Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 348 The People Under the Whip
"Star map, does not recognize surnames."

"Lifeblood, regardless of bloodline."

—From "Fate Marks and Power, Forbidden Page Twenty-Seven"

The thirteenth quiet island, the night like a dark curtain covering this secluded and lonely theater.

Inside the interrogation room, the stone walls are crisscrossed with carvings, like a script written repeatedly by the iron pen of fate.
The prison chair in the center stands silently between candlelight and shadow, like a cold throne awaiting the lead actor to take his seat.

The heavy doors opened, and a dark mist seeped into the corridor like a black veil.

Three guards stood solemnly before him, the hem of their crimson robes rippled softly like the tide, as if singing a song of blood to welcome their protagonist's entrance.

Following behind was a person wearing a long robe trimmed with purple and gold, whose steady steps echoed with a subtle sense of power.

He held no scepter, no cards, only a standard-issue sword that never left its sheath—its blade adorned with ornate yet cold silver-red patterns.

Just like his own destiny chart, it remains sealed to this day, never seeing the light of day.

Orion, the eldest son of Treion, first in line to the throne, and the unopened "Book of Destiny" of the Empire.

He paused before the prison chair, his gaze looking down at the young man in black robes sitting on it.

Si Ming sat quietly in the chair, his hands crossed on his knees, his expression calm, but his eyes did not lift up.

He stared at a cluster of embers that had not yet died out in front of his toes, as if a line from a play, never to be uttered, was hidden in that tiny flame.

Orion snorted coldly and waved his hand casually.

Two interrogators immediately stepped forward, each wielding a mysterious torture card. Flaming chains, carrying raging flames, crashed down, determined to burn through the will of the executioner.

However, in the next instant—

"Snapped!"

The fiery chain crashed down, but only struck a wisp of smoke and mist.

The person who had been sitting there had long since vanished without a sound, leaving only the burning chair making an empty, rattling noise and spewing out pitch-black smoke.

At the other end of the hall, a newborn figure quietly appeared. Si Ming leaned against the corner of the wall, a slight smile playing on his lips, his voice low and clear:
"That 'I' was afraid of pain, so before leaving, he asked me to convey his gratitude to His Highness."

The interrogator was taken aback. Orion's face instantly turned ashen. He gritted his teeth and waved his hand again, unleashing another chain of fire that swept across the area.

"boom!"

Another afterimage vanished into thin air, black ink splattering across the ground, while the new Fate Master calmly sat down beneath the torture rack, gazing up at the candle flames with a slight smile:
"The flames are beautiful, but your script is far too boring."

"How dare you humiliate me?" Orion's forehead veins bulged, and his voice was almost squeezed out from between his teeth.

Si Ming's smile remained unchanged, but his tone became even gentler:
"I'm just doing you a favor, Your Highness. You want a good show, so I'll give you a few supporting actors."

"However, this script is really boring—it's time to find someone else to write it."

These words pierced Orion's pride like a nail. Enraged, he snatched the fire chain and slammed it down:

"Who do you think you are? A street urchin, a lowly storyteller who makes a living by spreading rumors!"

"You are nothing but a pen! A pen only fit to write eulogies for me!"

He took a furious step forward, his roar a madness born of power anxiety and self-doubt:

"I am the prince of Trelian, the heir to the First Destiny Chart, and the only legitimate future monarch of the Empire!"

"And you, Si Ming, you only deserve to kneel at my feet and lick the dust off my boots!"

"How dare you, a lowly scoundrel, look at me like that?!"

The God of Fate remained silent throughout.

He simply raised his head slowly, gazing at the out-of-control eldest prince with a calm yet almost cruel look.

Orion froze abruptly, his steps halting abruptly.

He was suddenly struck by the realization that there was no awe, no fear, and certainly no subservient obedience in those eyes.

He suddenly realized—Si Ming had never truly been looking at him.

The only thing that Si Ming could see was the precarious "crown" on his head.

Only then did he realize that the crown had long since lost its weight.

But the voice of the God of Fate rang out again, as if in a whisper, yet it was firm and resounding:
"Do you know, Orion?"

"The dignity of a king does not depend on the throne he sits on."

"It depends on whether someone is willing to write praises for you when you command the world to submit."

As soon as the words were spoken, the candlelight flickered suddenly, as if gently brushed by an invisible hand of fate.

Inside the interrogation hall, the "script" that the diviner had repeatedly written was slowly being overturned, opening a new chapter.

"What are you afraid of?" Si Ming's voice was deep and slow, yet it was as clear and unforgettable as a brand embedded in the texture of the air.

"Are you afraid you're unworthy to be king? Are you afraid that if you come into contact with the Destiny Chart before even ascending the throne, you'll forever lose that so-called 'three-card inheritance right'?"

"Or are you afraid that you won't even be able to ignite a single star?"

He slowly raised his right hand, and in his palm, the life lines lit up one by one like stars in the night sky.

Deep and cold, the eleven stars of reason spun like the Milky Way, their glow eclipsing the light in the dim candlelight.

The Master's tone remained gentle as ever, yet every word struck Orion's heart like molten gold and splashing iron.

"You think power belongs to you only because of the crown you wear that is not yet secure."

"But I'll tell you, power doesn't recognize crowns. It only recognizes—who is truly burning."

"Shut up!" Orion suddenly shouted, his voice sharp yet fragile, like a sword blade that had just broken.

He stood between the brazier and the torture table, the flames illuminating his pale and grotesque face.

His right hand gripped the unsheathed sword tightly, the veins on the back of his hand bulging, and he trembled slightly.

He stared at the eleven star-shaped life patterns burning in Si Ming's palm, as if he could see the pinnacle of destiny that he could never reach.

He gritted his teeth, forcibly suppressing the anger and fear surging within him, and forced himself to put on the mask of the imperial heir again.

"The reason I haven't ignited the star map isn't out of fear." Orion finally regained his composure, his voice cold and resolute:
"I am the son of Treion, and my destiny belongs only to the throne."

"The stars in your hands are merely sparks stolen by commoners, power misused. Only my bloodline, my name, are worthy to bear the true flame of mystery."

Si Ming gently blew on the dazzling stars in his palm, as if blowing away a wisp of dust. He remained silent, but his eyes turned slightly cold.

Orion continued to whisper, his tone growing increasingly sinister and cold:
"You think the Mysterious Cards changed the world? You're sorely mistaken."

"It is nothing more than a temporary drama, a toy illusion given to the lower classes to play with."

"When I ascend the throne and the Three Kings Cards return, I will rewrite the mystical arts with the 'Royal Decree'—"

"Fate markings are determined by bloodline, and the mysteries belong only to the chosen nobles."

“I will personally extinguish those so-called ‘fires of liberation’ and rebuild this out-of-control world into a stable and orderly cage.”

He slowly took a step forward, his gaze like a blade piercing Si Ming, his voice low and hoarse, almost a roar:
"You think that the flames of unrestrained writing symbolize freedom? You're wrong."

"Your fire will only burn this world to ashes. Only we, the blood of nobles, know when to extinguish the flames."

The interrogation room fell into a chilling silence, with only the flickering candlelight breaking the silence.
The firelight cast two intertwined shadows on the wall, as if even the air itself was waiting for Si Ming's response.

Si Ming remained silent for a long while, then finally looked up, his gaze calm yet sharp:
"You've been wrong about one thing all along."

"You think the scepter in your hand and your bloodline can decide the fate of fire, but you've forgotten—"

"The stars are never bound by a piece of paper bearing a surname."

"Flame was never born for any throne."

He lightly lifted his fingertips, and the star chart in his palm suddenly brightened like the rising sun, its aura heavy and chilling:
"You are neither the master of fire nor the weaver of destiny."

"You are just someone who stands in the face of a storm, afraid to ignite your own sorrow."

Si Ming stared directly at him and sighed softly:

"Orioun, what you fear has never been the fire in my hand."

What you fear is that you will never be able to ignite yourself.

In an instant, all the candlelight in the room flickered, as if the curtain of a theater were slowly falling.

Si Ming slowly rose to his feet.

His eleven star-shaped markings descended like stars, illuminating the stone walls of the entire interrogation hall with a distinct and cold light, like the curtain slowly rising on a hidden theater.

His voice was calm and silent, as if he were narrating a pre-written script:
“I’m not surprised at all.”

"Because I already knew—your destiny chart is indeed empty, without a single star in sight."

"It wasn't your choice not to light it up."

"The point is that you have no idea what kind of world you will face after you ignite it."

He slowly raised his left hand, and a card silently emerged from his palm.

That is “the master of destiny, the one who weaves the thousand faces of destiny”.

The card's light, like candlelight, intertwined with the phantoms of hundreds of faces, slowly emerging behind him, like the silent gaze of countless ghosts fixed on Orion.

Siming continued:

"You stand outside the flames, examining the bodies scarred and bruised by the fire."

"You have never paid any mysterious price, yet you righteously proclaim yourself the master of the power of fate."

“You have spent your whole life practicing how to sit on that empty throne, yet you are completely unaware of it—” “In the true world of destiny, that throne has long been irrelevant to those without stars.”

Orion clenched his teeth, his knuckles protruding like knives.

He wanted to roar, to draw his sword, to slay the usurper of fate before him.

But when his gaze fell upon the stars in his superior's palm, as dazzling as the sky, he couldn't find a single word to refute them.

Because in this theater illuminated by the stars—

He wasn't even a real character.

The God of Fate stared at him, and finally spoke softly in an almost judgmental voice:

"You are not worthy to negotiate with fate."

Orion's trembling fingertips suddenly gripped the sword hilt, his lips pressed into a pale line.

He desperately tried to find a word that could maintain his noble status and salvage his shattered dignity.
But he discovered that his language had been mercilessly emptied by this dazzling star map.

But Si Ming did not wait for his response any longer.

Si Ming stepped forward, like a lecturer in a night class, his voice unhurried yet carrying an undeniable power of destiny:
"You said that fate markings are a clown's script, a vain carnival for ordinary people."

"But have you ever thought that the Mysterious Ghost never asks anyone about their 'origins'? It only asks you—'Do you dare to ignite a star'?"

He spread his arms wide, and the Destiny Chart unfolded completely behind him, with eleven stars blazing forth, as dazzling as a vast galaxy, as if the entire universe was cheering for his words:

"You think a crown equals power? You're wrong."

"The crown is nothing more than the historical remnant of power structures."

"And mystery is fire, language, and the intertwining of chaos and order."

"It is the 'right to rewrite' that fate bestows upon all awakened ones."

He turned to look at the still-burning brazier on the wall:
"Fire never waits for others' approval."

"From the moment the first one from the lowest ranks ignites their life runes, they no longer need to wait for your blessings."

"You may deny the fate markings, but the fire will eventually burn you to the ground."

He looked at Orion again, his voice softening slightly, as if giving final instructions to a headstrong student:

"You call me a lowly person."

"But I am a 11th-starred being, while you have not even lit a single star."

"You consider yourself an aristocrat."

"But the Book of Mysteries has never acknowledged someone like you who survives in the shadows of the court solely through bloodline."

His gaze gradually cleared and intensified, as if the gates of destiny were slowly opening, finally revealing the river of fate:
"In the face of destiny, the so-called noble and lowly are nothing more than an unfinished script."

"Only those who dare to finish writing the script deserve to be called real characters."

Orion finally took a step back.

This retreat wasn't out of fear, but because he finally understood something—

He has already lost the right to speak with the God of Fate.

In this theater belonging to those with destiny markings, he could only become a spectator.

Siming slowly put away the star chart, his voice low and lingering:
"You said that only those without stars deserve the throne."

"Then, let me ask you one more question—"

"And how can you be sure that the one truly chosen by fate isn't the one who dares to burn themselves out?"

As the brazier gradually died down, Siming's figure disappeared into the deepening darkness, as if the curtain of a theater were slowly falling.

The light of a thousand faces gradually faded, and the interrogation hall returned to silence, leaving only the heavy and humiliating sound of Orion's footsteps.
Accompanied by resentful anger and unspeakable fear, it gradually faded into the distance.

He seemed to have just gone through a trial he never had a chance to win, yet he didn't even dare to admit whether he had lost.

The door slammed shut.

The vast space fell into an abyss of silence, like an empty theater after a grand opera has ended and the audience has left.
Only that faint but tenacious spark remained, as if still whispering:
"The protagonist of this world is never determined by the crown."

At the end of the corridor, a very light and slow tapping of heels could be heard.

The voice seemed to emanate from a stage in the abyss, carrying an indescribable solemnity and repression.

As moonlight slowly seeped through the narrow iron-framed window, it outlined a slender and solitary figure—

Liseria.

She wore neither royal robes nor a crown, but only a plain, dark blue casual dress.
His life line shimmered like a morning star on his chest, and his gaze was serene yet deep, like an ancient, cold pool.

She slowly emerged from the shadows, pausing where the God of Fate had stood, and gazed at him for a long time without uttering a word.

After a long silence, Si Ming finally turned his head slightly, his voice low and slow, like the opening remarks of a drama of fate:

"Was that... really your brother?"

Liseria nodded gently, a hint of weariness and bitterness appearing in her eyes:

"Yes."

"But also a stranger to me... throughout my entire life, someone I can never touch."

She stepped forward, her voice low, like a candle flame flickering in the wind:
"You humiliated him tonight."

"If he truly ascends the throne, everything that happens tonight will be etched into his map of hatred."

"Both of us will become rebels in his eternal memory."

Si Ming did not respond immediately.

He simply sat down quietly, leaning against the back of the chair that had been worn smooth and hard by countless prisoners.

Looking up at the moonlight streaming in, his eyes shimmered with tiny, icy glimmers.

"In that case, don't let him ascend the throne."

His casual remark seemed to carry a thousand pounds of weight, directly crushing her most sensitive wound.

Si Ming slowly straightened up, his gaze suddenly becoming serious:

“You know very well how he will treat this capital once he is crowned.”

"You know very well how the mysteries and life runes will be burned to ashes."

"You also know that the flame that will eventually consume everything has already been lit."

Liseria lowered her eyes, her long eyelashes trembling slightly, as if fate were whispering an irresistible secret in her ear:
"I never wanted to fight for the throne."

"I just want to be a teacher quietly."

"I just want to take Marlene to a small classroom on Broken Tower Street and finish teaching the next lesson on lifeline calculation."

Si Ming gently shook his head, his voice containing no blame, only a deeper, more piercing sorrow:
But if you don't fight—

"The flame will be engraved into the Sacred Flame Law, becoming a judgment, a doctrine that can never be extinguished."

"If you don't fight for it, your students will only turn into a handful of ashes unknown to anyone under the sacred flame."

A long silence descended like a tide, weighing heavily on the air between them, as if fate were silently watching their conversation.

Finally, she asked softly, her voice as faint as a drizzle in the wind:
"And what about you, Si Ming? Will you sit on that throne?"

Si Ming smiled.

His smile was extremely faint, yet his eyes gleamed with a cold, sharp light like stars, carrying a sharpness more piercing than silence itself.

"Me? I'm just a screenwriter."

"My mission is simply to write a script that even a king wouldn't dare to read aloud on stage."

He got up and walked slowly past her, his footsteps gradually fading into the darkness.

At the doorway, he stopped, turned around, and spoke in a low voice, as deep as snow falling at night, yet with a chilling clarity:

"Whether it's you or Edel."

"If you ultimately refuse to ascend that throne, then your brother and sister will, with blood and ashes, destroy the entire capital—"

"Completely ignited."

Liseria slowly raised her head, gazing at his figure as it gradually disappeared into the darkness.

On her chest, the life mark flickered like a faint but inextinguishable dream lamp, as if the play had not yet ended, and she had to make her own choice.

The air in the corridor grew increasingly heavy and solemn, as if a script had already begun, and she finally rose from the audience and stepped onto the stage from which she could not escape.

The door slowly closed.

But she knew that this time it wasn't just the door that was being closed.

Moreover, the thin veil disguised as peace between her and fate finally burned away completely, revealing the truest flames and ashes.

The curtain falls on the theater, but the stage remains open; the stars of destiny will eventually choose their successor.

"Some kings are not chosen by fate, but because they are a step behind fate."

—Quoted from "Records of the Foggy City: Fragments of the Throne: Anonymous Annotations"

(End of this chapter)