Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 324 The Dance of the Throne
"They put on gold-embroidered robes and thought they were descendants of gods; but the mirror of fate never reflects gold, only blood."

—From *The Forbidden Codex of Chongqing: The Royal Family*

The main hall of the Fog City Royal Palace is the venue for a royal ball.

This colossal golden palace, a symbol of royal power, hangs a hundred feet high. Its dome is inlaid with thirty-seven ancient mirrors, each with a star-iron edge and twelve star patterns engraved on the inner circle.

On every full moon night, the mirror automatically refracts the light of the destiny lines, forming a "star trail clock" that resembles a divine revelation.

Today, beneath these mirrors hang silver brocade and white star-patterned curtains, with layers of fate-carved chandeliers cascading down in an intricate pattern.

The entire hall was set up like an open net of power, drawing all the guests into the script of this drama.

This is the most luxurious palace in the capital, and tonight, it has a grand and imposing name:

"A feast of nobility and blood."

Officially described as an annual celebration for royal confidants and nobles, it was in reality a silent power struggle, an invisible contest of bloodlines and destiny markings.

The powerful and wealthy entered the arena in order, like chess pieces, with their positions determined by the number of stars in their birth charts and their family titles. The shoulder badges clearly indicated their respective star charts, and even the angle of their gaze had to be calculated.

The prince and princess had not yet arrived, but the hall had already fallen into a suffocating silence.

The air was filled with the scent of life-pattern-sensing powder, whispered spells, and abbreviated syllables of ancient aristocratic language, intertwining like stitches, silently stitching together each other's positions and boundaries.

"Look over there, that's the fourth son of the Duke of Oran. He's said to be the next deputy commander of the Imperial Guard."

"Don't go near Meldas, she has illicit ties with the Order of Our Lady of Procreation."

The nobles' conversations were more like battle formations, not pleasantries, but probing and strategic maneuvering. Every word carried an intention, and every smile was barbed.

In a corner of the Mirror Palace, the Crystal Orchestra was tuning the Destiny Harmony Instrument. Fate patterns shimmered between the bow and the strings, and beams of light refracted down from the domed mirrors.

Projected onto the center of the dance floor, it formed flowing star-shaped light trails. That was a "light trail dance floor" designed specifically for those who possessed life runes—

No one is worthy to enter where the light does not shine.

Just as everyone was communicating through glances, a solemn announcement came from the entrance of the hall:

"His Highness Orion Trerian, the Crown Prince and first heir to the Kingdom of Trerian, has arrived."

The music paused slightly, and the air seemed to freeze for a moment.

Immediately, on the white jade steps, a military cloak woven with gold and red came into view, and Orion strode in with his head held high.

He stepped on the intersection of star trails with every step, and his life lines emerged from the light, as if even the light was making way for him.

His eyes were icy blue, his gaze was cold and stern, and his lips were tightly pressed together. Wherever his gaze fell, the nobles all appeared slightly restrained, as if they were merely unfinished stone statues.

Immediately following, a second announcement slowly rang out:
"Your Highness Medusa Trean, the eldest princess and executive bishop of the Order of the Virgin Mary."

She wore a gown with sacred symbols, trimmed with white and gold, and the divine emblem on her chest gleamed coldly under the lights.

Her gait was like a ritual itself, and wherever she went, believers bowed their heads, not daring to look directly at the fertility mark between her brows.

She didn't come to a banquet; she came to preside over the entire trial of fate.

Then, the third announcement was slightly milder:

"Princess Lyseria Trean, the youngest daughter of the Emperor and advisor to the Kingdom's public opinion."

Dressed in a sea-blue starry dress, Liseria moved with light steps and gentle demeanor, like raindrops drifting slowly in the night breeze.

However, her gaze was sharp and cold, shifting between Orion and Medici, always maintaining a subtle and delicate distance.

She greeted people with a gentle tone, yet every word was carefully chosen, as if testing every possible echo of the ball.

Finally, a man in a crisp military uniform appeared:

"His Highness Edel Trean, the second son of the Emperor and Commander-in-Chief of the Kingdom's Armed Forces."

The applause was brief, merely a formality of respect.

Edel walked in silently, without saying a word, his brow furrowed.

His gaze didn't linger on anyone, but slowly swept across the entire dance floor, as if marking each person and arranging them line by line.

He stood firmly, his gaze calm, yet it was as if the entire battlefield of the military had pressed into this hall of power along with him.

All four royal children were present, and the nobles bowed in greeting, thus concluding the ceremony.

However, just when everyone thought the process was over, the doors of the main hall opened again, and a cold, clear voice announced the event, cutting through the music like a blade:

"Her Highness Princess Selian from the Eternal Night Blood Alliance, accompanied by her attendants, the editor-in-chief of the Morning Star Times, and His Excellency Siming, have taken their seats."

The music stopped abruptly, and even breathing seemed to freeze for a moment.

Inside the Mirror Palace, every pair of eyes turned toward the entrance—

They were a pair of people of different appearances.

Selene wore a scarlet twilight gown with star embroidery on the hem and a blood-red jade pendant hanging from the side of her waist.

Her steps were unhurried, her posture elegant, yet her expression held a weariness that showed no regard for any rules—as if this ball was merely a brief interlude in the long rest of her life.

Si Ming, standing beside her, wore a black and silver imperial capital robe, without any family crest or life emblem.

He walked steadily, his expression calm, a slight, cold smile playing on his lips—like an insider walking backstage at a fictional play.

He stood on the star trails, and no life lines appeared, yet he was not repelled by the light trails.

A nobleman lowered his voice, his expression a mixture of surprise and doubt:

"How...did he step onto the light path?"

The other person answered in a low voice:
"He is a ten-star mystery master."

The entire Mirror Palace fell into an eerie stillness.

I don't know which one to be afraid of first—

Is it that vampire princess?
Or was it the lifeless track-walker beside her?
In the distance, standing outside the starlight of her destiny markings, Liseria slowly smiled.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile appeared on her face, as if a chess piece had finally been placed on the chessboard she had laid out.

She murmured softly, as if offering a commentary on fate itself:

"finally come."

The light from the dome of the Mirror Palace continued to rotate, and the patterns of destiny flowed across the ground, but they could no longer conceal the gazes directed at the newcomers.

The light, like the ring of fate, silently rolled over every pair of eyes on the ground, eyes that tried to conceal their brilliance.

Tonight's ball begins here—

It's no longer just a dance party.

Selene and Siming walked side by side, slowly stepping onto the edge of the dance floor.

They did not immediately follow the guide to their seats. A ushers in gold-trimmed uniforms stepped forward with a slight bow, gesturing to lead the way, their tone respectful:
"Please, distinguished guests, proceed to the foreign guests' viewing area—"

Before he could finish speaking, Si Ming smiled gently and politely declined with a flick of his sleeve:

"We are more used to choosing our own location."

To the nobles, these words were almost tantamount to a slap in the face to the established order.

The air seemed to freeze for a moment, and the notes in the music seemed to pause for half a beat.

They ultimately did not accept the arrangement, but instead slowly crossed the ground paved with star trail patterns and stood at the bottom of a slightly empty set of steps in front of the royal throne.

That was the "gray area" reserved for foreign guests to observe at the ball, which belonged neither to the inner circle of nobles nor to those on the official guest list.

It is usually used to receive people with ambiguous or unclear positions.

When the God of Fate stood still, his posture was natural yet sharp, his composure like a sharp blade scraping across a mirror, reflecting the rules of the entire Mirror Palace with a gleaming and cold light.

"That's too provocative."

Orion's voice then rang out, deep and cold, like the striking of metal.

He sat on his high seat, his eyes fixed on Si Ming the entire time, his gaze filled with undisguised disgust and contempt.

"They actually allowed a commoner to step onto the Mirror Palace dance floor, and wouldn't even arrange a seat for him. Do they no longer intend to maintain even the slightest bit of dignity and order?"

His golden armor cloak, re-made in the ceremonial style of the Chief of the Guard, gleamed coldly in the candlelight, and his tone carried the characteristic assertiveness and exclusivity of the Trelian family.

Medici, standing to his left, didn't respond, but quietly raised her eyes.
Their gaze fell upon the Eastern man below, dressed in a formal suit made by a tailor from the capital, his hair perfectly styled, his demeanor restrained yet unable to completely conceal his air of a "commoner from another place."

Her gaze was calm and cautious, like examining an unwritten draft. Until that instant—she flinched almost imperceptibly.

It wasn't due to emotions, but rather a reversal of the life line.

A part of her destiny chart deep within her mind briefly resonated, and a vague whisper pierced her consciousness:
"He is above me—he is life itself."

Medici's eyes flickered slightly, a moment of surprise and doubt crossing her consciousness.

But soon, she readjusted her gaze and breathing, as if nothing had happened.

"The person who let him in... was 'her'," she replied calmly.

The "she" she referred to needs no explanation—Selene.

"Vampires." Orion scoffed, his tone carrying an undisguised contempt. "They've never learned what etiquette is."

Edel remained silent. He sat in a corner of the prince's high seat, leaning against the window, his expression calm, his gaze fixed on the dance floor, as if he had lost all desire to participate in the usual royal performance.

At this moment, the light from the dome of the Mirror Palace receded, and all the life runes slowly sank into the ground. A melodious and ethereal horn sounded, echoing from the mirror surface of the dome.

The royal emcee then took to the stage, her pale gold robe trailing on the floor, her voice clear and melodious:

"On behalf of the noble community of the capital, the Royal Family of Trean hereby announces the official opening of this year's 'Dance of Nobility and Blood'."

The candlelight around the hall instantly flared up, and the mirrors began to rotate again.

The host continued reading:
"On this night of royal feast, our royal family also wishes to extend our sincere respect and highest courtesy to Her Highness Selian, the envoy of the Eternal Night Blood Alliance who has traveled from afar."

"The Throne of Treon hereby formally expresses its regret to you—the Royal Family wishes to make amends for the unfortunate incident in which the situation in the capital inadvertently affected the noble princess, and humbly requests your forgiveness."

May the blood of our old alliance never dry, and may our past promises never be broken.

This passage, while conveying a diplomatic, appeasing, and symbolic message, sounds gentle.

In reality, it's like applying a thin layer of ice to a mirror—neither sincere nor refutable.

Selene did not move, but merely bowed her head and nodded slightly; this was sufficient in terms of etiquette.

Si Ming did not respond, but stood silently like a shadow, gazing indifferently at the end of the light trail.

At this moment, he and she seemed like different colors stripped away, standing out out of place in the magnificent Mirror Palace.

Just then, Edel suddenly stood up, without being summoned by anyone or uttering a word.

He descended slowly from the high seat, walking along the side steps with steady steps, each step as if he were stepping on the end of a period of deep contemplation.

He didn't look at Celian, but walked straight towards Si Ming.

In that instant, Selene's expression changed, her toes turned slightly, and her right hand quietly touched the hilt of the short sword at her waist.

Si Ming remained standing, turning back to look at the newcomer with his usual gentle smile on his lips—a familiar yet ambiguous smile whose true meaning was impossible to discern.

Edel stopped and spoke in a low voice:
“Editor-in-Chief Morningstar. I had thought we would meet at a military hearing... or in a courtroom.”

The God of Fate bowed, his posture dignified yet extremely simple:

"Your Highness is clearly too kind. I am merely a messenger of information."

Edel didn't respond to his polite words, but simply took a step closer, his voice low:

“I know you are ‘her’ companion.”

This sentence finally caused a crack to appear in Si Ming's previously calm and composed eyes.

He stopped laughing, and a truly sharp glint flashed in his eyes.

Edel stared at him and continued:
“You’re one of the survivors from the Lost Ones. Rex, Ian, her… I know you’re all still alive.”

"But I would also like to remind you: the throne of Treion can tolerate many things, but it cannot tolerate being overthrown."

Si Ming smiled gently, his tone still calm, but no longer feigned:

"I have no intention of overturning it."

He paused, then added as if casually:
"I just want to...see it upside down."

Edel's brow twitched.

That wasn't a provocation; it was more like a silent wedge driven into the structure of the throne.

At this moment, a long waltz resounded around the Mirror Palace, and the light trails were reactivated.

The nobles, like statues unsealed, rose and entered the arena, where music, fate markings, and intrigue intertwined to reveal the return to superficial splendor.

Edel said nothing more, and simply turned and returned to the Prince's Seat.

Si Ming and Selian remained standing on the edge of the light trail, neither dancing nor joining in.

They were like two different-colored chess pieces left on the edge of the board, waiting for the other to make the first mistake.

From this moment forward, tonight's ball will no longer be a banquet.

It is a ritual, a gamble, the first act of a script.

But the prelude to fate has already quietly begun.

On the side corridor of the high platform above the throne, Liseria quietly watched the two figures, one in black and one in red, in the center of the dance floor.

She didn't speak until Marlene, who was standing next to her, leaned in and whispered.

Liseria then regained her composure slightly. Her lips twitched slightly, and her voice, low yet clear, spoke as if drawing a conclusion for herself, or perhaps turning a new page for the entire capital:
"He is not the weaver of fate."

Marlene paused slightly, her confusion tinged with a cautious reluctance to press for answers.
"Your Highness?"

Liseria looked down, her gaze sweeping over a reluctant footnote in the margin of a thick history book:

"He is a footnote on the page of fate that never wants to be read."

The music resumed, the melody rising higher and higher, the light from the crystal chandelier swirling in the air, and the nobles' footsteps once again intertwined with the beat of the dance.

Her skirt was like silk, her conversation as smooth as silk, and her elegance remained unchanged.

However, the life lines beneath the mirror have already begun to distort.

The light is no longer a pure flow, but rather vibrates like ripples under some kind of disturbance.

The waltz has reached its third movement.

In the banquet center, crystal chandeliers hung down like flames, their light trembling on each crystal.

The nobles in their conversation continued to smile and raise their glasses, yet they concealed daggers between the lines of their words:

A single word, a pause, can obliterate a marriage alliance or a pact. Meanwhile, by the dance floor, Si Ming changed his wine glass and stood alone behind a carved pillar adorned with ginkgo blossoms.

He didn't dance—of course not.

His gaze slowly swept across the entire room, neither looking at anyone nor avoiding any eye contact.

He wasn't there for the ball; he was there to wait for the play to officially begin.

That familiar presence was finally drawing near.

It was crisp and solemn, carrying a faint, sacred fragrance and an indescribable fishy smell—like a drop of blood seeping from the incense ash during a canonization ceremony.

is her.

Medici.

She entered the crowd alone, without any attendants or clergy.

Her long dress trailed on the ground, and her silver-gray gown was draped with only a very thin chain.

She did not wear a scepter, yet she made nobles automatically make way for her more than anyone else;

She concealed her fate lines, yet it seemed as if every step she took was on a divine totem.

She walked straight to the God of Fate, without bowing or exchanging pleasantries, her words as cold and direct as a judgment from an altar:
"You are the one who instigated the numbered riots."

It's not a question, it's a conviction.

Siming merely raised his eyes, raised his cup in a toast, his tone carrying an incomparably gentle yet extremely uncomfortable politeness:

"I'm just an editor. My job is to spread information, not to incite riots."

Medici didn't move, but turned her head slightly, her gaze falling on the glass of wine in his hand.

It wasn't the gaze of someone staring at a wine glass, but rather as if they were looking at a sacred object that shouldn't be touched by mortals—unclean, even offensive.

Her tone softened slightly, but became even more sharp:
"You confuse the truth with lies and corrupt faith with flames. You manipulate public opinion, mislead military families, and protect traitors..."

She took a half step forward, her voice low, yet each word was as sharp as a falling hammer:

"Do you know what you're doing?"

Si Ming finally stopped smiling.

He slowly set down his glass, his fingertips still touching the rim. His tone was low, yet each word felt like a sharp bayonet slowly piercing his sternum.

"of course I know."

"I'm doing something even more terrifying than what you're doing."

He paused, his gaze lingering on her:
"I am telling the truth."

Medici's eyes widened in shock.

In an instant, an inexplicable pressure surged from the depths of her consciousness—not some kind of spiritual pressure,
It wasn't a threat, but rather... an instinctive impulse that bordered on "submission".

It's like a priest being forced to bow his head when facing a sacred object.

She subconsciously took a breath, and the life patterns in her mind spun rapidly, like a bronze bell being torn apart by a gale in a church bell tower.

She immediately noticed something was wrong.

This is not the God of Fate "speaking".

This is a kind of will, issuing "instructions" to her through his body, language, and even his breath and gaze.

It's not a debate, not a confrontation, but a view from a position of authority.

Her breathing suddenly became rapid.

And she, Medici, the saint and bishop's representative of the Church of Our Lady of Procreation.
Even in this setting that doesn't belong to the battlefield, during a conversation—he subconsciously slowed down his tone.

Her voice changed; it no longer held high on the judge's throne, but instead became a restrained, cautious, and even... equal low voice:

“There is a certain will within you…”

Siming didn't deny it; instead, he nodded, as if admiring an enemy finally giving the correct answer. His tone was light, but not frivolous:
"You have it too."

"It's just that yours... hasn't fully opened its eyes yet."

He glanced at her, his voice as soft as a whisper in the mist:
"And unfortunately, yours is seventh in line, ahead of me."

Medici suddenly understood.

She certainly knew the numbering system of the "Supreme Mystery Card".

She is a candidate vessel for the "Breeding Mother," the prepared bearer of the seventh divine consciousness.

And he, Si Ming—the one echoing within him is No. 3: the Lord of Fate.

What does this mean?
This means that she was born a level below him.

It is not knowledge, not status, not will, or power.

It is low in terms of structure, legal principles, and social status.

At that moment, she realized that she was not facing a strategist who manipulated public opinion, nor a dangerous sorcerer.

But -

One of them may become a god in the future.

And she, without realizing it, lowered her head in front of this person.

Even for a moment, it is a humiliation.

Medici's expression changed slightly. Humiliation, wariness, and anger surged in waves.

But she forced herself to control her emotions and turned to leave.

The cloak swept past the candlelight, casting a shadow that flickered on the floor tiles like a divine image about to ignite.

She didn't say anything more until her footsteps were about to disappear into the side corridor, then she whispered a sentence:
"You think you are weaving your destiny, but in reality, destiny is using you to settle scores with us all."

She walked away, her skirt disappearing behind the divine-patterned pillar.

Si Ming did not look at her.

He simply reached out and gently touched the edge of the life lines on the back of his hand.

There was no starlight there, but something seemed to be there—slightly trembling.

He murmured:
"It's not a liquidation."

"It's a rewrite."

"And you—have not been rewritten for too long."

In the north corner of the main hall, a long window was wide open, and the curtains were gently lifted by a corner in the night breeze.
The night sky over the capital city was like a flowing, ethereal silver veil slowly descending, reflecting the swirling light trails beneath the domed magic mirror.

The waltz was still in its final notes, the music still lingering among the crystal chandeliers, but at this moment, most people's eyes were no longer on the center of the dance floor.

The nobles seemed to be spinning, each with their own thoughts racing, and even their steps became more tentative.

Selene was speaking in hushed tones to a countess dressed in a grey-blue brocade gown, her smile elegant, her words gentle, and her manners impeccable.

But her hidden canine teeth were her true, restrained sharpness.

As she listened to the other person's words, she controlled each nod and turn of her body at the most appropriate angle.

In the distance, Prince Orion, dressed in a light gold robe, was talking quietly with several young noblemen.

He stood ramrod straight, his eyes sharp, like a statue holding a scepter of power.

His gaze fell on Si Ming across the crowd, and the undisguised coldness in that glance was like a blade slicing through a drinking glass.

At that moment, the little princess, who should have been the least noticeable, quietly bypassed the crowd and walked lightly toward Si Ming.

Liseria.

She changed into a light blue gauze dress, draped with a white velvet shawl, her hair styled in a courtly updo, adorned with a silver star-shaped hairpin that shimmered softly, her steps were graceful yet steady.

She didn't walk straight up to Si Ming, but stopped at the long table next to him and slowly took a glass of non-alcoholic champagne.

Her movements were skillful and elegant, like diplomatic rituals trained from childhood, yet they also carried a hint of a young girl's private thoughts.

She stood beside him, her voice soft and gentle, like snowflakes falling on a lamplight:
"Master of Fate."

She used the most formal title, but an undisguised smile lingered at the corners of her lips, like a deliberately unveiled mystery of identity.

Si Ming tilted his head, slightly raised his cup, and looked at him with a hint of curiosity:
"Your Highness."

Liseria blinked and asked softly:

"Did you recognize me?"

"What if I say no?" Si Ming smiled.

“Then I will remind you—'her pen name is Liya'.”

He paused slightly, then couldn't help but laugh out loud:

"It's really you."

They lightly clinked their glasses, the sound clear and crisp. The champagne swayed gently in the glass, the reflection of the crystal chandelier shattering on the surface, as if the shimmering light of fate had fallen into the hands of an unknown person.

Liseria withdrew her gaze, glanced indifferently at the dance floor, and then followed her peripheral vision to the positions where Orion, Medici, and Edel were standing.

Her voice was so soft, as if she were afraid of being heard by those in power:

"They don't like you."

Si Ming took a sip of wine, his tone flat and even:
"What about you?"

Liseria chuckled softly, as if she herself was unsure:

"I am not sure."

"But I like reading your newspaper. At least... you're not one of them."

Her words, "You are not them," were spoken very softly, yet carried immense weight.

It's like casting a faint light on the last stone in this world that's trying to remain conscious.

Si Ming raised an eyebrow but remained silent.

Liseria looked at him, her tone suddenly changing:

"I would like to ask you to write an anonymous article."

She spoke calmly, yet with utmost seriousness.

"About—'the wall between the throne and the people'."

Si Ming paused, his gaze towards her shifting slightly:

"I thought you were a princess."

"I am also a reader."

This answer is both naive and terrifying.

They stared at each other for a few seconds.

Then, the next waltz began, the notes flowed slowly, and the star trails lit up again.

Liseria asked softly:
Do you dance?

The Fate Master shook his head:

“I’m not very good at it.”

"Then let's jump together."

She turned her head, smiling broadly.

"That way it won't be you stepping on me, it'll be me stepping on you."

Si Ming smiled wryly, put the cup back on the long table, and extended his hand to her, his fingers long and slender, his palm slightly warm.

They walked together onto the dance floor, swirling into the flowing rhythm of star trails.

Meanwhile, behind the distant pillar, Edel leaned quietly against the carved pillar, his expression unchanged.

He kept his eyes fixed on Si Ming, but in his hand he tightly gripped a document that had been repeatedly rubbed and worn.

The pages were slightly wrinkled, recording the times and locations of Si Ming's appearances, as well as a blurry portrait redrawn from a surveillance silhouette.

Light footsteps sounded behind me.

"Sir." A young officer approached quietly.

Edel didn't turn his head, but whispered:

"Don't touch him."

The officer hesitated for a moment:
"Your Excellency, he is very likely—"

“I know he is very likely to be.”

Edel slowly turned his head, his eyes as cold as an unsheathed blade:
"But you know what?"

He paused, his voice low and deep, as if uttering the most weighty secret edict of the capital:
"The capital city... needs a madman."

"Only then will it begin to collapse."

After saying that, he turned and stepped out of the lamplight, his figure swallowed up by the pillar shadow.

The document fluttered to the ground with a twitch of his clothes, gliding gently in the wind and tracing a silent curve on the silver-patterned floor tiles.

Outside the window, a light snowflake fell silently—the first snow of winter in the capital had quietly arrived.

Inside the ballroom, the nobles continued to turn around, drink, chat, and exchange compliments and probing glances, as if everything was still proceeding according to the established rules.

No one noticed the figure stepping onto the dance floor—

That outstretched hand was no longer simply a gesture towards a dance partner.

Instead, it extended the pen of fate into the very heart of the power structure.

They wrapped the blade on the throne in gold leaf.
Disguising commands and judgments with wine and flowers.

But fate doesn't write fairy tales.

It describes—the hand dancing amidst the flashing blades.

—An anonymous submission to Morning Star Times, Evening Edition

(End of this chapter)