Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 333 Iron and Salt

Not every prince desires the throne.

Some people just want that chair to not be occupied by the worst possible candidate.

—From the Book of Military Orders, page unsigned by Edel

The capital city of Fog, north inner wall, the core military building [Military Command Tower].

Before the morning bells rang, the streets of the capital were still shrouded in a thick fog, fast asleep.

But the three floors of this 30-meter-high tower, made of obsidian and steel, were already brightly lit, with light shining through the narrow window openings like a sharp blade slicing through the throat of the night.

Prince Edel Trean, dressed in a sharply tailored Imperial military uniform with a grey-blue cloak draped over his shoulders, the rivets beneath the insignia gleaming coldly under the lights.

He sat behind the chief officer's desk, his entire being like a part of the tower, embedded within it, calm, silent, yet unshakable.

His hair was darker than his brother Orion's, almost black.

His brow bone was slightly low, but his eyes were sharp like an unsheathed short blade, silent, alert, and like someone peering into a fire from a deep well.

That was the look the old Lion King of the Empire had when he was young—a look that could see into people's hearts, yet he never spoke lightly.

On the table lay a batch of official documents regarding transfer orders and personnel changes from that day.

The paper has a slightly aged patina, and the handwriting is dense and numerous, resembling an anatomical diagram of the military's central nervous system.

"Those on the third batch of returning soldiers with the number need to be re-incorporated into the border defense reserve."

"The Seventh Company of the Royal Capital Security Force is proposed to appoint a new training instructor, and it is recommended that the former whale tomb number returnee take over the position."

"The identification permissions for the numbered individuals need to be restored to the standard military identification tokens, which requires approval of the financial subsidy budget..."

Edel's pen moved with extreme lightness, yet the characters were sharp and neat. His comments were brief, just a few words.

But behind every signature lies a change of position, a loosening of old power, and an "unexpected departure" of a nobleman's son.

—

The adjutant pushed open the door and entered, carrying a new official document, his tone restrained and steady:
"General Asrić has requested to be transferred back to the Marine Regiment in the southern part of the old capital. The reason given is that Crown Prince Orion is about to announce the launch of joint naval exercises."

Edel didn't raise his head, his gaze still fixed on the documents in his hand, and simply asked:
"Is his nephew serving in the Imperial Guard in the southern district of the capital?"

The adjutant paused, as if he had guessed the answer, but still replied softly:

"……Yes."

Edel put down his pen and uttered a single word:

"no."

The adjutant saluted, returned the official document, turned and left, his movements slow, but he dared not look back.

—

This is his daily routine.

He doesn't participate in court politics, nor does he issue orders from a high platform. His "battlefield" lies hidden in the logical gaps between military orders; it's a war of division without the smoke of gunpowder.

It's not about cutting off their heads—that would be too quick and too risky.

What he did was to slice away, one slice at a time, the space on which those aristocratic children depended for their livelihood.

He doesn't fight them, but rather "replaces" them.

He wants to render them immobile, speechless, powerless, and defenseless.

—

A routine meeting of high-ranking generals is currently being held in the conference hall on the second floor of the military command tower.

The veterans' voices were deep and intertwined, and the sounds of regulations and documents being passed around were incessant.

Edel did not attend.

But an hour before the meeting, he personally arranged for three mid- to lower-ranking officers to sit in the “temporary observer” seats.

These three were the future heads of the execution team that he had personally selected from the returning soldiers.

He told them to sit there and watch quietly.

It's not about teaching them "how to obey authority".

Rather, it was to make them realize who they would be replacing in the future.

—

He occasionally flipped to a notepad, the neat and steady lines of the black pen handwriting:
"The fifth batch of numbered sergeants has been assigned according to their branch of service. The results of the temporary observation group show that they are disciplined, their tendency to verbally provoke others has significantly decreased, and 90% of them have complied with the exercise procedures."

Edel lowered his head in thought and nodded slightly.

He was not satisfied with the data.

But he knew—this was the beginning.

He couldn't directly touch those veteran generals and high-ranking officials, nor could he purge the "bloodline faction" standing behind Orion in the court.

So he first trained a group of replacements, a group of "structural talents" who could truly grasp the logic of the military.

He wanted to replace the noble young masters who wore custom-made uniforms but dared not even hold their guns steady with soldiers wearing coarse cloth boots.

These latter individuals were never meant to wear military uniforms in the first place.

—

A deep chime came from outside the window.

The military bell rang, and the sky gradually brightened.

Edel got up, walked to the window, and put his hands behind his back.

He watched quietly as the capital awoke from the mist, the layers of eaves revealing their outlines in the morning light, and beneath the streets, dozens of guard posts changed shifts in unison, the entire city beating like a heart beginning to beat.

He will not go to the royal court on this day.

He will only continue to sit in this tower, revising transfer orders page by page, arranging relocations one by one, and gradually implanting his people into various nodes of the military.

He had already hidden himself deep within the gears of this imperial military power, turning silently—until someone committed the first irreparable mistake.

It's not about escaping the throne.

It's about waiting for the person sitting on the throne to let go of their grip.

—

He won't touch Orion.

He will wait for Orion to make the mistake himself.

—

"You think he has no interest in the throne?"

"He simply disdains the script of putting himself in that chair."

"What he wants is the entire battlefield."

Fourth floor of the military command tower, foreign affairs meeting room.

This place is much colder and more rigid than the banquet hall of the royal palace.

The atmosphere was somber and oppressive. The walls were made of undecorated gray-white stone bricks, and the dim yellow light flickered above the fireplace, yet it offered no warmth whatsoever.

There was no royal banner, no golden emblem, only an old but heavy semi-circular council table, as if its very existence was the physical boundary of the imperial order.

Seven representatives of military nobility sat at the table.

Their uniforms were all custom-made, with layers of insignia on their chests and collars adorned with gold thread and ribbons.

They had left their mark on the major battlefields of the empire and had long been deeply rooted in the power structure of the capital.

Their eyes are no longer young or passionate, but they are still sharp and calculating.

One of the gray-haired veterans spoke, his tone unhurried, as if he were simply giving a routine report.

He was an honorary advisor to the Imperial Fleet, who once commanded thousands of ships to sweep through the Western Island Chain Campaign, and whose surname was engraved on the Empire's nautical charts.

"Your Highness Edel, His Highness Orion will soon preside over the summer joint naval exercise. I suggest that the Noble Legion assist in allocating the Southern Fleet, and His Majesty personally order its transfer without examination."

Edel did not respond immediately.

He merely tapped a brush on the table with his fingers, the rhythm extremely light, as if to conceal the chilling aura approaching from the edge.

His gaze remained fixed on one name on the report—

"Asrik Servin".

Deputy Commander of the Navy, and a relative of Crown Prince Orion.

On the surface, it was a military personnel reshuffle, but in reality, it was another factional expansion disguised as a "transfer."

Another officer chimed in, his tone rising, attempting to use the momentum to advance:

"General Asriq has a history of merit in the Whale Tomb defense line and participated in the blockade of the Sixth Front. According to regulations, he should be transferred to the Southern Fleet, which is also in line with his merit level."

Edel remained silent, but picked up a pen from beside the document and wrote two words in the "Transfer Application" section:
"reject."

A single stroke, decisive and deep, penetrates the paper.

The air suddenly became heavy for a moment.

At the other end of the conference table, someone coughed unconsciously, while another frowned, wanting to speak but holding back.

Those two words were like military boots that slammed down in front of them, leaving no room for explanation.

Edel placed the pen back on the pen holder, his tone unhurried but cold as a blade cutting through paper:
"Nobles can request rewards after the war."

"But the transfer order was a choice made before the war."

He raised his head, his gaze resolute and composed, as if directly questioning the pyramid of imperial power:

"This country was not built by nobles, but by soldiers."

He stood up, his military boots echoing heavily on the stone ground.

He slowly scanned the room, his voice suddenly lowering, yet carrying a power that compelled everyone present to obey:
“If the nobleman wants to transfer, so be it.”

"Put on your military uniform first, and come with me to the West Sea."

After he finished speaking, he turned and left without pausing.

The meeting was forced to a halt. No one followed suit, and no one dared to stop it.

—

The wind howled through the tower corridor. The adjutant hurried after him, stopping him in a low voice:

"Your Highness, doing this... will cause a chain reaction from higher-ups."

Edel didn't stop walking, his tone flat, as if stating a matter of common sense that had nothing to do with him:

"They are not in the upper class."

He glanced back at his adjutant, a cold glint flashing in his eyes, his voice falling like a hammer blow:
"They've just—it's been too long since anyone forced them to come downstairs."

—

Back in the office, the lighting was colder than in the hallway. On the desk, files were piled up like a wall of paper.

Edel picked up a transfer order, glanced at it without a frown, and then signed it without hesitation:

"The sergeant with the number will be transferred to the Imperial Guard training group."

The seal fell, sealing the deal. He wasn't just signing; he was invoking the very roots of power.

He then pulled out another file; the paper was slightly old, and there were faint traces of smoke on the corners of the pages.

The top page has clearly visible, glaringly black text:

List of Unresolved Cases Regarding Military Personnel Numbers in the Whale Tomb Incident

Serial number 39: "Alison Griffiths (military personnel removed)"

He stared at that line of text, his fingertips gently tracing the edge of the page, remaining motionless for a long time.

— A soft knock came at the door, and an aide entered, his tone hesitant and cautious:
"Your Highness...should we petition His Majesty for a pardon on her behalf again?"

Edel didn't answer immediately, but slowly closed the page, as if putting away an unfinished war game, without even looking up:

"I won't mention it."

The aide paused, then lowered his voice:
"But...you and she once stood side by side..."

Edel finally raised his eyes; there was no anger in them, but they were so cold that it was impossible to look directly at him.
“If you knew who my father was, you wouldn’t ask this question.”

His tone hardened, each word as firm as iron:
"The king of the empire cannot be persuaded."

“He never allows himself to be offended.”

At that moment, the staff fell silent, and the only sound in the room was the soft rustling of documents turning.

The still-lit, cold lights seemed to burn with some untouchable ashes of memory behind the military power.

He slowly stood up and walked steadily to the window, like a shadow moving slowly in a tower, blending into the wider night.

He stood by the high window, his hands behind his back, his gaze passing over the heavy city wall, looking directly at the small but clear light in the distance.

That's the direction of Pota Street.

The afterglow of the dream lamp trembled gently in the mist, like a distant and tender breath.

The view from the window of the military command tower has always been the clearest line in the capital.

It runs straight through the core of the city's structure, cutting through the fog from high above, passing over palace walls, bell towers, and tax offices, and extending to the southeasternmost corner of Broken Tower Street.

This line did not form naturally.

This is the "military visual axis" left behind after Edel personally ordered the removal of the three layers of shielding structure during the renovation of the command tower—a silent path of observation.

It's like some kind of invisible war rehearsal, connecting the center of order with the edge of chaos.

He stood at the end of this axis, like a silent god, gazing at the farthest corner of the country.

As dawn and the fading night intertwined on the horizon, that emerging glimmer of light was neither a lighthouse nor a sentry post, but rather—the signal light of the Morning Star newspaper as it printed its new issue.

He didn't say anything, he just watched.

It seemed to be gazing at something, or perhaps being gazed upon by some "will" within that dim light.

He is a person who never lies to himself.

He knew that he was the first to receive the secret report the night Allison defected.

And he did nothing.

It's not because we didn't know, but because we knew all too well.

If he had stood up for her at that moment, even with just a slight questioning or intervention—he would no longer be "Edel Trian".

He will become a counterexample to the "collapse of loyalty and righteousness" under the king's command.

He would be branded by the imperial upper echelons as a disgrace to the royal family for "acting on impulse and violating military discipline," and would lose overnight all the arrangements and trust he had painstakingly built up in the military.

So he chose to remain silent.

So he watched helplessly as she was crossed out of the whale grave number list, "cleared" from the military register, and torn away from the future of the empire.

But now, she is still alive.

Hidden in the cracks between mystery and public opinion, flames and storms. And there is another person, who is tearing the script apart for her at all costs, desperately writing a drama that is "to be continued".

That person was—Si Ming.

Edel gazed at the sliver of light in the distance, his voice low, as if responding to a question no one could hear:

"You want to save her."

"But you know you can't save them."

"So you chose the most useful path—disruption."

"You create chaos, stir up the theater, and force this country to put on another show that you can intervene in."

His tone was calm, yet every word was sharp and every sentence biting.

He paused, his eyes narrowed slightly, and his voice lowered even further, almost dragging the statement from his throat:

"You're the screenwriter."

"And I... am just a spectator."

He knew that Si Ming had no interest in power.

The only people that the God of Fate truly cherishes are people—those who have been abandoned, sacrificed, and relegated to the margins.

And he, Aedar Trean, had no attachment to the throne. He would not bow, kneel, or embellish for that chair.

They are not enemies.

But it also means that they are destined not to walk side by side on the same road.

Edel turned and walked back to the desk piled high with military documents and sketches of the life-marking system.

He slowly unfolded a strategic map, his movements extremely light, yet it was like a silent declaration.

As he sketched the route, he muttered to himself, his voice calm and stern:
"You've stirred up trouble in the capital, and I've tacitly approved."

"You disrupt the noble order, I'll take advantage of it."

"If you succeed—I will gain military power."

"If you fail—I will still remain unexposed."

He paused for a moment, his finger pressing on a node on the map, his gaze sharp and unwavering:

"And I have never betrayed this country."

At that moment, his silhouette was cast under the light, as if the command tower itself was gazing at the whole situation, waiting for the very second that the violent tilt would truly begin.

He took a badge out of the drawer.

That wasn't a family crest symbolizing a prince's status, nor any mark of royal power, but rather an old military badge, slightly oxidized and with worn edges—

He was awarded the fleet commander's badge by the Tianqi Far Voyage Fleet while serving at sea.

My fingertips gently brushed over the curved metal inscribed with the words "Apocalypse Far Voyage Fleet," and the touch remained icy.

A distant light appeared in his eyes, like a warship's fire line hidden in an old dream, or like the cracked light of life patterns burning in the night sea.

"I don't care who sits on the throne."

He spoke in a low voice, his tone calm and clear, a truth honed by the passage of time.

"All I care about is whether there is someone who can let me go out to sea."

When he said this, it was as if he were not talking about sailing, but about a trust and permission to reach a broader future.

He slowly closed his eyes, his voice so low it almost blended into the night breeze outside the window:
"I am not here to guard the throne."

"I am here to protect this country—to prevent it from rotting in blood."

He spoke the last sentence word by word, his tone not rising in the slightest, yet it was like a sharp blade pressed against the empire's artery.

Night finally fell completely.

Above the capital, lights gradually illuminated, from the palace ceiling to the arched windows of the tax office, and then to the broken tower street, the old city alley, and the outposts on the suburban roads... like a vast and chaotic map of destiny unfolding in the darkness.

Some people are trying to restore order, while others are secretly trying to set fire to the old system and burn it down.

The watchtower at the top of the command tower remained silent, its cold light as sharp as iron.

Prince Aedel Trean stood on the edge of the tower, his hands behind his back, gazing into the distance.

From here, the Morning Star newspaper office on Broken Tower Street is nothing more than an inconspicuous glimmer of light, almost invisible in the complex structure of the entire capital.

But it exists.

It is neither dazzling nor superficial, but exceptionally tenacious.

That glimmer of light was like the lingering traces of fate in the deep sea, insufficient to pierce the abyss, yet stubbornly writing the words "still alive" again and again.

He didn't speak, his expression remained calm, yet his gaze clearly pierced through the mist, the streets, the clock tower, and the palace walls, spotting the silhouette standing on the balcony.

Sima Ming.

The person who uncovered the truth behind the whale grave's serial number. The person who initiated night classes, wrote lecture notes, and spread grassroots consciousness.

That person who was never part of any imperial system, yet somehow managed to stir up the entire capital.

He was not an aristocrat, not royalty, and not a soldier.

But he wove a city drama that no one can ignore with words, public opinion, faith, and dreams.

Edel knew that he and Si Ming would inevitably clash sooner or later.

But they won't fight a war, nor will they sit down for tea.

Between them lies a silent confrontation of two different "views on destiny" within this city.

Edel spoke in a low voice, as if responding to a silent question posed by the light:
"I am not your ally."

"You want to save one person, I want to save a country."

"You want to destroy the order, I want to establish the order."

"You're starting a fire, while I'm controlling the flood."

He paused here, his gaze shifting slightly, and his tone suddenly softened:
"But don't worry—"

I won't stop you.

He looked up at the night sky, a night without stars, the clouds thick as a blanket of fate, yet he could see very far and very clearly.

"Because I know that your theater is a place where those brands that should have died long ago burn themselves up."

"I'm not afraid of you setting the capital ablaze."

"What I fear is... that we are not ready for the next city."

The phrase "the next city" in his mouth was not a geographical concept, but rather the next order—whether it was solid enough to withstand the collapse of a civilization.

—

Meanwhile, at the other end of Pota Street, the lights of the Morning Star newspaper office had just been turned on.

As usual, Si Ming stood on the balcony, flipping through the replies sent by readers that day. The pages turned between his fingers, as if fate was being unsealed one by one.

Inside the room, Marlene and Rex were squatting on the floor organizing textbooks and handouts, each busy in silence.

Suddenly, he looked up.

There was no wind, and no birds.

But he seemed to feel some "gaze" coming from a great distance, silently meeting his gaze.

He didn't back down or avoid it; he simply raised his hand, took out a small dream lamp that he had prepared beforehand from under the railing, and hung it back on the front of the balcony.

That is—a lamp lit for night travelers.

—

At the top of the command tower, Edel saw that faint light in the distance.

He suddenly chuckled softly, a very brief and light laugh, as if a trace of emotion had been quietly stolen from a long-guarded part of his heart.

Then he muttered to himself, as if adding a footnote to the standoff that had lasted through the night:
"Regardless of who ultimately receives the throne."

"As long as I'm still in the command tower."

"I can save this country from destruction."

"Some people don't want to write screenplays."
They simply stood there, waiting for the wrong words to be crossed out on their own.

—From *The Silent Pen: Chapter on Edel*

(End of this chapter)