Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 319 The Mystery of the Fog
"All truly terrifying nights never end at midnight."

They wake up in the early morning, dressed in human skin, and tell you, 'We saw nothing.'

—An unpublished internal manuscript from Morning Star Times, "Observation Notes in the Fog: Si Ming's Commentary"

Before dawn, the foggy city was still asleep between twilight and mist.

In the Seventh Parish, on the side street of 13 Jingyu Lane, a wastebasket was overturned in the cobblestone alley, with damp scraps of paper scattered all over the ground.

A stray cat was curled up at the bottom of a steam pipe, its fur bristling, its pupils as small as needles, staring warily ahead.

There, a corpse lay silently.

She looked young, in her early twenties, and wore a grey-blue robe for evening classes, with a hand-sewn old naval badge pinned to her chest.

His eyes were wide open, as if he were trying to see "something" rushing out of the fog in the last moments of his life.

On her neck, two neat and deep bite marks were slowly oozing blood that was almost congealed.

His right hand still clutched a page of handouts, on which a sentence was written in pencil:

“Fate lines are a language; they are not destiny itself, but they can invoke destiny.”

The smells of rust, dampness, and a faint stench of blood mingled and swirled in the alleyway.

Not far away, a pale-faced morning patrol guard whispered to the messenger, "...I recognize her. She's the one who came to listen to the whispers during night class...she's from the newspaper."

The messenger gripped the military communication crystal tightly, his tone tense: "The colonel has ordered that any traces of vampires, the area around the newspaper office, and unregistered vampire residents be reported directly to the church."

Further away, a white carriage bearing the church's coat of arms slowly drove in.

Inside the carriage, the female investigator in white opened her handbook and calmly read aloud: "The deceased, Philia Herwin. Two days ago, she had contact with a numbered soldier and attended a Morning Star forum event. The manner of her death closely matches the standard vampire sacrifice pattern."

She raised her head, her gaze icy: "Mark suspected murderer—unregistered female vampire: Selene."

The camera gradually zooms out. In the fog of Morning Star Alley, a faint glimmer of starlight flashes by, only to be swallowed by the fog.

This is not the end of the night, but a bloody incident born at dawn—quietly beginning the end of another dream.

Early in the morning, the first uninvited guests appeared outside the Morning Star Times.

Three military wheeled steam vehicles, six uniformed special police officers, and one legal officer wearing a "Discipline Inspector" armband.

And a white-robed investigator from the Imperial Church—she held in her hands an urgent letter issued by the Holy Mother Order, containing only three sentences:

"The deceased was a student of Morning Star Night Class."

"The cause of death is highly suspected to be bloodsucking."

"According to reports, the only active member of the suspected vampire clan is Selene, registered in the community."

Si Ming sat in the editor-in-chief's office of the newspaper, while outside the window, there were reflective strips of police tape on the street corner and the whispering of idlers gathered around.

His fingers rubbed the silver pen in his hand, beside which lay the unsent manuscript of "Manuscript of Fate Pattern Linguistics (Chapter Three)". The footsteps outside the window grew closer.

“You should get out.” Rex stood by the door, his face tense. “They’ve obtained a summary arrest warrant.”

Si Ming didn't move. He simply got up, put on the Morning Star gray editor-in-chief's trench coat, and then took something down—a silver seal.

The seal of Morning Star symbolizes the "right to legally disseminate information" and was once recognized by the Royal Capital Public Opinion Bureau.

Now, it will lose its effectiveness.

The door was pushed open.

The disciplinary officer remained silent, only presenting a document: "In accordance with Section 47 of the Royal Special Clause, the Trean Mystery and Anomaly Investigation Order is in effect. The Morning Star newspaper and its related personnel are hereby sealed off and temporarily questioned, and key managers are to be taken away to assist in the investigation."

“Assist with the investigation,” Si Ming repeated, then looked at Benham and Ian behind him. “It’s alright. As long as they don’t have a gag order, we can still print the newspaper.”

He walked out on his own, nodded to the officer, and his gaze fell on the face of the church's female investigator—a face that was too calm, like a stone sculpture, devoid of emotion.

"We also need that vampire girl."

She spoke, her voice like the tolling of a bell on an altar, calm yet unsettling.

A moment later, Celian appeared at the top of the stairs.

She changed into a dark gray cloak, gathered her long scarlet hair, and her expression was completely different from her usual arrogant and playful demeanor. She just stood there quietly, bowing her head to tie the cloak belt.

“I won’t bite her,” she said. “I’m restrained.”

"But you didn't register," the female investigator replied coldly.
“You still have remnants of the vampire lifeline within you. Furthermore, you did not provide any evidence of your conduct during the time of the incident last night.”

"I'm listening to Si Ming talking in his sleep."

"Please come with us."

Ian tried to speak, but Si Ming stopped him.

"Go to the printing department," Si Ming whispered. "Make sure the front page of the next issue of the newspaper is empty."

"title?"

“Don’t write that we are innocent,” Si Ming said calmly. “Write that they are asking questions too slowly.”

Two hours later, the Morning Star newspaper office was completely sealed off. Bright red warning signs were posted on both sides of the street, clearly stating: "Anomalous Contamination Area of ​​Life Mark - Under Temporary Investigation."

These warnings acted as an invisible barrier, casting a shadow of tension and unease over the entire neighborhood.

The morning mist in the foggy city still lingered, permeating the streets and alleys, but this time, it was no longer just a condensation of water vapor.

Rather, it is a manifestation of suspicion and fear, the most silent confrontation between the old and new worlds before they pierce each other.

Beside the old post office on the street corner, an elderly woman with a full head of white hair frowned, her tone filled with unwavering determination: "I told you long ago, those people with star markings would get into trouble sooner or later."

Although her voice wasn't loud, it was enough to attract the attention of those around her.

A young man immediately retorted, his voice filled with anger and confusion: "But she's one of Morning Star's instructors. Maybe someone framed her!"

The other person said in a deep voice, "But can you guarantee she won't 'lose control'? That night she was..."

He stopped abruptly before he could finish speaking, as if no amount of words could conceal the fear in his heart.

Inside the temporary investigation hall, as Si Ming was brought in, his gaze fell upon the notice on the wall:
“Anyone suspected of being involved in a blood curse must be determined by the church whether they are still human.”

These words are like a sharp knife, piercing straight to the heart.

The temporary interrogation room of the Western District Military Court was originally converted from an old command post. The windows were sealed with dark red curtains, and only the CD lamps on the ceiling emitted a blinding white light, illuminating the entire room.

Selene sat on the cold iron chair, her hands cuffed under the table, a silver bracelet tightly embedded in the life-pattern sensing crystal, its surface showing subtle fluctuations.

The wall is inlaid with a "spiritual purification totem", and four church recorders, dressed in white robes, stand in a row like silent statues.

Sitting at the very front was the presiding person of this interrogation, Sister Tina Yourser, a fifth-degree interrogator of the Church.

She spoke slowly, her voice calm and authoritative: "Tentative designation: VampireS-9, suspected of being an unregistered vampire, suspected of being 'indirectly involved in the Fatal Mark murder case,' now in the first round of the preliminary review process."

Selene raised her head, looked directly at the nun, and curled a mocking smile at the corner of her lips: "Are you trying to use me to sacrifice your KPIs?"

Her tone was relaxed, as if she were detached from the situation, and there was a faint trace of weariness in the corners of her eyes.

The nun remained unmoved, simply taking a crystal from the table and continuing to ask, "Where were you last night?"

"At the Morning Star newspaper office."

"Who can prove it?"

"Why don't you ask Si Ming? Or Rex... He likes to recite pirate poems before bed."

"Did you have any contact with strangers at that time? For example, fellow students?"

“A boy asked me to read his destiny chart,” Celian shrugged. “He said he dreamt that his star was crying.”

The nun was silent for a moment, then whispered an order: "Record the fragment of the 'Dream Star Chart,' which appears to be an abnormal projection of the life line."

"Have you used any spells related to life or fate? Especially after night classes?"

"I don't even know how to light a fire, I'll use your oil lamp."

Before he finished speaking, a church judge emerged from behind the wall.

He held the mind-reading device and aimed it at the area marked on Serian's life line.

The instrument emitted a slight beep—not an alarm, but the fluctuations were indeed abnormal.

“I sensed the remnants of star-pattern vibrations,” he said in a low voice. “Non-aggressive, but resonates with life-related entities…” “That’s enough.”

The voice came from outside the door.

Si Ming stood there, still wearing the trench coat edited by Chen Xing, the cuffs slightly open, revealing the life pattern emblem, one of the eight stars shining brightly, as if it might ignite at any moment.

“She was with me last night,” he said. “I swear on my life.”

“You are not an official registered person in the Register of Life Marks,” the nun replied coldly.

"But I am an authorized lecturer of the Mysterious Society registered with the Mysterious Masters Guild."

Si Ming took out the badge, "If I lie, you can cancel my registration."

The church members exchanged glances.

“We will take note of this guarantee,” the nun said, her tone unchanged, “but the investigation will continue.”

Selene turned to look at Si Ming, her eyes showing no fear, only a strange smile.

"You always take the bullet for me."

"That depends on where the bullet is going."

Their conversation seemed particularly abrupt in the oppressive interrogation room, yet it also revealed an indescribable tacit understanding and trust.

At this moment, the fog outside is still thick, and the sounds of discussion on the street are constant, but inside this closed interrogation room, a battle of trust and truth has just begun.

Meanwhile, Benham and Ian crossed the third cordon at the intersection of West End Street.

The lingering haze in the air was like a hypothermic night tide, chillingly seeping into one's bones.

The streets were deserted, and wild grass grew in the cracks between the dilapidated bricks and tiles, as if this area had been abandoned by time.

They launched an investigation around the crime scene. The area was already sparsely populated, and now it was even more desolate.

Only one old ruin on the street was temporarily included in the cordon, with yellow warning tape strung up, like a wound in a dilapidated city being hastily stitched up.

Ian crouched down, his fingertips slowly brushing against a piece of broken brick near the crack in the wall. His knuckles paused, as if he had touched something.

He pulled a tattered piece of cloth from the gap; it was dark red old linen, mottled and stained with barely perceptible bloodstains.

He held it to his nose and sniffed it carefully.

“…It’s not human blood.” He frowned, his voice extremely low, as if he were deducing something on his own, or as if he were issuing a warning to some kind of intuition.

"Sea monsters?" he asked in a deep voice.

“It might be a sacrificial creature.” Benham’s voice was almost inaudible, yet it carried the calm familiarity of an old resident of Broken Tower Street with heresy. “I’ve seen similar blood rituals; the remnants are almost identical.”

Ian's gaze followed the street and finally landed on the church tower not far away.

In the fog, it stands like a sharp nail piercing the sky, silent and solemn.

It was a secondary worship site set up by the Church of Our Lady in Chongqing, just two blocks from the scene of the crime.

Benham tapped his side lightly with his fingers, as if awakening a long-forgotten memory: "I remember, a similar 'Blood Chime Case' happened a few years ago?"

"The church ultimately characterized it as an individual heretical incident?" Ian answered slowly, his voice as steady as ever, but there was a slight fluctuation in his eyes.

“And at that time,” Benham said, his voice lowering as he stared toward the church tower, “there was a priest who wanted a promotion… and he held a small blood moon ceremony.”

Ian didn't reply, but instead lowered his head and held the piece of cloth to his nose again, taking a deep breath. His eyes suddenly narrowed, as if he had smelled some chilling truth in the blood-stained cloth.

“This isn’t the mark of a vampire,” he said slowly, his tone firm. “It’s the lingering scent of prayers after a sacrifice.”

His gaze pierced through the mist, fixing on the spire of the clock tower.

His voice was as cold as iron about to hit the ground in the fog: "They're not investigating the truth. They're wiping out a runaway fire."

The inner chapel of the Temple of Our Lady in the Royal Capital, just before dusk.

Above the dome, the brilliance of the gold ornaments was being pulled away by the last rays of the setting sun, leaving behind a warm, blood-red hue, as if even the gaze of the gods was beginning to recede.

Deep within the temple, the enormous statue of Our Lady of Fertility gazes down, its expression still gentle, seemingly eternally merciful, yet in this dim light, there is an added chilling silence.

Medusa Trean sat upright in a deep velvet armchair in front of the high platform, her posture as dignified as a sculpture. Her ceremonial white-gold robe shimmered with dark gold light, and the wide sleeves covered her fingertips.

Her expression was solemn, her eyes like the cold moon, and her slender fingers steadily held a book of fragments of fate markings, as if she were examining a manuscript of destiny.

Opposite her, a church deacon dressed in a silver-patterned robe was kneeling on one knee with his head slightly bowed.

Although the voice was gentle, every word was tinged with cautious tension: "According to the autopsy team's report—the deceased's life line was severely damaged, the spine was fractured, the eyes were bleeding, and no bite wounds were found."

He unfolded the parchment scroll in his hand, his fingertips lightly tracing the markings and inscriptions on it.
It was as if every inch of it was evidence of a crime: "We confirmed that the residual echoes of life at the scene overlapped by more than 80% with the 'Primary Blood Moon Ritual' used in the sacred ritual."

He looked up at her, his voice now low as a whisper: “In other words, for— ‘a failed ritual intended to complete a sacrifice.’”

Medici nodded slowly, her lips not moving, but her voice echoed softly in the hall, like the chimes of a morning prayer: "So, it was that priest... who got anxious."

"He submitted his promotion application." The deacon paused, then sighed, "He wants to use the ceremony to accumulate 'commoners' points of repentance and sacrifice' in order to advance to the White Silk Steps."

“Indeed.” Her tone was flat, as if she were only listening to a review report of a document.

"This kind of 'special prayer offering' is not the first time... but most of them are within a controllable range."

The deacon continued in a low voice, "This time, the people involved are students from the Evening Lecture Hall."

Medici slowly closed the scroll in her hand, her gaze falling on the deacon, yet she seemed to see through the entire structure of the cult behind him.

There was no anger or pity in her eyes, only a cold, icy compassion.

“A commoner who came into contact with the mysterious,” she said slowly, her voice low. “Not worth regretting.”

She rose, her white and gold robe shimmering like water. She stepped to the window, her fingertips lightly touching the glass frame.

It was a painting of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, with colorful glass spots like morning snow falling on her face.

"They give lectures in the neighborhood, spreading the art of deconstructing life patterns, summoning techniques outside the church, and card recognition..." Her voice was like a gentle breeze passing over the altar, yet it contained the rumble of thunder.

"Do you know what it means when those commoners learn to 'recognize their true names'?"

The deacon bowed his head and remained silent.

"That means—they no longer need God to interpret the cards."

She turned around, her face calm as still water, yet sharp as a blade.

“Gods need no explanation. And gods who no longer explain,” she paused for a moment, her voice slowly falling, “are left only with rituals.”

She turned around, her gaze falling on the old, grayish-brown paper on the table—on which was drawn a blood moon about to rise.
The outer ring is engraved with dense life incantations, death marks, and chains of destiny. The drawing gleams with a faint old light, like a destiny yet to be ignited.

She stared at it for a long time, then reached out, her fingertips trembling almost imperceptibly, and threw the paper into the candlelight.

Flames clung to her, their light reflecting on her face. The blood moon gradually charred, curled, and disintegrated in the flames, shattering into nothingness without a trace.

She said softly:
"not the right time yet."

It was late at night on the back street of the Morning Star newspaper office.

At the street corner, several unidentified believers, draped in white silk, stood in the shadows.

They held old-fashioned incense rings in their hands, chanting softly, their gazes coldly fixed on the still-lit second-floor window in the distance.

There, the God of Fate was bent over his desk writing, on which lay a eulogy:
"She didn't die from contact with the supernatural, but because they were afraid she would."

Benham stood by the window and asked him in a low voice, "Want to write? At a time like this?"

Si Ming didn't look up, but said calmly, "Fire doesn't burn because it's seen."

"The fire started because someone set it on fire."

They said it was a "divine retribution."
But the child was just listening to the lecture notes.

It wasn't God who killed her.

They are those who hide in the shadows in the name of God.

—From *Morning Star Unpublished: Street Manuscripts: "A Candle and a Tower"*

(End of this chapter)