Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 325 The Twin Mirrors
"The mirror is not a reflection, but a substitute; it is not about who you are, but who wants to be you."

—Excerpt from the Chronicles of the Allah of the Gates

Before the night bells had even rung, the main hall of the palace was already engulfed in a magnificent yet mechanical dream.

The glass chandelier casts golden, snake-like rays of light that spiral through the air before landing on the intricately woven red velvet carpet.
The guests, elegantly dressed and swaying like dust from a star, drifted, collided, and whispered in a vortex woven from wine and power, quietly stepping into a silent yet fiery net.

Laughter, the clinking of glasses, and polite conversation—all these sounds, like lines from a well-rehearsed opera, flowed in precise rhythm, like metallic water that made a sound when it collided, but sounded cold to the ear.

They flow through the air, yet never truly touch anyone's heart.

However, beneath this sea of ​​lights lies a deliberately forgotten, shadowy corner.

The second floor of the main hall, north corner of the gallery.

Behind a huge "Map of the Capital City", the curtain is half-open, gently fluttering in the wind.

It was a passageway without guidance, and one that could not be guided—a solitary beam of gray-blue light cast by a cool-toned wall lamp.
The light shone on the weathered and mottled royal emblem, like a frozen tear in the silent gaze of an old god.

The two stood there, becoming one with the wall, like a chapter left out of time.

Arthur wore a black and silver high-collared military robe with tightly fitted cuffs and understated epaulettes.

An unmarked family crest on his chest was cleverly concealed by dark patterns. He stood silently like an abandoned tower, his gaze not on the crowd, but fixed on—language itself.

He held a gray notebook in his hand, its corners curled and its cover worn. His fingers, steady as a craftsman, silently etched lines of notes onto the pages.

It wasn't a dance, a smile, or a set of etiquette.

Rather, it is the cracks and obtuse angles in the words themselves.

He said, "The vampires entering the city is a sign of the throne's weakness."

His words, like inscriptions, are etched into the record of fate, deliberately indifferent and devoid of emotion, yet surprisingly profound.

"—That's an interesting statement."

Beside him, Victoria stood like a still stone in the night, her black tulle dress delicate and solemn, as if dissecting the night into layers of ripples, each layer concealing its sharp edge.

A dark blue velvet cloak was draped over her shoulders, and she wore black leather gloves. At this moment, she was moving slowly and extremely carefully.

Gently wipe the "Gate Symbol" on the map with your fingertip—that ancient curse mark almost worn smooth by time, hidden in the shadow of the background color.

"Will it open?" she asked in a very soft voice, as if she were talking to a wall.

Arthur did not answer immediately, but slowly turned his head to look at her.

It's always been like this between them. No words are needed; silence itself is communication.

Without waiting for a reply, she gently pressed her fingertips against the slightly concave groove, as if confirming some echo that had not yet been silenced.

Are you satisfied with tonight's chess game?

She finally spoke in a low voice, her tone steady, like a poet chanting a spell.

Arthur turned the page, his tone as calm as the footnote:

"It's not a chessboard, it's a set. The chess pieces haven't started to spontaneously combust yet."

Victoria raised her eyes, her gaze filled with an empty certainty.

"So you put him in there."

Arthur paused for a moment, as if carefully choosing his words, or perhaps simply waiting for a response:

"He wanted to go in. My hand never touched the doorknob."

Below the gallery, a banquet was in full swing.

Orion was talking to a red-robed councilor, his face contorted with resentment, his words hurried, his glass filled three times, yet he only took a sip each time.

Every word he uttered was like an unexploded bomb; his voice was restrained, but his words were full of explosive force.

Arthur lowered his eyes and whispered:

"The fire in his eyes was searching for kindling."

Victoria withdrew her hand, slowly put her gloves back on, and straightened her body.
Her silhouette cast a long, sharp shadow in the slanting light, like a sculpture forged by time itself.

“You gave him the wind.”

Her voice was so cold it was almost abstract.

“The wind blows from his own heart,” Arthur replied calmly, his gaze fixed on the brightest spot in the hall—the golden throne.

The golden throne was empty, but the thirteen eternal life lamps above it all tilted toward it, like a star chart converging toward the center, proclaiming that the empty seat was still the core.

There is no king tonight.

Victoria whispered a reminder, as if confirming some kind of theatrical setting.

“A light is enough,” Arthur said calmly. “A shadow always has to revolve around a center—even if it’s just an empty one.”

In the distance, the band changed keys, and a new melody slowly began to play. A string note without melody, like a crack in an old dream, quietly emerged.

Victoria turned her head and looked towards the center of the hall.

The crowd surged, skirts swirled like waterfalls, and Orion—the Crown Prince himself—stood in the dance floor, repeating a long-lost aristocratic dance: the "Dance of the Silver Key."

His movements were stiff, but his expression was excited, as if he truly held the key to unlock everything.

Victoria gave a soft, cold laugh:

"He thought he was the key, but he was just an abandoned lock."

Arthur closed the notebook, his voice echoing like a stone:
"The key is only used to open the wrong door."

The two said nothing more. They turned and slowly retreated into the deeper darkness of the gallery, stepping into the secret passage known only to the royal family.

We walked through a mirrored corridor, with portraits of the Trelian royal family hanging on both sides.
Each gaze silently fixed on the newcomer, their eyes seemingly filled with both alertness and a sense of long-awaited anticipation.

They stopped in front of one of the mirrors. The mirror was spotless and ungilded, yet it reflected two figures with remarkable clarity—not blood relatives, yet symmetrical like those in the mirror, like an echo deliberately arranged by fate.

Victoria asked softly:
Are you sure he can finish this game?

Arthur smiled faintly, his eyes calm and undisturbed.

"He didn't die; he was celebrated to the end."

She paused for a moment, then her tone suddenly turned cold:

"You always like to make them think they are making the choices."

Arthur said:
"Because the most thorough manipulation is not to make connections, but to make him believe that 'this is the path I chose.'"

The reflection in the mirror trembled slightly, as if a sliver of gray-blue light was shining through an unopened door.

They stood before the light, like judges who had abandoned the world.

Behind them, the entire palace was bustling with noise, as if in the height of summer, yet they remained completely oblivious.

They were dancing someone else's dance, wearing someone else's costumes, and reciting someone else's lyrics.

But these were the two people writing a script.

At the end of the north corridor of the palace, there is a door made of heavy wood covered with copper, which is almost never opened.

Behind the door are three extremely low-key reception rooms: one for diplomatic negotiations, one for political deliberations, and the last one—which has neither a number nor a nameplate, is simply referred to by the royal family as the "Shadow Room".

There were no windows, no braziers. Only a bowl-shaped iron lamp hung from the ceiling, its light a pale blue, as cold as frozen lake water.

A dark blue glazed porcelain teacup sat in the center of the long table, its faint glow failing to illuminate the surroundings.

When Arthur entered, Orion was already in the room.

The crown prince was dressed in a hunting green military robe, with a silver satin cloak draped over his shoulders, which was reserved for the eldest son of the royal family. His longsword had been removed and was hanging on the wall, but his posture showed no sign of relaxation.

Holding a partially opened, wax-sealed bottle of wine, his thumb rubbing the neck of the bottle, his posture was so casual it was almost like that of a young officer who had just finished training exercises.

But those eyes held a wildfire that had not yet been tamed.

"You arrived later than I expected."

He spoke, without looking at Arthur, as if he were just muttering to himself.

As he spoke, he poured wine into a teacup, but deliberately spilled half of it. The liquid dripped down the edge of the lacquered wooden table, leaving a dark, wet halo.

Arthur did not bow, but merely nodded slightly, stood still, and walked to the table to sit down. His movements were so composed that even his shadow fell perfectly straight.

"His Highness has not issued a summons. Subordinates do not usually respond to orders that have not yet been issued."

His tone was respectful, yet without the slightest hint of subservience.

Orion glanced at him sideways, a fleeting hint of sarcasm in his eyes that he couldn't suppress:
"You're just like your sister, talking like you're in a script."

Arthur responded calmly:

“We are simply detaching ourselves from our emotions. Your Highness, emotions, if not controlled, are meant to ignite a fire, not to brew tea.”

He raised his eyes, his gaze as still as a well, clear yet not cold, as if revealing a depth that allows one to see oneself.

The room fell silent for a moment.

The blank spaces that Arthur deliberately created precisely captured Orion's temperament—he was by nature not good at waiting in silence, and he needed to fill every blank space.

Sure enough, after a moment, Orion spoke, letting out a low, cold laugh:

"I'm tired of this garbage."

"Tonight on the dance floor, those nobles, that ridiculous Fate Master—every time he appears, he's like a corpse draped in poetry and prophecy, swaying as he tries to preach 'morality' to us."

He slammed the bottle down hard, causing a slight splash of wine.

The light in his eyes grew increasingly wild:
"Who does he think he is? A newspaper writer who can control the capital?"

Arthur remained silent, listening quietly. He had already anticipated that tonight's conversation would begin here.

He said softly:

"He is not an aristocrat."

"He is the fog."

His tone was low and slow, like a line of poetry sealed away by an ancient vow:
"Fog can be stained with blood and can also block out the sun."

Orion raised an eyebrow slightly, like a bowstring being plucked:
"You mean you want to dispel the fog?"

"With what? A sword? Or... orders?"

Arthur did not answer, but instead raised his teacup and took a small sniff.

As the edge of the porcelain touched his lips, he whispered:
"Perhaps... we can try a little fire."

His gaze wasn't on the crown prince, but only on the teacup. His words, though unspoken, had already set a stage for something powerful enough to ignite a city.

Orion's voice lowered, but his enunciation became even clearer:

What are you implying?

Arthur finally looked up, his expression gentle:
"Your Highness is the future king."

He paused, then smiled:
How could I possibly guess?

That phrase, "How could I dare to guess?", is like a sharp blade thrust out from the shadow of power, wrapped in velvet, yet still razor-sharp.

Orion stared at him, a storm raging in his eyes. He suddenly stood up, his movements as swift as a wild beast overturning a table:

"I already knew what to do."

"Vampires? Commoners? They're afraid of bloodshed? Then I'll show them what real consequences are."

Arthur remained seated, nodding slightly, like a quiet scribe recording destiny, awaiting the final stroke of the scroll.

Orion took a breath and then whispered:
"A Fate Master, a vampire pet, and the card behind them... It's time to flip the card."

Arthur echoed softly:

"Yes."

"The card table needs to be flipped so that someone can shuffle the cards."

The iron lamp on the roof swayed slightly, dimming its light by an inch; it was unclear whether it was the wind or the pulse of fate that caused it.

Orion paused for two seconds, then said coldly:
"I cannot use my secret guards."

"They... are not suited to take action in the capital."

His hand pressed against the table, his knuckles taut.

“I need Victoria’s assistance.”

He looked at Arthur, his gaze suddenly turning cold:

"I think... my brother, you and your sister will show loyalty to me, right?"

"Can you?"

Arthur smiled.

That smile was neither pleasant nor warm.

It's like a mirror that's been flipped in reverse, reflecting a smile while also revealing another side—cold, transparent, and reflective to the point of near nothingness.

"Your Highness's wish is also what my sister and I desire."

He answered softly, as if reciting a vow that had already been written.

"We will not let anyone know who did it."

As soon as he finished speaking, Orion suddenly felt a chill. He realized that he hadn't actually entered a private meeting room.

Rather, it is a script.

A script that had been written long ago, with even his angry words arranged in advance in the margins.

He suppressed these thoughts, not letting doubt creep onto his face, and nodded, his voice dry:

"Very good. And what about your... compensation?"

Arthur didn't answer immediately. He slowly rose, walked to the door, and just as he was about to push it open and leave, he turned back and whispered:
"It wasn't us who laid a hand on you, Your Highness."

"We just—lifted the fog a little."

The door was gently pushed open, bringing with it a wisp of wind.

he left.

Orion stood alone at the table, before him a cup of tea that had gone cold.

He reached out to hold it, only to find the teacup ice-cold, as if none of it had kept it warm for him.

Arthur walked out of the north corridor, his footsteps falling on the corridor where light and shadow intertwined with stone bricks. Each step was quiet and precise, as if he were rehearsing a silent play.

Ahead lay an empty corridor, the wall lamps sparse, their light stretched out long, spreading out beneath his feet like illusory shadows detached from meaning.

At that moment, Victoria's voice resounded in his mind, emotionless, yet carrying a chilling quality that seemed to bounce back from the depths of the mirror:
"He took the bait?"

Arthur responded in a low voice:

"No, he put out the fire."

"You didn't give me any fire."

He chuckled softly, the corners of his lips barely perceptible.

That's because he himself was already burning.

He stopped in the middle of the corridor, his fingertips lightly touching an open page of his notebook, and the pen fell to the ground:

"I didn't start the fire; he threw himself into it. Like everyone born believing they can set the throne ablaze."

The handwriting is slender and elegant, each character like a knife slicing through parchment.

He looked up, and a long mirror leading to the theater stretched his shadow to an infinite length; the glass was cool and reflected light clearly.

In the mirror, there seems to be another version of him standing—neither smiling nor speaking, with the same posture, yet as if he had stepped out of another story, quietly watching him, as if waiting for a moment of synchronized collapse.

North of the palace, beyond Whispering Square, fifty-seven steps further, lies an unnamed stone archway.

Behind the gate lies a gray-white plaza surrounded by ancient trees. The paving stones are dilapidated from years of neglect, and the shadows of the trees are as dark as ink. It is perpetually shrouded in shadow and is known as "Whispering Plaza" because of its unusual echoes.

On the eve of midnight, the square was as silent as a sealed well, as if the echoes of the entire city had been buried here.

A black carriage adorned with a double crest was parked at the edge of the square. The door was slightly ajar, and a pale, slender black hand emerged from beneath the curtain.
With sculpted knuckles, he quietly lifted the curtain, gesturing for the approaching figure to enter.

The film distributor's agent arrived as scheduled.

He was tall and thin, wearing a metal breathing mask, and the leather robe beneath his cloak resembled a faded insect shell. His steps were hesitant, each step seeming like an echo of stepping into ruins.

He never speaks, nor does he need to.

In the "Black Tower Contract System," language has long been replaced by equivalents.

Transactions can be completed silently with just a number and paper documents.

Inside the carriage, Victoria was already seated. She wore a sans-serif pure black dress, without gold jewelry or fragrance, like a death notice yet to be delivered.

Her gaze remained unmoved, her breathing as steady as a machine. She toyed with a jet-black, sealed scroll, the wax seal intact.

She didn't look at the person entering, only gave out their number:

“α47790”.

Without saying a word, the agent took out a copper box with a blue silk ribbon from inside his cloak and placed it on the low table in the carriage.

She handed over the scroll and exchanged it with him. The movements were extremely fast and precise, the entire process taking no more than fifteen seconds.

Then, she added in a calm tone:
"Three strippers. A batch of unlicensed and mysterious items, delivery point unchanged."

The agent nodded slightly, turned and left, his shoes making a soft clattering sound as they hit the stone bricks, like the ticking of some kind of miniature countdown timer.

The car doors closed, and silence returned.

Victoria sat silently for a moment, then tore open the accompanying note. A line of blood-red writing caught her eye:
"α47790: Theatrical Fluctuation Experiment - Two-Layer Variables (Target: Fate)"

She remained unmoved, resealed the paper with sealing wax, and casually tossed it into the incinerator next to her seat.

The flames suddenly rose up, illuminating a fleeting reflection in her eyes, but they couldn't even truly enter her pupils.

She is not a "schemer"—she is just a coder, and the world's enemies are merely program segments that have not yet adapted to the script.

Just as the flames died down, she twitched her fingertips, her mind trembled, and a familiar whisper appeared in her heart—

Arthur's voice was as soft as mist:

"The way he took the bait was so... impatient."

She didn't respond immediately, but slowly twisted her right index finger, turning the corner of the leather glove to the inside, revealing silver patterns and connecting the closed mind-reading circuit.

“You didn’t add any bait.” Her voice flowed like an algorithm, clean and without fluctuation.

“Because the fish were soaking in poisonous water.” Arthur chuckled, but the laughter didn’t reach his tone.

She sighed, a rare hint of weariness in her voice:
"Sometimes, I really want to know, are you raising fish or poisoning them?"

“You know,” Arthur said softly, “the theater isn’t for acting, it’s for making people think they’re acting.”

Victoria's gaze passed through the car window, looking towards the end of Whispering Square, at the row of long-dead black pines.

It is said that this tree was used by the old dynasty to hang exiled nobles, and now only remnants of its bark remain, resembling cracked blood vessels.

"Do you really think Orion can be a variable?" she asked softly.

“No,” Arthur answered quickly, “he’s just a man who can lift a torch.”

"The variable is fire—the shadow behind him."

Victoria's brow twitched slightly. She seemed to be mentally tracing a chain of cause and effect, then said:
"So the first level of variable is him. And what about the second level of variable?"

Arthur paused slightly, his innermost thoughts slowly seeping out like ink:

"Mirror."

“We will let him see the image of fate in the mirror, and then we will shatter it with our own hands.”

Victoria slowly closed her eyes, her inner voice as poetic and profound as ever:
"You're not setting a trap."

"You're setting up a play about 'the breakdown of perception'."

Arthur did not deny it. After a moment, he simply said:
"The characters in the play always believe that their fate is a script written by someone else."

"Until one day, they saw themselves in the mirror."

She suddenly smiled, very softly, but it was a genuine smile—a long-lost emotion that felt close to "humanity".

"Ok."

She murmured softly:
"May he shatter that mirror... and never forget—that he has always been playing the role that others want him to play."

The wheels trembled slightly, and the sound of horses' hooves slowly entered the night, the rhythm steady, almost as if intentionally providing background music for an unfinished play.

The palace walls along the way cast dappled shadows, as if the carriage were not traveling on a human path, but rather passing through the gaps in the thread of fate.

Inside the carriage, Victoria sat quietly like a statue, took out a dark gold quill pen from her bosom, and opened the small booklet she always carried with her.

She wrote very quickly, her handwriting was deep, as if she were not writing, but digging out sentences that were already destined from her memory.

The experimental phase has officially begun: Variable 1 is in place, and Variable 2 is yet to be observed.

The theater of fate is complete, awaiting the "misunderstanding to occur".

Her writing is like the meshing of clock gears; every word seems to have been written elsewhere before, only to be reproduced now, like a rehearsal of lines backstage at a theater.

Just as the carriage circled back to the side gate of the palace and was about to enter the inner courtyard, moonlight shone through the gaps in the clouds, through the curtain, and fell on the palm of her left hand.

Under the light, it was an antique crystal ring with intricate mirror patterns engraved on its surface—a certificate to open the "Gate of the Mirror".

She murmured to herself, her voice so soft it was almost as if she were speaking to a dream:

"The real door is never written on the map."

The carriage drove deep into the palace, leaving the sounds of wheels, horses, and wind behind until finally, all was silent.

In the main hall, the dance music gradually faded, and the swirling skirts, exaggerated laughter, and concealed sharpness all slowed down intentionally or unintentionally.

It was as if some kind of "man-made" ending was being quietly started. The lights dimmed, and the dance steps, like the final notes of an old play, floated in the air for a while before sinking away.

It was the illusion of a stage light dimmer being pulled down, a gentle reminder to everyone that "your part is over."

Meanwhile, deep within the dimly lit gallery on the second floor of the main hall—the twins return to their places.

Arthur leaned against the ancient silver-plated mirror, its surface mottled, the plating peeling away like the flaking of memories, the reflection as erratic as a lake in the rain.

He remained silent, but his fingertips quietly traced a symbol on the edge of the mirror.

It wasn't text, but a sealed diagram, similar to a path for activating consciousness.
It leaves no visible trace after being drawn, but it creates a pulse at the level of perception.

Victoria emerged slowly from the shadows of the gallery columns.

Her steps were slow yet exceptionally precise, each footstep seemingly aligned with some kind of "unreal" rhythm.

Slightly out of sync with reality—as if she didn't belong to this era, or even to this body.

Her appearance was like a composite image; her very existence was an unconventional variable.

"They dance for each other."

When she spoke, her voice was extremely steady, like a blank sheet of paper slowly falling into water, without causing a ripple.

Arthur did not respond immediately.

He was only looking at the reflection in the mirror, which showed not only the guests who had not yet left the main hall, but also the two of them—standing side by side, yet always half an inch apart, like double tracks that never overlap.

"We dance for our reflection."

He finally spoke, his words carrying a subtle hint of sarcasm and divine revelation.

Victoria tilted her head, and in that instant, her gaze seemed to pierce through the physical boundaries of the mirror, looking into another dimension:

"Did you see that 'Gate of Destiny'?"

A slight smile played on Arthur's lips, but the smile didn't reach his eyes:

"He opened it."

His tone was neither sad nor happy, but rather as if he were mourning his fate in advance.

She stood before the mirror, side by side with him. Their figures overlapped yet did not merge on the mirror's surface, like two sides of a key, belonging to the same entity, yet destined never to touch.

What will happen after the door opens?

She asked, her tone devoid of doubt, more like she was performing a setup check.

Arthur whispered:

"Fate may tilt, and stories may unfold."

“Some people thought he was writing a script, but he was just a footnote on a certain page.”

Victoria nodded slightly:

“And we are writing about the delicacies prepared for our Lord at the feast.”

Just then, the mirror vibrated slightly.

It's not a physical reflection, but a fluctuation from the level of consciousness—like someone is looking at the mirror from a distance with their "thoughts," and the mirror responds.

Arthur's brow twitched slightly, and he said in a low voice:

"Did you hear it?"

They were thinking, 'Which side are these two on?'

Victoria smiled faintly, her reply as natural as breathing:
"A mirror has no edge."

"Only humans have it."

As the words fell, silence returned, like the final pause before the curtain falls in a theater.

They slowly turned, leaving the mirror and stepping into the deep corridor leading to the royal private gallery. Their silhouettes intersected, yet never overlapped.

In the distance, a string melody without melody seemed to quietly rise, like a third movement that didn't belong to this ball, slowly played from under the floor.

The mirror stands alone in place, reflecting the emptiness.

There was no longer a human figure inside, but a deep, blurry shadow—like a drop of ink spreading uncontrollably in clear water.

That was a harbinger of the story.

Or a warning from fate.

The twins stood before a mirror, and the person in the mirror said, "I was the one move you made that went wrong."

(End of this chapter)