Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 311 Gathering in the Mist
"They say that a soldier's honor is etched in his number."

But some people never intend to wait for anyone to vindicate them.

Because of the true spirit of the military—

Not written on paper, but etched into my bones.

—Morning Star Times, Day 6 Special Edition: Immortal Military Names

At five o'clock in the morning, the city was still shrouded in thick fog.

The clock tower has not yet rung its first chime.

The entire city seemed to be still asleep in its own body heat, like a giant beast curled up, unwilling to wake up.

The streets were silent, save for the wind that swept through, carrying the lingering scent of last night's incense, whispering as it passed by the street corners.

But today, something is different.

In the city center, at the former military headquarters memorial square.

The Monument to Military Spirit—the stone tablet that had long been designated as a "historical silent zone" by the government affairs office—is now receiving its long-awaited attention in the morning mist.

The first figure stepped onto the stone base.

He was an old man, wearing an old-fashioned military uniform robe, the fabric faded from washing and the edges were torn.

His back was slightly hunched, and a rusty, retired military blade hung at his waist.

He neither accompanied anyone nor spoke, but simply stopped in front of the Monument to the Soul of the Army, as if returning to the place where he was originally supposed to be stationed.

Then, a second figure appeared.

He was a young man, wearing an old hat pulled low, his steps hesitant yet firm.

He approached the monument, raised his hand in salute, gently placed a numbered plaque on the stone base, then turned and stood to the right of the old man.

The third, the fourth, the seventh, the thirteenth...

More and more people emerged from the fog.

They did not speak, shout, or carry any weapons.

They were simply wearing gray cloth robes, worn but still fitting, with a handwritten identification card on their chests, displaying their number, old rank, and fleet affixed.

The ink was blurred, the edges of the paper were curled, and some only had three letters and a string of incomplete numbers left.

But they came.

Emerging from street corners, under eaves, abandoned ditches, underground passages, and deep alleys of Broken Tower Street, one after another, the city's dream gradually takes shape.

Three hundred and sixty-two people, all in formation.

They stood silently, facing the monument to the military spirit, their figures as solid as rocks, as immovable as a forest.

Each of their numbers can be found in the "missing military personnel list" over the years.

The monument, once engraved with imperial medals, is now nothing but weathered lines and a ring of "No Assembly" warnings.

No government official stepped forward to stop it.

The municipal workers who used to patrol regularly every day seemed to suddenly be "late," or... deliberately "absent."

The changing of the guard should have arrived long ago, but there was no one there.

They dare not come, or are unwilling to come, or perhaps—they know they cannot come.

When the morning light of the sixth day finally tore a hole through the fog, the beam of light fell obliquely and landed right in the center of the square.

The numbered individuals stood in a standard military formation, as if they had rehearsed beforehand.

A silent defensive formation.

For a moment, even the wind stopped.

A crowd began to gather.

The first to arrive were the veterans' families. They stood on the outskirts of the square, arms crossed, their eyes sharp as needles, as they pulled out the family letters, portraits, and identification tags that had been worn out from being read so many times.

They silently compared themselves to those figures, as if if they stood there long enough, the figure that had disappeared for many years would miraculously turn around.

Next came craftsmen, apprentices, teahouse owners, municipal clerks, low-ranking scribes, and accountants and coachmen for noble families.

They didn't speak, they just stood there.

Looking at that row of numbers, looking at those bodies standing back in the city center.

Some people's hands and feet were trembling, but they still managed to stand up straight.

Someone placed an unlit cigarette in the crack between the floor tiles in front of the person who was numbering the number.

Someone quietly took off the scarf from their neck and gently draped it over the shoulders of one of them.

They said nothing—they were only afraid that these people would disappear again.

There were no slogans.

There was no speech.

There were no signs.

But the silence was deafening.

Even the city bells seemed to hesitate for a moment because of the silence before slowly ringing out the first chime at exactly six o'clock.

The moment the bell rang, a numbered person slowly removed their hat, stood at attention, and saluted.

Immediately afterwards, all 362 people moved in unison, raising their right arms and placing their fists on their left shoulders in a standard military salute.

They had no badges, no bugles, no proclamations.

Only themselves—

And, their names.

Just when people thought the silence would end solemnly, a striking red and black figure suddenly appeared at the far end of the street.

A squad of parliamentary guards, draped in cloaks adorned with noble coats of arms, appeared in the morning light.

The leader walked with a steady gait, his eyes cold, and his right hand held aloft a Destiny-related card.

The execution of "The Pulse of Command" is shrouded in mystery.

They came without questions; they came with authorization.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the foggy city, newsboys on Pota Street scurried through the crowds, holding up today's latest issue of the Morning Star Times.

The front page only contained one paragraph:

"They are not here to protest."

They came to tell this city: We once existed.

Before the number was affixed
We once had names, and battle flags.
There was a glory that belonged to the empire.

—Morning Star Times, Day 6, Midday Special Edition: Biographies of Numbered Individuals

The church bells rang six times, their sound seemingly rising from the bottom of the sea, passing through the mist, and slowly echoing into every street and alley.

The sky over the foggy city remained gray and heavy, like a soaked tomb cover, suffocating our breath and the echoes of history.

In the square, 362 numbered individuals had been standing still for a full hour.

Their formation had no commands or artificial arrangement, yet the neatness of their arrangement and the composure of their posture surpassed the discipline and drill manuals of any training camp.

Their gazes were fixed straight on the Monument to the Military Spirit, neither looking to the left nor to the right, as if they were looking at a mirror or a grave.

The air seemed frozen under a spell, and even the wind dared not blow.

The crowd held their breath, each breath carrying the stench of salt and blood, and an indescribable sorrow.

That's not anger.

It is something quieter and more chilling than anger—

That was tragic.

That was an insult.

That was the last time they stood in the world, stripped of their names by history, silently engraving their will to "exist" into the stone tablet.

A person with a number slowly walked out of the queue.

He was αE-4, a former medical officer in an infantry company, and still had a rough-stitched old battle wound on his left arm.

He gently placed a yellowed military record book at the foot of the monument. The book was worn and curled by the years, and every corner was inscribed with names from the past.

He crouched down, opened the first page, and read aloud in a low voice, his voice trembling slightly, yet clear as an anchor driven into the ground:
"Joseph Lynn died from his injuries."

"Castro Anton, shot in the left chest."

"Vincent Ada was left to guard the fort because there were no available evacuation slots... his fate is unknown."

He turned the pages one by one, reading each name aloud.

When he called out the thirtieth name, his voice choked, his throat tightened as if on fire, and after a moment he let out a suppressed roar that was almost piercing:

"They all died on the front lines! And me—"

"I came back alive, but what I got in return wasn't a medal, but a number for my slumber in the Whale Tomb. While nobles rode horses to enjoy the scenery, I performed equestrian tumbling as a slave!"

With trembling hands, he tore off the number pasted on his chest and forcefully stuck it to the base of the monument:
"Don't I deserve to be buried with them?"

His eyes were bloodshot, and his throat felt like it was weighed down by a thousand pounds of lead, but his tone was heavier than a stone tablet.

Beside him, another person with a number took off his outer robe, slowly turned around, and revealed his back.

Number BF-9.

His skin was already pale and cracked, and there was a hideous scar on both sides of his spine, which went straight to his shoulder blade. It was left when he used his body to block a musket bullet in Adelaide Bay.

He yelled, turning his back to all the onlookers:
"This wasn't given by the Whale Tomb!"

"This was fought on the front lines; I was saved from the enemy lines!"

"But you put a number on me! You made me work as a servant in the kitchens of nobles, wearing a cloth robe to polish their boots and scrub their golden cups!"

After he finished shouting, he felt as if his whole body had been hollowed out, but he still stood straight.

The sound was like a pebble being thrown into a deep lake, spreading outwards in concentric circles.

Finally, someone couldn't help it anymore.

Several military dependents' wives rushed onto the square, collapsed in tears before the numbered figures, and knelt down, screaming with heart-wrenching cries:

“You say they’ve been dead for three years—our son whom we’ve been waiting for in our dreams but who will never come back!”

"They're back! They're alive—they're human!"

An elderly woman with white hair tremblingly grasped the hand numbered γT/5, a rusty old gold military badge hanging on her chest.

Her voice was hoarse, and she could barely utter a complete word:

Do you... still remember me?

The soldier looked down at the hand that had once held his, and his eyes instantly welled up with tears.

He knelt down, his fists pounding the ground, his voice sounding as if squeezed from between his bones:

"Report... I remember."

Her tears broke down.

The atmosphere began to heat up, and emotions were like oil meeting a flame; without any slogans being shouted, the entire square was already ablaze.

No one was directing, but more and more people stepped out of the crowd.

An old tailor took a faded "Retired Military Personnel Commemorative Flag" out of his pocket.
With trembling fingers, he handed it to a numbered person standing in the front row.

The person took it, held it in both hands, and gently unfolded it.

He donned the battle flag and walked step by step to the front of the formation.

His number is 1679.

That was the first number to appear in the legend of the whale tomb, the "source of rumors" that was dreamt of by thousands and circulated in tens of thousands of newspaper clippings.

Today, this number no longer belongs to mythology.

It has a face.

It has flesh and blood.

He stood before the stone tablet, a man covered in old wounds, his eyes still burning with steel.

From the crowd, the first shout finally erupted:

"They are not just numbers—they are soldiers! They are those who have returned!"

"Three years ago you said they died in battle, but three years later they're wiping the railings in the nobles' stables!"

“They are soldiers sold out by the Empire, the ‘out-of-control sleepers’ you speak of, but they remember—they still remember who they are!”

Someone cried.

Someone was pounding the ground.

Some reporters left the scene choking back tears, while some police officers removed their swords and quietly stood at the edge of the crowd.

Some civilians even went up to the back wall of the Monument to the Military Spirit and wrote a line of words on the lime wall with charcoal:

“The numbers are their curse.”

"Our silence will be their second death."

The sky was still dark.

But at that very moment, the entire city, for the first time, entered into a collective silence, marking the beginning of a battle that would not be recorded in any military history.

They didn't shout, they didn't charge, they didn't throw stones, and they didn't display flags.

They were just standing there.

Do not move, do not retreat, do not speak.

But the entire capital was trembling because of these three hundred and sixty-two people.

The upper seat of the council chamber in the capital city.

Before the meeting even started, the air was thick with tension, as if a single glance could set the entire room ablaze.

Orion stood in the very center, draped in a golden royal robe, his expression as heavy as an iron cloud pressing down.

He held the unsheathed ceremonial dagger in his right hand, his knuckles slightly clenched, as if he were holding the law itself, rather than a weapon.

He spoke slowly, his voice low and deep, yet cold and resolute, like a sharp blade slicing through stone:
"It's time to finish."

"They are not soldiers, they are just slaves."

"From the moment they joined the Royal Trean Legion, they swore an oath that their blood, bones, and souls belonged to the Imperial Navy."

"They are simply fulfilling a vow now."

In the legislature, one member couldn't help but protest in a low voice: "But they... used to be..."

Before he could finish speaking, Orion slammed his hand on the table, the sound echoing through the chairs and furniture:
"In the past? 'In the past' is not now!"

"If every 'past' can lead to people gathering in the streets, disrupting order, and inciting public sentiment—would every civilian be able to put on their grandfather's old military uniform and protest in front of parliament tomorrow?"

"Do you really think this is a memorial?"

His gaze swept across the room, like a judge listing crimes.

"They are here to seize the right to speak."

"They want to inscribe the glory of the empire on their graves, not in the royal annals."

A deathly silence fell over the entire hall. Only Edel slowly rose, his face ashen, his voice low and menacing, like a hammer striking a life-bound stone:
"They are not rebelling."

"They are just asking for a word of acknowledgment."

"They wore the numbered uniforms not to subvert the government, but to exchange them for a military name."

Orion looked at him, a slow smile playing on his lips, his eyes filled with sneer and mockery:

"Military titles are reserved for those who die in battle, not as tools for traitors."

“You’re too caught up in your ‘military romance,’ Edel.”

"The order of the empire cannot be maintained by your few outdated veterans; they are obsolete."

Having said that, he turned and gave an order to the attendant beside him:
"Dispatch the Noble Council Guards and escort them to the Military and Political Square."

“I will personally announce—the numbered eviction order.”

Edel's face instantly darkened, and he abruptly took a step forward:
"You have no right to issue this order!"

Ollie raised his head without turning back, leaving behind only a sentence that was as sharp as a knife:

"I am the eldest son of the emperor, the heir to the pure-blooded destiny mark."

"In this royal capital—I am the law."

His cloak fluttered as if it were a banner unfurled by the monarchy itself.

Edel stared intently at his retreating figure, his eyes flashing with a cold light like a night's edge, his knuckles clenched so tightly they turned white, and finally, he spoke slowly and deliberately:
"You will regret this."

—

On the square, the numbered individuals still stood like a forest.

They were silent, motionless, and unyielding, like statues emerging from the depths of time.

Citizens gathered like a tide, the crowd stretching three blocks away. Some stood on rooftops gazing into the distance, while others knelt at the foot of the monument in silent prayer.

There were also children holding their grandfathers' military badges, quietly reciting the numbers, and innocently imitating the salute.

Just then, a line of golden-red cavalrymen marched through the royal capital's main road, their hooves landing heavily like thunderbolts into the heart.

Orion has arrived.

He stood atop the high platform in the square, adorned with the emblem of the Sun, his golden hair billowing in the morning breeze, his posture upright, like a god judging mortals.

Behind him, the noble guards stood in neat rows, as orderly as a wall, armed with muskets, life-patterned explosives, and mental suppression devices, all ready to go.

Orion slowly raised his chin, his voice carrying clearly throughout the entire venue:

"You must leave."

“You are not soldiers, you are slaves. Your ownership now belongs to the nobles.”

"You swore an oath to give your blood, your freedom, and your souls to the monarchy."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the row of silent figures in grey robes:

"And now, you have betrayed the order, disrupted the city's structure, and torn the face of the empire apart."

“You are not martyrs, you are relics.”

The crowd erupted in uproar, yet remained restrained.

At this moment, an elderly woman with a full head of white hair slowly walked forward, leaning on a cane, her steps unsteady yet firm.

She stood in the center of the square, looking directly at Orion, her voice trembling:

“My son is right here.”

She turned around, placed her hand on the shoulder of one of the numbered individuals, and tears streamed down her face.
“He was born of me, I taught him to walk, and I personally sent him to the army camp. He wrote to tell me that he had wiped out the pirates and received commendation.”

"Now you're telling me—he's not a soldier?"

Orion's eyes narrowed, and he replied coldly:

"If he were truly a soldier, he should have died on the battlefield."

This sentence was like a spark falling into dry tinder.

In an instant, the square collapsed like a dam, and the silence was completely torn apart.

A scream pierced the air, and a stone flew towards the platform, only to be stopped by the soldiers.

Following closely behind were bottles, shoes, tattered prayer scrolls, broken epitaphs, and even a half-burnt life record card.

The person who numbered the item did not move.

They remained standing, silent, but that row of silent figures struck angry hearts like a thousand-pound hammer.

The crowd finally roared:

"You are not a prince—you are a butcher!"

"You don't even recognize us as human beings, so why should we recognize you as king?"

"The whale grave is the one you buried, and now it's turned upside down and biting you!"

The soldiers began to tense up, and the guard commander asked in a low voice whether the mental suppression device could be activated.

Orion, meanwhile, sneered from his high platform.

He raised his sword high and declared, word by word:
"Guards, launch an attack."

"Let them understand that—beneath bloodlines, lives are not equal."

He suddenly drew his sword, its cold light flashing, pointing directly at the crowd:
"Those who are numbered—don't deserve to have names."

And this sentence became the last spark of fire in the burning capital.

The city was set ablaze.

Flames erupted suddenly.

A hand reached out and pulled the numbered welcome cloth, which was trampled in the dust, from the mud and set it on fire.

The next moment, some broke through the blockade, some overturned the fallen guards' shields, and some used their torches to ignite the anger that should have been burned long ago in the center of the square.

Flames rose behind the numberer, like a symbol about to tear the sky apart.

They finally took a step.

There was no roar.

There was no revenge.

They simply placed their hands on each other's shoulders, forming a final defensive circle for a soldier, just as they had done in trenches, naval ports, and deep-sea decks.

"It's not rebellion."

"Yes—the military name has been restored."

This single sentence, like a sharp blade slicing through the empire's sealed archives, revealed the truth buried for many years, exposing its bloody secrets.

Flames spread, and a raging tide roared.

Even as Orion raised his sword and ordered the complete suppression of the numbered individuals, he remained convinced that he had the upper hand.

He believed in the noble army, the royal decrees, and the binding cards of faith.

He believed in the "natural authority" of the system, which could crush these "half-humans" who were reduced to mere numbers.

He thought these numbered individuals were nothing more than a few salvaged slumbering fragments, which could be dealt with with a few sealing incantations and a dispelling card.

But he was wrong.

He forgot that the true backbone of the empire's frontline fighting force was never the ceremonial troops draped in noble cloaks.

These are civilian soldiers and non-noble officers who were widely recruited, formally trained, bound to low-level arcane cards, and who had actually served on the front lines.

They and the numbered individuals in the square had once worn the same uniforms, slept on the same metal bed, and endured the same instructors' scolding.

The only difference is that these people are put to sleep and have their titles banned, simply because they "didn't have time to die," while the empire needs to continue to whitewash the peace.

The first to step forward was the deputy commander of the 7th Defense Brigade.

He was originally from the noble guard system, but when he saw a numbered soldier fall to the ground, blood gushing out, struggling, he gripped his scabbard tightly and roared:

"He was my comrade-in-arms! A soldier who survived the baptism of gunfire!"

He tore off his armband, stepped out of the formation, and stood step by step beside the numbered person.

The second person to step forward was a mid-level command system officer with life runes.

He took off the communicator, threw it on the ground, and spoke in a low but piercing voice:

"We are not fighting for the nobles."

“You treat us like disposable items, refusing to even return our names, yet you dare to call yourselves ‘princes’?”

Every word he uttered seemed to strike at the very foundation of the authority of the entire political tower.

Then, the third, the fourth...

Thirty-seven branches were established.

More than half of the neighborhoods are military and police units.

Hundreds of low-ranking soldiers immediately ceased fighting.

They removed their badges and joined the ranks of the numbered individuals. No one gave the order, but every movement flowed like a torrent.

At the top of the military communications tower, the tactical command light was turned off.

Then rose a bloodstained battle flag, torn from rags by the numberers, slowly rising in the firelight and fluttering in the wind.

"They did not betray us."

"It was the order—that betrayed them."

Orion was stunned.

He stood on the high platform, his eyes vacant, his face pale, murmuring softly:
"How dare they... how could they do that?"

"Who gave them permission to disobey orders?"

The attendant was covered in cold sweat, his voice hoarse:
"Your Highness... the lower-ranking officer system has broken down."

“They said…they no longer obey the ‘royal family’.”

"They want an answer."

At that moment, Orion suddenly realized that he had never truly understood what "military spirit" meant.

He once thought that soldiers were system nodes that could be encoded and taken over, walking weapons bound to a life rune system.

He didn't understand—how did those ordinary people, still covered in mud and smelling of gunpowder, manage to stand up?

They weren't standing by numbers.

They remember who they are by remembering each other.

His sword, originally intended to suppress a rebellion, severed the last link between the soldiers and the royal family at this moment.

When Edel arrived at the square, the firelight illuminated his unbuttoned military robe, and he saw blood, fire, shattered life-patterned controllers, and torn flags.

The numbered individuals are no longer in formation, but are taking action.

Some broke through the cordon and fought back against the scattered noble guards.

Some formed a human wall to protect civilians, military dependents, and veterans in the square.

Some people picked up the old guns, axe handles, and torches that had fallen to the ground, and their eyes reflected the outline of the burning city.

This is not a rebellion.

This is an awakening of memories of war.

It is a group of people who had been dormant, who were awakened again—not to obey, but to accomplish.

Edel strode forward and shouted at the top of his lungs:

"Enough! Stop now, it's not too late!"

"I will vouch for your military status, and I will apply for the restoration of your identity permissions!"

"I beg you, stop now—don't let our comrades' blood be shed on our hands again!"

But nobody listened.

It's not because I don't believe him.

It's not that they haven't been trusted for too long.

They only know that if they don't stand up now, they will never be seen again.

They are not soldiers.

They are numbered ghosts.

They are people who have been forced to sleep for too long in the long, silent nights of this city, and now they no longer want to close their eyes.

Just then, a deafening explosion came from the direction of the street corner in the aristocratic district.

In a certain manor, the Sleepers' uprising was brutally suppressed, which ignited the cellar oil depot.

A massive explosion tore through the walls of the street, black smoke rose like the gaping mouth of a whale, and sirens blared across the capital.

The three pillars of the church, military, government, and public opinion have all lost their connection.

The capital's defense system has crashed.

Edel stared at the inferno that was about to engulf everything, his eyes bloodshot.

He is not without power.

He was just—late.

He is not without prestige.

He simply couldn't withstand the collective wailing of the entire city after three years of suppressed emotions.

He finally understood—this was not a night he could mediate.

He was neither a commander nor a savior.

He was merely a witness to the loss of control.

A superfluous character, pushed off the center stage by the times.

He slowly withdrew his raised right hand and murmured:
"Remember this night."

“Starting tomorrow…we will never be able to go back.”

The firelight illuminated the entire square.

Numbered military personnel and active-duty civilian soldiers lined up side by side.

Torches were lit on the city streets, and children wrote old military names on brick walls, while mothers traced numbers with charcoal pencils.

No one obeys orders anymore.

Only humans—finally—heard the swallowed names in the whispers of the whale's grave.

When the city no longer waits for orders

It learned to name things itself.

Those names,

It is the flame, the spirit of the army, and you, whom I refuse to erase from my memory.

—The Whale's Grave Elegy, No. 6

(End of this chapter)