Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 151 Wind Sleep Island: Zero Wind Direction

"The wind is a curse to freedom. It tells you the direction, but it also locks up your wandering soul."

"You are not the master of the wind—you are the wind, its final prey."

When Ian opened his eyes, the whole ship was filled with salty light.

The sunlight filtered through the gaps in the white sails, like gentle guides penetrating the shadow of nightmares and gently falling on his face.

The air was filled with the smell of salt, old wood, and canvas oil, like some forgotten daily life that was suddenly picked up again.

The wind in my ears brought with it a familiar whistle, the creaking sound of tightened ropes, and the echoes of the crew's running and shouting.

His hand was holding the coarse linen sail rope.

The salt grains felt rough and lingering beneath his fingertips. He paused for several seconds before slowly lowering his head and staring at the familiar anchor ring where the capstan and sail rope intertwined.

——Silver Sail.

He remembered it.

The ship that first made him understand "wind and route".

He spent three years here without mastering any secrets, just relying on instinct and intuition to ride the waves between the wind and the sea.

He is not a captain, not a commander, not a storm gambler.

He was just a teenager, a sailor with calluses and salt marks on his hands.

The person he admired most at that time was Clea.

“The wind cannot be tamed, but it can be trusted,” she always said.

It was said lightly, like talking love to the sea.

Ian slowly raised his head and saw the figure he had looked back at countless times in his dreams - the young captain Clia, standing in the sun, with a gentle face and calm eyes.

She didn't wear a hat, letting the wind mess up her long hair, but she remained confident and calm.

Her hand was on the tiller, as if holding the fate of the ship.

"The wind is a little capricious today." She looked at him and smiled, "But you can handle it, right?"

At that moment, Ian's chest seemed to be filled with something.

He responded almost subconsciously:
"The wind never dares to disobey me."

The tone was frivolous, the smile was the same as before, but it concealed an uncontrollable trembling.

He didn't even know whether he was acting or escaping at this moment.

Because he had smelled that smell—

The smell of a corpse.

It wasn't the fishy smell of rotting sea fish, but the smell of death that came from being soaked in blood and blisters for so long that even the bones became brittle.

It mixed with the wind, drifting from afar, like a nightmare whispering in your ear:

"You're going in the wrong direction."

Ian's hand hesitated at that moment.

He did not trim the sails, he did not tighten the sheaves.

The wind caused the "Silver Sail" to deviate, and a second of hesitation was enough to change the fate of a ship.

"The target is too far south... Ian? Are you sure we're not on the wrong course?"

Emma, ​​the jibhand, called out, but Clea remained firm: "We trust Ian."

Those words, like a belated judgment, pierced into his heart.

So they sailed into that sea, the "Sea of ​​Death" where only he remembered, regretted, and survived.

The sun was still shining, but in his eyes, there was only the silence before the storm.

He finally realized that this was not a dream or a memory.

This is the nightmare judgment of the Dream Sea.

——Let you see the moment when you are most trusted and the second when you make the biggest mistake.

His hand suddenly loosened the rope, the sunlight slipped through his fingers, and the boat still sailed straight towards -

Deep in my memory, there was a shipwreck from which no one could return.

First the sky darkened for a moment.

Immediately afterwards, a seagull suddenly fell from a high altitude and hit the iron armor on the bow of the ship heavily.

The wings exploded, blood splattered everywhere, like a strange sacrifice, marking the beginning of a nightmare.

The wind suddenly increased tenfold, as if the angry sea god was tearing at the mast and sail.

The wind flags screamed like wails, and the cloth flapped wildly in the air.

The entire sea surface was engulfed in a cold mist, which was not naturally condensed water vapor.
It was a white shadow condensed from the resentment of the deceased, rising quietly from the depths of the seabed and slowly spreading.

In the fog, the vague outlines gradually became clear - the weathered shipwreck was floating on the water.
A flag made of human bones was hung on the mast, and the broken steering wheel turned in the wind, making a dull creaking sound.

Even more terrifying was the approaching, uniform sound of oars, like ghostly footsteps, stepping into the Silver Sail's nightmare.

"——Hit!" The first flying hook chain broke through the fog and nailed into the tail of the Silver Sail. The hull shook violently and the side wood cracked.

The next second, a headless, shriveled corpse rose into the air from the crest of the wave, its sharp claws cutting through the air and tearing open Emma's chest with one claw.

Blood exploded on the deck, like flags catching the wind, dyeing the white sails red.

Ian turned his head suddenly, his face pale, and the wind vane in his hand vibrated violently.

He almost instinctively tried to adjust the wind line, but he heard a long whisper in his ear, as if it came from the wind itself:
"I just blew it in the direction you said."

His fingertips froze.

The familiar wind, familiar tools, familiar judgment logic - all have become strange and indifferent.

He began to correct his mistake: "North by west, taking the old route of Credo Bay..."

Then: "No, it's the current that goes in the opposite direction of the bone ship... It can't be in a straight line..."

Then, his voice became almost pleading: "It must be right this time...must be..."

They tried to jettison cargo to lighten their load, and to remove the mainsail and rebuild it to regain the initiative.

On the deck, shouts, running, and cries for survival came one after another.

But all to no avail.

Every time they corrected their course, the wind seemed to laugh at their struggles.

Every bit of obsession was met with a more violent response—the storm was like a whip, and the undead fleet was like a vicious dog smelling blood.
The whipping of the Silver Sail's skeleton again and again hit its will that was almost at its limit.

That was not a storm caused by a wrong route, but a "punishment mechanism" of maritime rules.

It is the rule of dreams.

It is the judgment of the nightmare world on those who "have tried to correct their fate."

At this moment, Ian, standing in the howling wind and under the tattered sail, finally realized -

None of this was a navigational error.

It was fate, a trap from beginning to end.

The dead are never silent. They are not fleeting, invisible ghosts.

Instead, it carries the echo of memories before death - a remnant of obsession that never dissipates.

They reappeared on deck in Emma's face, and as Ian bent over to mend the ropes,

She suddenly grabbed his ankle with a cold but firm grip.

Her nails had long been broken, but she still held him tightly, as if trying to drag him back to the unfinished journey.

At night, the forecastle was filled with wailing and whispering, and footsteps lightly filled the deck.

They stood beside Ian's ear, repeating the words that gnawed away at his heart bit by bit:
"it was all your fault."

Madness spread from the stern to the bow, like a chronic plague, silently infecting everyone's beliefs.

There are sailors who tie themselves to the mast, stretch out their limbs, and say that the wind has "made him part of the sail";
There was a cook standing by the pot, dropping a drop of blood into the soup with trembling hands, murmuring: "As long as there is a sacrifice... the wind will turn back.";
A young man lit the wind flag and murmured, "This way the wind won't see us and won't chase us anymore..."

The wind still whispers.

——"They didn't die from the curse, they died from your hands."

——"They chose to believe you, but you chose the wind."

Finally, there were only two people left on the deck.

The ground was covered with broken sails, crushed compasses, rusty swords and blood that had not yet cooled.

The Silver Sail was like a dying whale, gasping and groaning in the sea of ​​fog.

And she still stood in the center of the deck - the goddess who could not be defeated by the wind, still guarding the last position with the dignity of a sailor.

Claire held the weather vane in her hand. It was a birthday gift Ian had given her three years ago.
It was made of silver, and the edge was engraved with words he had chiseled himself: "May you always be able to see which way the wind blows."

She stood in front of Ian, her eyes calm, no longer showing anger or disappointment between her brows.

The wind blew her hair, and the sunlight could not penetrate the thick fog, but it illuminated the last ray of light in her eyes.

"Do you still remember, Ian..." She spoke softly, her voice seemed to whisper across the entire sea of ​​the dead.

"You said - as long as you keep sailing, the wind won't take you away."

Ian knelt in the middle of the deck, his hands stained with rope debris and rotten blood, and his clothes were already torn.

His eyes reflected the swaying afterimages on the deck, but he couldn't focus.

"Klia... I've tried... every direction..." he muttered, his voice as dry as the trembling of a broken sail in the wind.

"I know." Claire's smile was gentle but tired, like a lonely boat about to dock but unwilling to stop.
"You just haven't... heard what Feng really wants to say."

She came closer and placed the weather vane into his trembling palm.

The metal was cold, but her palms were warm.

Then she turned and walked towards the slowly approaching undead warship deep in the sea of ​​fog.

Her back is like the journey of her life - lonely, but never hesitant.

Ian opened his mouth, wanting to call her, but no sound came out.

She turned back in the fog and took one last look at him.

There was no resentment, no blame, and no trace of the unshakable trust that once existed in that look.

All that is left is a complete and silent farewell.

The wind stopped.

He sat in the middle of the dilapidated deck, the weather vane lying quietly in his palm.
The pointer trembled and turned, but always pointed in the direction of the dead silence.

It no longer guides the way, but only records the return journey of an inescapable nightmare.

The sea of ​​fog was silent, and the undead fleet seemed to have completed its final ritual before beginning to disintegrate, turning into ashes and sinking into the abyss.

A tattered blood sail floated in the wind, slowly fell on his shoulders, and covered his body.

It is like a shadow of its former glory, and also like the seal of some curse.

At that moment, he almost thought he was still alive.

As if everything could happen again.

But the wind whispered against his ear again, and the sound no longer had flow or direction.

it says--

"You are no longer the Apostle of the Wind."

"You are just a sinner of the wind."

Ian closed his eyes.

"The Island of Wind Sleep" eventually sank into the depths of nightmare.

And he hasn't woken up yet.

(End of this chapter)