Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 343 Heretical Snow
They say that faith can save souls.

But if faith first rips out the soul—what is left?

—From "Notes on Heretical Minds, Article Seven"

The walls were as cold and damp as hard iron, never seeing sunlight, with dim, damp streaks winding their way up the corners.
Like an unfinished incantation, it paints a silent prophecy on the stone wall.

The watermarks seemed to be trying to tell some secret that had not yet been allowed to be spoken, like the whispers of countless ghosts suppressed on this island.

Si Ming sat on the cold, gray stone bed, his shoulders leaning against the stone wall, a thick, hardcover book open in his palm.

The handwritten title on the book cover has sharp and neat lines:
"Sparks in Structure: Personality Collapse and the Anchor Point Theory of Astral Calamity" by Lin Wanqing

This book appears to belong to the field of psychology, but beneath the texture of its pages...
Yet, it faintly exudes an indescribable, strange fluctuation, like a dormant undercurrent of destiny—this is a truly mysterious book.

A research manuscript on a celestial calamity, cleverly disguised with a spell, has long been imprisoned by the Academy as "unreadable" due to its content being too close to the truth.

Si Ming turned to a page and stared down at the chapter title:
Anchoring Techniques in Cognitive Twist: An Introduction to the Law of Mental Mapping

He gently traced the edge of the page with his fingertips, murmuring softly:

"Piecing together fragments of self-positioning to construct cognitive anchors in reverse..."

"It turns out that in order to withstand the impact of the first entropy collapse caused by the celestial calamity, the first thing to do is to clearly write down 'who you are'."

He couldn't help but smile faintly, a smile tinged with cold mockery:
"This really is... a classroom test of fate."

Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed outside the iron gate, creating an unsettling rhythm in the prison corridor.

An elderly prison guard with a full head of silver hair and a balding head slowly approached the cell door, the old World Fate Mark on his arm faintly glowing with a dim blue light.

The old man coughed lightly and tapped on the iron fence in a hoarse voice:

"The time for fresh air is only one hour."

His sharp gaze immediately fell on the book in Si Ming's hand, revealing a hint of suspicion and wariness:
"How did that thing in your hand get in here?"

Si Ming turned the pages of the book, revealing a tattered reply slip from a Dream Lantern messenger tucked between the pages. He smiled slightly, his tone gentle yet carrying a subtle, almost imperceptible, sense of pressure:
"It brought it itself."

"Or, to be more precise, it thinks I need it."

The prison guard paused for a moment, his lips twitching slightly, then he rolled his eyes impatiently:
"You heretics who have been imprisoned for so long, every word you utter is like a riddle..."

"As long as you're still here, you can play with spellbooks or fold paper to send to the madman as you please."

After saying that, he turned and left without looking back, his footsteps gradually fading into the distance in the depths of the corridor.

Beneath the closed ceiling, the prison walls stood tall and gray, arranged solemnly like a group of tombs.

The morning mist had not yet dissipated, and the cold dew swirled on the metal plate on the ground, making a faint but sharp sound, like the subtle friction between fate and freedom.

Si Ming stepped forward, hands behind his back, his steps composed.

His expression was so calm that he hardly looked like a prisoner, but rather like a monarch slowly surveying his territory.

He walked slowly past rows of iron gates and finally stopped in front of one of the cells.

In that cell, a thin, stiff man knelt on the cold floor, his prison uniform gray and worn, his stubble growing wildly.

He kept his head bowed, repeatedly uttering an empty prayer:

"...Our Lady of Mercy, we offer our lives."

"As long as the sacred flame is extinguished, heresy will surely be burned."

"Holy Mother, have mercy, we offer our lives..."

He neither ate nor drank, neither saw nor heard, but only chanted without ceasing.

That was a high-ranking priest in the past, now imprisoned here for mistakenly killing someone who hadn't awakened their life runes. He's forcibly maintained in a cycle by life-related mysteries, his flame of life forever inextinguishable.

They can only endlessly cycle between prayer and repentance, becoming a twisted and miserable curse of eternal life.

Si Ming gazed at him silently, then finally spoke, his voice low and deep:
Are you praying, or do you exist because of prayer?

The man did not respond, as if fate had completely stripped him of the right to answer.

Only the mechanical, repetitive low murmur continued, like a mournful echo from another world.

Si Ming remained silent for a moment, then turned and left.

His silhouette overlapped with the shadow cast by the high wall, like the shadow of fate yet to be written in the world.

Back at the edge of his cell, the morning mist seeped in through the cracks in the wall, ruffling the pages of the book in his hands.

His gaze fell once again on that line in the book:
"Personality Anchor Point Establishment Method:"

Write down a true story that you don't want to forget.
Then weave a future for it that you're willing to believe in.

He gently closed the book, raised his head, and looked up at the sky deep in the mist.

The sky remained overcast and dark, but he knew clearly that the lamp of his dream had never been extinguished.

That was an unfinished story he left for himself, and also for fate—

About truth, about resistance, about that theater that belonged to him.

As the bells struck for the thirty-second time, their echoes reverberated throughout the towering and somber basilica of Our Lady, like a secret performance that had not yet come to an end.

The magnificent dome, painted with images of angels and saints, takes on a cold and somber air due to the interplay of light and shadow.

It was as if those sacred faces were looking down upon the human theater, awaiting a tragedy that was already destined.

More than a hundred monks, priests, and bishops stood solemnly among the benches, draped in deep, solemn seven-ringed ceremonial robes.
Each person's life lines were tightly concealed, and only a silent hymn melody flowed in the air, as if countless wings were gently brushing past one's ears.

This is the world-famous "Madonna Melody - Wordless Chant," which is said to "cleanse distracting thoughts and restore order."

Rex stood solemnly and humbly in the seventh row, wearing a silver satin priestly robe, with the emblem of the St. Cube's "Evangelical Father" engraved on his chest.

He lowered his head, closed his eyes, clasped his hands together, and his lips moved slightly, like a devout believer in deep meditation and prayer.

However, no one knew that his identity had already been meticulously woven by the God of Fate—written by the mysterious threads of destiny and the illusion of the "pen of the nameless" in the corridor of delusion.

Even the cardinal's scrutiny could not see through its true nature.

His current name is "Lester Weir".

At least that's how it's recorded in the register of the Basilica of Our Lady.

His prayer was extremely low, yet it resonated with extraordinary clarity deep within his consciousness:

"May the light of Our Lady illuminate the souls of heretics."

"May my tongue speak only the gospel and not questions."

"May my hand only touch believers, and not hold the blade."

An elderly priest beside him, with a kind face, cast an approving glance at him, seemingly pleased with the young man's devout recitation.

A cold, mocking glint appeared in Rex's mind:

"Your light is not eternal, but it is not bright enough to reach me."

"In the dark corners of fate, there are always people who are destined not to belong to this light."

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze sweeping towards the colossal, ten-meter-tall statue of the Virgin Mary at the far end of the dome.

The statue cradles an infant, her face gentle and holy; yet, her empty, pupil-less eyes seem to cast a silent, judgmental gaze upon the world.

How can a god without eyes perceive the truth of the mortal world?
The prayers finally ended, and the faculty members slowly dispersed. Just as Rex was about to leave with the others, a man dressed in a darker robe with intricate gold patterns slowly walked out from behind the hall.

He held his ivory staff, his steps firm and resolute as he stopped before Rex, speaking in an unquestionable tone of authority:

"Father Lester."

"The main court has reviewed your gospel records in the Sea of ​​Cherry Blossoms. The three preaching sites you established have performed well. From now on, you will be officially incorporated into the main court of the Fog City."

He paused, his gaze turning cold as he looked at Rex, and continued:

“You will take over the priesthood of the Twelfth Diocese—the one before you who burned himself during a secret prayer.”

"What we need is someone who 'does not ask about mysteries or destiny, but only about the light.'"

Rex clasped his hands together again and responded in a low voice:
"May the glory of Our Lady extend to all places."

The Privy Councilor nodded in satisfaction and left, leaving Rex standing alone in the same spot.

He slowly raised his head, gazing once more at the eyeless image of the Virgin Mary, and murmured to himself:
"Do you really need the light, Holy Mother?"

"Since you are unwilling to open your eyes, then I will... light a lamp bright enough for you."

At this moment, behind the main basilica of Our Lady, there is a scene completely opposite to the sacred one—the orphanage.

If the Basilica of Our Lady is a temple where believers kneel in worship, then the Foundling Church is a furnace of ashes that forges souls.

The marble floor in the hall was as smooth as a mirror, and all the windows had been sealed tightly shut.
The walls were covered with pages of doctrinal texts on "purification" and "holiness," yet the words subtly conveyed a chilling sense of oppression.

More than ten young children knelt on hard, cold prayer cushions, mechanically and in unison reciting aloud:

“Fate markings are the marks of sin, and mystery is the art of corruption.”

"Only the Holy Mother bestows true miracles upon mankind."

"Heretics do not deserve to live."

The voice was flat and emotionless, echoing in the enclosed space, creating a brainwashing tremor like a spell.

Suddenly, a little girl slowed down a bit, and a corner of a folded life-patterned paper was faintly visible in her hand, which immediately caught the attention of the instructing nun.

The nun suddenly grabbed her wrist, her gaze cold and sinister:
Are you saying 'no' to the Virgin Mary?

Do you want to be swallowed by darkness?

The little girl shook her head and cried in terror, and the nun dragged her mercilessly toward the "purification room".

The moment the door opened, what came into view was a row of contemplative chairs that resembled instruments of torture.

The rings above were heavy and felt like iron, and the shackles were embedded in the cold floor.

Rex stood in the shadows of the distant corridor, watching this scene with an expression that remained calm and composed.
Only the fingers hidden in his sleeve gently caressed a tiny, hard fragment—the "dream lamp ash" that Celian had left him.

His gaze was as deep as the night, and he said softly:
“You are teaching them light.”

“And what I will teach them is how to kindle a flame.” Rex stood before the long stone platform in front of the altar, with only a single, dim oil lamp burning in the hall.

The faint light was swallowed up by the shadows cast by the high walls on all sides, barely illuminating a few faces, as if the whole world had retreated to the edge of the boundary between light and shadow.

This is precisely the traditional ritual practice of the Church of Our Lady, who firmly believe that only by placing oneself in a dim, "half-light" environment can one truly achieve the desired effect.
This is the only way to convey the metaphor that a new person in office has not yet been fully bathed in the light of the Virgin Mary.

Rex was dressed in a silver-white satin robe of the Holy Cube, with long sashes hanging down to his ankles.

His eyelids were lowered, his face humble and serene, as if his heart were truly as pure and flawless as the church hoped.

Only he himself knew that this docile demeanor was nothing more than an elaborately woven masquerade.

Surrounding him were six solemn-faced priests, each with an iron expression.

The thick scriptures were laid out before them, turned to pages filled with "recognition clauses".

Rex has successfully completed the assessments of dictating the "Three Virgin Marys' Temperament" and reciting the "Eight Sermons of the Gospel".

At this moment, the Chief Privy Councilor finally slowly raised his head, his voice like a whisper from the depths of an abyss, carrying an undeniable solemnity:
"Father Lester Will, a new member of the Royal Capital Evangelicals. From this moment forward, you will officially assume the authority of faith in the Twelfth Diocese."

“You will become the ‘tongue’, ‘hand’, and ‘fire’ of the Mother’s will in this area.”

Rex nodded slightly, his voice humble yet firm:
"Follow the Holy Orders."

The Privy Councilor took out a gold-plated ring from his sleeve and slowly handed it to Rex. The ring was faintly engraved with intricate runes and patterns, like a sleeping chain.

"This is your seal, symbolizing your independent authority within this parish to decide whether to send 'potential heretics' to trial."

Rex slowly and cautiously accepted the ring.

He knew very well that this ring meant more than just that he would become the most dangerous adjudicator in the Twelfth Parish.
It is also a powerful card that can shake up the entire church—although behind this card may lie flames that could burn him to ashes.

After the ceremony, an elderly priest walked up to Rex, his eyes filled with a rare gentleness and appreciation.

He whispered:
“Father Lester, you are one of the few young people I have ever met who are steadfast in spreading the gospel without being tainted by fate.”

"If you can stabilize the situation in the 12th diocese for three months, you will qualify for the 'deliberative watch list' for the following year, which is the best ticket to enter the cardinal's anteroom."

Rex nodded slightly, a smile playing on his lips. However, deep within his heart, only four hidden yet unambiguous words remained:

"Three months is enough."

He rode in a carriage to the core area of ​​the 12th Diocese of the Royal Capital, where a sign at the entrance of the alley read "Yong En," the handwriting faded like a weathered tombstone, as if history and memory had become blurred.

The sacred water canal flowing down from the sacred mountain in the west of the city branches off here, making this place historically regarded as "the area closest to the sacred water source".
The sheer density of believers' faith, like the echo of chanting, makes it easier for the church to transform it into a testing ground for the easy exercise of faith control.

The chapel Rex took over was not spacious, and its staff consisted of only two elderly priests and four young deacons.

But everyone's expressions became silent and somber because of the unexpected incident of the former priest's "mad self-immolation during secret prayer".

He slowly stepped into the church, looking around at the gloomy and somber little chapel.

The statue of the Virgin Mary behind the altar has not yet been fully restored; her face still bears the dark scorch marks left by the fire.

It was as if an unfinished trial was coldly watching over everyone who entered this place.

He stepped onto the pulpit, his palms resting lightly on the railing, which appeared somewhat fragile from the fire, and gazed at the empty church seats.

He spoke slowly, his voice calm and steady, yet carrying a barely perceptible sharpness:
“I am Father Lester.”

“From this day forward, I will listen to all your confessions.”

He paused for a moment, his gaze slowly sweeping across the empty wooden chairs, as if recounting a secret agreement to an unseen audience:

"I have come here to spread the Gospel of the Blessed Virgin Mary."

"However, if anyone attempts to conceal their destiny under the protection of the Gospel..."

A slight, enigmatic smile played on his lips.

"Rest assured, I will only help him—to weave even more intricate lies."

He turned his head, his gaze falling on the ring on his finger, the seal that symbolized the authority of the church, which he now regarded as a ticket to take the initiative on the chessboard of fate.

He whispered to himself:

"From today onwards, I finally have my own poker table."

"Their faith is in the Virgin Mary."

"And I will plant a true 'destiny' within this faith."

His voice was as soft as a whisper, yet as firm as a knife:
"The sacred door is never truly closed—it's just that once you enter, there's no turning back."

This silver inscription is inlaid above the main entrance of the Sixth Orphanage, deeply engraved into the cold stone slab, like a hymn to the boundless sky.

But at this moment, Elf, standing in front of the door, felt a chill slowly creeping up from her fingertips, like a black vine spreading quietly, coldly and silently wrapping around her heart.

She unconsciously tightened her grip on the cloth bag in her hand, inside which was a charm that her mother had sewn by hand the night before.

But the amulet, which carried maternal love and warmth, had just been confiscated without mercy by the nuns and thrown into the sacred fire to be "burnt into purity," leaving only a wisp of embers still carrying lingering warmth.

The ashes remaining in her palms had not yet completely cooled, but the words the nuns had repeatedly uttered during her entrance echoed in her mind:

"The flames of heresy must be extinguished with holy light."

That was the first sentence she heard when she stepped into this cold hall, and it was also the nineteenth whisper she was forced to listen to today.

Elf couldn't understand why her mother had sent her here. Her mother's voice still echoed in her ears, gentle yet resolute:

"This place can save you, make you forget the Morning Star, forget the Life Mark... those are just evil temptations."

But she remembered that on that dimly lit, dilapidated tower street, Si Ming had told her in the faint light of the night lesson:

"What you learn will not make you a god."

"But it will tell you that you should not become someone else's words."

She kept those words deep in the heart, like a spark waiting to be awakened by the wind.

However, the orphanage seems to be working to hollow out her heart little by little, trying to turn her into a shell that obeys the Virgin Mary's commands.

Meanwhile, deep underground in the orphanage, in the disciplinary corridor.

Alanhwin huddled in the shadows, pressed against the cold air tube. His breathing was so faint that it seemed to disturb not even the air itself.

The faint phantom of the "Sunwalker" was appearing behind him, suppressing his presence with the power of his life runes.

This made him blend into the shadows of the wall, undetectable to the church's perception.

He calmly gazed at the small room at the end of the corridor, the one called the "Correction Room".

Through the half-open door, illuminated by the dim light, Elf was kneeling before the cold stone platform.

Her arms trembled slightly, and two disciplinary nuns in silver-grey robes stood beside her. The one on the left held a "Life Mark Scraper".
Carefully and mechanically, they applied silver "holy seal powder" to her arm, inscribing a spell called "purity seal".

The man on the right holds the "sacred torch mallet," which gently taps her shoulder blade each time she can't help but tremble slightly.

The movement wasn't forceful, but the voice was deep and muffled, like repeated whispers of reproach, precisely eroding her will:

"You are trembling, which means you have not truly submitted yet."

"The Virgin Mary will not wait for your courage to slowly grow."

Their voices were soft, as if they were carefully washing a piece of porcelain that was considered to be flawed, so gentle that it was heart-wrenching.

Alan's fingertips were already deeply embedded in his palms, the life lines on his chest trembled slightly, and the whisper of the "Sunwalker," accompanied by a chilling killing intent, quietly sounded in his ear:

"They don't deserve to live."

Alan closed his eyes, forcing himself to slowly retreat and conceal his presence.

He remembered what Si Ming had said when he brought him here: "Protect her, now is not the time to fight back."

But every step he took backward felt like stepping on his own heart; it was a painful suppression and helplessness.

In the recitation hall of the orphanage, Elf rejoined the group and sat silently on the rows of chairs known as "memorization chairs".

Behind each chair hangs a locked "correction strap," ready to correct lost souls at any time.

The nun in front coldly recited the prayer, and the children were required to immediately repeat each line.

A boy hesitated for less than a second before the recorder next to him wrote it into the yellowed "hesitation file".
Another child who was secretly looking out the window was immediately and mercilessly pulled back into place by the straps, leaving faint red marks on his neck.

The nun explained gently:

"This is the layout of the soul."

“You are the Holy Mother’s scriptures, and any misspellings should be burned.”

Elf silently lowered her head and closed her eyes, but suddenly heard a familiar voice gently calling from the depths of her heart:

"You are not a scripture."

"You are... the author."

She suddenly opened her eyes, turned her head to look out the window, but there was nothing there.

But she knew that behind that shadow, Alan was surely watching her silently.

Just like that day, standing at the foot of the steps of the Morning Star newspaper office, he said firmly yet gently:
"If you fall, I will catch you."

A faint smile appeared at the corner of her lips, almost imperceptible.

Then, she lowered her head again, her lips moving slightly, and she recited softly.
But it was no longer the prayer of the Virgin Mary, but the first lesson that the God of Fate taught her during her nightly lesson on the markings of destiny:
"The world is an unfinished script."

"You are not lines—you are a pen."

In the distance, on the ceiling of the hall, is a huge fresco depicting the Virgin Mary holding an infant.

The Virgin Mary's gentle face now revealed an unusual compassion in the shadows, as if a faint trace of water slowly seeped from her empty eyes.

No one knows whether it was the relentless erosion of time or the genuine tears of the Virgin Mary.

No one knows whether what she is gazing upon is the so-called holy gospel or those inextinguishable flames.

Not all faiths save souls.
Some scripts are designed to seal you into someone else's story.

—Excerpt from "A Handbook for Observing Heretical Psychological Structures" (Cover Chapter)

(End of this chapter)