Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 345 Nameless Island, Bone Fire in the Snow

Not all snow extinguishes the fire.
Some of it is to make the fire burn longer.

—From the "Border Chapter" of the "Star Map Militia Assembly Book"

North of the foggy city, at the edge of the icy sea, an unnamed island is facing a long blizzard.

The snow began falling at dusk yesterday and has continued for a full thirty-seven hours without stopping.

It was no ordinary snow; it was more like a massive white catastrophe, as if it had been poured down by some indifferent deity, overwhelming the island with an irresistible force.

The thick snow covered every inch of the land, obscuring the past and seemingly sealing away the future of everyone on the island.

The fishing boat struggled to dock on the frozen pier, its planks creaking. The dockworkers walked forward silently, not one of them uttering a single word.

They carried the sailors, who were almost frozen solid, and placed them beside a fire on the shore.

A young sailor's cheek was pressed against the ship's railing, covered in large blisters from the cold, the blood congealed between the rust and ice crystals.

Another older veteran had already lost consciousness, his face ashen white. The man counting heads sighed and exhaled a chilling breath towards the gloomy sky:
"...If one or two don't die, it seems like God isn't really working."

Their words went unanswered; only the falling snowflakes silently swallowed them.

At the end of the pier stood a temple built of dark stone, with a small flame burning in front of it—the only public fire source on the island. This fire was the only remaining hope on this isolated island.

Baroque gently placed the frozen sailor beside the fire, then turned and carried the hypothermic, unconscious old soldier on his back, walking steadily into the temple.

There wasn't much snow on his shoulders, and his muscle lines were as clear as magma lurking beneath the ice field. Even though it was just a cloak worn by the wind and snow, it was enough to make those around him silently take a step back.

"Pour some herring oil into his mouth and rub his hands and feet until they are warm." Baroque's tone was calm and unquestionable.

A young boy frantically grabbed an oil bowl from the fire, his movements trembling, and almost spilled half a bowl of warm oil.

"Slow down." Baroque raised his hand and gently patted the top of his head, his voice gentle and low.
"This is not the first time we've been frozen, and it certainly won't be the last. As long as we don't collapse deep in the icy sea, we're still alive."

Beside the campfire, a young pirate muttered a complaint: "In such a blizzard, for the fleet to set sail is practically suicide."

The veteran beside him, his face grim, growled in a low voice, "Do you have the ability to feed over five hundred people, or do you possess some kind of secret that can prevent people from going hungry?"

The young man was about to retort when a deep, authoritative voice rang out, instantly silencing all the argument:

"enough."

Baroque stood up, the firelight dancing on his back. He didn't make a move, but an invisible power quietly emanated from his body, and everyone in the temple felt the oppressive force of his life runes trembling.

A faint blue light mark appeared on the skin behind his neck:
[Life-type High-level Mystic Card - Tidal Giant]

In that brief moment, the entire space seemed to freeze in the bitter cold.

He slowly walked to the fire, took out a bag of dried and blackened seal meat from his animal-hide backpack, cut it into small pieces with his hunting knife, and distributed it to the children who were shivering around the fire.

“Do not be afraid of this snow.” Baroque’s voice was soft, yet it seemed to be able to suppress the howling of the wind and snow. “The snow is not our enemy; it is just telling you that the world does not care whether you are alive or not.”

The children chewed silently, the dim firelight illuminating their thin but resolute faces.

A three-year-old girl, shivering from the cold, struggled to lift her head and whispered something:
“Brother Baro…”

"You are fire."

Baroque's gaze softened. He knelt down, carefully cradled the girl on his lap, and took out a small animal bone amulet from his pocket, gently hanging it around her slender neck.

“I am not fire,” he gazed into the girl’s eyes, his tone more solemn and gentle than ever before, “each and every one of you is the real fire.”

He paused, then said, "I'm just... the one responsible for protecting it and preventing it from going out."

He looked out of the temple gate; the overwhelming snowstorm was trying to engulf the entire island.

But the faint light of the flame flickered quietly in the children's eyes, stubbornly and tenaciously refusing the arrangements of fate.

Because as long as this fire continues to burn, the world has not been able to completely forget them.

The wind has not yet ceased, and the snowfall is still deep.

But the bonfire in front of the temple burned brighter than ever before.

It wasn't because there was plenty of firewood, but because someone was constantly adding those meager fuels, one by one.

In the flickering firelight, a low stone-roofed building could be seen emerging from the shadows behind the temple—a dilapidated meeting place hastily pieced together from sea animal hides and rusted iron plates.

It is respectfully referred to as the "Ship Council Hall".

That was the only place on the nameless island with a complete roof. During the day, it was used to distribute meager rations;
But after nightfall, it transforms into a place where everyone holds discussions.

Today's topics are three:
First, the rationing of food.

Secondly, whether to resume the plundering of the South Bay noble fleet.

Thirdly, the internal disputes between the third and sixth groups in Malinkou were coordinated.

Seventeen people sat around the hall, each with a different expression.

There are former imperial officers who once wore medals of honor, relatives of fallen nobles who were stranded here during the civil war, notorious pirate leaders, and abandoned soldiers who once bore the number of Whale Tomb.

There is no trust among them, so before each person speaks, they will consciously lift their sleeves or collars to reveal their own destiny mark or number, as if only in this way can they prove their identity and qualifications to each other.

However, although they did not trust each other, they all unconditionally obeyed one person:

Baroque.

At this moment, an old chief accountant who had once been in charge of provisions on a warship spoke first, his face grim.
His voice was low and hoarse: "Since yesterday, the food supplies for another thirty-seven people on the island have been cut. The catch of the fifth fishing group in South Bay is only one-third of what it used to be, and two ships are stuck in the ice field, so it's impossible to replenish them in the short term. Judging from the current stockpile of supplies, we will not be able to maintain a stable supply next month. I suggest—restarting the raiding of the South Bay noble fleet."

Some immediately agreed, believing that action was necessary.

But another military dependent immediately shook his head in rebuttal, his tone cold and hard: "If we plunder again, the black market supply channels will be completely cut off. The ships that attacked last time belonged to Viscount Zeen, and now the taverns throughout Fog City are saying that Nameless Island has become a den of 'anti-national soldiers'."

The third person sarcastically remarked, "Then let's just lay our cards on the table! We came to this island precisely to burn that kingdom's fleet, didn't we?"

Someone immediately responded with a cold laugh:

"How many secrets do you have? How many troops? How many foreign aids? Do you really think you can burn down the altar of the 'Mother of Fertility' with just that rusty knife and a few matches?"

The argument gradually escalated, and the entire ship's council chamber was plunged into noise and chaos.

Just as the atmosphere reached its most tense moment, a thunderous punch landed unexpectedly on the stone table.

With a loud bang, the metal pieces on the side of the table scattered and flew everywhere.

All sounds fell silent in an instant.

Baroque slowly rose to his feet. He wore a heavy animal-skin cloak, his face etched by the elements, as heavy as a sleeping iceberg suddenly awakening.

He didn't roar or howl; he simply swept his cold gaze across everyone's faces, his tone low and calm:
"What do you think we're discussing here?"

"Is it about allocating fish and meat? Setting up supplies? Fighting for a pitiful amount of say?"

His gaze, sharp as an icy blade, swept across every face: "Wrong."

“We are sitting here because each of us has been abandoned by the empire.”

“You are not fishermen, nor refugees, nor slaves.”

He spoke slowly, each word striking a chord in everyone's heart:
“You are the wronged souls who were once recorded on the ‘list of the dead’ but are still alive, the symbols whose names have been erased from the numbered cards, the living people who will not even be recognized by ‘military family pensions’.”

As he spoke, he tore off the protective sleeve on his left arm, revealing the number branded deep in his skin, still vividly red—the "identity" the empire had once given him.

The entire council chamber fell silent instantly, as if it were a deathly still place, and everyone's heart felt gripped tightly by an invisible force.

Baroque, however, did not stop; his voice became even more resolute and sharper.

"Alison is still alive because she is still useful. You are still alive only because you still have a question in your hearts—whether you can really pull this corrupt country back onto the right track."

He stretched out his hand heavily, pointing to the howling wind and snow outside the door, and continued, "The real enemy is not each other, not the lack of food, not the quarrels."

"It's the storm outside."

"It is the capital city in the distance."

"They are the 'protagonists' who sit in the center of the theater of fate, treating us as insignificant background figures."

An elderly military family member choked up and looked up, asking, "...But what else can we protect?"

Baroque lit the torch in his hand and planted it firmly in the center of the conference table. His voice was calm and profound, as if he were chanting some kind of mysterious incantation:

"From today onward, we will no longer live on the brink of starvation for supplies."

"We will unite for fire, and fight for destiny."

"We live in order to return to the stage of our destiny."

After a moment of silence, the first person stood up and threw the burning candle wick into the fire.

Then, the second, the third...

More and more people threw their candle wicks into the fire, and the flames gradually grew stronger, eventually coalescing into a dazzling display of light.

At this moment, no one argued anymore. Because everyone clearly remembered in their hearts:
They ignited more than just a fire.

Rather, it is a drama of rebellion against fate—

It is their own theater.

The fire rose, as if this nameless island had lit up its own theater for the first time.

early morning.

The snow was still falling on the island, but the wind had subsided slightly. Taking advantage of this moment of calm, the children slid down the hillside behind the abandoned military camp and started a chaotic game of "capture the flag."

They had no real flags, nor had they ever seen a real military flag. They simply used old military uniforms, tattered canvas, and discarded fishing nets, drawing fragments of stars and flames on them, and even imitating the blurry patterns on the Morning Star newspaper from their memories, to hastily create one.

A thin boy held a canvas with a red star on it high and shouted in a serious tone:

"We are the Morning Star Militia! Everyone, obey my orders!"

Another, slightly older child immediately retorted with a smile:

"Wrong! We are the Sea-Based Life Mark Army! Only we are the guardians of the flame!"

The girls gathered around, laughing and joking. Suddenly, the youngest of them puffed out her chest and shouted:
"You're all wrong! I'm Allison's adjutant, you're just her junk!"

They didn't really understand what the "Morning Star Militia" meant, nor had they ever actually studied any life rune military courses.

But they remembered someone telling them late at night: "Fire is not for sacrifice, but for lighting one another."

On a distant cliff, Baroque stood amidst the wind and snow, silently watching these children write a carefree yet tragic script with their laughter.

He remained silent throughout, clutching a worn object wrapped in coarse cloth tightly in his hand, as if holding a secret that had never been spoken.

After a long while, he slowly sat down and solemnly unfolded the cloth.

It was a faded old battle flag, with a crudely embroidered pattern of lanterns and star rings in the center, and below it written in crooked, old military coded script:

"Whale Tomb Remnant Army - Second Joint Group - Starlight Reserve Squadron"

This name was given by Allison herself, and it was also the first time that Si Ming was officially referred to as the "Second Vice-Chief".

Baroque's fingers gently traced the corner of the flag, as if touching a past that had not yet faded away.

Then, he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket—a draft of the star map structure that Si Ming had solemnly entrusted to him before leaving Jing Island. Although the ink on the paper was faint, the words were as heavy as lead:

You are not the fury in the storm.

You are the match that even the wind cannot extinguish.

But someone must hide you.

Baroque stared silently at the words, his gaze gradually drifting towards the distant dense forest. Hidden behind the snow and wind, someone was carefully hanging up rows of hand-painted flags.

The flag had no military insignia, no commands, and no religious significance; it was simply a sketch of stars drifting in the wind.

Some call them "remnants of a star map," while others whisper that they are "reflections before the flames are lit."

But Baroque knew that was a sign that they were about to step out of the background.

"Baroque".

His adjutant, Keith, approached through the frost, the snowflakes still clinging to the animal hides, his voice low and cautious:
"Our scouts in the north have reported that a church cargo ship flying a black flag will be passing through the waters outside Cape of Fire tomorrow night. Should we... launch a night attack?"

Baroque did not rush to answer.

He gazed at the flags waved and the slogans shouted by the children on the snow.
Gazing at the red lights swaying in the wind in the distance, he remained silent for a long time before slowly rising. His voice, like the tolling of a midnight bell, carried an irresistible authority within its calm:
"Do not let hatred ignite your fire."

"Let them understand that we will light the fire not for the sake of burning, but so that one day—we will no longer need fire."

He carefully wrapped up the flag corner that Allison had personally named, his voice even more resolute:

"Notify the training camp that the training schedule will be reduced starting tonight."

Keith paused, repeating the strange word:
"……reduce?"

Baroque nodded, his resolve as firm as a rock.
"Yes, let those people know that even if they throw us into darkness, we know how to light our own way."

Before nightfall, the wind and snow became even more ferocious.

The wooden stakes by the dock were covered in frost, resembling pale bones, and the entire island seemed to be gripped tightly by an invisible hand, with a suffocating silence filling the air.

"...The inventory of the grain warehouse is complete."

Keith flipped through the worn ledger in her hands, her voice hoarse, as if recounting some inescapable fate:
"Based on the current supply rations, if we can no longer obtain high-calorie food, the 227 people on the island will not last more than 53 days."

"Based on the snowstorm cycle, it will take at least another ninety days for this snowstorm to stop."

The ship's council chamber fell silent once more. This was the most difficult meeting yet, because there were no more arguments, no more disagreements.

Because everyone knows that the answer has been etched into the ice and snow of the island.

After a long while, Baroque stood up, looked up at the heavy snow outside the window, and murmured:
"To survive, you can only take one gamble."

His voice, like an ancient oath, echoed throughout the hall:

"We are not betting on the mercy of fate, but on the spark that is about to ignite in our own hands."

Because each of them knew that the fate of this island awaited their rewriting—

Even though the whole world has already decided to forget them.

So that night, the only remaining dilapidated ship on the island, the "Whale Roar," was towed out of the dock.

This is an old whaling ship that has been almost forgotten.

It has undergone countless modifications and repairs, its hull is covered with mottled rust, its mainmast is tilted, and the power plant under the bridge often hisses as if it might explode into a mournful cry in the icy sea at any moment.

The sails and flags on the ship had long since faded, and the only thing that could still be barely discerned was the character "whale" on the canvas, like a vow that had survived the storm.

But this Whale Roar is the only ship on the entire island that dares to sail into the depths of the icy abyss.

When Baroque stepped onto the deck, no one tried to stop him.

Not because he was the leader of this group of people abandoned by the empire, but because he was the only one on the entire nameless island who had ever truly ventured into that abyss that terrified everyone and returned alive.

People whispered that he had once personally severed the spine of a giant ice whale at sea, and that he had used his life runes to prop open the main beam of an enemy ship during an endless blizzard.

He was no ordinary sailor, nor simply a warrior; he was a man of steel born from the interplay of raging winds and towering waves, a sharp tooth left behind by the tides.

On the day of departure, the island was unusually quiet.

Outside the temple, by the bonfire, all the children on the island lined up in unison, silent like a group of little priests.

The elderly men silently and solemnly packed the last of their precious rations and small pieces of meat into the cabins of the Whale Howl. Their eyes held no fear, only a restrained and suppressed respect and anticipation.

As the rusty anchor was slowly pulled up, Baroque stood at the bow, wearing his worn-out cloak, his right hand steadily carrying a heavily engraved hunting rifle on his shoulder.

The wind howled past him, whipping snowflakes around him, yet his figure remained as still as a rock. He gazed at the fog-blurred dock, his voice deep and resonant, piercing the cold wind and echoing in everyone's ears:

"We are pirates."

"Born of the storm, we will also die of the waves."

His voice struck the hearts of everyone on the nameless island like a declaration, both a curse of fate and an unalterable vow.

No one spoke on the shore anymore.

An elderly military family member silently clutched the tattered corner of the Allison flag on his chest, his knuckles turning white.
The child beside her clutched the dream lamp pendant made of the Dream Wood carving tightly, as if holding onto a dream that he was unwilling to let go.

The silhouette of the Whale Roar gradually disappeared into the vast darkness of the night.

Just then, faint little lights slowly lit up along the coast.

They burned with a light as cold yet warm as ice, as if erecting tombstones for departing ships, or even as reciting unfinished vows for every survivor on the island who still awaits the dawn.

In the deepest part of the Whale Roar's cabin, Baroque silently and carefully placed a letter into his close-fitting leather pouch.

On this unsealed letter, there was only one very simple sentence left by the God of Fate:
We're not waiting for them to rescue us.

It was we ourselves who kept the fire burning until that day.

The Whale Roar finally merged completely into the darkness between the sea and the sky. The waves were still crashing against the cold hull, and the night sea never calmed down.

However, that dream lamp was never extinguished.

Because someone has already taken up arms and stepped into the storm, igniting a light in advance for all the fates to come.

Some seas are not for returning home.
It's to teach people how to cope with adversity.
"And they still dare to stand in front of the sail."

—From *The Ice Whale Chronicle: The Nameless Ship*

(End of this chapter)