Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 303 The Pen in the Mirror
"Mirrors never speak; they only wait for you to look into them."

And only when you finally speak do it decide—who you are.

—Lia's Collected Works, Volume Four, "The Reverse Sea"

The royal palace is always clean.

No matter how murky the air was in the foggy city, or how pungent the industrial steam and church incense mingled, the very heart of the royal capital, Alleston, maintained an almost unreal purity.

It's as if the chaos of the mortal world is forever confined to the outer wall.

Time, corruption, emotions, and even the mundane are not allowed to infiltrate here.

Only imperial power can quietly ferment within it, like a vintage wine stored in a crystal bottle sealed in gold, warm yet deadly.

The vaulted atrium is inlaid with star-patterned reliefs, crystal gauze windows hang on both sides, long carpets woven with gold thread are spotless, and ribbons with life patterns hang silently on every inch of the walls.

All of this seems to have never aged.

It's as if it never belonged to the "present".

Lyseria Trean's palace is located in a corner of this "permanent theater".

But it has no gilded armrests, no champagne dinners, and no throngs of maids with melodious footsteps.

Along both sides of her corridor are rows of silent windmills that use the energy of the peepholes to drive ventilation.

On the wall hung not portraits of ancestors, nor lists of merits, but paintings by children she had collected from orphanages across the country.

The paint was applied crookedly, yet it was exceptionally vibrant.

"Your Highness."

The door was gently pushed open, and Marlene walked in.

She was slender with light brown hair and a few freckles on her nose.

Her attire was simple, quite unlike that of the other princess's maids—she wore no family crest, no perfume, and no oriental satin skirts.

Liseria once said to her:

“I myself am tired of that ‘identity’ and I will not impose it on you.”

The room was pleasantly warm, and sunlight streamed in through the sheer curtains, dappling the floor tiles like the afterglow of fallen leaves.

Liseria was sitting at her desk, writing something stroke by stroke.

Her writing movements were so precise they were almost ritualistic. The quill pen swayed slightly, and her wrist remained steady, as if she were giving a demonstration of writing divine laws in a classroom of the School of Mirrors.

"Are you using a quill pen again?" Marlene asked softly.

Liseria looked up and smiled gently:
"Writing is a ritual."

"Sometimes rituals can't change anything, but they can comfort the person writing."

Her voice was gentle, like the first rays of a spring morning.

But Marlene knew—that gentleness was Liseria's usual "courtly tone".

Not enthusiastic, not indifferent.

There's always a veil between us.

“Today is submission day, right?” Liseria folded the manuscript paper and put it into a thin wooden box. “Take it to the Morning Star Times for me.”

"Still that tabloid?" Marlene frowned. "You could easily have a column in the 'Gateway Monthly,' they would even dedicate a whole page to you."

Liseria simply smiled faintly and offered no explanation.

She did not tell Marlene that she had anonymously submitted a commentary to the Royal Academy of Sciences questioning whether the "matchmaking rate behind the door" was limited to bloodline heirs.

Three days later, the editorial team of that academy was "temporarily taken over" by the church.

She would not mention that she had written a rather satirical short review of the "Order of Our Lady of Procreation" under her real name.

The next day, her palace was covered with "unsent roses".

She understood what that meant.

That was the unspoken message among the powerful—Please, Princess, have some self-respect.

So she chose to remain silent.

In addition to the name "Liselia," she uses the pen name "Lia" to write poetry, reviews, observations, and those "truths" that she does not want others to have to monopolize.

"What's the title of today's piece?" Marlene asked, holding the letter box.

Liseria paused for a moment before answering:

"The Sea on the Mirror".

“What a poetic name,” Marlene nodded.

“A knife is hidden in the poetry,” Liseria said softly.

"If there are waves on the mirror, then the water is no longer water, but... a signal that stings reality."

She handed the box to Marlene, her fingertips lingering slightly, as if using that fleeting touch to seal the words on the paper.

"Marlene, thank you for your help."

"At your service." Marlene bowed and left the room.

The smile on Liseria's face vanished the moment the door closed.

She slowly stood up and walked to the balcony.

The morning light shone on her face, falling on her perfectly sculpted lips and soft eyeshadow, like a spotlight shining on the face of a main character in a theater.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and then slowly exhaled.

His chest trembled slightly, like a magic engine that had been running under heavy load was releasing pressure.

Her fingertips trembled slightly, then slowly closed.

She whispered to herself:
"Hang in there a little longer."

"We cannot fall."

"Otherwise they would say, 'Indeed, women are not suited to talk about power.'"

These words, like needles, pierced the wind, gently concealed by the sunlight, yet not carried away.

The scenery is beautiful, the air is clear, and birds are singing.

But standing among them, she felt a deep sense of loneliness.

Because she knew every word, every action, and even every comment within that palace—

Her qualifications will be used to judge whether she is "qualified".

She stood in front of the mirror.

The mirror reflected a princess with long platinum hair, her dress simple yet sophisticated, her lip color just right, and her expression gentle and composed.

perfect.

But it wasn't her.

She knew that it was just a "figure in the mirror" that she had carved herself.

The real her is hidden in that line of poetry that was never allowed to be published:

If you see me in the mirror
Please don't be surprised that I'm not your princess.

I am simply—a poet outside the script.

The spring breeze in the capital always carries a hint of inexplicable mist.

That's not water vapor.

That was a colorless and formless "observation".

A kind of visual illusion that you'll immediately notice the moment you step out of the palace walls—as if the entire foggy city, from streetlights to pigeons, from bells to eaves, is silently watching you.

Marlene wasn't afraid of those looks.

She was born on Wangdu Workers' Street, in a family that ran a paper mill, producing the cheapest newsprint. Paper was their family's faith, the language of the silent. And she, from a young age, was the "messenger" of paper.

Even now, dressed in the uniform of a royal maid, walking in the morning light on Parliament Street, with a princess's manuscript tucked in her arms, she clearly remembers—the old papermaker on the street corner, holding her hand on his deathbed, saying:
"Paper is for those who dare not speak—to write down their thoughts."

Today, she's here to deliver a message that's "not allowed to be spoken."

She bypassed the main street and turned into the old district of Mirror Lane.

The Morning Star Times is located at the intersection of the alley and the reflection, in a small, old gray building. The "Paper Bone" sign that used to hang on the door has long since corroded and fallen off, and now only an iron plate hangs there, mottled with rust, and you can still vaguely make out the corners of the two letters "Morning Star".

Marlene stopped and knocked on the door three times, in the exact same rhythm as last time.

There was a moment of silence in the room before the sound of the door latch being pulled out could be heard.

The door opened.

But it wasn't her familiar old editor, Hutton.

Standing at the door was a young man, tall and thin, with slightly disheveled hair, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his mouth, and a vacant look in his eyes, as if he had just emerged from a deep dream.

He was wearing a slightly worn dark woolen trench coat, and the white shirt underneath was buttoned up incorrectly—he looked...nothing like an editor.

"Who are you looking for?" He had a cigarette in his mouth, casually took the wooden box from Marlene's hand, and glanced at it only briefly. "A submission?"

Marlene frowned subconsciously:
"Excuse me... where is Mr. Hutton?"

"I just sold this place yesterday." He shook the wooden box in his hand, his tone light. "I took over. You've come at the perfect time."

Marlene furrowed her brow and hesitated for a moment:
"you are……?"

"The new editor-in-chief." The young man grinned, smoke billowing from the corner of his mouth, with a touch of nonchalance. "In name only. You can call me—Si Ming."

Marlene was stunned and speechless for a moment.

She had heard of that name before. But in her understanding, it was more like a battlefield code name, a legendary cryptid, than a reporter sitting behind a small newspaper editor's desk, buttoning his coat incorrectly.

“This manuscript is… a submission made according to standard procedure.” She tried to maintain a polite tone. “As for whether it will be published, I would like to ask your opinion—”

“If you want me to review the manuscript myself,” Si Ming continued, biting his cigarette holder, his tone casual. “Then I’ll have to see—whether it’s good enough.”

A flash of displeasure crossed Marlene's eyes.

Mr. Hutton would personally read every manuscript he received from "Miss Leah" and reply with neat handwriting. He once called it "the most lucid romance in the foggy city."

Now, the new editor-in-chief, with his booming voice, acts as if he were the official censor of the entire palace.

She didn't say anything more, but simply gave a brief, low bow:
"Once the review is complete, any decisions will be posted on the notice board at the entrance."

"name?"

She paused for a moment:
"Contributor signed 'Liya'."

"An interesting name," Si Ming replied thoughtfully. "Thank you, Little Freckles."

Marlene raised an eyebrow, almost blurting out "Please watch your words," but swallowed it back in the end.

—She had seen too many people like that.

He's nonchalant, speaks frivolously, and seems unreliable, but he might actually be the one who ultimately wrote that line of text.

But she had no interest in verifying the proof at the moment.

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye, female messenger." Si Ming waved to her as if delivering a love letter as he walked out the door.

After Marlene left, the door slowly closed.

The room fell silent for a moment.

Si Ming stubbed out his cigarette, leaned against the door frame, and looked down at the wooden box in his hand.

"Liya."

He repeated the name in a low voice, as if conversing with some old memory.

He opened the wooden box and took out the manuscript.

The Sea on the Mirror.

The title is elegant, restrained yet sharp, like words pierced through the clouds with a silver needle.

The text opens with a stream-of-consciousness passage, telling the story of a person who sees his own reflection on the sea surface, tries to talk to it, and finally realizes that the reflection is not "himself", but another "other" imprisoned in the seabed of the mirror.

The writing is as precise as a blade gliding across glass; the imagery is complex yet coherent; the sentence structure is nested and inverted; it even possesses a rare "logical inversion" technique.

After reading the first five paragraphs, he could almost guess the ending.

But when he actually read the last sentence, he couldn't be sure:
Did he actually make a successful prediction, or was she intentionally leading him to believe that he had "guessed correctly"?

That sense of conception.

That sense of nesting.

He could only utter a sentence in a low voice:
"...That's fucking skilled."

He closed the manuscript and tapped the edge of the wooden box with his knuckles, as if confirming the author's outline.

This is not something an ordinary young literary youth could write.

He recalled some fragmented information.

This refers to a princess of the royal family who rarely appears in public but enjoys considerable prestige within the Gate Mirror School.

Platinum blonde hair, polite and restrained, calm gaze.

She was once considered a "harmless and ineffective" presence in parliament, but she uttered a statement that enraged the church and kept the nobles awake at night:

“If fate is a sea reflected in a mirror, then we should learn to swim.” He whispered the name.

"Liseria".

"You want to write screenplays too?"

"Then let's see—can your pen really write lines that are more truthful than lies?"

Marlene wasn't the kind of girl who would easily get angry at someone.

Having grown up in Wangdu Workers' Street, she had long since learned how to navigate the cracks, remain silent in crowds, and hide her emotions within the vast urban order.

But she knew she was not far from crossing that emotional boundary.

She walked quickly down the weathered steps of the Morning Star, the bricks beneath her feet trembling slightly from years of loosening, as if murmuring in her heart.

She couldn't help but turn around and glare at the old door, the corner of the door frame still bearing the scorch marks of smoke.

She muttered something under her breath:
"'Little Freckles'... what a bastard."

Of course she knew about the freckles on her face. She had been the target of ridicule from street kids since she was a child. She had heard names like "freckled ghost" and "mud-spotted face" far too often.

This title disappeared completely after she was taken in as a personal maid by Princess Liseria.

The people in the royal palace dared not call her name.

They knew who was standing behind her.

—Even today.

"What a jerk."

She repeated it through gritted teeth, lowering her voice but making her tone even more resentful.

She stood still and stomped her feet twice, as if trying to vent her anger.

Just then, the door to the Morning Star creaked open again.

"Hey?"

A voice came out.

Sima Ming.

He leaned forward, as if he had just heard something interesting.

"You said your name is Marlene, right? Isn't that right?"

Marlene instinctively turned her head and reflexively answered:
"I didn't say anything bad about you!"

"But I guess you did."

He smiled broadly, one hand resting on the doorframe, the other holding the manuscript aloft, his eyes slightly raised, like a cat that had just caught its prey.

"This article is good. The language is elegant, the rhetoric has a classical feel, and the content has a critical edge but knows how to restrain it."

"She looks just like a clever girl who has received a court education."

Marlene's expression darkened slightly:

"what do you want to say in the end?"

Siming's expression suddenly softened, he was no longer so nonchalant, and his tone became calmer:

What I wanted to say was—

“You’re not the kind of ordinary maid who would casually hand out manuscripts on the street.”

"You walk with an aristocratic pace, never turn around more than once, and never reveal details of your identity when you speak, yet you are willing to go through streets and alleys for an anonymous manuscript."

“There aren’t many people in this world who meet these criteria.”

He glanced down at the manuscript in his hand:

"And this article—reminds me of a 'leaked draft manuscript'."

“I have a few friends who work as editors at the Door Mirror School, and they… sometimes aren’t very discreet.”

Marlene's expression changed instantly.

Her fingers, which had been gripping the side of her skirt, tightened, and the color faded slightly.

"Are you threatening me?"

"Do not."

Si Ming gently exhaled a puff of smoke, twirling the cigarette between his fingers as if casually fiddling with some invisible thread:
"I'm just reminding you."

"Too many people in this city use information as a weapon."

"But I prefer to use information as a smokescreen—"

He tilted his head to look at her, revealing a half-serious, half-fake smile, his tone so light it was almost powerless, yet every word seemed to hook her ear:

"The real danger is not that I recognized who it was."

"It's not about whether I choose to speak out or not."

Marlene stared at him, her eyes fixed intently.

It's like searching for a tangible point of judgment through that frivolous smile.

She looked at it for three seconds.

No answer found.

So she turned around, her steps a little more brisk than when she came.

"Then don't say anything more."

Her tone was as cold as a pebble falling into a frozen river.

Si Ming shrugged and didn't pursue the matter further.

He watched her walk away, only muttering something under his breath:
"Little freckles, that's interesting."

Before night had fully fallen, a slowly rotating gray mist had already appeared in the sky above the capital.

It was neither the afterglow of the sunset nor the steam emitted daily from the mechanical fog towers. The fog was too slow and too heavy, carrying an indescribable "narrative sinking" feeling—as if the entire sky of the royal city was quietly drawing its curtain for a script that had not yet been performed.

Si Ming sat in the editor-in-chief's office of Morning Star Times, cigarette unlit, manuscript papers scattered around, his knuckles rhythmically tapping the table, causing the light to flicker slightly, as if the entire room's breathing was being guided by this rhythm.

The wooden box has been opened, and sheets of manuscript paper are laid out in the glow of the brass desk lamp.

His eyes didn't move, but his brain was already spinning rapidly like a thousand-faced mirror, his thoughts weaving through the gaps in the words like needles and thread.

This is no ordinary manuscript.

He lowered his head again and read carefully, paragraph by paragraph.

"The sea is like a mirror, without waves or wind, yet it constantly reflects the movements of people."

If you see a shadow in it that is similar to you but not the same as you, don't be surprised.

That's not another you—it's the one you never became.

The God of Fate flicked his finger, producing a crisp "snap" sound, as if striking an invisible line of destiny in the air, leaving a slight aftershock.

"Well written."

He whispered to himself.

Just then, a familiar, deep voice, as if seeping from the cracks of the soul, came close to my ear—

The whispers of the thousand-faced one.

It was unhurried and gentle, like a whisper, or like an unnamed echo from the depths of memory.

Do you know what you're looking at?

"You're not reading an article."

"You are peering into a thought process that is trying to lift the veil of fate."

“This writer named ‘Lia’ does more than just write words. She trains others—how to think.”

"The direction of thinking, the order of thinking, and even the speed of thinking."

"You need to be careful of this kind of person."

Si Ming closed the manuscript, pressed his knuckles against the cover, and remained silent for three seconds.

Then he whispered:

"I know."

"So I won't bring her into the game."

"I want her to—voluntarily join the game."

He got up and walked to the window.

Outside the window, on the south side of the capital, lights are gradually coming on.

The lights atop the tower resembled a constellation of stars, while smoke rose from chimneys in the streets and alleys, interspersed with the shouts of vendors and the tuning of musicians.

As he looked at all this, he suddenly felt that this city was like a card of fate that had just been turned over.

He had only just opened its cover.

"Lyseria Trean".

He whispered the name.

"Your pen is a knife; your poetry is a key."

"I hope you never know that the words you write are tearing down certain doors."

"Because that way—you can keep writing."

He sat back down at the table and put the manuscript paper away.

Just then, a soft sound came from the other side of the window, and a figure in red and black landed steadily.

Selene placed one foot on the window frame, while the other foot swung off her cloak, her skirt billowing like floating flames of blood.

She wrinkled her nose:

"You're messing around again."

"This place smells even worse than an old ship's hold."

Si Ming lit a cigarette, his mouth agape.

"Familiar flavors are the most authentic."

"And the unreal—is being rewritten by us little by little."

Selene jumped off the windowsill and leaned against the table with her arms crossed:
"What, you've finished writing your love letters?"

“It’s not a love letter,” Si Ming said with a smile. “It’s a little report that the princess wrote to the Misty City.”

She raised an eyebrow:
"you like her?"

"It's not that kind of liking."

His gaze fell on the title of the manuscript, and he said in a low voice:

"She is someone who knows how to conceal her sharpness. She knows which words should be written into a poem, and which words should be hidden behind the sound of footsteps."

"A person worth noting."

Selene clicked her tongue:
"You're becoming more and more like that thousand-faced monster."

"Thank you for the compliment."

She rolled her eyes, her tone half-serious and half-joking:
"Don't thank me, I just feel that the stench of 'wanting to be a director' emanating from you is getting stronger and stronger."

Si Ming shrugged:

"Failed con artists write their own scripts."

"A successful conman can get others to willingly take on the lines he has written."

Selene turned and climbed onto the windowsill. Just as she stepped one foot out, she turned back, her tone unhurried:
"Didn't you say you wanted to meet those rats in the black market?"

"I've already made arrangements for you. This evening, at the ninth corner of Pota Street."

Si Ming raised an eyebrow:

"What is the name used?"

Selene smiled slyly, her fangs barely concealed.

"In the Name of the Vampires".

“You told them to believe in fate, I said—I want them to believe in my bad temper.”

Si Ming smiled gently, folded the manuscript paper, stuffed it into his inner pocket, and put on his coat.

He walked toward her, as if walking behind the curtain of a new play.

"Good news keeps coming."

"Indeed, fate has been on our side."

He stepped out of the door.

"Let's go, Celian."

“We should go and meet those people who still think they can control the script.”

(End of this chapter)