Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 342 Mask in the Wind
"Some people wear masks to deceive;"

Some people are there so that the truth can live on.

—From *The Handbook of Destiny: The Disguise*

Southwestern edge of the foggy city, the thirteenth administrative district, the Helanden Valley.

The sunset, like blood splashed across the sky, was torn into fluffy wisps by the west wind, blowing across the long-abandoned rose garden high on the cliff, awakening the silent Holland Valley villa.

The dilapidated yet solemn fleet of two-masted ships was slowly entering the harbor. The family crest on the gray-blue sails, like a dim star, fluttered in the wind—a golden rapier piercing three pale roses.

This is the Balletta family's fleet, also known as the East Bay Third Fleet, which they sent to the South China Sea to escort trade vessels.

Today, only two ships from this fleet have returned to port.

The servants and guards waiting on the dock had been anxious for days. When the first ship docked, a dark-haired man calmly jumped off the deck.

He was travel-worn, his cloak fluttering in the wind, and the deep-sea salt stains and wind marks on his cheeks seemed like the marks of fate.

He said nothing more, simply raising his right hand, the life runes slowly igniting, revealing a noble seal clearly, his tone concise and firm:
"Iso Lee Barletta, captain of the fleet, returning home."

The life mark was a symbol of a baronship granted by the eighth branch of the Barletta family. Although it was a lowly title, it possessed a pure, hereditary bloodline, enough to support the stability of his current status.

Tears welled up in the servants' eyes, and some even rushed forward uncontrollably.

"Young Master Aesop is back!"

"He saved our fleet!"

However, this is not a real "Aesop Lee".

He is—Ian Mephisto.

A few days ago, at the Shipwreck Bay in the Outer Harbour.

The night was as thick as dissolved ink, and the shattered masts and the afterimages of corpses floated in the tide.

Baroque, holding a giant anchor, threw the body of the last defector into the abyss.

The crimson waves reflected the moonlight as Ian stood atop the shattered mast of a ship, his gaze cold and indifferent.

He casually draped the tattered outer robe of the late Captain Aesop Lee over his shoulders, pulled out a bloodstained noble's life-mark clasp from the collar, and murmured to himself:

"Finally, we have a name; we don't need to make one up anymore."

Rex, leaning against the ship's railing in the distance with a pipe in his mouth, murmured sarcastically, "Your face is naturally suited to the smell of the sea breeze."

Ian smiled faintly but did not respond.

He pressed the Fate Chart, and Rex immediately opened the Fate Rune Archive Crystal he had taken from the ship, activating "The Handwriting of the Nameless One".

Meanwhile, on the distant, tranquil island, the God of Fate, with eyes closed and eyes burning like stars, penned a spell within the corridor of illusion, rewriting the threads of destiny:

"He is Aesop."

"He did not die."

"His leadership of the survivors to safety and return home is an enduring honor for the family."

The illusory world was suddenly activated, and the power of fate rapidly rewrote memories, leaving the surviving crew members momentarily dazed.

When they regained consciousness, their memories had been completely reconstructed, as clear as if they were real:
It was Aesop who led them to break through the encirclement;

It was Aesop who guided them to a clever escape;

It was Aesop who saved them from the deadly sea.

The world's most adept lie does not come from humankind, but from fate itself.

And now, in the drawing room of the Barletta Manor.

The gilded fireplace burned warmly as Viscount Saul Barletta gazed with delight at the "young captain" sitting opposite him, his wine glass already empty.

His cheeks flushed slightly, and his tone was full of sincere admiration and amazement:

"Aesop, my good nephew!"

"You look exactly like your father when he was young."

Beside her, the frail yet elegant viscountess smiled gently, holding a blonde little girl of about eight years old in her arms, her eyes sparkling with bright admiration, regarding him as a hero from a fairy tale.

Ian rose respectfully to greet him, his words calm and appropriate:
"I just did what I was supposed to do."

"Only the Barletta family has preserved a navigational chart that has not yet been lost."

The Viscount laughed and waved his hand:

"Not one, but two ships! And seventeen loyal sailors!"

"You must stay tonight."

"Next week, the royal envoy will be inspecting the manor, and I will officially register you into the core family lineage. With your achievements, even His Highness Orion has to treat you differently."

Ian lowered his eyes and nodded politely. He understood that this was the "game" he had been waiting for, and that fate had already prepared his chips.

At the dinner party in the main hall of the Holland Valley villa.

Candlelight streamed down from the brass chandelier, illuminating the luxurious yet antique banquet hall.

White roses clinging to the stone pillars and silver cutlery are meticulously arranged; even the waiter's movements of changing wine glasses are as precise, elegant, and rhythmic as a courtly symphony.

On the quiet island, the God of Fate constructs a fantastical dream theater; while in the real aristocratic theater, Ian stands under the spotlight.

His face had become an invitation letter yet to be written, waiting for fate to write his final destiny.

Viscount Saul sat in the main seat, listening attentively to Ian's story with a relaxed yet fervent expression.

The footage of the naval battle thrilled him:

"You actually dared to use the stern to turn sideways and suppress the crosswind? That's crazy—but I like it!"

"His Highness Orion just said at the Rose Council that no one among the new generation of nobles knows what 'decisiveness' is anymore, and he must see you!"

Ian smiled calmly, raised his glass, and responded with just the right amount of restraint and confidence:

"If I can offer Your Highness a navigational chart and a token of loyalty, then my life will not have been gambled in vain."

"Sailing is inherently a gamble with one's life. But those who gamble with their lives must not only be able to afford the gamble, but also be able to gamble accurately."

His tone was like a whispered incantation, subtle yet profound, easily prying open the door of trust in the hearts of everyone present.

Several prominent core members of the Barletta family sat on either side of the banquet hall.

The Viscountess remained calm throughout, a slight smile playing on her lips, her brows exuding a reassuring elegance and composure.

Whenever the Viscount was moved by Ian's stories, she would gently press her hand on the back of her husband's hand, as if reminding him:

Family honor is precious, but one should not be so fervent as to burn oneself.

The little girl named Leah in her arms was the real Aesop Lee's sister.

Leah still remembered her brother's face, but now, facing Ian, there was no sense of unfamiliarity in her eyes.

This is the mysterious effect created by the "Lord of Fate" entry—when the world accepts a pre-written script,
Even if the actors have changed faces, the lines on stage can still naturally touch the softest part of the audience's memory.

Ian's gaze then settled on a young man on the right side of the banquet table.

The boy's name was Novell Barletta, the second son of the Viscount. He was sixteen years old and wore a silver badge on his chest that was not yet fully awarded. His eyes always revealed an arrogance that he thought was hidden but could not conceal his sharpness.

His custom-made suit was slightly tight at the cuffs and elbows, as if he was filled with eager expectations for his future, but this also gave rise to a hidden hostility and dissatisfaction towards others.

Norville glanced at Ian several times, but remained silent.

As the banquet progressed and the wine flowed more freely, the conversation turned to His Highness Orion's plans to reorganize the enviable "Noble Star Group."

He finally couldn't hold back and let out a cold laugh, his tone contemptuous yet full of provocative hooks:
“You’ve come back at the perfect time, ‘brother’.”

"I've heard that the Star Legion plans to add a new 'Sea Defense Line Honorary Seat,' and Your Highness just needs a madman who dares to live next to pirates."

Everyone's expressions subtly darkened, but Ian merely turned his head gently, his eyes like a deep sea suddenly filled with chill, gleaming with a faint, eerie blue sharpness in the flickering candlelight:
"When I returned from the storm, I had never heard that the seat was reserved for a 'noble youngster' in a greenhouse."

"If you truly admire this honor, I can entrust my fleet to you. The next storm and pirate attack will not be long."

Novell's expression immediately darkened, and he was about to retort when Viscount Saul's loud laughter interrupted him. He raised his wine glass, his smile both conciliatory and subtly warning:

"Young people, they always need to compete to keep their energy up!"

"If the Starry Sky Group is indeed reorganized, and if two members of our Baleta family can be selected at the same time, it would be an honor left by our many years of blood and sweat for the royal family."

At the end of the banquet, the Viscount personally arranged for Ian to stay in the inner fort of the manor, and gave him special instructions:
"In a few days, several nobles from the council of the capital will visit in person."

"You should rest for a while, and then I will invite you to the 'Maritime Affairs Roundtable' before you make your grand entrance."

Ian rose to greet him respectfully, but paused briefly in front of the fireplace as he left.

His gaze lingered on the portrait hanging above.

The person in the portrait is Prince Orion. He wears a deep blue noble cloak, and behind him burns a sunset forged of iron and blood.
His eyes were haughty and dignified, yet they subtly revealed a trace of deliberate artifice—as if the artist dared not show his true appearance too clearly.

Ian paused slightly, then murmured:
"Perhaps it's time for you to act more like a 'character in a play'."

He slowly turned around, his steps like fingers quietly withdrawing from the chessboard of fate. The candlelight behind him flickered gently, reflecting in the portrait, as if some kind of prophecy was beginning to be whispered.

Pota Street, East District of Chongqing.

After the rain stopped, the ground was not yet completely dry. Mud and the filth of the night continued to churn in the drainage well, slowly releasing a nauseating, rusty smell, like the whisper of a plague that could not be dispelled.

The silence on Pota Street at this moment was not the tranquility that night should have, but rather a feeling of suffocation born of fear.

Everyone on the street seemed to have been stuffed into an airtight iron box, and the key was shoved into the wick of the dream lamp by the Church's Sacred Fire Law, sealing off any hope of escape.

The newspaper boys who used to run around hawking their wares have long since disappeared, and the child laborers who used to hold books on the street no longer dare to open those study books that recorded fate patterns.

Every window was completely covered with black cloth, and no one inside dared to light the dream lamp that once symbolized hope and enlightenment.

Nowadays, the words "Dream Lantern" have almost become taboo words that blaspheme against the gods.

On the street wall, rows of solemn red and white notices were conspicuously displayed, the sacred flame imprint on the seal deeply engraved into the wall like lines of judgment: "The oral transmission of any esoteric knowledge is prohibited."

The private possession and study of books on destiny patterns are prohibited.

It is forbidden to impart knowledge under the guise of "night classes" without authorization.

Arrested upon discovery; those who resist are condemned as heretics.
Whistleblowers will be given a lighter sentence.
Church pilgrimage rights take precedence over all policing regulations.

On the streets, groups of three disciplined knights of the church, wearing dark red cloaks embroidered with the ever-present "eye of scrutiny".

Holding unclean lamps, they freeze any place with even the slightest fluctuation of life lines, like walking death pronouncers.

And moving through the streets and alleys are parish inspectors dressed in misty gray deacon robes.

They questioned, recorded, registered, and escorted the prisoners with cold, mechanical indifference, their icy words repeating endlessly like a spell:

Who gave you your destiny mark?

"Who taught you to write?"

Have you ever heard of the word 'morning star'?

This was not an interrogation, but more like an omnipresent hunt.

The oppressive fear in the air had reached its peak.

People walked carefully, even deliberately muffling the sound of their shoes treading on puddles, for fear that the slightest noise would attract the gaze of the judge.

They walked with their heads down, not daring to look at others or even their own shadows, as if even their shadows would betray them.

Under the shroud of such mist, at dusk, a faint yet stubborn light of a dream lamp suddenly ignited at the end of Broken Tower Street, as if a long-buried truth had suddenly struggled to surface.

The next moment, a boy ran out of the dark alley in a panic.

He was clutching a book wrapped tightly in an old cloth, his clothes stained with mud and blood.

Behind him, three disciplined knights of the church pursued relentlessly, their spells piercing the boy's back like sharp blades:
"Stop! Hand over the Book of Life Marks!"

"According to Article 9 of the Sacred Flame Law, you are accused of illegally bestowing the sacred flame mark!"

"Stop, or we'll take you straight to the interrogation room!"

The boy was terrified, but he hugged the book in his hands even tighter, as if he were holding the meaning of the whole world.

He ran desperately, his sweat mingling with the rain, dripping onto the edges of the book pages and staining the paper in his hands red.

The pursuers' footsteps drew ever closer, the chilling incantation of the life-binding chains spreading through the air. The boy turned the corner, in a moment of despair, believing his fate had already sealed—

He saw a figure standing quietly under the lamp.

It was a woman. Her night-colored cloak fluttered slightly in the wind, and her red eyes burned in the dim light, like embers in the darkness.

The woman smiled slightly at the boy, and the next second, she moved.

Her movements lacked the shouts and cries of warriors, only the silence of the dark night.

In the blink of an eye, she had passed through the defenses of three pursuers, as if the darkness itself had parted the passage.

The first disciplined knight had barely raised his whip when she swept past like a shadow in the night, instantly snapping his wrist.
With the force of thunder, he was hurled against the wall, and his life runes shattered.

The second priest, who attempted to release the chains, had his spell's core shattered by her kick before he could finish the incantation, collapsing to the ground coughing up blood.

The third person hastily retreated, summoning a Life-type Angelic Servant card, but the card was not yet fully revealed.

A red claw mark suddenly flashed across the night sky—with a nimble flick of the wrist, the woman tore apart the summoning portal and the priest's life runes.
Blood, like shattered words, splattered onto the dream lamp, yet the light stubbornly continued to burn.

The woman turned to look at the boy, her voice low and gentle:
"Child, come home."

The boy stood frozen in place, his hands trembling, clutching the book tightly to his chest.

Selene sheathed the blade at her fingertips and gracefully leaped onto the rooftop. Standing atop the misty city, she looked down upon every inch of Broken Tower Street.

The wind billowed her cloak, and in that moment, her voice, like a vow woven from ice and fire, quietly fell into the hearts of everyone who had not yet given up hope:

"Anyone who dares to touch them."

"Then I will touch you."

As night fell, her figure gradually disappeared into the mist, leaving only the faint sound of footsteps echoing slowly from the eaves after the rain.

However, the investigation on Broken Tower Street was not over. Shortly after Celian left, a distorted portal of light quietly appeared on the street.
Then five church knights wearing dark blue robes with silver trim emerged from them.

The badges on their shoulders gleamed with a chilling ring of judicial authority—the Holy Judgment Alternate.

They were not ordinary parish judges, but judges directly dispatched by the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Judgment, specifically tasked with eradicating high-ranking heretics.

They are Medusa's Blades, obeying only her judgment and commands.

In the foggy city, amidst the broken towers and alleyways, dusk descends into darkness.

The leading church monk stood at the end of the alley, his cold, iron-like eyes sweeping over the still-uncongealed bloodstains and the twisted, extinguished remnants of life runes on the ground.

He slightly raised his hand, holding a scepter that gleamed with silver flames in his palm. The eight-star life runes of a life-type redemption knight faintly floated on the back of his hand, and the air trembled slightly like ripples as the spell light flashed.

He muttered to himself in a low voice, as if it came from the deepest part of a well:

"As expected, they are vampires."

"The rumors about Broken Tower Street are more than just rumors..."

The incantation resonated, and his perception instantly pierced through the mist and darkness, locking onto a faint scent of blood permeating the air.

The next moment, deep in the night, a low whistling sound, like a hunting horn, suddenly rang out from the sky.

"She... hasn't gone far."

A burst of silver flame erupted, and a silver spear, like a meteor, pierced straight down, crashing heavily onto the edge of the broken eaves. At the same time, five figures climbed onto the roof like ghosts.

They quickly dispersed, forming a precise formation to block off all directions. Cards intertwined in their hands, and spell arrays rapidly expanded, with three layers of silver soul-locking rings crisscrossing out, attempting to completely cut off the vampires' escape route.

Dust settled slowly on the roof tiles, and the faint glow of the dream lamp flickered uncertainly in the remaining mist.

Selene stood in the dim yet persistent lamplight, her expression indifferent, the crimson light in her eyes gradually igniting, like a sign that stars were suddenly approaching.

The leading monk coldly gave the order:
"Give her a suffocating gag."

“Bring her back to the Temple of Our Lady for judgment.”

They failed to realize that the person they were facing was no longer the naive young girl of the past.
Rather, it is the true holder of the "Wild Hunt Bloodlust" that has been truly awakened—the card of destiny born from incantations and blood.

In the next instant, Selene's figure transformed into a shadowy figure, moving so fast that time itself seemed to stand still.

Instead of charging head-on into the Soul-Locking Array, she flickered like a dream, instantly traversing to the flank of the array, her sharp claws sweeping through the air.

He swiftly severed the lifeline link of a knight, and before the knight could fall, he leaped back into the heart of the formation like a whirlwind.

Before the second monk could finish casting his spell, he was horrified to find that Selian had already rushed up to him.

Before the silver flame could take shape, blood-red claw marks pierced his chest, instantly obliterating his life runes in the blinding blood.

The third person, as if awakened, shouted a spell, and Burning Star released a redemption barrier.

Selene, however, did not dodge at all, and instead rammed herself into the core of the barrier, accompanied by the silver flames of the exploding array.
Dragging his blood-soaked body, he charged out of the edge of the array alongside the Knight of Redemption, completely tearing apart their last line of defense.

In the blink of an eye, only Selene remained standing proudly on the roof.

The five Knights of Judgment, some barely alive and others with their life runes destroyed, lay scattered on the tiles like discarded puppets with broken strings.

Serian casually wiped away the remaining blood from her cloak and slowly took out a small, old-fashioned dream lamp from her bosom—a memento given to her by the last group of students who left the night class.

She gently placed the Dream Lamp before the Knight of Redemption's Silver Flame Scepter, her voice low and cold:
"The reason why the dream lamp never goes out is not because it is bright enough."

"It's because the more you try to extinguish it, the more it learns how to burn."

She glanced back at the shadowy streets in the distance, making sure the boys had escaped safely, then leaped into the boundless fog and night.

At the very moment the lamps of dreams were relit, the evening prayers continued solemnly and peacefully beneath the dome of the Basilica of Our Lady.

The chanting of "Hymn to the Pure" echoed through the church corridors, permeating the air with a sacred and breathtaking power of order.

Medici sat on the throne, draped in a seven-ringed gold robe symbolizing divine authority and judgment, and held the Seal of Divine Childbirth tightly in her hand.

She should have been immersed in meditation and blessings of the Nativity, but at that moment, her eyes suddenly opened.

The life runes suddenly trembled violently, and the seven golden rings on the robe suddenly shone with a dazzling silver-red light.

She sensed a strange flame of a dream lamp that was violently clashing with the church's "heartbeat network".

This is no ordinary dream lamp.

This is the flame of the vampires—the heresy of heresies, the taboo of taboos.

Her voice was slow and dangerous, like a blade about to deliver judgment:
“Serian…”

The priest serving nearby looked up in confusion:
"Your Highness?"

Medici slowly rose and looked at the "Madonna and Child" mural on the dome of the church. The originally gentle and compassionate image seemed to have taken on a chilling and menacing air under her cold gaze.
"Heretical among heretics."

"Blasphemy within blasphemy".

"The vampires actually attempted to atone for their sins to the gods using 'lamps'?"

She slowly spread her arms, and the silver-red destiny diagram beneath her feet spread outwards like a torrent:
"Then those who lit the lamps should repay this so-called 'light' with their lives."

"When the flame illuminates the sinner..."

Some call it hope.

But in the eyes of the gods,

That is the final burst of light for those whose atonement is incomplete.

—Quoted from *The Canon of the Virgin Mary: Heresy Chapter*

(End of this chapter)