Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 304 The Pact of Broken Tower Street

"They asked me who I was, so I put on a mask."

But when they saw the mask, they said that was me.

—Excerpt from "Black Tower Drama Review: Foggy City"

Broken Tower Street is the street that the capital city is least willing to acknowledge as existing.

It is forever excluded from official maps, yet it handles more than 70% of underground transactions and the circulation of illegal secret cards; its building number was completely cancelled by the council ten years ago, but as night falls, hundreds of gas lamps are still lit one after another, their light blurry yet real.

There are no municipal guards patrolling here.

However, no real riots ever occurred.

Because Pota Street has its own "rules".

—A black market script that is never recorded and never spoken of.

Tonight, a new character will be introduced to this script.

At the ninth corner, there was a long-abandoned clock shop.

The mottled shop sign swayed slightly in the wind, and a charred gear bird doll lay on the front steps, its head stuck upside down in a crack in the stone, as if beheaded by time itself.

Two unexpected guests stopped in front of the door.

Si Ming wore a long robe of deep purple and ink black, over which was a dark-patterned cloak in the style of a classic vampire noble, and a silver badge of the Eternal Night Rose around her neck. The cloak fluttered slightly, casting an image that, under the lamplight at the doorway, resembled finely intricate scripture floating in the air.

His lips curled slightly, his eyes were calm, yet he exuded an unapproachable composure—as if he never needed to prove anything, and the world would naturally cooperate with his writing.

The woman beside him was more like a harbinger of disaster itself.

Selene wore a black and red dress with a hem that looked like it was stained with blood. A silver whip sheath was tied around her waist, and her cape looked like wings fluttering in the wind. Standing on the street corner, she seemed to devour all the light around her.

She stood still, yet a "blind spot" appeared around her, making people instinctively unwilling to look at her.

The door remained closed, and no one answered.

But the old wooden door creaked open on its own.

This is a privilege for vampire visitors—a kind of "gateway" derived from the blood pact.

Inside the watch shop, the air was filled with the astringent smell of rust mixed with aged brandy.

This is one of the secret intelligence outposts under the "Xuntu Shou" organization. It is controlled by an underground document network and is specifically responsible for the circulation and printing of information on the black market.

They were known as "rats" in the underground of the foggy city—controlling more than 60% of the newsboy and leaflet distribution channels, and even secretly printing anti-establishment texts such as "The Ten Commandments in the Fog," which were once banned in the capital.

This is why the Morning Star has been unable to break through the barriers to communication at the grassroots level.

Because it has no "rat paths".

Without connections on the streets, no one dared to deliver paper to the streets for them.

The God of Fate has come today to break this deadlock.

Under the dim light, a man wearing a leather jacket leaned against the counter.

His face was wrapped in smoky gray bandages, and there were still traces of blood at the corners of his mouth. One eye wore an old lens, while the other exposed a reddish prosthetic eye that shone eerily.

His name was Benham, and he was a local bigwig on Pota Street for the "Xuntu Hand".

He didn't get up, nor did he offer any pleasantries; his tone was filled with undisguised wariness and impatience.
"You claim to represent the Eternal Night Blood Alliance... then I'll assume you're not here to kill."

Si Ming nodded and smiled:
"It wasn't murder."

"It's about business."

The air seemed to pause for a moment.

“Then please speak.” Benham leaned against the counter, his eyes scrutinizing Siming inch by inch. “What do you want?”

"Your Newsboy Network".

The room fell into a deathly silence.

Benham's prosthetic eye trembled slightly.

"You want us to deliver the Morning Star to you?"

"Yes."

"Do you know what you're talking about?"

"I know."

Benham remained expressionless, but his cigarette ash was pressed even deeper.

He forcefully stubbed out his cigarette on the corner of the table, the sound icy.

"The Morning Star is a name that has died once."

"Seven years ago, it published a story of a misjudgment that led to the deaths of thirty-seven innocent people."

"It should have died in history long ago."

"Now you're telling me you're going to put this piece of paper back into the hands of every street child?"

Si Ming remained unmoved, his tone gentle yet firm:

"Yes."

"And you will help me."

Benham gave a cold laugh.

That smile carried the full fury of the old street, an undisguised resistance:

"We don't deliver paper."

"We send orders, rules, and fear."

"We don't deliver lies."

Si Ming nodded, as if he had expected this rejection.

"I understand."

He paused.

"Not even money?"

“We don’t live for money,” Benham scoffed. “We live to avoid dying.”

"Even the oppressive power of the vampires can't subdue you?"

"Bloodlines?"

He looked up, his gaze mocking.

"You 'nobles' who don't even dare to report your family tree to the council, what 'nobility' are you talking about?"

The air suddenly became tense.

With a flick of her finger, the metal claws that were barely visible beneath her cloak gently popped out.

She whispered:

"Owner?"

Si Ming raised his hand, signaling her to suppress her murderous intent.

He glanced down at his cuff, where a deep red playing card badge was pinned.

He flicked his finger, and a card slid out slowly, cutting through the air with a "whoosh" sound almost like velvet being cut.

It was a playing card with a black and gold border.

In the center is a "Jack of Hearts" with blurred features and a mocking smile.

It spun twice in the air and landed on the table in front of Benham, like an unknown script that had been thrown out.

Benham doesn't know cards.

But he knew it wasn't a playing card.

It's fate.

"Are you threatening me?"

Si Ming softly uttered a sentence:

Do you know what 'interrogation blueprints' are?

Benham froze.

He was about to speak when Si Ming lowered his voice by one notch:
"Tomorrow morning, in the Royal Capital Church District, a file will be 'accidentally leaked' concerning the secret expansion of the Inquisition and the use of its basement for black market child slavery."

"You can take a gamble and see if that's the first headline you receive tomorrow morning."

He looked at Benham, his gaze calm, yet his words were like knives.

"Because I am ready."

Benham's Adam's apple bobbed slightly.

He suddenly realized that the nonchalant, flippant man standing in front of him, who looked like a temporary actor backstage at a theater... was not an editor.

He is a screenwriter.

Moreover, it's the kind of script that, once opened, will drive the entire city mad.

But before he could say "no" or "compromise," the air suddenly turned cold.

A faint, almost inaudible whisper seeped slowly from the cracks in the floor, like a voice climbing out of an old well.

"...Heretical...has been revealed..."

"Target identification in progress... vampire, unregistered arcane master... individual with abnormal life pattern..."

"The purge agreement has been launched—"

next second.

Eight figures emerged from the shadows like blades.

They appeared from under the counter of the watch shop, in the storage room, behind the cracked wall, and in the ceiling mezzanine, instantly sealing off the entire room.

They were completely shrouded in black judgment robes, without numbers or emblems, with only a faint red flame pattern on their chests—a simplified identification of the "Flame of Judgment."

They gripped sickle-shaped, gray-silver blades, their edges blunt yet capable of cutting.

Their breathing was silent, their steps precise.

They are not XunTu's "rats".

They belong to the church.

They belong to that clandestine adjudication team that never appears in court, leaves no written judgments, and is not publicly recognized:

—“Shadow Arbiter”.

Si Ming watched as the group emerged from the darkness and sighed softly.

"It seems you knew we were coming all along."

As he spoke, he flicked his finger, and the "Jack of Hearts" playing card spun between his fingers.

The second card appeared quietly; the Queen of Spades fell into his palm, its edges shimmering with faint purple veins.

Selene narrowed her eyes, a smile curving her lips, and gently rotated her wrist.

The joints made a soft "click-clack" sound, like a dormant weapon awakening.

"You discuss business, they handle cases."

"You kill six, I bet two."

Si Ming chuckled:
"What are you gambling?"

Selene paused slightly, her voice low and cold:

"Betting on who will regret it first—they came too early."

The adjudicator made a move.

The ice blade pierced the air, heading straight for Siming's brow.

The movements were clean and swift, the angle as straight down as a divine hand.

"Queen of Spades, illusion."

The God of Fate whispered.

As soon as he finished speaking, he tossed the playing cards in his hand lightly.

That moment.

Space seemed to fracture.

The ice blade froze in mid-air, as if it had cut into a dimension that did not belong to reality.

The arbiter's pupils trembled violently, and a series of chaotic images flashed before his eyes.

He saw himself standing in front of the bell tower of the church, kneeling on one knee, receiving divine instructions.

He saw himself raising the blade of judgment, pointing it at a young licensee.

He saw the child kneeling on the ground, his voice trembling:
"I just want to know... what a door is."

He heard himself answer:
You shouldn't have asked.

Then he saw—the child's face, it was his face.

The next second, the ice blade flew out of his hand.

It deflected and pierced the floor tile.

The adjudicator collapsed to the ground, clutching his head, vomiting, convulsing, and rolling around, as if a million memories were simultaneously flooding his central nervous system, shattering his sea of ​​consciousness.

Si Ming smiled and tilted his head:
"I never gamble on the future."

"I only write about the past."

at the same time.

Selene moved.

She appeared like a black and red phantom, taking a step forward that shattered her shape with the wind and caused the lamplight to flicker.

With fingers spread wide, claws like whips swept across the gaps between the adjudicators, his movements as swift as a shadow, the claw shadows burning red like a lunar eclipse.

The first judge was cut in half before he could even turn around.

The second man swung his blade to defend, but struck the illusion instead. The next second, his throat was crushed by a backhand.

The third man was about to draw his sword, but before he could even grip the hilt, his finger bones were broken.

"A story that's too weak."

Selene licked her fingertip; the blood was still wet.

"You have no right to drag this out."

Only five breaths.

Of the eight judges, six have fallen.

The remaining two stood frozen in place, as if their computer had short-circuited.

They were not defeated.

Yes—it doesn't belong to this script.

Their fates were quietly severed by some unseen hand.

Their figures began to fade, peel away, and disappear.

It's as if they never existed in this world.

No one remembers who they were, and no one knows why they came.

They are not losers.

These are the "scrap pages" of the script.

The narrator crossed out, revised, or completely erased.

Only at this moment did Si Ming slowly walk towards Benam, who was still sitting in the same spot, his face as pale as paper.

His eyes were still unfocused, and his chest heaved violently, like a patient who had just woken up from a nightmare and had not yet been able to distinguish the boundary between reality and illusion.

Si Ming crouched down, his tone so gentle it was almost tender:
"Don't be afraid."

“I’m not here to kill you. I’m here to help you remember some things you thought you had long forgotten.”

As he spoke, he raised one hand, his fingertips twitching slightly in the air, as if confirming the coordinates of a certain trajectory of fate.

Then, he gently touched the center of Benham's forehead.

Lord of Destiny, the Thousand-Faced One—

Entry: 【Fate Weaves】, activated.

Si Ming's voice was deep yet clear, as if he were using a pen to draw ink page by page in his brain.

Have you ever seen fire?

"You say you don't remember, that's because they erased your memory."

"Your wife didn't die of illness."

"She was burned alive by the church in the name of 'heresy'."

Are you still willing to help them deliver newspapers?

Benham's body trembled.

It's not because of the injury.

It wasn't fear either.

It was because a memory he had never had before had suddenly appeared in his mind.

Do not--

It's not extra.

It's a page that's been "turned back".

The memory was terrifyingly clear.

It was so clear that he began to wonder whether he had been living in reality all these years, or in a script written by someone else.

He saw a door.

The door was on fire.

At the end of Broken Tower Street lies Crow Bone Alley.

He saw himself locked in his house that night, while his wife—the woman whose name he had forgotten but whose touch he still remembered—knelt before the clergy, tears still wet on her face, her voice hoarse.
"He was only seven years old, he just drew a few lines on paper, please... he's just a child."

The clergy did not answer.

He simply raised the ivory fire poker and slowly pierced it into her back.

That night, three houses in Yagu Lane were burned down.

That night, he stood behind the door, trying to push it open with his bare hands, but he couldn't budge it.

That night, everyone told him:
"You have no family members on the list of those to be burned."

So he forgot.

Or rather, his memory was rewritten by someone else.

"I... I remember."

Benham's voice was hoarse, almost like a dream, with bulging veins on his forehead and trembling lips.

"Crow Bone Alley...they say it was an illegal printing shop that caught fire..."

"But that paper, it's yours..."

He looked up into Si Ming's eyes, as if he had finally seen the playwright backstage at the theater, but he didn't know whether he should be angry or grateful.

"What exactly...did you do to me?"

Si Ming leaned down, his gaze gentle, but his tone was like a blade lightly touching a wound:
"I did not do anything."

"I've simply turned back a page that was torn from your memory."

"Believe it or not, your skin remembers the fire of that night."

“Your spinal cord remembers.”

“You remember that you’ve avoided ‘Flame Wine’ all these years.”

Benham's eyes widened, and his body suddenly convulsed.

He didn't speak, but his hands slowly tightened, his knuckles turning white, as if he were reconfirming whether he could still hold on tightly—the hands he used to write.

"I came to you not to hire you."

Si Ming spoke softly, his voice low and deep, like a priest breaking a seal in a confessional.

"I don't need you to deliver the newspaper for me."

"I want you to decide for yourself—whether you want to share your story with everyone in this foggy city."

"You don't need to work for me."

"All you need to do is show them that your past may be their future."

At this moment, Selene was leaning against the broken shop window, her fingernails slowly tracing the lining of her cloak, her gaze sweeping over Benham.

She doesn't fully understand the complexities of human emotions.

But she knew.

The man's eyes have changed.

What began as resistance, doubt, and wariness transformed into "burning passion."

That's not anger.

It's not loyalty either.

That's fire.

A fire called "Awakening".

a long time.

Benham took a deep breath, as if he had just escaped from the edge of a nightmare, his knuckles still trembling involuntarily. He slowly stood up from the chair, staggered slightly, but steadied himself.

He walked to the corner of the room and pulled open a rusty red wooden box.

It was a tool bag that had been gathering dust for a long time, its outer shell engraved with rat-print marks worn away by time.

He lifted the lid, dust flew up, revealing neatly arranged old-fashioned leaflet distribution equipment inside the box:

A short knife, an ink bottle, a faded map of the underground streets, a fine gray ink pen, and a small brass bell the size of a palm—that was the call device for the "rat net".

Benham took a deep breath, wiped the rust off the bell with his fingertips, and then slowly raised his hand and gave it a gentle shake.

The bell wasn't very loud.

But that crisp sound was like a signal wave, reverberating through the air of the black market.

In the nameless alley of Broken Tower Street, under the lingering shadow of the clock tower, in the thirty-seven erased addresses—child laborers, errand runners, tobacco vendors, blind newspaper boys, beggars sleeping by the steam well… all raised their heads and looked in the direction of the clock shop.

No password.

There was no call to action.

But they knew that something was awakening from its silence.

Benham turned around, his eyes still low and hoarse, but no longer empty.

"The paper you're going to submit—Morning Star's."

"My men are ready to obey orders at any time."

Si Ming smiled gently, his eyes gleaming slightly in the lamplight, as if fate were turning the pages of a book in his pupils.

"Great."

He stepped forward slowly, stood at the shop entrance, and gazed at the gradually gathering smoke and streetlights in the city night. His tone was calm yet firm:

"The first thing we need to do is to make this city start to doubt everything it knows."

Outside the clock shop, a sudden gust of wind arose.

Night fog swirls into the cracked window, brushes across the broken floor and the cleaved corpse of the Arbiter, and grazes the hands of the old clock, as if to bid farewell to a play that no audience has ever seen.

Newspaper scraps fluttered in the wind, a corner bearing a headline that hadn't yet burned completely:
"The Silent Ones Under the Old Laws: Are You Willing to Close Your Eyes and Accept Your Fate?"

Selene stepped over the still-warm remains of an Arbiter, her skirt trailing on the ground, each step leaving delicate bloodstains on the tiles, yet not a single drop splashed onto her gleaming leather boots.

She walked behind Si Ming, raised her hand and gently brushed aside a strand of blood-red hair that had fallen onto her shoulder, her tone languid:
"You're being too restrained today. I'd almost forgotten how troublesome you used to be."

Siming's gaze remained fixed on the distance, his tone indifferent:

"It's not about restraint."

"It depends on the occasion."

He paused for a moment, then turned to look at the Arbiter's cloak, which was still not completely extinguished, as if he could see the last embers of the old order struggling in the ashes.

"Killing is a resource."

"And tonight—I used 'hatred' to obtain fuel of greater value."

Selene licked her lips, her eyes brightening slightly, and she let out a mocking laugh:

"You just love to act."

Si Ming glanced at her, his smile becoming even more genuine:
"Didn't you act very well too?"

"Vampire Countess, Dark Noblewoman, Princess of the Eternal Night Blood Alliance..."

His tone was tinged with helplessness, and he sighed as if reciting lines from a script:
"Look at the way they look at you, as if they're watching a myth."

Selene rolled her eyes, tossed a broken Arbiter's finger bone into the brazier, and a cloud of bloody smoke rose instantly. She flicked her fingertip, cupped the red mist in her palm, and coldly replied:
"Myths are more easily believed by people than by nobles."

Si Ming walked to the dusty wooden table, slowly brushed away the surface dust, revealing a line of blurred carvings beneath the wood.

He bent down and ran his fingertips over the words.

"The story begins here."

He turned to look at Benham, his eyes calm.

We have three days.

"Within these three days, I need your people to deliver the first issue of the revived Morning Star Times to all fifty-two districts of the capital."

"I will give you five articles, and you can choose three to submit."

His voice was low, as if he were stating a fact rather than offering advice.

"But remember—none of the articles you choose will be 'facts'."

Benham frowned, a hint of wariness flashing in his eyes:
"Then what are they?"

Si Ming smiled slightly, the corners of his mouth curving upwards, his tone as sharp as a blade slicing through paper:
"They are—scenes from a script that are more moving than the facts."

“They are real possibilities, the fears of the people, and those words that are hidden on the back of the tongue but dare not be spoken, yet echo repeatedly in dreams.”

"We will no longer report the 'truth'."

"We started making a 'version'."

Selene leaned against the door, a dark light flashing in her eyes.

"This city hasn't doubted itself for far too long."

Si Ming nodded and said calmly:
"it's time."

He slowly turned around, his gaze sweeping across the entire clock shop—the crumbling walls, the corpses, the gradually dimming firelight, the fading ringing of bells, and the judgment robe that was still slowly burning away by the brazier.

He spoke softly, as if reciting an opening address in a low voice:

"This is a theater."

“We are the writers, actors, lights, and echoes.”

"We are not here to tell the truth."

"We want them to start—doubting everything they hear."

The bell tolled thirteen times in the night fog.

Unbeknownst to the capital, a new play had already quietly begun rehearsals.

They thought newspapers were a mirror, but they forgot—

A mirror can shatter, and its shards can also slit a throat.

——Morning Star Times - Relaunch Trial Print Edition - Internal Announcement
(End of this chapter)