Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 339 The Bell of Judgment
When laws become flames, words become evidence of sin.

And you, are you prepared—to be executed for silence?
—From the Black Seal Preface, Chapter on Sacred Fire, Line 1

—

It's six o'clock in the morning in the foggy city.

Before the first rays of sunlight pierced through the thick fog, the entire city was still shrouded in the gray shadows where night and dawn met.

But the bells had already rung in the street.

That was not a morning bell, not a prayer bell, not a gentle voice to awaken believers.

It is the church's calling bell.

That rhythm was never used to soothe, but rather to announce a cold, undeniable fact:

"Close the street."

"Ruling."

"The Olympic flame is about to be placed on the ground."

This is not a notice, this is an ultimatum.

—

Three streets surrounding the Morning Star newspaper office have been completely blocked off.

The Imperial Guards cavalry, wearing red copper cross badges, stepped into the cobblestone street, their hooves landing heavily, echoing like war drums.

Their spears gleamed coldly in the morning mist, and ten cursed stone tablets had already been erected at the street corner behind them.

The stone tablet is engraved with three gold lines, which are embedded with the three church rituals of "silence", "disobedience" and "sealing of life patterns".

This means that any uncertified activation of a life rune will immediately trigger a backlash from the magic array.

The children who used to deliver newspapers for the Morning Star Society, the printers who used to hawk their wares along the street, and the commoners who used to silently read "Night Lessons on Fate Patterns" every night were now being driven under the eaves.

They did not resist, they did not shout.

They simply watched in silence as the neighborhood was sealed off, like theater spectators standing outside the stage of fate, waiting for the next page of the script to begin.

And they all knew that the main character today was no one.

It's that person.

The "sinner" who has yet to show his face.

Sima Ming.

—

The sound of wheels came from the end of the street.

With long robes trailing on the ground, the church's holy vehicle slowly drove in.

A layer of mist floated beneath the horses' hooves, and a silver-white bone-framed carriage, resembling a judgment seat in the morning mist, was being pulled by four riding beasts.

Four privy councilors walked ahead of the holy chariot, holding scepters, their expressions like statues, wearing cloaks with the "Triune of Grace" crest on their chests.

The nine-star cursed beasts they rode were all at the materialized level of combat power:
【Healing Bone Giant Throat】—Can swallow the criminal's body in an instant and reset it to zero.

【Crown Flame Judgment Lion】—Burning with the flames of a vow, it lives to identify the aura of “traitors to fate”.

These are not ceremonial guards.

This is a signal.

The church today is not just about "questioning".

They're here to "enforce the law".

Following the chariot was the "Sign of Law Enforcement Team," directly dispatched by the Priestessate of Our Lady of Fertility, comprised of high-ranking priests from ten dioceses.
Each person possesses a Life-type Mystery Card of eight stars or higher; before the spell's light is even raised, the intimidation is already present.

It wasn't them who truly froze the air and silenced the entire street corner.

Rather, it was the woman standing on the bar:

Medici Trian.

The eldest daughter of the royal family, she is the youngest magistrate in the history of the Church of Our Lady and the "nominal executor" of the Sacred Flame Sanctions Act.

The flame of her destiny, ignited by her today, will also be extinguished by her.

—

She did not wear a royal cloak, but only a pure white judge's robe.

The robe was unadorned, yet it seemed to ignite from the mist, with a heavy [Life Mark Severance Seal - Sacred Fire Version] hanging from its waist.

That was a forbidden instrument of torture.

No war needed, no spells needed.

With just one imprint, the target's life rune core can be completely frozen, the Book of Life Runes will never be opened again, and the Mysterious Card will become useless.

Its existence is to "declare the right to end the life rune".

—

She stepped off the holy chariot, stood beneath the Morning Star Tower, and looked up at the window that had once been called the "Light of Freedom" of the Fog City.

Here, lamps used to be lit every night.

But today, no lights are on.

Because she is here.

—

Medici did not announce it aloud.

There was no raising of the scepter, nor was a warning light barrier cast from the sky.

She simply walked forward slowly, each step carrying a silent sense of certainty.

Three cardinals followed closely behind her.

They do not belong to the royal family, nor to the main court; their identity is that of "Holy Flame Inspectors" under the highest authority of the Holy See.

This means that their orders require no discussion and no objection is allowed.

One of them whispered in her ear, his voice restrained:
"Your Highness Medici...should we take action ourselves?"

Her steps did not falter, yet her voice was as clear as a drop of water falling into a mirror:

"No need."

"He's not the kind of person who would rebel."

She looked at the silent tower ahead, her eyes expressionless, only letting out a whispered murmur in the wind:

"He just—took too long to write."

"I forgot to submit my manuscript."

She walked steadily up the steps of the Morning Star newspaper office, with an undeniable sense of ceremony.

The streets were already blocked off, all eyes were forced back, and all incantations were ready to be cast. But she didn't rush.

She stood in front of the open main entrance.

The door was not closed.

They knew she would come.

She smiled softly, a smile so gentle it was almost pitiful, yet sharp as a knife falling on a page:

"Then, Mr. Si Ming."

"You...are you planning to continue writing?"

"Or... is it time to end this?"

Her voice was not loud, but it was as if she were slowly reading a command.

—

The first floor of the Morning Star newspaper office was deserted.

There was no panic, nor were there any preparations for battle.

There was only one lamp that was still lit, an old newspaper lying open, and a life-patterning pen lying quietly.

It's like a study that has just closed its doors to history, waiting for the last page to be turned.

And the God of Fate stands before that window facing the wind and light.

He had already changed out of his usual reporter's overcoat, and in his place was a plain gray robe.
The sleeves are wide, with the lines of fate hidden beneath them, like an "unfinished manuscript" waiting for the reader to return.

He did not summon any Mystic Cards.

No barrier was set up.

There were no guards and no escape route.

He stood quietly, as if waiting for a theater audience member to enter the final chapter he had written.

And she——

Medici Trian was this audience member.

Or perhaps, he is the only final judge in this script who is allowed to "write off-screen words."

—

The moment she stepped into the newspaper office, the life patterns in the air automatically froze.

The silent sealing technique flowed into the space, like quicksand filling every structural crevice.
A sense of oppression overwhelmed me, as if even the cracks in time had been quietly stitched together.

She doesn't need to pronounce the verdict loudly, nor does she need a scepter.

Every step she takes is a law.

Her tone was calm, like an undercurrent beneath the surface:
"You know you can't escape today."

“You have no guards, no troops, and no escape route.”

Her gaze fell on Si Ming, as if she wanted to find logical flaws in the words he wrote.

"why?"

—

Si Ming slowly turned around.

His eyes held neither fighting spirit nor weariness.

He gave only a faint smile, a smile as if he had just finished reading a fable whose ending he already knew:

"Isn't it the same for you?"

"You've come, but you haven't brought an execution warrant."

—

And so they stood facing each other across an old desk covered in pen marks.

Outside the window, the street was covered by a wind-blown spell array.

The rooftop is covered with the church's monitoring nodes, the ground is covered with a grid of life-mark recognition, and even every step of the staircase is sealed off by a forbidden spell.

This is not a negotiating table.

This is a "ceremonial inquiry" before the verdict.

—

Medici's expression remained unchanged; she simply raised her hand and summoned a wall of light.

It was a dynamic document, with the list of nominees slowly unfolding on it:

[Person associated with the Night Class on Heretical Fate Patterns - Number 17-B]

Benham, Marlene, Herwin Alan, the remnants of the Ratnet... one name after another was lit up, like file numbers waiting to be "executed" or "pardoned".

She abandoned all her gentle tone, leaned closer, and her voice suddenly turned cold:

"You think you're the one being judged?"

"No."

"They are the ones."

—

She took out a book with a seal and a life pattern from her bosom; the life pattern glowed faintly on its surface.

That is the "Olympic Flame Law - On-site Execution Order".

She opened the document and unfolded the "Fate Mark Signature Page," where words overflowing with the aura of death were outlined before Si Ming's eyes.

She spoke slowly and deliberately:
"Now."

"You just need to admit that the organization did not authorize the teaching of life runes."

"You can be escorted to Thirteen Quiet Islands, where your life runes will be permanently frozen."

"So--"

Her tone shifted, her voice softening, yet it felt like a dagger pressing down on the tip of a pen:
“These people can be completely exempted from liability.”

—

She paused, her gaze not shifting, but her finger gently tapped below the list on the wall of light.

A flash of red light.

A new line of text appeared, the handwriting as red as blood:

[Authorization to expand the scope of cleaning]

From Mirror Street to Broken Tower Street, the entire area is forbidden from using life runes.

—

She wasn't angry; instead, she smiled, her tone as calm as if she were reciting a lecture:
"I didn't kill them."

Her gaze remained calm as she stared at the God of Fate, her eyes devoid of sorrow or hatred, only filled with the light of judgment:

"It's you."

"You have written the final period to their deaths."

The air seemed to freeze completely.

The wind no longer enters the window, the incantation ceases to flow, and even the morning mist remains still at the door, as if it dares not step into this silent judgment.

The streets were deathly silent, as still as a black coronation ceremony without music.

The God of Fate stood there.

He didn't move or speak.

Even his pen was still lying on the table, untouched.

He seemed to have transformed from the "writer" into the "object to be written about".

At this moment, he stands at the end of the script, no longer the author of the preface, but the named period.

—

Medici stepped forward slowly, her footsteps so light that they seemed to weigh down the entire hall.

She approached, stood directly in front of him, and lowered her voice:
"Haven't you always thought of yourself as the master of destiny?"

"But today, I'm giving you two fates."

"One of them is the one you personally drew the period to."

"The other one is that I'll burn all the covers for you."

She drew near, her figure almost brushing past Siming's ear, whispering a spell:
Which one will you choose?

—

Si Ming finally smiled. It was a very faint smile, but it wasn't cold.

There is no sarcasm, no struggle, but rather the calm scrutiny of a reviewer when faced with a good script, as if commenting on the structure of the dialogue.

"really not bad."

"You wrote this part very well."

His tone was unhurried, and his words were extremely steady, like the sound of calmly turning the pages of a book.

"There is oppression, there is logic, there is fire, there is choice."

He paused for half a second, then his voice subtly shifted:
"But you forgot one thing."

—

Medici raised an eyebrow, a slight glint in her eyes:

"Ok?"

The God of Fate's gaze slowly fell on her right side, on the edge of the Holy Flame Execution Scroll that was not yet fully closed, where the life runes were still gently pulsating.

Then—he raised his left hand.

There was no magic, no struggle, and no attempt to resist.

She slowly and quietly untied the life-binding cloth from her wrist.

It revealed the trajectory of the life pattern that unfolded like a star map, with a faint light wandering around, and the strokes and textures scattered like the orbits of stars in deep space.

Then, he slowly extended that hand.

—

"You've forgotten the place I've always wanted to go."

He looked at her and whispered these words, as if reminding her, or as if saying goodbye.

"It is—Thirteen Quiet Islands."

The wall of light still floated, the roster still drifted, and the lingering flame imprint in the air had not yet cooled.

But at this moment, Medusa's fingertips trembled almost imperceptibly for the first time.

She gazed at him—the most unpredictable heretic in the foggy city, the most dangerous uncertainty in the structure of his destiny.
The origin of the mysterious revolution, the igniter of the underworld in the foggy city, the playwright of the Stars Pantomime, and the world's "class disruptor".

She looked at him—without any struggle, she offered him her hand, which was engraved with the life mark.

—

The entire church entourage in the newspaper office lobby seemed to hold their breath at the same second.

Some cultivators instinctively tightened their grip on the life-binding chains, while a priest in the command team began quietly activating the power of the holy symbol incantation.
Someone quietly initiated a purification ritual, and the incantation circle subtly lit up beneath their feet.

They all thought this would be a moment of judgment and resistance.

They are ready for a decisive battle of fire and blood.

Can--

Si Ming simply looked at Medici calmly, his voice low and gentle, almost peaceful:
"You want this page? I'll give it to you."

"But don't flip through it too quickly."

He smiled, a smile that seemed like a final footnote left for the reader, or a subtle adjustment to fate.

"Some endings can be hot to the touch."

He lowered his head, his fingertips lingering briefly on the corner of the textbook on fate on the table, as if bidding it a final farewell.

Then, he slowly and gently tore off that page.

The sound of paper falling was clearly audible in the silence, like the soft crack of something breaking.

That page was the first page of his own course notes, filled with course titles, the thread of fate, evening class schedules, and a tiny, light note that he had never shown to anyone.

"Fate doesn't need to be won. It only needs to postpone judgment."

He folded the page little by little, his movements extremely gentle, each crease pressing down so that the writing slightly rose, as if sealing some kind of prayer.

Finally, he presented the paper with both hands, as if handing over a script to the stage.

His tone was calm, yet every word was as firm as iron:

“You can finish writing this ‘Holy Fire Drama’, Your Highness Medici.”

He looked at her, his eyes devoid of joy or anger, only possessing a chilling clarity.

"But please—act like it's real."

—

Medici did not hesitate.

She stepped forward and sealed the Book of Fate Marks with one hand. The scroll automatically sealed, and the Fate Marks were sealed on the spine, like a completed chapter of history.

With her other hand, she slowly took out the restraints she had prepared long ago—

【Fate Chains and Shackles】.

This is not a chain made of metal, but a special magical artifact woven from high-level life-type incantations and life-pattern suppression runes.

It is named: [The Lock of Silent Breath].

Once worn, the life runes cannot be ignited, the star chart automatically closes, all tones lose their power, and the mysterious incantations are frozen to death.

It is a tool specifically designed for "fate writers".

It's not meant to confine the body.

It is used to silence thoughts.

But the God of Fate did not resist.

He simply watched the clasp close on his wrist, as if watching fate stamp its final mark on him.

He didn't struggle.

No resistance.

Like all the characters in his works—he never escaped his fate.

—

Outside the newspaper office, the announcement has begun.

The church executive, holding a staff, read aloud, his words imbued with a cold and sacred, habitual ritualistic quality:

"Heretical Fate Marker, editor-in-chief of Morning Star Newspaper, Si Ming, formally confesses."

"In accordance with Article 9 of the Sacred Flame Act, he is now being escorted to the Thirteenth Seishun Island."

The bells rang out in the morning mist, spreading throughout the entire foggy city, carrying an overwhelming sense of order, striking the faith atop every beacon of dreams.

In the crowd, some people bowed their heads silently, while others quietly shed tears.

Then, whispers began to spread through the corners of the city—

"Momotsuki... lowered her head."

"Morning Star... has gone out."

—

But inside the newspaper office.

After the wall of light faded, Medici suddenly frowned and paused in her tracks.

She looked into Si Ming's eyes—eyes she thought should be silent, filled with fear, and brimming with regret.

But there was neither fear nor anger in his eyes.

Only laughter.

A kind of composure that is almost that of a victor or a drama mastermind.

She suddenly realized that some terrible script might not have been under her control from beginning to end.

She spoke softly, as if questioning herself, or perhaps revealing something:

"You...did this on purpose?"

—

The God of Fate did not deny it.

He simply smiled faintly and turned to look out the window.

The morning light finally pierced through the fog, and the first ray of light fell on the tattered pages of the life-patterned book, and also on his bound hands.

His voice was gentle, like the last page of the lecture notes before evening class:
"The Fog City, huh?"

"Some words can only be understood by delving into their depths."

He paused, tilted his head slightly, and spoke with an almost malicious disdain, like a playwright giving an actor a difficult long take at the end:
"What's more-"

"Haven't you always wanted to see me 'be sealed off'?"

He slowly raised his hand, and the finger wearing the [Lock of Silence] twitched slightly in the air, as if saluting her, or as if drawing the final curtain on this play.

He whispered:

"it is good."

"Then remember this well."

He looked up, his eyes sharp and cold, but his smile remained unchanged.

"Now—it's your turn to write."

As dawn breaks, the morning star fades into silence.

In the misty western city of Xicheng, at the Broken Bridge Corner, a girl in a black cloak stands on the old watchtower by the dock, in front of the broken railing.

She was not masked; her scarlet hair fluttered in the wind, revealing eyes that scrutinized the world. No one dared approach her.

Even the wind, after circling the tower three times, chose to slip away from below.

On her shoulder, a vampire bird slowly folded its wings, jumped off the stone railing, and instantly transformed into a dark feather shadow, passing through the morning light and mist, disappearing into the eastern horizon.

The girl's gaze remained fixed on the direction of the Morning Star newspaper office, silent for a long time. She showed no anger, no anxiety.
His expression was calm to the point of indifference, as if he were waiting for the end of a play, or turning a page of a poem whose ending he already knew.

After a long pause, she uttered a soft whisper, as if talking to herself, yet also as if casting a sarcastic remark upon the entire city:
"...It really burned."

Her tone was flat, with only a barely perceptible hint of amusement, like a thin blade gliding across the surface of wine.

She tilted her head slightly, a faint smile playing on her lips, as if offering a sarcastic respect for someone's failed judgment:

"I thought that even if Medici was very smart, she wouldn't dare to light this fire herself."

"The results of it……"

She smiled slightly.

"She ordered it."

She slowly raised her left hand, her fingertips glowing silvery-white in the morning light, like a slender sword just drawn from a dream, trembling gently in the dawn.

Her smile deepened, almost a whisper:

"Stupid."

"He personally delivered the rats into the granary."

That wasn't a joke; it was the signature on a court judgment.

—

On the other side of the city, beneath the dilapidated rose window of an old church, Rex, dressed in black, leaned against the rubble, the Wind Whisper Mirror hanging silently in his palm, its shimmering light still visible.

He was listening in all night.

From the moment the Sacred Flame Act was promulgated, to the blockade of the Morning Star newspaper, and then to the moment when Si Ming personally admitted to "organizational guilt".

He heard Medici proclaim her verdict aloud beneath the bells, and he also heard the oracle's words:
“Great, I’ve always wanted to come here.”

It's like a playwright personally providing the voice for their own final act.

Rex remained silent.

He simply and slowly folded up his goggles, hanging them below his chest to cover his heartbeat.

He looked at the Eastern antenna, his gaze calm and collected, as if his lifeblood had seeped into his veins.

whispered:
"The Thirteenth Quiet Island".

"We've set sail."

He turned and left, stepping into the depths of the dark alley, his silhouette blending into the mist.

There was no looking back.

He knew that once this page was turned, the next page would not be the script for the "witness," but the stage for the "heir."

—

South Street in the city, the backyard of the old clock shop.

Ian stood under the flickering, half-extinguished lamp of his dream, watching the clouds being torn apart by the morning light into countless strands of light.

He whistled very softly, as if bidding farewell to fate.

He carried neither a sword nor a card.

There was only one unfurled nautical chart, trembling in the wind, its edges slightly curled.

His gaze wandered, glancing at the port lighthouse in the northwest, then back at the neighborhood where Morning Star was located.

"You've gone in."

He murmured to himself, his voice like the last note he took during a night class.

"It's time for us to make a move too."

He unfolded the navigation chart; the life patterns on the map surface were not yet visible, indicating that it was a cognitive card that had to be activated by "burning rationality."

The two lines above it were written in characters as faint as fire in the wind:
【Thirteen Quiet Islands - Critical Tidal Line - Forbidden Sea Area】

[Mirror Dream Whale Tomb - Old Navy Escape Map - Only those with broken Fate Marks can enter]

He chuckled softly, a hint of malicious admiration in his smile, as well as a sense of sobering awareness as if he knew the ending of the script beforehand.

whispered:
"What a magic trick of the century."

"To make her think that it was you who was taken away."

"But in fact, it was you who personally—toppled her sacred altar."

He folded the map and put it in his sleeve.

It's not about escaping.

Rather, it is a journey towards "a forgotten chapter".

—

In the city's triangular area, the wind carries the last chime of the morning bell back into the clouds.

On the edge of the foggy city, in places where the light has not yet penetrated, someone is preparing for something other than an escape.

It is a process of deconstruction and rewriting.

Because they already understood:

Si Ming was not captured.

He was—actively stepping into the chapter to find that page of destiny that was never allowed to be written.

"The gods close the door because they are afraid you will go in."

Fate leaves a crack in the door, wanting you to give it a try.

—From "The Unfinished Script: The Diary of the Fate Master, Page Zero"

(End of this chapter)