Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 305 A Foggy Morning in the City, the First Sound of Paper Slipping

In the foggy city of Alleston, the real war is not a clash of swords.
Rather, it's when you're reading a tabloid next to your teacup...

Suddenly to your country,
A little too many... I have my doubts.

—Morning Star Times Resumption Day Special Issue

Before dawn, the fog had already lifted.

The streets of the capital city fell into an almost solemn silence, as if the entire city were still lying in a dream.

There was no wind on the street.

Yet it has the texture of wind.

The thick fog, like an old velvet curtain, slowly, inch by inch, settled between the stone bricks.

Enveloping the shops that haven't opened yet, the streetlights that haven't been turned off, and—every newsboy about to open up the world.

The front page of the Morning Star Times was neatly folded, pressed between a layer of oil paper and linen, and tied around the boy's waist.

He stood on the street corner with a bag of newspapers on his back, took a deep breath, and shouted:
"Morning Star! Today's Morning Star—the secrets of the Whale Tomb, the noble gift, the reappearance of the fallen—it's all written down!"

His voice was bright and high-pitched, but his tone carried an exaggerated and insecure forcefulness.

he knows.

Nobody believed this newspaper.

I also know this name; it was once called "dead man's paper," the kind of thing that would be burned by the church and looked down upon by nobles once it was printed.

But today is different.

Today we got a new boss. He's generous with the pay and even said that for every extra serving sold, he'll add an extra spoonful of soup for dinner.

So he shouted.

He was shouting as if he were calling his own name.

Unbeknownst to him, right across the street corner, two other newsboys were standing by a tea stall, being reprimanded by a street lecturer in a black robe.

"Don't sell that 'heretic paper'."

“They sell the Morning News, they sell the Daily Word! They have seals, they have the backing of laws! That is legitimate knowledge!”

A newsboy silently bowed his head and responded.

The other, however, took advantage of the other's inattention to secretly slip the Morning Star into his pocket.

He glanced at the headline of the clipping:
"Whale Tomb Victory Celebration? — Seventh Fleet's Missing Persons Record Suspected of Being Falsified"

He didn't fully understand it.

But he remembered that his cousin was a member of the Seventh Fleet.

—

Meanwhile, at the tea stall at the street corner, a middle-aged hat maker was idly soaking leftover biscuits in cold barley tea.

He watched as the child, shouting in the mist, slammed a newspaper onto his table.

He had intended to casually flip through the articles to pass the time, but his gaze fell upon the second article.

Who wrote this list? — Fragments of documents leaked from the Whale Tomb have been revealed for the first time.

The numbering mentioned in the article made his heart tighten.

He's not the kind of person who's easily swayed by conspiracy theories, and he doesn't like to talk too much.

But the last sentence—

"Were the soldiers trafficked?"

He tightened his grip, folded the newspaper, and quietly slipped it into his tool bag.

—

At the end of the corridor of the veterans' sanatorium in the old port of the city south.

An elderly man sat in a wheelchair, his hand resting on a blanket, staring blankly at the swirling mist outside the window.

He doesn't speak, and hasn't spoken for many years.

A young volunteer squatted down next to him, flipping through the newspaper he had just received, and read aloud softly:
"The child's dream points behind the door... Military families accuse the disappearance of a fabricated scenario..."

That moment.

The veteran's fingers twitched slightly.

He slowly raised his head, his lips parted slightly, and a hint of surprise and uncertainty flashed in his eyes.

The volunteer didn't notice and just kept reading:

"Can the echo from the door also penetrate the veil of 'death'?"

"What if they are still alive, but don't look like they are 'alive'?"

—

In the deeper parts of the city, the papers began to unfold.

Each clipping, like ink drops falling into water, quietly spreads within the long-stagnant memories of the city.

They did not create a wave.

There was no protest.

But they are like needles, piercing into the numb texture of this urban consciousness.

—

The streets remained quiet.

The oil lamp was still lit, the fog was still thick, and the morning whistle by the railway tracks had not yet sounded.

But some people—some memories—

Already awake.

Before dawn, the capital city had already awakened.

In the most secluded neighborhood in the heart of the capital, inside the editor-in-chief's office of the Morning Star,

Si Ming slowly walked out from a wooden door inlaid with inscriptions on a peephole, his shoulders draped in the coolness of the morning light and mist.

The door behind him slowly closed, as if sending him back to reality from another world of conspiracy.

A young man then walked out of the door.

He was wearing a nautical overcoat, the hem still carrying the salty, damp scent of the sea—he was Ian Windtalker, the sailor of the Lost One.

—

The smell of paper still lingered in the room.

It's not the heaviness of printed ink, but a sharper, cleaner fibrous scent, with the texture of sea salt and wind pressure, like a warship that hasn't docked for years slowly sailing into the world of documents.

Ian stood before a round table covered with maps and newspaper clippings, remaining silent for a moment.

His trench coat trembled slightly in the quiet, as if the wind was swirling around him.

That was not an illusion—it was the World-type Mystic [Wind Whisperer] on his body that was slowly activating.

A faint, broken whisper lingered in the air, audible only to him:

"The trial date is set. Seven days from now, the Third Court of Justice will try Alison."

"The adjudication process has been filed and is led by Her Highness Meredith's Order. It is a highest-level trial with no defense and no public attendance."

"With the tacit approval of the royal family, the order to block public opinion is effective immediately, within the third ring road of the capital."

—

After listening, Si Ming tapped his fingertips lightly on the table.

The wooden surface made a deep, resonant sound, emitting a slight vibration, as if confirming that a sheet of paper that had not yet been laid out was being remarked.

"Seven days," he murmured.

—

Ian nodded, his expression as composed as the eve of a storm:
"The wind has already told me. The airflow over the capital has begun to change direction, and the church has activated the 'Silence Secret' in the broadcast channels."

"From now on, we only have seven days to speak."

—

Sima Ming smiled.

The smile was calm, yet sharp as a blade pressing against the paper.
"Great."

"The sooner they seal off the area, the more afraid they are—afraid of even half of what we're saying."

—

Ian glanced at him, as if for the first time truly taking in the features of the "editor" before him.

"Your plan... can it really disrupt them to this extent?"

The God of Fate did not answer immediately.

He turned to look out the window, where the city's mist was merging into the echoing tolling of the clock tower's bells.

In the distance, people were already moving around at the subway entrance, and on the street, the cries of newsboys gradually rose.

Newspaper clippings, like flocks of birds, fluttered between the palms and ears of people from different social classes in the city.

—

“I don’t need them to believe me.”

"I just want them to ask even one question before they see Allison on the dock—'Wait, is this script... really right?'"

"On the first day of the Seven-Day War, there was only one objective."

His gaze returned to the map, his voice low and cold:

"Make the fog—thicker."

“If the waters are muddied, they will have no time, no strength, and no excuse to touch our adjutant.”

—

He unfolded a new map, and Ian stepped forward.

Every block, every church, and every sewer outlet was marked with different symbols, in red, black, and gray ink, the handwriting intermingling.

The Fate Master's fingers stopped at the five core areas.

Those were the intended landing points for the five news articles.

—

“On the first day, we showed them ‘other versions’.”

"The next day, we let them hear 'other people's voices'."

—

Ian frowned slightly:

"You want ordinary people to stand up and speak out?"

—

Si Ming smiled:

"That's not what I meant."

"It is paraphrasing, it is retelling, it is 'what I heard from others'."

"If we call it incitement."

"But if it's an old craftsman at the street corner, a washerwoman in front of the church, or an uncle selling flowers—that's a 'folk opinion'."

—

Ian looked at him, his voice low:

"You're crazy."

Si Ming replied calmly:

"That's why we're on a ship called 'The Lost Ones'."

—

They said no more.

The whisperer's eerie presence still vibrated slightly in the air.

Ian closed his eyes and placed his fingers on the iron frame of the window.

The wind, returning from the cracks in the city, brings news from distant street corners:

"Morning Star has entered the third district..."

In the fourth block, I heard an old soldier talking about the whale grave...

A secretary under the parliament has submitted the clipping to the Public Opinion Bureau…

—

Si Ming opened his eyes and his gaze fell on the corner of the office.

The typesetting paper bearing the "Morning Star Times" watermark was unfolding automatically under the light, like a page of divine oracle awaiting naming.

He picked up his pen and wrote a new line in the blank title bar:

"They say we're making up stories—but you know what?"

"What you see may also be true."

First document: Whale Tomb Victory Celebration Banquet?
The exhaust pipe next to the blacksmith's shop on the street was still gurgling smoke, the coal fire was still burning, and the air was filled with the smell of iron slag and coke.

A worker sat on an overturned iron drum, eating cold rye bread, his movements mechanical and his eyes vacant.

As he was lost in thought, staring at the street corner, he suddenly heard a low hum from his companion:
"Did you see it? That page in the Morning Star?"

"Is this nonsense again? A dead fleet would hold a victory celebration?"

Another person chuckled through gritted teeth, a clear hint of disdain in their laughter:
"They say the bodies are being returned, but some people say the number of coffins doesn't even match up."

The first person didn't reply, looking down at the bread in his hand.

Until another, even lower voice rang out:

"...You believe me?"

"Do not believe."

He paused for a moment. "But I know that my cousin's name was on the casualty list that day. But our family... didn't receive a coffin."

The words fell like a boulder thrown into the silent construction site; no one responded, and even the fire in the stove seemed to go out for a moment.

But on the newspaper next to the iron bucket, which was pressing down on the toolbox, the words "fewer coffins than when we set out" were quietly circled in ink by a hand stained with kerosene.

—

Second document: Who wrote this list?
Beside the old newspaper rack in the church library, a female copyist wearing round-framed glasses is routinely flipping through the Morning Star Times.

She had only wanted some peace and quiet, but her hand stopped when her gaze swept over the clipping titled "First Exposure of Leaked Documents from the Whale Tomb."

She squinted at the table containing the numbers, life patterns, and binding dates.

That format is so familiar—

She had seen this arrangement in a "soldier resource allocation list".

At that time, she was ordered to copy the "Military Family Quota Card Recycling and Distribution Form".

And now, the way these rows of numbers are arranged is almost exactly the same as it was back then.

She slowly closed the newspaper, her knuckles tightening as she folded it neatly and quietly slipped it into the inner pocket of her robe.

She did not speak.

But the ink from her fingertips dripped onto the title page of "The Oracle's Judgment, Volume Three," which she was transcribing, leaving a mark like a fire mark.

—

The third piece of paper: Does the child's dream point beyond the door?

In the home of a widow in the lower part of the city, an eight-year-old boy sat on a dilapidated windowsill, clutching a newspaper clipping on the third page of his newspaper tightly in his hand.

He said he heard his father's voice at the bottom of the sea.

“There was also a man named ‘Kelcosen’ who spoke to him in his dream.”

The widow inside put down the spatula, came over, half-squatted down, and gently cupped her son's face in her hands.

"Don't talk nonsense."

The child's eyes were stubborn, and his lips were tightly pursed.

“But in my dream it was my father… He said he kept crying.”

He said, "I'm still alive, but I'm not human anymore."

The woman's breath hitched.

Then, she pulled him into her arms, holding him tightly, her voice choked with emotion yet tender:
“A dream is just a dream, child…don’t remember it.”

But as she turned around, there was a newspaper nailed to the mottled wall.

Black text on white paper, eye-catching title:
"What if they are still alive, but don't look like they are 'alive'?"

—

Fourth document: List of gifts from nobles
In the perfume shop in the west of the city, the air was filled with the fragrance of perfume under the glass lamps. A noblewoman sat by the window, her nails painted pigeon blood red, flipping through a newspaper in her palm.

She had just finished tasting a newly blended fragrance and was about to leave when she paused before a passage of text:

"Number α-F, kept by Kelcosen, owner of the Whale Tomb."

Her fingertips trembled, and her eyes changed slightly.

Her male companion sensed something was wrong and asked in a low voice:
"how?"

She smiled and turned the page:

"It's nothing. It's just that this description... is a bit similar to the code name in our batch of 'official transport letters'."

The male companion was taken aback:
"You mean... those 'noble royal ships'?"

She looked up again, her smile as composed and natural as ever.

"It's just a coincidence."

"The Morning Star... I forgot about it after reading it."

She put down the newspaper, her posture still elegant.

But behind her, the shop apprentice, who was wiping the glass, was eavesdropping on their every word, his eyes gleaming.

He quietly wrote down a few words:

“α-F”, “Kelcosen”, “Military Ship”.

—

Fifth Paper: The Fallen Reappear?
Outside the old port pier, next to the dilapidated Star Tower Street Mission, a homeless man stood trembling under the altar, clutching a tattered strip of cloth in his hand.

He muttered to himself, repeating:

"Number 1679... Number 1679..."

His voice was hoarse and cracked, like a rusty mechanism repeatedly switching on and off.

A young priest who was distributing the Daily Word heard this, paused, and opened the notebook in his pocket.

Number 1679 – Battle of the Blood Whale, killed in action.

He stared at the homeless man, his tone cautious:

Where did you hear this number from?

The homeless man raised his head, his eyes vacant, but his lips uttered a single sentence:
I dreamt about him.

"He said he was still serving Trelian..."

—

The morning breeze gently swept through the corners of the city.

And newspaper clippings, like a drop of ink thrown into stagnant water, spread silently.

There was no sound.

There was no speech.

There was only a slow, lingering tremor—like a page in the vast script of the city that had already been secretly turned.
The handwriting on the next page is also being quietly rewritten.

The royal palace is always clean and quiet.

It's like a mirror that's been permanently polished; time, sandstorms, and emotions can only linger outside the threshold.
Once you step into that world, you must learn to speak softly, move slowly, and control all your emotions.

But that morning, a dull thud of a glass shattering suddenly echoed in the Interior Hall.

The white porcelain cup was thrown violently, shattering on the ground. The shards scattered and rolled onto the gold-embroidered carpet.

It was as if, within this pristine whiteness, a burst of anger, forcibly suppressed to the extreme, had erupted.

The eldest prince, Orion Trean, stood behind the long desk in the deputy chamber of the council, a gold-embroidered military cloak draped over his shoulders, his military boots crunching on the carpet, as if pressing down on the very fabric of the empire's order.

His expression was as cold and stern as a stone sculpture, but the surging anger in his eyes almost burned the enclosed space.

He pressed his right hand heavily on the table, his metacarpal bones protruding, and his knuckles trembling slightly from the force.

In front of him was a crumpled copy of a newspaper.

Above, a line of words was printed there starkly, the ink clear and glaring like needles.

"The transport ship behind the noble gift?"

"Numbered α-F, kept by Kelcosen, owner of the Whale Grave, as a victory gift—"

His voice was low, and he enunciated each word almost sharply:
"They dare."

"How dare these lowly literati put me in the same paragraph as 'sleeping slaves'?"

—

Several close officials in the hall held their breath in concentration.

No one dared to make a sound; the air seemed to be sealed off, and even the light dared not move.

Only the church's resident advisor managed to speak, his voice so soft it was almost inaudible:
“Your Highness…we have begun to block the circulation of the Morning Star Times, and the Fate Mark Examination Division has also intervened in the investigation.”

Orion sneered, his eyes sharp as blades:

"Covering up the newspapers?"

He pointed to another clipping on the table.

The title was strikingly obvious: "Celebration Banquet at the Whale Tomb".

“If you seal one copy, it will still have four copies left.”

“If you debunk a rumor, it will spread by word of mouth among ordinary people in the alleyway.”

His eyes suddenly turned cold, and he abruptly swept away the confidential letters, public opinion briefings, and draft announcements on the table.

Newspapers and scraps of paper flew everywhere, like birds taking flight in fright.

He growled in a low voice:

"Do you think you're fighting against an editorial office?"

“You are fighting against a city that has begun to think.”

—

The air temperature suddenly dropped by five degrees.

A faint glow appeared between his shoulder blades, and streaks of flame-like star trails seemed to appear and disappear, flowing from his body to the ground, as if some kind of destiny domain was about to be activated.

This is his most dangerous side.

The most silent and deadliest structure in that imperial mystery—"I am the law itself"—is resonating.

It was a sign that the divine order was awakening in the midst of rage.

—

At that moment, the hall door was pushed open.

A figure walked in silently.

He was tall and straight, with a steady gait, wearing the uniform of the Royal Capital Security Corps, the iron studs on his cuffs gleaming.

Edel Trian.

The second son of the emperor.

Governor-General of the Capital Security Corps.

The de facto representative of the entire capital's military system.

—

He did not bow, but his gaze swept over the mess on the ground and landed on the newspaper clipping that read "The Fallen Reappears".

He stepped forward, picked up the newspaper, and opened one of the columns.

“Number 1679. He said he was still serving Trelian.”

He put down the newspaper, his tone as calm as if he were reading out some troop deployment data:

"This is the number I was assigned to at the port."

"He really existed."

—

The air suddenly solidified.

Orion looked up, a cold shadow appearing between his brows:

"So you came here to tell me—that this newspaper is telling the truth?"

Edel's gaze was as calm as iron.

"I'm here to tell you—if you're still thinking about blocking, debunking, or eliminating them."

"You'll just make people think you're scared."

He paused for a moment, then looked directly at his elder brother:

“Project Whale Grave is not your direct responsibility.”

"But these clippings will become yours."

—

Orion sneered.

That smile carried the faint scent of smoke from a fire doused with water:
"Have you been stuck at the bottom for too long and forgotten your last name is Trean?"

—

Edel raised his chin, his tone unyielding:

"Have you been in the palace too long and forgotten that in the army, the blood of commoners can also be stained with glory?"

—

silence.

A long, jarring silence, a silence that felt like the tip of a knife.

—

Orion didn't reply.

He simply turned around, walked to the gilded high window, and stared at the morning light that was slowly rising over the city in the distance, intertwined with the newspapers.

His voice was as cold as lava beneath an ice layer:

"They say that fog is protection, it is concealment."

"But if there are snakes lurking in the fog, then we should burn down the entire fog forest."

He slowly turned his head, and the golden star map flashed across his eyes, like a page of a script being lit:

“Edel”.

“If you really want to deal with these tabloids, don’t blame me for using the Forbidden Legion to purge all the ‘paper whisperers’ in the city.”

—

Edel did not move, nor did he express any anger.

He simply turned and left, his steps steady.

Just before leaving, he stopped and whispered a reply:
"What you need to clean is not the paper."

"It's the human heart."

(End of this chapter)