Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 309 Eye of Destiny
"Fate is not a proposition; it is a spinning bullet."

It doesn't ask if you're ready.

It only lasts for the moment you close your eyes.
Decide--

Which bullet is real?

—From *The Lookout's Notebook: Rex's Fragments*

Fog is the skin that the city has shed.

It's like a secret molting process, slowly peeling away in the early morning before dawn, flowing down along the edge of the capital, silently seeping into the ruins, the cracks in the walls, and the still-wet silence of bloodstains.

At this moment, an old, long-abandoned manor was shrouded in the brown shadows of mist, with broken tiles and withered branches piled up like a tide inside and outside the courtyard walls.
Decaying vines climbed the stone-carved eaves, and brownish-red rust dripped from the broken railings, seeping into the damp soil drop by drop, like old blood on whale bones.

An old horse-drawn carriage was parked in front of the outer wall, its body silent, the driver expressionless, only the horses breathing slightly, exhaling puffs of water vapor in the mist.

Si Ming leaned against the side of the car, his gray-blue trench coat swaying gently in the mist, flipping through a thin book of poems between his fingers. The cover was slightly curled at the edges, yellowed and torn.

He was focused, his gaze wandering between the pages, while his fingers tapped slowly and deliberately on the carriage door, as if waiting for a late actor to enter.

Inside the carriage, Celian slumped lazily in the cushions, her legs crossed, the hem of her skirt trailing behind her in crimson satin.

She toyed with a silver wine seal in her hand, her fingertips deftly turning it as if playing with a toy the size of a heart.

The wine was unopened, but there was already a hint of impatience in her eyes.

“If he doesn’t come soon, I’ll drink blood.”

Si Ming didn't look up, but simply said, "You've already drunk it."

“That’s an appetizer.” She spoke crisply, with a lazy, defiant air.

Suddenly, the wind changed.

It didn't strengthen, but suddenly became still—eerily still.

A thin crack appeared in the mist directly in front of us, like a barrier cut open in a dream.

A dark figure emerged from the fog, its footsteps extremely light, yet precisely landing on every broken brick.

He was tall and thin, wearing an old navy trench coat with diagonal buttons, the back of which bore dark stains from dried sea salt.
A black and gold folding gun was slung across his shoulder, its barrel wrapped in black canvas, as if memories of a bygone era were flowing from the weapon.

He wore a low-brimmed military cap, his face half-hidden in the fog and shadows, but the monocle in his right eye gleamed with a cold blue light through the mist.

Like a deep-sea pupil that has not yet completely cooled down.

He walked to the front of the horse, glanced down at the stone slab beneath its hooves, his gaze paused, and a cold smile curled at the corners of his lips, his tone carrying his usual mockery and familiar ruthlessness:

"The fog is a bit thick. Have you been lying too much lately, Si Ming?"

Si Ming looked up and closed the book, his movements slow and composed, his tone devoid of surprise, only carrying his usual precise calm:
"Long time no see, Rex."

Selene sat up straighter, raised an eyebrow, and sized up the newcomer for a couple of seconds before a sharp, cold smile curled at the corner of her lips, like the tip of a knife lightly touching the surface of water:
“You look like you just swam around the whale graveyard and brought back a bit of the smell of decaying sea.”

Rex removed his gray hat, his eyes calm yet mocking, and gave her a slightly off-the-cuff salute, the gesture exaggerated and sarcastic.
"Good morning, madam. You look like you've just put a judge's heart into a teapot to make tea."

Selene scoffed, "At least it's more respectable than your navy remains."

Rex responded without hesitation, his tone as sharp as a gust of wind:
"Only things washed by seawater are worthy of greeting fate."

Si Ming smiled gently and said softly, "Get in the car. We have one more performance to finish before the fog clears."

Rex nodded, put away his folding pistol, rested the back of the gun on his lap, and got into the car. His movements were swift and clean as he sat down, like a chess piece falling into an old game.

He glanced through the car window at the misty perimeter of the manor, his gaze unwavering.

"You've come to me wanting me to kill someone?"

“Killing is easy,” Si Ming replied softly, his voice low and deep, like a tidal wave surging into his heart. “I want you—to live for me once.”

"Live as the answer to a riddle."

"Walk into a theater and perform a miracle they long to believe in."

Rex raised an eyebrow slightly, like a hunter sensing a change in the wind:

"Rules of the game?"

The God of Fate replied, each word ringing with conviction:
"Thirteen men, one bullet, twelve targets, one rotating wheel."

"You bet you can live, but I—"

He turned to look at Rex, his eyes flashing with an almost bewitching light in the night:

“I bet you can make them ‘believe you’ are alive.’”

Rex chuckled softly, a sound as quiet as a knife striking a bone cup in the dead of night.

His smile carried the melancholy and irony unique to those who look out for fate, as if all of this had been written at the turning point of his life.

He put on sunglasses, buttoned up his trench coat, and spoke in a low, clear voice:
"All I need to know is—which bullet is meant for me."

"Leave the rest to 'her'."

He slowly raised his hand and placed it on his right eye.

The azure glass mirror gleamed with a cold, eerie light in the mist, like the slowly opening pupils of a deep-sea whale.

Si Ming leaned against the carriage wall, closed his eyes, as if listening to the unbroken whisper from the deepest part of the city:
"They won't believe what we say."

He paused, a slight smirk playing on his lips:
"Then—let them believe the way we acted."

The carriage slowly drove into the quietest area in the southern part of the capital city – “Death Law Street”.

Those were place names that existed only in the gray layer of the map, a corridor forgotten by the law. At this moment, the fog peeled away from the city like old skin, like the molting of a whale's grave.

The carriage stopped.

The thirteen people had formed a circle, silently waiting for something.

The gun is loaded, the cylinder is spinning, one bullet is real, the rest are empty shells.

The theater is set up, awaiting only the lead actor's appearance.

It was 2 p.m., a rare sunny day. The sky over the foggy city was cloudless, and the sunlight fell like gold foil.

But this light could not reach where they were.

The location is the sixth basement level of Dead Law Street.

A casino space converted from an abandoned church – the Abyss Theater.

There are no windows, no wind, and the walls isolate the passage of time.

Even on the brightest day in the capital, the streets beneath Death Law remain as dark as a whale's belly.

The entire venue resembles the interior cavity of some giant deep-sea creature, where even the air seems to be crushed by the pressure of the sea.

The wall still bears traces of life patterns, repeatedly blackened, the lines crooked like dried blood vessels.

The dome that once housed the deities behind the gate has long since collapsed, leaving only the exposed arched structure suspended above the dome, like the skinned bones of a whale, which has been recycled and reused by the Theater of Destiny.

The revelry of the nobility needs no light. All they need is a stage and "roles" to burn.

"Bet placement closed."

"Number thirteen, take your seat."

"The show begins."

A cold announcement came from the theater's high platform, delivered by a female emcee dressed in a silver feather gown and wearing a black and gold mask.

Her voice sounded like that of an old-fashioned clock, precise in rhythm and devoid of emotion, as if the entire life-and-death situation was merely a programmed sequence.

Rex slowly walked to the thirteenth chair.

He was still wearing that faded old navy overcoat, with a rusty military badge pinned to his chest, and the collar stained with the grayish-white of dried sea salt.

He took off his hat, bowed his head in greeting, his movements steady and almost ceremonial.

He looked around.

Thirteen people sat in a circle, forming a closed loop of fate. Each held a revolver, the muzzle pointed at the temple of the person to their right.

No goggles, no earmuffs, only the moment when fate and metal interlock.

The whalebone chandelier above flickers on and off, like some ancient creature breathing in the abyss.

Up in the stands, the nobles were already chatting and laughing. Red wine swirled in crystal glasses, its color as deep as blood.

The women wore sashes, and the men wore badges, as if an elegant pantomime of high society was about to unfold.

A baroness in a blue feather dress reclines on the armrest, her fingertips tapping the betting slip, her eyes languid.
"Number Thirteen, he has good eyesight... I'm betting he's insane. But madmen are the ones who often live the longest."

The old nobleman beside him coughed softly and replied with a smile:

"Number 13 is the cursed seat; in every performance, whoever sits there dies."

The other person whispered:

"That was the most exciting moment."

Rex sat down expressionlessly, his hand firmly gripping the gun handle.

The bullets are loaded, the cylinder is mixed.

He slowly raised his eyes and looked at the person standing at the edge of the platform—Si Ming.

Today, Si Ming was dressed in a formal suit with black and gold trim, a smile on his face, his expression as calm as if he were merely reviewing a rehearsal that had nothing to do with life or death.

His gaze pierced through the light and mist, meeting Rex's.

Eyes crossed.

Si Ming nodded slightly.

"The curtain falls."

The female emcee announced the final sentence.

The lights went out—and the entire theater fell into a deathly silence.

In the darkness, Rex gently pressed Mira's Siren's Eye with his right thumb, and the Mysterious Instant Activation was activated.

He burned three stars of reason, and his mental power surged in like a flood, distorting the world in the lens.

His right eyepiece, with its siren-like eyes, shimmered with blue-white light in the darkness, like the undulating scales of the deep sea.

He "saw" it—the next five seconds.

He saw that of the thirteen men, the third one would pull the trigger in the first second, and the gun would go off accidentally.
The fifth finger twitched in the second second, causing the bullet to deviate from its trajectory and accidentally hit the target on the right.

Number 7 will fire a blank shot in the third second;
Bullet number nine will pierce ear canal number ten and ricochet off to strike his own skull.

On his left, Number Eleven will be hit by mistake—if he doesn't dodge, his skull will be pierced.

Rex tilted his head slightly, within millimeters of the movement.

The bullet grazed his earlobe, creating a sonic boom that scorched the air.

In the complete silence, he was the only one who completed that one-millimeter displacement.

The next second, gunshots rang out like a sudden downpour, revolvers exploded in succession, flames illuminated each other's faces, and blood splattered as if fate was rolling dice.

Then—silence.

The lights come on.

Eleven people fell to the ground, each with a different death expression; some were frozen in terror, while others still wore smiles.

Only two people remained. One was a blond boy who had fainted while standing.

The other one is Rex.

He stood ramrod straight, the muzzle of his gun still pointed at the boy's temple—precise and steady.

The noble seats were silent for three seconds.

Then, the first round of applause rang out from the Baroness in the blue feather dress:
"My judgment remains unchanged."

The stands erupted in laughter and applause, like boiling water poured into a cold silence.

The red wine was poured into the glasses again, and laughter filled the air, as if they had just witnessed a sophisticated and cruel high-class pantomime.

Rex slowly sheathed his gun, gently placed it back on the side of his chair, stood up, gave a slight bow to the female emcee, and said in a low voice:

"I have a premonition... that death is ever-present."

After he finished speaking, he turned and left the stage, his movements quiet and restrained, like a classical dancer who had just finished taking his final bow.

At the end of the corridor behind the stands, the Baroness was already waiting for him.

She handed me a glass of blood-red champagne, her gaze carrying her usual air of nobility mixed with a hint of amusement:
"Are you a madman or a prophet?"

Rex took the glass, smiled to himself, and looked down:
"I just... heard the bullets singing."

The two stood side by side in the dim light. In the short ten minutes, he did not say "Whale Tomb" or "Meddess".

He only told me about a dream.

In my dream, there was a ship without a name.

A princess stood at the bow of the ship, behind her a kneeling staircase made up of the corpses of those numbered.

"What she offered up was not blood, but a number."

"What she wants is not submission, but structure."

“Whalebone is her crown.”

Believe it or not, it's up to you.

After he finished speaking, he drank the wine in his glass, bowed slightly, and turned to leave gracefully.

No one asked who he was.

The nobles only remembered that on that night, Number Thirteen sat in the darkness and smiled.

Everyone else was dead.

As I walked out of the Abyss Theater, Si Ming was standing on the street corner.

The fog spread out behind him, like a curtain that had not yet dissipated.

He didn't bring an umbrella; his gray-blue trench coat fluttered gently, like an old page being turned.

Rex put his top hat back on, raised his hand expressionlessly, as if beckoning to some unseen destiny.

The two walked side by side into the fog, their steps unhurried, as if they had rehearsed it beforehand.

Si Ming tilted his head slightly, a smile playing on his lips: "Smoothly?"

Rex spoke softly, his voice still carrying the lingering gunpowder and weariness from the previous exchange:

"They don't believe the truth I tell, but they believe the madness I say."

Si Ming nodded, his gaze calm and composed, his tone like that of a teleprompter in a theater:
"Very good. This madness is today's prophecy."

They walked side by side into the increasingly thick fog-shrouded streets.

The silhouettes cast by the tall buildings resemble chains, and the city is as quiet as if waiting for a mute bell to toll.

They thought it was purification, but they found out that they were among the ones being purified.

On the fifth day of the Whale Tomb Purification Order, subtle yet undeniable changes began to occur in the atmosphere of the royal capital's aristocratic circles.

On the surface, the streets returned to calm, the message wall was painted with a Virgin Mary motif, and the numbered poems no longer echoed on the street corner.

The tea party proceeded as scheduled, and the carriages arrived at the Central Theatre on time as always.

However, those noble families who had participated in the Sleeper trade or had long received "deep sleeper servants" began to collectively fall into an indescribable unease.

Because of the church, they started auditing the accounts.

It was not a public hearing-style purge, but an extremely quiet and sharp "faith-based knife technique."

A spies using peepholes appeared in the records room of the noble mansion, while the administrative clergy of the nursing home quietly applied to the Imperial Archives for dozens of "lists of deceased military dependents".
Even the "numbered cleaning letters" that some nobles had secretly submitted were sealed and frozen.

They sensed something, but couldn't articulate it.

As a result, small-scale gatherings have quietly increased.

At first, these were just whispers among the old nobles: "Princess Medea's actions are too radical."

“We are all loyal subjects supported by His Highness Orion.”

But soon, the topic started to go astray.

"Did you know? She refused to grant an exemption to the Earl's family of the sixth seat."

"But they've only kept three Sleepers... Did she mistake one for another, or did she choose them on purpose?"

On the evening of the fifth day, at a routine aristocratic banquet, someone raised their glass and murmured:

"Your Highness has investigated so thoroughly, could it be that she intends to recruit all the Sleepers into the Church as materials for the 'Star Calamity Offering'?"

No one answered for a moment.

Instead, some people put down their glasses, their voices low and somber:

"I heard that she has recently gone into seclusion to pray, preparing for a kind of 'theatrical divine descent ritual'."

Another person whispered, "If she really wants to ascend to the 'Star Calamity Constellation,' she needs—extremely pure numbered material."

The clinking of glasses quietly ceased.

Anonymous letters began to circulate, and an unsigned leaflet spread with eerie speed through the private residences of nobles:

"If the number on the whale's tomb is the offering, then it is a sacrificial offering."

"Then whose Mother is she?"

This leaflet was not published in the newspaper, had no delivery record, and no one claimed to have written it, yet it seemed to grow tentacles on its own, traveling through the memories of the nobility.

The Church attempted to suppress the movement, but faced significant resistance. The nobles began refusing to hand over the "numbered lists," and some even secretly burned records related to the "patrons of the numbered individuals."

On the same evening, several noble councilors personally dispatched by Orion also sent a joint private letter to the emperor:
"Has Her Highness Medusa used the name of the Church to actually elevate her personal divine authority?"

Before the white silk had even touched the ground, the whalebone had already entered people's hearts.

The Whale Tomb transformed from a commoner's dream into a nobleman's nightmare.

This dream began to be called "an irresistible possibility".

Amidst the fog, an invitation to a new cocktail party quietly slipped out.

That was the next betting game in the thirteenth round. The home side was empty, with only one line of text left:

"To Her Highness Medici, may she ascend the throne."

The Whale Tomb theater is still going strong.

But the audience has already begun to speculate—who is performing, and who wants to become a god.

Night fell quietly, and the fog settled over the city.

Inside the study of Morning Star Manor, the fireplace burned low, spitting out bluish-green flames.

The numbered charts on the wall trembled in the wind, as if the entire wall had become breathing skin.

The walls were covered with newspaper clippings, letters, anonymous poems, and excerpts of private rumors, each page resembling a script for a theatrical performance, awaiting the next act.

Rex leaned against the window, twirling an unexploded bullet in his hand, its silver casing reflecting the flash of light. His voice was low and clear:
"The nobles' nerves have been pricked."

"They began to test each other, wondering if the person beside them was a 'sacrifice' reserved by the eldest princess."

“The Whale Tomb is not a truth; it is a knife—used to tear apart the power structure they believe to be stable in their illusions.”

Si Ming did not respond; he continued to turn the pages of his book by the firelight.

The thin book, its cover as black as night and embossed with gold, titled "The Liar Weaver: The Planetary Illusion," slowly turned its pages between his fingers.
It's as if some kind of blood curse, whose heat has not yet dissipated, is awakening.

Rex turned to look at him, his eyes sharp:
"What about the civilians?"

"Nobles are suspicious, they mark each other with numbers, and they use their beliefs as knives to stab each other."

"But what about the common people? They believe in the whale graves and chant the numbers, but they don't know where they're going."

"Their faith has collapsed. How far are you prepared to take them?"

Si Ming then looked up.

He smiled, a smile devoid of mockery, yet carrying the serenity of a theater supervisor behind the scenes—like the tranquility before a curtain slowly rises.

"They don't need direction."

"All they need is—a fuse."

He closed the book gently, but the sound of the pages falling was like a bell striking the heart of the theater.

“Baroque is already among them.”

Rex's eyes widened suddenly.

"Our sailors?"

Si Ming smiled slightly, a chilling glint flashing in his eyes:
"The berserker is the one best suited to ignite the world."

"He will personally ignite the powder keg of this city for me."

"When that explosion happens, whether they believe in the Whale Tomb or not—they all have to run."

Rex deftly shoved the bullets back into his belt pouch, his nod sharp as a knife:

“Very well, then I will stay on high ground and wait for them to run away... to see who is the first to fall.”

Their eyes met, and in those few seconds it felt as if fate itself was gazing at each other.

Outside, the bells of the Morning Star newspaper office had changed their rhythm.

The sixth day is approaching.

The whale tomb is no longer just a rumor.

That will become the reason.

"It wasn't rumors that ignited the city."

Rather, they were simply tired of the quiet.

So, when the madman lit the fire,

The city itself is a pile of firewood.

—Echoes No. 679: The Eve of the Baroque

(End of this chapter)