Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 407 The Arrival of the Yellow Robe
"The deepest fear does not come from darkness itself, but from the inability to be sure whether the light you see is just a lie."

—Excerpt from the Foreword to "The King in Yellow"

The mornings in Alleston are shrouded in a thick, dreamlike mist, flowing silently like a gentle yet cold hand.

By meticulously touching and concealing every inch of the scenery on Mirror Street, the familiar city takes on a strange and unfamiliar appearance.

In front of the Morning Star, acting editor-in-chief Hatton and three young editors stood on the steps with worried expressions, exchanging bewildered and uneasy glances.

Their gazes involuntarily drifted to the tightly closed door, as if it were no longer just the entrance to the newspaper office, but a bottomless abyss that devoured souls.

“Mr. Hatton, do we... really want to continue?” a young editor asked in a low voice.

His face was as pale as paper, revealing an undisguised fear. "Last night, the Inquisition arrested an entire bookstore, simply because they were keeping an old book involving mysticism..."

Hatton swallowed hard, his thick brows furrowed tightly.

He hesitated for a moment, then said in a slightly trembling voice, "But if we give up now, how will we face Lord Si Ming when he returns?"

The three fell silent, their gazes meeting silently in the thick fog, intertwined with helplessness and struggle.

Finally, Hatton took a deep breath, stepped forward, and forcefully pushed open the heavy, cold wooden door, stepping into this forbidden place where the apocalyptic judgment could be held at any moment.

Stepping into the newspaper office lobby, the familiar scent of paper and ink wafted over, and Hatton felt as if parched land had suddenly received a gentle nourishment, his previously anxious emotions calming down somewhat.

He looked up at the editor-in-chief's office, but a strange unease suddenly rose in his heart, as if some indescribable force was quietly approaching.

The moment Hatton pushed open the office door, he froze on the spot, his pupils dilating in astonishment as he stared at the familiar yet unfamiliar desk in the center of the room.

The editor-in-chief's office, which should have been empty, was now occupied by a black-haired young man from the East.

He lowered his head slightly, rested his chin on his fingers, and casually flipped through the manuscript papers on the table, as if he had never left the city.

"Editor-in-Chief... Your Excellency Siming? You're really back?" Hatton exclaimed incredulously, his voice trembling with a mixture of ecstasy and surprise.

Si Ming slowly raised his head, his dark eyes shimmering with a profound light.

A gentle, calm smile played on his lips as he said softly, "Yes, Mr. Hatton, I'm back. Would you mind if I moved back to this office?"

Hatton hurriedly shook his head, responding with a mixture of panic and awe: "No, no, Your Excellency, this place originally belonged to you... I am only temporarily managing it."

Si Ming nodded slightly, his tone calm and gentle: "Thank you for your hard work during this time, Mr. Hatton. Now, I'm back."

Hatton hesitated for a moment, as if he had something left to say, but in the end he bowed and withdrew.

As he walked out of the office with complex and indescribable emotions, the editors waiting outside looked up at him with puzzled and anxious eyes.

Hatton took a deep breath, the oppressive feeling in his chest suddenly vanishing, replaced by a rare excitement and relief. His voice tinged with barely suppressed joy, he announced to the crowd:

"Your Excellency, he has returned."

After a brief silence, a low but enthusiastic cheer erupted in the newspaper office lobby. The young editors looked at each other, a faint but firm flame of hope rekindled in their eyes.

“That’s wonderful… Morning Star’s soul has finally returned.”

In the editor-in-chief's office, Si Ming sat upright at a large desk, his long, pale fingers tapping lightly on the surface, as if playing a secret and eerie melody.

His gaze sharpened slightly, as if he were peering through layers of mist, scrutinizing the fate of the entire Areston.

Selene leaned back on the sofa in the corner, lazily squinting as she watched Siming, a smile playing on her lips, a mixture of mockery and amusement.
"Are you planning to continue using the Times' media to manipulate public opinion? Just like you saved Allison back then, to save that poor little princess again?"

Si Ming shook his head slightly, sighed softly, and a trace of barely perceptible pity flashed in his eyes: "No, this time, we will no longer use news to guide, but use stories to manipulate."

"A story?" Celian raised her eyebrows with interest, her eyes flashing with intense curiosity and excitement.

A mysterious smile appeared on Si Ming's lips. He took out a brand new sheet of paper from the drawer, deftly picked up a fountain pen, and silently began to write on the paper.

A few simple characters slowly emerged, the handwriting delicate and elegant, yet carrying an inexplicable magic and a sense of oppression:
"The King in Yellow."

Si Ming slowly put down his pen, his deep gaze fixed on the seemingly simple yet terrifying handwriting, a strange and dangerous smile gradually curving his lips.

"I hope Alleston's readers will enjoy this story."

Outside the window, the fog in Alleston grew thicker, and the eerie crimson moon peeked out from under the earth, as if silently awaiting a magnificent yet terrifying prelude to something to come.

The mornings in Alleston are always shrouded in a hazy and eerie mist, like a whispered murmur, slowly and somberly seeping into every street and alley.

Mirror Street is gradually becoming lively, with Morning Star newspaper boys waving newspapers and shouting:

"Morning Star Times! Editor-in-Chief Sir Ming's first issue since his return!"

White, the baker on the street corner, with his hands covered in flour, casually snatched a fresh newspaper from the newsboy.

His rough fingers turned the yellowed pages, but his expression quickly froze, his brows furrowing as if he had encountered some incomprehensible puzzle.

The newspaper prominently featured only a few lines of obscure and strange text:

"Our king arrives in his yellow robe, and the stars pale in comparison."

"He descended from Calxus, and the black stars fell silent."

"Above the lake, the two suns fall, and the spire of Kalxa rises."

"What nonsense..." White muttered to himself, suddenly feeling a cold sweat break out on his back.
The eerie script was like some ancient and evil spell, gently scratching at the depths of his soul.

Across the street, in a high-end clothing store, the young tailor Margaret was carefully taking measurements for a gown for the aristocratic young lady, Ruth.

Ruth held the Morning Star in her hand, her delicate brows furrowing slightly.

"Kalkasa? What is this place?"

Margaret glanced quickly at the words on the newspaper, seemingly inexplicably drawn to them, and absentmindedly murmured a sentence:
"The yellow robes are flying, and the world is about to wither."

Her voice was as soft as a midnight murmur, yet it made the entire room freeze instantly. Miss Ruth nervously pulled her shawl tighter and muttered a complaint:

"These are really unsettling things. How could the Morning Star publish such bizarre stories?"

However, Margaret did not respond. She simply stared blankly at herself in the mirror, a low, cold murmur echoing in her mind:

"Put on the pale mask, my servant, are you ready?"

Meanwhile, outside City Hall, Constable Robert was on his routine patrol. He idly glanced at the Morning Star at the newsstand, randomly flipping to a page:
"The king's face cannot be looked at directly; mortals can only see their own madness."

Robert suddenly felt a chill run down his spine, and his heart began to beat faster than usual.

He hastily closed the newspaper, shook his head self-deprecatingly, trying to dispel the inexplicable fear that suddenly arose in his heart. Looking up at the passersby, he suddenly felt that everyone's face seemed to be covered by a faint shadow, a shadow like a hidden and eerie pale mask, appearing and disappearing.

Joseph, a coachman on the street, casually stuffed the Morning Star into his pocket and chatted with the young passengers in his carriage as he drove.

“Look, the Morning Star Times is saying ‘Our King is coming in a yellow robe,’ which sounds rather mystical.”

The young passenger, who had initially been listening indifferently, suddenly trembled upon hearing the words "yellow robe," his eyes flashing with a mixture of fanaticism and fear, and he asked urgently:
"Yellow robe? You mean... the King in Yellow?"

Joseph turned to look at him, puzzled. "Yeah, what's wrong?"

The young passenger did not respond, but murmured: "Our king comes in a yellow robe, and the stars pale in comparison... This is not a story, but a prophecy."

The entire city of Alleston, regardless of wealth or poverty, is now shrouded in the same eerie story.

The return of the God of Destiny has turned the Morning Star Times into a vehicle for spreading mystery and fear.

On the streets and alleys, people whispered and discussed the strange content in the newspaper. Some laughed disdainfully, while others felt inexplicably uneasy, as if their hearts were being slowly eroded by a strange yellow hue.

The shadow of the yellow-clad figure, at an indescribable speed, quietly infiltrated the entire city.

In the editorial office of the Morning Star Times, Si Ming sat alone at a large desk. Faint yellow marks gradually appeared on the white manuscript paper in front of him. Those marks were like ancient runes written by an invisible hand in the void, eerie and profound.

The air in the room gradually stagnated, and the pale candlelight flickered slightly, illuminating the thick and strange yellow mist that filled the room.

The mist slowly writhed and coalesced into a strange figure clad in a tattered yellow robe, silently gazing down at Si Ming.

The God of Fate did not look up, as if he were already accustomed to the arrival of this indescribable being. He said with a soft smile:

"The stage is set in Alleston. Are you satisfied with the script?"

The figure in the yellow robe chuckled softly, the laughter seeping from the endless void, hoarse and chilling:
"Satisfaction? The lies of mortals are nothing but the wreckage of truth after it has faded."

Si Ming closed the manuscript in his hand, raised his eyes to gaze at the mask-like pale face, and spoke in a soft yet firm voice:
"But people need lies because they fear the truth."

Beneath the pale mask of the King in Yellow, two dark and cold red lights flickered faintly:

"Humans fear the truth because the truth is meaningless. The falling and rising of stars, the birth and destruction of destiny, are all nothingness."

Si Ming nodded slightly, rose and walked to the window, gazing at the city shrouded in thick fog outside, and said softly:
"It is precisely because of this nothingness that they are able to be led into the theater of fate. In today's Areston, the persecution by the Church has led people astray, and the sorrow in the air has made them more vulnerable..."

He frowned slightly and whispered:

"Although I still don't understand the source of this sorrow, it is now the perfect prelude to your entrance."

The figure of the King in Yellow gradually blurred, his yellow robes fluttering in the void like tentacles, followed by a cold whisper:

"The lies of mortals will eventually crumble before the truth of the past, and they will only see their own madness."

The room fell silent again. Si Ming stared at the pale yellow mystery card in his palm, his voice soft and deep:
"Since the truth cannot save you, then let falsehood rule everything."

The thick darkness, like flowing ink, completely engulfed Areston.

The blood moon struggled behind the clouds, its weak and trembling light filtering through the thick fog, seemingly about to be extinguished at any moment, like a dying soul exhaling its last faint breath.

Derek, an unassuming night watchman, patrols the Broken Tower Street at midnight with a dim lantern.

His steps were heavy, tinged with helplessness and weariness. The work of a night watchman was tedious and dangerous; he had never loved it, but for survival, he had no choice but to walk this gloomy road day after day.

The church bells tolled heavily and slowly at midnight, and Derek's steps came to a halt.

He looked up at the dark alleyway known as "Silent Alley." The dilapidated streetlights were long gone, and its depths resembled an abyss that swallowed light, as if concealing countless unspeakable secrets.

The "Silent Alley" was particularly eerie tonight, and Derek felt an indescribable unease welling up inside him.

Duty urged him to take a step, while inner fear held his feet firmly in check. He struggled for a moment, but ultimately succumbed to his duty and slowly walked into the darkness.

The alley was silent, with only his lantern casting a faint light that illuminated the blurry and distorted shadows on the wall.

However, just as he turned to leave, a low, hoarse murmur suddenly drifted from the depths of the alley:

"Above the lake, the two suns fall, and the spire of Kalxa rises."

The voice was ethereal and eerie, seemingly far beyond the stars, yet also whispering close to the ear.

Derek's spine was instantly chilled, his body stiffened like a puppet, and fear climbed up like a spider web, sealing his throat.

He tried to shout, but no sound came out. He could only stare in terror at the darkness that was gradually gathering at the alley entrance.

In the darkness, a tall and mysterious figure slowly emerged, as if stepping into reality from the end of the underworld.

It was a worn yet luxurious yellow robe, its tattered corners fluttering even without wind, like waves churning in a sea of ​​nothingness, slowly eroding Derek's remaining sanity.

Derek's pupils contracted sharply, his mind screaming for escape, yet his legs felt rooted to the cold, damp stone.

The figure in the yellow robe continued to approach, his steps slow and elegant, and the pale mask on his face gradually became visible.

The mask was expressionless, empty, and cold, yet it was like a mirror, reflecting Derek's deepest fears and madness.

Finally, He stopped at the end of the alley, with countless twisted black shadows rolling and tangling behind Him, converging into a boiling void.

Derek's consciousness gradually spiraled into a frenzy, and the countless whispers became clearer:
"My face is your destiny; my gaze is your end."

In an instant, the mask of the King in Yellow slowly peeled away, and Derek finally saw His true appearance—not a face, but endless nothingness and darkness.

It was an eternal abyss where destruction and madness intertwined. He felt his sanity collapse in an instant, his soul shattered like a canvas torn by a raging storm.

He tried to scream, but no sound came out. Tears mixed with blood streamed down his face, and he collapsed to his knees, his eyes completely unfocused.

The following morning, when people found Derek, he was slumped at the alley entrance, his cloudy eyes devoid of all light, filled only with eternal nothingness and delirious mutterings:
"He opened his eyes... the King in Yellow... saw me."

The residents of Alleston gradually realized that from that night onward, the city would never be able to return to its former peace and order.

An invisible fear spread like a contagious disease, casting an inescapable shadow in everyone's heart—the figure in the yellow robe had already quietly infiltrated everyone's dreams and reality.

The fog grew thicker, obscuring the glimmer of hope and swallowing up everyone's reason and courage.

—The King in Yellow has arrived.

"The real fear comes not from the known darkness, but from the fate you cannot escape."

—Excerpt from "The Song of the King in Yellow: Calxus"

(End of this chapter)