Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 418 Gods in the Firelight
"The divine resides in the human heart; once doubt arises in the heart, the divine falls."

—The Morning Star Doctrine, Chapter on Heresy, Abridged Version

In the afternoon, the fog, as thick as overflowing ink, swallowed the streets and sky of Areston, plunging the entire city into a gloomy, sunless atmosphere.

The study in Morning Star Manor remained quiet, as if isolated from the outside world.

The gray-white light from the brass floor lamp was diffused into a warm, dull halo by the lampshade, illuminating the desk and highlighting the rough edges of the paper and the fine lines of the ink as if they were cracks on an ancient stone tablet.

Si Ming sat alone at the table, his right hand lightly twirling an obsidian die between his fingers, while his left hand flipped through the "Divine Grace Bulletin" that the church had just sent.

The words were neat and the writing was devout, but in his eyes, the strokes on the paper twisted slightly, like a group of clowns in holy robes dancing around a flame, chanting scriptures they themselves did not understand.

"A vision of icons weeping blood has recently occurred in the Southern Parish of Areston..."

"In the Eastern Grace Chapel, an elderly priest fainted during a sermon, and his words were quite heretical..."

"Believers are urged to remain steadfast in their faith and not to heed the rumors of 'Lamentations of a Saint' that have not been authorized by the Church..."

Si Ming finished reading the last line, a smile playing on his lips that betrayed no emotion, and gently folded the paper. The candle flame flickered, as if startled by a name that shouldn't exist.

"He started to shake."

His voice was low and slow, as if he were speaking not to a person, but to the entire city, or even to the unseen eyes behind the fog.

Through the high window of his study, his gaze passed over the sleeping courtyard, through the night fog that shrouded Areston, and seemed to reach directly at that transparent yet false divine illusion.

To others, it was just a routine document; to him, however, it was the first echoing crack in the towering theological pillar of the Church of Our Lady.

He didn't rush to celebrate or take action; he simply picked up the dice again and let it spin between his knuckles, as if listening to its pulse.

A soft cough came from next door; it was Celian. She hadn't slept lately either—the aftershocks of the cosmic calamity permeated everything, even disturbing the dreams of bloodlines.

Si Ming tilted his head slightly and said in a low voice, "Don't be afraid. The daytime belongs to authority, and the night belongs to us."

He threw the letter into the candle flame; the flame suddenly blazed, and the paper curled into black petals.

The rising smoke seemed to whisper. He circled in ink the "heretical" words uttered by the priest in the letter before he fainted:
"The true Holy Spirit does not forge power with blood."

Si Ming repeated softly, his voice carrying a teasing intimacy: "Rex... he's like an unqualified believer, but a qualified 'saint'."

He got up, took off his cloak and cane, and went out the door.

—Tonight, songs will resound in the square.

Tonight, God will no longer be sung about, but mourned.

At dusk, in the dilapidated square of Alreston's West End. The sky looked as if it had been washed with waste ink; the blood moon had not yet risen, and the night was already exhaling a damp, putrid stench.

On a stone platform in the center of the square, a bard with a cloak covering his face held a worn-out lyre and slowly plucked its strings. The tone was not splendid, but it seemed to be telling a lament that had been buried in the earth for too long.

"She is the dawn, born atop the white tower of the royal palace..."

She is the architect of peace, a girl who bows her head in the cold winter...

She should have been wearing a rose crown.
But they were locked inside the iron tower...

Sent to prison by her sister.

Offered as divine fire in the name of the Virgin Mary.

At first, only a few elderly women by the roadside stopped; then came a boy holding a half-finished wooden carving, his eyes glazed over.

Even the passing grocers, messengers, and even lower-ranking church members stopped at the edge of the crowd, their brows furrowed with unspoken hesitation.

The song is neither sad nor angry, but calmly narrates—yet it is like a needle, slowly piercing every heart.

—Her name is Liseria.

She was innocent, yet she was imprisoned.

—Her sister ascended the throne in the name of the "Holy Mother"; she, however, became the "sacrificial maiden" to be offered up.

In the silent air, the laundry worker at Donggang Port burst into tears;
An old man clenched his fists, his voice trembling as he muttered a curse: "We actually sang her hymns..."

A little boy tugged at his mother's clothes and asked, "Liselia... is she the pretty lady from the parade?" The mother bit her lip and nodded, tears streaming down her face.

As the bard finished singing, his voice became so low it was almost a whisper:

The crown fell, the roses withered.

The sacred tower is sealed, the gods remain silent...

If you would like to light a lamp for her

She might wake up before the blood moon.

As the song ended, the square fell silent.

At that moment, a homeless man with a cough suddenly spoke, looked around, and said in a low, hurried voice:

"Did you know? I heard that during the next Blood Moon, the Queen is going to... truly dedicate Liseria to 'Him'!"

This statement is like a spark falling into dry hay.

"What?! We really have to make a sacrifice?"

"To whom? The King in Yellow?!"

"She's still alive? Medici wants to kill her?"

Whispers and gasps spread rapidly through the alleys and streets, like a tide under a fog.

At the edge of the crowd, a middle-aged newspaper vendor watched quietly—it was the skin of the God of Destiny.

He didn't say anything, just smiled gently.

This panic won't immediately set the streets ablaze, but it will seep into the cracks between bricks and into the ground, permeating the very marrow of the city.

He slowly uttered a sentence, as if tossing a seed into the soil:

"Meddes chose the gods, but we can choose humans."

As they turned to leave, eyes began to follow them discreetly; more people began to look toward the direction of the Holy Tower, their eyes no longer filled with obedient prayer, but with lurking sparks.

That night, nothing changed in Alleston—

But something has already crumbled deep inside my heart.

The night was as dark as spilled blood, yet the lights still burned in the bustling corners of downtown Alleston.

The "Old Iron Pot" tavern—an old establishment with a unique reputation among civilians and retired soldiers—was now filled with the aroma of alcohol and bustling with noise.

The violin's fast strings and short notes had a rough rhythm, the wooden floorboards trembled underfoot, and there were more swear words flying around the bar than old newspapers.

However, behind these layers of noise, tonight is filled with an atmosphere that is not of the ordinary, like a spark hidden in the fog.

In the corner, at a wooden table, several veterans were arguing, their voices hoarse as they pounded the table.

Their old uniforms were patched, and the faded armbands seemed to have lost their glory, but the broken honor knives still hung at their waists—a remnant of their former spirit.

One of them slammed his fist on the table, spilling half a glass of ale, and a roar exploded in the air:

"Did you hear that? The princess in the tower, she's still alive! Alive! And she's still being kept there as a 'sacrifice'!"

The other person lowered their voice, almost gritting their teeth:
"Queen—she must be elevated to the altar on the night of the blood moon!"

The third, red-nosed old officer growled in a low voice, slamming his fist so hard the table trembled:
"What a load of bull! It's a living person's iron cage! You believe she's the Holy Mother? Do you even believe it?"

"If you don't believe it, why should I believe it?" the red-bearded drunkard roared back immediately, his voice laced with alcohol and anger.

On the other side of the bar, the conversation of several shoemakers, bakers, and tailors abruptly stopped. They exchanged glances, and whispers spread like a tide.

Just then, heavy footsteps sounded at the tavern entrance—a burly, black-haired worker walked in, his eyes red, drunk and angry.

He grabbed an empty glass from the bar, raised it above his head, and shouted:

"What the hell is the point of you guys just sitting here drinking?!"

The noise in the entire venue was cut off as if by the back of a knife.

The man grinned, the smell of alcohol and warmth emanating from between his teeth:

“We are long-time citizens of Alleston—we fight for the royal family, pay taxes for the kingdom, and even have to think twice before speaking at night to prove we are heretics! What right does she have?!”

The empty cup fell to the ground, the crisp sound of shattering glass reflecting a blood-red glint under the oil lamp.

“You ask me, I don’t know if Liseria can save the world. But I do know—if we all cower like rats, we can only watch as others carry the sacrifices up the Holy Tower!”

The old bartender's face turned pale. Just as he was about to dissuade him, a calloused hand pressed down on his shoulder.

That hand belonged to a long-silent veteran—the face of an officer from the old era, his beard cleanly shaved, his back still straight.

His voice was deep, yet it pierced everyone's hearts like iron nails being hammered one by one.

"I led a battalion on the Beiyang defense line, and was stripped of my official rank when Medeiros ascended the throne."

She said I'm 'not suited for the Empire'... Then tell me, what in this city is suitable now?"

People around them turned their heads.

He slowly rose, raised his glass, as if paying tribute to a comrade-in-arms who was no longer with him:

"If that girl is really to be sacrificed... I just want to ask one question—is there anyone who dares to say 'no'?"

boom--

Someone slammed their hand on the table first, and a commotion erupted:

"Why can't we stand up for the princess?! She dares to live alone, so why can't we, dozens or hundreds of people, thousands of neighbors, dare to?!"

"Even if it's not for her—it's for our daughter, our wife! For a tomorrow when we don't want to be treated like livestock anymore!"

"Are we so poor that we can't even afford a knife? Do we have to defer to the church before we can even say 'no'?!"

The heatwave rippled through the tavern, glasses clinked, and liquor splashed everywhere. The anger of civilians and veterans was no longer directed at each other, but at the order hanging overhead.

Some people's eyes darted around, hesitant and silent; others, however, had already quietly taken action—in the corner, a yellowed piece of paper was pasted on. It contained only a few words:

"Night Watch Recruitment Office"

The ink mark was brief, like a match streaking through the night.

More eyes were drawn to the paper; they remained silent, yet exchanged glances.

A young shoemaker squeezed through the crowd and wrote his name on a piece of paper. Behind him, the veteran slowly took out his pocket watch and checked the time. There were no slogans, no commands, yet more than ten people had already lined up to register.

The streets of Areston did not tremble that night.

But deep underground, something had already loosened.

Night enveloped the northern district of the capital like the hide of a dying animal, and ancient houses with high walls emerged between the mist and the lights, like a silent trap.

Behind the heavy courtyard gate, candlelight flickered between the corridor and the pillars, as if an invisible hand was gently stirring the air behind the silk curtains.

Sophie Barletta—formerly the wife of the eldest prince Orion—seated in the head seat of the drawing room.

The black veil made her appear even paler, and her swollen belly, illuminated by candlelight, carried an almost saintly solemnity and fragility.

Her gaze was calm and empty, looking down at a room full of well-dressed nobles with ambiguous expressions, as if she were seeing a flock of crows dismembering corpses on the ruins of an empire.

"We are not anti-kings."

An old marquis, draped in a faded coat of arms, spoke in a low voice, as if afraid of disturbing something slumbering, “But… if the royal blood still exists, who should inherit this destiny?”

His words were light and casual, yet they felt like hidden arrows, causing those present to tense up.

Sophie did not answer, but slowly stirred the teacup with a silver spoon, the crisp sound like a countdown to some invisible judgment.

That key was a keepsake left to her by Orion before his death, and also a tacit signal among the old royal nobles—they all understood that the child in her womb might be of the most legitimate bloodline of the Trelian Empire.

"If he were alive, would he be able to inherit the thirteenth Jing Island?"

Finally, a young nobleman asked the question that was the sharp blade in everyone's heart.

The air seemed to freeze, and the candle flame trembled silently.

Sophie raised her head, her cold gaze cutting through the other person's breath like a sharp blade.

“You should ask ‘Jingdao’ about this kind of question, not me.”

Silence quickly spread through the hall.

Some eyes gleamed with fervor, while others frowned as if gazing into an abyss. A few radical nobles lowered their voices, their whispers echoing like waves crashing against the stone bank:
"If there truly is a divine decree bestowing blessings... the divine blood of the Lord of the White Tower..."

“I heard that the tower where her palace was located was originally named ‘White Tower’.”

"And that divine oracle—'The crown will be born from royal blood, and the key to the sunken island will be conceived from the womb of a woman'... Isn't that—"

“Absurd.” A bald nobleman interrupted coldly, his sarcasm like a knife. “Who wrote the oracle? It’s only signed ‘The Silent One’—a name that hasn’t even appeared in legends.”

"It's already being spread within the church."

"The Church? Ha, they can't even explain the weeping blood of icons, how did they become the mouthpiece of prophecy?"

His words were a mix of sarcasm and rebuttal, his pace quickening and his breathing becoming increasingly agitated.

Sophie watched all this without a flicker of emotion in her eyes. She knew very well that while these nobles appeared to be plotting to "revive the old king," they were each harboring their own agendas.

They support her child now only because he is not yet born; once he is born, he will be molded into a flag, a symbol, a god... and then dismembered by them as a bargaining chip for power.

"Why don't we... take an oath in advance?"

A gaunt nobleman with venomous eyes stood up and said in a cold voice, “If the Queen continues her perverse ways, we will support the prince and help him inherit the Throne of Trelian.”

"I object!" Another person immediately stood up, his face flushed. "The Queen may be cruel, but she is the only pillar of order now. If we waver, wouldn't that be tantamount to treason?"

"Then we'll see if she's worthy of our loyalty."

"Are you asking us to rebel?"

The tea had cooled, and cold sweat broke out.

Sophie slowly rose to her feet, her gaze sweeping across the room like a blade pressing on everyone's throat.

Her voice was calm, yet it pierced through all the whispers and noise:

“If you need to vote to believe in a child—you are not qualified to talk about ‘faith’.”

She lowered her eyes and glanced at her abdomen.

"He will be born. Whether you believe it or not is none of my business."

The air froze, as if even the candle flame had fallen silent.

In a dark corner of the hall, an inconspicuous middle-aged butler stood quietly, his eyes clear as a mirror.

Unknown to anyone, he was one of the "Yellow Pen Recorders" of the God of Fate, responsible for planting precise seeds of lies within the aristocratic circles.

At this moment, he is silently recording every argument, every hesitation, and every ignited ambition into an invisible script.

As the nobles departed, he turned and disappeared into a dark alley, taking an unsealed letter from his robe. The handwriting on the letter seemed to have existed before the paper itself—like the handwriting of fate, cold and resolute:
You wouldn't believe an unborn child.
But you will believe a letter.

So let the letter speak for him first.
Let him speak again.

Beliefs can be written down.
Especially when it comes from the pen of the King in Yellow.

As night fell, the deepest chamber of the palace was shrouded in darkness, its interior shrouded in a tapestry of flickering candlelight and blood-red shadows.

Medusa sat alone before the altar, gazing at the jar of deep red to almost black "holy blood," her eyes sharp as a fine blade slowly slicing through a lake, her suppressed anger and anxiety churning within them.

The tide of blood should have arrived as scheduled.

In the past, she only needed to stand under the moon of the sacrifice, holding the secret artifact, and softly recite the incantation to truthfully retrieve the spiritual essence offered by the blood and tears of the sacrifice.

The crimson light would follow the veins, passing through her palms, heart, and brows, gradually carving out her final form leading to the Star Calamity.

However, in recent days, the positive feedback has been gradually diminishing.

The once full and blazing spiritual light is now thin and broken, like the last breath of a dying person.

In the candlelight, her face appeared sickly and sinister. Her fingertips trembled slightly beneath her imperial robes, her knuckles turned white, and her nails almost dug into her palms.

“...They’re starting to doubt me,” she whispered, as if talking to the air or some unseen listener.

She could feel it—the voices of the common people were eroding, the murals in the church were weeping, and the nobles were whispering among themselves in their private chambers.

Those voices, like a swarm of ants, silently gnawed at the walls of her power.

What troubled her even more was that her blood moon was also faltering.

She looked up and gazed out the high window.

Above the sky, the once full crimson moon now seemed to have been thinned by an invisible hand, its blood-red outline gaunt and brittle, with cracks spreading from the edges to the core, as if the next tide would plunge it into the bottomless void.

This is a sign of a celestial disaster.

"You're not enough."

The sound is silent, yet it penetrates the surface of language.

It was not a whisper, nor a whisper of the heart, but a form of will deeper than words, surging from the depths of blood and life, compelling her, enticing her, and pulling her along.

"I have already given so much."

She whispered to the emptiness, her voice filled with suppressed anger and a slight hoarse tremor.

"The blood of so many baby boys, the blood of so many firstborn sons, the bones of so many priests, the souls of so many loyal subjects—what more do you want?"

What responded to her was not an answer, but a viscous murmur that continued to seep into her consciousness—

Like a spell written by the madness of churning blood:
"The sparks are not yet fully lit, the night has not yet fallen, and you are still young..."

"Three more spinal cords, seven more pairs of lung lobes, forty more eyeballs... perhaps."

"Perhaps, we still need a head... a clean one... the kind that isn't insane..."

Medici looked up abruptly, and the blood moon's lesion-like outline was melting away at a visible speed.

She realized—it wasn't a response, but rather it was devouring her desire.

The more she wanted it, the deeper she was dragged into her hunger.

This celestial calamity moon was never satiated by her blood sacrifice.

It won't tell her "how much" is enough—because it's not a number at all, but a shape that's never satisfied:

Greed, decay, and the erosion of fate through constant fission.

She suddenly stood up, her voice low and almost hoarse:
"Then continue the sacrifices."

"Kill again."

“I will make all of Arleston bleed for me.”

The blood moon outside the window cast her shadow out of place, projecting it onto the high wall—the shadow seemed to be twitching, stretching out extra arms, and growing a second face.

The maidservants nearby knelt on the ground, trembling, and could still faintly hear the Queen's murmurs—half curses, half soliloquy:

“Fate is empty, reality is empty… then I am the king of nothingness.”

“I will become the most complete empty shell you crave.”

She reached out and caught a tear of blood sliding down her cheek, slowly licking it—the taste was salty and sweet; it was rotten, yet addictive.

She smiled.

The smile stripped away the human facade, revealing a deeper layer of ecstasy—a delusion that longed to be devoured by the celestial calamity, even to become its vessel, was replacing the last vestige of her will as a "human being."

The distant bells rang out, low and muffled like the collapse of a grave.

The city sank into a dreamless night.

At the summit of the highest tower in the palace, a king who was no longer a mortal was repaying the bottomless debt of celestial calamity inch by inch with his own blood and flesh.

"I asked it how much I wanted. It didn't answer."

"It whispers only one poem, a poem I will never finish writing."

"I will write my poems on the bodies of others, with their blood."

"I will write about the whole city."

—From *The Red Moon Prayer Book*, page zero

(End of this chapter)