Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 329 The Rift in the Royal Decree
Fate won't tell you.

Who does it want to sit on the throne?
But it always makes arrangements in advance.

Who will fall?

—From the preface to "Wang Shu, Fragments" (Part 1)

In the early morning, cold golden sunlight streamed through the cracks in the stone windows of the royal palace, like sharp knives falling from behind the clouds straight down to the palace walls.

Sunlight streamed through the brocade curtains and fell on the long carpet with griffin patterns on the floor.

The morning mist had not yet dissipated, and the air was filled with an atmosphere of war that had not yet faded.

Orion stood in the center of the government office attached to the prince's bedchamber, his silver helmet still on and the neck guard sash draped diagonally over his shoulder.

His cloak was half-lifted, its edges damp, as if he had come straight here in armor after a sleepless night. His roar echoed like thunder between the stone walls.

"fail?!"

"Last night—none of them died?!"

His fist slammed heavily on the scepter platform, the bronze patterns trembled, and the scepter rolled onto the stone floor with a crisp yet jarring "click".

The sound seemed to pierce the entire morning.

Standing to one side was his most trusted favorite, the son of the Chancellor of the Palace—the young Viscount Rowena von Het, the young Lord von Het.

He wore a dark gray vest with gold brocade, and a silver eagle badge, the exclusive badge of the prince's personal guard, was pinned to his left breast.
His posture was respectful, his tone was calm, but his eyes betrayed a subtle, almost imperceptible glint of suspicion.

"Your Highness, His Highness Arthur personally sent a secret letter confirming the news is true."

"However... he did not mention the assassin's identity, only stating that 'the assassination attempt failed.'"

Orion sneered, a slight twitch at the corner of his eye. He turned and looked at the royal portrait wall behind him, an entire wall framed in gold with a genealogical chart of the Trelian royal family.
At the very center stands the serene and dignified Henrian VII, his half-length oil painting gleaming with a slightly cold light.

He stared into those ancient king's eyes, his voice low and menacing, yet like a sword drawn from its sheath:

“Arthur…Arthur. He always appears after everything else.”

"And his sister—that face that never leaves the stage, do they think they are the mirror on the throne?"

He gritted his teeth and ripped off the hanging ribbon from the portrait, his action so violent it was as if he were tearing a piece of intolerable blood from the family lineage.

Rottweiler immediately stepped forward, his posture submissive yet precisely controlling the distance. His tone was low, carrying a hint of inflammatory undertones:
"Your Highness is absolutely right."

“Those two… truly don’t know when to advance or retreat. How can a brother and sister-in-law overstep the boundaries between destiny and the throne? Now they dare to talk about reform based on the support of the people and public opinion, which is simply—a scheme to establish themselves.”

He paused, lowered his eyes and smiled, his voice gentle yet like a dagger lightly touching a carotid artery:

"However... although there were unexpected events last night, it may not all be bad."

Orion narrowed his eyes and tilted them:
"What do you mean?"

"If Your Highness is willing—"

Rottweiler spoke softly, his tone perfectly steady:
"We could consider extending an olive branch to the vampires. Under the guise of a marriage alliance, we could express our desire for reconciliation with the Eternal Night Blood Alliance. That Princess Selian… isn't she the only daughter of the Piercer Grand Duke? If she were brought into the royal family—"

His final syllable was like silk, like a spell.

Orion slammed his hand on the table, his anger reignited:

"shut up."

He looked up, his eyes filled with mockery, as if even mentioning the name was a desecration:
“Serian?”

"That barbaric bastard? If her father hadn't been clinging to life amidst a few burnt-down old cities, he would have long since become experimental material for card games!"

Rottweiler remained expressionless, his eyes lowered, and simply said:
"Your Highness is absolutely right."

Orion snorted coldly, a smile with the arrogance typical of royalty curling at the corner of his lips:
"Making her a concubine is already an act of kindness on my part."

"The bloodline of the Terian does not need to rely on outsiders to rise above it."

His tone was calm, yet every word was as sharp as cast iron—not for love, nor for marriage, but as an act of charity bestowed upon those in power by the order.

He suddenly turned his head and gave instructions to the servants guarding the door:
“Write a letter to your father, the king.”

"Tell him that I wish to express my goodwill toward peaceful coexistence with vampires through this action."

"Write it as follows: The Kingdom of Trelian wishes to marry Princess Celian Mianye of the Eternal Night Blood Alliance in the name of the esteemed prince."

The attendant was taken aback and asked cautiously:

"Your Highness, is it... as the principal wife?"

Orion flicked his sleeve, his tone sharp as a knife:
"of course not."

"The position of the principal wife has long been reserved for those of truly noble blood."

"A secondary wife is enough."

He gazed at the silent portraits of the former kings on the wall, as if he himself were about to become the brightest stroke among them—

But beyond the canvas, fate's pen had already begun to write an unexpected chapter.

The winds have already blown over the other side of the palace.

The morning light, which should have been warm and gentle, now carried a hint of irony as it shone through the pillars and stone windows.

The cold, golden light of dawn, like a deity deliberately dipping a brush in ink, painted an invisible yet omnipresent mockery on the royal ceiling—

It is not the solemnity of royal glory, but a dazzling warning before its imminent collapse.

Orion's letter had not yet been sent out of the palace.

But the wind had already gotten there first, passing through the corridor and blowing into every open ear.

—

The first to hear of it was the eldest princess, Medici Trean.

At this time, she was in retreat at the Church of Sanctuary of Radiant Light, praying morningly before the Throne of Our Lady of Fertility with the rites of a saint.

The hall was as quiet as a divine tomb, the sacred fire gently illuminating the silver walls, while she was meticulously and silently wiping a golden holy staff.

Just then, a maidservant approached softly, her voice almost inaudible:

"Your Highness... His Highness the Eldest Prince seems to be drafting... a memorial to His Majesty proposing marriage."

"The object is... Princess Selian of the Blood Oath."

Medici's hand paused.

The golden staff trembled slightly in her hand, and she stopped wiping it. A cold glint suddenly flashed in her originally solemn and calm eyes.

She didn't speak; the air seemed to pause for a moment as she breathed. Then, she chuckled softly.

That laughter did not belong to the saintess.

"He wants to marry her?"

"To become a concubine?"

She slowly placed the holy staff back on the ground, bowed slightly, and performed an extremely standard yet chillingly sacred ritual.
It was as if it were not a hymn to the gods, but a farewell speech for some dying fool.

"That princess is the daughter of the Piercer Grand Duke."

"And if her father were to hear this suggestion..."

She paused, her voice as soft as a feather falling on a knife's edge:

"It will probably plunge the daytime of the Fog City into a bloody night—and then tear off half of the empire's sky."

After speaking, she turned and left the altar, her holy robe trailing like white clouds as she stepped into the light, seemingly taking away the warmth of the entire temple with her.

She walked to the pillars and looked back at the distant tower of the palace, her eyes cold.

"Moreover, that princess is now the companion of the Lord of Destiny."

She gave a soft chuckle, as if commenting on a boring play:
"Orioun... my silly little brother."

"You actually dare to touch the gods?"

Her gaze swept over the maid's frightened expression, a casual glance as if she were watching a monkey that had jumped onto the throne but was wearing the wrong robes.

—

Meanwhile, on the west side of the palace, the second son, Edel Trean, was standing in the military library, wearing a dark military uniform with his medals still on and the silver stars still in place, his cuffs slightly damp from morning training.

His expression was as solemn as ever as he reviewed the latest military and political briefing.

Suddenly, an attendant officer approached, handed over a tightly folded urgent report, and whispered:

"Your Highness, rumors are circulating from the northern entrance of Fog City: His Highness the Crown Prince intends to arrange a marriage with a vampire in order to ease the current situation."

Upon hearing this, Edel paused at the edge of the text, slowly raised his head, and his eyes were like knives.

He repeated it again, as if to confirm that the words truly came from this land:

"...Selene, to be his concubine?"

He closed his eyes for two seconds, and when he opened them, his gaze was as deep as the sea.

"The dignity of the vampires cannot be suppressed."

He rolled up the documents in his hand and slammed them heavily on the table:
"Keep a close eye on the royal palace's carrier pigeons. If he really sends this message out, I need to react immediately."

The officer immediately bowed in response and withdrew.

Edel looked out the window; the morning light couldn't penetrate the study where he was.

He watched the carrier pigeons fly overhead, a cruel, almost cruel, smirk playing on his lips:

"He doesn't want to quell the vampires."

He was adding firewood to the fire.

—

Deep within the palace gardens, where the morning dew still clung, the youngest princess, Lyseria Trean, was pruning roses.

She wore a pure white, fitted long dress and moved with extreme care, each snip landing precisely between the thorns of the flower.

Her personal maid, Marlene, stood to one side and whispered:
"Your Highness... I've heard that Prince Orion intends to marry that vampire princess."

Liseria paused slightly in her hand, holding the scissors, but did not look up; she simply sighed softly.

"He's started using bloodline as a story again."

She gazed at the roses that had just bloomed in the morning light, their petals still glistening with dewdrops, like the unfinished ending of a fairy tale.

"pity……"

“Fairy tales are for children.” She glanced back at the high palace walls, her voice eerily calm.
"And we are already living on the crater."

Marlene hesitated before asking:
"Your Highness means..."

Liseria shook her head, her tone soft yet carrying an undeniable resolve:

"I don't need to say anything."

She turned back to continue cutting flowers, as if trimming an unwritten eulogy.

"Because that letter—will burn itself."

Her gaze remained gentle, yet held an unexpected firmness.

"Because Celian won't accept it."

"The Impaler will not tolerate this."

"And Father... will eventually make Orion realize his own foolishness."

And beyond the deeper layers of palace walls—

A deserted corridor stood silently in the morning frost, its white stone floor winding upwards, flanked by long, silent windows inlaid with bronze reliefs.
The morning light outside the window couldn't fully penetrate, leaving only a sliver of cold gold, as if the entire space itself was set as an area that didn't belong to "daytime".

At the end of the long corridor was a secret room.

The royal twins stood side by side, a long, polished black-silver mirror stretched out before them.
It is like the entrance to another world, or the only echo of the royal bloodline staring at its own sins.

Victoria was dressed in a silver feather robe with a tight collar, making her seem completely out of place with this morning.

She was toying with the unsent copy of the request in her hand; the edges of the paper still bore traces of undried ink.
It emitted a faint, dark blue glow—it was the royal herb yet to be recognized by fate, still waiting for the seal of sovereignty to be placed upon it.

She lowered her head and ran a finger along the corner of the paper, as if she were touching not ink, but a soft, decaying piece of Orion's ambition.

When she looked up at her reflection in the mirror, her voice was as cold as fog:
"Aren't you going to try to persuade him?"

Arthur stood in the center of the mirror, his figure as calm as a mountain, his hands behind his back, his black cloak casting a clear but emotionless shadow in front of the mirror.

He did not turn his head, his tone mirroring the fresco of the throne behind him:
"If Father really approves this request—"

"That means he has completely lost his judgment."

His gaze fell on the mirror, but not on his own face.

Rather, it is a reflection of the entire capital city.

The streets, slightly distorted by the mirror, wriggled in the dawn, like a giant waking from a dream but not yet seeing its own form clearly.

Arthur's tone was calm, yet it concealed a sharp edge:

"This is not a bad thing."

Victorian chuckled softly, a laugh like a sealed bottle of wine, gentle yet concealing a potent poison:
"why?"

Arthur's answer was as calm as ever:
"Because the fog has deepened."

He lowered his eyes, as if he could already see the pre-ordained collapse of the theater, the old order and false faith being swallowed up little by little by fate itself in the gray light.

—

next moment.

The bells rang in the royal council chamber, striking nine times in a row, like a hammer striking national policy.

Henrian VII’s personal attendant, dressed in a white and gold robe, moved with the gait of a seal being torn apart.

He walked along the west wing of the palace, bypassing the guards without asking, and went straight to the throne room.

The palace gates slowly opened, and the heavy bronze hinges emitted a "humming" sound, like the heartbeat of the dynasty.

Orion sat upright at the ceremonial table below the throne, his silver helmet removed, his cloak draped askew, his gaze fixed straight ahead, his face grim.

The attendant walked to the front and bowed his head to read the text.

His voice didn't tremble, but it was as cold and sharp as an iron bell falling into a well.

"His Majesty has ordered that this request be rejected."

"The prince must not arbitrarily alter the national policy of marriage alliances."

"It is absolutely forbidden to presume to say that a woman of the vampire clan is a concubine."

"The throne still stands."

"The king's order has not yet been issued."

"The words of the philosophers should be observed in accordance with propriety."

After he finished speaking, he presented the folded instruction letter with the simplest and most respectful gesture, performing the most basic etiquette, without uttering a single extra word.

Then turned and left.

The long robe fluttered across the jade steps, but the sound lingered for a long time.

Orion stared at the royal decree, his gaze both fiery and icy.

His fist clenched slowly, his knuckles turned white, and the veins writhed like snakes, wrapping around the back of his hand.

He understood.

He sensed his father's attitude—it was no longer one of blame.

It is no longer a reprimand.

Instead, it was disappointment.

A complete, irreparable, and utterly devastating disappointment for a king.

At that moment, the morning light pierced through the palace walls and fell upon him—but it could not illuminate the thick, impenetrable shadow on his face.

In the foggy city at dawn, the sunlight has not yet fully pierced through the low-hanging fog.

But at the end of Broken Tower Street, a few rays of light still managed to seep through the cracks in the broken bricks and fall on the floor of a small classroom.

The window frames are mottled, the walls are covered with cracks, and the tables and chairs are crooked and covered with dust.

However, the old bucket in the corner, which had been washed clean, had already been emptied three times.

The sound of water flowing into the morning mist also awakened the long-dormant school bells echoing through the streets and alleys.

Si Ming was quietly sweeping the dust in the center of the classroom with a hemp broom, his sleeves rolled up.

His movements were unhurried and deliberate, unlike those of a newspaper editor, or even a master manipulator of fate—more like those of a traveler.
When returning to his hometown, he quietly renovated his ancestral home, sweeping away the dust of bygone years. He said nothing, but did everything.

On the windowsill, Celian sat cross-legged, her long hair hanging down and her robe disheveled, playing a game of "cutting cards and guessing" with several children in tattered clothes.

She imitated the tone of Morning Star lecturer in a serious manner, her voice clear and bright, but her eyes showed a long-lost relaxation.

"This card is called 'The Sea Bite'—guess if it's a Life type card or a Fate type card?"

"Life!" a little girl with freckles on her face shouted excitedly.

Selene shook her head, tilted her head and smiled, revealing her signature fangs: "Wrong, it's World-type—because its card rules state 'Rule Three: After Bloodbite, the port is locked down'."

The children burst into laughter. Some called her a liar, while others muttered, "Is that a Dream-level one?" But their eyes were all sparkling.

The door was pushed open.

Ian came in, carrying a large stack of newly printed textbooks in his arms, with a book bag covered in dew hanging on his back.

He frowned as soon as he entered the room—not because of the dust floating in the air, but because of the figure standing in the middle of the classroom.

"You're already the editor-in-chief, and you're still sweeping the floor?"

Si Ming didn't look up, his tone gentle yet steady:
"The dust at the bottom cannot be wiped away by Morning Star's ink."

"We can only sweep it away little by little."

Ian paused for a moment, then smiled softly, placing the textbook on the podium. The ink still smelled fresh, and the pages were still warm.

Outside the window, a group of children were peering through the glass. Their cheeks were pressed against the cold glass, and their eyes reflected a classroom world they had never set foot in but had always dreamed of.

They are the "Boat Boys" of Pota Street—their father is a dockworker, their mother delivers food in a restaurant, their grandfather was a missing person, and their uncle's name is left on the Whale Tombstone.

They had no surnames, only a newspaper as a sleeping mat and a bowl of corn soup to keep warm throughout the morning.

Celian jumped off the windowsill, strode open the classroom door, and her voice was like stepping into the sunlight:
"Hey, stop staring like an idiot, come in."

"Today there's bread and Ian's lecture—if you listen attentively enough, you might just draw a 'Dream-level playing card'!"

The children rushed in, laughing and joking, crowding around the table, their voices like spring tides washing over stagnant water.

Rex sat at the corner of the stairs, leaning against the outer wall, a blade of grass dangling from his mouth, watching the scene lazily, but his gaze was not as wandering as it usually was.

He chuckled softly and said to Si Ming, who had just leaned closer to him:
“A few of them were smuggled out of the Island of the Nameless by Baroque.”

"They said the conditions there were too harsh—they had to be wrapped in three layers of cotton blankets to even dream about it."

Si Ming nodded, his gaze still fixed on the classroom:
"At least we can get a full meal here."

"And we finally... have a reason to cast our 'dream lanterns'."

Rex glanced sideways:
"'Spread out'?"

Si Ming turned his head, a deep light appearing in his eyes:
"We are not building a school."

"We are lighting a lighthouse."

"It aims to illuminate the dreams of more people—teaching them to write their own screenplays."

At that moment, the sunlight finally pierced through the fog, and a beam of golden light, like a fateful thread thrown out, landed precisely on the podium of the classroom on Broken Tower Street.

Ian opened the textbook to the first page; the ink was still warm. It read:
Basic Arcane Arts: World, Life, Fate, and the Star of Reason

The children sat upright, their eyes shining, just as they had when the morning bell had just rung.

Downstairs, Rex stood up, took a silver Dream Lamp badge from his pocket, and quietly hid it in the lining of an old backpack.

He whispered to Si Ming:
"Let's go."

"The next city should be lit up soon."

He turned around, and the morning light shone on his shoulders.

That light was like a belated spring.

"While the arguments raged on the high walls, fire was already being sown in the soil."

"They don't need a king to write the future; they will pick up the pen themselves."

(End of this chapter)