Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 413 The First Act of the Theater
"Have you ever dreamed of the king under the yellow robe? He gazes at you silently, as if waiting for you to utter the final line of the play."

"In Alleston, fiction is the most truthful language, and truth is the most terrifying lie."

—Excerpt from The King in Yellow: The Theatre Prologue

The night was as dark as ink, the moonlight as red as blood, and a bronze-like light poured down from the sky, covering the gargoyles on the roof of the Barletta Manor.

Those hideous faces, bathed in the pale and heavy moonlight, seemed to breathe, their eyes concealing an ancient sorrow unknown to others—a gaze that had witnessed rise and fall, long since weathered away.

Do you really... think this is right?

Novell Barletta was fiddling with an old ring in his hand.

That was the family seal ring bestowed upon her by her father, weighing heavily on Balletta's glory and vows.

But now, this glory has been tarnished, and the family is like a leaf stripped by the autumn wind, with only a broken shell remaining.

Sophie, the older sister, lives a secluded life, like a lamp that no one cares for.
And he—has to rely on a collateral relative, Aesop Lee, who has "come back to life," to support the family's crumbling body and future.

He looked up and gazed at the figure leaning against the balcony railing in the night.

The gray cloak billowed slightly in the wind, and his face was fragmented by the moonlight and mist, but his eyes were clear and otherworldly—as if they did not belong to this time and place, but looked down from the upper reaches of the river of fate.

Si Ming's lips curled slightly, his smile so faint it almost blended into the moonlight: "Novel, what is the truth?"

Novell did not answer.

“The truth,” Si Ming whispered.

"It is the weakest testimony. It is neither heard nor believed."

Its spine often breaks in silence.

But a lie—if nurtured by enough people with faith—will grow wings, soar higher and higher, flying above the truth and looking down upon it.

Novell paused slightly: "You mean, we're going to use the legend of the Yellow King... to spread the rumor that 'the prince is about to return'?"

“What I meant was—” Si Ming turned around, the moonlight etching a cold arc from his brow bone to the corner of his lips.

"We must convince the nobles that the heir they have been waiting for has never died. He is merely lurking in the final scene of the play, waiting for his moment to appear."

A breeze swept across the balcony, bringing wisps of mist that seemed to drift in from nowhere, swirling around their feet like indistinct whispers.

The God of Fate's gaze was cold and sharp, yet his voice was as steady as reciting a verdict:

"The child in Sophie's womb is not just your sister's posthumous child. He is the unseen heir of Quiet Island, the awakening symbol of the noble dreams in the sleeping capital of Alleston."

But—you cannot call him by his name, nor announce his lineage. You must make the nobles believe that they themselves have 'discovered' him.”

“…So, we need a script.” Novell’s Adam’s apple bobbed slightly.

"Yes. Script, legend, dream, madness." Si Ming's voice was gentle, yet carried an undeniable echo.

He suddenly murmured a sentence, as if it were a fragment unearthed from a dusty manuscript:
"The inheritance of blood, the script of the king, will end in this city with the yellow robes as the curtain."

The moonlight shimmered in his eyes, as if he could see the theater lights already on, while the audience was unaware that they were sitting in their seats.

Novell's expression changed abruptly. In that instant, he seemed to glimpse a conclusion that was both real and chilling—the King in Yellow was setting up his stage in the shadows of the city;
The nobles, the commoners, Medici, Sophie, and even himself were all merely actors, already scripted into a play they couldn't refuse. All that remained was that one cold, grand—

开幕。

The banquet was held in the Rose Hall.

The golden candlelight flickered on the domed mirror, refracting into streams of light that flowed between the brocade and feathered skirts.

The nobles raised their glasses in greeting, the tartness of cranberry liqueur mingling with the cloying sweetness of honey-infused champagne, creating an ambiguous atmosphere.

It was as if the golden age of the past was still flowing by—as if Queen Madison's trial and burning at the stake were just distant rumors occasionally spilling out of the fog on the streets of Alleston.

However, beneath this dazzling, almost unreal scene, lurks an unseen undercurrent—a "script" silently circulating among the guests.

It was an anonymous booklet, the paper a dark, aged gray, with cracks at the edges as if gently pinched by some invisible finger.

The handwriting was elegant to the point of being cold, each stroke unsettlingly precise, as if not written down, but etched into the paper fibers. It had no title; the first page bore only a single line of tiny text:
Act III of The King in Yellow: The Hidden King Takes the Stage
No one knows who brought it, and no one claims to be the first reader.

It was only on a Wednesday night, at what seemed like an ordinary tea party, that it was slowly pulled out of the velvet inner pocket by a hand wearing a diamond ring.

A poet's wife covered the second half of the page with a lace handkerchief and read it aloud softly:
A solitary figure shrouded in yellow ascended the shattered throne. Some cried out, "Our king has returned!" But no one saw his true face. Some wept, "The true king's son still sleeps on the island."

The candlelight flickered for a moment. The old marquis's wine glass hung suspended in mid-air, the amber liquid trembling slightly.

The feather fan in Viscount Berdock's daughter's hand slipped to the ground, like a faded feather.

The lines are simple, yet sharp as ice blades, piercing straight to a certain part of their hearts.

Throne? Son of the true king? Island? — The rumors they had all heard: "The thirteenth island of stillness has not yet appeared, because the true heir has not yet been born."

Whispers piled up like fine sand in the corner of the hall: Could that "lonely figure" be a reference to Medici?

Her power, like that yellow robe—magnificent yet dilapidated, concealing an unspeakable fear.

As the banquet ended, the elderly duke carefully folded the page in the twilight and tucked it into his heart.

He didn't utter a word, only pondering for a long time amidst the swaying of the carriage. From that night onward, he quietly summoned the old ministers of the former royal family.

They wove a secret communication network—all in the name of waiting for the "destined successor," like waiting for the first tidal wave before a storm.

All of this was just as the God of Fate had predicted.

Novell stood behind the high window of the Rose Hall, watching the shimmering light of the gowns dance across the courtyard. He whispered a question to "Aesop Lee" beside him—

"Would they really believe something like this just because of an anonymous piece of paper?"

Si Ming's smile was light, yet it carried a composure and cruelty unique to a weaver:
"It wasn't because of the paper, nor because of the rumors, but because of the desire."

People don't need the truth; they just need a reason to keep enduring and waiting. And I gave them—a dream.

He paused, his gaze falling into the depths of the night sky, where the faintly visible blood moon seemed to be slowly opening its eyes. His voice sounded as if he were speaking to the air, or perhaps to something listening behind the fog:
"As for whether this dream will rot and go mad... that's the King in Yellow's business, not mine."

The yellow robes had not yet fallen, but the theater was already closed and the lights were dimming—waiting for that chilling opening bell.

At midnight, above Alleston, the blood moon hung motionless, like a pupil pierced by a spear.

The cold light, a blend of silver and dark red, like a layer of unclean flowing silver, poured over a long-abandoned domed theater in the old town—the "Carcassa Hall".

The theater was reduced to ashes in a mysterious fire and has been sealed off for years, with its doors and windows bound by chains.

However, recently, without any official record, it "quietly revived" at night when no one noticed.

Who repaired it? Who lit those long-dormant stage lights? No one can answer.

All that is known is that tonight, there will be a secret theatrical performance here, "by invitation only".

The nobles, as usual, arrived.

Black-robed servants, like silent shadows, led them through the heavy theater doors in the fog.

Beneath my feet was a soft yet damp carpet, its dark red patterns blurred and indistinct. The air was filled with the smell of burning old fabric and peeling lacquer, carrying a cloying sweetness of decaying, aged memories.

They brought no servants, did not discuss family or power, and exchanged very few pleasantries; they simply sat down silently—quietly, waiting.

They all received the invitation:

The black wax seal features a broken crown engraved on the cover, beneath which is a gazing eye, and within the pupil of that eye hangs a silhouette of a yellow robe.

As the ancient bronze bell tolled for the third time under the dome, the curtain slowly rose.

On stage, a scene that resembles both a palace and ruins is revealed, like a dream, yet more solid than a dream.

The throne in the center stands alone, surrounded by dilapidated furnishings, as if a grand feast had once been held here and then suddenly abandoned.

The protagonist is a "king" wearing a white mask and tattered yellow robes, sitting alone on his throne.

His posture was as still as a statue until he spoke, and his voice was like an echo emanating from a stone coffin, deep, slow, yet sharp enough to pierce the minds of the audience:
"On the day I ascend the throne, no one in the world will know my name."

"When I bestowed blessings with a wave of my sleeve, the earth had already become a desolate graveyard."

"The blood of the true king has not yet awakened."

Each syllable is like a pebble falling into a deep well, sinking to the bottom, but the ripples it creates spread throughout every heart.

The audience was so silent it was as if time itself had been erased.

No one spoke, no one coughed.

Some people stared intently at the stage, as if trying to see something behind that mask;
Others lowered their heads, avoiding those unseen eyes, as if looking at them for even a moment longer would cause them to lose themselves.

This is not a play, this is a ritual.

In the final scene, the king in yellow slowly lifted the corner of his robe—

There was nothing below it.

He bent down, as if paying homage to some unseen being.

Immediately, the stage lights went out, plunging the theater into complete darkness.

A whisper, so low it was almost indistinguishable from breathing, resonated in everyone's hearts:
"The lion cub has awakened, and the island of stillness will emerge from the fog."

The lights did not come back on.

The audience neither applauded nor commented on the plot.

They quietly rose and walked out of the theater like sleepwalkers, their steps light and slow, as if afraid of disturbing something.

A layer of fog obscured the light and shadow in everyone's eyes.

In the shadows of the last row, a black-haired man dressed as a waiter slowly closed the notebook on his lap, his expression calm and serene.

Sima Ming.

That night, he did not use any of his mysterious abilities.

He simply wrote down a passage and gave it to a down-on-his-luck actor named "Carl," who recited and performed it word for word. And the audience—were already prepared to believe.

When a city yearns for miracles, even lies are treated as gospel.

And when lies begin to reshape reality—

The King in Yellow was already walking silently in the fog.

On the edge of the Royal City of Alleston, at the end of St. Margot Street, a chorus of piano music, loud enough to drive one mad, emanated from the rooftop of the Royal Theatre.

The melody did not belong to any key, and it was even impossible to determine what instrument it was played on.

Each syllable seemed to be stained with warm blood, slowly tearing at the listener's nerves;
Sometimes it sounds like the meshing of gears when planets are misaligned, and sometimes like the soft weeping of a baby in swaddling clothes—so intimate it sends shivers down your spine, so strange it makes you want to vomit.

Some people silently shed tears in the street, while others suddenly burst into laughter, laughing until their hearts were breaking.

The court musician and noblewoman, Paselina, slumped down beside the fountain in the middle of the street, her dress soaked and her golden hair plastered to her face.

Tonight, after watching "The Yellow Dress" at the Carcaza Theater, her laughter and sobs mingled together, like a puppet whose reason had been severed, screaming:

"He's singing! Can't you hear him?"
He sang while sitting on the throne.
He's singing in our heads!

Her eyes were bloodshot, blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, and her fingers trembled as she repeatedly traced some kind of yellow mark on the stone floor.

The onlookers, terrified, pulled their families away; soldiers rushed forward to subdue her, but vomited the moment they touched her—her body temperature was like that of a long-dead corpse.

Sticky, yellowish residue remained on her skin, as if it were not of this world.

At the same moment, strange phenomena appeared in the sky above Alleston.

Under the blood moon, the dark clouds suddenly split open, revealing a huge star-shaped hole in the gap, as if the sky had been cut open by some kind of sharp scalpel.

Deep within the rift, the outline of a "quiet island" floats faintly—a silver-gray island hangs silently in mid-air, with a tilted throne, a broken tower, and a tall, blurry figure sitting atop it, his yellow robe flowing slowly like liquid.

His face is forever veiled, and only a mournful melody emanates from where he stands—like the choir of countless dead:
"As night deepened, stars fell, and the crown shattered."

The Child Beneath the Mist, Returned and Reborn…

The singing wasn't loud, but it brought the entire city to a brief standstill.

The air seemed to be sucked out, and time seemed to lose its momentum in that instant.

Then, Alleston erupted in cheers—

On the street, groups of people with bleeding ears and noses collapsed to the ground; some screamed and crashed through shops to escape; some set fire to all the scripts and books in their homes on the spot.

Inside the mansion, a nobleman cried out in despair, “We…we were truly wrong to trust her! She is not the queen…she is the witch beneath the yellow robe!”

Most alarmingly, even the church's "purification prayers" lost their effectiveness that night.

The monks knelt before the icon, chanting the Holy Mother's mantra in trembling voices, but as the words left their mouths, the syllables gradually blurred, turning into some indistinguishable whisper.

Someone opened the Bible and was horrified to find that the pages were turning on their own, inserting entirely new passages:
"And the Yellow-Clad Lord will step onto the altar."

Write destiny with the blood of the script.

The gods fell silent.

Is it a forgery? A hallucination? Or—is another "scripture" silently replacing their faith script?
That night, the story ceased to be a story.

It infected reality, like a yellow fog seeping into the lungs.

This is the limit that the "true lies" of the Fate Master can reach—to implant a legend into the minds of the masses, allowing it to grow into a plant with both poison and fragrance, taking root, spreading, and clinging to the skeleton of reality.

The King in Yellow is no longer just a fiction on the page.

He was called by "faith," shaped by "fear," and summoned to the edge of reality by this morbid city, amidst self-cursing and longing.

He has not yet arrived, he has not yet whispered—

But the stage lights were slowly coming on under the blood moon.

The performance has begun.

Royal Police Station, sixth underground archive level.

It was damp and cramped here, and the dim light from the bulbs seemed about to crumble.

The air was filled with the smell of moldy old paper, mixed with the smell of ink left from excessive wiping of the archive covers, like an invisible haze.

Young detective Evan sat in front of a mountain of files, his knuckles white, as if he wanted to press those papers into his bones.

He went through one inexplicable record after another, his eyes sunken, the backlash from his spiritual vision giving him a splitting headache.

The aftershocks of the Mysterious Card still lingered in his blood—a murmur emanating from his very marrow, sticky and deep, like some unseen being breathing in his ear.

But he refused to stop.

"If even we don't investigate... who else will remember these dead?"

These were the words Princess Liseria had said during night class, and he had always remembered them.

But looking back now, those words seem so cruel.

The deeper he investigated, the clearer it became that these young people who had received "knowledge of destiny patterns" were never the answerers of fate, but rather the audience members who were brought into the theater.

He wasn't the main character; he was just a superfluous person who happened to be able to see the cracks behind the scenes.

He wrote notes on the edge of the file:

Report #B312—The Tide of Flesh and Blood

Area: Becca Street slum

Incident: Twenty-four cases of "human evaporation" within three days.

When the body was found, only a layer of skin remained, as if the flesh and blood had been ripped away. Witnesses said that on the night of the full moon, the ground cracked open, and blood-red tentacles emerged, dragging living people "into the cracks between the bricks."

Investigation: The cleaning team found a fungal granulation mass under the floor tiles, with the "seal of fertility" of the Church of Our Lady emerging in the center, but the texture had been twisted into a placental shape and was pulsating slightly as if breathing.

Conclusion: The neighborhood was locked down, and residents were evacuated. The official cause of death was "Blood Moon Plague."

Note (Evan): They are civilians we once helped. They trusted us then. Now, we can't save them.

Number #C021—Elegy Pollution Archive

Area: Sisters Belle's Convent and surrounding area

Event: One night, many residents dreamt of a dirge that sounded like a prayer. Upon waking, they felt weak all over and suffered a mental breakdown.

Three nuns from the convent committed self-harm and self-immolation on the spot. The recording spectrum was abnormal and had a strong guiding effect on those with a mysterious perception.

Investigation: The mental hospital housed 62 survivors, all of whom exhibited depression and delusions, and repeatedly claimed to have "heard unfinished wishes."

Some whispered on their deathbeds, "Huang Yue will listen to what I have to say..."

Conclusion: Collective mental pollution, officially explained as hallucinations caused by poisoning from highly toxic mold.

Note (Evan): If the world won't even listen to these last wishes, then who is?

Number #Y404—Yellow Coat Syndrome Case Collection
Area: Three blocks around the theater
Incident: Several residents experienced hallucinations, talking to themselves, facial paralysis, and yellowing of the skin after reading a handwritten copy of "The King in Yellow" of unknown origin, accompanied by "fictional memories".

Several people claimed to have performed on the theater stage, but this has not been verified. Some of the missing persons were found embedded in the walls of the old theater, like stone sculptures.

Investigation revealed that some pages contained ancient Kalkssa script. After the theater was demolished, a "flesh-like echo chamber" was discovered underground, with inscriptions on its walls:

"Before he gazes at you, play your role well."

Conclusion: The case involving the yellow seal and the spread of a serial hypnotic virus has been reported to the royal family.

Note (Evan): We thought we were reading a story, but we were actually characters in a script all along.

He put down his pen, pressed his forehead against the file paper, and whispered a sentence that sounded almost like a confession to himself:
"They just...want to live."

His colleague, Detective Colin, in uniform, stood in the shadows, his voice hoarse:
"No. They just lived—too close. Close to those gods, close to those monsters, so close that they didn't even have the right to be spectators."

They have no right to know where the blood moon came from, who is singing the lament, or whether the King in Yellow is a lie or a revelation.

The common people had neither the right to resist nor the ticket to escape.

They were merely used as resonators, testing grounds, and fuel tanks.

Everyone who steps onto the path of the astral calamity walks on the line between the divine and the inhuman;

The people of this city are merely background noise amidst repeated fears and rituals.

Their deaths were not "usable".

They are not messengers of divine revelation, not gamblers of fate, and not protagonists of the King in Yellow.

They simply stated that cold, hard statistic: "There is something unusual happening in the city."

Evan closed the last page of the file, his breath trembling slightly in the dim light.

Outside the window, the wind carried a muffled whisper:

"He is walking through the theater, searching for those who still believe in the story..."

He wasn't sure if it was the sound of the wind—perhaps the smell of mildew, or perhaps an echo from the depths of his bones.

He didn't turn around, but slowly and stubbornly picked up his pen and wrote the conclusion that should almost never have been written on the last line of the case file:
"There are no seats left for the audience."

"Is the play over? No, that was just intermission."

"The yellow robe has not yet fallen to the ground, and the true king has not yet appeared."

"Welcome back, audience. The next scene will tear your last shred of sanity away."

—From *The Memoirs of Kalquesa: The Crown of Disorder*

(End of this chapter)