Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 310 Sleepless Night
"They are not sleepers."

They are soldiers.

It was their identification number that led them inside;

But the truth—has never left.

—From the "List of Whale Graves: Numbered Footnotes"

West End of Trelian, Black Market Bargaining Hall.

This is one of the deepest, most hidden structures in the capital, built beneath an old canal and concealed by the floor tiles of an abandoned theater. The walls are painted with a matte, non-reflective paint, and the air is filled with the scents of sandalwood, ancient wine, and rust.

There were no windows, no wind, only dampness seeping from the ground and shadows accumulating in people's hearts.

This was one of the places where nobles and shadow brokers secretly exchanged "numbered servants".

In the most secluded layers of the city's heart, the nobles would not personally appear.

They only sent agents carrying the family crest to conduct the handover with the numbered examiners who held church licenses.

Tonight, a "special deal" is quietly taking place.

The air seemed thicker than usual, as if some deep-sea emotion was surfacing.

“Whale Grave No. T2241, NS401, D903, P4479”.

"There are four people in a deep sleep, three men and one woman, and their sleep cycles are completely consistent."

The life line is stable, the mental break has been completed, and there are no signs of a return of self-awareness.

The one who spoke was a man wearing a whale tail patterned armband.

He stood behind the black stone table, his movements calm and his speech clear, without the slightest hesitation.

His eyes held the silence and danger unique to the deep sea; outwardly noble and restrained, yet inwardly revealing the wandering and cunning of a vagabond.

When he introduced himself, his tone was as steady as if he were giving a routine command:
"Sixth Ship - Whale Tomb - Agent Trader - Schiller Soln".

The noble representative frowned: "I haven't seen this batch number in previous catalogs."

"It is precisely because it is new that it is authentic." Si Ming smiled faintly, a smile as shallow as ripples yet thorny.

He reached out and flicked his finger, and a bronze-colored will box slid into the light, its surface sealed with a deep blue wax seal in the shape of a whale tail.
The corners still retain the lacquer patterns used by the church's archives department.

"These serial numbers were once sealed in the deep 'sea-worshiping compartment' of the Whale Tomb."

"The last batch of manuscripts left by Kelcosen is with me."

The box lid was slightly ajar, revealing a yellowed, handwritten serial number page and a folded receipt with a unique pattern.

The cold gold embossed seal of the old Whale Tomb reflected slightly in the firelight.

The people present exchanged glances, their expressions subtly shifting, but no one dared to voice their doubts.

Because the whale grave numbering system has never been made public.

Even the review process for "Sleeper Certification" deliberately obscures their "starting point" and "predecessor".

As long as the lifeline chain is intact and the consciousness threshold is below the threshold, it can be sold, traded, and supported—identity has never been important.

The noble representative glanced at the four people standing behind him, his expression slightly doubtful:
"They... seem a little too sober."

The God of Fate smiled and raised his hand, gesturing slightly:
"The first phase of the chain has just been dismantled and has not yet been connected to the main control network."

"Only by connecting them to your home's energy source can they fall into a deep sleep again."

"After all, you don't want to buy a bunch of zombies, do you?"

The nobleman scoffed, "Of course not. I want obedient slaves, not corpses."

At this moment, the four people stood quietly behind the trading platform, their heads bowed and eyes lowered, motionless.

They were clad in grey-blue robes of slumber, their eyes vacant, their backs ramrod straight.
The old serial number imprint on the back of his hand is clearly visible, and the slightly reddish brand marks gleam faintly.

They are, T2241: Baroque.

NS401: Alfred.

D903: Ivina.

P4479: Leicester.

But by now, their names have long been erased by the "handwriting of the anonymous," leaving only cold serial numbers.

My real name has sunk into the depths of my memories.

Numbering becomes a representation of their existence.

They were not soldiers, not traitors, not survivors.

They are—the people who have been numbered.

They stood there, like actors with their eyes closed beneath the curtain, waiting for the bell to ring to signal the start of their destiny.

Si Ming stood before the table, the lamplight casting shadows on his brows and eyes. His tone was gentle, yet his voice held a certain unspoken certainty:
"Once you sign, they are yours."

“I can guarantee that these four will be the quietest and most obedient servants in the aristocratic circle recently.”

The nobleman gazed at the document for a long time before finally putting pen to paper. The pen tip grazed the contract page, producing a slight, grating sound.

The transaction is complete.

Three quarters of an hour later.

The numbered individuals were quietly transported to the depths of the southwestern manor of the royal capital, to an off-site area of ​​a residence that was not open to the public.

The iron gate of the cellar rattled, and one by one, the gray-clad slumbering figures were led into the inner room.

Chain suspension, numberer connection, command upload.

The manor owner nodded in satisfaction and asked no further questions.

They saw servants—but they didn't realize that the ends of the life-patterned chains hanging on the wall had quietly begun to tremble.

Extremely light amplitude, like spider web-like prophetic ripples, spreads throughout the structure.

They didn't know:
The whale tomb was never "shipped".

It was the whale tomb—that transported itself in.

Those four were not sleep devices waiting to be used.

Rather, it is a container for the memories of the whale's grave.

It was originally a numbered ghost,

But in this manor,
They quietly rediscovered their real name.

—The theater is about to open.

At midnight, deep within the manor, the numbered cells were as silent as a graveyard.

Only the life-pattern pulses of the monitoring crystal continued to pulsate intermittently, as if some imprisoned creature was breathing slowly in its dream.

Its eyelids twitched slightly; it was not yet awake. But it was on the verge of waking up.

Suddenly, on the main control panel, a beam of light that should have been stable suddenly stopped.

The signal flickered, and for a moment, my heartbeat disappeared.

The next second, a deep rumble surged from the deepest part of the prison, as suppressed yet uncontrollable as an underwater volcanic eruption.

He was the first to open his eyes.

Baroque Grande.

He opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and then grinned, a smile as sharp as tearing silk:
"Damn it... I can finally smell the scent of nobles' feet again."

Before the laughter had even subsided, the guards realized what was happening, but it was already too late.

Baroque raised his arm and threw a punch, the force of which surged like a tidal wave, causing the air to explode before his fist.

The guard was smashed directly into the back wall, and the entire stone brick wall collapsed with a "bang," causing the ground to tremble slightly.

The other two sentries awoke with a start, drew their swords, and charged. Before the cold light even reached them, Baroque let out a low growl, a sound like a tsunami crashing against whale bones.

The entire prison ward's sleepers suddenly jolted, as if some collective nightmare had been awakened at the same moment.

They opened their eyes, breathing rapidly, like old soldiers emerging from underwater.

Baroque, draped in a tattered robe of slumber, stood bare-chested, his muscles taut like the steel cables of a ship's hull, a surge of heat emanating from his shoulders like lava.

He strode forward, each step causing the chains to rattle, as if whale bones were responding to his call.

He walked to the cell door and smashed the energy lock with a punch, the fragments scattering like falling stars.

Then, he reached into his collar with his left hand and slowly pulled out an old-looking card—"The Pact with the Sleeping One, Elegy of the Whale Tomb".

The card materialized, revealing a tattered but complete contract document, written in the ancient language of the Abyss.

The document, in the next second, was engulfed by a silent flame, the burning flames seeping into the cracks in the wall inch by inch like a spell.

Inside the cell, a tiny point of light suddenly appeared in the eyes of the other slumbering prisoners—like a forgotten "self" surging forth from the bottom of its life lines.

“Francisco!” Baroque shouted, his voice like the whistle of an old ship.

"You old codger, do you want another round, to see who can leave standing up?"

In a dark corner, a white-haired veteran slowly raised his head, his face covered with scars and the marks of time.

He was stunned at first, then grinned and laughed, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth:
"You lunatic...you're still alive?"

Baroque reached out and pulled him out from behind the iron bars with such force that he even snapped the restraining chain binding his chest.

"Of course, I dare to go down into a whale's tomb, how could I possibly die in a nobleman's doghouse?"

He turned around, his voice booming like thunder, and roared at the entire prison area:

"Everyone who can understand me! Listen carefully!"

"You're not just numbered tickets, you're soldiers!"

"We've been betrayed and our names have been erased; now it's time to take ourselves back!"

At the same time, the three key defensive hubs of the manor were destroyed almost simultaneously.

【Eastern District - Star Map Jamming Pod】

Ivina.

His silver hair was tied up high, his face was as cold as a knife, and the triple mysterious star map defense structure in front of him was trembling slightly, with light and shadow ripples like waves on the surface of water.

She put on special gloves, her five fingers gliding lightly across the star map connection points like a musician, the light patterns on her fingertips spinning, each touch causing the entire set of defense nodes to lose focus.

"Path masking".

"Frequency band disconnection".

"Logic inverted."

She read out the instructions, word by word.

Just as the sentry was about to raise his gun, the entire image control panel "self-destructed" in reverse, shattering like a collapsing mirror.

The signal circuit emitted a terrible high-frequency sound, and the sentry covered his ears and screamed.

Ivina whispered like ice:
"The star charts of nobles are too easy to read."

[North District - Armed Depot]

Leicester.

The taciturn former naval assault captain, hidden in the shadows, slowly inserted the last magazine.

He was highly skilled, with eyes like cannon barrels, silently removing the fuses of the explosives one by one, his movements so fast they seemed like mechanical instinct.

He reattached the owner-recognition seal on the numbering device backwards, reversing the roles of justice and rebellion.

Behind him, three awakened slumberings stood in formation, their military posture unchanged, their eyes burning with fervor.

"We're taking back the ammunition that belongs to us."

"The rest—all reserved for the nobles."

[Central Area - Water Pump Control Room]

Alfred.

The former fleet commander was sitting cross-legged, wearing a FM lens, and holding a mysterious piece of paper in his hand.

He lowered his head and calmly disassembled the hydraulic main core. As the last directional valve was severed, he slapped down the array of runes in his palm.

"boom!"

The main water pump reversed flow, the suppression array collapsed, the lock on the numbered cell door popped open with a "bang," and the metal chain slipped off, as if the shackles had finally succumbed to the tide.

Alfred gazed at the surging fog and muttered to himself:
"This empire's system diagram is not as intuitive as the one the captain drew by hand back then."

The entire manor was thus captured.

The numbered men, draped in slumbering gray robes, marched in formation, their steps perfectly synchronized, the sound of their boots striking the floor like the assembly of warships.

Suddenly, a hoarse command rang out:
"Bug report!"

After a moment of silence, a trembling yet loud voice pierced the night:

"Seventh Fleet of the Rose Sea, Corporal Francisco, Engine Room Maintenance Technician, reporting for duty!"

Following closely behind—

"Fifth Fleet, Lookout Richard!"

"Second Fleet, Helmsman Fenderson!"

"Ninth Fleet, Gunner Andrew!" ...

One by one, the numbered individuals called out their fleet, military rank, and real name, their voices as dense as raindrops, echoing through the night sky, as if the whale tomb itself were emerging from the street.

Baroque stood on the high platform of the manor, with a pile of smashed life pattern examiners behind him and a whalebone cage lying on the ground, its whiteness blinding.

He looked up towards the distant city of fog, his eyes flashing with fire and wild laughter, and spat out a sentence into the night sky:

"Siming—you madman, you're right."

"They're not coming home, they're coming—to collect debts."

They had been declared dead.

Now, passing through the fog, bearing my number and scars, I return home.

Wangdu, Ninth Administrative District, Old Military Family Alley Entrance.

At midnight, the fog still lingered, thick like a silent curtain, slowly flowing along the street, swallowing up door signs, stone steps, and old memories.

A wooden door was pushed open with a "click".

A thin woman stood in the doorway, draped in a worn gray blanket, clutching a bowl of rice that she hadn't had time to wash the night before.

A few drops of oil remained on the rim of the bowl. She didn't speak immediately, but stared blankly at the figure in front of the door, as if it were a projection of a dream, or a lingering shadow that had escaped from the register of the dead.

The man was thinner than he had been three years ago, the knife scars on his face had faded to a light red, and only half of his left arm remained.

He stood ramrod straight, as if he were stepping off the deck of an old warship.

Although his robe was loose and his shoes were torn, his eyes were still as bright as she remembered, like star chart nails polished by an observatory, straight and unyielding.

He said nothing.

He simply raised his right hand slowly, pulled down his collar, and exposed the skin of his right shoulder.

There, a number was branded, and the slightly blistering wound had not yet healed.

The woman froze as if struck by lightning. The next second, tears welled up in her eyes, and she covered her mouth as she rushed forward. The rice bowl shattered with a "crack" on the threshold.

"You are my son...you are not a number!"

She choked up, as if she had bitten down the name she hadn't uttered for three years and was holding it under her tongue.

He simply returned the hug gently, his tone as tender as if he were lightly tapping on the eaves:
"I am back."

He wasn't the only one in the capital that night.

Sailor Sterndling returned to the narrow, low-roofed hut.

His brother had changed careers to become a shoemaker, his hands covered in calluses. When he saw him, he said nothing, but silently cleaned and lit the old lamp in the corner of the room that hadn't been lit for three years.

Army doctor Gianna Riel pushed open the door to the old café on the port street, where the same smell of tobacco still lingered.

After the boss saw her face clearly, his tone was like coffee grounds settling at the bottom of a cup:
"If you don't come back soon, I'm starting to believe that the Whale Tomb is real."

She turned back and smiled, as if enveloped in sea mist:

"That's where I came back from."

They were recognized by their relatives and seen by their neighbors.

At that moment, there were no firecrackers, no flags, only repeated whispers drifting in the night wind:
The person who numbered the whale grave is not a dream, nor a rumor—he is a person.

The Morning Star remained silent, but more tabloids began printing special editions overnight.

The front page headline consists of only one line:
"The number—no, the missing soldier…returns."

Below is a photograph: a row of men and women in gray robes standing on the side of the street, their eyes calm and resolute.

In the background are their families; some are laughing, some are crying, and some are holding them tightly, refusing to let go.

That photo was taken by Benham. He stood behind an old-fashioned SLR camera and said only one sentence:

"They don't need words."

And from that night on, this city no longer needed "guidance".

The walls of the old street were covered with slogans that read "Welcome back to the Navy";

A long line formed at the military dependents registration booth in front of the city hall to claim their families;
District 8 launched a "Number Assignment Day," where people spontaneously wore navy jackets and went door-to-door asking:

"Have you heard? Number 1679 appeared on North Street yesterday."

More radical populist groups began spray-painting numbers on the gates of noble residences. Layers of silver paint were added, and someone wrote:

“You take their numbers.”

They brought back lives.

The nobles began to panic.

Orion urgently convened a meeting of the Noble Alliance, ordering each family to immediately recall all "manor servants" involved in the dormant numbers, and to secretly burn all old files.

But it was too late.

The faces of those numbered have already emerged, and the civilians have long recognized who they are.

The nobles' "purge" at this moment only confirmed the rumors—they knew the truth.

Inside the military tower's main hall, the second prince, Edel, slammed his fist on the table in fury, his voice like a hook tearing through the silence:

"You know they are soldiers, you know they are living people, yet you condone this systematic slaughter!"

Orion remained silent for a few seconds, then responded in a low voice:

"I only look at the results, not the scars."

Edel's eyes blazed with fury that seemed to ignite the entire room. He stood up and immediately gave the order:
"The military security force shall immediately withdraw from the parliamentary guard and cease to obey the Crown Prince's orders."

For the first time, a military split has occurred among the princes in the capital.

Meanwhile, the numbered person was slowly stepping into the capital.

They had no banners, no weapons, no media releases, and no slogans.

They wore the same gray robes, silent and calm, simply walking down the street, walking home, walking the path home that had once been taken from them.

But that scene was more shocking than any other march.

At Morningstar Manor, atop the tower, Si Ming stood by the window, watching the numbered individuals surge into the street. He murmured to himself:
"At this point in the story, it's no longer a theatrical performance."

"This is a memory."

He slowly sat down, spread out the scattered scraps of paper on the table, dipped his quill pen in ink, and wrote the final words before the opening ceremony.

"They didn't come back for the country."
They came back for the name.

For dignity,
For a death that has been taken away.

He stopped writing, his gaze falling on the stack of old letters that had never been sent, his voice as soft as a farewell:

"But some people don't want them to come back—"

Because what they brought back was a truth that should have been buried long ago.

—Morning Star Times, Dawn Inside Page: Numbering as the Soul of the Army

Three o'clock in the morning, the command and council hall on the seventh floor of the Royal Capital Military and Political Tower.

The iron gate closed with a resounding thud, like the lid of a coffin being put down.

The entire tower was as still as a whale's belly, its outer surface, adorned with life patterns, breathing slowly in the dim light like scales, as cold as if the tide of the night sea was hidden in its bones.

The second prince, Edel Trean, sat alone in the main seat, his elbows resting on the table, his fingers clasped tightly together, his eyes as cold, hard, and deep as a blade forged repeatedly in a steel furnace.

On the table lay a list of dormant individuals, as thick as a military register, its pages yellowed yet covered with crimson annotations. In the upper right corner, a line of red ink stood out starkly:

"Returning the Numbered Person's Identity Verification File"

Edel turned the pages, his knuckles tightening as if embedded in a blade.

Each number overlapped with the seal of the transfer order he had personally signed; each page was like a bullet, piercing through his military creed as an imperial general.

With each page he turned, his gaze grew colder.

The door opens.

Orion stepped into the hall with steady steps, his cloak trailing on the ground, like a statue walking into the heart of the world.

The military commander behind him whispered the order to report:

"The Crown Prince has signed the 'Clearance Act,' requesting the military's cooperation in eliminating the out-of-control dormant individuals."

The air seemed to have been suddenly choked shut.

Edel didn't raise his head; his voice was low and deep, yet it was like a rock rolling down the mountain of military discipline.
"You want me to strip the soldiers I once led of their titles again?"

Orion stopped five steps from the table, leaned slightly forward, and spoke in a calm tone, yet with sharp edges:

“They are assets, not soldiers. From the moment they are labeled with numbers, they have already abandoned the dignity of being ‘soldiers’.”

Edel finally looked up, his eyes so cold they seemed to explode with sparks.

You're saying they gave up?

"You stripped them of their military status; you used them to exchange for the fear of the nobles and the praise of the bishops."

"You're the one who transported them into the manor like cargo, locked them underground, shaved their heads, and stripped them of their names—"

"You don't deserve to say 'give up'!"

These words, each one like a hammer blow, made the wall lamps in the entire council chamber tremble.

Orion's gaze sharpened slightly, his tone remaining unchanged, but now tinged with probing and sarcasm:
“You’re too excited, Edel.”

“Recently, your troop deployment orders have been frequent, and your confidants have been entering and leaving the Military and Political Tower more often than the people in the Intelligence Division.”

"Are you feeling sorry for the soldiers? Or... are you trying to feel the weight of the throne?"

Edel slammed his hand on the table, his voice deep and angry, his tone like metal striking a military command table:

"I only feel sorry for those who died for the empire once, and are now being kept as your shadow a second time!"

He stepped forward, his face as cold as a night's edge.

"If you dare to gamble your succession with them—then I will show you with your own eyes: a true soldier will never obey a usurper."

As the two confronted each other, the life patterns in the air rippled like a tremor.

The observation node of the Military and Political Tower's life pattern trembled slightly, and a faint star map crack appeared on the tower's central dome, as if the royal family's lifeline was being quietly torn apart.

The guards held their breath and stood on either side like stone statues, no one daring to speak.

The atmosphere was like the critical pressure of ballast; the slightest shift could cause the entire behemoth of the regime to sink.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, another voice was quietly spreading.

Beside the market, an anonymous flyer was stuffed into a shopping basket, pasted onto the newspaper wall, and handed into an old mailbox—the paper was wrinkled, the ink still damp.

"The Orion Sleeper Legion has exceeded three thousand."

"They should have been warriors, but they became the shadow guards of the nobles."

"He wasn't doing this to suppress others—he was doing it to seize power."

"He amassed a group of assassins and built up private power within the military. The eldest son of the emperor wanted more than just to defend the country."

Rumors, like a fuse, ignited the message wall of the old military family teahouse, spreading along the photocopies of Morning Star newspaper clippings and numbered poem pages.

In the streets and alleys, the whispers of ordinary people gradually changed tone:

"Why do you think he wouldn't let them be reinstated to their military status?"

"Because true soldiers obey military orders, while suicide soldiers only obey their own orders."

Those drinking tea on the street, vendors selling goods, and messengers all asked each other in hushed tones.

Amid public discussion, the topic of the whale tomb has resurfaced.

"The Whale Tomb is not a myth."

"It's a fig leaf."

"It concealed the slaughter, concealed the true name, and also concealed the hilt of the eldest prince's sword."

An eerie silence fell over the entire capital.

This is not calm, but a deep breath before a storm—a silence stretched to its limit, about to snap.

In the study of the tower at Morning Star Manor, a dim firelight illuminates a new flyer.

The paper was not completely dry, the edges were curled up, and the writing was sharp.

Si Ming stared at the page, a smile of inscrutable meaning playing on his lips.

He gently placed it on the table and whispered to Rex, who was standing to one side:

"Sometimes, the truth cannot kill."

He paused, then slightly raised his eyebrows:
"But—guessing is acceptable."

"When they no longer believe in power"

You'll start imagining what it's doing.

At this point, the truth is no longer important.

The important thing is that imagination sounds better than reality.

—From "Night at the Whale's Tomb: Street Questionnaire: Anonymous Collection No. 47"

(End of this chapter)