, but no sound came out.

Suddenly, scenes lit up all around.

The first scene is at the gambling table.

He was just an ordinary gambler, dressed in rags, with a panicked look in his eyes.

The chips on the table were piled up like a small mountain. His hands were trembling, but he still had a smile on his face.

"Bet on it! I can win! Today is my lucky day!"

At that moment, he knew he was about to lose everything, but he kept lying to himself and others.

The screen shattered.

The second act is the Sea of Dreams.

The torrential rain howled, and giant waves crashed against the ship's side; the Lost One looked like a piece of paper, ready to be torn to shreds at any moment.

He stood on the deck, soaking wet, pale, and with bloodshot eyes, yet he was laughing wildly.

"What's there to be afraid of? I knew all along that these waves couldn't stop me! Hahahaha—!"

But his eyes were filled with fear. That laughter was just a mask for his inner despair.

The screen shattered.

The third act is set in the foggy city of Areston.

In the gray streets, he wore a top hat and patiently taught Princess Liseria.

"The kingdom of the future needs your kindness to protect it."

On another street, he patted the young Alanhwin on the shoulder.

"Remember, you are a special child, and you will succeed."

His words were gentle, like a mentor encouraging a student.

But when the camera switched, his back view showed a cold expression.

What he was thinking about was how to use them as pawns to advance his own strategy.

The screen shattered again.

The surroundings grew brighter, and one illusion after another appeared.

Opponents at the gambling table, pirates of the Sea of Dreams, commoners of Areston… countless faces appeared in the darkness, their eyes vacant, yet they all spoke in unison:
"fraud."

"A weaver of lies."

"The source of calamity."

The sound grew louder and louder, like a tsunami crashing against my mind.

Si Ming's breathing became rapid, and his heart felt as if it were nailed shut, each beat accompanied by excruciating pain.

The chains tightened more and more until they became embedded in the bone.

He wanted to refute, but found that every time he opened his mouth, what came out was not a sound, but a new lie.

"I can win."

"I am right."

"Everything is under my control."

These lies formed chains that, in turn, choked him, preventing him from even screaming.

He felt as if he was being stripped naked, not his body, but his soul.

Every lie is like a piece of evidence of a crime.

Lies are entropy.

Lies are evil.

Lies were his tools to cover up his fear and selfishness.

"...This is my sin," Si Ming murmured hoarsely to himself.

At that moment, the voice of the Hell Postmaster finally rang out.

“Sinner, number 0000”.

"A liar."

"Have you ever spoken a single truth in your life?"

A hazy, yellowish mist spread out.

Si Ming looked up and found that he was no longer on the rack, but standing on a familiar street.

Alleston.

Gray brick houses, narrow alleyways, damp stone paths, and thick smoke and smog.

This city was always bustling in my memory, but now it is eerily quiet.

In the silence, footsteps sounded.

A baker pushed his cart along, carrying freshly baked bread in his arms. The air was filled with the aroma of toasted bread.

Just as Si Ming was about to speak, he noticed the baker's smile suddenly freeze, the bread fall to the ground, and crack open. Inside wasn't wheat, but moldy paper.

The paper was printed with blood-red words: "Liar."

The baker's eyes were vacant, and his voice was hoarse: "The lie you told me, that you replaced my flour with ash."

"I've been scammed."

"My whole family starved to death."

He lunged forward, and the rotten bread in his hand turned into chains, wrapping around Siming's wrist.

Immediately afterwards, the sound of wheels came from the street corner.

A coachman was driving a horse-drawn carriage. But when the horses' hooves trod the ground, they splashed ink instead of water.

Ink spread along the stone path, blackening the driver's eyes.

"You said the road was safe."

"But I led them into the abyss."

"Everyone on the bus is gone because of your lie."

His riding whip transformed into a strip of paper, lashing Si Ming hard and bringing a burning pain.

The fog is getting thicker and thicker.

A doctor appeared, his white coat covered in blood.

"You said this medicine is effective."

"But my patient died from your medicine."

The medicine bottle in his hand shattered, and instead of medicine, black writing spilled out, forming a sentence:

"Lies are entropy."

Finally, a newsboy came staggering over.

He was holding a thick stack of newspapers in his arms.

You said that tomorrow would be better.

"But every newspaper I sold was a false hope."

He tossed the newspapers into the air one by one, and the papers turned into hideous faces in the wind, all staring at Si Ming.

The streets became crowded.

Countless ordinary people poured out of the fog, their faces tearing open and turning into paper, their mouths uttering in unison:

"fraud."

The sounds overlapped, causing Si Ming's eardrums to ache.

He tried to explain, but what came out of his mouth were still lies.

"I didn't lie to you... I just..."

Before the words were even finished, the words twisted and distorted in mid-air, becoming:
"I'm just trying to survive for myself."

Everyone immediately let out an even louder wail.

They pounced on Siming, their hands and feet turning into paper chains, and pinned him to the ground.

The houses on the street began to collapse, the bricks and stones turned into pieces of paper, and the sky was torn apart.

The entire city of Areston was transformed into a burning sheet of paper.

"Lies are entropy."

"Lies are evil."

"You have led the city to ruin."

"You turn mortals into ghosts."

The sounds came in waves, suffocating the mind of the God of Fate.

He felt his blood burning; each heartbeat felt like an admission:

This is my sin.

Si Ming was pinned to the burning paper street, his limbs nailed shut with chains of ink, unable to move.

As the fog dissipated, evil spirits crawled in from all directions.

Their bodies were emaciated, their skin like crumpled pulp. Each demon's face bore a different expression.

Gamblers at the gambling table.

Pirates on the Sea of Dreams.

Bakers, coachmen, doctors, and newsboys in Alleston.

Those faces were stacked one on top of the demon's head, like countless wailing masks.

"fraud."

"The source of calamity."

"You owe us your lives."

The demons screamed as they pounced on Si Ming. Their cold nails dug deep into his skin, pinning him to the rack.

A demon slowly stepped forward.

Its body was enormous, with countless arms growing from its back, each arm bearing a human face.

Those faces joined in wailing and crying out their accusations.

It raised a pair of crimson fire tongs.

The tongs were glowing red-hot, and what dripped from their tips wasn't molten iron, but drops of burning ink. The ink, once it hit the ground, immediately seared the words "liar" onto the surface.

"Tongue-pulling".

The demons growled in unison, pressed down on Si Ming's jaw, and roughly tore open his mouth.

Si Ming struggled, but the chains tightened more and more, and her throat was forcibly torn open.

He could only whimper; he couldn't utter a complete sound.

At that moment, the drawer in the sky opened and closed again.

The postmaster slowly appeared.

Countless drawer eyes stared at him, and the sound of stamps being put on all at once filled the room. "Sinner, number 0000."

"A liar."

"Unforgivable sin."

"Execution: Tongue removal."

"This life is beyond words."

The voice was devoid of emotion, yet it was like an ironclad law of the universe, irrefutable.

Si Ming saw that the tentacles of the giant fleshy chunk slowly waved, as if signaling the evil spirit to carry out the punishment.

The fire tongs were lifted up, just an inch from the tip of his tongue.

The air was bitterly cold.

Si Ming could clearly feel the heat from the tongs burning his mouth.

He gritted his teeth, his eyes fixed on the sky.

At that very moment, something strange appeared.

Around the postmaster's massive body, a few wisps of silk floated silently.

They were so fine they were almost invisible, like glimmers of light in the air, yet they gently brushed against the surface of the meat.

As the silk thread wound around, the drawer eye trembled slightly, as if touched by some unknown force.

The postmaster remained oblivious. He continued with the procedure, his voice indifferent:

"Complaint accepted. Tongue removed immediately."

The fire tongs slowly reached into the mouth of the God of Fate.

A sob welled up in his throat, and he almost choked.

The surrounding demons cheered in unison, and hundreds and thousands of human faces cried out:

"Pull out the tongue—!"

The tip of the pliers had already entered my mouth, and a searing pain swept over me.

Si Ming's pupils suddenly contracted.

The surface of the postmaster's flesh was still gently wrapped by those few invisible threads, like a series of quiet traps.

—The threads he had already laid were waiting for the right moment.

The fire tongs had already been inserted into the mouth of the God of Fate.

A searing, burning sensation pierced his throat, as if his tongue would be clamped off in the next second.

The postmaster’s massive fleshy mass writhes, while hundreds of drawer eyes stare at him simultaneously, as if awaiting the moment when the “sinner wails.”

The air froze, even the cheers of the demons fell silent.

They were waiting for that scream.

But no sound came out.

In the darkness, laughter rang out.

It wasn't spoken by the God of Fate, but from behind the entire world.

"Hehehehe..."

The laughter was low and strange, with a sharp, tearing quality.

All the evil spirits were stunned, their movements stiffened, and they all looked up.

The tongs stopped in front of Siming's throat, their scorching light reflecting in his eyes.

Behind the postmaster, the sky suddenly tore open.

That wasn't a crack, it was a storm.

Stars were torn apart by an invisible force, turning into countless white masks.

The masks spun in the storm, overlapping and tearing at each other, forming a huge vortex.

Each mask wore a different smile: mocking, pitying, insane, indifferent.

Laughter emanated from the sea of masks, overlapping each other like countless clowns chuckling on stage at the same time.

At the eye of the storm, a figure slowly emerged.

He wore a white clown mask, his eyes were black, and an enigmatic smile played at the corners of his mouth.

The figure stood in the very center of the storm, looking down mockingly at the enormous Hell Postmaster.

The voice fell, clear and cruel, carrying a condescending mockery:
"Since when did you begin to have the audacity to judge fate?"

The demons trembled all at once, and the paper on their bodies tore open as if burned through by flames.

The postmaster's flesh also stopped wriggling, and the drawer eyes widened as if hesitating for the first time.

The laughter grew louder.

The masks in the storm opened their mouths and unanimously uttered a name:
"The Fate Master"

"Si Ming."

The echoes surged like a tide.

The shaman, who was pinned to the rack, slowly raised his head.

His eyes were illuminated by the storm's light, blurring his face, yet carrying an absolute sneer.

The tongs stopped at his throat, but could no longer be lowered.

He spoke softly, his voice seeming to resonate simultaneously across hundreds of masks:

"Fate is a lie."

In the storm, thousands of masks whispered in unison:
"Fate is a lie."

The God of Fate slowly stood up, and the iron chains broke automatically, burning to ashes.

He raised his hand and casually waved it in the air.

The demons all knelt down like puppets on strings, emitting screams.

"The script is a lie."

"The universe is a lie."

His voice echoed in every corner of the envelope world, forcefully drowning out the postmaster's "complaint handling".

At that moment, the whole world seemed to turn into paper, and be rewritten by his pen.

The postmaster's drawer eyes all trembled.

The first time He let out a low growl, it was not out of anger, but out of... fear.

Si Ming's smile deepened.

"And your existence, in my hands, is also a lie."

He reached out and grabbed an ancient pen, which appeared in his palm.

What drips from the pen tip is not ink, but the whispers of countless people.

The handwriting of someone who has forgotten their name.

Si Ming whispered, "Your name is Clown."

The world of paper instantly distorted.

The postmaster's body trembled, and the numbers on the drawer became blurred, as if they had been erased.

Siming continued speaking, his voice filled with maniacal laughter:

"Calamity is information."

"The information is a lie."

"I am the king of lies, and everything I say is the truth."

He slowly raised his head, his gaze encompassing the entire world.

"And now, I am the postmaster of Hell."

The postmaster's body writhed wildly, countless drawer eyes trembled, and the serial numbers became blurred one by one.

His roar shattered the air, yet it carried with it an unprecedented panic.

Si Ming walked slowly over, the pen tip spinning between his fingers, his laughter low: "Don't rush, I'll tell you how I did it."

He picked up his pen and, as if telling a story, explained as he walked.

"First layer - the handwriting of an anonymous person."

He pointed the pen at the massive chunk of meat and made a casual stroke.

The writing on the drawer vanished instantly, the serial number melted away, and the label peeled off.

“Once you write it down, your name will be forgotten. Now, you are no longer the Hell Postmaster. You are nothing.”

The chunks of meat hissed in agony, and the drawers slammed shut one by one, as if their memories were being stripped away.

Si Ming sneered: "The second layer—the weaving of fate."

He raised his other hand, and an illusory chessboard unfolded beneath his feet, with pieces falling automatically to form a brand new path.

“Fate is not an iron law; it is also a script. And a script, as long as it is written in a plausible way, will be believed by the audience.”

He whispered, “The new destiny is—I am the postmaster of hell.”

The chessboard gleamed, and the drawer eyes all lost focus, turning their attention to him as if they had recognized his identity.

The postmaster’s roar grew increasingly chaotic, as if he were resisting but powerless.

The God of Fate raised his third finger, his smile sinister.

"The third layer—the lie becomes the truth. Or, more accurately, the threads of fate's dream weaver."

Suddenly, all the silk threads that had been quietly drifting in the air lit up.

They didn't appear suddenly; they had already begun to unfold quietly from the moment he was locked in the world of envelopes.

"You think I'm just waiting to die? No."

Si Ming chuckled, reached out and pulled, and the Dream Silk tightened all at once.

“I have long since let the threads of my dreams crawl all over you. Every time you open your mouth to pronounce judgment, you are already accepting my weaving.”

"The ability of the dream weaver of fate is to use dream threads to secretly weave my lies into your memory, so that you can cover up my lies yourself."

The postmaster's body jolted violently. On his massive body, drawer openings cracked one by one, and fragments of memory spilled out, but they were no longer distinguishable.

"Therefore, your existence is a lie."

"And when I say I am the postmaster, it is true."

Si Ming suddenly raised his pen and wrote the last sentence in the air.

The Hell Postmaster = The God of Fate

boom!
The entire envelope world trembled instantly.

The demons screamed in unison, their papery skin instantly splitting open to reveal burning black skulls. The fiery undead roared as they pounced on the massive chunk of flesh.

"Pull out the tongue—!"

They seized the enormous tentacles and tore them apart with force, their fiery-pin-like finger bones clamping down hard on His tongue.

The roar echoed throughout the world, and the chunks of flesh struggled wildly, only to be torn apart and burned by the undead skeleton.

"Strip!"

The God of Fate gave the order in a cold voice.

Countless black skeletons pounced on it, tearing off chunks of red flesh and blood, ripping the massive body to shreds.

Finally, a burning tongue was dragged out and held before the God of Fate.

The dead bowed their heads and offered him their burning tongues.

Si Ming reached out and took it, then with a gentle shake, the tongue instantly turned to ash.

He looked up, watching the massive chunk of flesh crumble in its final moments, his voice icy, carrying a condescending mockery:
“You talk too much—pull out your tongue.”

"Your vision is too high—strip it away."

The chunks of meat completely collapsed, turning into ashes and disappearing.

The entire envelope world was silent.

Si Ming slowly put away his pen, looked up at the gray sky, and a cold smile curled at the corner of his mouth.

"Nameless one, your game is over."

"And my delusion has only just begun."

When the name is erased

Identity vanished with the wind.

When fate is rewritten

The ending was rewritten.

You think it's real,
It was just a lie I told.

—The False Gospel