Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 331 Spark Response
"Burning Star is not a roar that abandons reason."
Instead, we use reason to tame the pen of fate.

—From Ian Windtalker's Teaching Notes, Lesson 1

In the dimly lit alley, the air seemed to freeze, with only a few faint candle flames flickering at the edge of the life-pattern array.

The flames trembled, like a wild beast panting in a daze, intermittently reflecting the bloodstains and inscriptions on the stone slab.

The stench of blood had not yet dissipated, and the stone slab was engraved with a ring of sacrificial texts from the Church of Our Lady of Fertility.
The strokes of the ancient incantation were filled with blood, and a faint light wandered within them, as if some dormant will was slowly awakening.

At the heart of the formation, Elf remained bound by runes, her body nearly limp.
Her life lines flickered like a candle in the wind, sometimes bright and sometimes dim, and her still somewhat immature face was also reflected with a deep pallor. Her lips trembled, and her eyes were unfocused, as if her consciousness was being pulled away from her body.

Father Caston stood by the altar, clutching the card [Blood Saint - Blade Angel] tightly in his hand.

Behind him, the unfolding illusion cast a massive shadow—the shape of an angel formed from solidified blood flames.

Red wings like blades, feathers drooping obliquely, a long sword hanging to the ground, as if waiting only for the command to arrive so that it can carry out the judgment of "righteous judgment".

He remained motionless, as if waiting for the final bell to ring in judgment.

Alan Herwin—the still immature young vampire—was kneeling on the other side of the stone slab.

His life lines had not yet healed, and aftershocks still churned within him. The pain from the suppression of the rules had not yet subsided, and his knees slammed heavily to the ground, sweat and blood mingling and sliding down his forehead.

He raised his head, his eyes bloodshot, gleaming as if soaked in blood, the card between his fingers trembling slightly, yet he still couldn't lift it.

He tried to stand up, but it felt as if his spine was being pressed down by cold iron.

Gaston recited in a low voice, slow and resolute, each word like a death knell:

"The child without light will be taken to the embrace of the Virgin Mary."

But the next moment, the wind stirred.

That was no ordinary wind, not the night wind seeping from the cracks in the church, but a structural tremor, the edge of fate was torn open, and the domain of the Wind Whisperer began to echo in this space.

Ian stepped into the edge of the aperture, and the wind stopped with him. It seemed that the whole world stopped breathing the moment he stood still—not still, but bowing down in submission.

He looked at Gaston with disdain, his gaze sharp yet calm, his figure standing between Elf and Alan like an insurmountable barrier of wind.

He spoke slowly, his voice clear and his tone even, like a teacher calmly lecturing on a platform; yet the force contained in his words was sharper than a blade.
"Lesson One".

Before a spark ignites—learn how to prevent it from burning you.

As soon as he finished speaking, a ring-shaped life pattern suddenly appeared on the ground. The blue wind pattern was like a star trail cutting through the grayness. The runes unfolded from his feet, like a recording device for some kind of celestial structure, with perfect rhythm and trajectory.

Elf swayed, nearly fainting, but a gentle breeze caught her.

The life runes within her body were once on the verge of collapse, but under the influence of the wind, they slowly stabilized, and her breathing returned to its rhythm.

She struggled to lift her head and saw that familiar yet unfamiliar figure. Her eyes flashed with terror—not fear, but an instinctive awe of the unknown power.

This was the first time she had truly faced the pressure of a "Ten-Star Mystic Master," a power that purely controlled the natural structure, strong and cold, as if it could overturn the entire system structure.

Ian's gaze slowly shifted to Alan, his eyes devoid of emotion, only sharp and clear-eyed:
"Lesson 2."

"Reason is not the enemy of the blazing star."

"It is the lamp oil from which you wrote the lines of your destiny."

As he spoke, he flicked his finger, and a sharp, knife-like gust of wind entered Alan's feet, silent yet resonating deep within his bones.

Alan shuddered, and the next moment, an incredibly clear "star map configuration" suddenly appeared in his mind.
The life lines unfold automatically, each line and each node appearing as if illuminated by the light itself.

He "saw it".

He saw the version of himself he could become: standing firm on his life runes, breathing precisely, controlling the rhythm, releasing his deck... a single strike that hits its mark—no longer roaring like a beast, but writing poetry with a carving knife.

Ian's voice rang out again, his tone like wind sweeping across a tombstone—cold, yet utterly clear-headed:
"This is who you can become."

"You must learn to write that version of yourself in battle."

Gaston narrowed his eyes, his face cold, and whispered the command:

"Startup configuration".

Four black-robed guards emerged silently from the back of the church, their steps perfectly synchronized with the rhythm of a ceremony.

The cards in their hands unfolded simultaneously, their light and shadow shattering like a mirror breaking in the night.

Three structured cards slowly unfolded in the air:

No. 274 "Moonlight Angel": Releases a spell to tremble the enemy's nervous system, using sound to interfere with life rune control and forcibly slow down.

No. 298 "Short-sword Angel": Winged surprise attack, high-speed close-range slashing, a weapon for breaking through formations and destroying defenses.

No. 301 "Holy Herald": Constructs a protective field of blessing for the entire population, serving as the ballast stone within the field.

Seven beams of light converged in the air, and the three angelic forms slowly took shape, their battle spirits hovering in mid-air.
With a flap of its wings, the holy emblem rotated, and holy light cascaded down like a waterfall, as if a supreme god had descended, making the entire underground space seem to sink an inch.

Gaston gave a cold laugh, his voice low but firm:
"So what if you're a ten-star mystery master? A domain can be defended by faith."

Ian did not respond, but calmly took out the second card.

[World-Type High-Tier Mystic Card] No. 106 "Wind Whisper Fantasy Realm"

The moment the card appeared, the space seemed to vibrate softly.

The Realm of Whispers of the Wind—Expand.

In an instant, a pale blue ring spread out from beneath his feet, sweeping across the entire space like a tide.

The wind suddenly rises—but it is no longer a whisper, but a “truthful whisper” of the structural layer, belonging to the ontological expression of the wind system structure.

In Ian's eyes, everyone's movements instantly transformed into lines and nodes, crisscrossing like a vast woven net, making everything terrifyingly clear.

That was just the beginning of his teaching career.

Lesson Three.

Ian's voice was as deep and resonant as a bell, cold yet penetrating, carrying an undeniable resolve.

"Don't be afraid of being surrounded."

Before he could finish speaking, he had already played the second card.

[World-Type 10-Star Mysterious Card] No. 509 "Tranquil Island"

Domain Name: Anning Haixin

In an instant, a silvery-white wave of light slowly rose from beneath his feet. It was not an ordinary expansion of a domain, but rather like the silent rise of the tide, gradually engulfing reality.

The silver light was like a mirror, reflecting the afterglow of the sky and the bloodstains on the ground. Then, a whole expanse of calm, waveless, silvery-white sea emerged from the ground, deep and serene, as if it could swallow up all noise and faith.

The halo sliced ​​through the space, like a curtain falling, covering the three angelic figures and the four church guards.

For a moment, their vision blurred, and in the blink of an eye, the world changed.

They no longer stood on the stone ground of the church altar, but each stood alone on a sacred altar of illusion.

Saint Mannluth opened his eyes and found himself standing in the center of a crowd of people praying. Believers were like a tide, and he was enveloped in holy light. He was receiving the personal blessing of the Lord God, receiving divine grace, and all spirits bowed down to him.

The short-sworded angel knelt on the high platform of the royal battlefield, holding a blade. Below him lay a mountain of corpses and a sea of ​​blood of heretics of fate. The royal family sang a triumphant song for him and crowned him with a golden crown.

Father Caston, on the other hand, stood on Queen Medici's coronation platform.

Those hands slowly received the scepter representing sacred authority. The entire hall was silent; he became the sole mediator between God and Emperor.

For a moment, they were all stunned.

They were unable to move and did not even immediately realize that they were trapped in a hallucination.

They are standing where they “most desire to stand,” the core of their deepest, most secret desires, which bind their will like hooks and chains.

Ian stood quietly outside the illusion and spoke softly to the two children behind him:
Lesson Four.

"The enemy is sometimes not outside."

"It's the part of themselves inside them that refuses to wake up."

His voice was so low it was like a breeze, yet it resonated throughout the entire area, striking directly at the deepest level of consciousness.

He raised his right hand, and all the imprints of the Whispering Realm lit up.

The wind turns the pages within the domain.

It's not the wind of nature, but the calculus of the structural language itself, like an indexer of the book of time.
Examine the logical gaps within these illusions page by page, peeling away the roots of their "illusion of faith" one by one.

He uttered a spell that was almost a prayer:
"The wind tells me—they haven't woken up yet."

At that moment, behind every "ideal self" in the illusion,

A blurry and distorted phantom image quietly emerged—it was the afterimage of their "reality," the suppressed exhaustion, twisted greed, unfinished struggle and fear, all materialized in the form of a "dream shadow," being eroded, peeled away and twisted layer by layer by the wind, as if the dream was being swallowed up by reality.

Ian remained unmoved.

He stood still, turning his gaze away from the enemies who were caught in the illusion, and looked at Alan and Elf.

The wind brushed past his shoulder, traversing space and transforming into a single sentence:

"Did you see that?"

"This—is what they call faith."

The Whispering Wind Domain continues to expand without any fluctuation, yet it is like an invisible tide, slowly engulfing this altar space.

Ian stood at the center of the wind, the life runes beneath his feet turning silently like orbits, the sound of the wind swirling around him, as if time itself had been drawn away from this point.
All that remains is the theater he created with the wind—an ultimate space that silently suppresses all lies.

At this moment, the three angelic forms still floated in the formation, maintaining their summoned appearance, with outstretched wings and subtle holy light, seemingly ready to strike at any moment.

But that's just the surface.

Their consciousness had already been completely trapped in the illusionary copy of "The Island of Tranquility".

The four church guards stood frozen in place, their faces blank and their eyes unfocused. They remained in their fighting stances, but their life runes had long since ceased to move.

Their consciousness, trapped within the illusion's "configuration of personal desires," is completely disconnected, leaving only shells devoid of their "axis of belief."

Ian was not in a hurry to end it all.

He simply turned around, slowly putting away the wind talisman in his hand, his movements as quiet as if he were organizing lecture notes. Then, he looked up at the statue of the Virgin Mary on the dome of the distant church.

The statue's arms are outstretched, its face is bowed, and its eyes are empty—this being, once hailed by believers as the "gentle and loving Holy Mother."

At this moment, it stands in the wind like an empty idol waiting for offerings to come to it.

He gazed at the statue, his tone calm yet cold:
"The gods you call gods never listen to your prayers."

"It only understands... how many lives you have sacrificed."

Having said that, he gently raised his hand, and the domain began to rotate again.

Wind Master - Skill Activation - Devour enemy summoned structures.

A high-frequency cracking sound, like a mirror shattering, exploded in the center of the area.

The three angelic forms trembled violently for a moment, and the entire summoned body was torn apart as if by a gale, with pieces of light feathers falling off.

Holy light, protective seals, and life runes shattered like paper in the wind's shears, offering no resistance whatsoever.

The "Moon Tear Angel" was the first to lose control. Before its form exploded, it let out a faint wail, not of pain, but of consciousness twitching as the illusion was torn apart, like a breath cut off from a deep dream.

The "Short-Haired Angel" attempted to leap, but was instantly cleaved in two by the wind in the next second, its feathers scattering as it fell to the ground like a bird with broken wings.

Before the holy emblem held high by the "Herrscher of Holy Light" could take shape and before the protective aura could unfold, it was crushed into dust by the pressure of the wind in the next second, disappearing without a trace.

This is not a battle.

This is a teaching demonstration.

In the end, fragments of an angel fall silently in the wind—a delusion of faith is blown away into nothingness.

The remaining person was Father Gaston.

He remained standing there, as if frozen into a statue by the wind. The prayer in his hand had long been finished, but his lips were still moving slightly, like a puppet out of control.

That once kind and peaceful face was now cracking little by little. The fake smile, like the edge of paper licked by flames, was slowly curling and peeling away, revealing the stiff and angry truth beneath the skin.

He raised his hand, still maintaining the posture of a priest, attempting to reactivate the [Blood Saint - Blade-wielding Angel] card, hoping that this final blade of faith could turn the tide for him.

But—the summoning channel did not respond.

The domain above their heads had been completely reconstructed by the power of the wind, and all structural layers had been recoded by Ian.

The card, like a wild beast that has lost its master, remained silent and motionless in his palm, with only cold runes flashing on its surface.

Immediately, a completely emotionless system voice echoed from the void, its tone utterly calm:

"The target has been identified as a hallucinogenic entity."

"Life rune command invalid." "Card refuses to recognize owner."

At this moment, Gaston's gaze finally wavered. Those eyes, which had remained calm through countless prayers, now trembled, their pupils contracting, a mixture of fear and anger in them.

"You madman... how dare you disrupt the priests' sacrificial rites!?"

His voice suddenly rose, his tone seemingly about to tear through the echo chamber of the sanctuary, attempting to salvage his last vestige of authority in the name of "clergy."

Ian did not respond immediately. He simply turned his head slowly, his expression calm, his trench coat fluttering silently, and the wind patterns around him still swirling in layers.

Behind him, a star map-shaped card quietly appeared, shining brightly under the moonlight, like a celestial disk slowly rotating in the night sky.

"I am not interfering."

“I’m here to tell you—you have never had ‘power’.”

After he finished speaking, he moved his finger slightly.

The area trembled, and the space shook slightly, as if thin ice were cracking.

The next second, Father Caston's vision went black, his ears rang, and his feet trembled as if the earth itself were shaking.

His consciousness, along with his life rune structure, was forcibly stripped away and dragged directly into the main design of "The Tranquil Island".

—

It was a grand sanctuary, majestic and solemn, like a place embodying divine authority for millennia. The dome hung high, radiating divine light.

Queen Medusa sat regally on her high throne, her crown gleaming, her divine presence unapproachable.

She holds the emblem of Our Lady of Fertility high, and golden light pours down from it like a blessed rain.

She looked down at the priest kneeling before the steps, her voice as gentle as a mother's reward to a loyal dog:
"You are the pillar of the sanctuary, our hope."

Gaston's eyes instantly reddened, almost brimming with tears. He knelt down, trembling all over, and the moment his fingertips touched the ground, he felt that he had finally been seen and understood.

He gave everything for the church—faith, time, blood, and even the countless silent offerings that disappeared. Now, his moment of recognition has finally arrived.

However—the instant his fingers touched the ground, a huge crack suddenly appeared in the entire sanctuary.

Medici's face began to peel away, cracking like molting skin.

Then one by one, faces appeared—church councilors, bishops, deacons, deacons…each one stared at him with empty eyes, their lips moving as they whispered:
“You gave them for us.”

"how about you?"

Are you ready to give yourself up?

Their faces kept overlapping, distorting, and peeling away, as if countless personalities he had once served were turning against him.

His body began to tremble violently, sweat dripped down his forehead, and his eyes gradually lost focus.

A wind quietly rose from the depths of the sanctuary—not an ordinary wind, but the kind of "wind" that could tear apart faith.

It blew gently, carrying away his ego inch by inch, blowing away his years of accumulated piety and perseverance, and dismantling the edifice of faith he had built in his heart brick by brick.

Ian's cold voice drifted through the wind:

Lesson Five.

"Do not believe in gods."

"Especially when it only smiles at you when you give up someone else's life."

In reality, Father Gaston's body began to convulse violently, cracks in his life runes spread rapidly from his chest, his entire rational structure collapsed and reassembled, and his star system emitted a blinding red light, as if it were on the verge of burning.

Twisted "star erosion marks" appeared on his skin, as if flames from the depths of his faith were backfiring on his soul.

He collapsed to the ground, a terrifying "hallucination smile" twitching at the corner of his mouth, his eyes unfocused, his facial muscles twitching like a dead fish, and a low wheezing sound coming from his throat.

Ian watched him silently, without making another move. He simply said softly:
"Lesson over."

"The wind is not praying for you."

"The wind has come to take you away."

As the wind subsided, the realm receded like water, its layers of folds returning to emptiness, and the remaining traces of the wind's whispers quietly vanished.

The square finally fell silent.

All the church's summoners and guards were rendered useless.

Father Gaston, his sanity has collapsed.

At that moment, Alan and Elf slowly stood up. The two walked silently toward Ian, their steps trembling slightly, yet resolute.

They looked at the priest, who had once been so powerful, lying on the ground, their expressions complex.

The silvery-white wind halo around them gradually dissipated, and the illusions and remnants of the Wind Whisper Domain and the Tranquil Island faded away little by little, as if even the air itself had sunk into the abyss because of this storm.

And the wind will remember this night—who was born for the wind, and who was carried away by the wind.

Father Gaston slumped to the ground, his head hanging low like a puppet with broken strings, as if the last bit of strength had been drained from his bones and blood.

His pupils were unfocused, staring blankly ahead, as if the world no longer existed.

His life lines have completely collapsed, and the star trails deep within his sea of ​​consciousness are shattered, like severed spider silk, floating in the dark stream of consciousness, forever unable to connect with any mysterious information.

The hem of his robe remained neat, as if the dignity of the dead still maintained its composure.

But he was no longer a clergyman, no judge, no one at all. His existence was like an expired eulogy—abandoned by time, erased by the wind.

His four bodyguards stood at the edge of the storm's aftermath, their bodies still in their final fighting stances.

Their muscles were tense, their hands gripping the surgical instruments tightly, but their eyes were already empty, their reason drained away like sand through an hourglass.

They were still “alive,” but more like statues whose souls had been hollowed out by fate. Their forms had disintegrated, their life patterns frozen, and even the feathered light of the Blood Saint, the Angel of the Blade—had failed to leave behind even a single remnant feather after this breath of wind.

They are still alive.

But they are no longer "human".

Ian slowly raised his eyes, his trench coat fluttering gently with his movement. He surveyed the remaining pieces of the table, his expression calm, his tone as light as dust, yet carrying a profound certainty:

"Completion level...not bad."

As he spoke, he clapped his hands lightly, as if to give a satisfactory ending to this lesson, which had a predetermined outcome but was also full of the possibility of getting out of control.

Alan and Elf stood beside him, their shoulders heaving slightly, their breathing still heavy. The aftershocks still lingered in their life runes, but they hadn't shattered again.

They held on.

It's not about brute force, anger, or outbursts, but about—"seeing".

—

Ian turned and left, the wind whispering beside him. As he walked, he deftly tucked the cards into his sleeve, one by one, as if turning the pages of a book.

"Let's go."

He spoke calmly, as if it were just a natural transition after the end of the course.

Alan paused, looked up at Father Caston, who was still slumped on the spot, blood trickling from his mouth, his eyes vacant, and asked in a low voice:

"...Just leave like this?"

"He's still alive."

Ian continued walking, his voice remaining calm:
"He is nothing anymore."

Alan gritted his teeth, his eyes filled with anger and confusion.

“But he… is the murderer. We can take him to trial, reveal the truth… and put him on the front page of the Morning Star…”

Ian finally stopped, turned around, and his expression was like the night wind sweeping across the street corner—calm, yet sharp.

He looked at Alan quietly, his tone steady, yet every word was like a blade piercing iron:

Even if we expose the truth to the light of day.

"The church will also use blood and fog to cover up that report."

"They—won't admit it."

He paused, then slowly approached, his gaze fixed on Alan, calm yet sharp, as if etching star marks in the night.

"But you must remember—"

Even if the truth is never acknowledged, you must still remember the grudge.

“Alan, remember, it’s not just that priest who has your sister’s blood on him.”

"And the Virgin Mary in the sanctuary."

"You don't need their approval, nor do you need their atonement."

"All you need to do is—remember."

"A blood debt must be repaid with blood."

—

Alan paused for a moment, as if an invisible wind had suddenly pressed down on his chest.

He suddenly understood why Ian had spared the priest's life.

It's not about letting him go.

It was so that he could live and endure it.

Let him become a prisoner in "memory" from which he can never escape.

May he know, for every moment of the rest of his life, what he destroyed with his own hands, and watch as he was stripped of all his dignity.

"You were the last person he saw."

The unspoken admonition exploded in Alan's mind.

He nodded vigorously, his knuckles clenched, and a star-like light, the kind that only appears when the life lines first ignite, shone in his eyes—not fanaticism, but the light of awakening.

Elf walked silently to his side and reached out to pull him up.

He glanced at her, and the two of them did not speak. They simply walked side by side, following behind Ian, slowly heading towards the end of the long corridor stained with blood from the sacrificial ritual.

At the end of Broken Tower Street, moonlight spills through the broken eaves like a quietly hanging ribbon of mourning.

Ian walked in front, his trench coat fluttering like wings, his steps firm; Elph's steps were still slightly shaky, but there was no longer any intention to back down in her eyes.

Behind them, a shadow swayed silently.

Immediately afterwards, a low, biting sound rang out in the deathly silence, like the sound of a night beast chewing on a soul.

Alan did not turn back.

But he knew.

That was the Daywalker—his mysterious construct—collecting a belated blood debt on his behalf.

Father Gaston sat slumped on the spot, motionless.

The expression of "pity" lingered on his face, but the next moment, the vampire beast in the shadows suddenly pounced, its fangs piercing his throat and tearing apart the mouth that had once chanted forgiveness and mercy for "gods".

There were no cries of pain, no struggles.

Only blood splattered, spraying onto the walls and scattering onto the long-cracked and faded pages of incantations, as if fate had finally begun to make up for the ledger that had been overdue for so long.

—

Walking at the end of the long alley, Alan looked up at the night sky.

That cold moon hung silently high, quietly witnessing everything.

He murmured softly, his voice as firm as a vow etched into the lines of destiny:

"elder sister."

"I accepted a small amount of interest on your debt."

“But I will personally avenge you and your father.”

"They don't need your understanding, just as you don't need their acknowledgment."

"This is the most private account between you and the world."

—The Prologue to "The Tale of a Young Man's Revenge"

(End of this chapter)