Welcome to Rewind World Game-Chapter 1680 - 23: Do What You Must, Without Looking Back
A familiar black coat danced wildly in the storm of energy.
That person raised one hand to the sky, with fingers spread wide, a fierce golden light burst out from the palm, like an invisible hand forcibly holding up the collapsing firmament.
Black braids fluttered in the air, golden eyes looked over.
"You’ve arrived?" Su Rin said calmly, "I have been to Sique’s hometown. The people there say that in their memory, there has never been anyone named ’Sique’."
Su Ming’an’s eyes narrowed, then he understood: "I see, thank you... By the way, where is Atlanda?"
"Ran away the moment he saw me," Su Rin said, "Perhaps in his mind, I’m quite terrifying."
Pale golden rules and lines centered around Su Rin, supporting the sky.
"Roar---!!!"
On the other side of the sky, a pure dragon’s roar that shook the soul echoed!
A giant dragon, entirely forged like flowing gold, appeared with its head raised high! Its massive body coiled and twisted among the clouds, scales burning with sacred golden flames. With its head held high, its giant mouth opened, spewing a river of golden fire that stretched across the sky!
Immediately after, a third beam of light shone.
A golden-haired youth flapped his light wings, hovering below the golden fire river. His face was somewhat pale, forehead hair damp with sweat, yet his gaze was sharp like a hawk, his hand holding up the flames, merging into Ian’s dragon fire.
—Su Rin, Ian, Eni.
The three shone like three suns illuminating the battlefield, supporting the crumbling firmament.
Su Ming’an didn’t know when Su Rin and Ian started mingling, considering their similar personalities, it made sense.
"Go," Su Rin said calmly, "Awaken the Demon Mother Goddess, only the Original deity can confront the Original deity. If there are any additional variables, I trust you can handle them."
Su Rin showed no concealment of his trust, and Su Ming’an had no doubt that Su Rin could hold on.
Su Ming’an looked at Lü Shu: "How is your injury? Let me see."
Su Ming’an wanted to check, but Lü Shu firmly shook his head: "It’s fine, with Lin Yin here, there won’t be any problems... Let’s start. Awaken the Demon Mother Goddess."
Su Ming’an confirmed Lü Shu’s normal state and then slowly nodded.
The moment the order was given, everyone began their own arrangements. Su Ming’an flew to the edge of the square, where there was a blood-red array, personally guided by Isabella, capable of resonating with the Demon Mother Goddess’s seal.
"Is this the legendary Savior?"
"He looks so young..."
Six figures were already standing there.
A constantly shape-shifting slaughter storm.
A man dressed in a luxurious classical black robe, wearing a pale bone mask.
A pirate cloaked in tattered garb.
A composite of faces of countless men, women, and children.
A mass of spreading ashes.
A beautiful girl with purple hair, holding a mirror.
They were the Demon Mother Goddess’s six followers, transforming into her gate as she was about to awaken.
Everyone was ready, and Su Ming’an closed his eyes.
Black wings enveloped him, Lü Shu guarded by his side.
Su Ming’an’s hand pressed against the blood-red array, consciousness sinking downward.
"Buzz---!"
The array emitted a resonance like the heartbeat of the earth, forming a slowly rotating red and black vortex beneath Su Ming’an’s feet. Faint sounds of deep-sea undulations and viscous liquid flows could be heard.
Resonating was by no means a comfortable experience, as if exposing one’s most vulnerable parts to strong light, yet his form did not waver.
"Is it really possible? That’s the Demon Mother Goddess..." came Ali’s hesitant voice from the communicator.
Is it really possible?
Su Ming’an is only a second-level deity, although his potential is limitless, can he maintain composure before the Demon Mother Goddess, inviting her alliance on equal terms? Who wouldn’t easily become the Demon Mother Goddess’s follower or even slave, losing themselves completely?
"He can." Lü Shu said directly, without any doubt.
If no one can do it, Su Ming’an certainly can.
Consciousness sinking, Su Ming’an gradually saw—
A will so vast it’s unimaginable, filled with the most primal life desire, like the slowly opening eye of a giant beast, clearly "looking" through the darkness!
He saw Su Ming’an.
And Su Ming’an also saw Him.
He smiled, a voice tingling and weakening the entire body came:
"...Charming and lovely child, you’ve come to seek me... intend to offer yourself? Come, I shall grant you the utmost pleasure and brightest delight..."
At that moment—
The molten gold eyes stopped spinning.
A pair of eyes the same color as the giant ones looked over, without any infantile ignorance, but with an emotion overlooking eternity.
—Mother Goddess of Radiance Kritchens and Demon Mother Goddess Isabel cast their gaze here simultaneously.
The rise and fall of civilizations, the birth and death of races, the epics of heroes and the laments of losers... like a revolving lantern in the golden pupils, flickering life and death.
The immense golden eyes began to contract towards the center. Numerous pale hands enveloping, like swallow chicks returning to the nest, layer upon layer converging, merging into the eye’s contour.
He was about to descend.
He is about to truly project his existence into this Cat Box.
Su Rin lifted his head, his black hair dancing wildly in the increasingly strong suction and energy turbulence.
He stared directly at the sky, almost contracted into a golden singularity.
——Radiant Mother Goddess.
——Guide of the false timeline.
——Creator of the Eternal Dream.
——Master of Destiny.
"You’ve actually come this far."
At this moment, everyone heard a calm, clear, vast voice that was indistinguishable between male and female:
"My lovely yet hateful one."
"Savior..."
...
Normal timeline, Creator Conference.
"Pitter-patter..."
The crimson rain fell thickly, a dull rain sound splashing on the dome, heavy rain falling into the chaotic venue.
Inside the venue, the long white stone benches were shattered, the red rain spread a glaring dark red on the broken marble surface, the air filled with the smell of stone dust and rust.
Scholars, nobles, generals from various races... Some slumped on the soaked seats, falling into a coma; some supported each other, their faces pale as they looked up at the bizarre crimson firmament.
On the high platform stood a sudden uninvited guest.
——Yamada Machiichi.
He was dressed in a clown costume, a fluffy jumpsuit of red, yellow, and blue stripes, shoulders adorned with colorful pom-poms, a comical red round nose, vibrant curly hair, appearing exceptionally glaring against the solemn and broken background.
Rainwater soaked his colorful hair, strands sticking to his pale forehead, as he stood on the high platform, looking down at everyone:
"——Alright, everyone, let’s get started!"
"What kind of joke is this? Who do you think you are, a prominent Creator? What gives you the right to break into the Creator Conference?" An elf in a luxurious robe slammed the table.
Yamada Machiichi grinned.
He spread his hands and said, "I am nothing! I am just the host of a show!"
He pulled out an ice-blue magic wand, waved it!
A layer of illusory oil paint stained the world, the crimson sky became like stage lighting, the buildings presented the texture of theater curtains.
"Gentlemen, ladies, or friends with the gender of a Walmart shopping bag!" Yamada Machiichi’s voice bore exaggerated, circus announcer-like excitement,
"Welcome to our first act——"
He suddenly spread his arms, colorful sleeves flapping in the rain.
"——’Dara’s Sky’!"
Buzz——
The entire world seemed to transform into a piece of curtain.
The ochre-red eaves of the slums unfolded between the sky curtain and the earth, the damp smell of coal smoke emerged, a clanking metal barrel was heard overturning from a distance, the friction sound of women walking barefoot neared from afar. The high platform where Yamada Machiichi stood transformed into ochre-red eaves.
At this moment, he restrained all the extravagant smiles on his face.
...
"Yamada, I want you to return to the normal timeline," Lu said.
"Second Battlefield, I got it." Yamada Machiichi nodded, "I do need to go back, the main force of the Players is in the ’past’, if there’s trouble ’now’ it would be catastrophic."
This important mission fell onto Yamada Machiichi and the 99% of Players who stayed on the original timeline, so Yamada Machiichi returned to the present.
At this time, a large number of the Dream Patrol Family was about to descend, the red rain poured down, and most locals fell into a coma due to not adapting to the rainwater.
"Laine! Got the authority?" Yamada Machiichi shouted at the ice-blue magic wand, their communication tool.
The next second, a lazy voice sounded in his ear: "Got it, Alauddin’s story connected, ready to follow anytime."
"——Alright, everyone, let’s get started!" Yamada Machiichi clapped his hands.
Laine would hack into the network as the Hacker,
Qin Ze was responsible for the logic sorting,
Bei Wang provided the "Peace" authority, turning the whole world into a curtain,
Yamada Machiichi as the host, stepped onto the high platform.
...
Alauddin sat in a room, the four walls covered with manuscripts of ’Dara’s Sky’.
On the yellowed pages, the young hero Dara ran across the roofs of the slums, laughed at the alley entrance during the rainy season, stole fried bean cakes at Old Banu’s curry stall... Each page was a fantasy he wrote word by word decades ago when his wife was still alive.
It was the only light in his barren life.
Just then, Yamada Machiichi asked him a question — would he be willing to take out his own story and transform it into the world’s curtain?
Alauddin lifted his head, looking at the two photos stuck on the wall.
The left side was his wife Samira, wearing a faded red sari, smiling under the only banyan tree in the slums, holding their daughter just a month old in her arms.
The right side was his daughter Aliya. On her sixth birthday, she stood barefoot by the garbage hill, holding a paper crown folded from waste paper, her dirty little face smiling pure and innocent, she excitedly said: "Dad, Dara saved a little cat in the story yesterday! When I grow up, I want to be like Dara, saving lots and lots of people!"
The Dara on paper is as free as the wind, while the Alauddin outside the paper cannot protect anyone.
His wife Samira died from an infection, and the hospital said the treatment cost would be tens of thousands. Alauddin emptied all his savings, but it was still not enough; he knelt at the clinic door for three hours, and the iron door closed before him. That night, Samira held his hand as her body gradually turned cold.
His daughter Aliya died of a high fever, her temperature soaring to forty degrees. Alauddin carried her around all the public hospitals in the city, but they were all overcrowded. In the hospital corridor, Aliya convulsed in his arms and gradually lost her breath.
He still remembers her last words: 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦
"Daddy... I think I saw Dara... he’s flying..."
Then, her voice was no more.
In such a place, there is no compassion and mercy, only the crushing of the class system and helplessness.
The day after Aliya’s cremation, Alauddin wrote a sentence amidst his cries:
[If stories cannot save them, what’s the point of writing stories?]
He always thought that the purpose of this sentence was: to earn enough to change his family’s poverty.
Until today, Yamada Machiichi contacted him through an encrypted channel, revealing a plan—the people inside the mirror wanted to draw away the High Dimensions and Deities outside the mirror, using the cherished "Dara’s Sky" as a drapery.
On the other end of the display, Yamada Machiichi’s eyes filled with apology: "Sorry, Alauddin. To deal with those Lords of the Dream, Supreme Lords, End of All Things, High Dimensions, and Deities...we are no match for Su Ming’an. I can’t think of any method both useful and beautiful, only this ungraceful way. The script brimming with spiritual energy from a top-ranked Player is the best material. Coupled with Bei Wang’s dream authority, it can render the whole world in false colors, becoming the best drapery... If you’re unwilling, I’ll ask someone else..."
"What does this mean?" Alauddin looked up.
"It means... your story will become a puppet before everyone."
Alauddin was silent for a long time.
He glanced at the photos of Samira and Aliya on the wall.
He asked, "Can my story protect everyone?"
Yamada Machiichi said, "Yes."
Alauddin quietly contemplated.
He remembered Aliya saying, "When I grow up, I want to be like Dara and save many, many people."
He remembered Samira’s painful gasps before her death.
If Dara’s story could really save people, even just granting another group a second...
"Can Dara still become the hero I am familiar with?" Alauddin asked.
"Of course," Yamada Machiichi’s voice was very certain, "This is just a stopgap measure. When it’s all over, Dara will return to his original state, or perhaps better. However—"
He paused,
"Your statement is incorrect, Alauddin."
"No matter how Dara appears on paper—he is already our true hero, and the hero you know. He saved two civilizations, and no one can say he’s not a hero."
Alauddin turned away for a moment, looking out the window.
Then he turned back, facing the communicator.
"Let’s begin."
The communicator went quiet for a moment.
"...What?" Yamada Machiichi’s voice.
"I used to think that in our world, stories that couldn’t become reality had to shatter destiny by being written in a sellable way, turned into money. So, I’d have money to buy medicine, buy a house, and change my fate—I desperately tried to write Dara in a sellable way. But I failed. Samira and Aliya still died."
"But now, I understand."
"If a tainted story, a defaced epic, a vulgarized hero can genuinely save the living people outside the story, then the story has already shattered fate."
"It shattered a fate that should have been unreachable."
"Many say, don’t seek real meaning in false stories, but what if this story could indeed save people? What if our current mindset is inspired by one fragmented yet complete story after another?"
"How can it not save people, nor shatter destiny?"
"If Dara knows, that in his vulgar time, he can save the destiny of two civilizations, this little hero from the slums wouldn’t refuse...he is still waiting to finish saving these two worlds and return to being the hero of the slums."
"And I, the one destroying the story, the one recklessly acting under the name of a Creator, the one polluting the pure land in my heart..."
Alauddin closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them,
"I repent, but I will still entrust the story to you."
From the communicator came Yamada Machiichi’s voice, very light, tired:
"Thank you."
"I’m sorry."
...
I am not the "protagonist." Yamada Machiichi thought.
I am merely a Player skirting the edges of the main storyline, and that’s why I’m suitable for this task.
Just like a clown suddenly inserted into a serious epic, adorned with a rainbow-colored pant, dancing in the square.
Just vulgar, sheer meaningless vulgarity. But sometimes, vulgarity is sharper than swords.
"—Alright, everyone, let’s get started!"
His voice carried exaggerated excitement, like a dedicated clown in a circus. But only he knew the words scratched like broken glass through his throat, painful and sharp.
If an epic were pure white, untainted, perfect from beginning to end, it would undoubtedly be a flawless fairy tale.
How he wished that the salvation he was part of could be like the shōnen manga he read growing up—the protagonist enduring ordeals but always clinging to his true self, allies working together with none left behind, finally defeating strong foes in passion and bonds, reaching a happy ending for all. No dirty dealings, no inevitable betrayals, no beautiful things one must personally defile.
How he hoped that when it was all over, people would sincerely say of this journey: "This was truly a shining, regretless journey."
But if on the road there must exist controversy, reproach, imperfections, and obstacles. If on the journey, people cannot avoid the pain, shame, and mistakes they do not wish to recall, this is also an unavoidable reality.
Reality is not a fairy tale.
Su Ming’an, as a pioneer on another timeline, might die without a burial place with every step.
The road bears the pressure of the main battlefield, every second might collapse.
"I’m sorry."
He apologized in his heart to the stories chosen as material.
Sorry, I can’t be as perfect as Su Ming’an, can’t balance beauty and reality.
Su Ming’an has an almost obsessive persistence, always trying to find a path that satisfies both sides in a desperate situation, wanting the process and results to be as correct as possible. Yamada Machiichi admires that persistence, but he knows he is not Su Ming’an. He doesn’t have such strong strength, doesn’t have as smart a mind, doesn’t have such tenacious will.
Sorry.
I turned your stories from beautiful dreams into weapons in hand.
I let your stories fall from soft clouds to the battlefield of the mortal world.
Alauddin’s "Dara’s Sky" is being invaded by Laine, guided by Qin Ze, covered by the dream curtain of Bei Wang, and eventually, through Alauddin himself, will become a third-rate puppet.
If the significance of stories is limited to beauty, limited to dignity, limited to being appreciated and savored as "artwork" —
Then when the world needs saving, what can stories do?
If a fire is burning reality, should people tightly protect the exquisite storybook in their hands, letting the flames swallow fresh lives; or should they do something?
Yamada Machiichi took a deep breath.
Red rain hit his face, smearing the makeup, making him look like a failed clown, a madman holding a cheap magic wand in embarrassment.
In a reality without mechanical ex-machina, without extraordinary luck—
He raised the magic wand, waved it.
On the sky curtain, the polluted texts of "Dara’s Sky" began to roll.
In the dark room, Alauddin’s hand trembled.
First line, second line, third line...
He sat here, watching as the masterpiece of his life was smeared into vulgar residue.
The communicator echoed Yamada Machiichi’s voice: "Mr. Alauddin, should we continue?"
"Continue," Alauddin said deep-voiced.
The other side of the communicator was silent for a few seconds.
"Are you sure?" Yamada Machiichi asked.
Alauddin’s fingers clenched slightly.
The next Chapter, he remembered, was his daughter’s favorite Chapter. Back then, Aliya jumped barefoot in front of the house, mimicking Dara’s action of tossing mango seeds, shouting: "Dara! Defeat the bad guys!" Samira patched clothes next to her, looked up, and smiled, saying: "Keep your voice down, someone is sleeping next door."
But Aliya was already dead.
Samira was already dead too.
Died from antibiotics they couldn’t afford in Ruby, died from hospitals they couldn’t squeeze into.
Alauddin looked up towards the sky curtain.
Perhaps at this moment, on the battlefields he couldn’t see, some players have gained respite, more people lived on.
People always say that dreams are something noble and vulgar. Noble because they are unattainable, vulgar because people always resort to unscrupulous means to achieve them.
Alauddin couldn’t distinguish if he was noble or vulgar now. He couldn’t even tell Yamada Machiichi... couldn’t tell if humanity is noble or vulgar now.
Is it considered noble to resort to any means for survival?
Is it considered vulgar to resort to any means for survival?
"If my daughter is still alive... she’d be sixteen this year. She might cry with anger when she sees this vulgar story, but if this story becoming vulgar could let another father not kneel at a hospital door pleading for medicine, could prevent another daughter from dying of a high fever..."
He wrote down new words.
Sorry.
Let nobility and purity be left to those who disdain inferiority, I have no capital to be noble, I’m just a despicable person, a person who I despise the most, whom players extremely abhor.
I chose to let the story be tainted with filth.
I chose to dye the epic with vulgarity.
I chose to become the one who taints beauty.
The pen tip scraped paper with a sound.
Scratch, scratch.
Alauddin did not cry.
His tears dried out at Samira and Aliya’s funerals, turned into ashes.
With these ashes, he made "Samira" and "Aliya" not have to endure any funeral.
...
Su Ming’an’s consciousness descends in the darkness.
As if softly wrapped by something gentle, he plunged down until his feet landed.
He knew he successfully entered the seal of the Demon Mother Goddess.
