Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 320 The Moonlit Phenomenon Beneath the Fire Emblem

"If they give an 'unquestionable answer',
Therefore—we should question whether the 'problem' truly exists.

—From *Morning Star Lectures: The Distance Between Questions and Real Names*

At 3 PM the following afternoon, at the intersection of Jiushi Lane, North Fifth District of Wudu.

The cold fog had not yet dissipated; the mist, like a heavy gray curtain, tore the sunlight into countless fragments.

The afternoon sun pierced through the gaps between the old buildings, casting pale shadows on the stone pavement, as if even the light dared not speak loudly.

The bloodstains had been repeatedly washed away, and the ground looked clean and calm, but there was a burn mark with a life-shaped pattern that had not yet completely faded.

A faint, dark red shadow emerges in the sunset, like some sealed whisper, echoing silently beneath the stone bricks.

Si Ming stood at the edge of the crime scene, which was cordoned off by military and police, the hem of his long trench coat damp with mist.

He stared down at the stone surface without saying a word, as if he had become one with the eerie and silent neighborhood.

Ian followed closely behind, his steps slow and restrained, carrying a folding wind-whispering array device in his hand, his eyes alert, scanning every detail around him that might contain information.

“The military and police have just officially drawn up the indictment,” Ian said in a low voice, his tone tinged with suppressed resentment.
“Cerian is charged as a first-degree mystery murder suspect because of the reason that her vampire instincts were not suppressed.”

Si Ming's tone was as calm as deep water in an old well, steady and without waves: "They forgot that there are two kinds of vampires. One kind tears throats with its teeth, and the other kind... maintains etiquette with lies."

"Which category does Selene belong to?"

Si Ming's lips twitched slightly, and his tone was like a night breeze brushing against a tombstone: "She belongs to the third type."

Ian was taken aback, then looked up: "The third one?"

She doesn't believe in any of them.

They slowly walked into the core area of ​​the crime scene. The stone bricks here had been repeatedly cleaned by the military with a specially formulated mercury cleaner, and every inch of the ground shone with a cold and unnaturally clean light.

The burn marks from the fate pattern still remain, and at certain angles, they reveal barely perceptible flashes of ash.

Ian stopped and deployed the Wind Whisper Array. The array appeared as a semi-transparent elliptical magic circle, slowly rising to encompass a three-meter radius around the street corner at its center.

The air vibrated slightly, followed by faint, low sounds, like whispers brushed by time.

Si Ming carefully embedded a gray stone nail into the center of the formation, closed his eyes, and gently parted his lips—

"Against the wind and the tide, the traces of fate are reflected. With the unlit star, we glimpse the voice that has not yet been extinguished."

His voice was low and deep, like an ancient lament pulled from the depths of memory.

The next instant, a phantom slowly rose from the center of the magic circle, like the pages of an old book turned by the wind, fragments of memory coalescing and replaying the moments before the incident.

The first sound was the girl's footsteps, hurried and light, carrying a barely audible panic.

She was carrying a stack of handwritten lecture notes, as if she had just returned from the Morning Star Lecture Hall, with traces of undried ink still remaining on the slightly curled edges of the papers.

Immediately afterwards, a strange humming came from the wind, the tone unlike a human voice—like a baby's cry that had been roughly drawn out, mixed with incantations that did not belong to humans.

The image trembled violently, as if forcibly sealed by an invisible veil. Then, the entire field of vision shattered, breaking apart like cracked ice.

“Severed,” Ian said in a low voice, his brow furrowed. “The broken lifeline…it didn’t end naturally.”

Si Ming slowly opened his eyes, his gaze like a blade slicing through the mist: "Someone acted before the incident. They set up a barrier of life patterns."

He crouched down, his fingers lightly brushing against the remaining marks on the ground, calmly deciphering the string of broken symbols and prayers.

“Look at these remnants of symbols—a prayer composition, a closed loop, this is an internal orientation.”

His voice was low, almost cold, yet each syllable was as clear as the clash of metal: "This is not bloodsucking, this is—a ritual."

Ian asked in a deep voice, "A life-based sacrificial spell?"

“It’s more like the prototype of the Blood Moon Ritual.” Si Ming straightened up, his eyes flashing with a cold light. “They used people… as fuel to awaken some kind of sacrificial contract.”

The two fell silent for a moment, the wind whispering softly in their ears.

“So,” Ian said in a low voice, “this is neither a coincidence nor madness.”

"It's about selection," Si Ming said, his tone as sharp as frost.

"Choose?"

“Choose a commoner who has just come into contact with the mystical—preferably someone who has just attended a pulpit, and then, in the church’s ‘suggestive silence,’ use her blood to ignite a ‘warning of failure.’”

Ian's voice was hoarse: "Did they know we would investigate?"

The God of Fate did not answer.

He slowly raised his head, his gaze falling on the dilapidated bell tower of the old church at the street corner. The bell tower stood in the mist, like a broken sword.

The God of Fate's gaze was as still as an abyss, as if lurking within it was a thunderbolt yet to awaken.

“They’re not afraid of us knowing,” he finally said, his voice deep in his heart, yet as powerful as iron striking still water.

"They just want to—make others afraid first."

The camera zooms out, and sunlight breaks through the mist, slanting into the whispering wind at the street corner.

That glimmer of light fell on the life-marks and bloodstains on the ground that had not yet been completely erased, like an unresolved question still lingering in the air, waiting for a response.

The Sixth Military Police Division of the Capital, Interrogation Wing, Third Sealed Room.

There were no shackles, no whips, and even a chair was placed perfectly straight, like an illustration in a symmetry textbook.

The walls are made of anti-evil silver salt concrete, which can shield against all spiritual resonance and mental pollution.

The only light source came from two slowly rotating life-pattern lamps on the ceiling. The cold white light was dazzling, illuminating every suspended dust particle clearly. The entire space was as cold as a judgment formula that had been repeatedly calculated.

Selene sat in the center of the room on a hard chair with no cushioning, her back straight, her black hair falling loosely over her shoulders.

Her robe was intact, still the deep red uniform of a Blood Oath noble, but the military had forcibly replaced her outer garment with a "special inspection uniform."
Designed specifically for marking dangerous and mysterious individuals, its somber color and silver thread-stitched edges resemble an invisible curse lock pinned to her body.

She didn't struggle or appeal; she simply leaned back lazily in her chair, her posture as relaxed as a cat waiting for dusk.
With her eyes half-closed, there was an undeniable aloofness and contempt in her gaze, as if she wasn't there to be interrogated at all, but rather to watch a boring performance.

The clerk in front of him was rapidly copying interrogation documents, the pen tip making a soft, scratching sound as it rubbed against the parchment. A faint hum of psionic energy emanated from the corner of the instrument.

Standing against the wall was a silver-level church judge, with a stern expression and a tightly gripped, unactivated life-mark holy ring, like a samurai ready to execute a judgment at any moment.

"You still refuse to explain your specific whereabouts between 8 PM and 10 PM last night?"

Judge Wen's voice was cold and mechanical, devoid of any emotional fluctuation, like an ice blade being polished.

Selene's eyelashes fluttered slightly as she slowly lifted her eyelids, her tone languid yet each word clear: "Washing my hair in the attic of the Morning Star newspaper office."

She paused, then added with a half-smile, "You can ask Si Ming and Ian; I used up all their hot water."

The tone was as if discussing an interrupted private dinner, calm yet tinged with mocking sarcasm.

Judge Wen's brow twitched slightly, but his tone remained flat: "You are a member of the Eternal Night Blood Alliance. According to the 'Trian Empire Black Moon Restriction Regulations,' you possess privileged status, but you failed to produce complete diplomatic filing documents, and there is no verifiable evidence at the time of the incident, making you a prime suspect."

Selene smiled softly, a smile that was cold and decisive, like a flash of a blade slicing through the stagnant air of the room.

"You're not here to interrogate me."

She spoke slowly, her gaze like a cold silver coin silently cast into their eyes, "You just want to see if a vampire will—frown in the light."

She emphasized the last two words, her tone rising, as if she were fiercely rebuking the so-called "interrogation" back at the other party.

Judge Wen's eyes twitched, his expression changed slightly, and he was about to reprimand someone when a steady and powerful knock sounded at the door, interrupting his unspoken words.

"Announce your name."

A male voice sounded from outside the door, deep and restrained, carrying the distinctive intonation of a foreign nobleman and an undisguised air of superiority:
"Viscount Eldreck of the Redwing, special envoy of the Eternal Night Blood Alliance. Arriving to pick up someone on orders from your Ministry of Foreign Affairs."

The door slowly opened, and a tall, slender figure stepped into the sealed room.

The man wore a deep red cloak, his black formal boots clicking silently on the floor tiles, and a silver badge on his chest gleamed coldly, like a star fallen from the night sky.

He held a formal letter in one hand and an ebony scepter in the other, exuding a calm and imposing aura. The old crest of the vampire royal family was embroidered on his cuffs: the crescent moon and the ring of three ravens.

His gaze swept over everyone in the room like a rangefinder, finally landing on Celian. He nodded slightly and said in a steady voice, "Your Highness."

Selene rolled her eyes and bluntly complained, "You're a full seventeen hours late."

Viscount Redwing looked ashamed and slowly pushed the red-stamped letter towards the civil official: "I apologize. I have just dealt with your father's anger."

His voice was calm and composed: "This is a formal protest document. From the Council of Eternal Night, the original text is as follows—"

"Princess Celian of the vampire clan has been illegally detained and subjected to racial discrimination in your capital. If she is not released within three days, it will be treated as an act of hostility."

He looked at the civil official, his tone still gentle.

Yet it carried an undeniable sharpness: "I don't quite understand your belief system, but I remember a sentence written in your imperial charter."

He paused, his voice lowering slowly:

"A noble lineage of any special race is protected under the same noble law as the recognized lineage."

"I just want to know—is this statement no longer valid today?"

The room fell silent, and the low hum of the life-pattern lamp seemed to amplify, as if even the air itself was waiting for a response.

The civil official, expressionless, slowly said, "The royal family has not yet decided whether this case falls under the scope of diplomatic immunity."

Just then, hurried footsteps sounded outside again.

Before anyone could announce their arrival, the visitor identified themselves in a calm voice: "Si Ming, editor-in-chief of the Morning Star Times. Assisting with the bail proceedings."

He walked in carrying a thick stack of papers, the edges of which were yellowed; it was the unpublished version of the Morning Star editorial from the previous night.

“This is the final draft of the editorial.” Si Ming spread the paper on the table. “It has Celian’s signature notes after 10 p.m. that night. We have a typesetter who can prove that she proofread until 10:40 p.m.

His tone was unhurried, yet firm as a hammer blow: "If you need it, we can publish it tomorrow morning with a headline: 'Royal Capital Vampire Princess Murders Innocents in the Dead of Night?'"

"Do you really want to see headlines like this appear on thousands of printed materials on every street corner?"

He looked at everyone present, his gaze as calm as ever, "If you're not afraid that readers will associate it with 'racial persecution' and 'parliamentary factional struggle'."

Silence once again swept through the entire venue.

Ultimately, under the dual pressure of diplomatic pressure and media threats, the military and police had no choice but to accept the solution of "temporary guardianship by foreign diplomats".

Selene was allowed to be "removed from custody," but she was still required to undergo an "identity risk investigation" and was not allowed to leave the core area of ​​the royal capital.

As she stood, her long hair billowed slightly, her shoulders and back ramrod straight. Judge Wen uttered his final words in a cold voice, laced with resentment and warning:
"We will continue our investigation."

Selene turned back and smiled, her smile as radiant as a flame in the night: "Good luck—find the killer you're really looking for."

She paused, her eyes shining with a captivating light:
"Just don't confirm the answer too early... otherwise, no one will want to listen to the story anymore."

Si Ming remained silent, but simply extended his hand to her.

She grasped it without hesitation—at that moment, it was as if the night had grasped the only star in the sky.

They left the interrogation room together, the heavy door slowly closing behind them with a barely audible thud, as if drawing the curtain on a trial that was not yet over.

Cold light spilled onto the gray-white stone floor of the corridor, casting shimmering, icy reflections; those lights were silent.
Like snow, it piled up and was eventually buried in the ashes of the life runes that had not yet burned out, as if the whole space still retained some kind of indescribable chill.

After leaving the military and police building, the three did not immediately part ways.

The streets were empty and quiet at dusk, with only the rustling of flags in the wind in the distance.

Red Wing stopped and stood between the two. His expression suddenly turned gloomy, and his voice lowered, like an undercurrent slowly flowing from the depths of a blood-red night.

"Have you recently... come into contact with anyone from the Church of Our Lady of Procreation?"

Selene's brow furrowed slightly, and her previously casually leaning posture tensed up a little, like a cat that had heard the footsteps of a predator.

Si Ming was silent for a moment, his eyes flashing like frost and blades: "We... have been targeted by them."

"Then you'd better keep your distance." Redwing's voice instantly turned cold, carrying an undeniable warning.

“Those people… they wear the guise of faith, but what they truly worship has never been the ‘goddess’ you think they are.”

He slowly pulled a talisman from his pocket; it was a reddish crescent pendant with ancient, traditional Chinese incantations engraved on its delicate metal edge.

In the light of the setting sun, it shimmered with an almost blood-red halo.

Upon closer inspection, one will discover that the carving in the pendant is not the face of the Virgin Mary at all, but a tangled mass of flesh and blood patterns, blurred and twisted, like some kind of unfinished fetus, quietly curled up inside.

“Our Lady of Fertility…is not merely a doctrinal symbol.”

His tone was slow and deliberate, each word like a tap on an unopened stone coffin.

"She is a card."

The air trembled slightly.

"...An ancient, life-related, lower-level supreme mystery card."

Selene's pupils contracted slightly, and a flash of undisguised astonishment crossed her eyes—a long-lost emotion bordering on fear.

Redwing glanced at her and continued, "The Eternal Night Council discovered fragments of this card in a devastated battlefield six hundred years ago. We call it the 'Contract of Life'."

His voice slowed, as if he were suppressing some kind of memory that shouldn't have been awakened.

"That card can awaken the deep-seated primal desires within a vampire, and can also cause any vampire to fall into a state of almost religious fanaticism during their 'sacrifice cycle'."

“It sounds,” Celian murmured, her voice as low as a feather falling in the night, “like our true ancestors.”

“No.” Red Wing suddenly looked up, his gaze sharp as a sword. “Not our true ancestor.”

“That thing is older than the True Ancestor. It doesn’t seem like a gift from God, but more like… a curse born from a deep dream.”

His voice was low and somber, as if he were whispering to the dead.

"His Excellency the Duke once said that a high-ranking Blood Ancestor once tried to approach that card, to bind to it, to tame it. He failed."

Red Wing slowly closed his eyes, as if he could see the last scene before the Blood Ancestor died.

"He only said one sentence before he died—"

“That’s not a god…that’s a prison.”

This time, even Siming's expression changed, his brows furrowing as if bowed.

After a long silence, Celian asked softly, "You mean... the Church of Our Lady of Procreation has already obtained this card?"

“No.” Red Wing slowly shook his head, a mocking smile playing on his lips. “They didn’t control it. It was that card that controlled them.”

"The existence of the entire church is itself that card, an altar set up to create a 'container' in the mortal world."

"And the secret report I just received says that the card is looking for a new owner."

As he said this, he turned to look at Si Ming, his eyes devoid of any human emotion.

"And you and she—are both being 'watched' by it."

"You are the chosen one. She is the candidate for the sacrifice of her life."

"You think you're setting up a game of chess?" Redwing said slowly, with a hint of irony and coldness that seemed to have fallen from the abyss of fate.
"But perhaps you are just—intersections on the chessboard."

The air seemed to freeze as soon as the words were spoken.

The brief silence was oppressive, making it hard to breathe.

Red Wing finally broke the silence, regaining his composure and saying in a low voice:

"I will arrange for His Highness's diplomatic immunity documents and, through a dual appeal process involving the royal family and the church, secure temporary protection for His Highness—at least enough to get him out of this current detention."

He turned his gaze to Si Ming, his tone carrying a heavy warning:

"But you must understand—from this moment on, every storm you get caught up in is not just the wind of the capital."

“That is the ‘Night Cry’ from the depths of the mysterious world.” His voice was deep, as if it came from the end of twilight. “They are waiting for one—the arrival of the Blood Moon.”

After speaking, he bowed deeply, performing the solemnity befitting an envoy, then turned and left, his steps steady, his cloak fluttering in the wind.

His figure gradually disappeared into the shadows of the long corridor stretching into the twilight of the capital, a shadow like a silent coffin, swallowing his last ray of light.

The sky grew increasingly gray, the ashen twilight hanging in the heavens like an unopened judgment, quietly unfolding.

This is where the body was found. Now, it is heavily cordoned off by the military and police.

The entire block was cordoned off as a temporary control zone, surrounded by four layers of rune-marked barriers, the runes gleaming coldly in the rain and mist.

Like silent barriers, they keep the violence and truth of the past out.

As Si Ming and Ian crossed the police line, it was drizzling.

Raindrops fell on the soft, wet ground, splashing up barely perceptible ripples, like a silent accusation, or a warning written on earth, the words blurred, yet heavy as stone.

"Is this the scene?" Ian asked in a low voice, his voice held deep in his throat, as if afraid of disturbing some soul that had not yet departed.

“Yes. 6:37 a.m.,” Si Ming answered briefly and in a steady tone. “The body was discovered by the first newsboy.”

His gaze fell upon a dilapidated wooden fence, where the floor tiles were not yet completely dry, and the bloodstains had been washed away.
But the dark patterns remained, their colors, not of nature, faintly emerging from the mixture of rain and dust. Like some lingering echo that refused to fade.

He slowly crouched down, his fingertips tracing the cracks between the floor tiles, his gaze calm yet focused, his voice like a whisper carried on a storm's wind:
"Wind, lend me a silent play."

Ian immediately understood. He raised his right hand, and a familiar card appeared in his palm.

【Windtalker】

Application of the domain rule for the World-type High-level Mystic Code: "Wall of Still Wind"

The moment the card appeared, the surrounding air suddenly froze, and the sound of the wind seemed to be cut off by some invisible force, as if the entire street was covered by a transparent curtain.

Dust rose, yet there was no sound; light refracted and lost its color; sound, perception, and vibration—all were cut off.

Ian whispered a reminder: "Five minutes, six at most. Any longer, and the resonance of the life pattern wind field will be detected."

Si Ming nodded slightly. He then turned his left palm over, revealing a ring of life lines forming a circular array in the center.
A rational star in the center slowly rotates, shimmering with a cold, pale blue light.

He took a deep breath, and a twisted, swirling card slowly appeared in his palm. Its surface was like a mirror, yet it could never reflect anyone's image.

[Supreme Fate System Mysterious Card, Lord of Fate]

He activated one of the card's abilities:
Fate Weaves (Active):

"Weave a panoramic map of the stars before their orbits deviate."

The holder can, for a short period of time, see through all the threads of fate in this place, including but not limited to: those that have happened, those that are about to happen, and those that have been altered.

As the entry was activated, Si Ming's pupils suddenly contracted, and dense, crisscrossing golden lines appeared in his vision, spreading out like a spider web across the streets—the Threads of Destiny.

Right in the center of the crime scene, an unusual line of fate stood out—twisted, broken, and blood-red like a snake, resembling some altered prayer, coiled around the floor tiles.

Si Ming frowned slightly, his voice low:
“Ian…can you see this? This is not ‘death’.”

Ian froze, narrowing his eyes slightly: "No?"

“No.” Si Ming pointed to the inflection point of the fate line, his gaze solemn. “It is— ‘Dedication of Fate’.”

The fate line suddenly breaks at some point, as if forcibly ripped off, but then countless tiny branches spill outwards, like blood flowing back after a blood vessel has been cut open—

This is not the end point, but a distribution, a diffusion.

“This is a sacrificial point.” The voice of the Fate Master was almost devoid of emotion, leaving only a cold statement of fact.

"It is someone who consciously transforms, reverts, and throws a person's fate to a distant contractual master through a certain ritual structure."

Ian's expression finally changed, as if something had shattered his perception of reality.

"You mean...she wasn't killed, but...saved?"

"To be precise, it was 'consumed'." Si Ming slowly retracted the card, and three stars on the life ring in his palm burst into flames, symbolizing the mysterious interference with fate.

A bead of cold sweat slid down his forehead, almost unnoticed.

He gritted his teeth, braced himself with his right hand on the ground, and took a short while before standing up again.

The era of Wind Whisper is coming to an end.

Ian quickly tightened his domain, and the wind wall swirled and folded into his body like a curtain. A moment later, the street was once again swept by the night wind, raindrops fell, and the air returned to its state as if nothing had ever happened.

“Five seconds later, and it would have triggered the wind resonance inspection,” Ian warned, his voice still tinged with apprehension.

Si Ming nodded: "That's enough."

He slowly straightened up, looked up at the gray, iron-like sky, where thick clouds hung low, as if the entire city was suppressing its breath before an unknown storm.

“We can write our first investigation report now,” he said with certainty. “The body did not die from blood loss.”

"It is because—fate has been divided."

"This is not bloodsucking."

"It is a basic ritual."

Ian frowned, his voice slightly lowered: "Are you sure... the origin of this ritual is the Church?"

Si Ming did not answer immediately. He simply gazed silently into the distance, at the towering pagoda, which appeared and disappeared in the mist and rain.
The red candles atop the tower were dimly lit, like a distant, fading star.

His voice was extremely soft, yet it felt like a cold needle piercing to the bone:
"The Church of Our Lady of Procreation...the monthly 'New Moon Cleansing Ritual' just happened—last night."

"Such rituals require 'a life form whose original destiny pattern is not yet determined'."

He looked down at the incomplete life patterns on the ground, as if looking at an unfinished name.

“She… just completed her destiny registration last night.”

"For the first time, she became a mystery master."

Ian murmured, “So she’s perfect.”

"So fitting, it's like...being chosen."

Si Ming didn't reply. He simply stared intently at the streets gradually darkening in the wind and rain, his gaze lingering as if piercing through the fog of reality to see the distant temple above.

A flame was slowly dying out on the tower, as if some ritual had quietly come to an end, or something more ancient was awakening.

He turned, his trench coat billowing, his steps firm as if cutting through snow. His voice fell softly, yet it seemed to address the entire city:
"They want a deterrent."

"We will give them a response."

The editorial office of Morning Star Newspaper is as night falls.

The rain hadn't stopped; raindrops slid down the iron frame of the window, and faint, heavy footsteps echoed from the stone path outside the alley, each thud of leather boots hitting the ground.
It felt as if they were pounding on a heart that was about to explode.

It was a military and police patrol, with a steady pace, yet carrying a suffocating sense of oppression.

At least eight different versions of newspaper drafts were spread out on the table, the edges of the papers slightly curled and wrinkled from being turned over and over.

There were newly issued military announcements, supplementary notes from internal church briefings, and even a review of the evening lectures written by the Morning Star itself.

There were even a few pages of clippings sent by anonymous readers—one line of text written in bold, black ink:
"The vampire murder case: does the editor-in-chief have an explanation?"

This sentence is like a needle with a burning tip; it has no warmth, yet it is enough to pierce paper and skin.

Rex stood by the window, his knuckles gripping the window frame so tightly they were almost bluish-white.

His gaze was fixed on the long, rain-soaked alley outside the window, as if a judge wearing a religious badge might jump out of the darkness at any moment.

“They want you to admit that we were too radical,” he said, his voice low, hoarse, but cold and hard, “that it brought bloodshed.”

Si Ming stood under the lamp, the brass chandelier casting an extremely long shadow of him.

He didn't look at Rex, nor at the stacks of papers piled up like evidence.

He stared intently at a newly nailed gray notice board on the wall. It was a military and political announcement that had just been posted:

"The Morning Star newspaper has been designated as a 'temporary military and political investigation assistance agency,' and is required to submit its printing plan and interview catalog to the military and police daily, effective immediately. It is prohibited from publishing any information related to the supernatural that has not been jointly approved by the military and the church."

The ink was not yet dry, but the intent to kill was already there.

“This is a gag order,” Rex approached, his voice low and hissing, “but it’s disguised as ‘assisting in the investigation.’”

The Fate Master's gaze never left the notice. His voice was as calm as the oscillating needle of a balance scale:
"What we fear is not monsters, but information."

"They're afraid we'll uncover the truth before they do."

Rex's Adam's apple bobbed, and he asked in a low voice, "So... shall we still send it?"

Si Ming finally reached out and picked up a stack of manuscripts on the table. The soft click of his fingers turning the pages was like a blade slicing through snow. His gaze fell on a particular passage, and he spoke calmly:
"Delete 'Night Class Review', save 'Life-Saving Tattoo Record'."

"Add another paragraph—among the lecture attendees, one person was involved in an unknown ritual."

“Just say ‘involved,’ not ‘death.’ Let them guess.”

Rex nodded slightly, a look of understanding flashing in his eyes.

They don't need to fabricate anything; they just need to leave enough blank space for suspicion to grow its teeth.

Just then, there was a knock on the printing room door, and a gust of damp, cold wind blew in through the crack in the door. Ian, wearing a cloak, walked in.
His hair and shoulders were still damp with drizzle, and his brows betrayed unease and repression.

"Did you send someone to the observation post on Printing Street to check the wind direction?" He got straight to the point.

Si Ming looked up, but before he could answer, Rex had already pulled a drawing out of the drawer and quickly laid it flat on the table.

It was a newly drawn overlay map of wind direction and inspiration fluctuations, covering observations during the nighttime hours of Zone 8.

Ian marked a spot with a clear red ink circle, and next to it, he wrote a handwritten note:
"The lingering echoes in the wind have a similar pattern to the old case number G-72 from three months ago."

Ian lowered his voice, a hint of suppressed anger in it: "Do you know how that case was ultimately resolved?"

The God of Fate remained silent.

“The church has sealed the case immediately,” Ian said, “the reason being—'the one who offered sacrifices to the Lord'.”

Rex's expression changed drastically: "They... wrote people as sacrifices?"

Si Ming did not answer, but quietly uttered two words:

"It's not writing."

He exhaled slowly, his voice as cold as the night wind in a graveyard.

"It's printed on the tombstone."

Ian lowered his head, his fingertips lightly tapping the edge of the drawing a few times, as if mourning the name that could not be spoken.

“She’s here to listen to our lecture.” His tone grew increasingly somber. “She’s someone who has heard you talk about ‘Name Selection Based on Destiny Lines’.”

Outside the window, a bolt of lightning suddenly streaked across the sky, exploding and shaking the heavens.

The chandelier inside flickered for a moment, the light and shadow dancing violently, as if reminding us that something had reached a critical point.

The next second, a commotion arose from the printing street, and someone shouted as they rushed down the stairs:
"The church has issued a notice saying that the murder is related to 'illegal evening classes'!"

Ian whirled around, anger surging in his eyes: "They want to... persecute us as a cult!"

"Don't rush." ​​Si Ming's voice suddenly lowered, becoming almost cruelly steady.

He slowly pulled a yellowed piece of cardstock from his sleeve. One corner of the cardstock was charred and burned, leaving behind the scent of some kind of concealed secret.

He spread it out under the lamp—it was a copy of the "Church Mystery Catalogue" that had circulated from the black market years ago.

Amidst the charred black and ink stains, a line of ink characters that had not been erased can still be discerned.

Si Ming whispered:
"If they want to shift the blame—we'll just hand them a mirror."

Ian paused, his gaze gradually turning cold: "You mean..."

“I said,” Si Ming slowly placed the card on the front page of the Morning Star newspaper’s supplement, his gaze sharp and cold as a blade:
"We will not fire first."

"All we need to do is let them scare themselves in front of the mirror."

He raised his eyes, his voice low but firm:
"Then—let's see who dares to say it was the vampires who did it."

In the distance, the outline of the capital's tower was faintly visible in the night.

The red light had not yet risen, but a faint, unsettling glow shone through the clouds, like an eye that had not yet opened, yet had already cast its gaze.

The blood moon has not yet risen, but its shadow has already quietly enveloped the city.

That was not the absence of light, but a harbinger of the impending collapse of order.

Outside the window, the wind whistled softly, as if it were biting at the edge of the eaves, trying to breathe deeply but daring not to shout.

The night in the capital was more silent than usual, a silence that had been suppressed for too long and was on the verge of exploding at any moment.

The underground storage area of ​​the Morning Star newspaper has now been completely transformed into a temporary "manuscript sorting room".

The old iron shelves piled high with files were pushed to a corner, making room in the center where more than ten wooden tables of different sizes were laid out with first drafts of news articles of various layouts.

The smell of printing ink mixed with the musty odor of old paper created a dizzying, oppressive atmosphere in the air.

The walls were covered with logos and charts of major newspapers in the capital: "Morning News of the Fog City", "North Point Street Journal", "Trian Knight Daily", "Seventeen Districts Street Guide", "The Doctor's Weekly"... They were like an information network covering the entire city, meticulously drawn, numbered and classified, as if an invisible war was about to begin.

Ian stood in the center of the manuscript table, his gaze sharp. Behind him on the floor was a new round of wind-whisper patterns that he had drawn himself.

Blue and silver runes surged like waves in the low light, creating a quiet and vast psionic field.

The domain is like a sail, unfurling silently with a gentle rustling.

"We are not trying to whitewash our actions."

Ian's voice wasn't loud, but it was like a heavy iron hammer striking water, creating ripples. Every word he spoke seemed to be nailed to the air, reaching the deepest part of people's hearts.

"Our goal is to make everyone who speaks begin to doubt whether the version they hear is truly the only truth."

Si Ming stood by the bookshelf, the light and shadow outlining his clearly defined shoulder line.

He didn't speak, but simply nodded slightly. At that moment, his eyes were like the sharp edge of a knife during a morning review.

"How much are you planning to invest?" he finally asked.

Ian smiled slightly, his eyes carrying a calmness that seemed to hunt amidst the chaos.

"Forty-three newspapers and periodicals."

"Twelve of them have military backgrounds, seven are suspected of being controlled by church funds, and the rest are small local printing shops and mobile sticker stations."

As he spoke, he opened a thick book titled "Atlas of Urban Voice Channels," his finger steadily tracing a red line:
“We only need to control this ‘Whispering Corridor’, starting from the clinic bulletin board in East Fifth District and ending at the sailor’s post at the South Wharf.”

"Then—the wind will carry the sound away on its own."

As soon as he finished speaking, the Wind Whisperer's domain expanded to the edge of the entire room.

The pages on the table trembled slightly, then were lifted up by an invisible wind, passing through the open vent, transforming into wings in the night, and silently drifting into the winds of the capital.

Marlene stood to the side, her face hesitant. She was the copy editor in charge of post-production editing, and was always cautious, but at this moment she was clearly wavering.

"Will this really...work?" she asked in a low voice. "Haven't the public...already been misled by their announcements?"

Si Ming interrupted her.

His voice wasn't loud, but it carried an almost fatalistic certainty:

"They are not trusting anyone."

"They are afraid—there's only one version left."

He stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the crowd, and slowly said:

"We are not providing answers."

"We're only responsible for creating questions."

"Because doubts spread more easily than accusations."

A page of manuscript paper was floating in mid-air on the table, with the title prominently displayed:

"Her eyes were red"—Suspicion and rumors surrounding the death of a night class student.

Another, more compactly formatted version reads:
Why has the priest at the small chapel in the northern part of the city not returned home for three nights?

There's also a cover story:
Vampire Princess? Scapegoat for the Coup in the Mist City? —Cover Story: 'She Says She Doesn't Drink Blood'

Ian subtly embedded these articles into different templates in different formats.

They were sent to street printing shops, dockside notice boards, pub advertisements, and even church sermon corner bulletin boards.

He doesn't try to stop the spread of information; he simply makes each piece of information "less pure."

The whispers of the wind whisper through the cracks of the city, weaving veils of mist upon veils of mystery.

At this moment, Si Ming slowly placed a mysterious card face down on the table.

That was the entry for the supreme card of the Fate system—[Lord of Fate]: "A true lie".

He read it aloud in a low voice:
"Anyone who reads this article will naturally have the thought, 'Perhaps it wasn't her.'"

The life line ignited at his fingertips, with pale blue starlight dancing gently, symbolizing the depletion of a star of reason.

The starlight flashed and then vanished, followed by a few lines of text quietly appearing in the newly delivered newspapers.

"A neighbor said they heard what sounded like humming a prayer at the time of the incident."

"The structure of the life lines on the deceased's back is abnormal, and it is suspected to be a ritualistic injury."

"The planetarium recorded unusual fluctuations in the lunar phases that night, which may affect the stability of one's destiny."

Ian watched the pages of paper fly further and further away in the night, and whispered:

"The wind carries the sound away."

"It will also bring back the echo."

"We don't need to win, we just need to—prevent them from blocking all the opportunities."

Rex, standing in the shadows, suddenly asked:
"What if...they ultimately fail to catch the real culprit?"

Si Ming slowly turned around, gazing at the moonlit streets. The wind ruffled his clothes, but his face remained as serene as a mountain.

His voice was very soft, yet it seemed to come from the deepest part of the night:

"Then let them start to suspect—is there someone in this city they can't catch?"

"Ideally, it should be someone even scarier than a vampire."

The wind paused for a moment. Then, carrying words, pages, and questions, it passed through the eaves, slipped into the street corner, and flew into the cracks of that silent tower.

The lights in the Morning Star newspaper office stayed on all night. The wind didn't stop, and the echoes lingered.

The main basilica of Our Lady of Fertility, early morning.

The pale sunlight streamed through the stained-glass dome into the empty hall, and the pale golden morning mist seemed to be condensed into a kind of sacred boundary.
This colossal palace, constructed of stone domes and life patterns, shuts out all the noise and clamor.

On the altar, the marble altar still retained the scent of incense from last night's prayers.

It was a mixed scent between blood and frankincense, warm and heavy, like the ashes of distant memories seeping from the cracks in the stone.

In the center of the hall, thirteen prayer pillars, piercing through the dome, stand tall like a forest, each adorned with a blood-moon sash.
The dark red ribbon swayed gently in the dim light, like a whispered last testament, never still even in the stillness of the air.

Silver-striped Butler Fetu Allen knelt on one knee, his body trembling slightly, his forehead pressed against the floor tiles.

It was a life seal stone fixed with seal nails, and every inch of the stone surface was engraved with "the laws of the redeemer".

His voice trembled slightly, whether from the chill in the hall or the oppressive silence of the gaze above him, it was hard to tell:
"The princess-level vampire... was released on bail last night by the military and police under the condition of 'diplomatic consular guardianship'."

"The Morning Star... has launched a multi-pronged media campaign... currently, seven city newspapers have published related content, which is... extremely unfavorable."

Before he could finish speaking, he felt himself kneeling in the ice.

Above the steps, the chairs of the teaching staff stand quietly.

Medici sat upon it, not wearing the usual platinum robe, but only a simple morning gown, gray with gold trim, the collar of which was tied very tightly, like an unsealed curse mark.

Her gaze fell on her palm, her fingertips toying with a pale gold badge, inlaid with three rubies.
Arranged in an ancient tripartite pattern—symbolizing "uterus," "blood," and "divine bestowal"—the gems rolled in her palm, gleaming like uncongealed blood.

Her gaze was empty, as if she had pierced through the hall and seen another theater yet to be revealed.

After a long silence, she finally spoke, her voice soft yet carrying a deep, unyielding coldness:
"She should have been on the escort list."

“We arranged so many ‘eyewitness testimonies’…even the coroner’s office submitted a special determination document.”

This was neither anger nor accusation, but an excessively calm recitation, almost eerily so, like a deity repeating a prophecy that humanity was trying to escape.

Fei Tu lowered his head, beads of sweat dripping from his forehead onto the floor tiles, and dared not utter a word.

“That viscount…” she said in an unchanging tone, as if she were only talking about the wedding of a distant relative, “…all for a princess who broke the oath of eternal night, he interrupted a sacrificial node that was about to be perfectly sealed.”

Her eyes flickered slightly as she slowly gazed at the image of the moon god hanging on the high wall on the west side of the hall.

The image is engraved with the complete sacrificial cycle, starting from the new moon and ending with the blood moon, like the markings on a clock. The node representing yesterday's "return sacrifice" has been crossed out with a red line.

“We could have used this out-of-control, mysterious spread to legitimize a cleansing ritual.”

"A vampire killed someone."

"A church atonement trial."

"Balanced yet powerful".

Her voice remained soft and gentle, but it gradually tightened with something irreversible, like a spider web twisting into a steel wire.

The silver-patterned deacon swallowed hard, about to apologize, but was interrupted by a cold question the moment her gaze fell upon him again:
"...Has anything been done with that editor-in-chief from Morning Star?"

Fetu replied in a low voice, almost inaudible: "...Still under investigation. But the Mysterious Blockade Circuit was briefly disturbed...preliminary speculation suggests interference from the Fate system."

Medusa responded with a soft "hmm," neither confirming nor denying.

She rose from the lectern, her robes fluttering, and walked steadily toward the altar of ashes behind the sanctuary, a place to enshrine relics of a failed ritual and to reaffirm one's will.

She bent down and took out a blood-stained prayer cloth from the silver cabinet—a fragment of a lunar symbol used in the initial Blood Moon ritual last night.

The bloodstains were not completely dry, the edges were finely marked, and the burnt incantations seemed to still tell of a kind of order that had been cut in half.

She gently placed the tattered cloth into the flames of the incense burner. The firelight flickered and licked at the bloodstained runes, gradually engulfing them.

The flames reflected on her face, creating a golden-red hue, as if flames were rising from her eyes.

Her voice was low and slow, yet clearer than any of her previous words:
"They thought that if we burned the public opinion fire, we would never be able to reignite it."

But they forgot—

She paused, as if whispering along with the flames:
"The sacred flame rises from ashes."

"The truth can be shattered, but ashes do not lie."

—From the Fragments of a Church Writer: The Ashes of Time

(End of this chapter)