Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 161 A Gentle Place
"You fell asleep not because of greed, but because you wanted too much to stay in happiness."

The sea fog surged, and the outline of the sleeping sea city finally emerged from the dark blue abyss.

It was a dreamlike scene—the huge curved city wall lay across the seabed like a sleeping sea beast, its back covered with cracked stone patterns and weathered skeleton.

The broken stone statues hang their heads in contemplation, and deep-sea seaweeds like vines entwine every city gate, as if this city was not "built" but "grown".

Dim phosphorescence rose from the bottom of the sea, like the faint light of dreams spilled out by a sleeper turning over in a deep dream, quietly illuminating Ian's pale profile.

He walked in front, his eyes sharp and his movements silent, holding a blade in his left hand and pressing the pocket watch that had just appeared on his chest with his right hand.

The silver pocket watch is cold, with strange spiral runes engraved on the surface. The dial pointer is still at "zero", as if waiting for the next gear of fate to bite.

This thing appeared silently in his chest the moment he stepped into Haicheng.

It ticked, like a heart, or like an hourglass in a grave.

"The Sleepless Pocket Watch... Humph." Ian muttered softly, the wind pressure sliding across the corner of his lips, "The name is quite appropriate."

There are dense streets and alleys ahead, and the ruins are like the skeleton of a lost city, silent in the sea.

Beneath every shadow, there seemed to be misplaced cracks in time and fragments of dreams. Those structures that did not belong to reality were slowly wriggling, swelling, and overlapping.
It's as if the dream is forcibly suppressing the texture of reality, distorting it into an undefinable existence.

"Have Siming and Baroque contacted their target..." he murmured softly, raising his hand to connect to the secret language field.

——“Click.”

There was a sound of wind, as quiet as paper tearing, but it passed by my ears.

Ian suddenly tilted his head and his pupils contracted.

The next moment——

Five twisted figures jumped out simultaneously from the ruins in the front left.

They resembled the remains of torn beasts from the deep sea, their bodies wrapped in gray-green seaweed fascia, with spine-like tentacles growing out of their backs, and bubbly mutters coming out of their mouths, like a language that nightmares had failed to translate in the water.

Ian's eyes turned completely cold at that moment.

The silver blade was unsheathed, and before the light appeared, the wind spell was already on the corner of his lips.

"--cut."

There was no explosion, no light effect, only a barely audible whistle of the wind.

It was as if the sea water around them became a vacuum in an instant. Before the five sea monsters could even make a sound, they were cleanly cut off. Their bodies fell silently, and even the blood mist seemed to be sucked away.

He stood there, his knife unstained with blood, his windbreaker fluttering.

Only the pocket watch "ticked" again.

"It's too quiet." He frowned, sensing a deeper release, but only felt an indescribable discomfort.

He tried to connect the secret message again, but suddenly paused.

Something that did not belong to "sound" squeezed into the depths of his consciousness.

Like some gentle yet cold hand, it pressed against his cochlea and pressed slowly. The sound was no longer "loud" but "entered".

"You... have entered my territory."

The voice was low and soothing, yet inhuman, like a dream creator quietly opening the curtain.

"Dreams unfold for you."

The world trembled slightly for a moment.

The next second—

The sea water receded, the darkness faded, and the decaying sea city unfolded layer by layer like turning pages.

The sun shines down.

The sky is no longer dark blue, but an orange evening.

The town is peaceful and warm. The scattered orange roofs glow slightly golden in the sun, and the white walls are as clean as if they had just been painted.

The streets are paved with bluestone, slightly damp but not slippery. The sea breeze blows the clothes hanging out to dry, bringing with it a salty smell and a slight floral scent.

In the distance is a towering lighthouse, rising into the golden sunset, facing the boundless deep blue sea.

Ian stood at the entrance of the alley, his knife still unsheathed, but his breathing was already compressed.

He instinctively tried to release the wind whisper, but was shocked to find that the wind was as silent as mud.

His heart sank.

The sound of footsteps came.

He heard that familiar laughter—soft, pleasant, and warm.

It is a sound that repeats countless times in dreams, but can no longer be caught when you wake up.

He looked up and saw her.

Clea.

She was wearing a white dress, her golden hair swaying in the evening breeze, and the sunlight cast a gentle halo around her as the hem of her skirt fluttered.

She walked out from the alley carrying a basket of vegetables, with that familiar smile on her face.

When she saw him, she paused, her eyes changed from surprise to surprise, and then she ran towards him without hesitation.

"Ian?"

Her voice and smile were so flawless that even nightmares couldn't replicate them.

And he only felt his fingers trembling slightly.

The wind is gone.

But his dream is not over yet.

"Ian! Why are you here to buy some wine? If I had known, I wouldn't have had to make two trips!"

She walked briskly from the corner of the street, her skirt rising like waves in the summer breeze.

At that moment, her smile was as bright as a ray of light falling into the sea of ​​dreams. She placed her hand on his arm with ease, and the touch of her fingertips carried a familiar warmth.

"...Claire?"

He called out softly, as if afraid of disturbing a fragile dream.

"Of course it's me, who else do you think it is?" She tilted her head and smiled.
His eyes were full of mischief, "What's wrong? You look confused. Didn't you say yesterday that you wanted to have a good rest today?"

Her voice was gentle and light, like the sound of wind chimes spilling from the windowsill at dusk many years ago.

Ian lowered his head and his eyes slid over her hands - the thin calluses on her fingertips, the old blister on her index finger, and the familiar ruby ​​ring.

Every detail matched the one he remembered perfectly, even the little movement of her subconsciously touching her earlobe while speaking.

Everything was so accurate. So real. So...perfect.

He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

"Am I... dreaming?" His voice trembled, as if filled with some fear that he was unwilling to admit.

"Of course not." She seemed amused by his question. She chuckled and stood on tiptoe to pat his forehead. "You, you're starting to have wild thoughts again."

She put the basket in her hand into his arms, took his hand, and walked towards the lighthouse where they had spent time together:
"We have a dinner party tonight. It's a rare holiday, so don't be so tense, okay?"

He was led away by her.

Back to the lighthouse.

Back to what they call "daily life".

The wind chimes in front of the window are still ringing, and the sea breeze gently passes through the wooden window at dusk, like the sigh of an old friend.

His sailing suit was neatly draped over the back of his chair, and the logbook on his desk was open to a page, stopping at a familiar date.

"Day 237, the north wind turns to south and west, we will set sail tomorrow."

This is his record before he became a mystic.

The tool room under the lighthouse, the shiny wind vane, the town chart covered with markings... everything is still there.

The days flow silently like water.

In the morning, Claire would put on an apron and boil eggs and fry bread for him.

In the afternoon, he repaired the broken wooden boat on the shore, adjusted the ropes, and wiped the anchor chain.

At night, the two of them leaned against the window, sipping slightly sweet wine and chatting about trivial matters. There were no nightmares in this town. No cards. No enemies. No secrets.

There is only sunshine, salt wind, and her laughter.

Ian was not without his doubts.

He tried to resist.

He opened the old warehouse of the lighthouse, looking for the card deck; he tried to call upon the wind, whispering the initial rhythm of the wind's language - but the wind never responded.

He couldn't explain what was wrong.

Until one quiet night, he happened to look down at his left wrist.

The pocket watch he had almost forgotten, the ancient prop called the "Sleepless Pocket Watch" - it lay there quietly, but the hands no longer stopped at "00:00:00".

It has quietly moved three steps.

He looked at the dial and was silent for a long time.

One grid represents ten points of sobriety.

——Clearance value: Lost thirty points.

It turned out that he had been sleeping in this "perfect" dream for so long.

The wind still didn't blow.

And he was still standing at that familiar street corner.

In my arms, there is her warm hand.

But his world could no longer be quiet.

"What are you looking at?"

Clea gently hugged him from behind, her warm breath brushing against his ears, with a faint smell of sea salt.

"The moon is especially round tonight." She leaned against him and said, her voice as gentle as the tide kissing the reef.

Ian didn't respond.

He stood on the top of the lighthouse, overlooking the entire town - the horizon was gentle and picturesque, the sunset dyed half the sky red, the tide hummed, and seabirds flew by.

His gaze fixed on everything that seemed real, and he suddenly realized something:
——It’s not that the wind didn’t respond, but that there was no “wind” at all in this illusion.

Wind is his most intimate existence. It is the source of all his strength, the cards, the faith, and the language through which he communicates with the world.

And now, it's gone.

He seemed to have been stripped of a part of his soul, but was shrouded in tenderness in this "perfect" dream.

He could not call upon the wind, for it had never existed there.

Ian's hand slowly tightened, his knuckles exerting force, as if he wanted to crush something in his pocket.

He spoke in a low voice, his voice a little hoarse from being suppressed:
"I want to go to sea."

Claire shook her head slightly and wrapped her arms around him a little tighter, like a child afraid of losing everything.

"Didn't we agree that we wouldn't wander around anymore after the war?" She raised her head and looked at him gently, her eyes soft and pleading.

"Haven't you always said you wanted a place to dock?"

"I'm here, and you're here too... Isn't this the best ending?"

Her tone was so gentle that it could almost melt bones, as if as long as he nodded, this dream would become reality.

Ian was silent for a long time.

He didn't say "this isn't real".

Just quietly looking into the distance - the gentle but unchanging glow in the sky.

He suddenly realized that even after all these days, the setting sun had never shifted an inch. The sky hadn't changed, and the tide hadn't risen or fallen.

——It’s so perfect, as perfect as a warm noose.

This dream strangled him in the most benevolent way.

The wind is still blowing.

Seabirds fly overhead.

Water drips from the eaves and wind chimes ring.

The world did not collapse, and no monsters approached. It just wrapped him quietly, like an invisible quilt, gently wrapping him into a deep sleep.

Ian stood on the top of the lighthouse, quietly looking at the golden-red sea.

The sunset is gentle, the waves are gentle, and Clea is also gentle.

He began to doubt - had he never truly woken up?

Were those nightmares, battles, companions... all fantasies he had after a bout of insomnia?

Was it—she never left, and he never fled.

"Ian?"

Her voice rang out again, as light as a drop of water hitting the water.

He turned around and saw her adjusting his collar. Her smile was warm to the bone, the same gentle look he had dreamed of countless times at night.

At that moment, the wind really stopped.

And he - finally heard the "tick-tock".

He lowered his head and looked at his wrist.

The silver pocket watch lay quietly in the inside pocket of his coat, the spiral pattern on the dial reflecting the afterglow of the setting sun.

The pointer, which had been stagnant, was now moving slowly.

One minute.

Two minutes.

three minutes……

Tick, tick.

Every second was like a knife, cutting into his clarity.

The pointer crosses the first scale mark.

"Sobriety value -10."

He froze.

At the second scale, the pointer continues to move.

"Sobriety value -10."

The third scale.

"Sobriety value -10."

Total: -30.

Ian stared at the pocket watch, his fingertips beginning to tremble slightly.

And at this moment, the world is still peaceful and picturesque.

Clea was still smiling in front of him as she straightened the collar of his windbreaker.

"What's wrong?" She looked up at him with her smile unchanged.

He smiled back, the corners of his mouth slightly raised - but in that smile, a hint of cold clarity quietly emerged.

"……nothing."

The wind stopped.

He finally knew where he was.

This is not reality.

But the dream is not over yet.

(End of this chapter)