Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 157 The Broken Steps of the God Ascending

Chapter 157 The Broken Steps of the God Ascending
“Destiny is not the path we choose, but the stairs we are forced to walk.”

“You’ve walked by it countless times, but it never remembers you.”

Sima Ming opened his eyes, as if slowly rising from an invisible deep well.

Consciousness was like stirred water, gradually regaining clarity.

In front of me is a spiral staircase leading upwards.

The stairs are not made of stone or gold, but woven of light and echo.

It stretches out in the darkness and void, like a silver snake leading to heaven, and also like a chain leading to the cage of gods.

It has no beginning and no end, like a pillar of illusion hovering in the universe.

Siming stood on it, as if he was just born. He didn't know why he was here, he only knew that his legs were being pulled.
Step by step on this spiral track, it seemed as if an invisible hand was pushing him forward - he could not refuse, and there was no way to turn back.

My consciousness is still dull, as if I have just escaped from a nightmare, but I don’t know whether I am still dreaming.

The wind swirled around my ears, and the whispers began to seep into my bones.

That was the voice of the Man of a Thousand Faces, familiar yet strange, damp and sticky, like a leech clinging to the edge of the soul.

"You have once again reached the Stairway to God." It spoke slowly in his ear. "What do you think?"

"Those who are ahead of you and those who are behind you...are all you."

Siming turned back stiffly.

really.

At the bottom of the stairs, countless “him” are climbing up step by step - some are young and thin, with youthful arrogance on their faces;

Some were dressed in torn robes, stained with blood;
Some carry corpses on their backs, some have empty eyes,
Some held the cards tightly in their hands, while others knelt on their knees and prayed, their expressions filled with grief and despair.

And above him... there is also a "he".

At the end of the stairs, a figure stood at the top, looking up at the extremely huge eye in the sky.

That is - the self who is "closest to the finish line".

That eye looked down indifferently, as quiet as a god, yet without any divinity.

Its pupils are like holes in the universe, revealing judgment, boredom, and an unsatisfied emptiness.

At that moment, the "he" at the top slowly turned around and glanced at him.

Those were a pair of dead eyes.

“…still failed.”

Sima Ming heard his whisper.

Then the man leaped and fell from the top of the stairs, drawing a pale arc.

--Snapped.

Falling silently, like a drop of water splashing into the endless abyss.

Siming's body froze, and he wanted to shout "No——"
But I found my throat was so dry that I couldn't make a sound. My feet were still moving silently upwards, unable to stop.

Immediately afterwards, another "he" reached the top.

Another look back.

Another fall.

One after another - they lined up, walked to the end, and jumped.

"You've been gone many times."

The Thousand Faces' whispers were like a noose wrapped around his ears, hoarse, excited, and almost crazy.

“Every time, you reach the end.”

“Then jump.”

“Every loser becomes a shadow behind you.”

"And what you don't know is that you are never the first."

The sound became softer and softer, thinner and thinner, but it was like a thin thread wrapped around his heart.

"You're not the protagonist... You're just the clown who refuses to give up trying to be the protagonist."

"I thought you could put on a good show."

The Thousand Faces laughed, as if licking carrion. "The first time you held up your cards, you looked like a gambler! That arrogance of not believing in fate, challenging my authority! At that moment, it laughed—it looked at you."

"So I keep you here, reincarnating again and again."

"But you? A poor performance. Increasingly mediocre. Increasingly... tiresome."

Siming's knuckles trembled slightly, and his shoulders felt as if they were under a thousand pounds of pressure.

It’s not because of fear, but because I know that this will be the final judgment that cannot be avoided.

"Where...is this..." he muttered.

Countless broken syllables and echoes echoed all around, like waves pouring into the ears, or like a knife scraping against the soul.

"This is a nightmare."

“Here are the memories.”

"This is destiny."

"This is the end."

"This is you—a fate of reincarnation from which you can never escape."

At that moment, he seemed to finally understand: this was not a ladder to salvation, but a pilgrimage of sacrifice.

And he has been on this path for too long.

He walked higher and higher, and the giant eye hanging in the sky was slowly closing bit by bit.

It is neither angry nor sad, but rather the kind of indifference that comes from someone who is tired of a drama and has finally decided to end it.

The audience is tired and the stage is about to go out.

A trace of fear from the depths of his soul suddenly tore through Siming's numbness.

"Can't let it close its eyes..."

He suddenly understood.

As long as that eye is completely closed, all traces of the existence of the character "Si Ming" will be completely erased.

Not only him, but also those "him" who failed before,
Those who resisted, risked their lives, and struggled against their fate would vanish in that instant. This world would no longer allow the character of "Si Ming" to exist.

And he will no longer even have the qualifications to fail.

His breathing became rapid and his throat tightened, but his steps were still pulled by the invisible thread of fate and he could not stop.

It's like a doll trapped in a pendulum, being forcibly dragged towards its destined high point.

He began to shout loudly, his voice hoarse and piercing:
"Stop!! I'm not you!!"

"I'm not the loser I was before! You're not me!!"

But behind him, the rows of "selves" climbing silently have not stopped.

Some of those figures were broken, some were covered in blood, some were holding cards like urns, and some had expressionless faces, like zombies.

They didn't respond, just like he couldn't respond to the next "him" at the moment.

And in front, another "Si Ming" stood at the end.

The man stood on the edge of the cliff and looked back at him.

Those were a pair of dead, empty eyes, without hope, without hatred, only complete emptiness. Then, he silently leaped down.

Like ashes falling, there is not even an echo.

"Snapped--"

Like the sound of a card being broken.

Another loser fell into the pile of recycling fate.

The voice of the Thousand Faces exploded in his ears, roaring wildly, distortedly, and crazily:

"Why! Why can't it be satisfied?!"

"Si Ming! Are you going to fail too?!"

"Didn't you say you don't believe in fate?!"

"Have you forgotten? The first time you stood in front of me, the card was shaking and your eyes were like knives!"

"It—looked at you!"

“At that moment, it smiled!”

"You are the gambler I bet the most on! You are the only character in the entire script of fate that it even gave it a second glance!"

"But are you going to jump down now too?!"

Siming's legs were trembling, sweat was dripping down his back, and coldness was surging from the joints between his bones.

His steps have reached the end.

That giant eye is slowly closing.

Like a judgment document about to be stamped, signing of eternal abandonment.

He struggled desperately but couldn't move.

Some kind of rules, like those written by a "screenwriter", trapped him at the end of the stairs, unable to move forward or backward.

His consciousness began to crack, and something screamed deep inside:

"Can't let it close its eyes."

He shouted with a torn throat:

"Stop it! Stop it!! I haven't—not yet—!"

He stood at the end.

He lowered his head and looked at the card in his hand.

——"Elegy of the Fateful Gambler".

The card was getting slightly hot, with irregular cracks appearing on the edges, as if it was about to burn out the last of its divinity.

But the firelight couldn't even illuminate the shadow of his own fingertips.

He murmured, "I..."

"I... am Sima Ming."

"...One who doesn't believe in fate—Si Ming."

He wanted to hold up his cards and throw the fate of the world on the table, just like he had done the first time he gambled his life.

But his hands had begun to disintegrate from the knuckles on, like mist, like ash, like script notes edited by time.

At that moment, he finally understood.

It turns out that he is not the protagonist, he is a "variable" nailed to the story template.
It is the dice carefully cultivated and repeatedly rolled by the Thousand Faces.

And the only audience - "Eye of the End" is the real master behind the story.

If it is not satisfied, it will rewrite everything.

He wanted to roar, to fight, to tear out a possibility before death like he had done before.

But the moment he opened his mouth——

His body sank suddenly.

He also fell down.

No light. No sound. No name.

……

"Nine thousand four hundred and twenty-first time, falling."

"That eye is almost closed."

"No one remembers Siming anymore."

"No one remembers fate anymore."