Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 323 Blood Morning Training

"Not all heritage is hidden under tombstones; some is passed down through blood and bone."

The air in the foggy city in the early morning always carries a hint of dampness and mildew, like the lingering pain of an old wound in the city.

On the garden playground of Morning Star Manor, the grayish-white mist had not yet dissipated, and the night dew remaining between the stone slabs reflected the faint light of day.

At this moment, what echoed across the playground was not birdsong or the sound of the wind, but heavy breathing and the dull thuds of bodies hitting the ground.

Alan Herwin huddled on the gravel track, his knuckles sinking deep into the sand, sweat and blood dripping silently from his chin.

His left shoulder was dislocated, his entire left arm hung limply, and his legs twitched incessantly during repeated weight training, his muscles spasming as if a rope were being twisted tightly.

But those eyes remained fixed on the front, unyielding and without hatred, yet stubborn like a small beast cornered in a dead end, not seeking victory, but only seeking not to retreat.

"Get up again."

The voice was cool and clear, but it contained no reprimand; instead, it carried a lazy composure and... irony.

With her black hair and silver eyes, Celian stood beneath the stone pillar, her morning exercise attire seemingly shimmering in the pale red morning light.

Her long hair swayed gently in the wind, and the pointer in her hand tapped the gravel at her feet with a crisp sound, as if striking a rhythm.

She approached step by step, her eyes calm:
“You summoned the ‘Daywalker,’ Alan, not the ‘Playmate.’”

"This card represents the power your father earned with his life. Do you think it will easily accept a child who can only cry, gasp for breath, and fall down?"

She stopped in front of him, leaned down and looked down, her silver pupils reflecting his trembling shoulders, the boy's desperately suppressed courage.

“Stand up, or now—return it to your father’s grave.”

Her tone didn't rise, but her words were like cold water poured into her bones.

Alan gritted his teeth, his fingers gripping the ground tightly, and trembling as he struggled to his feet.

He had neither a father's support nor the training of a soldier, nor any battlefield experience that a soldier should have.

But he has a card.

That mid-tier Life-type card, "Sunwalker," originally belonged to his father's comrade-in-arms's Life Rune set, but now it has been entrusted to him. Now, it's his.

He placed his hand on the back of his hand, on the life lines; those lines, scorched by the high temperature, were not yet fully stable.

The outer edge of the star ring still floats with a blurred boundary, indicating the turmoil and immaturity of his rational star.

The card responded slightly, and a grayish-white phantom slowly appeared behind him.

Tall and thin, clad in armor, with a pale face and red eyes as sharp as a hawk locking onto its prey.

That is the "Daywalker"—a lone figure, a mixture of blood and man, the only one between day and night, not belonging to either side.

“He hasn’t acknowledged me yet…” Alan gritted his teeth and murmured, “but he’s looking at me.”

Selene's eyes twitched slightly, a smile devoid of mockery appearing on her lips, as she gently tapped his chest with her pointer:
“Life-type summons are not servants, but resonators.”

"If you can't keep up with his pace, then wait to have your bones crushed by the card you summoned yourself."

With that, she turned around, her cloak billowing in the morning breeze, fluttering behind her like a battle flag.

"You want him to become your secret?"

"First, develop a body worthy of him. Otherwise, you're not summoning the 'Sunwalker,' you're summoning your own funeral."

Alan fell down again, tumbling into the dust, his body convulsing, but he did not struggle.

He knew that all of this was not for military rank, not for glory, and not for proof.

It was so that I could say something at my sister's grave:
“I’m not here for revenge. I’m here to protect the rest of my family.”

The morning mist slowly dissipated, but the smell of blood in the air had not yet faded, and the bloodstains on the stone slabs were still wet.

The life lines on the back of Alan's hand glowed faintly, like a small lamp in the wind, stubbornly unyielding.

"Do you know what the vampires' best fighting style is?"

As Celian walked toward the equipment rack, she asked in a calm and unhurried tone.

Alan coughed up a mouthful of blood and shook his head, leaning against the training post.
"Is it speed... or self-healing?"

Selene drew two silver-bladed daggers, the sunlight reflecting off the backs of the blades, creating a flash of cold light.

"No, it's continuous oppression."

She threw a short knife with her backhand; the blade spun and landed at Alan's feet.

"Take it. Continue."

"I have already..."

"You are no longer an ordinary person."

She made a fist with one hand, activated her life runes, and a pattern with flowing blood-red veins quickly appeared on the back of her hand.

The star trails were bright, and although there were not twelve stars, they were exceptionally dazzling.

Then, a tall figure in iron armor appeared in response to the summons—a six-armed figure, fully armored, with interlocking bone blades.

"Strangler Knight: Crosher" - a seven-star life form, a vampire hunter.

This is her new card, brought by Redwing from the Eternal Night Blood Alliance, designed specifically for the Princess's battle formation.

"Observe carefully."

The knight strode forward, not attacking directly, but instead moving at high speed around Alan, his steps like a flowing shadow, stirring up dust and sand.

Alan managed to raise his blade to parry, but he couldn't keep up with the pace at all. After dodging several times, he was forced back several meters, and his ankle almost broke.

“A life-type summon is not a tool, but your second body.”

As Celian explained, her tone was as calm as if she were reciting the text:

"It resonates with your heartbeat, synchronizes with your breathing, and connects with your muscle tension."

"It can provide as much force as your muscles and bones can withstand."

"If you are weak, it will be weak too."

Alan was knocked down again.

He struggled to his feet, his body covered in bruises, his arms numb, and his breathing labored like a broken bellows.
"But I... don't have your physique."

"You don't have my lifespan, bloodline, rational defense, or life rune talent."

She stared at him, then suddenly laughed. There was no mockery in her eyes, only the cold, sharp edge of truth:

"But you can learn it."

She waved her hand, and the knight stopped abruptly.

"The Daywalker is a fusion-type summon."

"It is essentially a blood-sharing and symbiotic contract. Once bound, your race will be partially transformed, your life patterns will mutate, and your physiological structure will be reconstructed."

"Will I become... a half-vampire?" Alan's voice was low and hoarse.

"Yes. Sun sensitivity, enhanced night vision, improved self-healing ability, and physical enhancement level one."

He appeared dazed, and the short blade in his palm trembled.

"Are you scared?"

Alan gritted his teeth, gripped the knife hilt tightly, and whispered:
"...Don't be afraid. If my father could do it, so can I."

Selene approached, her tone softening, yet sharper:
"He was only recognized by the 'Sunwalkers' after a hundred battles."

"And you, you were bought with his death... and your sister's life."

"This card is the culmination of your family's blood debt."

Alan trembled slightly.

She patted his shoulder, as if delivering a cold wake-up call:
"So you can't let it down."

"To become a life-based mystic, you must first learn one thing—"

"You must be more ruthless to your own bones than to your enemies."

Having said that, she turned and left, her steps as firm as a burning rock.

Leaving behind a sentence, as sharp as iron striking stone:
"Keep fighting. Keep fighting until 'Sunwalker' has to take you down."

"That proves you're qualified."

As the setting sun cast its slanting rays, the young man stood alone between the stone pillars and training equipment, his blood still fresh, but his eyes shining brighter than the sunlight.

He understood:

Fate markings are not a talent, but the price paid for choices made.

On the distant balcony, the morning light was diluted by the mist into a hazy silver light, like a thin veil hanging on the gray-white sky of Morning Star Manor.

Si Ming, holding a teacup, stood beside the stone railing, his fingertips tracing the still-steaming porcelain surface, his gaze piercing through the mist.

Look at the boy in the garden who falls down again and again, only to stubbornly get up again.

His voice was soft, yet carried a genuine hint of helplessness:

"For the first time, I feel that life-type cards... are too troublesome."

Celian was slowly fastening her cloak beside her, her movements practiced and her fingers nimble, the glove straps snapping shut with a "click".

She raised an eyebrow:
"Are you jealous?"

"I'm just glad I chose the Fate system."

Si Ming blew on his tea, smiling faintly, "It's others who get hurt, and it's others who go mad."

"You dare say that to his face?" she asked casually, but her tone held a hint of provocative amusement.

“I’m not as brave as you, Your Highness.” Si Ming shrugged.

The two smiled at each other, just like their countless quiet conversations before dawn, only this time, the fog had not yet dissipated, and the boy's shadow in the mud had not yet settled.

Downstairs, Alan Herwin struggled to his feet once more.

A faint light shone from the life line on his shoulder, like a charcoal fire that, despite repeated polishing, refused to go out.

He stopped and said in a low voice:
"Again."

He wasn't speaking to people, he was speaking to the cards, he was speaking to himself.

Behind him, the shadow of the daywalker finally stirred slightly in the morning light, as if responding to that persistent call.

In the second-floor corridor of Morning Star Manor, afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall stained-glass windows, casting golden-red geometric patterns of light and shadow on the antique carpet, like oil paint frozen in time. Si Ming leaned against the window frame, his teacup empty, yet still slowly turning in his hand.

He looked down once more at the figure on the training field below, who had been knocked down time and time again, yet had risen again and again, his expression unreadable.

He twirled a silver spoon between his fingers, slowly making his way to the stairwell, muttering to himself:

"Life science... it's really physically demanding."

"You finally admit you're lazy." A familiar voice came from the other side of the corridor.
With the composure and indifference unique to vampires, yet not without a touch of irony.

Si Ming turned his head to look.

At this moment, Selene had just changed into an extremely rare formal outfit. The deep purple satin belted long dress fit her well, with the hem trailing on the ground. The moon and thorn patterns were embroidered with silver thread, creating layers like a twilight forest.

Her collar was trimmed with crimson gold, which made her look cold and elegant. She wore a black cloak with star patterns, like a princess who had truly stepped out of the Eternal Night Court.

She gently fiddled with a black feather mask, its delicate edges trembling slightly in the light.

Si Ming blinked, openly scrutinizing her from head to toe, and slowly said:

"Are you dressed like that... going to war, or going to the coronation of the throne?"

“The ball.” Celian spoke casually, her expression unchanged, as if she were talking about something insignificant.

“Red Wing insisted on turning my bail into a political performance, and now the entire capital knows that the ‘Eternal Night Princess’ is in Morning Star.”

"So the royal palace went along with it and invited you to attend," Si Ming replied with a smile. "They really know how to patch things up."

"I'm the one with a headache if I don't hit him." She sighed softly, glancing back at him.
Her eyes, like the sky clearing after a period of mist, held an unspeakable meaning: "Would you like to come with me?"

Her tone was indifferent, her fingertips still fiddling with the edge of the mask, but her gaze lingered briefly on his face.

"It is said that there will be a group of 'people worth paying attention to' at that event."

Siming paused slightly, raising an eyebrow as he looked at her:
"Are you serious?"

“I need a companion.” She nodded, then glanced at him up and down, her tone subtle.

"Of course... provided you don't dress like you just crawled out of a cemetery last night."

Si Ming glanced down at his loose shirt and turned-up cloak, and said innocently:
"That's called composure."

He paused, then took a thoughtful sip of his iced tea: "But what you said, 'people worth paying attention to'..."

"Almost all members of the royal family will be there. Medici will be too."

These words were like a pebble dropped into his cup, creating a ripple on the surface of the water.

"The entire royal family has been mobilized?"

“The royal family, the nobility, the church, and the military,” Celian answered calmly.

She saw the fleeting interest in his eyes, and the corners of her mouth curved into a smile.

"So, Master."

She teased, but her tone was sharp as a knife at the end:

"You should wash your hair, change your clothes, and put on your leather shoes."

Si Ming was silent for a moment, then suddenly chuckled:

"What should I worry about? You are a vampire princess, who would dare to embarrass you?"

"They don't dare."

Selene's smile vanished, and her expression suddenly turned serious:
"But they dare to speak rudely to you."

This sentence carried a suppressed sharpness, like a dagger hidden in its sheath.

It reminded him that the "ball" was never a dance floor, but a naked rehearsal of power.

Si Ming lowered his head, pondered for a moment, and finally shrugged:

"Then go ahead."

"Anyway, what we newspaper people fear most is no one creating topics for us."

The two looked at each other and smiled.

After saying this, they walked into the dressing room one after the other. The afternoon light slowly closed behind them, leaving the theater about to open behind the interplay of light and shadow.

ten minutes later.

Si Ming stood in front of the mirror, staring at her dress with an expression that was almost utterly disbelieving.

It was a perfectly tailored, deep black swallowtail gown with silver trim, a lapel edged with matte gold patterns, and cuffs adorned with light gray satin buttons.

The hem of the dress hung straight and dignified, every inch of fabric exuding a restrained nobility.

He felt like a living symbol forcibly bound to some ancient ritual, even wondering if he was trapped in some kind of unbreakable, mysterious curse.

“I won’t wear this.” Si Ming frowned, his lips twitching as if he had just swallowed an undercooked truth bomb. “This doesn’t suit me.”

“It’s right for you,” Celian said decisively, without even blinking.

“I feel like an aristocrat now.” He raised his hand and tugged at his collar, his tone revealing a strong sense of discomfort.

"You make it sound like an insult." She chuckled softly, her tone unhurried.

"But don't worry, you may dress like an aristocrat, but when you speak—no one will think you are."

Si Ming finally couldn't help but laugh out loud, and simply tilted his head resignedly: "You really know how to comfort people."

“I am sincere.” Celian moved closer to him subtly, adjusting his slightly askew collar.

The fingertips were extremely light, yet precise, like a knife repairman trimming a ceremonial flower branch.

Her voice lowered, almost touching his Adam's apple:

"Also, I must remind you that I'm not used to my dancing partner stepping on my shoes."

"Don't worry." Si Ming smiled slightly, raising a brow. "Before I hurt you, I'll remind myself—this is the last evening gown I can wear."

The two exchanged a glance, their smiles slowly settling in their eyes, like a tacit nod after a brief exchange of blows.

The sky outside the window had darkened. The sun was setting, and a long, deep chime echoed from the clock tower of the Fog City.

It was as if a curtain filled with the aura of power had been drawn back.

Night is about to fall in the capital.

A feast of thrones and masks, bayonets and perfumes is slowly beginning.

As dusk fell, the streetlights along the main thoroughfare of the capital lit up one by one, forming a serene yet ominous golden line that seemed to guide the lifeblood of the entire city toward the Golden Palace.

In front of Morning Star Manor, an old-fashioned six-wheeled carriage with black and gold decorations was quietly waiting.

The vehicle body was cast using the ancient "mirror riveting technique" of the Eastern District, with rune-patterned shock-absorbing devices embedded at the four corners, and the silver and red headlights were engraved with the noble seals of the Eternal Night Kingdom.

Like an unspoken warning of power—declaring the lineage and stance of the passengers in the vehicle.

Si Ming, wearing the swallowtail coat personally chosen by Selene, leaned against the carriage, gazing lazily at the streetlights flashing past the window.

He still didn't button his cuffs properly, and deliberately left the second lining button a notch loose, as if using this slight disobedience to resist the oppressive feeling brought by the whole gorgeous disguise.

"Tighten it a bit," Celian said calmly from across the table, her eyes flashing like the sharp edge of a blade in the night.

"You look so sloppy, you look like a errand boy from some tabloid—not a royal companion to a banquet."

Si Ming looked up at her, a half-smile on his face:
"I wasn't invited by them in the first place."

"I'm just your... temporary dance partner?"

“An accessory,” Celian added expressionlessly, “the seam of the vampire princess’s cloak.”

Si Ming smiled lazily:
"The stitching is quite tight."

The carriage moved slowly forward, the rumbling sound of its wheels hitting the stone bricks echoing through the quiet street.

As we passed through the middle of the street, a man wearing a wide-brimmed hat and holding a newspaper walked slowly under the streetlights. His gaze swept across the car window before he silently drove away.

On the front of the carriage roof, Ian sat in the driver's seat, his eyes calm, but his fingertips quietly gripped the wind-patterned blade hidden in his sleeve.

A slight tremor of wind whispered behind his ear, reaching the carriage:
"The fifth group of monitors has been confirmed. Someone has also infiltrated Medusa's group."

Selene turned her head to look at Siming, her eyes instantly turning extremely cold, her words carrying no superfluous meaning:
"They won't just be doing this for the banquet."

Si Ming narrowed his eyes slightly, his voice low and deep:
"of course not."

“You are a vampire princess, and they need you to sit on that chair in front of the golden steps—perform the act of ‘accepting the royal apology’.”

He paused, his gaze shifting to the approaching Golden Palace outside the carriage window, his tone suddenly softening:
“But I’m different.”

"I am the background noise in the script."

"They just wanted to know what I was writing."

Ahead, the bells of the capital's tower rang out once more, eight in a row, long and heavy, like an order that left no room for turning back.

That was the signal to begin a court ceremony.

"Are you ready?" Celian asked softly.

Si Ming tilted his head slightly, his expression still lazy, but with a hint of mockery:
"You mean dancing, or starting to get provoked?"

Selene raised her eyes, a slight smile playing on her lips, her gaze as cold as a steel blade under the moonlight:
"Of course it's the latter."

The carriage slowly came to a stop at the foot of the red carpet steps in the palace's forecourt, the sound of bronze riding boots echoing on the stone steps. A servant approached and respectfully opened the carriage door.

Si Ming and Selene got out of the car side by side.

A night breeze swept by, causing robes and cloaks to flutter slightly. Candlelight streamed down the red carpet, flowing like rivers towards the main hall of the palace, where the dome was gilded with silver and the map of destiny swirled.

Their figures, one in black and one in purple, took their first step between light and mist.

Tonight's feast is destined to be more than just dance and poetry.

This is a preview dedicated to the blade and the script.

"They wanted to cover up the bloodstains with gold and light."
But they forgot that buried beneath the dance floor were the marks of their past lives.

We do not attend banquets for glory.

Rather, it's to remember where the blood flowed.

—From *Morning Star*, Unpublished Poetry Pages, “The Night of the Banquet”

(End of this chapter)