Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 307 The Dream of the Whale Tomb
They said it was just a dream.

But when she woke up from her dream,

The stain on my hands wasn't water, it was blood and the sea.

—Echoes of the Whale's Grave: Anonymous Letter No. 113
-
Late at night.

The fog was like a silent yet incredibly heavy blanket covering the city, completely obscuring the streets, eaves, statues, and every light that remained lit.

The sky was deathly still, without wind or stars, and even the moonlight seemed to have been ripped away.

Only the alleyway winding along the south side of the church, like an uncut umbilical cord, extends from some dark and hidden heartland, sticky and eerie.

She ran out of that alley.

Blood clung to the soles of his feet, and his toes were filled with grime and lime.

Her skirt was still stained with undried medicinal liquid, which had a pungent, herbal smell, like putrid amniotic fluid rising in the air.

Her steps faltered, but her eyes remained fixed on the front, her pupils dilated and bloodshot, like a cub being chased by a hunting dog—she dared not turn around.

Her name is Flora.

Fourteen years old, from the poorest neighborhood in the south of the city.

Three years ago, she was sent to that gray, pointed-roof building—the "Holy Infant Church." She remembers the day she entered the church, the statues on the stone pillars at the entrance were dripping rain, as if they were crying.

From that day on, her name became a number.

672A.

A cold, emotionless number was engraved on the pages, and also etched into her destiny.

She was told, "You are the child chosen by the door."

But no one told her what being "chosen" really meant.

Until last night, she had that dream.

In her dream, she stood alone in a corridor made of huge whale bones, the bones glistening with a damp sheen and faintly smelling of salt.

The corridor wasn't flanked by walls, but rather by enclosed, fleshy walls. Under the light, one could vaguely see enormous, heart-shaped bulges embedded within them.
Those "organs" were pulsating slowly, as if some dormant living thing was breathing.

At that moment, the air thickened, and she heard a song coming from deep within the fleshy wall.

It's not a melody, just a low, repetitive sound:

"Number 672A, boarding... Number 672A, boarding..."

She wanted to step back, but found that her feet were being pulled by something, and she involuntarily stepped onto the door in front of her.

The door seemed to be a translucent structure formed from whale blubber, emitting an eerie, shimmering white light.

As she approached, a huge pupil slowly emerged from behind the door, pressed close to the doorway, and stared intently at her—

Those eyes had no eyelashes, their pupils were abyssal black, and the whites of their eyes were streaked with blood, as if they had been pressed down by a thousand years of low pressure to the point of bursting.

It doesn't speak.

It simply—looked at her.

She heard her own voice, deep within her chest, as if it weren't her own:
"I'm still here... I'm not dead."

The next second, she woke up with a start.

She gripped the blankets tightly with both hands, her hair soaked with cold sweat, and her mouth was full of salt—wet salt stains were under her fingernails, as if she had just climbed up from the seabed.

What terrified her most was the numbered mark on the back of her hand—a mark she had never seen before, marked with burn marks—that was crystal clear.

672A.

Her identification number is no longer just a "nursery school identity".

It's like a mark, a brand, proclaiming that she has "belonged" to something.

At this moment, she was huddled in a storage room in the back hall of an underground teahouse, wrapped in a tattered old cloak.

The walls were mottled, the floor was damp, and there was a pile of broken tea boxes and scraps of paper on one side. The air was filled with the smell of burnt matches and dust.

Several torn and reassembled pages of the Morning Star were pasted on the wall, the ink blurred and the edges curled up.

Her fingers trembled as she picked up one of the clippings from the floor and brought it close to the candlelight—the headline instantly jumped into her eyes:

"The Whale Grave is not a ship, it's a door."

Her pupils suddenly contracted, her lips trembled, and a barely audible sob escaped her throat, like a breath leaking out when her heart was breaking.

"...I dreamt of...a door."

In the corner, a pair of hands covered in age spots slowly put down a teacup.

That was the owner of the teahouse, an elderly, hunched man who was said to have been a copyist in a library and, in his youth, was responsible for transcribing copies of oracles in a church.

But one day he suddenly went mad, resigned from the church, and has lived in seclusion on Broken Tower Street ever since.

He's smiling now, his lips are twitching, and his teeth are missing.

His voice was low and hoarse, like the night wind blowing from the harbor, or like the sound of a tide that had long since died but was still breathing:

"Child...you're not crazy."

"You are awake."

He slowly pulled out an old, greasy handkerchief from under the cabinet and carefully wiped her fingers clean, as if he were removing blood from some sacred object.

He gazed at the reddened, glowing back of her hand bearing the serial number, then pointed to the rusty message box in the corner:
Write it down.

What did you dream about?

She hesitated for a moment, her gaze wavering between the firelight and the dreamlike shadows, then tremblingly picked up a pen and bowed her head to write on the paper:

"Number 672A".

I dreamt that I was part of a ship.

My bones are rattling in the doorway, my blood is flowing down the deck.

I heard the whale's eyes looking at me, and it said, 'You haven't sunk enough yet.'"

As she finished writing, the numbered brand on the back of her hand suddenly glowed faintly red, like a drop of warm blood flowing through her skin.

The aftershocks of the dream seemed not to have stopped, still echoing in her veins.

This note will be placed in the "Echoes of the Whale Grave" anonymous message board of the Morning Star tomorrow, mingling with the hundreds of dream fragments whose origins cannot be traced.

Nobody knows who she is.

But everyone who reads it will have a chilling illusion:

They seemed to have dreamt of the same thing before.

The city began to whisper.

The voice of the numberer awakens from a dream, returns from behind the door, from the shadows behind the church, from the gaze of the whale's eye.

Inch by inch, little by little, it seeped into everyone's ears—like mist, like a curse, like the weeping of an ancient god.

The night is deep.

In the hall of laws and decrees, the dim light was like the eyes of someone who had been ill for a long time, stagnant and motionless.

The walls, built of whale-white stone, gleam with a milky white luster, resembling the skeleton of an ancient sea corpse, washed, sealed, and then offered as a sacrifice at the feet of the gods.

Thirty-two pure white silk ribbons hung from the dome, cascading down from the high beams like uncut umbilical cords.
Floating slowly in the windless air, like a ribbon of amniotic fluid suspended in a sleeping mother's womb, it was almost eerily clean.

This is the most mysterious sanctuary of the Church of Our Lady of Procreation – the Tower of Minn.

This place will only open when five or more high-ranking members are present at the same time.

Today, although there were many people in the hall, only one person spoke.

She stood before the altar.

A silver-white robe woven from the Virgin Mary was draped over her body, the hem of which shimmered with a faint divine light.

Her long golden hair was meticulously braided into a triple crown-like braid, resembling a royal crown suspended above her head;
The white silk veil hanging down her forehead covered her face, but it could not conceal the power and lineage she represented.

She was not wearing the royal crest.

She doesn't need to wear it.

In this city, everyone recognizes her.

Eldest daughter of the Emperor, Meredith Trean.

The first in line to the throne of the Trelian Empire, and the current "Lord of the Holy Blood" of the Cathedral of the Church of Our Lady of Procreation.

She was the will of the aristocratic conservatives, the embodiment of the theory of "blood purification," and the coldest bridge between the church and the monarchy.

But in the whisperer's prayers, she also has another secret title:

"A descendant of the Mother Goddess."

She finally spoke, her voice low and clear, like the sound of the tide rising slowly from the seabed, carrying a morbid gentleness, yet sharp as a needle:

"Whale Tomb".

"A pirate's ship, a city's delusion, a group of lowly people's festering sores of revenge."

"I endured it for two days."

She paused, her eyelashes fluttering almost imperceptibly behind the white silk, but her tone remained unchanged:
"Now, it's time to purify."

Behind her, the Overseer Daveline, dressed in a red robe, bowed and stepped forward, her tone so respectful it was almost silent:

"The 'Whale Tomb Purification Order' has been drafted and can be officially announced by the church's password tower this afternoon."

“We suggest starting by blocking anonymous newspaper clippings, clearing out the whispering walls of street numberers, and suppressing marches and poetry gatherings.”

She paused, lowering her voice slightly, as if cautiously pushing open a door:

"At the same time... should we launch another crackdown on the Morning Star?"

Meredith's gaze remained unchanged, her voice the same:
"That piece of paper has already died once."

"What I care about more is shutting up the mouth that spreads it."

She spoke as gently as if stroking a baby's cheek, so tender and steady, yet each syllable concealed a thin blade, sharp and silent.

She turned and walked toward the crescent-shaped sacred pool beside the high altar, her fingertips slowly probing the water's surface.

The silver light rippled, and a blurry image appeared on the water's surface—a newspaper clipping, its title obscured by the mist, except for the three characters "672A" which stood out vividly red in the ink, as if blood were burning within the words.

“The one who has lost control in the inner chambers,” she murmured softly, her voice so gentle it was almost like chanting.

"Number 672A, the escapee?"

Daphne immediately replied, "An investigation has been launched, but... she doesn't seem willing to be hostile to us."

Meredith gently raised her eyes, a barely perceptible hint of disgust flashing in her gaze behind the white silk:

"She dreamed of the whale's tomb."

That short sentence seemed to crush the word "dream" into dust, grinding it to the ground along with faith.

“Our church manages dreams in order to guard the divine boundaries ‘behind the door’.”

Her voice remained steady, but beneath that steadiness, a hint of suppressed anger began to surface:
"It's not about asking them to write poetry."

"dream."

"Imagine that you have been chosen."

The red silk was slowly stretched taut in her hands, a ritualistic gesture, like a prayer or a strangulation.

She slowly withdrew her finger, gently smoothed her skirt, and continued:

"The practice of numbering whale graves must be stopped by tomorrow."

"Whale Grave is not a god."

"It's not a door either."

Her tone became extremely slow at this moment, each word like a knife blade wrapped in silk, slowly cutting into the ear:

"It's just an unclean—fantasy."

"And fantasy must be purified."

She didn't get angry, nor did she raise her voice.

She doesn't need to.

Every word she spoke was as gentle as a baby's prayer, yet it was a comfort tinged with blood.

She never drew her sword—she commanded the air to solidify into a noose.

This is precisely her method of rule.

Just then, a priestess in white robes walked quickly with her head bowed, presenting a coded intelligence letter from the royal palace.

Meredith unfolded the letter, her gaze sweeping over the few lines without any change in her expression, but her voice turned slightly colder:
"Orioun actually suggested that we 'take it slow' to avoid escalating public sentiment."

She chuckled softly, her voice like spring water dripping onto cold stone, clear yet chilling:
“My dear brother, I’m afraid the fog is too thick and I won’t be able to see the throne.”

"but me--"

She raised her head, her gaze seemingly piercing through the sanctuary forged from whalebone, beyond the church tower, and looking into the depths of the distant capital, into the streets where hymns were being sung softly.

"What I fear is that a whale ship will emerge from the fog and tear his script to shreds, page by page."

She walked back slowly, her holy robe trailing on the ground, the white silk fluttering, her steps as slow as a ceremonial procession.

She stopped, her sharp gaze fixed on the lingering image of the numbered clipping in the air, and slowly said:

"I'll shut them up."

"It's like I shut my mother's mouth."

"The doors of the sanctuary have been closed."

She waved her hand.

The Whale Tomb Purification Order has officially commenced.

On the morning the Whale Tomb Purification Order was issued, the streets suddenly became quiet.

It wasn't the suffocating low pressure before a storm, nor the panicked silence afterward.

Rather, it is the kind of quiet where everyone is listening to whether others are listening.

It was as if the entire city held its breath, waiting for the expected smell of rust, or a sudden and irreversible gunshot.

Hallways, tracks, ventilation ducts, sewers—all spaces related to "circulation" seemed exceptionally sluggish.
Even the sound of pigeons flapping their wings by the church eaves seemed amplified many times over, striking the silence.

The government orders were posted extremely quickly, as if they had already been written and were just waiting for a certain "node" to trigger them.

The announcement was only a few hundred words long, with a tone as cold and hard as iron:

"Effective immediately, all dissemination of paranoid content involving 'whale tombs,' 'numbered spirits,' and 'sleepers' dreams' will be completely banned. Violators will be considered as illegal communicators causing public disturbance and will be handed over to the adjudication court for handling."

It's like a concrete wall of command, pulling certain words out of the air, attempting to completely seal off the passage between dreams and reality.

But what spreads even faster than the decrees is the very thing it is trying to block.

Rumors began to surface like cracks on the streets: "They're scared."

"The purification order is an act of admitting defeat."

"The Church wanted to shut up the whale tomb... but the whale tomb has no mouth, it only has—eyes."

Three hours after noon, the first decree was posted at the foot of the Tower of Judgment in the main square. The crowd did not approach, but it did not disperse either.

His gaze was calm and restrained, yet heavy with weight as he looked at the decree.

Then, someone stepped forward first.

Charcoal pencil, black and gray, the messy yet forceful handwriting etched into the blank space below the decree, like an epitaph carved on a tombstone:
"As long as the whale's eyes remain open, its number will never be erased."

"The person with the number is waking up."

Those words are like embers in a wound, which cannot be contained by the paper itself.

They are like some kind of spell, awakening echoes lurking in the cracks of the city.

Not long after, the voice of the "numberer" appeared for the first time in the foggy city.

They had no uniform clothing, no armed forces, and no organizational structure.

They were just wearing strips of cloth.

Their respective numbers were written on the strips of cloth.

Some of the handwriting was crooked, some was deliberately made to look nice, and some still had bloodstains—

But they stood there, motionless, each occupying a street corner, alleyway, bus shelter, or sewer exit, like human-shaped markers, translating the city's hidden structure inch by inch from dream into reality.

They did not shout slogans, organize marches, or incite the masses.

They sang a nursery rhyme in hushed tones.

No one knows when that nursery rhyme appeared; it's like a melody that grew naturally from a dream.
The melody seems to always be a note lower, a word lighter, sinking into the ear and lingering there:

"Whoever the whale's eye shines upon, will never return to life."

"Whale bones will cover you with a blanket, and whale meat will be used to cook porridge for you."

"If you have a dream, please leave your number—that way they can find you."

Each word and phrase rose slowly like the tide, then swirled repeatedly in the air.

Some people listened from inside their windows, tears streaming down their faces; others copied it down on paper and pasted it on their own doors.

Some people began to carve their own numbers on their wrists using charcoal pencils, needles, and hot needles.

The old message board in front of the Morning Star was suddenly overflowing with messages.

The "submission mailbox" that was originally set up by the God of Fate was now overflowing with paper, with scraps of paper spilling out from the gaps and piling up on the ground, causing chaos when the wind blew.

It was covered with dreams, covered with mad ramblings. Someone wrote, "I dreamt that whale bones were singing."
Some wrote "Number 672A passed me by", some drew a picture of a whale ship, and some attached a picture of their tearful eyes when they were being stared at.

Their sentences are mostly disorganized and fragmented, some are just a few lines of nonsense, and some are like children's scribbles.

But amidst this chaos, a certain almost consistent "sense of structure" is faintly emerging—like the Whale Grave itself, which is beginning to search for "its own format" in the sea of ​​information.

In the printing room, Benham was flipping through the pages of those mad rant summaries one by one.

His fingers trembled at the edge of the paper, not from fear, but from being shaken by some kind of "divinity in language".

“These are not fantasies.” His voice was low and hoarse, as if he were praying to someone, or talking to himself.

"These are—structures."

“They are piecing together a ‘world model’ that they can accept, using mythology.”

Si Ming sat by the window, the sunlight softly falling on his face. He silently read through dozens of pages, each page like an electrical signal in the human neural network.

He slowly raised his head, looking up at the sky. His eyes held no joy, only calmness and certainty.
"This is... the third day."

His voice lowered, like a pen knife piercing soft mud:

"I'm not making up stories anymore."

He looked out the window and saw children, the elderly, the mute, the singers, the scavengers, and the veterans wearing numbered badges standing in every corner of the city, like coordinates appearing in a dream.

"It was they—in their dreams—who began to continue writing God's unfinished manuscript."

Meanwhile, news came from the former military dependents' area—

An elderly woman dressed in white mourning clothes prayed for her son in front of the church cemetery, and with her fingertips dipped in ash, slowly wrote a series of numbers on the ground.

The handwriting trembled, was broken and intermittent, yet was so neat as to be almost devout.

That number was her son's number.

The firelight flickered before the altar, and ashes drifted gently in the wind. She clasped her hands together, her eyes vacant, as if trying to piece together a soul that no longer existed from the ashes.

Just as she finished writing the last number, a priest on patrol passed by.

According to religious rules, he should have stopped it immediately and reported it to the adjudication hall.

But the priest only stood there for a moment, looking down at the string of gray words, his scepter slowly falling from his hand.

A few seconds later, he actually knelt down, closed his eyes, and made a very non-standard prayer gesture.

He whispered:

“I also dreamed about the number…it was my son’s.”

That whisper seemed to come from the mist, passing through the gaps in the firelight, stone bricks, and institutions, and falling into the ears of some unknown deity.

The church's response this time was faster, quicker, and more ruthless than ever before.

The White Silk Torture Master, Hilya, personally led the team into the numbered centralized dissemination area, clad in a Flame-Sealing Robe.

With a blank expression, she raised the fire arsenal, ordering people to remove all the walls with painted numbers, burn all the public message boards, and shut down three underground poetry gatherings on the spot.

They used the Burning Talisman Fireballs, and three "Holy Flame Lamps" pierced the night sky of the old town, like falling meteors, illuminating the entire silent neighborhood.

When the host of the poetry gathering was taken away, there was still blood on the corner of his mouth. He kept muttering numbers in a low voice, as if he were humming a song or praying silently.

But the more severe the repression, the more secretive and precise the language of the numberers became.

They stopped writing on the walls and started hiding it in the corners of their clothes, on keychains, embroidering it into the linings of their headbands, and concealing it in the cracks of the cobblestones at the entrance of the alley.

The whale grave, from newspaper clippings, became a dream; from a dream, it became a whisper.
It then transformed from whispers into a belief structure that was unverifiable yet pervasive.

Late at night, in the dimly lit telegraph room, Benham handed a piece of paper to Si Ming.

“This is not a message,” he said, his voice low and filled with an uncertain reverence. “This is… a song.”

Si Ming took the paper.

It was a yellowed page of classroom exercise paper, the corners of which had been repeatedly crumpled and were almost torn.

The above is the child's handwriting, each stroke crooked and uneven, yet written with utmost care.

Traces of tears remained on the paper, dried into irregular, pale white marks.

That was a nursery rhyme, and the lyrics were:
"Number 1679 says the whale grave is the mother's."
She will put me on the whale's back.

It doesn't hurt, it's not cold.
She can sing, and she can tell me...

My name is the number I wrote down.

Si Ming closed the paper and slowly raised his head.

At the end of the street, under an old gas street lamp, a group of children are standing in a line, shoulder to shoulder, writing their numbers in an orderly fashion on a renovated gray wall.

They dipped their fingers in ash, some used shavings of crayons, and some even used bitten twigs, dipping them in muddy water to write stroke by stroke.

They were eerily quiet; there was no laughter, no playfulness.

They don't understand anything.

But they wrote with utmost devotion—as if that string of numbers was the first and last prayer they could ever write down in their lives.

Si Ming looked at the scene, his eyes showing no emotion, only an indescribable stillness.

“The church’s white silk has already appeared on the seven main streets of the capital,” Benham said in a low voice. “The seal of the purification order has even been affixed to the outer wall of the palace’s inner guard post.”

He paused, his voice low and heavy, as if suppressing a fire:
"She is not purifying the whale grave."

"She is declaring that her doctrines are above royal authority."

“If the king does not respond, the next time—she will simply set up an altar and preach in the palace council chamber.”

……

Meanwhile, deep within the capital, the Noble Council was holding an informal afternoon briefing.

The purification order of the Whale Tomb not only triggered a flood of whispers from the numbered individuals, but also stirred up an unprecedented upheaval within the royal family.

Princess Meredith, as the progenitor of the "Bloodline Lord" of the Church of Our Lady, bypassed the Royal Public Opinion Bureau.

They arbitrarily issued an order to completely block speech and dispatched White Silk Torture Masters to overstep their authority and interfere with municipal order and public gatherings.

Her actions were like an arrow, piercing through the boundaries of the "joint governance of politics and education" that had been built up over many years.

The noble councilors maintained a respectful demeanor and bowed their heads in agreement, but inwardly they grew increasingly uneasy.

They began to realize that the spread of the whale tombs was no longer just a matter of dreams and rumors, but a clarion call for the reorganization of power structures.

As the youngest princess, Lyseria, perused the bills in a corner of the council chamber, she coldly whispered a reminder:

"The purification order is distorting the bottom line of 'joint governance of politics and religion.' If we don't take action soon, she will not only be a princess—she will become the 'Our Lady of the Fog City.'"

She didn't raise her voice when she said this, but her tone was like a needle piercing the bone—cold, precise, and direct.

Without uttering a word, the second prince, Edel, quietly issued a military order the moment he placed his teacup back on the tray: to reclaim some of the powers allocated to the two garrison security teams and restrict the authority of church troops to enter military-controlled areas.

The usually mild-mannered eldest prince, Orion, after listening to Meredith's report in the golden study, merely lowered his eyes, remained silent for a moment, and then spoke softly:
"Does she think she's above us?"

His voice was very soft, yet it was like a spark falling into a powder keg.

“I want to show her—the true lifeline is written with fire.”

A royal storm surrounding whether the church overstepped its authority and whether the whale tomb undermined the monarchy's discourse is being unveiled page by page of dreams and numbers.

Meanwhile, in the capital, a rare "royal plenary meeting" is about to be held.

For the first time, the six royal children will confront each other's ideals, beliefs, and will to power outside of the theater, ceremonies, and fairy tales.

The whale tomb is no longer just a dream.

It began, within the halls of lineage, to knock on the door of power.

Meanwhile, in another corner of the city.

Morning Star Manor - Main Building Clock Tower Top.

The wind blew through the fog, passing through the broken clock tower window frames and brushing against the still-unrepaired iron railings. The rusty railings murmured faintly in the night, like the sighs of the dead.

The sky was gray, and the fog, like the churning dreams of a sleeping man, stretched out long, blurring the whispering walls of the distant whale tomb into a line of dim gray shadows.
Like giant whale bones rising from the ground, arching into a pale spine-like curve, quietly shrouding the entire capital city's sky.

Si Ming stood alone atop the tower, his back enveloped by the cold wind, as if he were embedded in the misty walls along with the night.

He was shrouded in fog, and also in a silence that no one could understand.

He held in his hands an ancient book with a dark cover, its spine adorned with gold-embossed runes that emitted a faint glow.

That was a book that had almost disappeared from records—

The Lie Weavers: The Planetary Illusion

—The Old Whispers Version, Seventh Manuscript Fragment.

His fingertips were slightly red, scorched by the lingering mysterious fluctuations on the ancient text, yet he turned the pages without hesitation.

The paper rustled softly, a delicate yet jarring sound, like the slowly opening eyelids somewhere deep in the ocean.

The text on the pages was unstable; the characters seemed to move gently in the firelight, as if they were alive.

The arrangement sometimes appears and sometimes disappears, as if the words themselves are also avoiding some kind of truth.

He read a passage aloud in a low voice, his tone steady, yet it was as if he were reciting a secret command to some absent being:

"The Star Scourge doesn't need to know the truth."

The truth will be shattered by their gaze.

And lies are the first theater door leading to divinity.

He paused for a moment, his fingertips gliding over the reddish pages, and slowly turned the next page.

The pages trembled slightly in the wind, as if they knew their secret was about to be exposed.

He continued reading softly:
"You're not trying to convince them."

You are arranging for them to say things you didn't say.

You are not a god.

You simply pre-written their version of the faith.

Si Ming gazed into the distance.

At the edge of the block, the numbered walls, like prayer flags scattered in a dream, glow faintly in one place.

The whispers of the poetry gathering, like underwater chimes, quietly resonated on the city's edge, their frequencies varying yet possessing a peculiar synchronized rhythm.

Children's doodles, old people's ramblings, madmen's tales—they all tell the same story, yet they have never met.

His eyes were calm, and the corners of his lips were almost imperceptibly raised.

The Whale Tomb no longer needs his efforts.

It takes root and sprouts in the city's fabric, growing on its own through the dreams of those who number it.

He saw it very clearly—the whale tomb was no longer his "work," but his "theater."

And he was slowly walking towards that word he had never admitted to anyone—

Liar weaver.

Not as God, not as a preacher, not as a redeemer.

Rather, they are "illusion directors" who pre-define the format of dreams and beliefs.

He slowly closed the book, and the black spine fell with a very soft "snap," like the final gong at the opening of a theater, revealing the moment when illusion and faith were about to shift.

A night breeze rose from the top of the tower, lifting the hem of his long robe. The fabric fluttered in the air like a curtain being gently rolled up, or like a flag fluttering silently.

Beneath the whale's eye, all remained quiet.

But this quiet is no longer the tranquil peace.

Rather, it's the brief pause when the script is quietly turning a page.

One page has just ended, and the next page... is about to begin.

"You are not their god."

But you are the one who questions their beliefs.

—Page 3, Fifth Sentence of the Mysterious Handwritten Fragment "The Lie Weaver: The Planetary Disaster Illusion"
(End of this chapter)