Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 302 The Beginning of a Lie
"Every person in the fog wears their own mask."

But how do you know that mask is your own?

The fog has not yet dissipated.

The street was like a slowly twisted silver-gray bandage, tightly constricting Alesson's chest.

Before the morning bells have rung, the city has already awakened.

The air, a mixture of steam, kerosene, dust, and the scent of stale rose perfume, dripped onto the faces of the crowd like old holy water from a church.

The marble streets of the aristocratic district were polished to a shine like silver mirrors, as if every step on them required prior aesthetic appreciation.
Meanwhile, in the second foggy area south of the city, a beggar on a street corner was stuffing cigarette butts into old newspapers to light a fire for warmth, while an old craftsman was wiping the remains of a prosthetic limb he could never finish repairing with a rag.

This is Alleston, the city of fog.

It is not a city, but a masquerade ball shrouded in fog.

Nobles bowed in their finery, the lower classes groaned in the sewage, and the middle class remained as silent as ashes in the steam-powered workshops.

But they were all smiling. Because in this city, not smiling meant "you want to tell the truth."

Those who tell the truth... are either insane or have already been hung on the wind chimes of the church tower, becoming numbers in the Chongqing Daily.

Fog is not the weather; it is the system itself. Fog obscures the distance and makes people afraid to see what is close at hand.

"Before the bell tower even rings, the noble children are already riding in the Black Crow carriages heading to the church-affiliated academy."

“The girl from the lower class went crazy again on Broken Tower Street last night. She called herself the ‘Goddess of the Mother Goddess behind the Door’ and was locked up in the ‘Orphanage’ as a case of Star Calamity.”

Street gossip, like moss, whispers softly from the cracks in the stone, but hardens and becomes piercing before dawn.

The clock tower finally rang, striking thirteen times.

It's not twelve.

The clock tower in Chongqing chimes an extra time every year at this hour.

Nobody knows who added it, and nobody dares to change it back.

Because people say it was struck for "the one who died in the fog and was never remembered".

And today's "one" might just be him.

Si Ming stood at the intersection of the fog belt in the south of the city and the middle-level official street, and looked up at the blurry spire.

He wasn't wearing a cloak or the cross-shaped cape of a sorcerer; he was only wearing a gray woolen vest with two buttons undone, revealing a forged identity certificate underneath.

He knew very well that countless eyes in the city were watching his every move.

Fog not only obscures, it also filters. It tells you, "Don't look too much, don't think too deeply." Because the clearer you see, the more likely you are to be the next "seen person."

The price of being seen is often losing face, losing one's life, or losing one's soul.

"You came to save her, not to die with her," Si Ming silently told himself.

He didn't call out the name, or even dare to think about it too specifically—this was a thinking habit taught to him by the Thousand Faces: don't name things unnecessarily, because "being named" means "being watched."

This is another meaning of fog. It is not just about concealment, but also about an unnamed power.

Thirty steps east along the official street is "Mirror Language Lane," the earliest media street in the former capital.

This place was once known as the "backbone of the morning light." Now, only three waste paper collection stations, two anonymous radio stations resembling bus shelters, and a small newspaper office with a rusty nameplate still hanging on it remain.

Morning Star Times.

A door lay there quietly, like an old, mourning guardian.

The metal emblem with a rose on the door frame was broken, revealing rust and black spots, as if announcing the collapse of an era.

But Si Ming still went over.

He did not knock on the door immediately.

His footsteps landed precisely on the anchor points on the gray bricks, each step stopping precisely in the blind spots covered by whispers, as if calculated.

He placed his hand on the doorknob and applied a little force—the door didn't make a sound, only a soft tremor like a sigh.

The fog, like an old vow being drawn into the room, quietly seeped in.

"You're not here to submit a manuscript."

The voice came from the inner room, old and dry, like an old piece of paper being awakened by ink.

An old man peeked out from behind the printing press.

His beard was yellowed like old newspapers, and his face was covered with patterns printed from copper movable type.

He was wearing a worn-out vest and jacket, carrying an oil lamp in one hand and supporting the typewriter cover, which was not yet fully repaired, with the other.

“You’re not a student reporter, not an investigator, not a debt collector, and not sent by a divine messenger…” he muttered.

His gaze swept over every detail of Si Ming's body, "You have no badge, no notebook, no recorder, and you didn't bring any canned salmon."

"...So you're a liar?"

The God of Fate did not answer.

He took out a letter from his pocket; the paper was thin and the seal was exquisitely crafted—it was a royal finance commission's appropriation order, stamped with a new mold bearing the rose emblem.

The letter fluttered down, yet it seemed to strike the very heart of the entire newspaper office. The old man's eyes changed.

"...You're here to lie to me and say that my newspaper can still survive," he said softly.

long silence.

"Alright then. Lie to me this once." The old man's voice was like old lead type falling into a lead trough—hoarse, but still precise.

"But please make it look good, at least... so that I'm willing to believe you."

"Please lie to me this once. And please do it well."

The old editor said this as if it were a blessing, or a lament.

He gently placed the oil lamp on the broken typesetting table. The wick flickered, and the light made the turbidity in his eyes look like a pool of ink about to dry.

Si Ming remained silent.

He stood in the doorway, like a coroner who was far too young.
Standing before this still-warm body, I was unsure whether I should dissect it to preserve its final dignity.

The entire newspaper office resembled a theater on the verge of collapse.

The "Morning Star" banner, which had not yet been taken down, hung from the ceiling, and below it were a row of iron chairs leaning to one side and heavy printing press parts.

An old poster was pasted on the wall: "Morning Star Special Issue, No. 5: We Still Believe in the Light".

The title was partially obscured by a fallen piece of cement, revealing only the words "We still..."

"I know you're not a divine messenger lying to me." The old man sat down and gently tapped the table.

"God won't come here. God only appears on the judgment seat in the courtroom. They don't bother listening to the ramblings of old idiots."

He casually pulled a yellowed sheet of paper from the drawer, covered with densely written financial records, printing consumables lists, and employee termination decisions.

Every expense was like a bill nailed to his chest—not deeply, but too many.

“You know what, kid,” he chuckled.
“The Morning Star did not fall victim to the blade of public opinion, nor did it die from the covert operations of theocracy and the military. It died from the paper tax increase in the upscale district last month and the delay in the approval of the ‘information legalization stamp’.”

"Our newspaper's last printing was seven days ago."

That day we wanted to send a text message saying that the church court had taken away a graduate student from the School of Door Mirroring overnight.

Because in her paper she mentioned 'non-nobles can bear low-level mysticism'... a very ordinary statement, without even mentioning the church.

He paused, then continued, "The next morning, the girl jumped off the Wudu Bridge, and our printing press... never started working again."

The old man looked at the allocation order in front of him and suddenly chuckled softly.

"You know, it's ironic. The royal family will allocate funds to us? Maybe, just like they'll one day seal all the doors and then give the idols a fresh coat of paint."

“I once wrote a sentence in the fifth editorial,” he looked up, his eyes suddenly brightening.

"'On the day all the doors are locked, the morning star will be extinguished in our hands. But it will also be rekindled in the eyes of the next person.' — I wrote this, and it was written by someone else."

His voice suddenly trembled, then he laughed, “But I’m not sure if anyone in this city has seen the ‘rising morning star’ now.”

Si Ming gently pushed the letter of grant allocation in front of him and sighed.

“You said you wanted me to… lie to you more skillfully,” he said.

"Yes." The old man nodded, as if requesting the doctor to give him a good end-of-life sedative.

So Si Ming closed his eyes, his fingertips brushing past the letter—he didn't activate any "spell" or "skill," but simply invoked a key entry from the [Thousand Faces]:
[A true lie] - If you believe it, it is true.

At that moment, the world stirred slightly.

It is not a flip, nor a tilt, but a subtle, almost imperceptible twist of logic.

A page on the timetable quietly disappeared. The letter paper felt slightly soft, its texture rewritten in the air.

Most importantly, the hesitation that flashed in the old man's eyes suddenly turned into a "memory".

He remembered. He "remembered" receiving such a grant document late one night after a municipal meeting.

“I…yes, I remember you,” he murmured. “You were the one…you were wearing a dark red coat and asked me if I was interested in using the grant to start a new column.”

“It’s called… ‘Destiny Mark Deliberation’.”

"Yes," Si Ming replied softly.

“You said back then that the Morning Star couldn’t die, that it had just gotten lost in the fog.”

The old man nodded, a look of almost satisfaction on his face.

His hands trembled as he picked up the old pen on the table and carefully signed his name on the paper bearing the inscription "Letter of Intent for Transfer of Legal Entity of Morning Star Times".

After signing, he didn't put the pen down immediately, but held it in his hand for a long time without letting go.

"What's your name again?" he suddenly asked.

"Davin Eric Jones".

“A good name, Mr. Davin.” He gave a wry smile. “I’m entrusting this to you… to take it with you.”

He stretched out a withered hand and tightly grasped Si Ming's palm.

It was a pleading look in her eyes, which gradually warmed up in the mist.

"You won't destroy it... right?"

His question was soft, yet it carried more weight than all the city's council documents.

Si Ming remained silent for a long time.

Then, he answered softly:

"I really want to assure you something."

"But—is it the truth, or a lie?"

"Even I...can't tell the difference."

"……sorry."

The old man has passed away.

His pace was as slow as a line of nearly dried-out lead type, leaving a trail of blurry footprints on the old newspaper.

The door was closed gently.

The fog returned to the room, but this time, it wasn't cold.

It's just a quiet wait.

The new head of the Morning Star—or rather, the new weaver of lies—stood in the middle of the pile of papers, looking up at the yellowed curtain.

The words written on it, now faded, read: "Facts illuminate the world."

Si Ming stared at that sentence for a long time.

He didn't tear it up; instead, he silently pasted a new note underneath—a note with a motto more suited to the city:

"But the light can also blind you."

He temporarily converted the editor-in-chief's office of the Morning Star into a royal composition room.

In the middle of the table was a gray-blue map of the capital, with key areas such as the "Church Tower", "Trial Theater", "Court Council Hall" and "Public Opinion Monitoring Office" marked with black ink dots.

Around these ink dots were several cards.

The cards remained unactivated; they lay there silently, as if an untriggered twist of fate had yet to occur.

Si Ming arranged them into three hidden lines, corresponding to his "public opinion infiltration plan" to be implemented over the next three weeks.

“This isn’t tactics,” he said in a low voice. “This is a script. A script written for the whole city.”

He sat down and turned on one of the newspaper's still-functioning printing presses.

It emits a rhythmic "click, click," like an ancient god being awakened and breathing.

On the first printed proof, he wrote the first headline of the Morning Star Times after its republication:
Royal Letter Exposed: A Noble Allegedly Used an Illegal Gateway to Smuggle and Traffic Free People into Whale Grave Slavery!

Subtitle: "If this is true—are they still worth our trust?"

The article's content was deliberately obscured, lacking clear names and concrete evidence.
There was only half a "photocopy of the burned letter fragments" and several "anonymous contributor statements".

But that's the kind of opening a thousand-faced person excels at.

You don't need to write down the truth.

All you need to do is write a version that makes readers question the truth they already know.

Then, their trust system will collapse.

They will want more versions.

They will search for their own conclusions amidst illusions and half-truths, until—you provide "that one and only answer."

The whispers of the Thousand Faces echoed in his mind:

"Truth does not need to be spoken, it only needs to be longed for."

That evening, the tabloid, with a print run of only one hundred copies, was quietly delivered to five different districts in the capital.

There are only twenty servings per block.

But Si Ming knew that these twenty portions would be enough.

The councilor's wife in the upscale district would glance at the newspaper during afternoon tea and give a mocking smile: "Anyone still writing tabloids these days? Who would believe that?"

But she will remember the nobleman's surname.

A middle-class lawyer in the Mirror District, flipping through a newspaper on the tram, saw fragments of an anonymously photocopied letter and frowned: "Could this be...?"

But he didn't tear out that page; instead, he tucked it into his work documents, intending to review it again that evening.

In the foggy workers' area, a newspaper delivery boy handed a newspaper to a hooded young man.
The young man glanced at it and sneered, "Nobles are all such despicable creatures."

The handwriting on the newspaper is not important.

The important thing is, "this newspaper is still in print." The important thing is, "it dares to write these things."

The important thing is, "Perhaps we can also say something."

As night deepened, before the Morning Star printing presses had even cooled down, a faint sound rang out from the shadows in a corner of the office.

"You're insane, you stinky master."

It was a woman's voice, soft yet with a noble tone.

The next second, a woman wearing a black and gold double-layered dress and a long gauze robe emerged from the shadows, making a soft sound as she stepped on the old floor tiles, like a cat walking on a stage curtain.

Seria has arrived.

She was like a black rose blooming in rotten soil, her face etched with impatience and pride.

She gently fanned the air in front of her nose and wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"This place smells worse than a runaway blood pool. What are you doing?"
"Do you even know where Allison is suffering right now, and yet you're so slow coming to buy the newspaper?"

She brushed away a fly beside her with the elegance of a conductor's baton at a noble ball.

"You're even more of a spendthrift than me."

Si Ming didn't look up, but just smiled with her lips pursed.

He lit a cigarette from the Wudu brand, which had no brand name. The smoke was pungent, with a taste of cheap vanilla and lime. Taking a puff felt like putting a burning lie in his mouth.

He looked at the map through the smoke and said:

"The fog in Chongqing is thicker and deeper than you and I can imagine."

"We can't see through it. If we rush in, we'll only get lost and won't even touch the edge of the trap."

“We’re not here to rescue anyone, Celian.”

"We're here to set up the theater."

He blew the last puff of his cigarette onto the "Court Council" mark on the map, and the black dot blurred for a moment, as if it were being swallowed up by some unspeakable will.

"Allison will be fine."

He looked up at her, his eyes like a still pool beneath a thousand faces:
"And our game—has only just begun."

The wind was silent.

Because this floating island never faces the wind. It floats in a space behind a completely closed door, where there are no tides, no sunlight, and no passage of time.

It is known as the "Thirteenth Shizuishan Island".

It is not on the map of the capital, does not appear in the archives of the Mirror Bureau, and even the council cannot publicly mention its name.

It belongs only to the Trelian royal family.

It was a reef locked inside a mirror, a prison ring personally transformed by royalty.

Each stone brick has been blessed by oracle and reshaped by the mysteries of the world system.

The iron gates are inscribed with laws, the corridors are gravity-defying and suspended, and the guards are "trained humans" who crawled out of hell.

—If they can still be called human.

Every three hours, the central control tower in the prison area would resound with the message: "Wake up, souls, the iron law is as clear as a mirror."

This whisper, like the tolling of an ancient god's bell, spread to every inch of the island's bricks and every chain.

In the center of the main tower, there is a monitoring tower that runs through nine dungeon levels, with a guard rotating on each level.

They wore identical black and gray uniforms, carried badges indicating the use of the peephole system, and had "Shield of the Rose" engraved on their left shoulders.
They wore numbers pinned to their right breasts—the numbers didn't represent their identities, but were merely part of a "chain of responsibility," yet they didn't remember each other's names.

They all knew that in the deepest floor, in that room, lived a woman "whose gaze could not be met directly."

That was the zeroth floor of the Thirteen Quiet Islands.

There are no numbers, no lighting, and no sound system here.

The air was filled with a mysterious, mercury-like density and countless intersecting seal tracks—like spider webs, array inscriptions, or some unnamed "method of observation."

The only cell on the zeroth floor has walls made of "Mirror-Covered Crystal".
This mineral, said to originate from the Sea of ​​Mandala, can perfectly reflect the fluctuations of life and the world. In other words:
Every glance you take into your mind will bounce back fragments of your own cognition.

Managing prisoners in this environment requires not only vigilance, but also an "immunity to one's own fears."

But the guards couldn't do it.

They never dared to look up at that door.

Even when delivering food, even when cleaning metal rings, they choose to keep their heads down, finish quickly, and leave promptly.

It is said that a new guard once looked up while cleaning the chains and happened to see his reflection in the cell glass.

After that, he dreamt all night that he was standing on a sunken warship, repeatedly experiencing a "failed evacuation".

Finally, he hanged himself in the main tower's broadcasting room.

This is the cell where she—Alison—is located.

She is the "Pirate Queen" who was secretly imprisoned here by the royal family, and also the "traitor of the military spirit" who disregarded military orders and was the first to break down the door to save civilians during the "Dream Raid".

But it was she who possessed extraordinary freedom in this dungeon where "even the doors were not allowed to be fully opened."

Her cell had no chains.

Her food and water were delivered to her in a glass-enclosed container by a designated person, and they dared not even touch her directly when feeding her.

She even had a complete wooden bed, a table, and—an unabridged copy of the Imperial Code of Laws.

At this moment, she was standing in the center of the room.

Scattered around my feet were fragments that shimmered like mirrors.

That wasn't a mirror she broke, but rather a "mirror core" that naturally formed after she expanded her domain.

Her world-themed card, "Mirror of All Things," is already quietly operating.

The realm of [Mirror Sea] quietly unfolded before the incense stick burned, and the entire cell became dreamlike, like a reflection theater sunk underwater.

Every wall, every ripple in the air, reflects another Alison. She stands among them, watching silently.

There is a mirror image of Alison stroking her long hair, as if preparing for an aristocratic execution ceremony.

There is a mirror image of Alison sitting on her bed, flipping through legal texts, trying to defend herself and weave legitimacy.

There is a mirror image of Alison carving words onto a glass wall, recording every betrayal and pain she remembers.

And the mirror image closest to her—

Standing opposite her, I synchronized my movements with hers.

When she frowned, the man frowned too.

When she blinked, the man blinked too.

until--

She said something:

"I have no regrets."

The mirror image moved its lips slightly, but made no sound.

—It does not repeat.

“Very good.” Allison chuckled softly, tapping the mirrored surface with her finger. “You are not a copy.”

"You are the 'me' who failed to complete that rescue mission."

“You are afraid of failure. You want to surrender. You think that ‘me’ dying that day is more glorious than me being captured.”

The mirror did not answer. It simply lowered its head slowly.

Then, it dissipated.

"Is this what you wanted to test?" she whispered.

She wasn't talking to anyone. But she knew—behind that wall, someone was listening, watching, and waiting.

Allison knew she was no longer a "prisoner".

She is a mirror.

A mirror that neither the royal family, the church, nor the military dared to break rashly.

Because no one knows who will emerge from the mirror after it's shattered.

She simply leaned against the corner of the wall and closed her eyes.

In the mirror, there was an Alison with her eyes closed, as if she were reminiscing with her.

That night, the sea wind howled, and the harbor flashed the red of alarm sirens violently in the burning light—

—She still remembers the starting point of that betrayal.

Fire is blue.

That night in the harbor, there was no smoke of gunpowder, no shouts of battle, only light dancing—twisted, broken, and spontaneously combusting light.

It was as if the entire harbor had been placed in a giant mirror, with each flame carrying the echo of another shadow.

And that is her mirror tactic.

She never shied away from admitting that she was an unqualified soldier.

She disobeyed orders, overstepped her authority, arbitrarily deployed the fleet, and even privately activated high-level world-type cards.

She was the most dazzling "traitorous light" in the "Imperial Sea Soul Academy," and the first officer to dare to openly defy the "authority" of the Empire after the "Blood Whale Battle."

But she never betrayed her beliefs.

That night, she learned that the Imperial Navy's Seventh Squadron would be conducting a "cleanup operation" in the harbor area at midnight.

The reasons given are "illegally harboring potential astral disaster carriers", "the existence of secret gatherings of military family members", and "inappropriate dissemination of the theory of destiny patterns".

In reality, these people were her old subordinates and their families whom she had made in the old fleet.

She didn't hesitate.

She directly piloted the mysterious fleet of the "Doomsday Rose," projecting nine pseudo-ships from the Mirror Domain, which cut into the port from three directions.

The firepower, bridge communications, and paint scheme of each mirror ship were completely replicated according to her memory, and even every "smoke cover" was simulated realistically.

The port area is in chaos.

The commander of the Seventh Fleet initially misjudged the number of enemy ships as "more than fifteen" and ordered a retreat.

This judgment bought her a full eighteen minutes to transfer.

And she—in those eighteen minutes, personally carried a veteran's widow on her back and escorted the last group of children onto the ship.

She walks between burning illusion and reality, like a night watchman who refuses to wake from a dream.

“You shouldn’t have come, Alison.”

She also remembered a fleet commander yelling at her over a remote channel.

“You know you’ve been convicted—this is official action! Do you know what you’re challenging?”

She replied:
"Of course I know who I'm challenging."

“I am challenging that long-forgotten oath—'Our life crests should not discriminate based on rank; our warships should not sail only for royalty.'”

Her voice traveled through the channel to the bridge of every ship in the Empire, and also reached the ears of a little girl who was hiding in the bay's sewers at the time.

The girl later said that it was the first time she believed that "real soldiers would fight to the death for the nameless."

But she also knew that this kind of "faith" was dangerous.

When you give hope to the people, you also give the enemy a reason.

Just as she helped the last veteran onto the ship—

Something suddenly pierced her shoulder.

It was neither a sword nor an arrow.

Instead, it is a red and white woven nun's needle.

Before she could even utter a sound, several "ordinary women" around her simultaneously removed their headscarves.

That was a face she had seen before.

She had seen it in the charts of the Holy Inquisition—it was the emblem of a high-ranking nun of the "Order of Our Lady of Procreation".

These nuns remained silent for life, vowing to "wash away their sins with blood," and never stepped outside the temple.

But they were here that day.

They tore off their disguise as ordinary people, shouting, "May the Mother of God guide your soul."
Then, at the same time, he unleashed a short blade, a poison needle, and sacred fire powder.

"For Her Highness Medici!"

When she heard that name, she actually smiled.

She knew Medici didn't need them.

She knew that all of this was nothing more than a political exercise of “experimental repression by the clergy.”

But she did not dodge.

She stood in front of the last child, taking the brunt of three poisoned needles and a dagger that pierced through his collarbone with her own shoulder.

Then she struck back, using mirror images to create six illusory bodies, forcing the nuns into a distorted perspective.

She didn't kill them—she merely lifted their veils, allowing the other soldiers to see:

—Your so-called "church messengers" actually mingled among the crowd and assassinated their own people.

This is not self-defense.

This is a visual counterattack that is "highly contagious".

As she fell bleeding, her last thought was not hatred.

It's an apology.

She thought of the "Lost Ones" and the laughter and invitations of her companions.

She couldn't do it.

Before she lost consciousness, she said one thing—

"I might really have missed out this time."

Alison remained standing within the mirrored realm, holding a shattered mirror core in her hand.

She gently placed the shard down, as if setting aside an old dream that could never be erased.

“The essence of mirror tactics is to create lies,” she whispered. “But that day, every illusion I performed was to fulfill the truth I had promised.”

"That was my truest lie."

On the day of the trial, the capital was shrouded in fog all day.

It was denser and quieter than ever before. Even the messenger birds of the church bell tower dared not fly out of their cages, but timidly huddled under the ceremonial cloth, pecking at the gray powder.

However, the church courts continued to hold trials on time.

When Allison opened her eyes, chains were already wrapped around her wrists and ankles.

It's not an ordinary shackle, but a "Presiding Judge's Restraint Ring"—a resistance suppression device derived from World-type cards.
It is said that for every action of resistance the wearer takes, they will be fed back a memory that they least want to face.

She did not struggle. She simply watched coldly as the trial team, consisting of twelve church officers and two high-ranking judges, marched on.

They stood on a high platform engraved with life patterns, silent, their faces hidden behind ivory-colored metal masks.

Standing in the very center is a “sacred judge” whose robes trail on the ground and who holds a stone for judgment.

She was a female nun who no longer appeared young; her voice was cold and unchanging, like a wound-up announcing clock.
"Defendant Allison—former Acting Commander of the Imperial Navy's 13th Fleet, Registered Life Mark Officer, Nine-Star Recorded Rationality Star Chart, holder of the high-ranking World-type card 'Blood Saint George's Death Banner'—is brought to trial on the following charges..."

She didn't listen any further.

"Betrayal of orders", "Disruption of military discipline", "Unauthorized and secretive actions", "Incitement of civilians", "Attacks on church monks", "Participation in the spread of illegal doctrines of the Mirror School"...

The series of accusations fell like raindrops on stone steps, their sound landing silently, yet stirring up a sea of ​​public opinion.

The area outside the courthouse was already packed with people.

They were not organized masses, but rather people who came spontaneously from the lower classes of the capital, municipal staff, military families, veterans' groups, street newspaper vendors, and even those with the "potential star disaster risk" in their destiny markings.

They didn't make a sound.

He just stood there, without saying a word.

Some people were holding newspapers. Not the church mouthpiece, the Morning News, but the thin tabloid, the Morning Star, which had been anonymously placed the day before at the peephole and sewer entrances.

Below Alison's portrait on the front page was an unsigned handwritten note:

"She is the fire of the rose sea, and the light in the mist."

She may have refused royal orders, but she never refused to lend a helping hand to us.

If she is silenced today, we should live with our eyes closed tomorrow.

No one shouted slogans, no one raised their fists or yelled.

Because they knew that would only lead to them being treated as "suspected rioters."

They simply stood there quietly, their silence creating an even more dangerous scene.

—Public opinion is not a riot, but rather a "refusal to cooperate with the performance".

When Allison stood on the dock, all six main communication channels in the capital had been blocked by the church and parliament.

The broadcasting system only played hymns of "Divine Judgment," and the printing presses only allowed the publication of reports reviewed by the "Herald Order."
The Public Opinion Department's issuing authority classified all keywords related to "Alison" as Level 2 sensitive.

They thought that this would allow them to stage a “legitimate trial.”

They are wrong.

Just as the trial proceedings were nearing their end and the judge was raising the "decree of execution" to pronounce the death sentence, an urgent military and political envelope arrived.

It was a ruling bearing the royal seal:

"The Royal Family confirms that the current social environment is at a critical juncture, and any immediate execution could trigger a chain of instability."

"To maintain imperial order, the royal family announced that the suspended sentence was in effect and Alison would be transferred to the Thirteen Quiet Islands for independent detention."

The entire courtroom was eerily quiet.

"Are you scared?" Allison asked softly.

She did not specify who she was referring to.

It could be asking the judge, the group of cold-faced divine messengers, or even the royal family itself hiding behind the scenes, cutting off the execution rhythm.

But no one answered her.

Then she chuckled to herself and muttered:
"I am prepared to die."

"But... my fellow crew members of the Lost One, for the next gathering... I can't keep my promise."

When she was taken off the platform again and put on the specially made locking helmet, she felt her life chart tremble slightly.

It was a long-lost sense of "fate's shock"—someone was secretly manipulating her trajectory.

She doesn't hate.

And I'm not grateful.

Because she knew—this wasn't salvation, but a rewriting.

She wasn't afraid of dying, but she hated having others decide "how she should die."

So she closed her eyes and once again entered the mysterious realm connected to the World-type card [Mirror Void Sea].

"I'm not ready to die."

"Because I haven't finished acting out this charade yet."

Three very soft knocks sounded outside the cell door, unhurried and rhythmic like the solemn sound of a military drum before the start of a battle.

"Your Excellency Allison,"

The prison guard's voice was like a tightly wound gear: "You have a visitor from royalty."

no answer.

Only the air was slowly swirling. It was a subtle sign that the "mirror world" had not yet closed.

All sounds are like echoes falling into water—slowed down, refracted, and repeated.

The prison guard stood there, looking somewhat uneasy.

"Your Excellency, it is... His Highness the Second Prince."

He lowered his voice, as if those words were props that had fallen from the center of the theater, untouchable, and too harsh to speak.

The door finally opened.

One step at a time.

Edel Trean, the second son of the Emperor, the military commander of the capital, and the governor of the security forces, slowly walked into the mirrored world of the prison cell.

He was wearing a standard dark blue military uniform, with the buttons tightly fastened and not a speck of dust on the hem of his cape.

His sword was neither unsheathed nor grasped.

His expression was stern, but not arrogant.

He left two reflections in the mirror, one firm, the other blurry.

Allison remained seated on the edge of the bed, neither getting up nor moving away, simply watching him quietly.

The two were separated by a table, like old friends having tea, or like enemy troops having a pre-battle meeting.

"Long time no see," Edel said, his tone flat. "You look... alright."

Allison smiled slightly, her tone as light as the wind:

"It's much better than that military exercise where you were seasick and the deck was covered in vomit."

The sternness etched into Edel's face by military steel finally cracked.

He nodded slightly, stood still, and did not sit down.

"That exercise made me realize for the first time that people who don't follow the script are the most difficult variables to control."

Allison glanced at him sideways and gave a soft snort:
"But you're part of the script now. What have you come here to say?"

Edel didn't beat around the bush.

"Confess. Return to the team. I'll protect you."

He spoke very softly, but with great precision.

"I can arrange for you to return to the Navy. Under the title of 'Special Military Strategic Advisor,' you will no longer be subject to the jurisdiction of the Tribunal, will regain the right to carry cards, and will have your command authority restored."

You no longer need to be embroiled in public opinion, face the execution platform, or cause your subordinates daily anxiety.

He paused, his gaze finally meeting hers:

"Under my protection, no one can touch you anymore."

The cell was quiet for a moment.

One by one, the reflections in the mirror stood up and looked at Edel. There was no respect in Alison's eyes, only observation.

She remained seated, head bowed, stroking the life lines on the back of her hand.

“If you had said these things to me before I dreamt of a dream, I might have really hesitated.”

She raised her head, her gaze sharp yet clear:
"But I'm different now."

"In my dreams, I've seen beings higher than royalty, and worlds far larger than the navy. And some others—"

She paused, then gave a genuine smile:
"My friends. They deserve to die standing, not live on their knees."

"I'm sorry, Edel."

"Your suggestion isn't bad. It's just that I'm not willing to rewrite my reason for living just to 'survive' right now."

Edel did not move.

He looked at her, as if trying to confirm whether what she said was an "emotional rejection" or a strategic test.

Finally, he withdrew his gaze and let out a slow sigh.

"I do not represent the royal family; I simply want to protect the empire from collapse."

"But I respect you."

He placed a dark red metal seal on the corner of the table—his personal seal, which also represented his willingness to bear the military consequences of a certain decision.

"This is the only way out I can offer. If you ever change your mind, you can use this to see me again."

Allison didn't reach out; she just smiled.

"If I leave, I will not rely on it."

When Edel turned around, his reflection in the mirror remained motionless.

He glanced at his "mirror self" lingering in the mirror—a "rational conservative" who had yet to utter a word of farewell.

He nodded slightly, as if saying goodbye to that version of himself:
"The throne is not important, the kingdom is."

"But you have all forgotten."

The illusory sea in the mirror slowly receded, the card effects were removed, and reality once again took over the logic of the space.

Allison sat quietly in place, raised her hand and pointed to the seal on the table, then to the door.

"If you really want me to leave, then don't bring the key in."

"Otherwise, I would think that you're just here to go through the motions of a tragic drama."

Edel didn't look back. The moment he stepped out of the cell, the cold iron door slammed shut.

The sound still echoed in the mirror.

At that moment, the prison guard standing outside the door silently swallowed. For the first time, he realized that even the most silent prince in the capital would stop for someone.

"I have seen countless versions of myself in the mirror."

Some are alive, some are dead, and some are still fighting.

But none of them were like me—

Choose to move forward in the name of truth.

—Alison Mirror Vow
(End of this chapter)