Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 334 The Light of Heresy
The sharpest knife in the world is never drawn from its sheath.

It simply landed on paper, rewriting the world in a different way.

—Preface to The Morning Star Scroll

—

The top floor of the Morning Star Times building, the editorial office.

The twilight in the foggy city is like a slowly unfolding newspaper page, the ink spreading from the city's edge like uncontrolled lines of fate, silently swallowing the outline of the street corner.

As dusk settled over the old bricks, before the neon lights were even lit, the sky was already blurred, making it impossible to distinguish between time and mood.

The room was dark, save for the lingering warmth of the printing press and the pungent smell of burnt metal.

This created a strange sense of tension throughout the space—as if the words were still burning quietly, and the unfinished manuscripts were still echoing their unwritten endings.

Rex leaned against the window, one hand bracing against the window frame, his eyes sharp as a knife slicing through the manuscript.

He flipped through the newly collected draft reports between his fingers, his expression unchanged, yet his demeanor was like that of a judge evaluating a denied confession.

Ian leaned against the bookshelf, his slender fingers fiddling with a small mirror in his pocket.

His face was a deep blue, his expression indifferent, and his eyes showed no emotion.

He has never liked paper and ink, but he is the person in this newspaper building who understands the true meaning of the word "dissemination" the most.

At the long table in the center of the room, Siming sat upright, his posture suggesting he was holding a strategic meeting where the enemy was invisible.

His left index finger tapped rhythmically on the table, each tap like a metronome striking between the paper and his consciousness.

He held a pen in his right hand, the tip of the pen moving across the manuscript paper like a life-changing pattern, the words on the paper densely packed, arranged like a spider web, as if each line of text contained some kind of structure about to be activated.

Footsteps came from the stairs.

Marlene carried a stack of freshly proofread manuscripts upstairs, her forehead still damp with a light sheen of sweat.

As she panted, she handed over a neatly sealed letter on fine paper:
"His Highness just requested that it be delivered."

Si Ming didn't move his head, but simply raised his hand to take the letter. He opened the envelope with extremely light, yet extremely fast, movements.

Inside was a short essay titled "The Threshold of Knowledge and the Shattered Prayer," signed with only two letters: LA.
He read the opening paragraph in a deep voice, not loud, but as clearly as if he were reading a declaration in a courtroom:

"...Mortals are given star trails because they can write them."

"But why do we always take the paper away from them just as they've learned to write?"

"Some people burn with life lines because they pray."

"But the church only records their firelight, not their voices."

Rex raised an eyebrow, his tone indifferent:

"Written by Liseria?"

Si Ming nodded slightly, his fingertips lightly tapping the edge of the letter, as if checking the texture of the paper, or perhaps tapping out an emotional rhythm.

Ian curled his lip in disdain, his tone as sarcastic as ever:

"It's even harsher than what you wrote."

The God of Fate was not angry. He simply placed the letter gently next to the original manuscript beside him, and while tidying up the papers, he replied with a smile:
She writes what she sees.

"What was burned was someone else's paper."

Rex whispered:

"She is delivering the fire."

Si Ming shook his head, his tone calm, yet like a whirlpool hidden in the wind:

"Do not."

"She's planting wind."

"Which way the wind blows is up to us."

He didn't stop writing, nor did he raise his voice, as if the whole world was slowly unfolding in accordance with this rhythm.

Another stack of documents on the table contained preliminary information about the Herwin incident.

The content is fragmented, yet deadly.

The confrontation between Alan Herwin, Ian, and the church clergy during the underground ritual; the student's life pattern fluctuations going out of control; the fragments of incantations that Ian intercepted using the Whispering Realm; the observation data marked in the Life Pattern Log of the Fate Master...

Each page is not "ironclad evidence," but each page is "credible enough."

Siming took out a piece of star-patterned paper and slowly wrote a title:
Night Class Scandal: Investigation Summary of the Unconfirmed Incident of Uncontrolled Life Mark Outage

His pen strokes were extremely slow and his handwriting extremely steady, each stroke seemingly caught on the delicate cusp between "being questionable" and "being discussed."

He wrote:
According to several eyewitnesses in the neighborhood, the student experienced a violent fluctuation in his life line after a brief conversation with someone who appeared to be a clergyman after a night class, and remained unconscious for several hours.

"There is currently no clear evidence that the incident is directly related to church rituals, but according to a private interview with Morning Star, a student claimed that the person had tried to obtain his Arcane Card and claimed that 'the church can better protect the light of the card.'"

"We cannot determine its authenticity, but it is indeed worth asking—whose light is it?"

Ian walked behind him, looked at that page, a smirk playing on his lips, and let out a cold laugh:
"This isn't news."

"This is—structure-induced."

Si Ming closed the pen cap, smiled, and spoke in a voice as soft as a bell tolling in the mist outside the window:
"It's a script."

He tapped the paper lightly, his tone gentle, yet concealing a sharp edge:

"But I didn't write the ending."

Rex looked up and quietly asked:

"You want someone else to write it for you?"

The God of Fate neither denied nor nodded.

"Do not."

"I want them to... misunderstand."

As he spoke, his right hand lightly touched the edge of the original newspaper manuscript, and a faint light appeared on it.

That was the echo of the life runes—[The Mystery of Fate: The True Lie] was slowly activating.

Not potent, not manipulative.

It simply allows readers to subconsciously skip the "disclaimer" and automatically piece together the "vague facts" into a story version that is "available for others to retell".

This is not deception.

This is guidance.

It is about making everyone in the city a "conscious writer" in this storm.

Let them think they are spreading the truth, when the truth—is never actually finished.

Si Ming gently pushed the manuscript paper into the "priority printing" slot, his fingertip lingering for a moment on the edge of the paper.
It was as if confirming that a piece about to be played had been placed in its correct position.

He then turned around and walked to the window.

The foggy city outside the window is slowly sinking into the appetite of night.

The distant lanterns had not yet been lit, and the streets were silent.

That silence wasn't peaceful; it was like a city holding its breath, waiting for some sudden noise—a crack, a name, or a letter that no one dared to print.

Marlene stood still, hesitated for a moment, and asked softly:

Are you writing news, or... a story?

Si Ming didn't turn around, gazing at the fading sky outside the window, leaving only two low, flat words:

"story."

"The reader decides for themselves whether to believe it or not."

His tone was unexaggerated and devoid of preconceived emotions, as if he had already extracted "faith" and "logic" from the text, leaving only "structure".

Ian leaned against the door and lazily added, his tone indifferent yet precise:
"But readers... will always love to see things burning."

Si Ming chuckled softly, his gaze falling on a street corner that was gradually darkening in the mist, as if selecting a trigger.

"Then I'll start by scattering some dry grass."

At four o'clock in the morning, the long rollers of Morning Star Printing Building finally started slowly.

The clicking rhythm exploded in the sleeping foggy city, like a quietly ignited war, pushing the ink fragrance that was originally buried in the deep alley to the forefront.

That wasn't the sound of paper; it was the first response from the structure of fate within the gaps of the printing.

Prior to this, the first page of that newspaper had been revised seven times under the direction of the God of Fate.

He wasn't writing a news article.

He is orchestrating destiny.

When the title was finally decided, he did not choose sensational or horrifying words, nor did he pile up so-called "truths" to grab attention.

He chose a name that was so vague it was almost restrained:
Night Class Scandal: Investigation Summary of the Unconfirmed Incident of Uncontrolled Life Mark Outage

Rex stood behind him, staring at the line of text, a hint of surprise and inquiry in his eyes:

Are you sure you want to use 'Unconfirmed'?

Si Ming nodded, his expression as calm as if he were discussing an old, insignificant battle:

"The more blurred it is, the more it can be transmitted."

"Confirmation is doubted, while ambiguity allows for storytelling."

He designed three logical structures in the main text, which do not repeat each other but are progressively advanced, forming a closed loop of illusion that is "undeniable despite the lack of evidence".

First paragraph: Information setup.

According to witnesses, a student attending night school encountered "someone who appeared to be a faculty member" on a street corner after class. The student's life force then fluctuated violently, and they remained unconscious for three hours. The church has not yet responded.

This statement does not mention the students' names, does not specify the location, and does not use any explicit accusatory tone.

But it precisely planted an unfalsifiable core of fear: the lifeline can be tampered with by "someone".

Second paragraph: Group projection.

“The Morning Star Society interviewed several lower-level night students, and many of them said that they had received whispered admonitions from people claiming to be clergy at night and were asked to hand over cards and offer light, which seemed to be prayer words.”

This section makes no judgments or conclusions, but merely constructs the illusion of a "collective narrative" under the guise of "visits".

It's not proof, it's inducement.

Even if nothing happens, it's enough if the reader starts asking themselves, "Have I heard that?"

Ian raised an eyebrow, his tone half-serious and half-joking:
“You are not accusing the church.”

Without hesitation, Si Ming replied calmly:
"No."

"I'm teaching people—how to be afraid."

Third paragraph: Igniting emotions.

"We are not accusing any organization. But every child whose life's first signs are ignited deserves to be asked this question:"
Whose light is it?
Is this the kind of fire you want to light?
And on your paper, was the burning point written in advance by someone?

This passage completely departs from factual statements, instead employing structured poetic language to create a narrative resonance that can be "recited by the community."

Newspapers are written for people to read.

What Si Ming writes is meant to be told to others.

Rex stared at the last line of text and said in a low voice:

"You're hiding the truth in a lie, and then hiding the lie in the poem."

Si Ming smiled, as if acknowledging the smile, yet also as if mocking himself.

"A true lie cannot be told without persuasion."

"It relies on misunderstanding."

Having said that, he gently drew a destiny symbol on the last corner of the manuscript and whispered:

"The Path of Words: Re-establishing Guidance"

A wisp of life-destiny light quietly emerged at the edge of the page, like a burning star flashing in the ink lines.

This is a low-level interference version of "True Lies"—

Triggering condition: After reading the entire article, the reader automatically ignores or forgets the phrases "unconfirmed" and "no evidence available" in the text.

Effect: When verbally relaying information, the "conclusion" is extracted by default rather than the "context".

He handed the paper to Marlene:

"This edition will go to print promptly at 6 a.m. tomorrow. Do not release it in advance."

Marlene nodded solemnly, carefully put away the manuscript, and turned to hand it to the printer.

Rex looked out the window, a shadow falling over his eyes:
"Do you know how they'll misinterpret this?"

Si Ming spoke as calmly as if he were giving a weather forecast:
"of course."

“They will say I am implying that the church is robbing people.”

"One more night, and it will become—the church taking lives and sacrificing saints."

Ian leaned against the door, gave a soft snort, and said in a sarcastic tone:

"Then, nobody cares what you actually wrote."

Si Ming nodded, his expression calm, as if offering a silent farewell to the raging flames of information about to ignite.
"But people started asking questions."

"Who has the right to demand that they hand over their fire?"

One by one, the dream lights on Pota Street lit up.

That's neither decoration nor lighting.

That was the most stubborn belief of the city's underclass, a question of destiny written by the god of fate for this city—

An unsigned line of poetry, a silent protest, a quietly unfolding "vote of light".

5:30 a.m., top of Morning Star Tower.

Before dawn, the night still felt like a heavy seal pressing down on the city's heart, but the entire foggy city was beginning to quietly heat up—not because of the temperature.
Rather, it's because the emotional tension within the city is quietly rising within some invisible structure.

In the distance, the windmills at the harbor began to slowly turn counterclockwise, and the streetlights flickered in the wind, like an unnamed early warning.

Only a very few people know that this is not a natural phenomenon—it is the result of a sudden increase in information density, a precursor to local fluctuations in the "structure of destiny".

On the platform at the northernmost tip of the tower, Siming stood alone in the mist.

He held an unlit dream lamp in his right hand; the wick was still burning, and the light had not yet been lit.

The wind ruffled the hem of his trench coat, but he remained motionless, gazing silently into the distance—Broken Tower Street, Herwin Street, the Nineteenth Church of the Parish…

His gaze swept over the land that had been tainted by life marks and blood curses, as if he were rereading the forgotten memories of this city line by line.

He didn't lie in tonight's draft.

But he knew that from tonight onward, the city's "memory" would no longer belong to the individual recorder, but would be a version co-written by millions of people—an unfinished draft, and uncontrollable.

Ian stepped onto the top of the tower, bringing the wind with him.

His small wind-whispering mirror hung at his waist, swirling and floating, with wind patterns gently rippling behind him like flowing water.

The wind he carried was not merely a natural wind, but a wind of consciousness—it stirred the structure of the air, as if rehearsing the resonance of the entire city.

He stood beside Si Ming, his gaze fixed on the unlit dream lamp, his voice low and deep:
“You know that once this lamp is lit, you will become—the first person to misspell your real name.”

Si Ming didn't turn around, but simply took out a silver-core flint from his robes, gently pressed his finger against the edge of the wick, and before the flame arrived, his voice preceded it:
"Whether it's right or wrong, the future will tell. There's nothing I can do about it; I'm quite vengeful. Otherwise, Celian wouldn't have let me off so easily."

A spark of flint.

The dream lamp is lit.

It wasn't a fierce flame, but a brightness that "humans would mistakenly think they'd seen before."

This is the most mysterious part of the Dream Lamp—it is neither as bright as a torch nor as practical as a lantern.

It's more like a sense of "occurrence" hidden deep in memory—as if saying, "This light has already burned in your heart."

Ian turned his head, gazing at the slowly spreading halo of light, his eyes slightly deep, his voice low and hoarse:
"You wrote a play."

Si Ming's lips twitched slightly, his tone calm, yet like a test setter calmly revealing the exam paper:

"I only wrote one question."

"They themselves filled in the gaps in the script."

The Morning Star Society at the foot of the tower is now lit up.

Selene was standing in the back hall of the newspaper office, overseeing the packing and numbering of the first batch of newspapers.

She hummed an unknown vampire song, directing several printers to load folded newspapers into the low-rail distribution rack.

The Morning Star does not use pigeon whistles and does not rely on bulletin boards.

They used the only "class neighborhood reading matrix system" in Chongqing—which determines "what story an article will ultimately become" based on "which street it is read on".

The God of Fate was fully aware of this.

He knew that as long as that manuscript reached the bottom of the foggy city—

It would no longer be news.

It is fire.

Ian suddenly spoke, his voice devoid of emotion, like a pre-written prompt:
"You know how the church will respond."

Si Ming nodded, his expression unchanged, and spoke as if reciting a familiar story:

"They will remain silent."

“They will wait until we say the next wrong thing.”

"Because only then can they use the posture of 'responding'—to judge me."

Ian's gaze was cold, but his tone carried no reproach:

"But you won't give them that chance."

Si Ming smiled softly, gazing at the dream lamp, as if opening a crack in a city-wide silence:
"I won't."

He hung the Dream Lantern high on the lantern ring at the top of the tower, where the Morning Star Society's most prominent symbol was located.

Every time they prepare to publish a truly important editorial, they hang up a dream lamp.

It wasn't to deliver a message.

Rather, it was to tell the entire city:

"You have a choice—to keep dreaming."

"Alternatively, you can choose to wake up."

Footsteps could be heard coming from the spiral staircase.

Rex appeared breathlessly on the last step, holding a freshly printed sample page in his hand:
"Six o'clock sharp."

"The first batch of newspapers has been sent to seventeen parishes."

He stepped forward and handed the sample page to Si Ming, his eyes filled with complex emotions.
"You hid the spark between the folds."

Si Ming took it, turned to the first page, and stared at the printed subtitle:
"Is the light of the life runes a gift or a deprivation?"

He read the words aloud, as if questioning an absent deity, or as if whispering a question to himself:
"I just want to ask one thing."

"If the gods truly have mercy on us—"

"Then why do they always appear too late when the children are igniting their life lines?"

The wind blew down from the top of the tower.

The lights of the Morning Star Tower illuminated in the wind, like the first unapproved ray of light before dawn.

The first glimmer of light in the entire city appeared before dawn.

That's not the sun.

That's a newsprint.

It is the paper of destiny.

And the God of Fate stood there.

Quietly gazing at the other end of the city, where its first light has already been quietly lit.

You write down a question, but the world reads it as an accusation.

But no one could stop it—it became fire.

—End of Volume One of *The Light of Heresy*

(End of this chapter)