Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 314 The Unyielding Royal Power

"The throne is not always given to the wisest person."

It's not always given to the person with the best bloodline.

Sometimes, it gives that—

Those who can remain silent all night, solely to uphold the spirit of the military.

—From *The Military Soul Chronicle: Edel's Posthumous Manuscripts*

The night was as dark as lead ink. The Thirteenth Quiet Island hung silently above the twilight sea, like a cold stone that would never be disturbed, pressed onto the sea surface by time and royal power.

The sea breeze, carrying salty tides and sea fog, surges up from below the cliff, slapping against the stone platform and metal railing.

Occasionally, the sound of fog lights and oars cutting through the sea could be heard in the distance, slow and rhythmic, like a dirge from the deep abyss of a dream, mourning the namelessness of those who had been numbered.

This is the "Whispering Prison," established by the royal family, which houses extremely dangerous, high-density mind prisoners involved in oracle manipulation and dream tactics.

It was never recorded on a map and was known to only a few people.

Edel Trean ascended the stone steps leading to the island alone.

There were no guards or messengers behind him, only the sea breeze and his old-fashioned military robe fluttering in the wind.

In his left hand he carried a document bag sealed with the old military emblem, the inside pages of which contained a copy of the list of dormant numbers that had just been sealed.
In his right hand he held a handwritten petition, the paper folded and looking somewhat worn, unsigned and unapproved.

His steps were steady, each step echoing, as if proclaiming a belated responsibility.

The island gate opened silently, and the guards lowered their heads to avoid looking, without stopping them.

No one dared to stop him.

Because he didn't come to interrogate.

He came to confirm.

He walked along the long corridor into the deepest observation cell, passing through a series of life-pattern sensing doors and mirror-like light shields, and finally arrived at the cell door that was as quiet as an abyss.

Inside the cell, the lights were dim, like the breaths that repeatedly submerge and recede in the tide.

The walls are inlaid with a mirror-silver reflective coating, making each figure appear as if it were a shadow scattered by water mist, floating and uncertain.

Alison sat on the stone bench, her hands clasped in front of her knees. She wore a dark gray prison uniform with tight sleeves, but her aura was as sharp as ever. Her face was thin, but her expression was cold and stern.

That face, though it had been sleeping in a cold prison cell for a long time, looked like that of a general who had just stepped out of a tactical sand table.

Her back remained straight, as if she were surrounded not by a prison, but by the command bridge of a ship.

She looked up, saw him, and didn't say anything.

Edel sat down opposite her, gently placing the document in his hand on the table, the edges of the pages fluttering slightly in the sea breeze.

He didn't look through it, he just stared straight at her.

"There are a total of 627 people on this list."

"Those under the slumber number are categorized as 'missing,' 'killed in action,' or 'experimental subjects.'"

He paused, suppressing the emotions that were subtly surging in his voice.

"But just last night—they stood in a row at the Monument to the Military Spirit."

His gaze, sharp as a blade gleaming in the night, lingered on her face:

"I guess you know who woke them up."

Allison's eyebrows twitched slightly, she remained silent for a moment, then raised an eyebrow slightly and spoke in a calm tone:

"You're not here to judge me."

Edel nodded, his tone calm yet composed:

"I just want to find someone who understands tactical thinking to confirm a conjecture that I am unwilling to admit."

He paused, his gaze lingering briefly on her.

"A feint to the east while attacking the west, creating a shift in the narrative focus."

"Using both reality and fiction, and using theatrical elements to induce the collapse of military orders."

"From initiation to collapse, the layout of rhythm, path, and trigger point..."

He looked at her, his gaze softening slightly, yet growing increasingly calm:

"This technique... is so much like yours."

"Or rather, too much like you were once—the tactical genius commander of Trelian's First Fleet."

Allison chuckled, a hint of sarcasm playing on her lips, yet tinged with an undeniable pride.

"you're right."

"But I'm not the one who truly understands how to turn tactics into a dream."

"It's him."

"He understands better than I do how to draw the entire city into the story he wants to tell."

Edel remained silent, slowly pushing the court's recommendation to postpone the trial towards her.

"You do not need to go to the dock for the time being."

"The winds of the morning star have blown a corner of the entire royal city down. The trial is suspended."

Allison raised an eyebrow, a half-smile playing on her lips:

Are you... being sarcastic?

Edel shook his head, his tone heavy:
"Do not."

"This is my reminder—you won once."

His gaze was sharp as an axe, and he slowly approached:

"But next time, if you use this city to test my limits again..."

"I'll take action."

The two looked at each other, their eyes filled with the silence and weariness that followed their old acquaintance's confrontation.

No need for further words; we already understand each other's importance.

Edel got up and walked to the door.

Before leaving, he suddenly stopped and asked in a low voice:

"what is his name?"

Allison did not turn around.

She simply raised her hand and slowly pointed to the gray stone wall in the corner of the cell.

A line of small characters is engraved on it; the handwriting is slightly rough, but each character is clear:

"The Lord of Destiny".

Edel remained silent for a long time, then nodded slightly and murmured:
"I've remembered this name."

"Hopefully, it will never be inscribed on the empire's epitaph."

He turned and left, his figure appearing even more lonely in the fog lights.

That word "remember" was like a glimmer of light, piercing through the thick, impenetrable night of the Thirteenth Quiet Island.

Before the morning mist had completely dissipated, the council hall of the Imperial Capital was already brightly lit.

This council hall, once magnificent and solemn, now resembles a huge, silent tomb.

The air seemed to be sealed by cold light, and the brilliance was refracted into rust spots by the gold patterns. The noble seats and the royal seats faced each other across the distance, and everyone sat upright, but no one spoke first.

They're waiting for someone to fire the first shot.

Edel Trean entered the hall, escorted silently by his guards, their steps as steady as ever.

But every step he took was like deliberately knocking on the bottom armor of this monarchical structure.

Every footstep is an unspoken truth:
"The military will no longer remain silent."

He didn't need to say a word; just that one sentence was enough to shake the entire hall.

All six princes and princesses were already seated.

Orion sat upright to the side of the main seat, dressed in a royal dark blue formal suit, with gold rings on his fingers. His eyes were as cold and detached as a mirror of an icy lake, like a statue of a pre-deified heir.

Medici, dressed in a Virgin Mary robe with her headdress hanging down, had a calm and composed expression and her eyes lowered, as if she regarded this place as a prophetic judgment.

Liseria sat in the far corner, her white dress stained with dust, clutching a copy of the Morning Star Times she hadn't finished reading in one hand, her hand white, but her eyes bright and piercing.

Edel remained silent, bowed, and sat down in the military seat, his sword across his knees, the insignia reflecting a cold light in the candlelight. His gaze was fixed on the throne, as if they were facing off on a battlefield, neither flinching nor avoiding.

The two were already seated on the high platform above.

One of them was Admiral von Brunson, a veteran of the Navy, his military uniform impeccably tailored, his chest adorned with medals, his expression as firm as cast iron, and his eyes like those of an old soldier guarding the coast.

The other person was the Palace Minister, Etherland von Het, who looked sickly and was dressed in the robes of a minister, but his posture remained as upright as a rock.

He was the last pillar upholding the imperial legal system, but now he is like a beam about to collapse.

In the center, however, the suspended throne remains vacant.

The throne is inlaid with twelve star stones bearing the runes of destiny, but the central one—symbolizing the core throne of the "thirteenth star position"—remains blank, as if reminding everyone that the true decision-maker has not yet been determined.

The palace minister spoke first, his voice hoarse, yet powerful enough to penetrate the stone wall:
"Ladies and gentlemen, this morning there are still more than 500 numbered individuals gathered outside the Military Soul Square. The numbered wall, the Dream Lantern Monument, and the Morning Star Clippings have spread throughout many parts of the city."

“The voice of the people cannot be ignored, but this matter involves military discipline and national system. I hope that you will speak your minds from your respective positions and make your decisions carefully.”

The first to speak was Orion.

His voice was steady, his pace slow yet imposing, his words precise, each sentence sharp, his tone like an unassailable imperial decree:
"The chaos among the numbered individuals, though stemming from emotions, was actually manipulated by someone behind the scenes."

"This trend is not spontaneous, but rather a premeditated act by those who use symbols such as dream lanterns, newspaper clippings, and the collapse of military spirit to manipulate the emotions of soldiers and attempt to ignite the city's order."

“I am not against appeasement, but I refuse to surrender imperial laws to out-of-control public sentiment.”

His words were like a warning bell, but they struck a wall instead of a heart.

Edel finally spoke.

His voice wasn't loud, but his tone was like a hammer blow in the wind, each syllable like a nail driven into the back of a chair:
"The person who numbered the item just wanted to prove one thing."

"They don't even deserve to have names."

"They are not trying to seize power."

"They were so that they wouldn't be silently taken away one morning and turned into numbers."

"If even this cannot be heard—then what the empire should be deaf to is not its ears, but its heart."

The Prime Minister coughed lightly, his gaze sweeping over the two men. After a moment's consideration, he said in a low voice:
"The military's actions have already exceeded orders, and the prince's instructions may also be too harsh and harmful."

"I hope you will all discuss this in accordance with the law, and not add fuel to the fire."

Next was Medici, who slowly raised her head and said unhurriedly:
"The Church of Our Lady advocates order first, but today the overflow of divinity has reached a critical point."

"The whispers of the whale tomb continue to infect several neighborhoods. If the whisperers are not confined to dreams, their divine overflow may become uncontrollable."

"The following suggestions are made: appeasing the public is feasible, and vetting those who are campaigning should be the top priority."

At this moment, Liseria stood up.

Her voice wasn't loud, but every word carried an undeniable sincerity and stubbornness:

“Numbering is not heresy.”

“If this country has to rely on stripping people of their names to maintain order, then we have already lost.”

"Morning Star should not be investigated, and Dream Lamp should not be burned."

“I implore Your Majesty—to listen to them just once. Even just once.”

The debate intensified, with a torrent of words. Some clenched their fists, some bowed their heads, and some began to peruse military regulations.

At this moment——

A deep, resonant chime echoed from the high platform.

Calm, slow, yet like the sound of an instrument striking from a tomb.

"The Azure Lion is present."

The hall fell silent.

A figure slowly stepped in, illuminated by the refracted light of the flames bearing the life runes.

That was Henrian VII, the sixty-seventh emperor of the Trelian Empire.

He was wearing the "Royal Blood Regeneration" device, with silver tubes inserted into his shoulders and neck, like a vascular stent that pulled him back from the brink of death.

His steps were slow but not unsteady; each step seemed to be begging death for him.

He slowly ascended the throne, each step as heavy as an old bell. His gaze was fixed on the still-vacant "tenth star," not on anyone else.

He sat down, raised his hand, and tapped his scepter lightly.

The voice was hoarse yet clear, like an iron inscription worn smooth by wind and rain on a tombstone:

"I had only been awake for the time it takes to drink half a cup of tea when I heard that the foundation of the empire had cracked."

"One night, fire burned down three streets, the prince drew his sword, the soldiers tore off their badges, and the people sang the name of the whale's tomb."

"But I remember, this empire is not dead. It's still in my hands."

The hall was completely silent, the flames of life runes flickering slightly, as if waiting for those words to be spoken.

Edel looked up.

Henrian VII sat on the throne, his aged, almost translucent fingers gripping a scepter, the handle of which was inlaid with seven rubies.

Three lights have dimmed—the life-extending system is burning its last embers of power.

The emperor slowly surveyed his six children, his gaze distant yet clear.

He looked at Edel one last time.

That gaze remained profound, but its sharpness had long since settled into stone. It was the gaze of a weary ruler after the storm—still ready to make a judgment.

He finally spoke:
"I used to think that empires were founded on their names."

"Later, I thought it was due to the lines on one's destiny."

Now that I'm old, I finally understand—

"An empire is built on the lives of those who have risked their lives to write their names."

Orion gave a low, cold snort, muttering defiantly:
“If they knew their destiny, they should have submitted to it in their slumber.”

Henrian did not turn around.

He simply sighed softly:
"Submission is the armor of the empire."

"But it was never the heart of the empire."

He slowly raised the scepter in his hand.

The scepter, inlaid with the seven-star destiny pattern and engraved with royal blood inheritance inscriptions, trembled slightly in his veined hand, as if he were holding a collapsing era.

His voice was deep and resonant, each word like a hammer blow striking the ceiling of the council chamber:
The ruling is as follows:

—

First Judgment: To the Nobles

"The power of the council of nobles shall not be diminished."

"The slumber program originated from institutional review, and was a mistake of the empire, not a personal crime."

"However, the acts of abusing dormant bodies and numbered individuals involved in the operation have been transferred to the military court for investigation on a case-by-case basis."

"If it is confirmed that there has been a violation of military discipline, mistreatment of personnel with identification numbers, or stripping of titles and honors, the individuals involved will be held accountable without exception."

A brief murmur rippled through the hall. Some nobles lowered their heads, while others' expressions changed slightly, but no one dared to utter a sound.

They knew that the emperor's move had not struck at the aristocratic system, but it had drawn a line across all lines of responsibility—

Empires may err, but individuals must die.

—

Second ruling: Regarding the military and Edel

"The military status of the person with the serial number is hereby restored."

"The flame of military spirit must not be extinguished. All those who have made their names on the line should have their names recorded."

"The military will organize a numbered review panel to review omissions in the transfer orders and errors in the identity filing, correct the roster, and put everything back in its proper place."

Edel nodded slightly, and for a moment, a hint of moisture appeared in his eyes.

He didn't speak, but silently recited the sentence in his heart:

They were soldiers again.

It's not a serial number, not supplies, not a stigma.

They're back.

—

Third Judgment: Regarding the Church and Medici

"I have no doubt about the authority and right to speak of the Church of Our Lady."

"However, the dreams of the common people today can no longer be explained by divine will. The images of dream lamps and whale tombs, if they are heretical, are also foolish beliefs."

"But if the dream is not broken, the fire must not be lit; if the lamp is not extinguished, the street must not be disturbed."

"Investigating secretly is permissible. But disturbing the peace by mobilizing the masses is not allowed."

"The instigators and masterminds behind the scenes shall be investigated and dealt with in secret."

Medici lowered her eyes quietly and nodded gently.

She knew this was not a ruling, but an imperial edict.

From then on, the Dream Lamp was included in the church's blacklist.

The world under the light can no longer tolerate them.

—

Fourth ruling: Regarding public opinion and Liseria
"The Morning Star grants a pardon."

"Public opinion is like water; it cannot be contained, so it is better to guide it into a flow."

"If the princess's words can stop the fires among the people and the tide of numbering—then write it down."

Liseria stood up, gave a graceful bow, her voice choked with emotion:

"Thank you, Father."

Her hands trembled, but her gaze remained unwavering, like a lamp that finally illuminated those who had walked through the ashes.

—

Fifth ruling: against Orion
The emperor slowly turned his head and looked at his eldest son.

There was no longer any anger in his eyes, only a deep, almost unbearable scrutiny.

"The position of the eldest son of the emperor shall not be revoked."

"But if the king's power falters, the people will only believe in dreams and no longer in the king."

"From this day forward, all military orders issued by the prince must be approved by the deputy commander of the military headquarters."

Orion's face was ashen. He bowed his head with his hands clasped, but remained as stiff as a statue, showing no sign of submission.

His lips were clenched, his nails almost digging into his palms, but he remained silent.

Henrian's gaze turned slightly cold, but he didn't press further, only adding a casual remark:
"If you still wish to inherit this throne—"

"You have to learn how to keep it from collapsing even when it's not in your hands."

That sentence was hammered into the heart of the throne like a hammer blow.

The entire council chamber was as quiet as a graveyard.

—

The emperor slowly lowered his scepter, gently tapping it against the side of the throne. His voice was low and slow, as if he were speaking to someone, or perhaps entrusting them with a responsibility:
"I do not contend with gods, nor with stars."

"Whoever wants to light up the tenth star... is free to do so."

"As long as this empire is still called Trelian."

He rose, his steps unsteady, his cloak trailing on the ground like a coffin.

The palace minister quickly stepped forward, trying to help him, but he was slowly pushed away by the minister's hand.

He descended the throne step by step, the golden shadow of him stretching behind him like the silhouette of an old god before returning to his throne.

As he walked past Edel, his voice was extremely soft, yet exceptionally clear:

"I can't hold on much longer."

"The next decision might actually be made by you."

Edel lowered his head and did not respond.

He subtly tightened his grip on the sword on his knee amidst the echo of the scepter falling.

The doors to the council chamber slowly closed.

The sound of the scepter had ceased, and the flames of the life runes slowly died out.

Only the imperial emblem, carved in gold leaf, remains spinning atop the dome, like a departed deity leaving its final silhouette for the city.

Edel stepped out of the palace, his cloak slightly open. It was still dark, and the sky was a deep, inky blue.

Before the morning sun had even pierced the sky, the entire capital seemed to still be reeling from the aftershocks of the previous night.

The light and shadow behind the palace gates were quietly left behind him, and he did not turn around.

He did not return to the military headquarters, nor did he notify any of his entourage.

He simply instructed the driver in a low voice to stop the carriage at the Military Spirit Square.

He wanted to take a look at the Dream Lamp Wall.

I want to see what those who stood amidst the flames, commands, and silence last night wrote down in the end.

The square had not yet been swept in the early morning, and the smell of burnt smoke still lingered in the air. The charcoal in the brazier had been extinguished, with only a few wisps of white smoke swirling between the stones.

The wooden sign and rags erected by the numberer are still there, embedded among the paving stones, the corners of the monuments, and the bronze sculptures, like new roots that have grown overnight in the city.

Beneath the stone tablet, a piece of paper, half-blown up by the wind, lay on the surface of the tablet, trembling incessantly, like a weary signal, waiting in vain for the recipient to arrive.

He walked over slowly, squatted down, and reached out to press the corner of the paper.

The paper felt crisp and cold to the touch, like a memory of some kind of corpse.

It was written in pen on the paper:

"My name is Kaz Ivan."

"Number BJ-45. Formerly served in the 10th Heavy Armor Company of the Navy, providing close escort."

"I remember my blood type, I remember my gun number, and I remember that my partner's name during my last training session was Leo."

"But they made me call out numbers."

"The Dream Lamp called me back, but Leo didn't come back."

I wrote this so that when someone comes across it, they'll know—

"We did not rise up in rebellion."

"We are doing this so that no one else will sink."

Edel stood in the wind, speechless for a long time.

The handwriting was messy, but firm and powerful. In some places, the pen even tore the paper because the ink was applied too quickly.

He wanted to say something.

Perhaps it's a simple "I heard you," or a "I'm sorry."

But after opening his lips several times, he finally just lowered his head, reached out his hand, and pasted the paper back onto the monument, smoothing out the creases at the corners of the paper with two fingers.

The movements were gentle, as if handling a funeral portrait.

Just then, he heard faint footsteps coming from the edge of the square.

He turned his head.

Liseria walked over, wearing a thick cloak and carrying a proofread thick collection of articles, the cover of which read "Special Issue for Numberers: Morning Star First Print Proof".

Her expression was gentle, still carrying the weariness of a half-awake morning, yet resolute. She stood beside him and whispered:
"The Morning Star is going to publish a special issue on numbered individuals tomorrow, and I... I plan to write a preface for it."

Edel looked at her, a complex emotion flashing in his eyes. He didn't say "Be careful," nor did he say "This is dangerous."

He simply said in a deep voice:

"They... are no longer the kind of public opinion you can represent."

Liseria smiled softly, lowered her head, and spoke in a calm voice:
"I know."

"I do not represent them."

"I'm just still willing to listen."

The square remained silent.

The wind blows across the stone tablet, stirring up dust and also stirring up some of the sorrow of the past years.

In the distance, the city remained shrouded in the gray of pre-dawn fog, far from awake, yet it seemed to be slowly, gradually, returning to normalcy.

Meanwhile, in the darkest corner of the military headquarters' west tower, in an unlit copying room, a church recorder was silently transcribing every word of the Emperor's pronouncements from the council chamber that day.

The paper contained a handwritten record of the Empire's highest judgment, but after the final ruling, "Do not disturb the street, do not start fires," her pen slowly traced a line of small, encrypted characters in the corner of the paper:

"The investigation into the Dream Lantern case has classified it as a Class B illusion incident and has been submitted to the Trial Tower."

After finishing writing, she blew out the narrow candle on the corner of the table, put on her cloak, and quietly left.

No one saw it.

But the wind heard it.

The wind is still blowing.

Edel turned to leave, but after taking only two steps, he suddenly stopped.

He turned around and looked at the paper.

The words "Kaz Ivan" were once again whipped up by the wind, like a truth that can never be completely pasted on.

He stared at those words, his eyes dimming.

Then, he suddenly spoke.

The tone was low and gentle, yet it felt like a dialogue with the world:
"Lord of Destiny...who exactly are you?"

No one answered.

The wind came from behind the monument, brushed past his shoulder, bypassed the embers of the brazier, and passed through the stone surface engraved with a thousand names, making a soft whistling sound.

It's like an unresolved question, or an answer that was never spoken.

Some names are pasted under the tombstone;

Some names were written after the monarchy;

But some remain—hidden in the wind.
Wait for someone, then ask it in a low voice.

—From the manuscript of the dream lantern, page 13, "Wind Names"

(End of this chapter)