Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 308 The Mirror of the Fog City

Chapter 308 The Mirror of the Fog City
"The curtain rose in the theater, and the audience seats were empty."

You go on stage to perform, but find that—

The mirror was already filled with souls that would never return.

—The Mysterious Fragment of the "Corridor of Illusion," Section Three

At five in the morning, before the first light of dawn broke, the city was still deep in slumber.

Outside Morningstar Manor, an old carriage slowly drove through the mist-shrouded streets, the horses' hooves clattering softly as their wheels rolled over the cobblestones.
It emitted a dull, rhythmic clicking sound, like the prelude to some kind of ritual.

Inside the carriage, Si Ming was wearing a gray-blue trench coat, the lining of which was turned up, revealing dark gold runes.

He leaned against the seat, his expression relaxed yet alert. One hand lightly gripped his black wooden cane, while the other rested on the brim of his hat. The slightly lowered hat shadow obscured most of his face, revealing only a faint smile at the corner of his lips.

Outside the car window, a new version of the "Whale Tomb Purification Order" notice had been posted on the street.

It was a direct order from the church; the edges of the paper were covered with a layer of fire-retardant wax.

The surface is embossed with sacred words, each word like a spell branded by a ritual iron pen, carrying a religious binding force—not a warning, but a "sanctification of language".

The coachman lowered his voice and reminded him, "Sir, we've arrived at the Morning Star Newspaper."

Si Ming nodded slightly, pushed open the door and stepped down, his toes barely touching the ground.

He walked with ease, yet with precision, as if he were walking along a path marked in a script.

As soon as he stepped onto the steps in front of the newspaper office, a figure slowly emerged from the shadows of the side wall.

In the fog, the figure seemed to emerge from the folds of night. It was a priest in black robes, the cuffs of his robes hanging down to his palms, the lines straight like a sword sheath, and he wore a low-brimmed hood, his entire face hidden in shadow.

Only the emblem on his chest was clearly visible—a silver "Pure Words Cross".

This is the logo of the church's special enforcement team, the "Speech Purification Department," which is responsible for "intercepting whisper pollution."

He stood silently in front of the steps, bowing his head as if paying homage to a deity, his movements precise and silent, carrying a dangerous reverence.

Si Ming stood still, gazing at the other person for a long time, a slight smile playing on his lips, his tone calm yet barbed:

"The Pure Language Department?"

The man in black robes remained silent, but slowly extended a white-gloved hand, holding up an exquisite scroll in his palm.

The scroll was wrapped in white silk, and only one character was printed in the center:

"quiet."

That was neither a request nor an admonition.

This is a warning.

The church's strictest prohibition on speech: no content judgment required, just "shut up".

Si Ming accepted the scroll, bowed deeply, and spoke in an extremely gentle tone:

"Thanks for the tip."

The black-robed priest didn't look at him again, turned and disappeared into the mist, like a drop of ink dissolving into water, vanishing without a trace.

Si Ming stared at that retreating figure for a long time before turning around and stepping into the newspaper office.

The entrance appeared to have been swept; the floor was clean, and the curtains were tidy, but there was an unsettling sense of "distortion" in the air.

Those were traces of being "reset," as if the entire space had just undergone an illogical cleansing.

As he took his first step, the edge of the barrier beneath his feet trembled slightly—a residual fluctuation from the [Eavesdropping World Mystery].

Although it has been forcibly shut down, the surgical marks remain, like the lingering heat of a corpse.

Si Ming did not rush in, but moved slowly, circling the corners of the walls and the window frames, carefully examining every tiny discord.

His gaze quickly fell on a mirror.

It hangs on the wall of the rest area, a spot where no reflective material should be displayed—a customary rule established when the Morning Star was founded.

He slowly approached the mirror, stood still, and stared at his reflection with a blank expression.

In the mirror, Si Ming stood quietly, his gray-blue trench coat fluttering slightly, his cane hanging down, his expression calm.

His voice then rose slowly, soft and gentle, as if whispering to another version of himself, or as if reciting a play to a distant place:

"The frogs sit in the well, fantasizing that they can see the whole sky... How could they know that what they see is nothing more than a tiny speck of dust in the universe?"

In the mirror, his lips were slightly upturned, a smile that was neither quite a smile nor a frown.

But the real-life Si Ming is expressionless.

The next instant, however, the reflection in the mirror moved its brow first, as if it were a delayed imitation, or perhaps some kind of "echo of consciousness".

He slowly raised his right hand, his fingertips reaching towards the mirror.

The person in the mirror also raised their hand.

The two movements were almost synchronized—but the slightest deviation was still obvious.

Then, the mirror image of the God of Fate suddenly blinked its left eye, and a wide grin appeared on its lips, revealing an extremely blurry, exaggerated, and almost inhuman "smile".

That smile didn't belong to him.

He is not the original body.

The "Di Ming" standing inside the newspaper office is merely a simulated clone constructed from the [Illusory Corridor].
It is a fictional entity used to play the role of "Siming," a fake piece that appears on the chessboard.

Meanwhile, the true master of destiny was in a secret room of a teahouse deep within Pota Street in the south of the city.

It was an inconspicuous old teahouse, with white wooden floors and morning dampness seeping through the cracks in the window frames.

He wore a grey cloak, the hood obscuring his face, and tapped his fingers lightly on the table, the sound deep and clear, like water striking rocks.

“From today onwards, there is no need to go to the Morning Star anymore.”

His tone was calm, yet it carried an undeniable authority.

Benham on the other end paused, then frowned: "Then... I don't need to continue relaying messages?"

Si Ming looked up at him, a faint smile playing on her lips, her voice still soft, yet seemingly emanating from a deeper mist:
"need."

"But not through you."

"The Morning Star will be quiet starting today."

He paused, his tone suddenly softening, as if he were laying the groundwork for a requiem before death:

"It's so quiet, just enough to make people...more curious."

Benham's eyes flickered slightly, and he suddenly frowned, as if he had noticed something amiss from the details.

"you……"

"This isn't you, is it?"

Sima Ming smiled.

That smile neither denied nor admitted anything.

As he rose from the chair, donned his cloak, pulled up his hood, and turned to leave, his voice slowly emanated from the misty hem of his robe:

“In the drama of the Whale Tomb, the actors do not have to be real people.”

"But every line they uttered—was true."

Royal Court of the Capital: Star-Patterned Council Hall

This is a rarely opened theatrical space, belonging to the silent heart of the deepest part of imperial power.

The emperor will only personally convene a meeting when the throne itself is in question, the structure of the state is shaken, or a divine calamity causes substantial upheaval to the lifeline system.

The hall has a circular structure, with a "Triple Destiny Chart" hanging high on the dome. The three-layer structure is like an inverted vortex, and the flowing star patterns seem to drip with invisible prophecies.

The whalebone-inlaid wall lamp troughs now gleam with a cold, white light, like blades piercing the space, making the entire hall resemble a calm battleground for a surgical operation.

The six royal heirs sat around the table, their seating arrangement not based on blood relations, but on the year their "destiny lines awakened".

Without a doubt, the one in the lead is the eldest daughter of the royal family—Merides Trean.

At the highest point, on the throne, behind the deep shadows draped with fading stars, sat Emperor Henrian VII, who had reigned for forty-seven years.

He remained silent and made no comment. He simply sat there quietly, his gaze as aged as a dried-up ancient well, yet unfathomably reflecting the "fate trajectory" of each speaker.

Meredith spoke first, her posture upright, her gown perfectly in place, her tone slow and steady, each syllable like an incantation etched into the space:

"The Whale Tomb controversy has infiltrated the church's territory, and the numberers' songs have even appeared on the walls of the Church of Our Lady."

"This is no longer just a rumor; it is a public disease caused by the alienation of life patterns and a continuous erosion of the divine order."

“I advocate for the immediate implementation of the ‘Holy Mother’s Rumor Refutation Order,’ stripping all whale grave numbers, freezing the Morning Star, and conducting a comprehensive investigation of all dissemination chains.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than the second seat—the eldest prince, Orion—sneered.

He wore a gold-patterned cloak, his eyes were sharp as drawn swords, and his voice carried an undisguised sarcasm:
"Your entire set of church purification techniques treats the city as a womb, but you forget that fog is not a nurturing church."

"I really want to see if those slanderous and absurd words can actually reach the core of the parliament."

"If you can't, you should cut out your tongue instead of kneeling and listening."

He abruptly looked up, his gaze fixed on the throne:
“The nobles are not dogs waiting to be judged; they are the cornerstone of the state—not to be held accountable, but to be protected.”

The third-ranking prince, Edel, suddenly turned his head, his gaze as cold as iron as he pointed directly at his elder brother, his tone icy and sharp:
"I am not holding the nobles accountable."

"I am holding the criminals accountable."

He slammed a document bearing the naval insignia onto the table in front of him, the sound of the paper hitting the floor echoing beneath the dome.

"Number 1679 is a naval transfer order that I personally signed three years ago."

"Now, however, he appears on the Whale Tomb flyers, as a ghostly, numbered spirit."

"I want to know who it was that replaced the warriors under my command with the sacrifices from the oracle."

After a brief silence in the hall, Princess Liseria, who sat in the fourth seat, slowly spoke.

Her voice was gentle yet clear, her gaze was like water, but her tone was like an undercurrent flowing beneath a mirror:

Whether the Whale Tomb is real or not, we cannot say for sure at this time.

"But if hundreds of thousands of people already believe it, then the question we should be asking isn't 'Is it true?' but rather—'Why are they so willing to believe it?'"

"I request a halt to the crackdown on the Morning Star, at least to preserve space for discussion and expression in some cities."

She didn't raise her voice, but the entire hall seemed even quieter after she finished speaking.

The fifth seat was taken, followed by Princess Victoria's voice.

She didn't look up, but lowered her eyes, staring at the draft finance document spread out in front of her, her tone calm, as if she were reading some predetermined law of cause and effect:

"The market panic triggered by the Whale Tomb has begun to spill over, with private security budgets at aristocratic estates skyrocketing and the price of human body sealing for the Sleepers doubling."

"If the church continues to block information, panic will force the black market to form a bargaining system."

"At that time, the whale tomb will no longer be news... but a commodity."

Finally, the sixth seat—Prince Arthur—had his hands clasped in front of his chin, his expression as dazed as a sleepwalker, yet his eyes reflected the eerie light of swirling vortexes of his destiny.

He seemed to be listening to some absent voice, and slowly began to speak:
"If the Whale Tomb is a dream—then in whose eyes does that dream appear?"

"The numbers aren't their names; they're sequences we assigned them." "Now that they address each other by numbers, shouldn't we also look back—have we ourselves been...marked by someone?"

His voice was soft, yet it was like a ripple on the surface of deep water that lingered for a long time.

A long silence fell over the hall.

Thirty seconds passed without anyone speaking.

Finally, on the throne, Henrian VII slowly opened his eyes.

His voice carried a weathered quality, like the final hammer blow in a theater:
"What you're really fighting over regarding the whale tomb is the right to interpret the 'gate'."

"You're afraid it's not a rumor, but you're also afraid it's true."

He slightly raised his hand, his finger pointing vaguely at the spiral pattern on the dome of destiny.

"I will not make a ruling."

"Fate lines need time to develop."

"This meeting will be held again in seven days."

He spoke slowly and deliberately, as if issuing a decree to fate:
"When the time comes, I will listen to whoever's words come true."

The lights in the council chamber dimmed briefly before coming back on.

After the meeting, the Morning Star was designated as an "observational publication" and was not shut down for the time being, but it lost control of the agenda.

On the same day, the Council of Nobles issued a resolution:

"We will conduct a centralized investigation and filing of all numbered leaflets, anonymous poems, and dream messages."

The Whale Tomb has been placed under semi-closure.

But the whispers in the mist did not cease. They began to grow through "observation," like a plant sprouting from a crack, quietly awaiting the next turning point in their destiny.

The night was as dark as ink, so deep it was almost stagnant. The shadow of the Whale Tomb no longer needed words; it was like a quietly expanding structure, silently spreading beneath the city's skin.

Inside the study of Morning Star Manor, the lights were still bright, and a blue flame, not belonging to conventional energy, burned in the fireplace. The flame was quiet and silent, yet it seemed like a spirit breathing in the deep sea.

Selene leaned back on the sofa, her long red and black feather dress casually draped over the edge of the cushions, the gold thread at the cuffs trailing behind.

She was slowly toying with a bronze metal incense burner, from which a wisp of faint smoke rose—a typical vampire agarwood, used to alleviate the "cognitive shock" experienced by high-level perceivers after excessive exposure to divine whispers.

She suddenly spoke, her voice deliberately relaxed, yet it sounded like the second utterance of a drunken dream:
"I went shopping today."

Si Ming was leaning against the fireplace, flipping through a book with a black cover and silver thread seal. He put the book down, turned his head, and quietly glanced at her without saying a word.

Selene raised her wrist, watching the cigarette smoke drift towards the ceiling, and continued in a low voice:

Do you know what those so-called aristocratic ladies think of me?

She chuckled, her smile thin and cold, her eyes holding a self-deprecating and wary look honed over many years.

“They looked at me as if I were a pool of filthy blood—as if every street I walked through needed to be washed again.”

She turned to the side, leaning against the sofa, her tone growing colder:
"The common people call me 'the curse behind the door,' saying that I have the whispers of the Old Gods in my eyes."

"And the nobles? They smiled nicely and asked me if I would be willing to be the supervisor of their 'sleeping servants'—like I was born to guard the cage."

"This city..."

She paused, the arrogant flame in her eyes flickered for a moment, then dimmed.

"...I really don't understand why you still think it's 'salvageable'."

Sima Ming did not answer immediately.

He slowly closed the book, the mysterious tome he had been carrying with him lately:

The Lie Weavers: The Planetary Illusion

The pages gleamed with a cold light, as if the words within were still changing, like ink flowing in veins.

He gazed at the blue flames in the fireplace, the light reflecting a profound silence in his pupils. He whispered:
"The first phase has been completed."

“The Whale Tomb is now not only the name on their lips, but also the door in their dreams, the fear they cannot name when they write poetry, and the string of numbers they write down when they have nowhere to ask questions.”

"I no longer need to get involved."

Selene raised an eyebrow, gave a cold laugh, and her voice carried a hint of sarcasm:
"So you're planning to back out? Stop publishing the clippings? Aren't you afraid that once the hype dies down, you won't be able to save your adjutant?"

Her gaze swept over him like a knife, yet there was a barely perceptible probing in her tone.

Si Ming did not respond immediately, but slowly turned his head and looked out the window.

The nights in this foggy city are never starless; the sky hangs low like a net about to fall. But he sees far, deeper than the light.

"Sometimes, suppressing public opinion is precisely the best catalyst for spreading rumors."

"When the royal family begins to investigate you, the church begins to purify you, and the nobles begin to fear you—"

"They stopped asking whether the whale tomb was real or not."

"They started asking, 'Why didn't someone tell me?'"

"By then, I won't need to write anymore."

"They will write it themselves."

Selene clicked her tongue, put down the incense burner, interlaced her fingers, and rested them behind her head.

Looking up at the whalebone lamp on the ceiling, there were traces of old blood left between the bone blades.

"You're such a cruel spectator."

"You sit on the edge of the theater and watch them enter one by one, write their own scripts, and perform their own shows."

"You don't need to light the divine fire."

"You just wait for them to catch fire on their own."

Si Ming still did not deny it.

He simply reopened the book, his fingertips lightly tracing a tattered page, and slowly read a passage from a eulogy:
"The god of theater needs no stage."

He only needs to sit behind the scenes.

The audience went mad because of His silence.

The dream of the whale tomb is no longer the stage he created.

It woke up on its own.

What's most terrifying after waking up isn't that no one believes in the Whale Tomb anymore, but that everyone believes in it in their own way.

Night falls on the slums of the foggy city.

The newspaper clippings disappeared. The Whale Tomb purification order was fully implemented, and all texts and symbols related to "numbering," "whale tomb," and "sleeper" were stripped, burned, and confiscated.

The Morning Star Times is no longer on the newspaper rack. The Whispering Wall has been painted white, the message boxes have been forcibly removed, and the anonymous hymns printed on the street have been uniformly reprinted as Hymns of Our Lady, with the content rewritten by the Church's Public Opinion Bureau.

But the crowd did not remain silent.

They simply learned to speak in silence.

In the back alley of a brewery in the old Gangbei district, a group of unloading workers squat on the oil-stained floor tiles, sharing cheap fermentation liquid.

A man, with a cigarette butt dangling from his lips, mumbled indistinctly:
"Have you heard? 'The knight who waters the nobleman', some people say... it seems to be the eldest son of old John."

"Wouldn't he have died long ago?"

"The official story is that it was shelled by rebels. But I saw him behind the stables."

"He walks without making a sound, never looks at people, and even horses are afraid of him."

At another location, the dormitory of the workshop in the Menjing area, several female workers were sewing uniforms around a lamp.

Someone suddenly asked softly, "In your family, is there anyone who died in battle and doesn't want to see their body?"

The needle and thread stopped abruptly, as if the air had been sucked out.

A moment later, someone coughed softly: "My uncle... he 'sank'."

Where did it sink?

"...Queen of the Deep Sea Whales".

Nobody said "Whale Tomb".

But they're all saying it.

Nursery rhymes have changed too.

The children no longer sing "Whose eyes have been shone by the whale's?", but have changed the lyrics:
"I can't say the name of that ship."

It comes from the mist, giving the dead a new face.
"Dreaming of the nobility."

Some mothers angrily scolded their children for being naughty, while some priests shouted at them to shut up.

But even after nightfall, some children still draw whale tail patterns in their blankets, write numbers on their palms, and gently blow on them to make them "sink."

The church attempted to create "silence" by blocking public opinion, but the structure of the discourse began to evolve in a mimicry manner.

The whale grave is called "That Ship", "The Returning Bones", and "The Singing Pot";
Those who are numbered are called "echo people," "misguided spirits," or "those who have returned from the shadows."

No one can truly shut down these languages.

Because they do not belong to reason.

They belong to fear, they belong to dreams.

An underground theater troupe on the west side of the city has recently secretly launched a new play: "Whale Sleep Manor".

It tells the story of a noble family that adopts a mysterious gardener, after which the figures of dead soldiers begin to appear in the manor, and the taste of the sea is found in the cups at banquets.

The words "whale tomb" never appeared in the entire play.

But the final line of dialogue silenced the audience completely.

They don't remember who I am.
But on the shovel in my hand,

There was also blood sample number 1679.

Someone asked who wrote the script.

The troupe members just smiled and said:
"Nobody writes about it."

"It's this city...that I dreamed of."

The whale's tomb stands silent.

The whale tomb is silent.

But each silence is like a drop of oil falling into a fire—silent, yet scorching.

—The theater has already opened.

You don't have to believe in God.
But you can't stop a city collective from imagining it.