Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 420 Blood Moon and Stars, The Tragedy of Alleston

"Under the blood moon, He does not speak. The cries of the people go unanswered."

"They say that faith can overcome hunger and drive away disease."

"They also said that if you are devout enough, the gods will give you a piece of bread."

"But the price of bread has already risen to ten sous."

—Anonymous Manuscript of the Alec Sue Years Diary

The autumn wind, carrying a hint of frost, swept through the streets of Areston, and the old market in the south of the city slowly awoke in the gray morning mist.

The once noisy and bustling hawking sounds seemed to have been muted, leaving only the rustling of robes in the cold wind and the heavy footsteps of shoes dragging on the stone slabs.

Rows of stalls were propped up with tattered tarpaulins, and the vendors' eyes darted around, their expressions colder than the weather.

The fruit and vegetable stalls were left with only a pile of shriveled radishes and dark green leaves, while the long queues in front of the bread stalls resembled a silent forest of stone statues.

Everyone kept their heads down, silently counting the copper coins in their hands, their eyes darting around at the pieces of black bread—nowadays a luxury that ordinary families could no longer afford.

"Yesterday it was five sorghum grains a pound, but today..."

An old woman stood in front of the stall, leaning on a cane, her cloudy eyes staring at the new price list written on the stone slab.

Her voice was hoarse and weak, yet it was particularly jarring in the silence.

The vendor didn't even look up, replying casually, "New stock is ten sorghum per pound. Order quickly if you want it. There are still people queuing up behind you."

The old woman trembled as she placed two copper coins on the stall and said cautiously, "I...I only want to buy half a coin to make soup for my granddaughter."

The vendor scoffed, "Are you here to buy bread or to beg?"

"Next!" He waved his hand, and two burly young men standing by immediately pushed the old woman aside with rough movements, causing the copper coin to roll to the ground with a cold, crisp sound.

The old woman slumped to the ground, tears welling up in her eyes but remaining silent. Her hands continued to unconsciously grope for the two copper coins in the cracks between the bricks.

"Get out of here, stop playing the victim."

The vendor uttered a remark impatiently, then turned and smiled as he handed a whole basket of bread to a well-dressed servant standing nearby.

That was the steward of a nobleman's household, accompanied by several servants. He took away half of the stall's goods—bags of packaged bread piled on the cart, gleaming with a warm, soft light in the sunlight.

The sunlight only shines on them.

A low murmur of curses drifted from a street corner in the distance, and a middle-aged worker walked over, kicking a stone beside his stall.

"They source their goods from the exclusive supply line for the nobility, and they have the seal of the Church of Our Lady. They could sell them to you for twenty sulphurs without breaking the law, let alone ten."

Another old worker grinned wryly.

"Last week, my wife went to the Holy Light Relief Association to queue for her rations, and two people died in the crush. In the end, she didn't get anything. Now it's like paying first and then praying. Can faith put food on the table?"

As they spoke, they all looked up at the statue of the Virgin Mary not far away—the golden statue standing in the market square, holding aloft bread and a scepter.
Now, only a blurry glow remains in the morning mist, as if it is no longer sacred, but like a laughing puppet frozen in a satirical play.

"In the end, it's all the fault of those in power."

"The Queen holds all sorts of ceremonies, restricting entry and exit all day long, cutting off all trade routes."

"Don't mention the Queen, or your ears will get chopped off."

Whispers spread, like choking fog lingering beneath gray clouds. Anger had not yet taken shape, but resentment had already begun to fester.

……

In the editorial office of the Morning Light Times, Si Ming sat quietly at his desk, flipping through the latest district newsletters. His knuckles tapped on the table as his gaze fell on a manuscript by a market reporter.

—"Grain prices in the South City have skyrocketed, and bread prices have risen from seven to ten, with queues stretching across two streets."

Citizens murmured complaints, with some vendors accused of hoarding goods. An elderly woman was pushed to the ground after angering a vendor while begging; her injuries are unknown.

The other sheet of paper came from a correspondent on the suburban agricultural line:
"A new round of poor harvests is a foregone conclusion, with most farmland suffering from severe insect infestations this year."

After the lockdown, it became impossible to import seeds from outside the area. Some villages voluntarily burned their fields to drive away pests, but the effect was minimal.

Si Ming put down the manuscript, quietly got up and walked to the window. He gazed at the gray fog spreading outside the window, his brows furrowed.

In the distance, the palace spires loomed in the morning light, like a sharp blade piercing the sky, looking down upon this city mired in poverty and silence.

“The food shortage is just the beginning…” he muttered to himself.

The candlelight flickered, and on the shelf behind them, a stack of files labeled "epidemic," "unknown cause of death," and "resource allocation" had begun to pile up.

But the city's throat has yet to utter a true cry.

But Si Ming knew that it was only because people were still swallowing their saliva.

Dusk came earlier in Alleston than usual.

Above the slums in the south of the city, a blood moon, not yet full, peeked out from the gaps in the dark clouds, its crimson and cold light like a wound soaked in old blood, silently looking down upon everything on the ground.

At the entrance of a filthy sewer, a boy lay on a pile of rags, emaciated, his chest rising and falling weakly.

His forehead was burning hot, blood seeped from the corners of his eyes, and his lips were cracked and peeling with white, dead skin from dehydration. His mother,
He sat slumped to one side, dressed in rags and looking dazed, repeatedly wiping his flushed cheeks with a damp cloth, his fingers trembling like withered branches in the wind.

“He’s just hungry…just hungry…” she murmured to herself, her voice playing on repeat like a broken record.

A few steps away, three homeless men sat around a pile of dry branches. The fire burning in the fire was not firewood, but a church holy book with its cover torn off.

Flames licked the tattered, gold-edged pages, flickering with an eerie blue-white light.

"I heard that four more people died on North Street."

"They said it was an illness."

"It's not an illness, it's an evil spirit. The blood moon has awakened even the dead."

"Go to hell with your evil spirits."

The third homeless man sneered and threw a burnt corner of a book into the fire. "I've seen dead people come back to life on the front lines? Not the kind of morbid way of living, but the kind that can walk even with sores in their blood, pus spurting from their mouths, and their whole body rotting."

Before he could finish speaking, a muffled thud suddenly came from the alleyway behind him.

The three of them turned around abruptly and saw a beggar lying stiffly in the middle of the street, convulsing silently like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

His body was covered in black spots, and dark red pus was flowing from his nasal cavity. Several children backed away in terror and screamed.

"Plague! It's the plague!"

Someone shouted at the street corner, instantly causing panic.

The crowd scattered, the sounds of footsteps, exclamations, and the rustling of tattered cloth blending together, like a scream that had been trapped in the lungs finally bursting from the mouth.

The citizens looked around in panic, fearing that they would be the next to fall.

But more than anything, there was bewilderment.

Because nobody knew what this disease was. Nobody explained it to them.

When Mays, the internal affairs officer of the Morning Times editorial department, rushed into the editor-in-chief's office, Si Ming was frowning as he reviewed a newly arrived list of the dead.

Mays was pale and covered in cold sweat: "Our reporter from the South District just came back and said something happened in the slums... Many people have started to have fevers, cough up blood, and even have blackened skin."

In some families, entire households died, and the bodies were piled up outside the door, untouched by anyone.

Si Ming raised his eyes and calmly asked, "What about the official response?"

"The church sent several nuns to patrol, but they only brought holy water and exorcism charms."

Mays wiped his sweat. "Doctors... not many dare to go. They say the cause of the infection is unknown, and they're afraid something bad might happen."

“Typical symptoms?” Si Ming flipped through a sketch, which showed the distribution of livor mortis and the pathogenesis of the disease as described by the messenger.

Although the details are rough, the lines clearly outline an...unnatural pattern of disease. Blood collapses, tissue fluid decays; it's not just illness, but the slow collapse of an entire life system.

Si Ming frowned more and more as he looked at the situation.

“This is no ordinary epidemic,” he murmured.

His finger stopped on a spot in the picture, marked "star-shaped ulcer".

That was a typical "plague disaster," which only occurs in areas where specific mysterious fields have existed for a long time. It is a slow physical decay—usually classified as "planetary contamination syndrome."
Si Ming rubbed his throbbing temples to relieve the headache caused by long-term insomnia, and opened the book left behind by the half-step plague incarnation, "The Plague of the Gray Star, by Nicholas".

This means that... these people are being sacrificed in an extremely slow manner through "blood moon sacrifice".

Siming recalled the catastrophic "trial" he witnessed in the City of Twelve Mysterious Corpses, the terrifying masterpiece of that plague avatar, Nicholas.

And now, that feeling has returned—only this time, it's not a few hundred Star Calamity Remains, but hundreds of thousands of civilians from Areston.

He suddenly felt a chill in his fingertips.

"I need detailed data on all cases, distribution maps, times of death, and burial procedures," Si Ming said, enunciating each word clearly. "At all costs."

"Editor-in-chief...you're planning to..."

"This isn't an illness, it's a celestial calamity." Si Ming turned around and looked out the window at the street that had been swallowed by the night.

In the distance, the bell tower of a church is ringing, each chime heavy as a sacrifice.

He knew that the plague had only just begun.

He also knew that this was not Medici's intention.

But this was an extension of her power, the first pool of pus and blood that flowed out after the "blood sacrifice" tore open the skeleton of the city.

The putrid smell had overpowered the aroma of the bread oven.

Beside the drainage ditch on the second street in the south of the city, three corpses were temporarily covered with burlap sacks, flies swarmed between the fabric seams, and the onlookers were too exhausted to even gasp.

A little girl, not even ten years old, stood outside the crowd with her baby-sized younger brother by the hand, staring blankly at the pile of cloth bags.

She didn't understand what "being infected" meant; she only remembered that the three people who had fought with her for water yesterday were now motionless like broken dolls.

"People have died further north too," a lame old man selling water murmured, his tone as indifferent as if he were discussing the weather.

Several women walked by, covering their noses, but couldn't help turning back to look, as if trying to find some explanation for the crazy world they were in.

But there was nothing there. Only decay, dryness, and the church bells that no longer rang.

The bells rang out—only from a higher place.

Inside the Palace of Aleston, the domed celestial palace atop the ceremonial tower was softly chanting a ritual text no longer known to the world, a secret chapter from the ancient scripture "The True Moon Hymn: Revised Edition".

Incense rained down from the ceiling, mingling with powders of gold and moonflower, filling the entire tower with a dreamlike, fragrant mist.

The curtains swayed slowly, revealing the figure in a platinum robe amidst the steam of the hot spring.

Queen Medusa was leaning against the sacred spring, her bare feet immersed in the water, her eyes closed in deep thought.

Her face was cold and sculpted, and her long hair, which cascaded down her back, was coiled into a "triple crown" with a golden ribbon, symbolizing the sovereignty, creation, and destruction of the divine Trinity.

The female attendants lined up, burning incense, changing clothes, and holding mirrors, like parts of a religious machine.

"Your Majesty," the cardinal approached quietly, reporting in a low voice from outside the incense smoke.
"The epidemic has been confirmed to have affected six parishes, and the number of deaths among the poor and less believers has exceeded three hundred. Some church volunteer teams have requested the allocation of holy silver reserves and healing water for emergency relief."

The Queen opened her eyes, but there was not a ripple in them.

"...Holy silver is not for saving the ignorant masses." Her voice was as clear as the holy spring itself. "It is a redemption gift reserved for true believers to welcome divine revelation."

The cardinal hesitated for a moment, then whispered, "But there may be loyal people among the sick..."

“Loyalty?” Medici smiled slightly, a smile like a god looking down on the pity of the refugees. “True loyalty is not afraid of death.”

She slowly rose, her holy robes trailing on the water, creating delicate ripples that spread like blood.

"The dead are God's scissors, pruning the diseased branches and rotten roots of this world for me."

She walked to the window and pushed open half of the ceremonial carved window. Outside, there were endless rooftops and smoke in Alleston, and in the distance, she could vaguely see black smoke rising from the slums, like a burnt-out sacrifice.

"If the plague can make them kneel down, weep, and repent—that is the tolling of a harbinger of a calamity."

"All things have declined, my lord is coming."

She looked up at the sky, where a sliver of blood-red moonlight pierced through the dark clouds, illuminating her face.

A sick young mother held her dying child and cried out outside the church.

"Help him! Please give him some water! I'm a member of the church, I've been praying here regularly, and I've donated offerings..."

The wooden door was tightly shut, and no one responded.

Several priests prayed in hushed tones behind the door, as if afraid that their voices would be contaminated by the plague if they were heard.

The mother knelt down in front of the door, her forehead hitting the ground, tears and blood flowing down her face.

But God did not respond.

Medici softly chanted ancient prayers, and incense rose all around, like the reflection of a blood moon blooming on the water.

She whispered:
"The eyes of our Lord have been opened."

May this place become the backbone of the divine kingdom.

May blood and disease purify the foolish deeds of all beings.

"May mortal bones fall and the star gate open."

At this moment, she was no longer a queen.

She was the goddess in her own dreams.

She is the Virgin Mary who controls sacrifices and fertility.

They are the priests under the star-stricken blood moon. They are the hands that throw mortals into the flames and sift out the pure ashes.

In the distance, crows circle, and the clock tower's hands point to noon.

The blood moon had not yet appeared, but its shadow had already enveloped the holy tower atop the city.

And Alleston... rotted away inch by inch under His silent gaze.

The sky was overcast, just like the human heart.

"Ten sulphs for a loaf of rye bread?! Are you robbing me?!"

The old woman in front of me had a shrill voice and a flushed face.

She held up a few copper coins with trembling hands, as if cradling an absurd dream.

The vendor, with a cold face, pulled the bread back under his stall, covered it with a cloth, and said without turning his head, "If you think it's too expensive, don't buy it."

The old woman stood there, stunned, as if the bread in front of her had turned into a door that was slowly closing.

She lowered her head, carefully tucked the money into her sleeve one by one, turned and walked away very slowly. The crowd behind her remained silent, but no one dared to step forward.

Only after she had walked a distance did a few muttered words come from behind her: "Have you gone mad... Yesterday she was still Liu Sule..."

"I heard that all the grains in the northern part of the city have been sold out..."

"Grain merchants are hoarding goods, clearly engaging in price gouging... but who dares to sue them?"

A child was walking by with half a piece of dry bread in his mouth when his mother grabbed him and pulled him away sharply: "Don't let them see you eating."

At this moment, hunger became the original sin.

The rain had just stopped, and several newly painted notices were posted in front of a row of dilapidated houses at the alley entrance:
"Those infected are not allowed to leave their homes."

"Those who cough are not allowed to enter the market."

"Those who do not heed advice will be killed without mercy."

Below the notice, an elderly man was coughing so hard he could barely breathe, yet he was still squatting down rubbing herbs on the ground.

A child peeked out from the crack in the wooden door next to them and cried out, "Doctor, my grandpa has a fever again!"

The man turned his head, revealing a pair of haggard dark circles under his eyes. He was the only "doctor" still making house calls in this neighborhood—his name was Jer Taran, around forty years old, thin, but his eyes revealed a suppressed clarity.

He strode into the house, touched the old man's forehead, and then unfolded a piece of cloth: the dark spots under the skin had spread up to his chest.

"...Fever-reducing soup." After saying that, he bent down to grab some medicinal herbs from the tattered bag and handed them to the child. "Is there any charcoal left in the stove?"

"Another point."

"Go burn it, we have to get through tonight."

The woman beside her wiped away her tears: "Dr. Taran, can you keep going like this? They said... they said the higher-ups won't send anyone..."

“What they say doesn’t matter,” Taran said calmly. “As long as we’re alive, we’re not corpses.”

He stepped outside, looked up at the holy light statue on the distant city wall, his eyes deep and thoughtful.

He recalled the news that came yesterday—the church hospital was closed, even the priests had contracted the disease, and it was no longer accepting ordinary patients.

He also thought of his father, a military doctor who died on the battlefield many years ago during a toxic fog war. He once said, "Never put down your medicine bag before fate turns its back."

Taran never believed in God. He only believed in two things: people cannot wait for God to save them, they must save themselves; and disease is not a curse, but a reality that needs to be stopped.

At that moment, a resolute flame ignited in his eyes—he was no longer just a doctor.

He is becoming the embryo of the city's awakening.

Alleston is sinking into the coldest night of late autumn.

The night wind swept through Broken Tower Street, scattering the blood-stained runes remaining on the wooden street signs, and also blowing past the silent street corner.

This used to be the busiest tavern street in the northern part of the city, but now only a few taverns remain, their dim lights still burning, as if they are using the last of their alcohol and campfires to fight against the approaching death of the city.

Outside the "Falling Star" tavern, a haggard-looking middle-aged veteran leaned against a stone pillar, his face weathered and his uniform faded.

His right arm hung limply, empty—lost in the northern battlefields years earlier.

His name was Arno Herd, a former sergeant in the Seventh Griffin Legion, and a living fossil of what was called "the last glory of the Trelian Empire."

Now, he is nothing more than a crippled soldier drinking leftovers at the tavern entrance, collecting ration coupons, and hiding from the plague.

He had simply been standing there, silently taking a sip of his cold drink, but when he saw an old comrade-in-arms on the street corner—Ewing, with whom he had served in the same unit—…

He slumped in front of the door, clutching an empty bottle, his lips pale and his eyes yellowish, but he finally raised his head.

He smashed the bottle on the ground, shards flying everywhere, and with a dry, cracked throat, he shouted for the first time: "We are the men who guarded the frontier."

No one paid any attention to him.

"It was us!" Arno roared, his voice cracking like dry twigs. "It was us fools who risked our lives to shed blood for the Empire in the North, in the desert, and beyond the snow line!"

Someone looked at him. He trembled as he stretched out his left hand, pointing to his empty right arm. "I gave my life to this land, but now, this land won't even give me a piece of bread!"

The crowd finally stopped.

His eyes were red-rimmed, and his chest heaved violently.

“My comrade, Ewing, collapsed in front of the church yesterday, and nobody paid him any attention. An officer, just like that, froze to death! And the bishop wouldn’t let him in, saying he was ‘unclean’.”

He suddenly stepped onto the stone steps, standing higher. His voice became deeper, yet exceptionally clear:
"Do you think it's because of a shortage of food? Do you think it's because of divine punishment for the plague?"

"neither."

He gritted his teeth and spat out each word:
"It's because we are not 'noble'."

“They live in the tower, adorned with gold and silver, bathing in holy water every day, and constantly claiming to ‘pray for the people’; but when we are hungry and sick in the streets, they only say— ‘It is God’s will.’”

His voice trembled, as if every word was being torn from his chest:

"But who are we? We are the ones who conquered this city! We are the backbone of the empire! We gave everything for this country, and now we don't even have the right to live!"

Some people inside the tavern were getting impatient and got up to go outside. Several homeless workers, cart drivers, and stable boys also gathered around.

They were already uneasy, and now, hearing the heartbroken cries of a soldier who had lost an arm, their hearts felt as if they were being stabbed by a thousand knives.

Arno's voice trailed off, but each word struck like a hammer blow against a broken foundation:
"They told us the war was over and to go home."

"But what about our homes? After the war, no one resettled us, and even the subsidies were swallowed up by the church."

"They stole our victory, and they stole our dignity."

He gazed at the distant holy tower, his eyes filled with a burning hatred.

"They say that His Highness Orion, the eldest prince, is a traitor. They say that His Highness Edel has abandoned us!"

“But I have fought seven battles with His Highness Edel, and I know what courage and justice are.”

"I trusted him more than I trusted those so-called 'goddess spokespeople'."

"Now, His Highness Edel has been forced to leave. But we cannot die with him."

Silence fell over the surrounding crowd. A ragged veteran whispered, "Then what do you want us to do?"

Arno did not answer immediately. He remained silent for a moment, then opened his mouth and uttered a sentence in a strange tone:
"We are Trelians."

"Neither a nobleman's dog nor a church's sheep."

“We are the descendants of the griffin, the spear of Areston, the blood of Henrian, the true backbone of Trelian.”

“When the Holy Tower no longer lights for us, we will light our own torches.”

“When God stops blessing us, we will put on the crown ourselves.”

These words sounded like eerie poetry, or like a pre-prepared oath.

It doesn't shout for war, yet it's more corrosive than any radical slogan.

Someone couldn't help but shout, "Herd! Are you crazy?"

"So what if I'm crazy?" Arno grinned, with the same satisfaction as a wild dog biting through a chain.

"A madman, at least he can live freely."

Just then, a squad of Divine Knights crossed the street corner and noticed the gathered crowd. They shouted, "Those gathering, stand back! Disperse!"

The crowd scattered and fled.

Arno was dragged back to the tavern. He didn't struggle, but just looked back at the Holy Tower on the high wall, and then hummed the tune of some kind of military song.

—That was not a song bestowed by the gods, but the "Kingless War Song" sung by the old Trean Cavalry during the desert war.

late at night.

All of Arleston was shrouded in slumber, pain, and decay.

But on some street corners, some people have stopped waiting for miracles and have stopped praying.

They were singing, murmuring, and planning—like mycelium quietly growing in the night.

Calamity arises from the city; riots begin in the hearts of men.

As night fell, Alleston, like a dying beast, curled up in his rotting body, howling and festering, yet no one came to his aid.

In the tower study of the Dawn Times headquarters, Si Ming, draped in a dark gray cloak, sat quietly behind an ebony desk.

His eyes were covered with dark circles, like a ghost that even dreams refused to let him in.

But he remained awake, afraid to fall asleep—not because he was afraid of the dream, but because he was afraid he would never wake up again.

The newspaper deliveryman had just left, leaving only half an oil lamp and his breathing in the empty editorial office.

His fingers flipped through the delivered manuscripts and briefings, his gaze sweeping over the appalling words on the paper:
"At the West Wharf, nine people died of starvation."

"In the square in front of the church, an old woman collapsed due to the epidemic, and her body was still warm when it was dragged away."

"Santa Hospital is in chaos, and the medical officer has announced 'priority treatment for the children of nobles'."

"Seventeen leaflets spreading rumors have reached the South District, questioning whether Divine Grace has left Alleston."

He watched quietly, his face devoid of any emotion, only a faint trace of sorrow in his eyes.

This is not the collapse of human society; it is a kind of "terminal pathology of theocratic structures."

Like a city supported by faith, its skeleton still stands straight, but its interior is already overflowing with pus.

He slowly rose, put on his long overcoat, and walked up to the observation deck at the top of the tower.

The wind howled in my ears. The night in Areston was starless, except for a pale moon, like a dead eyeball, hanging high between the mist and the blood.

Footsteps sounded softly, and Alan Herwin appeared silently. He had once been a student of the "Mysterious Night Class."

Now, Si Ming is the liaison among the common people and also serves as a core member of the underground distribution team for the Morning Times.

“We have contacted seven doctor stations, three soup kitchens, and fifty-six low-level Mystics.”

Alan reported in a low voice, his exhaustion and anger barely concealed. "But... the numbers are far from enough."

Si Ming asked calmly, "Are they afraid?"

“...They are more afraid of silence.” Alan lowered his eyes. “Three of them decided to come out after losing their families.”

“Very good.” Si Ming nodded, as if confirming something. He took out a folded yellow sheet of paper from his inner pocket—it was a draft of the rescue organization's brochure and truth-clarification leaflets that he had personally compiled.

“Give these to them.” He handed them to Alan. “The first edition is unsigned, but it’s signed ‘Children of the Dawn.’ You need to let them know that they are not alone… not alone.”

He repeated it, his tone low but firm.

Alan took the paper, his hands trembling. He whispered, "Teacher, is it really going to work? We're just a bunch of ordinary people."

Si Ming gazed at the burning edge of the church in the distance, remaining silent for a long time. Suddenly, he softly recited a strange, incantation-like verse:

There have never been any gods.
There is no Holy Mother.
There was also no pardon from Medici.

He looked at Alan, his voice as low as a breeze, "What will save this city is neither revelation nor prayer."

"It's you, it's you."

Alan gritted his teeth, turned, and ran into the night. Like a pebble dropped into water, ripples began to spread across the city's dark waters.

At the top of the tower, the God of Fate still stood, like an unmoving sentinel.

He closed his eyes and slowly uttered a sentence, as if responding to the darkness:

"When God's spells fail, only lies can ignite their flames."

In the distance, the sleeping royal palace and the desolate holy tower stand.

Meanwhile, countless hands in the city turned rusty locks in the darkness, pushed open windows, received messages at corners, and waited for a bowl of warm soup by the soup kitchen.

They began to gather. They began to organize. They began to learn to stand up for themselves and become gods in the days without God.

"In the long night, people have become accustomed to looking up at the light of the Holy Tower."

"But when the Holy Tower falls silent, the gods withdraw, and the light of day does not come, who will ignite the flame?"

“A voice whispered in a corner of the city: Rely not on God, not on King, but on yourself.”

— Unpublished pages of the Morning Light Times

(End of this chapter)