Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 335 Sparks Fill the City
Fire never asks what you want to burn.
It just checks if you're holding a piece of paper.
—From "Folk Songs of Chongqing: The Messenger's Song"

On the morning the Morning Star was printed, the fog had not yet given way to sunrise.

It wasn't a cloudy day, nor was it because the fog was too thick; rather, the entire city seemed to be trapped in an invisible "waiting."

The air pressure was low, the clock tower was silent, the pigeons didn't whistle, and the alarm bells didn't ring.

The palace remained slumbering amidst curtains and gold, as if this day were no different from yesterday, as if fate had not yet made any move.

But the streets are different now.

On a bench near the bakery on Pota Street, the first copy of the Morning Star was opened.

A middle-aged man wearing a faded old navy coat, with rough fingertips and a forehead covered in wrinkles.

He didn't read the newspaper headline or utter any exclamations; he simply frowned and slowly handed the newspaper to the fishmonger girl sitting next to him.

It's a subconscious action, like handing a salted fish to a neighbor, or handing the fire in the pot to the person at the stove.

She took it, glanced at it, and then silently passed it on to the blacksmith's son next door.

Then came the squad leader on night patrol, the fortune-telling old woman with her stall at the alley entrance, the child running errands to deliver medicine, and the apprentice who always made mistakes when writing down one's destiny...

The news had already been "spread" before the newspaper had even been fully read.

It is not interpreted, but reiterated.

It's not about being understood, it's about being infected.

-

In less than half a day, the “vocabulary structure” of the entire foggy city quietly changed.

The tabloids started supplementing their publications, gambling was no longer discussed in taverns, and even the prayer paper in the chapel had new "forbidden words".

The Morning Star editorial did not name names, but other journalists did not need to "restrain" or "be cautious"—their readers did not need to be persuaded, they only needed to "feel the fire."

In the morning, the front page of the Morning Bell Newspaper prominently featured the following:

"Girl's Fate Mark Goes Out of Control! Is 'Light Withdrawal' a Church Ritual?"

In the afternoon, the *Fog City Chronicle* published an anonymous letter, which stated:
"...That night I was in the 19th parish. I saw with my own eyes the priest chanting a spell in a low voice, and then the girl fell to the ground, her life lines scattering like the edges of burning paper..."

At dusk, the Wind Chime Society magazine printed out a line of bold, large characters:
Why did the clergy suddenly intervene after the princess's evening class?

The words "it is said," "there is no conclusion yet," and "unverified" in the original text seem to have been blown away from my memory by a gust of wind.

No one mentions them anymore.

The entire city only remembers the plot, not the origin.

—

On a stone slab at a low intersection of Pota Street, a dream lamp sits.

That was ordered last night by a student who attended night class.

A piece of paper with a curse on it lay under the lamp; the ink had long since dried, and the paper was slightly curled up by the wind.

A sentence was written crookedly above:

"May the teacher's life line not be taken away."

The curse paper was not burned.

But starting that night, more and more dream lights appeared on the streets, under the eaves, beside the wells, and even outside the church walls.

Under each lamp lies a name.

It is not the name of the deceased.

Instead, they were children who had written their destiny patterns and left their handwriting during night classes.

They had no organization, no slogans, and no loud protests.

They simply lit these small lights quietly.

A single lamp won't change anything.

But as a light shines in every corner of the city, people begin to realize that some unseen "light-stealing behavior" is being rejected in the gentlest way.

They expressed their firmest denial in the least dramatic way.

—

The church bells did not ring all day.

The main court of Our Lady of Procreation issued only a short announcement, its wording precise yet leaving no room for explanation:
"Such rumors originate from the theater of betrayal. The light of our Lord will never be stolen."

This sentence was posted on the main entrance of every church.

But no priest came out to explain it.

—

In the evening classroom downstairs from the Morning Star newspaper office, Rex was wiping the blackboard with an old cloth, erasing the traces of yesterday over and over again.

Grayish-white dust floated in the morning light, like the lingering mist from the night.

Ian leaned against the door, hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the street through the window.

Rows of dream lights extend outwards, like another kind of "streetlight system" that suddenly appeared in the foggy city.

His tone was low:
"They've started talking about other versions."

Si Ming sat on a wooden chair against the wall, flipping through a morning newspaper. His expression remained unchanged, but his eyes were as calm as burnt paper ash.

"I'm only responsible for starting the fire."

"They are responsible for—how to remember it."

—

Rex opened the supplement page, which was filled with silhouettes of street tabloids, some marked "quoted from," others with their sources erased and rearranged.

He stared at the paper, his voice so low it was almost a curse:

"It's not up to you what you said."

"It's not that they're saying what you said, but rather what they're saying."

Si Ming nodded, smiled faintly, as if he had already prepared the closing remarks for this "reconstruction of discourse":
"That's fine."

"That means—this fire has burned into people's hearts."

As he softly uttered his last words, a gentle morning breeze blew through the window, and the light of the lamp flickered softly at the street corner.
It was as if fate itself hesitated for a moment in the very cracks of the city's edge.

The light of the dream lamp flickered slightly outside the window, like stars falling slowly after losing their weight, but it did not ignite flames on any street.

This section is about fire, not riots, not shouts, and not bloodshed.

It is a structural silencing of faith, a quiet revolution that erodes the clamor with silence.

The city's ears are going deaf—not to the world, but to "God".

What it began to hear was itself, the whispers that had been suppressed in its heart for too long, an unprecedented "self-awakening".

In the heart of the capital, in the rear area of ​​the Palace of Aura, lies the main basilica of the Virgin Mary.

This is a pillarless temple constructed from layers of sacred runestones, its space so vast it is almost indifferent.

The dome is painted with intricate and ancient star charts of prayers, each line extending deep into the trajectory of destiny, but in the very center there is no cross or image of a god.

There is only one silent wall of light—the Mirror of the Virgin Mary.

It reflects neither human figures nor gods, but only "the shape of the desire itself".

That is one of the highest doctrines of the Church of Our Lady of Procreation:

"God is not an image, but obedience."

At this moment, Medusa Trean was sitting on the long steps in front of the wall of light, quietly holding a copy of the Morning Star newspaper in her hands.

She is the eldest daughter of the empire, the first priestess of the Holy Mother Temple, born into a halo of light and raised in ceremonies. Every movement of hers is as if sculpted by sacred rules, flawless.

Her fingers were long and slender, with slightly sharp knuckles, trimmed like a scalpel used for dissection.

Her movements as she turned the pages were extremely slow, yet with a chilling calmness, as if she were not turning a newspaper, but rather the heart record left behind by a deceased person.

Behind him stood the three main deacons of the main court.

Their robes were neat and their sleeves hung down. They stood with their heads bowed, and no one dared to utter a sound.

She turned to the last page, closed the newspaper, placed it on her lap, her gaze unwavering, her voice as soft as a prayer, yet as sharp as a command:
"This was... written by Si Ming?"

Deacon Nach bowed his head and replied:

"It is a manuscript edited under the name of Morning Star, but the author is not identified."

She didn't rush to respond, only paused slightly, as if waiting for the last trace of uncertainty to be confirmed, before speaking, her tone as soft as a drop of silver falling onto the surface of water:

"But he allowed it to be printed."

This statement is not a question, but a confirmation.

It is a precise capture of cause and effect, and an unquestionable logical chain.

The room remained silent for several breaths before she finally spoke again:
"What he wrote was not a report."

"It is a fable."

"And they believed it as the truth."

Her tone was low and her pace slow, yet it sent chills down the spines of the three deacons present.

—

The eldest deacon, Seroran, with white hair and eyebrows, hesitated for a moment before speaking:
"Your Highness...should we issue a rebuttal statement on the day of the lecture to clarify the matter?"

Medici slowly turned her head, her eyes showing no anger, but rather a cold, ethereal quality, like the reflected light behind a mirror, capable of freezing the entire space.

That's called—acknowledgment.

She looked at the Mirror of the Virgin Mary again. The wall of light did not reflect her image, but there were faint, flowing holy symbols surging within it, as if some silent emotion was wandering in the divine.

They thought it was a fire.

"But this is just a figment of the imagination created by the traitors."

"This is not a doctrinal crisis."

"This is simply because the reader is unworthy to understand the revelation."

Her voice was extremely quiet, yet each word was like a needle, slowly piercing the heart of every listener.

That wasn't anger, but a disdain for the "misunderstanding" itself—like a saint's disdain for explaining what a miracle is when misjudged by mediocre people.

—

She rose, her cloak falling silently to the ground, and walked toward the wall of light before the altar.

It was a core interface of faith within the church. At that moment, a projector for the main hall slowly rose, the screen lit up, and words appeared on the wall like a sacred incantation—extremely short and extremely quiet.

"Such rumors originate from the theater of betrayal. The light of our Lord will never be stolen."

She stared at the words for a long time, as if confirming whether they were cold enough and deadly enough.

Then she said:
"Publish it."

Deacon Nach asked with a slight hesitation:

"Is it... too brief?"

She tilted her head slightly, her tone lowered, yet it seemed as if the entire authority of the temple was contained within those few syllables:

"The church never makes excuses."

"We only—announce it."

She paused slightly, then finally uttered:
"Justification is the way of survival for those with low faith."

And they will not live in a state of "low faith".

They are the reflection of a god of obedience, the spokespeople for the structure of destiny atop the throne.

And this city—must be understood, not questioned.

Just then, the waiter outside the door bent down and whispered, his voice as soft as a breeze:

"Princess Liseria requests an audience."

Medici slightly raised her eyelids, her gaze as calm and serene as a mirror reflecting light.

After a moment of silence, she slowly uttered a single word, her tone so soft it was almost pity:

"allow."

The palace door opened.

The princess entered the palace slowly, her clothes moving silently, her steps firm and steady.

Today she was not wearing royal robes, but rather a ceremonial gown from the Misty City, with a scholar's robe draped over it. The black and silver threads outlined the trajectory of her destiny, simple and restrained, yet so bright that it could not be ignored.

She didn't seem to be there to worship divine authority, but rather to invite a doctrinal dialogue.

Medici's gaze fell on her, her tone remaining calm, yet carrying a hidden sharpness:
"You came for that dream lamp?"

Liseria smiled, curtsied slightly, her eyes gentle yet unyielding.

"No. I came for the Life Mark."

"It's also—for you."

Between the two, a wall of light flowed, leaving no reflection in the mirror; only the flowing holy runes whispered like the undercurrents beneath still water.

Liseria stepped forward, her tone gentle and her voice soft, yet every word was sharp:
"You must have heard the winds blowing through the foggy city, sister."

"The Dream Lantern is no longer a memorial."

"It began to become—a belief."

Medici wasn't angry; instead, she raised the corner of her lips in a half-smile, her eyes as clear and cold as icy water.

"So what do they believe in?"

"Should I believe the reporter who turned night classes into a star festival? Or should I believe those kids who don't understand card mechanics and only know how to write?"

Liseria answered very softly, yet very steadily:

"They believe in their own hands."

"Because you didn't tell them that they could write it themselves."

These words were like nailing a lifeline into the doctrine itself.

Medusa's gaze darkened slightly for the first time, her voice lowered, yet sharper:
"You're talking about fate patterns from outside the clergy?"

"You teach, dream, and ignite the flames for those unblessed children?"

"Do you know what your name is?"

Liseria didn't shy away from the sharp edge; her voice was calm, yet her words struck with unwavering precision.
“I call this—teaching.”

"What you're doing is... being afraid to teach."

The temperature inside the hall seemed to drop suddenly.

On the long steps, beneath divine authority, Medici finally spoke in a low, cold voice: "If you were not a royal, I could silence you right now."

Liseria nodded slightly, her expression still bearing a faint smile:
"But you cannot silence me."

"Because you simply can't hear the city anymore."

"Sister, it's not that you don't want to respond."

"It's because you don't know how to respond to a city that no longer kneels down to listen to you."

Beneath the main temple, the wall of light trembled slightly.

Medici stood on the high steps, her cloak trailing silently to the ground; her shadow did not fall on the stone bricks.
Her feet were reflected only in the mirror, as if even the light dared not touch them.

Liseria, standing below the steps, treated her superior with courtesy, yet every word she uttered was like a carving knife, cutting straight to the core of faith, scraping away the embellishments and striking at the true essence.

Medici's voice rang out slowly, still with her usual calm demeanor, yet suppressing some deep emotional turmoil:
“I don’t deny that the life lines gave them hope.”

"But that hope is not something they should have."

Liseria's eyes were clear, and her voice carried an undeniable compassion and firmness:

"You're wrong, sister."

"They are not unworthy of it."

"Instead, they never had the chance to believe—'they deserve it'."

These words seemed to pierce through a wall of light.

Medici turned slowly, stepped onto the steps of her scepter, her tone suddenly turned cold, and her voice revealed a kind of judgmental sharpness:

“I am commissioned by the Holy Mother of Procreation.”

“I know that the life runes are not the fruit of faith, but the price to pay.”

"You teach them how to light a fire—but who will teach them that fire can burn people?"

Liseria's voice was low and slow, yet as resolute as an inscription:
"You don't believe they can handle it."

"It's because you've never really known them."

“In your eyes, they are not your people.”

"Merely a vessel for receiving favors."

This sentence is like an axe splitting a wall of light.

Medici stopped in her tracks, turned around for the first time, and looked down at Liseria.

There was no anger in her eyes, only a silence colder than indifference.

Finally, she slowly spoke:
"You are the golden branch of the royal family."

"Yet they uttered words like a heretic on the street."

"You have betrayed the church and the ruling order that you were supposed to protect."

Liseria did not back down; her voice was like a sharp blade emerging from the clouds, each word radiating light.
"What I protect is never order."

"What I protect are people."

Medici finally whispered:
"They are human, that's right."

"But they are civilians."

"And you... have forgotten what nobility is."

Inside the temple, the temperature was as still as mercury.

Two princesses, one holding a light in a mirror, the other lighting a fire in the street.

There were no loud arguments or emotional outbursts between them.

But every word was like a scepter striking a throne, like thunder sweeping across an idol.

A moment of silence.

Liseria smiled gently, turned around slowly, and said nothing more.

But before leaving the temple, he left behind a single sentence.

His tone was calm, yet it hung like a spell on the sacred wall, lingering for a long time:

"You said I forgot the meaning of nobility."

"But all I remember is that, compared to nobles, we are still human beings."

She stepped out of the main gate, behind her lay the tomb-like silence of the sanctuary, and before her stretched the city as night slowly fell.

The sky was not yet completely dark, but the streets already seemed to have sunk underwater, with the light flickering and unclear.

One by one, the dream lights began to illuminate the streets, their light gentle yet pure, like a silent sea of ​​stars hanging upside down on every nerve line of the city.

Each lamp is an unspoken word from the heart:
"The light I want to protect."

There were no slogans, no songs, only the lights floating on the street corners, gradually illuminating the edge of the city.

That wasn't the flames of rebellion, but something deeper and more profound—a right to name that had been reclaimed after being deprived for too long.

That evening, the church's response announcement was posted as scheduled.

Brief to the point of being indifferent, it consists of only thirteen words:
"Such remarks are derived from the absurdities of the Betrayal Theater."

After the announcement, an eerie silence fell over everything in front of the Morning Star newspaper office, on Dream Lantern Street, and outside the evening classrooms.

But it was not a silence of being subdued.

Instead, a calm and thorough consensus slowly emerged.

The unspoken words resonated in the hearts of countless people:

"They really don't intend to respond."

So the city started talking about something else.

New voices are quietly emerging on the streets:

You cannot ask questions of the gods.

"Because He simply doesn't listen to you."

Late that night, the Wind Chime Society launched an anonymous column:
If the gods have never read our destiny lines

The article does not directly accuse any clergy organization, but it begins by quoting Liseria's speech during a night class:
"I wrote my own destiny lines."

"Not a prayer awaiting approval."

The entire article, though devoid of anger, is like cold water poured into scorching iron, igniting a "right to doubt" that has never been permitted in a belief system.

The comment section was instantly flooded with messages from the public.

"She taught my child the life line analysis."

"She is more like God than the light of the sanctuary."

The next morning, the three deacons of the main court gathered before the sacred mirror.

Deacon Nach's tone was anxious, his brows furrowed deeply:
"Public opinion in the main court has shifted, Your Highness... if you do not respond soon, it will create a rift in faith..."

Medici remained silent for a long time, her gaze seemingly piercing through the dome of the foggy city, looking at a certain "unspeakable line of fate".

She finally spoke, her voice low but cold:
"Then—burn it off."

As dawn approaches, the capital remains dark.

It's not that the sky hasn't brightened yet, but that the light hasn't reached the ground.

More and more dream lanterns are appearing, no longer just one, but the entire street is arranged to form sentences.

A spell-like sentence:

"My tattoo belongs to me."

"It wasn't stolen by God; I wrote it."

"The fire is mine."

Children on the street corner were putting up stickers while reciting them in their baby voices. They didn't understand the weight of these words, but they already believed them.

This is not a protest.

This is a denial delivered in silence.

It negates the statement, "You still have the right to name me."

The Dawn Bell Tolls in the Nineteenth Diocese.

Before the fog had cleared, the blood had already flown.

The bodies of the four priests were nailed to the holy pillar in front of the church in a cross shape.

His chest was cut open, his life lines exposed to the air, and blood meandered down his life veins, staining the stone surface red like eerie prayers.

Each person wore a page of repentance hanging around their neck, the words written in their own blood, slanted but not messy.

"I am a sinner against the Virgin Mary."

“I once used incantations to lure someone to their death.”

"In the name of faith, I plunder life lines."

“I use holy light as a cover to carry out the act of sacrifice.”

All letters of repentance must be signed at the end with the following name:

"A person who commits suicide."

But no one in the city believed it was suicide.

—

The entire street was filled with over a hundred people in silence.

There were no screams, no noise, and even sobs were suppressed.

Only one hand after another slowly raised the dream lamp.

Lamps were hung beneath the sacred pillar, not for weeping, nor as slogans of anger.

That was a kind of vigil.

For the dead, and for the living.

When the church guards arrived, they were lined up in perfect formation, but no one stepped forward.

It wasn't because someone was blocking them.

Rather, none of them could explain how to face this situation.

The fire was not lit, but the answer was written in blood.

The city is writing the next line of its own destiny, a line of faith.

On the morning of the third day, the Morning Star published an anonymous editorial.

The title is restrained yet sharp, like an undrawn dagger placed before a divine throne:
Whose destiny mark is it? — A reply to God

The entire article contained no sentimentality or curses.

The writing style is calm as water, yet every sentence resonates like a bell.

It neither shouts nor rebukes, but simply concludes with a brief ending, like a light stroke of a brush, yet it has become the most widely circulated saying in the entire underground city of Fog City:

"If my destiny can only be defined by God."

"Then His first coming should be when I light the fire."

These two short lines are like a glimmer of light piercing the heart in the darkness.

It was not a provocation, but a question uttered for the first time by someone who had been silenced for so long.

That same afternoon, in the main sanctuary of Our Lady of Procreation, Medici personally summoned the three deacons to convene a core council.

The wall of light illuminated fully, the star map unfolded completely, and the altar, symbolizing divine revelation, slowly rose.

Above the dome of the main hall, all the streams of prayer light converged at the center, and she personally unveiled the seal on the core law that had been kept hidden in the main court for many years.

She stood before the sacred mirror, her veil draped from her shoulders to the ground, its seams like flowing lines etched into the halo of the Virgin Mary.

She looked up at the wall of light, her gaze as sharp as a cold blade cutting through ice, her tone slow but unwavering:
"I will jointly submit the proposal for the Holy Book to the Council of Nobles and the Royal Council."

As soon as she finished speaking, she raised her scepter with her right hand. The scepter's markings vibrated, and a wall of light unfolded in response, displaying a line of magnificent text:
The Mysterious Purification Act - Draft

With a flash of light, the contents of the bill appeared before the sacred mirror, its words weighty and its pen sharp, powerful enough to rewrite the very structure of the city's destiny:

All users of Mysterious Cards who are not registered with the Church system will be considered "potential sources of contamination in the life field" and will be subject to mandatory marking and review procedures.

All evening lectures and learning activities must be conducted with a clergy registration certificate. Those who do not have a certificate will be considered to be engaging in illegal gatherings and will be detained and investigated.

The dissemination of statements such as "My destiny mark belongs to me" and other erroneous notions about destiny mark ownership are prohibited in the five core districts of the capital.
Those who commit serious offenses will be subject to "sinking into the light" – a "purification of memory" performed by church law enforcement officers.

The temperature in the main hall plummeted, as if every word in the air had become sharp and cutting.

Deacon Nach stood beneath the wall of light, his brow furrowed, his voice low and urgent:

“Your Highness, this move may provoke a backlash from the people… and could even cause rifts within the Royal Council.”

Medici's expression remained unchanged, her movements still slow and methodical. She closed the file, sealed it, as if the world had already been decided.

Her tone was as indifferent as snow falling on white stones, each word as cold as frost:
"Then let them burn."

She descended the altar, her long robe trailing on the stone steps. Her voice suddenly deepened, as if it came from the deepest part of the hall, or like a final command whispered from the gods:
"I'm not trying to suppress their anger."

“I want them to know that wherever the divine fire burns, they can only kneel and pray.”

As soon as the words were spoken, the hall fell silent, even the shimmering light seemed to freeze.

She slowly turned around, her gaze piercing through the wall of light, through the divine mirror of the temple, as if crossing city blocks.

I saw the cracks that were quietly spreading along the core life rune of the Fog City.

She gazed at the invisible line, her voice suddenly low and slow, yet heavier than ice:

"They believed that the fate markings were written for the future."

“I will tell them—the life lines are written to God.”

This is not the release of a regulation.

This was a “naming counterattack” from clerical authority.

It wasn't a response, it was a verdict.

Instead of repairing the cracks, it declares the cracks unforgivable.

Medici was never trying to persuade anyone.

She was simply telling the world: the flame of faith can only be lit by her.

When the fire no longer illuminates the idols
Then God will remember: He too is afraid of being burned.

—The Light of Heresy, Final Chapter

(End of this chapter)