Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 318 Fire in the Mist
"They suppress knowledge with divinity and strip names of their names with numbers."

But we didn't ignite the star for the sake of light—

We just want to know where the fire started.

—An unpublished article from Morning Star Times' Evening Class Special Issue (anonymous)
The night in the foggy city is as heavy as a sealed old file, even the sound of the wind is suppressed outside the door frame, and no one dares to make a sound.

The former Morning Star Printing Warehouse is hidden in a forgotten alley on the East Fifth Ring Road.

A weathered wooden sign hangs above the door, reading "Morning Stars, Evening Lessons." Below the sign, someone hastily added a few words in chalk:
Evening class special, whispered lecture, this session's lecturer, number βW-3.

Ian sat at the slightly crooked wooden table in the front row, with a worn-out will card spread out in front of him.

The card is worn and the edges are curled up, like some kind of surviving evidence brought back from an old battlefield.

He was wearing a faded, civilian-style military uniform; the serial number sewn onto his left shoulder was crudely stitched with loose threads.

It's just right—like a symbol of "belonging to the military," but without any sense of honor, only the silence of reality.

The dim light of the coal lamp flickered, casting a faint shadow on his face. He looked slightly tired, and his profile, softened by the lamplight, concealed a dull ache.

"—Today we're going to talk about the origins of fate lines and mysteries."

He looked up, his voice deep and clear, as he swept over the dozens of faces in front of him.

"It is not the church's explanation, not the aristocratic seal's textbook, and certainly not the 'normative rumors' passed down by the Mysterious Society."

He paused, his tone slightly raised:
“What we are telling you is what you should know, things that were not originally meant for you to know.”

The audience seats were packed, with tables and chairs pieced together here and there. Some people sat on the floor, some leaned against the wall, and some used makeshift wooden canes.

Most of them were middle-aged men and women, wearing faded work clothes with tattered epaulets on their arms fluttering in the wind. Some were veterans with scars on their foreheads and alert but unwavering eyes.

Their eyes were dry and almost devoid of emotion, but under the lamplight, a longing that had been deprived for so long quietly surfaced.

Waste paper and damaged printing rollers were piled up in the corner of the warehouse. The iron door was half-closed, and Benham stood guard by the door, glancing at the street corner from time to time, his hand still resting on the unregistered life-mark communication stone.

“The first thing—life markings.” Ian turned and wrote on the blackboard, the chalk making a screeching sound as it scratched across the board.

He drew a pattern that resembled an alchemical array, with star trails on the outer edge and a blurred, distorted inner edge, like a door whose memory had been forcibly erased.

"When you bind a card—a true binding, not obtained through trading, not rented by a noble, and not stolen from the black market..."

He raised his right hand, and a gray-blue life pattern slowly emerged on the back of his hand. The light was not dazzling, but it was enough to make the flames of the surrounding coal lamps flicker.

“This life mark is the contract between you and Ka.”

"It is also a door."

His gaze swept over the crowd, and his voice slowly faded:

"You have ignited the star of reason, and it has opened a path to power for you."

"But remember: stars are not a gift."

"It's a fire you started by burning yourself."

In the corner, a young man wearing an old monk's robe slowly raised his hand, with a tattoo left by the church in his early years still visible between his eyebrows.

His voice trembled, but it was sincere:

“Lecturer, the church says… life marks are heresy, a sign of betrayal by God’s servants. Are we already…”

He paused, as if the words were struggling to crawl out from deep in his throat, only to be suppressed by some kind of fear.

Ian didn't respond immediately. He stepped down from the podium and went straight to the young man.

He crouched down to look him in the eye.

Do you believe in God?

The young man answered in a low voice, "I believe... but I also want to live."

Ian nodded and patted his shoulder lightly:
"Then you should trust yourself now."

He stood up, walked back to the podium, and wrote four words on the blackboard: Legacy, Mystery, True Name, Price.

He said slowly:

"The power of the card is not bestowed by faith, but by whether you dare to call its true name."

"Nobles won't tell you your real name, and neither will the church."

"They want you to carry a sealed card for the rest of your life, only able to pray and unable to act."

He put down the chalk and looked at the crowd:

“But you are neither nobles nor clergy.”

“You are people who have been skinned in the fire, returned from the whale’s grave, and risen from slumber.”

“You have already paid the price—now, it is time to reclaim your name and your power.”

A gust of wind blew in through the crack in the door, causing the warehouse to tremble slightly, and the window frame rattled.

Benham glanced back, then quietly lowered the wooden bolt behind the door, securing it firmly.

Silence fell for a moment.

An old blacksmith stood up, his beard gray, his voice hoarse: "Lecturer, my son used the kind of card you mentioned to forge iron for me all day."

"His hands were blistered, but the fire never went out."

His eyes were red-rimmed.
“I asked him where he learned it, but he wouldn’t tell me. Now I know.”

He paused, his gaze fixed intently on Ian.

"If I had known all this ten years earlier, I might not have sent him onto that damn ship."

Ian lowered his head, his voice barely audible: "Your son...which fleet?"

"Fifth, the western line. The line with the Whale Tomb."

The warehouse is even heavier now.

At that moment, no one cried, but everyone remembered.

Suddenly, near the door, a thin little boy spoke timidly: "I...I learned church reading in the old town. My mother said I wasn't allowed to touch the supernatural or say real names...but I still did."

He took out a piece of cloth from his pocket, carefully unfolded it, and a low-level fate-related card shimmered with a faint light.

Ian immediately recognized it as a common "fake fate card" on the market—"Omen Glass," which would devour the user's memories if it got out of control.

"Can you control it?"

"...No. I read it once, and I didn't dream about it for three days. I even forgot my dad's face."

Ian didn't blame him. He stepped off the stage, took the card, and carefully placed it on the table.

"It's devouring your memories. The Fate Card is not to be trifled with."

He looked at everyone and said, word by word:

“Each of us could be swallowed up by the card.”

“But compared to those nobles who lock up their cards and turn you into numbered accounts—at least we actively chose to know.”

He surveyed the entire room, his gaze steady, his voice like a spark igniting:

"Cards are not miracles, nor are they judgments."

"It is the key for us to reclaim our name."

The warehouse had been quiet for a long time, with only the faint crackling sound of the lights flickering gently, like old strings playing in the darkness.

Then, someone slowly stood up, his movements clumsy yet forceful, and gave a slightly awkward military salute.

Following closely behind was a second person, a third person, and more and more people.

Those soldiers who returned with their numbers, the fathers who came back from the seaside, the boys who were once forced to kneel and copy scriptures in church classes...

They stood up, each word deliberate and punctuated, their shoulders ramrod straight, not to commemorate anyone, nor to move anyone, but simply to hear those three long-forgotten words in a silent night:

You can learn it.

"You can use it."

"You are not a number."

The fog outside the warehouse thickened, like a layer of cotton cloth pasted on the doors and windows, blocking out the city lights and sounds.

The whole street seemed to sink into some kind of low-key dream, even the wind was quietly breathing in the cracks between the bricks.

Benham pushed open the door and entered, his clothes damp with the night chill and dew, carrying a large, heavy register in his hands.

He had an unlit cigarette between his teeth, and his graying temples couldn't hide his fatigue, but his eyes shone with a rare brightness.

"There were twice as many people as expected tonight," he said, walking back to the stage. "The back door was almost full; even magazine storage boxes were being used as chairs."

Ian leaned against the blackboard, a faint smile playing on his lips: "The fire is already burning."

Benham snorted and muttered before sitting down, "You didn't light it—they were looking for the match themselves."

He handed the roster to his assistant, sat down quietly in the back row of the classroom, and said no more.

The oil lamp in front of the stage was turned up, and the coal fire cast a wider circle of light, marking the start of the second phase of the night class.

Ian raised his hand, signaling everyone to quiet down. He returned to the blackboard, erased the writing from the previous lesson, and began to teach the new material.

“Now,” he said, “let’s talk about—'star'.”

He drew a circle with twelve stars on the outer edge, but the core was a chaotic mess of ink.

"This is the structure diagram of the Fate Rune Burning Star. Every time you use the Mysterious Trick, it will consume one Star of Reason."

"The more stars you ignite, the more complex the cards you can use. But—"

His chalk suddenly stopped, making a crisp sound.

"When all your stars have burned out, you can no longer use any more tricks."

"Unless you wait—wait for them to go out, wait for yourself to 'cool down'."

A voice came from the back row, hoarse and deep.

He was an older veteran with a horizontal scar between his eyebrows.

He raised his hand: "What if we burn all the stars in the battle?"

Ian shrugged, his tone nonchalant:
"Then you'd better pray that the enemy doesn't recognize you."

"Or leave a star for your feet. Run."

A soft laugh broke out in the lecture hall, not loud, but enough to break the tense atmosphere.

Before the laughter subsided, a young woman in a faded sailor uniform slowly raised her hand by the window.

There was a clear mark from an old iron chain on her wrist, and she was so thin that she looked like she had just walked out of a cage, but there was a kind of forced light in her eyes.

Her voice was extremely soft, almost a whisper:

"I want to ask... are secret weapons only for soldiers? Or nobles? Can we... who aren't soldiers, just ordinary people, also possess them?"

Ian stepped down from the podium, squatted down in front of her, his tone gentle yet filled with undeniable sincerity.

"What's your name?"

“Alyssa Baker.” She looked down, her hands clutching the hem of her dress tightly.

“Eliza,” Ian repeated, as if writing the name in his mind.

Have you ever used the Mysterious Trick?

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded: "In the Whale Tomb... I have a card, I think it's called 'Wind Pot'. I used it to blow away the smoke from the fire in the manor when I escaped that day."

Ian's gaze flickered slightly.

"You saved a team using a wind-type card?"

She bit her lip and nodded.

Ian didn't praise or sigh; he simply stood up, walked to the blackboard, and wrote her name in the "Questioners" list in the upper right corner.
Alyssa Baker

“From now on,” he turned back to the podium, “she is the second speaker for this class.”

Alyssa looked up abruptly, her eyes no longer filled with fear, but with a resurgent confidence.

Ian scanned the room, his voice growing more resolute:
"She wasn't asking that just now."

"She is answering."

“She used the card to save people, not because she was an officer, not because she had a surname, and not because she had abstained from religious doctrine.”

"She just got the card and then used it."

He paused, his voice suddenly turning cold:
"A card is not a symbol of identity, but proof of will."

"The question isn't whether someone is worthy or not, but whether they dare to ignite the Star of Reason."

In the corner, a middle-aged man with a scarred face sneered and uttered a curse that had been weighing on his chest for a long time:

"But if we actually dare to use it, what will happen to the church?"

Ian raised an eyebrow, his tone so indifferent it was almost sarcastic:
"What else can be done?"

He glanced around; everyone was looking at him.

“We who returned with our assigned numbers all came back with our cards.”

"They want to arrest? Then arrest all the soldiers in the city."

"Or, start a new whale tomb."

The man paused for a moment, then gritted his teeth and cursed under his breath:

"...I really want to give them a card to see if I can smash that bench."

The entire room fell silent for half a second.

Then, a soft laugh seemed to come from deep within someone's throat.

It wasn't contempt, but rather a long-lost feeling.

Then, more people began to laugh. The laughter was dry and short, but it was like the first wisp of heat rising from the roof of the warehouse, slowly igniting something among the old bricks and stones.

It's no longer just about "listening".

It is not fire that is about to be "spoken".

Some people chuckled softly, some coughed with their heads down, and some remained silent, their eyes fixed on the yellowed wood grain of the table corner, as if trying to hear something there.

Just then, a small but clear voice rang out.

It was a boy, sitting in the last row, no more than fourteen or fifteen years old, his voice a little hoarse.

He had old, weathered scars on his face, a slanted line at the corner of his eyebrow, and thin, slender fingers that were gripped tightly.

“My father was in the Fifth Fleet.”

His voice was deliberate and measured, neither fast nor trembling.

"He was put into a deep sleep... but he escaped and returned."

“I saw the life lines on his body with my own eyes. He taught me how to listen to the voice of the card.”

He said that the card is not a god, but a story of sealing.

Ian looked at the boy, his eyes suddenly lighting up as if he had heard some deep-seated echo.

“What’s your father’s name?” he asked. The boy answered softly, “Ben Helen.”

The classroom fell into a deathly silence.

Several elderly people looked up, exchanged glances, their expressions froze, followed by a few soft gasps—

That was one of the first names "confirmed to be in slumber" in the early stages of the Whale Tomb incident.

Now, some say he has returned alive.

They knew perfectly well what this meant.

Ian nodded slowly, his tone firm and calm:
"He taught correctly."

“Each of you will become the next lecturer.”

“The pulpit does not belong to me alone, but to all those who have been ‘nameless’.”

He walked to the blackboard, raised his pen, and wrote a few words on the board:

"No more slumber, no more numbering."

Benham stood at the back of the classroom, leaning against the door frame, watching this scene, and let out a long sigh.

He doesn't speak.

In that instant, I saw the small, thin girl in the corner—she was sitting on a small stool at the very edge, her clothes were a little too big, and the cuffs hung down to her palms.

She was writing carefully, stroke by stroke, on a sheet of paper on her lap with a charcoal stick.

That line of text was crooked and slanted, yet it was clearer than anyone else's:
"I'm not afraid of getting a card."

"I'm afraid they won't let me learn."

The candlelight burned brighter, illuminating the black words written with charcoal, while the fog outside the warehouse grew thicker.

The nights in Chongqing are always like this—the quieter it is, the more it resembles the prelude to a collapse.

Ian turned around, picked up the blackboard eraser, and slowly erased the content of the previous lesson, leaving only a newly written sentence:
"If you're willing to light it up, you have to admit that it might burn you."

After he finished speaking, he flicked his cloak and took out a slightly faded card from the inside.

The card depicts a giant bird with outstretched wings like a sail, its face blurred, its feathers enveloped in surging wind and thunder.

A string of dark, flowing runes is engraved on the edge, like a spell beneath the surface of water.

“This is my card—No. 709, ‘The Wind Whisperer’s Crow’.”

When he said this, he neither raised his hand high nor tried to create an air of mystery.

Like an old sailor talking about his old canvas bag, calm yet incredibly resolute.

He gently ignited the life lines on his palm.

The first star on the ring of fate shone like an awakening eye. A gentle breeze swirled from the corner, lifting the curtains and the papers on the table. The card floated in mid-air, thin as a feather, yet trembling not at all.

"Wind Whisper Series, World Category, Three Stars."

“It is not good at fighting,” he readily admitted, “but it can spread language, deliver whispers, and stir up the wind.”

He flicked his finger, and the card spun, creating a gentle breeze.

The wind swept past the dilapidated lectern, gently straightened a collapsed cardboard box in the corner of the classroom, and then swirled into the small iron stove by the wall, whereupon the fire reignited.

"Its skill lies not in hitting people."

"And that is, to let your words travel further."

As he finished speaking, the light shone on his palm, and the star was still burning faintly.

“This is called ‘Wind Whisper’, and it’s the first mysterious entry I wrote for it.”

A near-reverent silence fell over the classroom.

It's not repression.

It's the kind of quiet that even a child can understand: listening attentively and waiting for you to finish before breathing.

“You may not understand its symbols.” Ian looked around, his gaze sweeping over every inch of the room.

"But you have to learn to understand what it means."

"Mystery, not magic."

"It is language, it is totem, it is a history that is too old and too distant for anyone to speak of anymore."

He lowered his head, retrieved the card, and put it back inside his clothes.

Just then, a young man wearing an iron mask raised his hand, his voice deep but not timid:
"Why don't the nobles teach us?"

Ian stared at him, looking into those eyes—clean, angry, confused, and with a hint of barely concealed longing.

"Because they need you to be afraid."

The church says: mystery is the devil.

"The royal family says: Mysteries require bloodline verification."

"The nobles said: Your life lines are wild and will explode."

He spread his hands, his tone as firm as iron:
“But I saw at sea that every numbered soldier in the whale graveyard was using a card.”

“Everyone of them…lived more like a human being than those old men holding scepters.”

In the back row of the classroom, a woman spoke in a trembling voice: "My husband is a blacksmith. Once, he was punished by the church for ten days for repairing metal that had been burned by a card."

Ian nodded: "They're afraid that if you fix it well, someone will ask, 'Why can a blacksmith touch cards?'"

Another person whispered, "My brother is a black market errand boy. He stole a bequest card. He's never used it, just kept it hidden, and he's also been called a 'potential corruptor'."

"Where's your brother?"

"...disappeared."

Ian did not press the matter further.

He simply said something softly, as if talking to himself:

"They want you to believe in fate, but they won't let you hold the card of fate."

At that moment, irregular footsteps and short, hushed conversations came from the doorway.

Benham's expression changed, and he went out to check. He returned a moment later with a grave look on his face.

He walked over to Ian and whispered, "The White Silk Team has appeared at the street corner. They haven't entered yet, but they're checking people coming in and out."

Ian was not alarmed, he simply nodded.

He raised his hand and scanned the entire room:

"The last part tonight is not my speech."

He turned his head and looked at the little girl sitting in the corner who had just been writing.

"What's your name?"

She paused for a moment, then answered softly, "Lily... Lily Joe."

Her voice wasn't loud, but her eyes shone as if they held a spark.

“That line you wrote,” Ian said slowly, “could you read it aloud to everyone?”

Lily nodded, stood up, and stood ramrod straight, her small figure meeting all the gazes in the room.

Her voice was clear and bright:

"I'm not afraid of getting a card."

"I'm afraid they won't let me learn."

After a moment of silence, someone started to applaud.

At first, it was sparse, then more and more people joined in, and finally almost the entire audience applauded together.

A barely perceptible glint flashed in Benham's eyes.

Ian walked to the back of the classroom, lifted the tattered cloth blocking the wind at the door, revealing a wooden board nailed to the wall.

The sign had a few words written on it:
"Registration of willingness".

"Those who are willing to learn, please sign here."

"Those who are willing to pass on their knowledge, please bring your own pen to the next class."

"Those who are willing to teach others can come up on stage during the third period."

No one urged them on, and no one shouted.

But right after he finished speaking, a man stood up, walked to the board, and wrote his name down.

The name is not important.

The important thing is——

The moment he wrote his name, the star of destiny on the back of his palm quietly lit up.

The classroom was empty.

Even the dust left from moving the tables and chairs began to settle, and the kerosene lamp beside the podium had long since been extinguished.

Only one low-beam lamp hanging on the beam is still flickering with a faint light – that lamp was taken from the old port by Benham, and the crack in the lampshade has not been repaired to this day, but the wick is still strong.

The brightness was just right, enough to see the pen tip clearly, but not enough to pierce the thick fog outside the window.

Ian remained standing in front of the blackboard, his palm pressed against the handouts, his knuckles showing pale lines. He wasn't standing there because he was tired, nor because he was cold.

It's the kind of coldness you feel after you've lit a fire, knowing that the next storm is coming.

That kind of cold doesn't come from the outside; it's the cold of embers that have burned once in the bones and heart and then been extinguished by the wind.

The door behind the podium creaked softly, and Marlene entered, wearing a dewy cloak.

She took off her hat and flicked the water, her movements perfectly composed, but there was a clear unease in her eyes, which cast a small shadow under the light.

“I brought something,” she said in a low voice.

She took out a roll of letters from her bosom. It was in the encrypted format used by the Morning Star Society, but the edges were slightly charred and carried a faint smell of incense ash.

Ian took it and unfolded it. The edges of the letter trembled slightly as his gaze swept over its contents.

It's neither news nor a poem. It's an unpublished briefing.

[Special Church Order - Private Version]

Number: E07/Command and Order - White Silk
Contents:

Effective immediately, the area where Morningstar Printing House is frequently visited at night will be designated as a "radical public opinion observation zone".

At least seven “illegal life rune awakeners” have been confirmed to exist among the permanent civilians in the area.

Recommendation: Gradually permeate the process, do not directly dispel it; use instruction as a pretext to pressure and withdraw students from the classroom.

Key figure to observe: Cardholder's identity is unknown, wind-attribute ability, aggressive speech, codename "Sea Breeze Speaker".

When Ian read the last sentence, the corner of his mouth twitched, as if he had just laughed, or as if he had just exhaled a breath of cold air.

“I became their ‘speaker’,” he said.

Marlene's voice trembled slightly: "This is the White Silk Censorship Department. Medici's faction. They are most dangerous when they are silent."

Ian gently closed the page, his fingertip pressing along its center line.

“It’s alright,” he said softly. “The winds of censorship can’t extinguish a fire. They’ll only make it hide deeper.”

He folded the report again and handed it back to Marlene: "Don't leave any marks. Take it back. Let Si Ming take a look."

He turned and walked to the blackboard, wiping away the remaining chalk marks, leaving only one sentence:
"Next class, we'll use real names."

The door opened and closed again, and Marlene's figure disappeared into the fog.

Her steps were very light, as if she were afraid of disturbing something, or as if she were walking into a dream from which she herself was not sure if she could ever escape.

On the other side, behind the dilapidated pulpit, Benham leaned against the window, looking across the street.

The fog was as thick as grease, and several blurry figures stood under the lampposts, dressed in civilian clothes, but each wearing the same style of marching boots.

The censors' old habit: they don't speak, they just stand and listen to what you have to say—their presence is never based on language, but on "their very presence."

Benham sighed. "The lamp we lit... might not be for warmth."

Ian didn't turn around; he simply walked back to the podium and wrote a few lines of text on the corner of the blackboard with chalk:

"What they fear is never what we learn."

"We taught them."

He wrote very slowly, as if writing to posterity, or perhaps to an enemy about to step through the door.

After finishing writing, he gently brushed away the chalk dust and looked at the cracked lamp base next to the lectern—it was broken when he stepped on it during his first lecture and it still hasn't been repaired.

He muttered to himself:

"The woodpile was lit, not to keep warm."

He looked up at the crack in the ceiling. The wind blew in again, extinguishing a candle on the table that had burned out, leaving only a red ember.

Perhaps someone has seen this fire, or perhaps someone is already ready to kick it over.

But Ian knew:
"The fire is no longer in their hands."

"It is seen by others."

Just then, the door opened slightly again. It wasn't Marlene.

It’s Sima Ming.

He didn't say anything, but walked into the classroom, stood in a corner, and his gaze fell on the old "Volunteer Registration" board on the wall.

Sixteen names were already written on the board—they were slightly crooked, and some characters were not very neat.
Some of the signatures looked like they were made with trembling hands, but there wasn't a single noble surname or a single misspelled word.

"How is it?" he asked.

Ian didn't look at him, and only replied with one sentence:
"They didn't come here to learn."

"They've come to light another lamp."

Si Ming nodded, a slight smirk playing on his lips. He walked to the table and reached for the slightly curled parchment tucked away in the corner—

It says:

"Lecture Notes - Lesson 1: Cards and Fate Marks"

The bottom of the paper is completely blank.

The next lesson is about to begin.

The wind blew in again, but this time, it failed to extinguish any of the lights.

It simply brushed past, like a hand that had listened to stories all night, gently patting the classroom's shoulder.

"The podium is not a torch, but a pile of firewood."

"They sit there listening to lectures to ignite a city, not to understand it."

—Inscription at the end of Volume One of "Lectures on the Spark"

(End of this chapter)