Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 315 Early Morning, the Fire Still Burning

"Silence does not equate to acceptance."

Some people stood quietly.

Not because of obedience,

Rather, it was because—they were waiting for the second roll call.

—Morning Star Calendar Day 7, no signature in the sidebar

The morning wind in the foggy city has a damp chill that seems to settle on the stones and then stop moving.

It was as cold as if something had broken last night and didn't want to be picked up.

The wind bypassed the Monument to the Military Spirit and blew into the second-floor window of the Morning Star Times, gently lifting a corner of the curtain before it slowly fell back down.

Si Ming sat alone by the window, leaning against the long window facing the Military Soul Square.

That was the best vantage point in the entire newspaper building. Standing there, you could overlook the entire street layout, the morning traffic flow, and even the first corner that appeared when the capital was shrouded in fog.

At that moment, he looked down.

The street had been cleaned with lime water, as neat as the base of a newly built monument, and even the charred edges left by yesterday's fire had been wiped away.

But he knew that it was not a "restoration," but an "erasure."

Last night's fire burned seven streets and melted down 232 "nameless people's wooden tablets," leaving only a few stone slabs with names engraved on them, but which the police had already blackened with ink.

Some names have only a few strokes left.

Some of them don't even have their surnames known anymore.

But Si Ming knew that was not the end of the fire.

That's just how fire, once it hides deep within people's hearts, continues to burn silently.

He did not write anything.

Two newspapers lay open on the table. One was the morning print edition of the Imperial Military Gazette, its headlines printed in clear, distinct black and white:
"Discipline restored for those numbered; imperial order for stability issued."

The other document was a proof copy of the Morning Star that had not yet been typeset, with the headline being his draft editorial, which he had not finalized last night:

"The flame of dreams has not yet been extinguished; the gathering of those numbered will be transcribed as a 'historical act'."

He stared at the headline in silence for a long time, and finally just slowly reached out his hand.

My fingertips pressed lightly on that line of lead type, but the lead type felt as cold as an unburnt stone tablet.

The telegraph machine on the table had not been restarted. The machine was so quiet it was almost mute, as if it too was waiting for some command to be given—or not to be given.

Soft footsteps sounded at the door.

Ian stood in the doorway and asked in a low voice:

"Are we... going to publish an editorial this morning?"

Si Ming did not answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the window and the street corner.

There, a group of soldiers who had just been "returned to their posts" were standing in formation.

They wore the new uniforms issued overnight by the Imperial Army, with stiff collars, bright new insignia, and colors so vibrant they were almost blinding.

But the brim of the hat was pulled down very low.

Siming could tell at a glance that there was no sense of belonging or return in their eyes.

He was all too familiar with that look in his eyes.

That's neither cowardice nor submission.

It was a kind of tranquility, a tranquility that belonged only to "those who have been numbered".

It is a body stripped of its name and commands in a silent, deep dream, learning in the darkness to remain calm, to not ask, to not speak, and to not believe.

Si Ming spoke in a low voice:
“Ian, no editorials today.”

Ian was stunned: "Not writing?"

Si Ming turned around and glanced at him:
"Let them write it themselves."

He turned to the last page of the proof, removed the blank line from the top margin, picked up his pen, and slowly wrote a few words in the printing annotation area:
"The fire started yesterday, and the lives were lost today; the people have left, but the flames have not been extinguished."

The sound of the pen tip scratching the paper was extremely soft, yet it seemed to carve a dark mark on the back of the paper.

Six o'clock in the morning.

The first group of people began to move about the streets.

There were no soldiers blocking the way, no guards checking people, and the city gates were not closed.

The tea stall on the street corner reopened, and the kettle emitted its first wisp of steam.

But Si Ming noticed that the location of the Dream Lantern Stele, which had been lit last night, was completely covered by a thick cloth.

It was as if nothing had happened.

But there are always people who are lifting that cloth.

An old woman squatted beside the monument, leaning on an old cane, her movements extremely slow.

She lifted the corner of the cloth, touched the remaining ink traces under the stone tablet, and said nothing.

She took out a small piece of paper from her bosom. The paper was yellowed, wrinkled, and the writing was slightly blurred with age.

Her son's name was written on it.

She didn't stick it on; she just held it tightly in her palm.

Like waiting for a signal.

It was not a broadcast, not a command, and not a royal decree.

Just one person—who can pronounce that name.

Si Ming stood by the window, looking at her trembling hands.

The pen fell again, and on the corner of the proof paper, a line of text was written: "Not intended for publication."

"They have learned to write their names—but they are still waiting for someone to dare to pronounce them."

The ink hadn't dried when the stroke was made, but the wind had already blown in.

He didn't stop.

Because he knew that the wind was there to carry messages.

The wind was gentle, as if it dared not disturb anything, as it brushed past the notice board on the first floor of Morning Star Society.

Anonymous notes were pasted on the paper in the gray light before dawn.

The paper was thin and old, and the handwriting was clear and neat in some places, while the strokes were trembling in others.

The corner of the paper was held down firmly with tape, but it couldn't suppress the emotions beneath the paper that couldn't be archived.

The notes had numbers and surnames. Some wrote "He hasn't come back yet," while others wrote "Her name is still in my dreams."

No one shouted "Whale Grave" anymore.

No one sings the "Number Song" anymore.

But the wall was filled in again.

Some were stuck in their original places, some were placed on top of where they had been torn off, and some were even stuck on window frames, pillar corners, and door sills.

As if afraid of another pair of hands coming to clean it up, they had to stick the name on the place that was hardest to tear off.

Si Ming stood quietly on the second-floor staircase, looking down at the scene.

He was well aware that the royal ruling last night had temporarily secured "order on the surface" for the city.

Yes, the fire has stopped, the army has withdrawn, the throne is still occupied, and the news is still being broadcast.

But the real wind is still buried in these words.

In these unsigned, unslogan-free, and unpetitive handwritings.

Ian came upstairs and asked him quietly:
"So... what should we put on the front page?"

Si Ming did not answer immediately. He turned his back to the street scene, went back to the editing room, and glanced at the proof on the table.

Laughed.

But hidden beneath that smile was a layer of quiet weariness, like the moment one finally puts down an umbrella after holding it up for so long in the wind.

"Send me that picture from yesterday—'empty square, black and gray lines'."

Ian asked, "What title?"

The God of Fate picked up his brush and wrote a few words on the frame:

The square is empty, but the echoes remain.

He got up, walked to the filing cabinet, and tucked the never-used "Anonymous Handwriting" derivative card back into the lining.

It was an interview card specifically for anonymous individuals to reveal their identities, but now it is finally no longer needed.

He walked back to the window and looked at the slowly rising sunlight, which shone on the newly pasted slips of paper, casting a faint but persistent light on the outlines of the names.

He whispered to himself:
"I'm not writing about their anger anymore."

"I only do one thing—set aside the paper."

He walked up to the printing press and slowly pressed the start button.

The ink wheel began to turn, and the sound of the gears meshing was particularly clear in the early morning, as if it were repeatedly waking up the sleeping street.

The first unsigned newspaper slowly emerged, its paper pristine white, its lettering steady, and its header blank, but the small print at the bottom was added by Si Ming himself:
"They stopped chanting slogans, but their footsteps are coming from all directions."

That's neither news nor poetry.

That's just the truth.

In the clipping archive room on the basement floor of the Morning Star, the lights were dim and the air was slightly damp.

On an entire metal frame, the stenographic paper-cuttings made on the street in the early hours of yesterday are being sorted and archived page by page.

Each sheet of paper records a fleeting moment in the square, an unedited original voice, and a stubborn stroke of pen on the edge of a fire.

Si Ming carried an old leather suitcase, the leather softened from being soaked in mist.

He stood in front of one of the stalls and pulled out a stack of paper-cuts labeled "Dream Lantern Monument South Street Pivot · β-Index Group".

He took them out one by one, nailed them with thumbtacks, and arranged them into a new map on the north wall of the archives.

But this is not a geographical map, not an imperial military district, and not a municipal security network.

Instead, it is a "fire trace density map".

Every paper-cut node represents a place where the fire once raged last night, and every burn mark represents a moment when a name was called out.

These pieces of paper are not marked with coordinates, but with overlapping marks.

The repetition of names gradually forms a convergence of directions.

He saw it.

This is a kind of synchronization that does not rely on commands, slogans, or flags.

The crowd is moving toward a kind of "silent order".

That's not military discipline, not doctrine, not a revolutionary program.

Rather, it is a consensus that needs no explanation.

The particles of consensus are slowly settling, becoming a new density of public opinion.

He wrote on the margin of one of the papers:
“Those who were numbered were stripped of their names, and now they no longer shout ‘I am a soldier.’”

"They just said, 'I have a name.'"

Just then, there was a knock on the door.

“Editor-in-chief,” Ian said nervously, “there are two people outside.”

"Who?"

"...wearing old military uniforms. One is numbered βF-9, and the other claims to be 'former 10th Engineer Regiment clerk'."

Si Ming remained silent for a few seconds.

Then he nodded slowly:

"Let them in."

A few minutes later, two figures appeared under the light in the archives room.

They didn't take off their hats, but placed their hands on their chests, as if handing over some kind of keepsake.

He slowly pulled out two worn old military rosters from his bosom; the leather covers were curled at the corners, and the straps were worn white.

“We don’t ask to speak out,” one of them said in a low voice.

"We just want to... finish writing this 'unfinished booklet'."

Si Ming took the military roster and slowly opened it.

The first page has slightly slanted handwriting, but the strokes are steady.
[10th Engineer Regiment - Fragmented Page Record]

"The following is a record of those who have not returned to their team numbers. If they return, please nail their names to the third row from the left below the Dream Lantern Monument."

He did not respond immediately.

I simply turned to the blank space at the end of the book, picked up my pen, and wrote:

"Those who return do not need to ask who brought them back; they should simply announce their names."

Then he returned the roster to the two men.

Said softly:
"Tomorrow's Morning Star, front page, third column."

"Please check your inbox."

He didn't say "thank you".

Because they are not submitting articles.

They are rejoining the team.

Stepping out of the archives, Si Ming slowly stopped at the top of the stairs, his fingers unconsciously rubbing against the railing twice.

He looked towards the direction of the Military Spirit Square in the distance.

The fog remained, and the streets were so clean they seemed unreal. The sentries stood ramrod straight, motionless, as if nothing had happened the night before.

But he immediately noticed that something had changed—

Beneath each soldier's breastplate was a nameplate. It wasn't a brand-new identification tag, nor a standard life badge.
Instead, it was an old nameplate that hadn't been wiped clean, with slightly curled edges and a dull bronze color, but they had carefully pinned it to the inside of that imperial uniform, like a name pasted on their heart.

No one checked, and no one explicitly said that it was necessary to wear one.

But they all wore them.

Meanwhile, the street corner fell silent; no one was discussing what any prince had said the night before, nor was anyone arguing about who was right and who was wrong.

They only conveyed one thing:

"I heard that someone remembered their father's bugle in a dream about that old monument in the East City."

The rumor spread at an extremely fast pace, but it no longer caused riots like gossip, nor did it stir up any emotional turmoil.

It's just like an "echo repeat".

Like after a shipwreck, on the shore where the tide has receded, the whispers that should have belonged only to the deep sea are slowly exhaled by the wind from the cracks in the rocks.

Si Ming stood at the editing desk on the second floor of Morning Star Press, head down, writing a "critical statement" for the evening issue's editorial page:
“The Whale Grave is a taboo subject, but the numberers said they didn’t want revenge—they just wanted to save that lamp for when they could use it again.”

The next morning at nine o'clock, in the sixth alley of the foggy city.

Si Ming sat on the street-facing terrace of the abandoned teahouse in the "Dome Clock Tower," holding a half-cold cup of bitter tea, watching the small queue slowly forming in front of a candy shop across the street.

It's not for the sugar.

It was for a newly nailed wooden board next to the candy shop door.

That is “Dream Lantern Stele, No. 11, Civil Design”.

It was not erected by soldiers, nor was it posted by the Morning Star.

It was the candy shop owner's youngest daughter, a little girl named Matilda, who spontaneously made the decision.

She wrote her uncle's name on the wooden board with chalk:

Numbered βM-17, it went missing at the Whale Grave Arena and was officially declared "a martyr."

But the night before, someone recognized his face behind the stables at the Viscount Manor in the North District.

He did not die on the front lines.

He was shot dead on the spot as an "out-of-control sleeper" during a noble "hunting exercise".

The body was never recovered, but its identification number was clearly visible—

βM-17.

“My uncle did not die on the battlefield,” Matilda said, standing in front of the monument. Her voice was soft, but without a trace of hesitation.

"He died behind their smiling door."

This statement did not appear in any newspapers.

But the neighbor next door wrote it on a piece of paper, nailed it next to the monument, and signed it "Sixth Street, Casey the Shoemaker".

The next day, another piece of paper was posted, from "Fifth Street · Raven Leatherworker".

On the third day, the fourth day... Dream Lantern Monument No. 11, soon filled an entire wall.

There was no uniform font size or printing format, but every sheet of paper bore the name that people would remember.

Si Ming sat opposite, recording the time, source, and handwriting characteristics of each new note every hour.

He wrote in his diary:
"The clock tower is silent, but the sounds of the city continue."

"This is a street corner politics of remembrance that people are engaging in under the guise of 'commemoration,' the form of 'hanging paper,' and the cover of 'rhetoric,' after being suppressed for too long."

Ian hurried upstairs, still slightly out of breath as he pushed open the wooden door, and reported in a low voice:

"Editor-in-chief, two new monuments have appeared in the East District. One is standing in front of the military family clinic, and the other... is directly below the church pulpit."

Si Ming smiled with his head down, but his eyes were not at ease.

"They started putting up a monument next to the 'sound'."

Ian hesitated before asking, "Are you going to get involved? Write an editorial? A special feature?"

The Fate Master shook his head:

"No, we didn't write Dream Lantern."

He turned to look down at the street, where the elderly, children, veterans, and street performers were all queuing up, each with their heads down, looking at a piece of paper in their hands.

Some people use it to wipe away tears; others fold it repeatedly and then unfold it again.

He whispered:

"I just want to know whether they're going to write these notes as a farewell—or a declaration."

at noon.

An elegantly dressed but clearly down-on-her-luck elderly woman stopped in front of the eleventh monument.

She stood in front of the crowd for a long time without saying a word.

No one urged her.

No one stepped forward.

She pulled a yellowed sheet of paper from her handbag, unfolded it, and with trembling fingers wrote a name at the bottom—

"Edmond Raz Terada"

That was an old application form for registering one's destiny pattern.

She did not post any accusatory words on the monument, nor did she shout or shed tears.

She simply wrote one sentence:
“He is not a dormant being, he is my son.”

Then, she put the paper away and slowly turned to leave.

She did not specify which baroness she was.

No one stopped her.

No one applauded her.

But at that moment, everyone looked at her back and saw that for the first time, her number and identity were pierced through the boundaries of the field by a blood relative using her own surname.

The God of Fate carved a small note on the rim of the teacup:
"For the first time, the boundary of the field was pierced by a blood relative using a name."

Before dusk that day, the Morning Star Times received an anonymous submission.

There is no text, only three photos:
The first picture shows a retired soldier holding his grandson's hand under the Dream Lantern Monument.

The second picture shows a little girl looking up next to an old military badge and asking, "Grandpa, are you the one who fought the monster in my dream?"

The third image is a stone slab with the following clearly engraved text:

"The dormant body no longer exists."

"They have names, people, and lives."

"This is the fire—it hasn't gone out."

Si Ming quietly wrote in the corner of the diary page:
"They started talking about 'me'."

"This means that they are ready to say—'we'."

Si Ming sat on the terrace of the abandoned Morning Star building, recording the time when the 143rd note appeared in front of the Dream Lantern Stele.

His pen paused slightly on the paper, then he suddenly looked up.

He felt a gaze upon him.

It was neither hostility nor spying.

That gaze pierced through the thick fog, possessing a penetrating power that only a select few possess. Quiet and clear, it was like a nail, driven directly into his heart.

He followed that sense of "seeing" and looked along the extended line of the Military Spirit Square.

In the southeast, on the edge of the core restricted area of ​​the royal city, a little-known white tower is hidden among the mist and stone walls.

That tower was once the former Crown Prince's astronomical chart drawing office, but it has been abandoned for many years.

Official records state that it was once used by noble riders to observe the stars and navigate, but in reality, it has long been deserted.

But the God of Fate knew that the tower was not empty.

Because—she was there.

Liseria Trean.

The youngest daughter of the emperor.

He was also one of the earliest anonymous contributors to the Morning Star Times.

She didn't reveal her identity, but Si Ming immediately recognized her from her writing style and the sentence, "We must write each number as a surname."

She was standing in the glass corridor on the top floor of the tower, with a royal star map behind her. The star map was inlaid with gold, and each star was engraved with the symbol of a prince or princess.

But she doesn't look at the stars.

She was watching the fire.

The street corner where the Dream Lantern Monument was located in the distance was shrouded in fog and could not be seen, but she knew that the light there was still there.

That was not the fire that illuminated the capital.

That was the fire that wrote names, a spark that overflowed from countless silences, was extinguished, and then reignited.

She held a piece of paper in her hand, unsigned and without an envelope.

The title reads:

Unwritten Poems: Numbering Under the Night

She originally intended to submit it to the Morning Star.

But she didn't.

Because she knew that once it was cast, it would no longer be a poem, but evidence of "dream lamp stirring," and evidence of "numbered advocacy."

She sighed softly and stuffed the manuscript into the crack in the fireplace.

It wasn't burned.

It's just hidden away—like burying a lamp that one dares not light.

The sound of crows flapping their wings came from outside the tower. They were not visible in the fog, only echoes remained, like the rustling of feathers passing through the wall in the dead of night.

She murmured softly:
"They thought the fire had been extinguished, the names had been filed, and the orders had been given."

"But I know..."

She closed her eyes.

She remembered that girl standing in front of the Monument to the Souls of the Army that night.

She remembered the bottom of the list that read "Return to Name," and the young boys who had awakened from their slumber, their eyes filled with tears, yet silently saluting.

She could still hear their footsteps, which lingered in her mind for a long time:
"Number 1679."

“Number βJ-0”.

"I am a soldier, not livestock."

She opened her eyes, her gaze no longer averted, calmly and resolutely looking into the depths of the palace, through the fog, through the blockade, through the lingering orders.

She whispered:

"It's not that the fire was covered up."

"The fog was too thick, blocking our chance to see the fire."

Her right index finger rested on the small bronze bell by the window, which was engraved with the inscription "Morning Star." The bell was old, but she still polished it to look as good as new every day.

She touched it gently, and the bell rang, its clear and melodious sound carrying through the sky above the clock tower.

The flock of pigeons took flight, flapping their white wings and breaking through the mist.

She turned around, went back into the tower, lit a candle, sat back down at her desk, and opened a new manuscript.

Title:

Fire After the Fog: A Tentative Exploration of the Structure of Dream Lanterns and Imperial Naming Ethics

Subtitle:

"This empire has long stopped asking 'who' and only 'which number'."

She put pen to paper.

Not as a poet.

Instead, she was treated as a princess.

Moreover, he was the guide of that "legitimate spark".

same moment.

Beneath the monument to the spirit of the army, Si Ming closed his notebook, stood up, glanced at the monument, and turned to leave.

Ian quickly caught up at the intersection and asked in a low voice:
"Editor-in-chief... will the neighborhood meeting still be giving out paper tonight?"

Si Ming pondered for half a second, then nodded.

"Double the price."

"Unsigned."

"Also, have the words written by those children at the foot of the monument engraved into bronze plates and sent to the priest at the clock tower on East Street."

Benham frowned: "Will the church agree?"

Si Ming chuckled softly:
“They won’t disagree.”

"Because they don't yet know that those words have become inscriptions."

“And inscriptions are the skeleton of fire.”

He looked back at the monument, his gaze deep and resolute.
"And this city... is no longer the city shrouded in fog."

"It is a theater waiting for the fire to come."

"The fog has not yet dissipated, the lights have not yet gone out, the fire has not yet been lit, but the stars... have already quietly fallen to earth in someone's pen."

"This revolution needs no clarion call, nor any saint—it only needs people to remember that they were once famous."

"The dream lamp is not a prayer, but the gathering of echoes. The next sound will shatter the stone tablet."

—From *Morning Star Times*, Unpublished Night Edition, "Traces of Fire in the Capital"

(End of this chapter)