Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 322 Echoes of Blood

Blood never flows directly to the feet of God.

It first flowed over the kitchen floor tiles, through the younger brother's eyes, and into the register of the deceased's family members, whose names had been left unclaimed.

—From *The Bloodstained Old City: Fragments of Herwin*

No. 36 Xiewawu, Ninth Cang Street, South District of Wudu, is a house that seems to have peeled away from damp memories, sitting silently at the end of the alley.

The exterior walls are mottled, like the ink marks on faded old paper, long since blurred and indistinct.

The damp autumn wind crept in through the open window cracks, like a fingernailless hand poking at the ashes that hadn't been completely cleaned up by the stove.

Inside the room, the flame of an oil lamp struggled in the wind, its dim yellow light flickering precariously, making a woman's face appear as pale as paper.

Mrs. Herwin sat at the table, her thin shoulders slightly hunched, her eyes sunken and her gaze vacant, as if she had long since exhausted all her emotions.

Her hands were still mechanically scrubbing the work clothes covered in fiber stains. Her knuckles, which had been soaked in alkaline textile water for years, were white and cracked, and her skin was as rough as old tree bark.

“The factory deducted another 30% of my wages today,” she said in a low voice, her voice hoarse, like a stone scraping the bottom of a pot. “They said it was because the power was unstable due to the fog.”

On an old bed in the corner, an eight- or nine-year-old boy slept restlessly, the blanket not covering his knees, his body twitching and shivering.

The other boy, fifteen or sixteen years old, was thin, but his eyes and brows had long lost the childishness that a boy should have.

He sat in front of the broken wooden box in the corner, a memento left by his father. He tightly caressed a card wrapped in coarse cloth in his hand.

That is his "legacy".

Mid-tier Life-type card – "Daywalker".

A summoned vampire warrior, specifically designed to counter its own kind; it was once a standard card for the special garrison units of the old military.

Alan Herwin, the silent boy, is Philia's younger brother.

That girl, who appeared in countless newspapers only once with her full name, now only has half of her face blurred on a street poster.

“Didn’t you say… the military would give us compensation?” Alan’s voice rang out softly, his tone laced with a barely learned anger.

Mrs. Herwin didn't look up, but continued washing the fabric that no longer needed washing, as if her hands had stopped.
What could be the cause of utter devastation: "They said your dad was a registered soldier who returned to the army, not someone who died in battle while still on the payroll."

"But he died protecting his comrades... He was killed like a dog in the manor by them..."

Alan's voice began to tremble, and his chest heaved violently.

Mrs. Herwin just smiled, a bitter, withered smile, like biting into a handful of dust.

"Our family name is never in the register."

Alan lowered his head, his lips pressed tightly together, and he gripped the card so tightly that his knuckles turned white and blood was almost forced out.

Anna, the younger sister, huddled in the shadows by the doorway, her voice barely audible: "Brother... are you going to die too?"

He paused for a moment, then looked up at those eyes filled with a calmness that seemed out of place for someone his age.

There was no crying in those eyes, only a kind of precocious silence that came from having already accepted the concept of "farewell".

"No," Alan answered softly, yet with utmost steadiness.
"I won't let anyone else touch you."

These words, spoken by a fifteen-year-old boy, were as sharp as a knife, without the slightest hesitation.

The wind picked up. The rain outside the window slanted and pattered against the tin roof, making a "pitter-patter" sound, as if something was quietly knocking at the door.

Alan's eyes suddenly turned cold, and a faint red glow appeared on the card in his hand.

The lifeline of "Daywalker" slowly emerged on the back of his hand, a thin blood-red line spreading like a chain, as if some sleeping beast was opening its eyes.

He spoke in a low voice:
"Don't even move."

Mrs. Herwin froze, and the clothes in her hands slipped to the ground.

Alan suddenly stood up, pulled open the bottom of the box, and pulled out a rusty short knife, the last weapon his father had left behind.

He hung the knife at his waist, stood in front of the door, his figure thin but upright.

Outside the door, shadows were moving silently.

A heavy breathing sound came from close to the door crack, like a wild beast sniffing out the body temperature of its prey.

He raised his hand, and the card lit up between his fingers.

A blurry, ghostly figure slowly materialized from the firelight, its blood-red cloak fluttering in the wind, its warrior stance as steady as a mountain.

He stood with his back to the firelight, his eyes seemingly burning with a silent judgment and a world-weary hatred.

For the first time, Alan saw it clearly—the Daywalker was indeed a vampire.

But he stood at the door, born for the Herwin family.

Outside the door, footsteps suddenly stopped.

Alan took a breath, gritted his teeth, and whispered:

"Ready to fight."

The wind whistled wildly across the sloping tiled roof, and the kerosene lamps swayed violently, their light flickering.

The kerosene lamp at the street corner flickered, and in the instant a rat scurried past a broken barrel at the end of the alley...
The paper window of Herwin's house suddenly trembled, as if some kind of presence was gently approaching from the outside.

"Alan!" Mrs. Herwin whispered, her voice trembling with fear. "There's a shadow over there at the window!"

The daywalker took a step forward and slowly entered the porch.

He was nearly two meters tall, wearing a charred iron-colored armor with a blood moon pattern engraved on his breastplate. The long blade in his hand was coldly red, like a crystal of congealed blood.

He didn't speak, but simply knelt down on one knee, his left fist held horizontally across his chest, making a silent gesture that signified "the hunt has begun."

The next instant, the first gunshot pierced the night sky.

The bullet hit the upper left corner of the door frame, scattering wood chips everywhere.

Alan almost instinctively rolled over and lay prone on the ground, while whispering an order to the Daywalker: "Defense—stop all who come near."

A second shot followed immediately. This time, the bullet pierced the window frame and struck the border of the image of the Virgin Mary hanging on the wall.
It made a hollow, crisp "snap" sound, and the whole thing looked like it almost fell.

"Mom, lie down!" Alan shouted. "Anna, take Mom into the kitchen, quick!"

Mrs. Herwin panicked and scooped Anna up, running unsteadily toward the back room.

Alan rolled over and hugged the wall to the window, holding a short knife, a card floating beside him, his gaze locked on a blurry shadow on the third floor across the street.

He didn't blink, but exhaled, clenched his teeth, and murmured:

"If you dare to come in, you won't be leaving."

He didn't know if he could truly withstand the backlash from that card summoning, but he knew that if he didn't stop these people now—

His home was gone.

The Daywalker growls softly, its sound like a low growl squeezed from the throat of some ancient beast.

The shadows surged violently around him, then suddenly expanded, condensing into a distorted shield of blood-red energy before the door, like a battle banner woven from blood—

That was the basic entry for "Blood Defense," an ancient defensive technique that relied on the strength of the summoner's will to maintain its effectiveness.

Alan gritted his teeth, his voice low but firm:

"Come out."

"You're not here for me, you're here for this card—right?"

No sooner had the words left his mouth than a dark figure leaped up from the alley wall, moving with the speed of a snake, its trajectory almost impossible to discern.

An alchemical fire bottle was thrown from mid-air, a flash of fire at the mouth of the bottle, and it fell into the window with the burning talisman in it.

At the same time, a steady sound, with a metallic, grinding quality, drifted from afar:

"Sniper."

Snapped--!
The fire bottle exploded into a shower of sparks before it even hit the ground.

A bullet slicing through the flames with an incredible trajectory pierced down from directly above, striking the fire-thrower squarely between the eyebrows.

Blood, as black as ink, exploded on the wall.

The third shot rang out almost seamlessly, killing another gray-clad man who was trying to circle around to the corner of the room. Bright red blood instantly splattered onto the damp floor tiles.

The fourth bullet pierced through the tiles and accurately struck the activated spare detonator at the edge of the roof, detonating it prematurely.

The swirling sparks disrupted the enemy's attempt to launch a series of destructive attacks.

Alan's eyes widened. The four gunshots were clear and orderly, yet each had a different rhythm, as if they did not come from a single rifle, but rather from some kind of arrangement at the level of fate—a chess game layout.

The whistle sounded, deep and clear, carrying an undeniable sense of command.

“Rex…” he murmured.

He recognized the voice.

It was him. The man who once handed him a warm milk tea on the street and smiled, saying, "Don't be afraid, the card won't eat you."

That friend who always seems a little late, but is never absent...

"Get in!"

"They're not the last wave!"

Rex's shout came from afar, like a sharp blade cutting through the foggy night.

No sooner had the words been spoken than the second group of shadowy figures burst through the wall, their movements swift and well-trained.

They are no longer street assassins.

They wore black combat leather armor with silver patterns, were well-equipped, and had hidden rune bracelets on their arms.

Alan's eyes widened in shock, and he gritted his teeth in a low voice:
"The Mystic..."

The leader didn't say much, but chanted in a low voice:
"Give me wolf bones, and unleash my fury."

The light from the life runes burst forth, and a gigantic life-type summon beast appeared in the center of the courtyard.

Bone Wolf Sez.

This six-star Life-type card possesses the armor-piercing ability to bite through Star Shields and is the standard combat configuration for many local church ghost-hunting groups.

The Daywalker roared and transformed into a blood-red shadow, his iron boots stomping the ground and flames shooting into the sky.

But the moment it tried to make contact with the bone wolf, its fangs pierced through its defensive blood shield like broken blades.

Click.

The shield shattered, and the cracks crumbled.

The vampire warrior staggered backward, a gash tearing open on his right arm, the wound flowing like a fountain of blood.

Alan was pale, and sweat rolled down his forehead.

His third star of reason was forcibly ignited, and his sea of ​​consciousness felt like a cleaved ice sea, causing him so much pain that he was almost speechless.

But he still held fast to the summons, not daring to relax even for a moment.

Because he knew that if he let go even once—it wouldn't just be a "loss of control," it would be "total annihilation."

The bone wolf howled, its muscles tensed suddenly, and it pounced.

And in that very instant—

Snapped.

A strange sound rang out as a bullet struck metal.

The bone wolf's left hind leg suddenly jerked, its flesh bursting open, causing it to lose its balance and fall between the courtyard bricks.

Rex glided in like the wind, dual pistols at his side, his long trench coat billowing in the night.
A pale blue halo appeared on the lens—that was the trace of his card [Eye of Destiny] being activated.

"Wind direction, three degrees to the upper right."

"Air density is high, target path prediction complete."

He whispered like a song, his finger already on the trigger.

Three shots were fired.

The three cryptic practitioners were hit almost simultaneously, and before they could react, they fell to the ground—each shot precisely hitting the life rune node, a fatal blow.

Before one person even fell to the ground, he struggled to utter a sentence:

"You...you can see us..."

Before he could finish speaking, blood spilled from his mouth and his pupils dilated.

Rex gently closed his eyes and murmured to himself:
"The eye of destiny is not just something that can be 'seen'."

"It will also...guide."

He turned around and shouted into the house:
"Back off! Take everyone with you!"

"If we stay any longer... it will be beyond what humans can fight!"

His voice carried a heavy, resolute tone, like that of someone who already knew the end was near.

They are trying to persuade the characters in the story to leave quickly—because the next character to appear is not one they can face.

Alan wanted to say something, but suddenly felt dizzy and his consciousness twitched.

He felt his summoning was nearing its limit, and the blood energy of the "Daywalker" began to dissipate. His figure, like a shattered candle shadow, trembled, cracked, and dissolved in the firelight.

He struggled to stand, but clearly saw that familiar warrior figure was breaking apart inch by inch, as if something was pulling him away from this world little by little.

The blood vapor turned into mist and slowly dissipated in the air.

At that very moment, the wind blew in through the roof.

As the roof tiles shattered and fragments flew, a sudden, still wind swept through the surroundings.
Like some invisible barrier suddenly opening, it gradually isolated the chaos from the edges. "Wind Whisper Domain: The Wall of Still Wind".

Ian appeared.

His voice was calm and his pace was unhurried, but his movements were like overlapping silhouettes, all done in one smooth motion.

As he activated his card, the air on the entire battlefield seemed to be enveloped by an invisible silk membrane.

All projectiles, bullets, and lingering magical light were frozen in mid-air the moment they touched the wind barrier, as if trapped in a buffer zone that did not belong to the rules of physics.

In that brief moment when the wind stilled, time itself seemed to hold its breath.

As Rex fastened the gun case, he gestured to Ian:
"A seven-second delay?"

Ian answered softly without turning his head:
"Six and a half."

Rex raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching slightly:

"enough."

There were no praises, no superfluous words; it was a tacit understanding that they already knew each other well.

The Herwin family quickly evacuated through the passageway cleared by the wind farm.

Mrs. Herwin carried Anna and practically slid into the back room, carried by the wind. Alan gritted his teeth and persevered, glancing back one last time at the nearly vanished "Daywalker," his eyes bloodshot.

At that moment, the last assassin in the melee was rushing towards the doorway, but just as he was about to reach it, he was suddenly pulled into the depths of the wind wall as if by some invisible hand.

His figure vanished in the wind like a wisp of dust—there was no echo, and no body remained.

Ian stood there, staring at the open space, his brow furrowed slightly, but he didn't say a word.

“Let’s go,” Rex whispered. “They’ve already lost their chance to catch us.”

The lights were still on in the old study deep inside the Morning Star manor.

The study's interior walls are lined with nailed-on bookshelves and windproof seals, while the floor is paved with early-era patterned bricks in a closed array. An old-fashioned analytical table stands in the center.

Embedded on the table is a closed array of life-patterned chains, the lines intricate and precise, a spell structure specifically designed to counter the backlash of passive and mysterious attacks.

Those were spell diagrams that circulated only among high-level sorcerers; ordinary people couldn't even understand their basic structure.

In a corner of the floor, an assassin was bound by ropes, blood seeping from his forehead, his breath faint.

Ian has completed the initial treatment, suppressing the active secret patterns within his body.

Rex leaned back in his chair, removed the lens of the Eye of Fate, and put it into his pocket along with the card slot. Then he pulled out a card with an icy blue luster from his inner chest pocket.

The Abyss of Fragments: The Forgotten Administrator - Tizel

World-type, 10-star, Mysterious.

It summons not weapons of war, but a librarian who controls the book of memories for all living beings.

The card was activated, a cold light appeared, and a female figure in a dark blue uniform with a blurred face appeared behind Rex.

She stood quietly, with a gentle demeanor and vacant eyes, like a silhouette taken from the cracks of time.

She bowed gently, raising her hands slowly as if she were about to turn the page of an invisible book from thin air.

Rex pressed the card against the assassin's forehead, his other hand pressing down on the man's head, his voice calm yet sharp:
"Memory retrieval, initiated."

In an instant, the assassin's pupils dilated, and a low moan, as if forcibly torn apart, escaped from deep within his throat, like a piece of rusty iron tearing through cloth.

A phantom page appeared in the air, and the words gradually emerged. Sentences, images, time points, and emotional moments were gradually deciphered.

"Golden Guards' First Direct Group".

"Ordered by the secret Red-Patterned Group."

Ian frowned: "...The private army of the eldest prince, Orion."

Rex continued turning the page, his brow furrowed:

"This operation was carried out without written orders, but was verbally authorized by His Highness the Viscount, which is a 'usual covert operation'."

Si Ming, who had been standing quietly in front of the bookshelf, turned around upon hearing this, her tone indifferent:
"Orion... is indeed smarter than before."

Tizel continued moving, slowly turning another page.

Rex read it out in a deep voice:
"Mission objective: Herwin's eldest son."

"Reason: Possessing a suspected lost secret card belonging to a deserter, which is an unfiled card; if it becomes a public incident, it will undermine the public opinion framework of 'legitimizing the identity of the numbered person'."

"The target's identity is also linked to the family involved in the murder case; it is recommended to remove any traces at night."

He paused for a moment after reading this, then repeated:

"Clear the traces."

Si Ming chuckled, walked closer to the analysis table, and gestured with his hand in the air, as if tearing open the cold, hard barrier of the air:
"He wanted to completely erase the tragedy."

"Let the entire capital forget about that girl."

"No, even if her family members are still alive, they'd better learn to shut up."

Tizel stood with her head bowed, her eyes expressionless, her voice ethereal as mist:
"This concludes the record. Please decide whether to save it as the 'Book of Memories'."

Rex looked at Siming.

Si Ming nodded.

"Keep a copy and archive it. Name it 'The Herwin Case: A Retrospective of the Cover-Up Operation'."

Rex sighed softly, a hint of bitterness in his voice:

"We're like royal secret file keepers now."

Ian paused for a moment, then suddenly spoke:
“The Red Stripe Group acted directly, bypassing the Military Affairs Department's orders... Edel was clearly unaware of this.”

Si Ming nodded slightly:

"He's becoming more and more like a silent lion, but his brother... has started poisoning him."

As he spoke, his gaze swept over the unconscious assassin before slowly turning to the deepening twilight outside the window.

"But interestingly—"

"I don't believe Orion could devise such a counterbalancing propaganda strategy."

"His move hit the intersection of us, Medici of the church, and Edel of the military."

Rex looked up, his eyes revealing alertness:

"You mean—there's another 'playwright' behind the scenes?"

Si Ming did not respond directly. He simply lowered his head, slowly gripped the card of the Lord of Fate, and gently turned it.

Between his fingers, the thin thread of fate, as fine as a hair, trembled slightly.

It seems there is some more secret weaver,
A needle has been quietly placed on the city's loom—a needle not in the script, yet destined to sew a new line of fate.

As night fell, the fog lights outside Morning Star Manor were just being turned on.

Under the white copper lampshade, the light could not penetrate the thick fog, like a heartbeat that was heavily suppressed, barely illuminating a small patch of the road beneath our feet.

The Herwin family was put into a temporary living room in the north building of the back garden.

That was the old dormitory for printing workers in the manor, abandoned for many years, with traces of the slurry from that time still remaining in the corners of the walls.

The place was now empty, with only a few beds made of old woven cloth leaning against the wall. Outside the window were long-abandoned paper vats and wax melting pools.

The wind blew through the iron bucket and the tattered pages, making intermittent low sounds, like a script with unfinished fragments.

The children remained silent, as if their vocal cords had been pounded hoarse by the fear of the entire night.

The second son of the Herwin family sat huddled in the corner, his hands tightly gripping the mysterious card, his knuckles white, his eyes still fixed on it.

The light on the card's surface gradually dimmed, and the warrior figure of [Sunwalker] slowly faded into the card. The last wisp of blood light disappeared, and he sheathed his blood blade, as if vanishing into the dream he should return to.

Alan's eyes lacked the naivety one would expect from a young man; instead, they held a weariness and wariness that were hard to look at directly.

His shoulders trembled slightly from excessive tension, the sweat on his forehead was not yet dry, and his lips were white from being clenched.

Rex sat opposite him, leaning back in a folding wooden chair, remaining silent for a long time, watching the boy try to speak several times, but ultimately holding back.

He finally spoke, his tone low and calm, yet carrying a hint of cool sharpness:

"You shouldn't have become a star so quickly."

"You haven't learned to control yourself yet. Next time... this family might not be able to rely on you."

That tone was like a dulled needle, piercing the deepest part of Alan's bones.

Alan nodded, his voice hoarse, as if squeezing pebbles from deep within his throat:
"But if I hadn't lit it..."

"We're all dead now."

Rex did not refute. He simply lowered his head slowly, took off his glasses, took out a cloth from his pocket, and gently wiped the surface of the Mirror of Destiny.

His movements were very light, yet it was as if he were erasing some kind of approaching future.

Downstairs, Ian stood under the dim light, silently watching Mrs. Herwin mend the torn curtain. Her stitches were slow, and the night wind kept blowing in, ruffling her hair.

She didn't cry at all, not even a single tear.

Only after the last stitch was threaded through did she softly, almost to herself, say:
"...My husband once said that his life line is only left for those who are willing to live."

The voice trembled slightly, yet it was like a nail driven into the deepest part of this quiet night house.

Si Ming stood alone on the other side of the rooftop eaves, his hands behind his back, overlooking the night fog over the entire capital.

The lights are spreading too slowly, and the fog is too low.

At that moment, everyone seemed to be asleep, except for him, who stood on the waking rooftop and saw what was hidden deep in the darkness—

Someone is writing a script.

Someone is tearing up the script.

Many more people don't even know what a "script" is.

They are just a name, a life card, a person who was numbered and then forgotten.

Rex quietly walked up to the rooftop and stood beside him in the mist.

"That child's rationality is unstable, and the frequency of the star's fluctuations... shows signs of explosive combustion."

Si Ming nodded, his expression remaining unchanged.
"His life lines have not yet fully stabilized."

Rex paused for a moment, then said in a low voice:
"...He believed his sister died at the church."

"But my mother always remembered that the military refused to give them pensions."

"Some people say it's a vampire."

A cold, emotionless smile curled at the corner of Siming's lips.

"They are both right."

Rex frowned, his voice deepening:

"But if this continues... the next riot won't even need planning; it will just start burning itself."

Si Ming slowly turned around, his tone calm and even:
"Quite the opposite."

"This is—'just the right amount of burning'."

He walked back to the eaves, his cloak fluttering slightly, his steps silent, as if walking on an unfinished script.

He seemed to be talking to himself, or perhaps declaring to the invisible audience in the foggy city:

"They write life into a script, and treat the deaths of ordinary people as mere trifles in their power struggles."

"Even the most exquisite theater has that one night..."

He stopped, his voice slightly cool:

"The audience no longer watches the play."

Rex was taken aback.

The God of Fate gazed deeper into the mist, his voice like that of an impending judgment:

"That night, no one will applaud on the throne."

“The memorial tablets of the noble and the lowly will be turned upside down.”

"And fate—only gives the script to the person who writes their own name."

Outside the window, the fog was as dark as ink, pressing down on the night sky like a sealed script cover.

The radiance of the Temple of Our Lady of Fertility still shines brightly, and the Tower of Destiny in the Royal Palace continues to rotate slowly high above, as if everything were as usual.

But something that cannot be recorded by the rational star is in the Morning Star's printing press, beneath the railway tracks of the royal capital.
It quietly ignited among the handouts casually scattered on the streets and alleys.

The fire was small, not enough to illuminate the world, but it was enough to attract the true reader of destiny.

"The nobility writes plays with power, the church adorns the curtain with God, and the army defines the sound field with orders."

The blood of the common people is merely the ink used to embellish the paper and ink.

But one day, the paper will be burned, and the ink will be silenced.

Even the stars will shed their last drop of black fire for them.

—Fate will return the title to the one who wrote it.

Morning Star Times, Midnight Special Edition

(End of this chapter)