Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 312 The Flame of Illusory Fame
Their names were crossed off the roster.
It was covered up from the stone tablet.
It was sealed away from the life line.
But they themselves know:
Those who are stripped of their names should be the ones who fear having them proclaimed.

—Morning Star Times Special Issue: Medal Zero

As dusk falls and the sky darkens, the foggy city is no longer asleep.

Before the sun had set on the sixth day, the entire city was already illuminated by a premonition of an impending fire.

There seemed to be unburnt gunpowder smoke in the air, floating on the rooftops and hidden in street corners, like an ancient war drum vibrating under the skin.

Seven aristocratic estates on the outskirts of the city caught fire at almost the same time.

None were spared.

The guard dogs perished in the same plume of poisonous smoke; the numbered warning net malfunctioned instantly under an unknown command; and the slumbering chains snapped after emitting blue-white arcs of electricity.

The life-binding array resembled a spider web with its skeleton removed; it trembled in the air for a few seconds before collapsing.

Initially, the city tried to convince itself that it was a coincidence, an aftershock of the Whale Tomb incident, or an unknown abnormal disturbance.

But when that gray flag, sewn with old serial numbers and painted with a bugle, rose from the rooftop of the fourth manor—everyone knew:
The whale tomb has arrived.

And they are messengers.

The first "Whale Tomb Messenger" appeared at Wyndham Manor.

He was a nobleman wearing a black and gold whale tail badge. He was elegant in demeanor and had the bearing of an old-fashioned noble missionary. He claimed to be the "executor of the Whale Tomb's covenant" and had been ordered to "remove the expired numbered person".

His face was blurred as if wiped clean by a dream, and his voice was low and his tone was extremely slow.

He only said one short sentence.

Then—the numbered chains failed, all the sleepers in the area rose up, the suppression field collapsed, and the anti-control ripples overflowed into the main building.

The second one appeared at Maris Estate.

He was a man wearing a life-mark seal, who called himself a "slumber appraiser." He held a magnificent book on slumber compatibility, and his demeanor was composed and his speech was appropriate.

He deceived the manor owner and quietly broke free from his slumber at a nobleman's tea party.

The person awaiting numbering began to regain consciousness, but he had already vanished without a trace.

The third woman was a woman with long, golden-red hair and eyes as sharp as ice blades.

She wore a tailor's robe adorned with dark red patterns, and the nobles, assuming she was a numbered connoisseur, treated her with great hospitality and dared not neglect her.

Unexpectedly, during her routine afternoon check, she used the Whale Tomb card to break the slumber contract, causing the entire slumbering legion to recall past events.

Then, they all woke up.

No one knows their true identities.

They might be the Fate Master, Rex, the "Blood Feast Perfumer" Selene, or the "Windtalker Copybook" left behind by Ian...

In the name of fiction, they tolled the death knell for the city's reality.

Fires broke out in the noble district.

The numberers broke their silence.

They raised the chains that had bound them and smashed lintels, window frames, and the authoritative inscriptions passed down through generations.
They pasted a piece of paper, still intact after being burned, on the door of each mansion, with their real names written on it.

“This place once held number 1679, whose real name was Layton Kyle.”

“N-2 was whipped here. Her real name is Elsa Holland.”

"He is a sergeant major in artillery, not a 'first batch of dormant units'."

"She is a military doctor, not a clay maid in a noble garden."

Each piece of paper is proof that they pulled the name back from the grave.

In the center of the square, Baroque personally oversaw the slow unfolding of a huge white cloth.

The Morning Star Times special edition was not published in print; instead, it was recorded using an old-fashioned handwritten format.
The handwritten memory entries of the numbered group were transcribed into the style of an inscription and projected onto the blank wall next to the Military Spirit Monument.

At this moment, the square transformed into a forest of steles.

People flocked to the site; some copied, some made rubbings, and some silently transcribed old account books behind their backs. Some elderly people read passages aloud, and some children recited them word by word.

Each line of the inscription is like a spark that falls into people's hearts.

"I have destroyed three mutineer ships."

"I guarded Whalebone Fortress for five days and five nights."

“They call me N-7, but my mother calls me Belin.”

“I’m not a number, I have a name. Do you remember me?”

The wind in the city has completely changed direction.

The nobles dared not go out. The entire noble district was practically in a state of isolation.

Taverns, bookstalls, teahouses, highway bulletin boards, and alleyways frequented by military families—

Everywhere the ink could reach was occupied by two scripts:
A wall displaying the real names of those who are numbered.

The words of the whale's tomb.

Those who had never written poetry and were illiterate began to write for the first time.

At the very top of the signal tower in the capital, a red cloth banner slowly hangs down from the iron pillar.

No one knows who hung it.

The wind blows, the flag unfurls, revealing large, handwritten characters in bold:
"Today is not a revolution."
It's us coming back.
Take the name with you.

They are the ones who have been numbered.
Not here to atone for sins
They're not here to demand compensation.

"They came to stand before the heart of this empire, forged of iron and stone."
Let's use an entire city to say it again—

"I'm still here."

The wind blows through the city walls, and the clock tower remains silent.

And that red flag—no one dared to take it down.

Royal Military Affairs Tower, Central Archives.

The temperature inside the tower was so low it was almost frigid. The life patterns on the stone walls were dimly lit, like a thin sheet of paper, dried out of emotion, stuck to the flesh and blood of the entire power structure.

Edel sat alone in the main seat, still wearing his military robe, with only three documents on the conference table in front of him.

No seal, no stamp, no serial number.

The edges of the paper were slightly curled up, clearly indicating that it was written overnight, yet not a single word appeared hasty or careless.

He didn't say a word, but lowered his head and turned to the first page.

The handwriting is hard, the characters are sharp and distinct, the sentences are short and concise, and the language is like a command that strikes straight to the nerves, without any embellishment.

This is not a report.

This is what soldiers wrote to other soldiers.

"The Whale Grave Crash Project was initially proposed by the survivors whose identification numbers were not resold."

"Main objective: to liberate the dormant remnant numbers and restore their will, names, and identities."

"Authorized by: Alfred".

Three people were standing opposite them.

Alfred was dressed in a dark gray, old-fashioned naval officer uniform with white frayed edges at the cuffs and his epaulets removed, leaving only seam marks.

He stood straight, his eyes showing no pleading or explanation, only composure and responsibility.

Avina was dressed in black casual clothes, with a parchment scroll containing the list of numbered individuals hidden in her sleeve. Her gaze was as calm as night snow, without a trace of extra emotion.

Lester stood at the very edge, silent, his figure like a tower, his arms close to his body, as if military discipline was etched into his very bones.

They are not heroes.

He is not a criminal.

They were just telling the truth.

Edel looked up at Alfred, his voice low and resonant, like an echo emanating from a fragment of his life rune:

Do you know what you've done?

Alfred nodded, without hesitation or evasion.

“I will not shirk my responsibilities for the consequences. I simply cannot bear to see those numbers locked in the stables of nobles, treated as nameless livestock.”

“We could have waited for orders. But we waited for three years, and orders were never given to them.”

Edel closed the book, turned the last page, and the paper made a rustling sound.

He shifted his gaze to one of the rows of numbers on the table, and slowly pressed his fingertip against that familiar string of numbers.

"Dispatch Order No. 11047".

He read it out softly, as if pulling a thorn from his heart.

"Target: Sea of ​​Dreams."

He closed his eyes briefly. It was a transfer order he had issued three years ago during a naval battle, transferring an officer to a tactical and technical team.

In official war reports, this person was listed as "missing after the war".

But later, in the cellar of a noble estate, he saw this number—corresponding to "Sleeping Sequence No. 27".

The man had empty eyes, a shaved head, and squatted in the corner like an animal.

Edel gritted his teeth, his voice low and hoarse:

“I thought… as long as I didn’t sign that pilot program, I could stop it.”

“I thought that as long as I canceled the meeting, they wouldn’t activate that numbering and screening mechanism.”

"But I later found out that they just had someone else sign it."

silence.

A long silence fell like snowflakes in the conference room, which was filled with life-shaped patterns, piling up into a layer of ice.

Edel slowly raised his head and looked at the three of them again.

His voice trembled, but he didn't soften it:

"Have you considered that if you fail—you will be convicted of treason?"

Alfred looked at him, his voice soft yet carrying immense weight:

"We've died once."

"A second death—as long as it's not silence, we accept it."

At that moment, Edel felt as if something was stuck in his throat. He slowly stood up and walked towards the archive wall.

He pulled a dark gray archive folder from the bottom metal drawer of a column.

He personally signed and sealed it three years ago; document number: C-9/EX/Rejection Case.

Filename: Draft Implementation Plan for the Military's Sleep System (No. 1, Draft for Rejection)

He unfolded the draft; the unfolded paper still bore the creases from that year, the ink faded but the strokes heavy.

He placed the veto document on the table.

Then, he laid down the "Whale Grave Crash Plan" document that Alfred had handed him.

Two worlds overlap at this moment.

One is a desperate resistance from three years ago, and the other is a proactive attack from now on.

Edel took a deep breath, returned to the main seat, and sat down.

He looked at the three of them, his voice hoarse but incredibly clear:
“You have not crossed the line.”

“I took a step back—and let them get past me.”

He slowly put pen to paper and signed his name in the upper right corner of the transfer order form.

"From this moment forward, the whale crash incident will be considered a military disciplinary matter."

Those with serial numbers will be placed in the "Awaiting Military Name Re-assignment Area".

"The military headquarters bears full organizational responsibility."

Alfred bowed deeply, giving a salute without rank. Avina and Lester followed closely behind, the three moving with the perfect coordination of troops before battle, without any unnecessary actions. Edel watched them, his gaze unwavering, yet a red tinge appeared in his eyes, like water cooled by embers, no longer frozen.

He whispered:

"I will do it for you—and for myself."

He paused, his gaze returning to the unsigned draft page.

“Rewrite the order.”

He took up the pen.

"This time, I will not refuse to sign."

Royal Capital Military and Political Tower - Upper Level Command Hall.

The candlelight flickered incessantly, like a will burning in the wind, struggling on the edge of a collapsing command.

The wind blew in through the gaps in the high, sealed windows, lifting a corner of the heavy curtains of royal decrees.
The prince's seal, intertwined with gold and red, was revealed, pressing down on the life seal, exuding a chilling aura.

Orion stood before the command platform, his golden battle robes gleaming in the candlelight as if draped in flowing flames of cast iron.

Starlight surged behind him, and life patterns pulsed and converged behind him, like a phantom cast by the source of royal power, as if an old god had been restored.

His voice crashed down in the hall, like a hammer striking a bell, causing the table to tremble slightly.
"I will not allow this city to continue to wallow in the wails of these numbered individuals."

"They disrupted military discipline, incited the people, and spread the oracle of the Whale Tomb—this is a harbinger of internal strife and a provocation against the royal lineage."

"They no longer deserve to be called soldiers."

He turned to his subordinates, his eyes as cold as frost:
"The Noble Council's personal guard is to immediately enter the core area of ​​the capital and carry out the 'Numbered Person Exclusion Operation'."

"Activate the remnants of the 'Iris Sequence' of the dormant control group."

"I want them to understand that slumber is their rightful destiny."

As the order was given, a faint yet clear tremor emanated from the depths of the Royal Capital Command System, like a slight crack in a bone, foreshadowing an imbalance within the system.

On the other wing of the military tower, Edel stood before the star chart platform, his figure as heavy as a rock, listening to his adjutant's urgent report in a low voice:

"The Noble Guard has been deployed to four passes, and the 'Iris Sequence' cleansing force is taking over municipal nodes."

"His Highness Orion personally took command and announced that a full-scale expulsion would be launched under the pretext of 'military intervention in a civilian uprising'."

After hearing this, Edel remained silent for a long time.

He spoke slowly, his voice like a heavy iron hammer hitting the bottom of a lake:

"What he wants is not order."

"It's about control."

"It's not about maintaining stability, it's about taking lives."

He looked up and gazed out the window.

The lights in the capital are being turned off one by one.

The numbered lamps, whale tomb totems, and military family watchtowers that had been lit were forcibly pulled off, smashed, and covered with black cloth by the noble military police.

At the street corner, those with numbers were subdued in the street, their mouths gagged, their hands and feet bound with ropes, and a glaring black paper was pasted on their chests—"Potential Fate Mark Contaminant".

Even more shockingly, veterans and their families were beaten in the street simply for uttering a single sentence:
“He is my son, what right do you have to call him by his number?”

The capital city began to tear apart.

Half of the people groaned in silence, while the other half burned with rage.

Edel slammed his hand on the table, flipped over the command document, strode up to the command platform, and coldly issued the order:

"All Imperial regular troops, listen up—no numbered action may be carried out without military law approval."

"The order to transfer the Noble Guard is hereby revoked, and the 'Iris Sequence' is to be frozen immediately."

The adjutant was taken aback:

"Your Highness, this...this is an open rebellion against the order to rescind the Crown Prince's decree—"

A glint of steel flashed in Edel's eyes, and his words severed all hesitation:
"I am not disobeying orders."

"I am writing back the order."

He donned a military robe, without a sword or guards, and walked alone out of the command hall, his steps firm and resolute, toward the square.

At this moment, Orion was leading his noble legion on horseback towards the numbered sentry line.

The noble military uniforms, in the firelight, resembled flowing golden blood, a last vestige of dazzling arrogance.

On the square, military dependents and those numbered had formed a human wall, like the last shield of human dignity.

The two sides were less than thirty paces apart.

The noble soldiers have entered a state of readiness, and the spirit cards are beginning to glow.

Opposite them, the numbered individuals, unarmed and unarmed, raised their fists, scrolls, and plaques, holding up the identity papers that had once been stripped of their names.

Orionlema ascended, its voice like the ringing of a blade:

"All personnel not registered with the military, evacuate the square within three minutes!"

"Otherwise, they will be executed without exception for disrupting the imperial order!"

The crowd moved.

But it's not a retreat.

Instead, it is listed.

The numbered soldiers stood up in rows, shoulder to shoulder. The veterans in the front row saluted slowly, while the young military dependents in the back row knelt on one knee and called out their names loudly.

Each name is like a fragment of armor salvaged from the deep sea.

Orion's face twisted more and more, and he drew his sword and shouted:

"Guards—prepare for suppression!"

At this very moment——

Edel appeared.

He walked through the crowd with steady steps, each step echoing like metal.

He stepped onto the central steps, standing three feet away from Orion, and said coldly:
"If you draw your sword, I will withdraw my troops."

Orion roared:
"you dare!"

Edel's gaze was sharp as a knife, his tone calm to the point of being almost deathly still:

"I dare, and I will."

“You are no longer the commander-in-chief of the military—you are just a coward hiding behind the throne.”

All around, the commanders of the regular army simultaneously ceased their orders, and the military discipline system severed the chain of control over the guards of the noble council under the eldest prince from the core of the empire.

Military power—severed.

Night fell completely.

The fog, like a black velvet curtain, enveloped the capital in a tranquility before its collapse.

The two men faced off in front of the monument to the spirit of the soldiers.

Orion Trean, the eldest son of the Emperor.

Edel Terrian, Imperial General.

One is a broken authority.

One is the burning military discipline.

At their feet stood thousands of numbered soldiers standing motionless—and the raging fire of public opinion.

Orion was as pale as a sheet, his hand gripping the sword hilt tightly, his knuckles white. He hadn't expected things to get this out of control.

The noble guards dared not move.

The person who numbered the item moved.

An old soldier stepped forward, slowly took off the numbered wooden tag from his chest, and placed it in front of the brazier under the monument.

Then look up and shout:
"My name is Francis Lane, former scout of the 2nd Company of the 6th Fleet of the North Sea. I have not betrayed you, nor have I perished. I am back in my post."

The second person followed closely behind:
"My name is Hessa Derain, former observer of the Second Field Artillery Regiment of the Eastern Continent. Back to duty."

The third, fourth, fifth...

Names flooded in, each one crashing into the flames beneath the monument.

Each sound made the flames jump a little higher.

The crowd responded in unison, saluting in a military salute.

For the first time, the capital used a chorus to officially recognize those who were numbered.

Tears welled up in Edel's eyes as he slowly drew out his military emblem and walked toward the Monument to the Soul of the Army.

Without hesitation, he placed it in the brazier under the monument.

That was the highest military command authority granted to him by the empire.

He burned it.

He was not denying the existence of empires.

He simply returned power to these people.

He turned and looked at the army:

"From this moment forward, all defense forces of the capital—"

"Only military discipline matters."

"No more listening to bloodlines."

The order was given, the military insignia broke, and the royal authority crumbled.

The capital city entered the era of temporary military autonomy.

Orion's face turned ashen, his sword fell to the ground, and he quietly left the scene, supported by his noble guards.

He finally understood—

The Whale Tomb is not heresy, not rebellion, not conspiracy.

It is the sum of all those who are ignored, numbered, and erased.

And he, stepping on that pile of silent ashes, tried to maintain stability.

In the end—the boots were burned.

That night, everyone knew:
He was no longer able to maintain military discipline.

-

Morningstar Manor - Above the Clock Tower.

Si Ming stood quietly in the night wind, gazing at the capital city illuminated by the firelight. Behind him, Rex leaned against the railing, his eyes slightly narrowed.

The streets were ablaze with fire, the bells had long since stopped ringing, and the whale tomb totem slowly rose in the brazier in front of the monument to the military spirit.

Rex asked:

"finished?"

Si Ming shook his head, a slight smile playing on his lips, and answered softly:
"No...but they don't need me anymore."

“The Whale Tomb has learned to speak on its own.”

He gazed deeper into the city, at the lights that were still burning:

"Next—it's their turn to write the script."

"When the capital city caught fire, it wasn't documents, military seals, or swords that were destroyed."
Rather, it is the arrogance of those who have never truly acknowledged themselves as human beings.

The whale tomb was merely the background noise of their return.

—From "Unpublished Manuscripts of Morning Star: Memoirs of the Day the Line Was Cut Off"

(End of this chapter)