Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 412 Beneath the Yellow Robe, No One Returns

"Human reason is but a thin veil, obscuring the abyss of truth. And in that abyss, the sovereign in yellow robes stands silently."

“We whisper His name, yet we do not know that He has awakened from our dreams.”

"The yellow dress dances in the night, the truth festers on the paper, and the script of fate is never written by man."

—Excerpt from *The Yellow-Clad Apocalypse: The Curtain Breaks*

Late at night, Morning Star Times.

The entire building seemed sealed by a sea of ​​fog, submerged in silent dampness. The streets were deserted, and the dim light of oil lamps struggled to shine through the windows, as if they might be swallowed up at any moment.

The only light on was in the editor-in-chief's office.

Si Ming sat at his desk, his fingertips tapping rhythmically on the wooden table, as if he were playing an unwritten piece of music.

The roar of the printing press had long since ceased, yet he hesitated to pick up his pen.

The air was filled with the smell of dried ink, mixed with the dampness of old paper—the smell was particularly strange tonight, as if it had been dyed with some color that did not belong to reality, with a fishy sweetness and a faint golden hue.

His gaze was fixed on the pristine white paper, as silent as a sealed bell.

—Until a sudden "click" sounded.

The sound came from the end of the corridor, crisp and abrupt, like some forgotten mechanism awakening tonight.

Si Ming frowned, quietly got up, and silently stepped into the corridor.

The printing press at the end was running slowly—the gears were spinning, the paper roll was whirring, and no one was operating it; it was like a huge, heavy heart breathing in the night.

"I didn't write it."

He muttered to himself, returned to the table, and noticed a new line of unfamiliar words on the original manuscript:

"The yellow robe murmured in the night, He entered the city, He entered the dream. From this day forward, the will of our king is everywhere."

The ink was not yet dry, but the characters seemed to have seeped into the paper's fibers, wriggling slightly. Si Ming reached out to touch them, his fingertips trembling.

Immediately, a sample sheet sprayed from the printing press floated down to his feet.

The logo of "King in Yellow" on the paper has lines that are slowly twisting, like the tendrils of the yellow-clad king breathing beneath the paper, shimmering with an indescribable luster.

He stared at the patterned shadow, as if he could see it crawling out of the paper, casting a swaying shadow onto reality—blurry, eerie, yet chillingly real.

A gust of cold wind slipped through the cracks in the tightly closed window, blowing up the manuscript papers scattered on the table.

Thin paper flutters, like a silent school of fish swimming, overlapping into an invisible whisper—silent and gentle, yet enough to grind down a fragile spirit.

Si Ming slowly sat back in his chair, lowered his eyes, and held his pen. In the flickering candlelight, the tip of the ink gleamed coldly.

He knew very well that he was no longer the only narrator—someone was writing another script for the city through his hands.

As the pen tip touched the paper, the four characters slowly took shape:
The King in Yellow.

The candlelight in the Morning Star went out with a final soft thud, and darkness fell like a curtain.

The old clock on the wall ticked away, as if setting the opening beat for an unseen drama.

Suddenly, a crack appeared in the fog outside the window—silent and invisible, yet it seemed to cleave the air.

Seconds later, a dark figure pierced through the fog and entered the room. A cloak billowed on the ground, and his eyes were like two blood-red roses blooming in the shadows.

"You've finally arrived." Si Ming's voice was calm, without looking up.

Selene chuckled. "I've said it before, you always take too long to write stories. But tonight... the story just started moving on its own."

She placed a stack of sample copies on the table, then took out a page of secret letter from her bosom—the ink was still wet, the edges were yellowed, as if it had been copied by trembling hands.

“There’s a rumor going around in the church lately,” she said in a low voice.

Some say that Queen Medici is the earthly embodiment of the King in Yellow.

Si Ming's brow twitched slightly, and he finally looked up. The candlelight ignited a dim reflection in his pupils.

“Interesting.” He tapped his fingertips lightly on the table, his voice deliberately calm.
“I did write the story—the characters, the world, the gods, even the whisperer called ‘Yellow.’ But I never wrote who He was.”

"Do you think they came up with it themselves?" Celian leaned back in her chair, a smile in her eyes.

"It's no coincidence that you possess the Yellow King's Mysterious Card, the kind of power that allows fiction to infect reality."

Si Ming was silent for a moment, then smiled. That smile held the danger and excitement of a gambler revealing their hand.

"It can't be a coincidence. That's not their imagination—someone is leading them to think that way."

“Rex?” Selene immediately caught the name.

“He understands the cracks in the church better than I do, and he knows better how to ignite the fuse of lies into the powder keg of power.”

Si Ming's voice was low and deep. "If he has used the 'Yellow Robe Myth' that I have constructed, it means that he is aiming his fear in one direction: the divinity of the Queen."

Selene's lips curled into a smile: "Turning the Virgin Mary into the King in Yellow? What a brilliant irony."

Si Ming nodded slowly and said in a low voice, "If the people begin to suspect that Medici is the Yellow King who blasphemes the Virgin Mary... those within the Church who still believe in the Virgin Mary's teachings will be pushed into the abyss of faith."

“What religion cannot tolerate most is not heresy,” his gaze turned cold, “but the corruption of God himself.”

He pushed open the window, gazing at the streets shrouded in fog, his voice so soft it was almost a soliloquy:
“Rex handed me the script… Now, it’s my turn to lift the curtain.”

He withdrew his gaze, a cold light reflecting in his dark pupils:
"Let them see—the man in yellow is walking through the city."

"The fire of rumors will spread to the foot of the altar."

The night swallowed the world outside the window, like a curtain soaked in ink pressing down on the city's rooftops.

Deep within the underground typesetting room of the Morning Star, the roar of the printing presses sounded like a distant heartbeat—rhythmic yet with unsettling pauses.

Each meshing of the gears is like rehearsing the opening act for an unseen stage.

Si Ming sat in the editor's office, a blank sheet of paper spread out before him, like a page of destiny yet to be written. He picked up his pen, dipped it in ink, and wrote the title:

The King in Yellow: Act III (Theater)

What followed was not news or rumors, but a poem that wandered between terror and symbolism.

His pen is not narrating, but weaving an invisible net.

It was a capital city where daylight never came; mist clung to the streets like ribbons, twisting them into a winding dreamscape.

In that country, the crown is not worn on the head, but nailed into flesh and blood, becoming the mark of God.

The same whisper echoed in the ears of every worshipper: "The King in Yellow has returned; He sits on His throne, His face is not to be looked at, His will is destiny."

The city rotted under His gaze. The rose window of the church shattered into pieces, and the reflection in the broken glass was not the smile of the Virgin Mary, but a pair of eyes stained yellow with blood.

A young monk once glimpsed the depths of the palace—in the sealed underground chapel—where the queen beneath her crown pierced her palm with a long golden nail and sprinkled her blood onto thirty-three white candles.

He wanted to escape, but found that he had already stepped into the land of yellow robes—a stage with no way out.

"You are an actor, and you are also an audience member," the voice whispered in his ear.

"The script is finished, you're too late."

This story was inserted by Si Ming into the upcoming special issue of Yellow Robe, placing it between editorial and commentary—it is neither a novel nor a commentary.

He understood that this thing wouldn't immediately set the entire city ablaze, but it would seep into people's dreams:

While washing ritual vessels, while kneeling before sacred images, and in the flickering shadows of the night, they would see that inescapable image deep in their minds—

The queen sat on her throne, her yellow robe draped over her shoulders, her face obliterated by flames, leaving only an unbearable void.

This is not an accusation, but an instillation of an impression.

“The most ingenious thing about a lie,” Si Ming whispered, “is making you believe it yourself.” He picked up the sample copy and shook the corner of the paper. The soft sound was like the curtain slowly rising in a play.

Behind them, a night breeze suddenly slipped in through the window cracks, causing the slightly ajar window paper to rustle.

The poster of the King in Yellow in the corner trembled slightly, and the tentacles in the design seemed to move slightly—or perhaps it was just an illusion caused by tired eyes.

The fog outside the window grew thicker, as if it were seeping out from between the pages of a book.

The atmosphere in the editorial office was heavy and stagnant.

Si Ming sat upright at the table, his fingertips tapping lightly on the wooden surface, his eyes fixed on the flipping newspaper.

The "King in Yellow" series of articles has been laid out, and at his command, the printing department will send them to thousands of homes.

However, he did not rush to confirm.

His gaze lingered on the newly added illustration—one that didn't belong to his original concept.

"She sat on the throne, wearing a yellow robe, surrounded by smoke, her face obscured."

This detail appeared on its own during printing for some unknown reason.

The mask-like pattern of the yellow robe, whose lines were originally calm, now slowly twisted on the paper, as if blown by an invisible breath, bulging and collapsing.

Si Ming frowned slightly, a chill creeping up his spine from the bottom of his heart—it was an unexpected stirring, a will that seeped from the paper into reality.

“It seems…” he murmured, “that our script has begun to turn its pages by itself.”

Sally stood quietly to the side, her gaze never leaving the piece of paper.

After a long silence, she finally spoke: "Is this the effect you wanted? To make them believe—that Medici is the Queen in Yellow?"

Si Ming did not answer immediately, but instead picked up the newly formatted manuscript and slowly examined each word:

“I’m not asking them to believe who she is. I’m guiding them to question everything they think is true.”

Selene leaned down, her gaze falling on the words, her lips twitching almost imperceptibly:

"But you know, lies don't flow like water. They spread and take on shapes you can't predict."

Si Ming smiled slightly, his expression calm to the point of being cold:
"Disaster is at the heart of the story. The believers standing before the altar, are they weeping because their faith has been destroyed?"
Or is it because their hearts are already empty, yearning for a lie to fill that void?

"What do you want?"

Selene finally asked, her voice low and cautious, "You don't just want to create fear, you want them to drown in it—until they can't find the shore."

Si Ming looked at her, a bottomless light surfacing in his eyes:
“I want to free them from the cage of ‘reality,’ to use the sharp blade of fiction to cut through the shroud of fate, and to let them see a world that is not controlled by any god or any law.”

Selene's gaze wavered slightly.

She didn't press the matter further, but for the first time, she wondered in her heart whether Si Ming could truly grasp this thread and prevent it from getting tangled up around her.

Si Ming lowered his eyes, and a gentle yet mysterious smile slowly curved his lips, as if he were whispering to the entire city.

He reached out and lightly tapped the cover of the special edition of "King in Yellow".

"The King in Yellow, this name is no longer just a fictional monster. It will become the banner of Alleston... and its epitaph."

A cold wind swept by, carrying with it unseen saltiness and decay.

It was as if something was already roaming in the air.

"Let them get lost in the fog." Si Ming's voice was low and deep, like a declaration from the shadows at the edge of a stage, "The truth hidden in the fog is always more terrifying than the light."

Celian smiled slightly: "Then let's see if Alleston will collapse on its own in this fictional disaster."

She turned and left.

Only Si Ming remained in the office. The cover on the desk gleamed in the dim light—the texture of the yellow robe undulated gently, as if uttering an unfinished incantation.

Si Ming gazed at it, a complex smile playing on his lips: "Yes... the Yellow King will write the fate of Alleston for me."

Early in the morning, before the fog had dissipated, the 1157th issue of the Morning Star Times was swept up by the wind and fluttered in the air.

On the metal newsstand, the cover of the special issue stood out in the dim light—a blurry yellow robe stood atop a dark tower, with the familiar silhouette of the royal palace in Areston in the background.

The title casts a shadow over the paper:

"The King in Yellow: A Legendary Lie, or the Truth That Is Approaching?"

On Pota Street, an old shoemaker with a deeply lined face looked up at the morning newspaper in his hand. He was illiterate, but he recognized the pictures.

That pointed roof, that blurry face, that inexplicably unsettling yellow robe... it seems I've seen it in a dream before, or perhaps it's a memory from something that never happened.

“Isn’t this… Her Majesty the Queen?” he murmured to himself.

No one answered; only the wind howled from the direction of the palace, whipping up tattered newspaper pages that danced wildly in the air like countless shattered vows.

Inside a carriage in the noble district, a young duchess was flipping through a special issue containing a strange tale, her face growing paler and her fingertips trembling slightly.

The yellow-robed king in the story is silent and indifferent, writing the script of fate with an indescribable hand, which irresistibly reminds one of the queen's eyes that scrutinize all living beings.

“She…” the Duchess whispered almost inaudibly, “never belonged to our time.”

In front of the city hall, a street performer reads a passage from a newspaper to onlookers in an exaggerated tone:
"He sat on the throne, his face covered by a mask, and he did not utter a word."

He doesn't rule the people; he only writes the script.

And you and I are merely characters in this play.

Among the crowd, some sneered, some remained silent, and some quietly left with solemn expressions, as if the sentence had left a mark on their hearts.

Inside the church's high walls, the holy emblem hanging on the bell tower lost its clear outline in the morning mist.

A young clergyman bowed his head and carefully cut out the silhouette of a yellow robe from the Morning Star newspaper, tucking it into his prayer book.

He couldn't explain why, but he felt that the image was closer to "reality" than any icon—a terrifying yet irresistible reality.

On this very day, "The King in Yellow" was first whispered among people in the form of "real-life rumors":
"Have you heard? That's not a fictional story... The King in Yellow really exists, and he's right here in the palace."

"You mean...the Queen?"

Shh! Don't say it!

The lie was born in the blood of this city, but it was not treated as a lie. Instead, it seeped into people's hearts as if "the truth is yet to be spoken."

It grows quietly, twisting and spreading, like a highly poisonous seed nurtured in the yellow fog—once it sprouts, it cannot be uprooted.

On the top floor of the Morning Star, Si Ming stood in the wind, overlooking Alleston, which stretched out like a chessboard at his feet.

The mist swirled, like a tangible hand caressing the streets and alleys. He closed his eyes, as if conversing with the entire city:

"The line between falsehood and truth is very thin. As long as one person believes it, the lie becomes the truth."

He turned and left, leaving behind the almost sarcastic words on the paper:

"The King in Yellow is not Him, the King in Yellow is you."

As the fog thickened, the bells rang out, low and long, like an invisible elegy before dawn.

It penetrates stone walls and alleyways, striking every soul in Alleston that is still asleep or has begun to doubt.

"Reality is nothing more than a fiction that is accepted by enough people."

"The yellow robe fluttered in the wind, and no one recognized the face beneath the mask."

"If you are still searching for the true name of the King in Yellow, then look down—aren't those hands that wrote the script already held in your heart?"

—Excerpt from *Morning Star Mystery Theater: The Alleston Lies*

(End of this chapter)