Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 537 The Dream of Blood Marriage

Red clothes for weddings, white paper for funerals; death as the matchmaker, resentment as the ritual.

If you see two reflections in the mirror, don't ask which one is the bride.

—From *Zi Bu Yu: The Lament of Passionate Love*

The night is silent.

The winding stone path leads up to the mountain peak, where moisture condenses into mist, cold and white as water.

A deep, resonant sound of a bronze bell came from the distant mountain temple, echoing through the mountains as if it were sending off a soul.

The mountain wind whipped up white mist, and a staggering figure flashed out from within the mist.

The girl wore a tattered red wedding dress, the hem of which was covered in mud and water, its original vibrant color long gone, resembling the faded traces of blood.

She was barefoot, her ankles covered in mud and grass clippings, her hair plastered to her face, and she was breathing heavily.

She was running.

Behind us, the fog was chasing us.

The wind swirled through the mountains and forests, carrying a hoarse whisper—

"Bride—Bride—"

She ran faster and faster, almost falling, her tears and sweat mingling together.

She dared not turn around, but the red light in the fog grew closer and closer.

The bluestone was damp and cold, and the mist, like a thin skin, clung to her face, both icy and sticky.

She was almost suffocating.

Suddenly, a crisp sound broke the silence—a bell.

She looked back.

A strange red glow appeared deep within the fog.

The white paper petals swayed gently in the night breeze, like the smiling souls of the dead.

Four ghostly figures, their feet barely touching the ground, carried the sedan chair slowly toward her.

The fog didn't rest on the ground; it floated, sliding inch by inch.

A curtain of blood hung down, beneath which flowed dark red liquid, meandering along the bluestone slabs.

Ring, ring, ding, ding.

With each step, the bell rings once, as if urged on by a racing heartbeat.

The girl stepped back, muttering, "No...it's impossible..."

Her voice trembled, almost breaking.

"He... promised to come back to the village to welcome me..."

Tears streamed down her cheeks, and a desperate, almost frantic hope flickered in her eyes.

She wanted to run away, but then she stopped. That splash of red was so familiar, as familiar as a dream.

The wind rose again, carrying the stench of blood. Suddenly, the white paper flowers on the sedan chair's roof fluttered down, landing lightly on her shoulder.

Like snow, and like ash.

A sliver of red light shone through.

She heard someone laughing.

The laughter was extremely soft, as faint as a mosquito's buzz, yet it was clearly a woman's voice—low and delicate, like the joyful laughter at a wedding.

She felt a sharp pain in her chest and covered her ears tightly with both hands.

"No...I won't go back!"

Its steps stopped.

After an eerie silence, they simultaneously raised their heads. Their faces were covered by pale masks, and red thread was sewn from their ears to the corners of their lips.

Four smiling faces curved neatly in the fog.

They spoke in unison, their voices hoarse as if a chorus of the dead:

Go back, soul to soul, ashes to ashes.

In that instant, the wind stopped completely.

A pale hand emerged from the mist.

His five fingers were as hard as bone, his nails were pitch black, and he slowly pointed at the girl.

The bell rang, ding.

The girl's gaze lost focus, and tears slid down her cheeks.

The bloodstains on the bluestone were swallowed by the mist, and the whole world gradually blurred before her eyes.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

The swirling mist resembles a pool of shattered dreams.

She saw the face covered by a red veil slowly raising its head behind the sedan curtain.

She couldn't tell who it was.
Until, the smile at the corner of her lips was exactly the same as hers.

The girl's pupils suddenly contracted.

The sound of the wind dissipated.

The fog dissolves.

Everything fell into darkness.

The dream begins to flow backward.

Dreams flow backward in the darkness.

She opened her eyes.

The stone mountain path has disappeared, replaced by a gentle summer.

Sunlight filters through the locust tree leaves and falls on the stone bridge in Wangchuan Village.

A gentle breeze blows, and locust blossoms fall, filling the air with a faint fragrance.

The stream lapped against the foot of the bridge, and the moss on the bank was smooth and shiny.

She was holding a bamboo cage, inside which was a yellow sparrow.

The bird fluttered its wings and chirped in the cage, its voice clear and melodious.

Her father was lecturing in the school, and she sat at the door, grinding ink and sharpening brushes for him.

The paper smells of ink, the courtyard is filled with the fragrance of flowers, everything is peaceful and serene.

This was the brightest day in her memory.

Young Ayan, carrying a basket of books on his back, ran from the other side of the bridge, his laughter echoing through the sunlight.

"Sweetie!"

He was panting as he raised the letter in his hand.

“I’m going to the city to take the imperial examination! When I come back and we meet again, you’ll be wearing red—that way I can recognize you.”

She looked down at the undyed fabric in her hand; the red thread was not yet finished sewing it.

"Red dress?" she asked with a smile. "Okay, red dress it is."

The wind rustled through the treetops, and locust blossoms fell to the ground.

The flowers were as white as snow, and she thought it was a sign of happiness.

The dream grew cold.

The dim firelight swallowed up summer.

The northern barbarians invaded, and the flames of war filled the sky.

Ayan abandoned his studies to join the army, donned armor, and walked across the stone bridge.

His smile as he turned back was still gentle: "Wait for me."

She nodded: "I will light the lamp and wait for you."

Her reflection trembled in the water beneath the bridge.

But instead of her beloved returning in triumph, she was met with his unexpected return.

But then came devastating news.

The letter was cut off and all thoughts ceased.

Night after night, she lit two lamps in the school—

One lamp for myself, and one lamp for him.

The lights swayed in the wind, just like his smile.

That winter, the snow fell very deep.

A messenger came wading across the icy river.

He brought with him a message: "Ayan died in battle on the northern frontier."

The candlelight flickered.

Her hand loosened, and candle wax splattered onto the back of her hand.

Nightfall turned the village gray and white.

She sat at the table.
The Xuan paper was spread out on the table, the ink still wet.

She put on that red dress—it was their "promise".

She gently picked up her pen.

"The ends of the earth are not far, but the road is hard to find."

Ice and snow seal my heart, and my dreams are not real.

If you do not return to the locust tree blossoms
The woman in red stayed until the dust settled in late spring.

She wrote slowly, each stroke like a sketch of memories.

After writing the last line, she put down her pen.

The flickering lights illuminated her smiling profile.

“Ayan, look, I kept my promise.”

She whispered, her voice as gentle as a dream.

She took off the copper bell from her wrist and placed it on the table.

The bell rang softly, as if in response.

She got up, walked to the door, and pushed it open.

The wind and snow were biting, and the cold was bone-chilling.

She looked up towards the north and gently closed her eyes.

The candlelight flickered in the wind.
The red dress swayed slightly in the night.

Like burning locust blossoms.

Her hand fell to her side.
The body tilted gently in the wind.

The copper bell fell to the ground, emitting one last crisp tinkling sound.

The candle flame went out, the oil was used up, and the lamp went out.

That night, the snow in Wangchuan Village turned red. Later people said...
Her soul did not leave.

She sat under the locust tree, holding the bamboo cage containing the yellow sparrow.
I looked at the end of the stone bridge again and again.

She is waiting.

Waiting for the boy who promised to come back.

But no one ever crossed that bridge again.

My dream is shattered.

She ran along the mountain path again.

The mist engulfed her ankles, and the bluestone beneath her feet turned into dark red patches.

Her eyes were vacant, and the corners of her mouth were twitching slightly.

It sounded like a whisper, yet also like crying.

The bell rang again.

"Ding-ding-"

That was the lingering sound of a broken copper bell.
But it kept striking her heart.

From the depths of the fog, countless overlapping sounds echoed:

"Let's go back—"

"Go home—"

She shook her head frantically.

“I can’t go back… I have no home there anymore.”

The fog closed in behind her.

The ringing grew closer and more urgent.

Her shadow rose from the ground again.
She spread her arms behind her back.

That face was still her own.

"Let's go back—"

The voice was so gentle it was almost like a persuasion.

A hoarse cry escaped her throat:

"Ayan—"

The sound of the wind spread through the mountains.

The sound of the copper bell shattered.
Everything fell into a dark night.

The fog receded slowly, like a lingering dream.

The girl stumbled and rushed out of the blood-red mountain path, her chest heaving violently, her throat filled with the metallic taste of blood.

She practically crawled to the village entrance.

The stone tablet at the village entrance was long since broken, covered in moss, with only three blurry characters still faintly discernible:

Wangchuan Village.

She leaned against the stone tablet, panting heavily, her fingertips icy cold and her knuckles white.

In the mist, the sound of the sedan bells still rang out in the distance, one after another, as if approaching her back.

She gritted her teeth and looked up.

A person was standing under the old locust tree at the entrance of the village.

The man had his back to her, his long black robe trailing to the ground, and his silver hair shimmering slightly in the wind.

He stood quietly, holding a pen in his hand. A silver talisman ring hung from the end of the pen, swaying gently in the wind and making a very faint metallic sound.

Her reason nearly collapsed, and she rushed forward, her voice trembling with tears:

"Help me—someone is trying to force me! Please save me!"

The man slowly turned around.

He looked extremely young, with a handsome face, yet possessed a coldness that seemed otherworldly.

His eyes were as deep as ink, devoid of emotion, as if they could suck people in.

“This place,” he said softly, his voice as low as the wind whistling through a bamboo grove, “is not your village.”

The girl was stunned; her blood ran cold.

"Then? What is this place?"

The young man in black looked up, gazing at the end of the thick fog. Within the fog, countless lines of blood seemed to intertwine to form the shape of a tower, appearing and disappearing intermittently.

"The Tower of the End,"

He answered calmly.
"The battlefield above the celestial disaster."

"Star Calamity?"

Her voice trembled, "What is that? I'm just a village girl, I..."

He tilted his head, a slight smirk playing on his lips, his smile faint and cold.

"You are neither a planetary disaster nor a village girl."

"who are you?"

Her lips trembled; her mouth was open, but no sound came out.

Her mind went blank, as if a thousand broken threads had simultaneously ripped away her memories.

"I...I am called...I..."

The name lingered on my tongue, as if something was blocking it.

"Who am I?" Her voice was almost broken.

The young man chuckled softly and raised his pen. The pen tip shimmered with light, and the ink's aura spread through the air, carrying the fluctuations of fate-related runes.

“My name is Si Ming,” he said.
"The weaver of lies, the Fate Master."

He approached slowly, his gaze sharp as if trying to pierce her soul.

"And you? Could it be that your lie has been going on for too long?"

"So long that even you yourself have forgotten your real name."

"You fooled everyone, including yourself."

The girl was forced to retreat step by step by him.

She shook her head, her eyes gradually shifting from fear to emptiness: "I didn't lie... I just... I just wanted to wait for him to come back..."

Before she could finish speaking, her body suddenly convulsed.

Blood seeped from his sleeves, like ink stains seeping from under his skin.

Her skin began to crack, with fine lines spreading out and red threads slowly emerging from the cracks.

The silk threads intertwine and twist into cloth.

The cloth climbed inch by inch up her shoulders, turning into a bright red blood-stained garment.

"Who am I...?" she murmured.

Si Ming's pupils contracted slightly, and the mist beneath his feet suddenly churned.

The bell rang again.

"Ding, ding."

The sound was no longer far away; it was resonating within her body.

The wind whipped up, her hair flew wildly, and she was shrouded in a blood-red mist.

Countless brides' silhouettes emerged from the mist, all veiled in red, whispering around her.

"Go home."

She covered her ears and screamed, "No! Don't force me!"

His voice was hoarse, and tears mingled with blood.

She suddenly looked up, a crazed red light flashing in her eyes.

The voice became hoarse and shrill:
"Are you going to force me too?!"

"You want me to die too?!"

The red cloth fell down again, covering her face.

She looked up the moment the fabric draped down.

That's no longer a young girl's face.

It was a face as pale as paper, with a sinister smile, resembling that of a "ghost woman."
Her skin was as smooth as wax, but her eyes were full of blood-red lines.

And on that face, there were countless layers of the same self.

Her laughter, her tears, her death.

The air became thick, and the sedan chair bells rang in unison.

Ding ding—ding ding—

The blood-stained clothes billowed in the wind, the hem of the skirt like a burning flame.

The blood mist churned and formed smiling faces, rising up from behind her.

The black robes of the God of Fate fluttered in the wind.

He narrowed his eyes and whispered coldly:
"...Finally, their true colors have been revealed."

The ghostly woman let out a roar, her voice sounding like countless ghosts overlapping.

A wave of blood surged up, enveloping her figure as it hurtled towards Si Ming.

The God of Fate will not retreat.

He raised his hand, the pen between his fingers spinning against the light. The silver ring at the end of the pen emitted a low hum in the mist.

He chuckled softly, his tone as calm as if recounting fate:

"A piece is placed on the chessboard—"

With a flick of the pen, a black chessboard appears in the air, its patterns spreading to the ground.

"Falsehoods and lies."

The chessboard glowed, instantly enveloping him and the approaching red-clad figure.

Blood and mist mingled in the air.
Laughter and tears burst forth simultaneously.

The bronze bell of the mountain god temple rang out again from afar.

The world suddenly fell silent.

The red mist remained frozen in mid-air.

The "bride's face" reflected in the eyes of the God of Destiny crumbled inch by inch before him.

The dream is shattered.

Dreams arise from resentment, and resentment stems from unrequited love. On the banks of the River of Oblivion, a karmic entanglement spans three lifetimes; do not weep, do not forget, do not think, do not yearn.

—From *Zi Bu Yu* (The Master Did Not Speak Of), Chapter on Forgetting One's Name

(End of this chapter)