Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 306 Echoes of the Whale Tomb
They say the whale tomb is a dream.

But when you wake up, you find yourself eating inside its bones.
Will you start to have doubts—

Who will be the one that gets eaten?

——Morning Star Times Street Edition Corner Notes
In the thirteenth administrative district of the empire, on the outer edge of the fog belt, a manor slumbers amidst roses and dust.

This estate, named Hlandon Valley Estate, is the hereditary land of Viscount Saul Barletta. It has existed since the Old Kingdom era.

She then served the Trelian royal family, following them generation after generation. The eldest daughter of her family is the current wife of the eldest prince, Orion Trelian.

Tonight, the manor is brightly lit.

Gold leaf was applied to the ceiling, whale fat lamps were lit, and an organ played as accompaniment.

Everything was in preparation for this "celebration".

—

A saying circulated among the nobility:

"Barletta's red wine can wash away the inferior marks on one's life line."

The person who said this never found it funny; on the contrary, they spoke of it with great relish, as if there were some kind of enzyme that could transform one's birth and bloodline into "nobility."

The banquet hall resembled a deep-sea temple that had not yet sunk, bathed in a bluish hue reminiscent of the underwater world, thanks to the whale oil lamps.

Light fell from the dome, illuminating the white stone floor tiles and making the entire space look like a sea skeleton.

The air was filled with the scents of perfume and rose wine. Guests strolled around in twos and threes, their laughter and the clinking of crystal glasses creating a swirling, undercurrent.

—

Viscount Saul Barletta stood on the high platform, his grey-blue cloak embroidered with rose gold life lines.

The epaulettes, with a whale tail bone badge worn diagonally, were the mark of the officer in charge of "Military and Political Liaison Affairs" on the Whale Tomb.

He raised his glass, his smile gentle, his voice clear, carrying the soothing pride characteristic of a seasoned politician:

"May we all choose to slumber rather than struggle in the sea of ​​destiny."

"Even if I die, I will die in the wine cup of the throne."

The guests rose to their feet and echoed the sentiment, raising their glasses like a gentle ripple on the water. No one questioned or was surprised.

This is not absurd.

This is "a matter of course".

—

Deep within the manor, there is a path covered by thick vines.

At the end of the path, there is an unmarked gray metal door.

There were no lights or banquet inside.

There is only silence.

A dozen or so figures dressed in tattered military uniforms stood in neat rows on the black stone bricks, like a squad of soldiers frozen in time.

Their eyes were vacant and unfocused; their faces were deathly pale and bloodless; their breathing was faint and almost silent.

Their bodies were branded with serial numbers.

Some people have "Whale Tomb" markings on their shoulders, while others have "α-F/3" written on the back of their hands.

They don't eat, they don't sleep, they don't speak. They just stand there.

Like unsharpened weapons, they are ready to be activated by the "command".

They are not human.

They are “sleeping servants”.

These are "consumables" transported from the Whale Tomb.

This manor is their "site of use".

—

Meanwhile, inside the banquet hall.

The nobles were sipping wine, chuckling, and talking about these "numbers" without any restraint.

"I heard there have been delays in shipping recently, and several of my friends have been unable to get any 'fresh' food."

"The last time I invited a count to my home, he saw the two sleeping knights in front of my door and thought I had been promoted to a high-ranking judge!"

“I prefer the Alpha model provided by Whale Graves. It moves nimbly, is suitable for equestrian demonstrations, and doesn’t make you sweat.”

Laughter echoed, glasses clinked, perfume masked the stench of blood, servants stood by, and women covered their lips to hide their laughter.
The children even imitated the way the sleeping servants walked on the carpet, toddling and mimicking their movements.

The entire hall was filled with a soft, sweet, and slightly fishy aroma, as if blood were being boiled in lukewarm water.

—

At the four corners of the hall, two "butlers" in black robes always stood.

They were tall and silent, with their hands folded in front of their abdomens, and the actions of pouring wine and changing glasses were always completed in the same second.

They never make eye contact with anyone.

He never speaks.

Because they are not human either.

They are "synchronous programming type dormant bodies".

These were humanoid puppets customized for the "visual consistency" of the banquet.

—

At this moment, a gentle night breeze stirs within the rose hedge outside the window.

The night gently rustled the leaves, as if whispering secrets:
"They drank wine made from whale blubber and spoke of the Sleepers' numbers and how to use them."

But when the whale's grave resurfaced—

Are they prepared to offer their own bones?

"I knew you'd pick the most expensive one."

Si Ming stood in front of the iron gate of a three-story manor, his brows furrowed, his tone like that of a stingy old accountant whose pockets had just been emptied.

He still smelled of the newspaper ink from last night, and the wind made even the hem of his clothes look a little fragile.

Standing next to him, Celian looked up, her expression as focused as if she were assessing the modifiability of a battlefield fortress.

Her gaze swept over the main building—the retro iris-shaped spires, the rose stone-paved path, the antique-style royal altar in the rear courtyard, and even the contours of the flower wall.

“This stone pillar is too short to hang the Blood-Patterned Banner.” She snorted coldly, her gaze turning slightly icy. “The back garden’s structure is asymmetrical… it’s barely presentable.”

"This is the most complete and cheapest one in this price range!" Si Ming complained in a low voice, glancing at her "vampire princess inspecting the palace" expression, feeling like his head was about to explode.

"You're so picky, but it's me who's moving in, not you."

“You?” Celian raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re the kind of guy who can’t even decorate a bedroom, so of course you have to listen to me.”

Si Ming spread his hands and sighed helplessly: "I just want a quiet, inconspicuous place. A place where I can store paper, print newspapers, and not be disturbed by nobles, that's enough."

“You’re trying to build a money-printing machine in the middle of the battlefield,” she scoffed lazily. “Then of course you have to pick a house that won’t blow up.”

—

Beside the two, the real estate agent, dressed in a well-tailored black suit, carried a stack of case files and smiled respectfully but with a slightly greasy expression as he tried to sell his services.

"Distinguished guests, this manor originally belonged to a third-generation door-viewing sorcerer. Its main structure is reinforced with stone structures inside the door, and its life lines are well isolated, making it suitable for document processing, alchemy adjustments, or secret meditation."

"Stop trying to sell." Celian raised her hand to brush the air aside, her cloak fluttering slightly as her feathers rustled softly. "Name your price."

The agent hesitated for a moment: "The current asking price is... 890,000 Trelian Silver Soco."

Si Ming's face fell.

Eighty-nine hundred thousand! All the Mysterious Gold Coins he earned from three Gate World quests, even after conversion, only amounted to less than forty-nine hundred thousand. He wailed inwardly: This isn't buying a house; it's burning the profits of the Morning Star Times for the next few years to ashes.

—

At that moment, Celian turned her head.

She smiled.

That aristocratic, vampire-specific elegant smile was like the light when the back of a knife is slightly curled.

"Are you sure this is the price?" she asked slowly, her voice carrying a hint of coldness.

"When I approached the study window, I heard the echo of a spell lingering behind the wall, which indicates that there is noise in the structure of the Life Pattern Well."

The agent was slightly taken aback.

"And your Mirror Well, judging from the looks of it... hasn't been cleaned in a long time?"

She narrowed her eyes, approaching step by step, her fingertips slowly tracing the metal of the railing, her tone growing colder:

"The mirrors in the master bedroom are offset to the left and right. In Old Catholic symbolism, that's called 'disaster-inducing symmetry'—are you trying to sell me a house, or are you sending me into a harbinger of a calamity?"

The agent, sweating profusely, said, "This... we can coordinate with the purifier for follow-up adjustments..."

"I'll offer 390,000." She raised her chin, her voice like a gavel falling.

The intermediary hesitated.

Si Ming suddenly stepped forward and gently interrupted him:

"You can accept that."

His gaze was gentle, and his tone was calm, as if he were not trying to lower the price, but rather pointing out an existing fact.

“Your house has failed to be listed three times, and your monthly performance review is about to be approved. You are unwilling to accept the loss, but you are even more afraid of continuing to list it without success.”

“You’ve investigated us and know we won’t do anything reckless. You even hope we’ll buy it.”

“It’s not that we’re trying to lower the price,” Si Ming smiled. “It’s just that you’ve finally admitted—what the other party said might be right.”

[Mysterious Entry: The True Lie] Activated.

Memories gently slide by, motivations are reconstructed, and rationality is quietly written into them.

The agent paused, his brow relaxed slightly, and then a relieved smile appeared on his face, as if saying, "Finally, I'm free."

"Indeed... it's not impossible to sell it for 390,000."

“Deal.” Celian nodded elegantly, as if this were not a business transaction, but a sophisticated courtly contest.

—

The formalities were completed at sunset.

The agent handed the bound transfer certificate to Si Ming with both hands, and said respectfully:

"You only need to go to the Municipal Housing Office for a notarization process before tomorrow noon."

"After that, this manor will be yours."

As night fell, the wind rustled through the rose hedge, causing the iron gate to rattle softly. The two walked slowly across the front yard they had just "acquired."

Walking on the stone path shimmering with golden light, it feels as if you are stepping into a new chapter they are about to write.

Si Ming sighed softly, toying with the transfer deed in his hand:

"If it weren't for this, I really wouldn't want to buy a house so soon."

"I spent all my savings—just to see the most spectacular fireworks."

Selene gently kicked aside a fallen leaf, a satisfied smile playing on her lips:
"Yes, one hundred and forty-seven Mysterious Gold Coins, and over a million Silver Soco Coins."

She turned around and stood in front of him, her eyes shining like stars in the night against the backlight.

"But this fireworks display was definitely worth it."

Before dawn, the fog had already fallen.

This morning's fog was thicker than yesterday's; it was no longer a light veil, but rather like some kind of sediment slowly churning and rising from the depths of the city's consciousness.
It was as if buried memories were beginning to surface. Everything was silent, yet undercurrents were surging.

Along with it spreads a smell of paper. Damp, grayish, with the bitter taste of undried ink.

Today's Morning Star is wrapped in a thin layer of gray paper, its tone like a veil of eulogy, so somber that it makes one's heart tighten.

Newspaper boys no longer shouted their wares at street corners as they used to; instead, they moved silently through the streets and alleys, quietly slipping newspapers under doors or into mailboxes like intelligence.
Or they might place it precisely on a corner of the table where they know "who should receive it," as if following some kind of silent agreement.

At four o'clock in the morning, Benham's "Ratnet" operation began to flow through the capillaries of the city.

No need for fanfare, no need for explanation—

As long as the paper reaches the hands of those "chosen ones," that's enough.

-

Noble District, 7:30 AM
At the Crown Prince's residence, Princess Sophie's lady-in-waiting sat in a corner of the dressing room, holding today's newspaper and reading it aloud as usual.

She was supposed to be reading the Rongyao Daily, which would have been in accordance with etiquette and the court's cautious style. But for some reason, a different thought suddenly occurred to her today, and she turned an extra page.

That page was an unfamiliar gray page. Printed with an unusually striking title:
The Reappearance of the Whale's Tomb, Part One

"Number 1679's eyes are not closed."

The official's voice suddenly dropped, as if something was gently choking her throat.

The article is short, consisting of only three paragraphs, yet every word pierces the heart and lungs, telling the story of a soldier—number 1679—who might be transformed into a "sleeping servant" before the "Whale Grave" is revived.

The calm and restrained writing style is as objective as a medical autopsy record, with each paragraph followed by a numbered footnote indicating cold annotations such as "the words originated from a dream" or "the number comes from an old ship roster".

The female official couldn't help but read the last sentence aloud again in a low voice:
"Sir, is he the silent servant in your garden?"

She was stunned as soon as she uttered the words.

She slowly raised her eyes and looked out the window at the courtyard. The servant who always swept the floor silently in the early morning was sweeping fallen leaves by the bamboo grove.

His posture was upright and his movements precise, yet there was no vitality in him—like a sculpture, like a weapon, like a forgotten doll.

Her heart suddenly began to race, her fingertips trembled, and the newspaper shook slightly, as if mist seeped into her blood from the pages.

-

Church Quarter - Before Morning Prayer

Inside the Third Law Court, incense smoke curled. Lower-ranking priests, dressed in pristine white morning robes, were burning incense before the altar.

He chanted the morning prayer in a low voice, the incantation flowing slowly, until the flame rose from the bronze cup and transformed into a pale golden light.

He had just finished reciting the last line of scripture and sat down to meditate when a gentle breeze stirred the lid of the incense burner—and suddenly a newspaper clipping appeared inside.

He was stunned, almost unable to believe his eyes.

That page seemed to have been hidden beneath the smoke, emerging like a ghost at the climax of the ceremony. Who put it there? When? Why was there not a sound?

The title boldly proclaimed five words:
The Bishop of the Whale Grave

His fingers trembled slightly as he unfolded the paper.

The article recounts a secret agreement between the "Sleeping Order" and the Royal Capital Church involving the exchange of ritual items.
In exchange for "numbered sleepers" and "sleep oracle projection technology"—a technology from the Whale Tomb, a whispering spell that enables the dead to speak in their dreams.

Finally, there is a line of poetry that is as eerie as a prophecy:
"Where the whale's eye looks, the judgment seat will also tilt."

Just as he read the words "judgment seat," the ivory-white banner on the tower outside the window was suddenly lifted up by a sudden gust of wind!
The light pierced the hall at an angle, penetrating the incense smoke and landing precisely in the center of the altar.

He was startled, and the holy book slipped from his hands, falling to the ground with a thud.

At that moment, he clearly felt that a certain "balance of order" was tilting and quietly derailing.

-

Old Military Family District, 9:00 AM
Many civilians rescued by Allison live here; most are veterans or retired technicians who are now struggling to make ends meet.

This morning, a batch of poorly printed and poorly formatted tabloids were silently delivered to the courtyards of these mansions.

One page in particular stands out. A black-and-white woodcut-style portrait depicts the face of "Kelcosen."

His brows and eyes were as resolute as those of a military officer from olden times, but the accompanying text unexpectedly contained chilling sentences:
"The whale tomb didn't die; it just moved to a different location."

"They say your loved ones died in battle, but they won't let you see the bodies."

"Are you sure he's dead? Are you sure he wasn't at some manor, watering flowers with a kettle?"

The pages rustled in the morning breeze, like a whisper, or perhaps a question.

A silence filled the neighborhood; many former soldiers no longer spoke.

They pushed open the door and came out, their expressions somber, handing each other the newspaper clippings one by one.

His gaze was solemn, his steps steady, as if he were returning to the track of some collective destiny.

They entered the makeshift meeting room on the street corner one after another.

Someone gritted their teeth and whispered, "I've seen this mark on the ship of the Trelian..."

His voice was hoarse, as if he had crawled out of a trench.

-

City Hall, 11:30 PM
The Public Opinion Bureau received more than 30 reports about "Whale Grave Clippings".

This is an unprecedented surge of public opinion, but strangely—the versions of these clippings vary.
The layout, word choice, and even the tone of the writing are all different, making it impossible to categorize them as a unified rumor.

On a "whistleblower record," a public opinion manager frowned deeply.

He stared at the newspaper clippings on the table, remaining silent for a long time, his fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the table as if searching for some kind of out-of-control rhythm.

Finally, he picked up his pen and wrote a sentence in the blank space of the report:

"If we shut down a manuscript, they will rewrite a dream."

He suddenly felt a splitting headache, as if the boundary between dreams and reality was beginning to blur.

He flung open the office window, wanting some fresh air, only to be startled to see what lay around the street corner—

A child is sitting on the steps, earnestly reading the contents of a newspaper clipping to another child.

He wasn't talking about any grand conspiracy, nor was he advocating any political motives.

He was just telling a story.

But that story leaves you breathless.

At the same time, Morning Star Manor
Si Ming stood on the rooftop balcony of his newly purchased manor. The morning mist had not yet dissipated, and a gray-white tide enveloped the distant city walls.

His long, grey-blue overcoat fluttered in the wind, its hem billowing like a silent flag.

He looked down at a clipping feedback report that had just been delivered, his expression calm and focused, as if he had already foreseen the coming storm.

Under the parasol, Celian leaned lazily against the wicker chair, her red hair shimmering with a rosy glow in the morning light.

She was flipping through a copy of "Aristocratic Life Weekly" with her fingers. The fashion commentary printed with gold trim on the cover seemed particularly out of place in this somber atmosphere.

A sarcastic smile lingered on her lips, as if she were an outsider to this world.

"The data for the second day?" she asked unhurriedly, as if discussing the dessert at last night's cocktail party.

Si Ming nodded slightly, his gaze leaving the page and turning to the clock tower that was faintly visible in the mist ahead.

A knowing smile slowly appeared in his eyes; his voice was low, yet it cut through the silence like a blade.

"The fog is getting thicker."

"A corner of our faith has collapsed."

He leaned forward slightly and added in a low voice, a sound as cold as a gust of wind piercing through his bones:
"And the Whale Tomb... hasn't really surfaced yet."

-

In the back hall of the manor, a candle still flickered slightly, wax slowly dripping down the copper stand.

Inside was a newly renovated printing operations room, with gray walls covered with densely packed scraps of newspaper clippings and hand-drawn circuit diagrams.

The typesetting machine was still humming, and several assistants were moving quickly, carrying printing molds and new paper.

The wall of notes was covered with dense annotations, the ink strokes layered upon each other like battlefield intelligence.
On the central wall, five key clippings were nailed straight, with slight creases at the corners, as if they had just been taken from the readers.

Si Ming sat on one side of the long table, his elbows resting on the edge, his right hand flipping through the summary of reader reactions sent back by the mouse net.

The report pages were covered with keywords hand-drawn in red pen, the ink still wet. Words such as "whale tomb," "number," "slumber," "noble gift," and "1679" were particularly glaring, seeping into the pages like bloodstains.

The bottom row of popularity index, circled with three layers of highlighter, has far exceeded the predicted warning line.

Serian was now reclining on the sofa without any aristocratic manners, one leg casually draped over the armrest, holding a bottle of red wine in her hand.

She didn't use a glass; instead, she lifted the bottle and gulped down a mouthful of scarlet wine, the wine stains slowly sliding down her lips.

As she read the fashion reviews in the aristocratic magazine, she muttered to herself with a half-smile:
"Can't you sometimes not keep statistics?"

Si Ming did not raise his head; his tone was low but sharp.

"I'm not doing statistics."

He paused, his voice low and hoarse, like the undercurrent in a musical piece:

"I am writing a script for a story of faith going out of control."

The door rang.

The door hinge made a barely audible metallic clang.

Benham pushed open the door and entered, still wearing his usual dark gray uniform, his hat brim hanging low, his face half-hidden in the shadows.

But this time, there was an undisguised excitement in his eyes, a light like the first drop of blood gushing from behind a blade.

He walked to the long table, slapped a piece of parchment sealed with red wax onto it, and spoke concisely and crisply:
"Internal message from the city broadcasting bureau."

“They received 37 messages last night requesting ‘verification of clippings from the Whale Grave’—not reports, but ‘internal verification’.”

Si Ming smiled slightly, his expression calm as if he had expected this outcome: "They're starting to have doubts?"

Benham nodded, a hint of coldness in his voice: "More people want to know: 'Do we really have control over information?'"

He paused, his eyes flickered slightly, and pulled out another slip of paper from his pocket, gently placing it on the table.

"There's another thread—the whispers that gentleman sent back."

"The church has begun to investigate the register of those who recorded the Whale Grave."

A young deacon from the Third Court of Justice attempted to retrieve a 'numbered roster,' but was sent to a meditation room an hour later on the grounds of 'mental instability.'

Si Ming stared at the note without saying a word, his fingers slowly tracing the surface of the table.

"They have wavered."

His tone was as light as the wind, yet sharp as a crack in faith spreading through the air.

“In other words—” He rearranged the clippings, his movements as neat as if he were tidying up a sword.

“We can make the whale tomb more than just a ‘rumor’.”

His voice trailed off inch by inch, like a fuse being lit:
"Let it become—a 'dangerous topic'."

He slowly stood up and walked to the city map on the wall. The map was covered with red-drawn grids, arrows, suspected delivery points, and reply trails.

His finger stopped at one of the marked points, and his fingertip tapped the paper lightly, as if he were pronouncing a verdict.

“From today onwards, we will no longer write newspapers.”

"We need to get others to—actively create stories."

"They will start embellishing the story, adding details, and swearing that they have seen the whale graves emerge from the fog with their own eyes."

"We don't need to convince them."

"All we need to do is leave a path to the whale's grave in everyone's mind."

Selene rolled over, turned the wine glass upside down in her palm, and swirled it around. The red wine spun slowly in the glass, like a pupil just waking up.

She scoffed, "You want them to create gods?"

Si Ming looked at her calmly, his voice sharp and indifferent:
"I want them to tear down the god."

"On the third day, we stopped letting them question the military."

“We make them question—their faith.”

Benham's voice lowered, his tone seemingly coming from the depths of the night:
Are you sure they won't kill us?

“If they kill us now,” Si Ming slowly put away the clippings, his eyes as cold as ice, “it would be tantamount to admitting that the Whale Tomb is real.”

He glanced at the page title one last time:
The whale in the tomb didn't die. It just moved to a different place.

"They wouldn't be that stupid."

He turned and looked out the window at the foggy streets.

"At least... not before the fog has completely lifted."

Under the streetlights in the distance, a child is teaching another child to recite a poem from a newspaper clipping, word by word:

"Where the whale's eye looks, the judgment seat will also tilt."

That's no longer news.

That was a new prayer in the mist.

Si Ming listened quietly, then spoke softly:
"When they began to pray at the whale grave,"

“They are no longer believing in God,”

"But rather, it's about—fear of people."

—Annotation to Morning Star Times Unpublished Manuscript No. 1679

(End of this chapter)