Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 337 The Last Fate Mark and the Last Lesson

I don't want to light a fire for them.
But I also don't want to see them thrown into the fire.
—From "Fragments of Edel's Military Orders"

Royal Capital, Northern End, Military Tower, Night Command Hall.

It was exactly 11 p.m. at night.

Before the afterglow of the Sacred Flame Sanctions Act had completely faded from the walls of the royal palace, Edel had already stepped into the military tower.

The night wind, carrying the lingering scent of snow, caused his black military officer's cloak with silver patterns to flutter slightly.

His gloves were still on, his boots were covered in mud, and the faint trace of the divine beam left on his forehead remained between his brows.

He had just stepped out of the royal council chamber, less than an hour after the bill was stamped, without even a sip of water or a removal of his armor, when he entered this space devoid of a throne, a wall of destiny, and filled only with military tallies and orders.

Imperial Military Headquarters.

This is where he truly is.

—

"Lieutenant, take notes."

His voice wasn't loud, but it was like a hammer, shattering the silence of the Night Order Hall, its echo cold and hard.

The adjutant straightened up abruptly: "Here!"

Edel did not sit. He walked to the long table, stood still,
Unfolding a draft order that was still unfinished, the pages turned one by one, the pen had not yet fallen, but the will was already made.

"The military headquarters has four major guards under its command, the Imperial Guard directly under its command, the city's mounted police, and the fire support company."

"Starting tonight, martial law will be in effect across the entire front."

The adjutant was taken aback, his eyes momentarily filled with shock and hesitation that he dared not utter.

"Your Highness, you mean..."

Edel didn't look at him, but simply picked up his pen and continued writing. His speech was slow, yet it sounded like a command falling from the sky, leaving no room for argument.

"Within the area covered by martial law, it is forbidden to mobilize any soldiers to participate in so-called 'nighttime raids,' 'life-marking cleanup,' or 'mysterious pursuit' operations."

"Those who disobey orders will be subject to military law."

The adjutant's Adam's apple bobbed, as if he had swallowed something that was stuck in his chest.

"But...Your Highness, the bill has just been..."

Edel interrupted him coldly, his voice devoid of emotion, only decisive:
"The bill is their business."

"The military order is mine."

—

He lowered his head, signed the order, and with a single, decisive stroke, as swift as severing a vein.

"Direct decision-making by military orders."

With the stroke of those four characters, the entire order seemed to suddenly become several times heavier.

He wasn't unaware of the consequences this would bring.

All he knew was that if he didn't finish this stroke tonight—

Tomorrow night, his military boots will be soaked in the blood of the innocent.

He handed the scroll of orders to his adjutant, his tone low and gentle, yet utterly scathing:
"Send it as is."

"If the various departments of the Imperial Guard inquire about the reason, simply tell them one sentence—"

He paused, his eyes as cold as a snow blade:
"The army does not suppress civilians."

"Soldiers do not cut off their life lines."

—

After saying that, he finally sat down slowly, as if he had relieved himself of a heavy burden, and let out a long breath.

On the corner of the table, a slightly worn brass lamp burned quietly. He lowered his head, using the lamplight to look at another document on the table.

It was an old file, yellowed and with its edges deeply stained with oil and mud.

Three words are engraved on it:
[Whale Grave Archives]

This is the file he personally signed back to be kept by the military.

It was also the only time in his military career that he directly confronted "the deepest ruins of the life-marking system".

That was the glory torn apart by the "numbered ones." A group of soldiers who fought for the empire, from the moment they retired, became "military assets."

Mysterious cards are assets.

The life pattern is a national project.

Souls are put on a price tag, flesh and blood are allocated. Their sacrifices no longer belong to history, but to the budget.

—

Edel lit another small brass lamp on the corner of the table, the flame flickering slightly.

He opened his palm, and the life mark belonging to the "Azure Lion Army" had faded from a bright silver to a dark gold because it had not been activated for many years.

That was the power he had honed himself, but now only cold marks remain.

He whispered:

“I originally thought it would be him—that guy named Si Ming—who set fire to the capital.”

His tone was very soft, as if he were speaking to himself, or perhaps confiding in the wind and rain outside the window:

"But I never expected it to be you."

“Meddes, it was you who threw fire into the commoners’ houses.”

—

He sat still, remaining silent for a long time.

The wind blew through the window frame of the tower, stirring the uncovered corner pages of the directory on the table.

That was a list of registered family members of soldiers.

He took out a red pen and traced each name one by one, writing notes next to the seventeen names:

"Night class students. Military dependents. Protection."

The handwriting is steady and powerful, penetrating the paper.

He understood that when a fire breaks out, if it cannot be extinguished, the only thing to do is to protect those who have not yet been burned.

Even if it's just a list.

Even if this list is erased from the "system" tomorrow.

—

Outside the window, the sky was at its darkest point before dawn.

Like the absolute darkness before a blade is sheathed.

At the top of the tower, a gray-blue military flag fluttered slowly in the night wind, neither unfurled nor cracked, yet steadfast.

Those were the orders written by Edel.

He doesn't light the fire.

He doesn't put out fires.

He—only blocks the fire.

Even before midnight, the lights at Morning Star Society were still on.

The fog-shrouded city remained sleepless all night; dream lamps flickered like embers on street corners, one after another.
Some people light up their lamps, some turn them off—and some hold the lamps in their palms, unsure whether to light them or hide them.

Morning Star Society is the last place in the city where people are still "writing".

—

There was a gentle knock on the door.

Marlene was draped in a dark gray cloak, enveloped in the scent of night dew and withered flowers from the palace.

She stood outside the door, slightly out of breath, like a dream lamp that had traveled throughout the entire palace to reach this place.

After a moment, the door opened.

The god of fate personally opened the door.

He didn't speak, only glanced at her indifferently, then turned and went back to the tower hall, his steps unhurried.

However, it seemed as if they had tacitly agreed that this "unannounced" late-night visit was an inevitable event that they all already knew about.

Marlene hurried to catch up, her cloak still dripping with dew, and as she stepped up the stairs, it was as if she were stepping on an unfinished page of a letter.

—

The lights in the room were still on, and the table was piled with unfinished manuscript papers.

Rex sat in the back hall, his brow furrowed, proofreading the last few pages of the night magazine, while Ian leaned against the window, twirling a wind-whispering stone between his fingers, reflecting the blurry lamplight outside.

They were not surprised.

It was as if they knew Marlene would come the moment she pushed open the door—like knowing the wind before dawn would surely blow.

—

"The Sacred Flame Bill has been passed by Parliament."

Marlene spoke, her voice hoarse, yet carrying a chilling aura emanating from the cold walls of the palace.

She was like a missionary who had just stepped down from the dock, her voice carrying a long-suppressed anger and an undiminished faith.

"The House of Nobles passed it unanimously. The Royal House of Representatives also passed it."

"The supplementary proposals have also been approved... patrol teams, card blocking authority... and life-field patrol and control mechanisms."

She spoke softer and softer, as if she were not issuing a statement, but rather reading the end of some kind of judgment.

Si Ming sat at the table, tapping the tip of his life-pattern pen with his fingers, his gaze passing over her and looking out the window.

"When will it take effect?" he asked, his voice as soft as a drop of ink falling on water.

“Tomorrow night at midnight,” Marlene replied, “but the church has issued a ‘pre-emptive warning,’ and they will take action tonight.”

“They will seal off your classrooms, confiscate your life rune books, and arrest the main lecturer.”

—

Rex slammed the manuscript shut, as if he were making a premature conclusion about something.

“Then we—” he said calmly, “have exactly one day left.”

Marlene turned sharply to him, her eyes bloodshot, like the embers of a fire ignited by the wind:

"Are you all crazy?!"

"This isn't just about one article!"

"This is not about inciting public outrage, it's about legislation—it's about sanctions, it's about pursuit!"

"This is a judgment against heresy, it is fire, it is punishment, it is a city-to-city manhunt!"

Her voice was heavy with each word, as if she were personally pressing every threat she had just heard from the palace onto their table.

—

Ian didn't look up, but slowly uttered a sentence:
Do you know who you sound like right now?

He paused, then flicked his fingertips, and the whirlwind swirled in his palm, as if a mischievous wind sprite was dancing gracefully in his hand.

"Like a church bell."

“A reminder to everyone: ‘You should all shut up.’”

—

Marlene choked up for a moment.

After a few seconds of silence, she turned to Si Ming and handed him an unsealed letter.

His fingers trembled slightly.

"This is His Highness's letter."

"She asked me to convey a message—'It's not that you can't speak out, it's just... the price is too high if you do now.'"

Her voice was low, as if she were defending someone else:

"She's on your side."

"But she is still by the throne."

—

Si Ming took the letter, but did not open it immediately.

He stared at the envelope for a long time, as if assessing whether it was worth writing into the script of fate, or whether it should be burned.

After a moment, he spoke, his tone slow and inky:

She makes her choice.

"I will do what I do."

He stood up, walked to the window, and looked towards the direction of Broken Tower Street in the distance—where the Dream Lights were still lit.

That corner was the place in the city where the fire started last and blazed brightest.

“Tomorrow,” he said softly.
"This is our last lesson."

—

Marlene looked at him abruptly, and almost uncontrollably growled:
"You are crazy!"

You're pushing her!

"You made Liseria bear the burden of the fire you started!!"

—

The God of Fate did not turn back.

He simply tucked Liseria's letter inside his outer robe.

His voice wasn't loud, but it was loud enough to penetrate the entire tower:
"If she really wants us to stop."

"She should get the King to veto the bill."

He paused, a smile that was almost one of pity appearing on his lips:
But she chose to deliver the letter.

—

The room remained silent for a long time.

A gust of wind blew through the window crack, lifting a corner of the loosely pressed paper with life patterns on the table, but it didn't fall to the ground.

Marlene lowered her head, her knuckles turning white, and finally gritted her teeth to ask the question:

"...So what are you going to talk about?"

—

The Master of Fate's gaze changed, revealing a depth like the undercurrents of destiny beneath a star chart.

His voice was low, yet it resonated in the air:
"I want to tell them—"

"They can choose not to answer the judgment of fate."

The night on Pota Street is quieter than in other parts of the city.

This place is furthest from the church bells, yet closest to the wind—and also closest to the dream lamp.

Those lamps hidden under the eaves, by the window frames, and at the corners of the stone steps were half-covered by layers of black cloth, like flames that dared not be touched by the gaze, weak yet stubborn.

They neither want to go out nor dare to be too bright, like a faith forced to hide—without shouting, yet persisting in their existence through their breath.

Ian sat on the northernmost windowsill, twirling a scroll of wind whispers in his left hand and resting his right hand on his knee, completely enveloped in the sound of the wind.

He wasn't listening to the night wind.

He was listening to the mood of the city.

It was the sound of the tide under extreme suppression, as if someone was standing behind the dike, trembling in front of the waves, yet still unwilling to take a step back.

“There are church spies in twelve alleys,” he said in a low voice, as if repeating the wind’s answer.

"But our wind barrier is still there, they can't get in tonight."

—

At the end of the corridor, Rex walked in, wearing a gray cloak, his steps steady, carrying a thick stack of life rune books in his arms.

He walked very quietly, as if afraid of disturbing some pendulum of fate.

“After tomorrow,” he said softly, “these pamphlets will become evidence of crimes.”

“I made a copy and sealed the underwater port of Long Chant with cursed nails.”

Even in the worst-case scenario... it shouldn't be completely burned.

His tone was flat, yet each pause revealed a coldness that was almost painfully restrained.

—

The classroom was dimly lit, and the pens on the desks were still in use.

Si Ming stood in front of the podium, flipping through the "Lessons of Destiny" that he had personally transcribed.

He did not draw the life chart as usual today, nor did he prepare any course diagrams.

Only a few pages, line by line, as if trying to compress fate into the fewest words possible and pass it on.

The first line he wrote was:

"Fate is the wish you wrote down with reason."

second line:
"Cards are your hiding place when you are being hunted by fate."

The last line was written so faintly that it was almost impossible to read without the help of the life line:

"Mystery is a line of poetry that will wait for you and continue writing even if you forget to finish the ending."

It's not just poetry, it's not just philosophy.

It was a cry forged with blood and paper.

— Rex walked to his side and gently put down the thick stack of fate books, as if handing over teaching materials for a course whose end was uncertain.

“The list is confirmed,” he said in a low voice. “Forty-five people are expected to attend tonight.”

"The youngest is nine years old, and the oldest is seventeen."

"Seven of them are street children from Pota Street, and six are orphans from the families of retired military personnel."

He paused, his gaze falling on the red line marking on the edge of the Book of Fate.

"There are two more, who are illegitimate children from noble families."

He spoke softly, his face calm and expressionless, yet he pressed the words "illegitimate child" with extreme intensity—as if he were recounting a fate hidden by power.

Si Ming nodded without saying anything more, but took out a worn-out pocket watch from his pocket and placed it on a corner of the podium.

It was a watch that had long since stopped running.

It is also the bell of the "last lesson".

It's not for keeping time, but to leave behind evidence—that time began here.

—

Ian jumped off the windowsill, walked to the door, and yanked open the curtain.

He gazed into the night and whispered, his eyes moving between the firelight and the mist:

"It's time."

"They're coming."

—

The next second, there was a soft knocking on the door.

It was neither the steady rhythm of an adult nor the heavy footsteps of a soldier.

Those were a child's hands—timid and hesitant, gently tapping on the door with three fingers.

There were more than forty shadows in the mist outside the door.

They hid their dream lamps one by one, clutching their notebooks page by page, their clothes damp with sweat and their knuckles red, but no one backed down.

—

The first person to walk in was a thin boy with an old wound on his ear that hadn't fully healed and a slight limp in his left leg.

He lowered his head, but looked up at the person on the podium, his voice trembling but firm:

"Teacher, is it...is it still possible to teach?"

—

Si Ming smiled slightly, stood up, his gaze gentle, his voice not loud, but clear enough:

"We will not end get out of class early."

He paused, as if giving the city a moment to respond.

"I just don't know... who will dare to say that in the future."

—

The door slowly opened.

One by one, the children walked in, passing through the darkness, the fog, and the boundary of fate, and quietly took their seats.

Their footsteps were extremely light, as if afraid of disturbing the dream lamp.

But their eyes—brighter than firelight.

They didn't know if this was the last lesson.

They weren't sure if they would have the chance to finish that page of notes.

But they came.

They sat down.

They are ready to inscribe their own destiny patterns and mysteries.

Even if it is torn apart tomorrow.

Ian slightly raised his hand, and the wind-whispering incantation flowed like silk threads at his fingertips, instantly creating a gentle yet sturdy barrier that silently enveloped the entire classroom.

The wind swirled ceaselessly between the doors and windows, carrying no chill, but rather a sense of alertness.

Rex lit the dream lamp that had been sealed away for many days in the left corner of the podium. The moment the flame rose, it was like a memory being awakened from the dead of night.

Si Ming stood in the center of the podium, slowly opening the notebook of destiny in which he had only written three lines. Between the pages, there was a faint scent of ink that had been suppressed for too long.

He paused for a moment, then picked up his pen and wrote the fourth line:

"Now, please open your destiny chart."

He looked up at all the children in the room, his voice low and steady:

"Let's begin class."

"Please turn to your destiny chart—page one."

His voice was neither loud nor impassioned.

But in the deep darkness of the night, this sentence was like a finger reaching out from the fog, gently touching the most vulnerable edge of fate.

At that moment, it became the only sound allowed to exist.

The children lowered their heads and opened the book of destiny patterns that had been read countless times.

The paper was wrinkled, some corners were yellowed, and it had been repaired and redrawn. Some edges still had ink marks blurred by sweat and ink.

Those are the traces they wrote with their dreams and questions every night.

Ian sat back down by the window. The Wind Whisper Array flickered slightly; he traced the edge of the array with his fingertips, and the wind became like invisible ink.
Quietly begin recording every word, every breath, and every moment of silence from this lesson in the air.

Rex leaned against the back wall, flipping through the spare Book of Fate Marks in his hand, his expression calm. Each time the Fate Master uttered a phrase...

He then lowered his head and copied down those sentences stroke by stroke, as if he were writing a classic that would be burned.

No one spoke in the classroom.

Only the sound of the pen tip gliding across the paper, a soft rustling, like stars gliding silently along their orbits in the night sky.

—

Si Ming remained standing in front of the podium.

There were no life pattern diagrams, no explanations of incantations, and no cards displayed in front of him.

There is only one projection paper with the destiny pattern yet to be written on.

He slowly raised his right hand, pointing to the blank sheet of paper:

"The first stroke of the life line does not indicate strength."

"Yes—who are you?"

The classroom was unusually quiet; even the youngest girl held her breath, staring at him with wide eyes, as if afraid of missing a single word.

—

Si Ming slowly stepped down from the podium, his steps light yet firm. He walked through the long rows of desks in the classroom and into the crowd.

"You all think that fate is written for others to see."

He spoke in a low voice, which echoed in the classroom like an old bell resonating in the bones.

But fate never reads.

"It only selects—who, is still writing."

He walked over to a boy and bent down to lightly tap the beginning of the sixth page of his life chart.

“You wrote ‘I want to protect my sister,’ that’s great.”

"But have you ever written down—'Who do you want to be protected by?'"

The boy froze, his fingers curling at the edge of the paper, biting his lip, and lowering his head in silence.

Si Ming didn't press him for answers. He simply stood up, his tone calm, yet each word seemed to be engraved on paper, branded with fire:

"Life is not just a slogan."

"It's not a dedication."

"It's an agreement between you and yourself."

"Once you pick up a pen, it means—no one else is allowed to write on this page."

—

He walked back to the podium and stood still again.

At that moment, the lights on the classroom walls suddenly went out one by one.

It's not the wind.

It's not a barrier either.

It was the God of Fate who personally extinguished them one by one.

He lowered his head, his voice so soft it was almost a soliloquy, yet it resonated deep within everyone's heart:
"This is the last lesson."

"It's not because they forbid us from speaking."

"But because—"

He raised his right hand, and the life line rose from his palm. The golden-gray lines hung down like silk threads, flowing slowly between his knuckles, like smoke before it was extinguished.

He looked at the life lines and said softly:

"They specifically named you."

His tone remained unchanged, yet it was as if a stone had fallen into the heart of a lake.

"but me--"

"I don't want your answers."

The wind has stopped.

Rex stopped writing, the ink line stopping on the half-page, like a pause in the future.

The entire classroom was like a frozen lake, with only Si Ming still slowly speaking.

But his voice was no longer that of a lecturer.

That was neither an explanation nor a teaching.

It began to transform—becoming the beginning of commands, hints, prayers, and even incantations.

He activated the secret technique in a low voice, and as his voice fell, it was as if an invisible fuse had been lit in the wind:

[The True Lie] —

"You're not here for class."

"You have come to remember the fire."

As soon as those words were uttered, the Wind Whisper Spell Array silently exploded behind Ian, and transparent spell rings emerged layer by layer, like whispered words in the breath, or like the dream talk of some ancient god.

His mysterious power began to automatically extract the most intense emotional remnants from the consciousness of everyone present, condensing them into a translatable wind whisper structure that seeped into the air.

In every gust of wind, unspoken prayers and fears begin to echo.

Rex's eyes flickered slightly, and he lowered his head to write a line on the manuscript paper:
"Life Mark: Resistance".

Another line:
"Star Chart: Unyielding".

—

Then, the Fate Master spoke slowly again:
【The Weave of Fate】—

“You have all written down an order.”

That's not magic.

“That’s what you’re saying to fate.”

At that very moment, the Book of Fate in front of the children began to glow faintly.

Each one felt as if it had been gently touched by some invisible hand.

To their surprise, they discovered that their handwriting had an extra line of text after that page.

They didn't write it.

But it seemed as if they had already planned to write it:

"If I fail to ignite the fire, someone else will."

Not an illusion.

It's not manipulation.

It is a kind of writing—not written on paper, but written on the lifeline—a "continuous structural authorization".

The spell rings floated above the classroom, and the whispers of the wind quietly established a connection, activating a continuation of "future" for each child's destiny.

It's not brainwashing.

It's not an intrusion.

Rather, it is the recording of the flame.

One generation writes the "permission" that should be ignited for another.

—

Si Ming slowly closed his pen, stopped his gesture, and closed the mysterious lines. The barrier subsided, and the air became cold again, yet he still stood ramrod straight.

He looked up, gazing out the window, his voice so low it was as if he were whispering to the night:

"remember."

"They will come."

"But you have already finished writing this chapter."

He paused, then his tone returned to normal, as if he had just finished a short, unremarkable paragraph:

"Now."

"get out of class is over."

—

No one moved.

The whole class was silent.

It's like an ancient bell with a hidden flame, waiting for some irreversible impact.

—

Ian stood up, dispelling the wind array; the spell ring shattered and fell through the air like silver dust. He whispered:
"Wind, remember this."

Rex placed the heavy manuscript into the Life Lock pouch, and as he closed the cover, he murmured softly:

"They... will too."

One of them preserved the language, and the other recorded the sound.

But at this moment, they are no longer just recorders.

They are the witnesses.

Si Ming smiled and nodded, saying, "They remembered the last lesson that Daudet taught. I think the children of Fog City will remember it too, the true meaning of fate."

—

The wind blew through the hall once again.

Outside the window, at the street corner, the Dream Lamp had been overturned.

From the far end of the street came the sound of horses' hooves, clanging and orderly.

It was a patrol cavalry formation.

Si Ming looked towards the doorway, his gaze clear, without panic or expectation.

He spoke slowly:
"You won't be going home tonight."

"We will send you away."

The children stared at him in terror; some clutched their life-bound books tightly, while others anxiously hugged their dream lamps.

Si Ming smiled slightly, her voice soft and almost gentle:

"Don't be afraid."

"They want to search the classroom, not burn it down."

“And you—are not sinners, but people who have written.”

He spoke each word carefully, as if branded onto the door panel:
"Those who have written are no longer silent."

—

The last child walked out of the classroom, clutching the dream lamp, head bowed.

The wind barrier slowly closed, and behind the door came the night wind of the entire city, a warning sign that was about to strike.

The spell completely dissipated.

Si Ming, Rex, and Ian stood in the empty classroom, the teaching materials still in place and the pens still in use.

On the podium, a dream lamp sat quietly, unlit.

They looked at it, but no one reached out to light it.

Because they all know—

The fire has already gone inside.

"Writers are never afraid of being read."

What they feared was writing a line, only to have no one dare read it aloud.
—The Last Life Mark: Concluding Chapter

(End of this chapter)