Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 423 The Shadow Beneath the Flag
"A slogan of salvation can also become a clarion call of judgment."

"They long for someone who can guide them."

The man spoke of light, yet beneath his feet lay an endless abyss.

—From *Morning Light Times*, Special Feature: Biographies of People in a Crisis-Stricken City

In the corridor of the Morning Light Times office, the roar of printing presses came from the underground printing room, like a giant beast trapped in an iron box, slowly panting in the cold morning light.

The air was filled with the mixed smell of ink and metal, which was so solid it felt icy cold.

Si Ming sat in his office on the second floor, a stack of unsigned letters revealing secrets spread out on his desk, the lamp wick trembling slightly in the wind.

His pen was still on last night's manuscript paper—the ink on the title line, "Disaster Has Become Awake in Alleston," was dry, yet it cast a shadow over the entire room.

There was a gentle knock on the door three times.

"Please come in." His voice was low and calm.

Alan Herwin pushed open the door and entered, followed by a tall, thin, neatly dressed man—retired Sergeant Arno Herder.

His right shoulder leaned slightly forward, his left sleeve hung loosely at his waist, and he walked briskly, yet tried to maintain a steady, military-like pace.

"Respected mentor!" As soon as he entered the room, Arno stood up straight and raised his only left arm in an exaggerated yet standard military salute.

His dark eyes burned with an urgent light, as if his journey carried the fate of the entire city.

Si Ming slightly raised her eyes to look at him, neither warm nor cold, but simply nodded gently, indicating that he should sit down.

"Mentor," Arno began eagerly as soon as he sat down, his voice rough and raspy, yet still resonant.
"Alleston is dying. Children in the streets are starving, old people lie unattended at church doors, and merchants’ granaries are locked tighter than treasuries! The people are suffering in darkness, while you—you hold the light of dawn."

He leaned forward slightly, his hands gripping his knees tightly, as if pushing something scorching hot onto the altar.

"If you are willing to speak out for our cause in the newspapers, coupled with your reputation as the founder of the Mysterious Night Class, you will surely be able to awaken hope in the people!"
I implore your help to let the voice of truth and salvation resound throughout the city of Areston. Mentor, you know—this is not just for us, but for the glory of all Trelian!

His sentences are short and dense, frequently striking at words like "people," "light," and "redemption," with an almost preacher-like zeal.

When he spoke of "Trian's glory," he lightly struck his chest with his left fist, like striking an invisible war drum.

Si Ming didn't interrupt, but simply tapped the table lightly with his fingers, as if counting the rhythm of the other person's words.

His gaze remained gentle, calmly meeting Arno's burning passion, yet like a smooth mirror, it showed neither joy nor anger.

"I believe that with your call, tens of thousands will surely respond!"

Arno's voice echoed in the cramped office, as if igniting the very air: "We will definitely save Alleston from this calamity and make the flag of the Trelian fly high once more!"

The sunlight outside the window gradually climbed onto the exterior wall, casting a pale golden ray of light inside.

The light fell precisely on Arno's face, which was filled with excitement and admiration—while on the other side of that light, in the eyes of the Fate Master, there was only unfathomable still water.

Si Ming slowly withdrew his fingers from the table, as if he were closing some invisible string.

He leaned back in his chair, his expression still gentle, with a hint of encouraging smile on his lips.

“Arno,” his voice was soft, yet carried an undeniable steadiness, “your sincerity is admirable. I can see that you are willing to give everything for Alleston.”

He paused deliberately for a moment, as if weighing his words. A glimmer of sunlight flashed in his eyes, but was quickly obscured.

"The Morning Times has always been willing to deliver messages that bring hope to people's hearts."

Si Ming slowly turned the pen in his hand, the nib silently drawing a small circle on the paper. "If your cause can truly bring light to this city... then the people will naturally read about that light in the newspapers."

This sentence sounds like a promise, yet it also seems to circumvent the boundaries of a promise.

Arno sat bolt upright, his eyes blazing with a light that seemed to be fueled by the wind: "Great! With your words, we have a chance of winning!"

Si Ming simply nodded slightly, his tone remaining calm: "Young man, as long as the future of Alleston is in the hands of those who truly care about it, I believe—justice will ultimately prevail."

As he finished speaking, his gaze remained fixed on Arno's face, as if reinforcing the other's conviction, or as if secretly scrutinizing him.

Arno, however, was oblivious to the sharpness in that scrutiny. His excitement nearly overflowed, and even his breathing quickened.
“Mentor, your support will be our greatest strength, and Alleston will remember your contributions!”

Si Ming slowly rose, walked around the table, and stood face to face with Arno.

He reached out and firmly grasped Arno's left hand, the grip just right, neither too tight nor too loose.

"May the light be with you." Si Ming's tone was warm yet firm.

Arno nodded solemnly, as if accepting a sacred entrustment.

He took two steps back, gave a military salute, and left the office with a heart full of gratitude and fervor.

The moment the door closed, sunlight was cut off between the cracks, and the room fell back into the tranquility of ink and paper intertwining—and Siming's smile vanished completely in that same instant.

The heavy door slammed shut, cutting off the fading footsteps in the corridor.

Si Ming's hand remained on the doorknob, his knuckles slightly tightened, as if to confirm that the latch was secure.

The next instant, his shoulder line relaxed effortlessly—a gesture a stage actor makes after taking their final bow, unloading the entire performance.

The gentle, encouraging expression he had just given vanished as quickly as ink in water; the warmth in his eyes was swallowed by coldness, leaving only an unfathomable calm and sharpness.

Alan Herwin, sitting next to him, was slightly taken aback.

He was still secretly surprised—Si Ming seemed to have really agreed to Arno's request, who was a radical being talked about all over the city.

However, at this moment, the mentor in front of me seemed like a completely different person.

Si Ming turned around, put his hands in the pockets of his long coat, and fixed his gaze steadily on Alan.

Those eyes were like a blade piercing through the mist, so cold that it made you instinctively straighten your back.

“Alan,” he said in a low, slow, heavy voice, “be careful of this man. Be careful.”

Alan frowned, but before she could ask why, Si Ming had already looked away, as if gazing at an unseen undercurrent.

“Beneath the savior’s exterior,” Si Ming continued, his voice so low it was almost a screeching sound, “often lurks the heart of a demon.” Alan’s breath hitched slightly. The words carried an undeniable certainty, like a long-proven law, not a casual doubt. He wanted to press—a demon?
Why him? — But faced with his superior's emotionless eyes, all his questions were swallowed back.

A brief silence fell over the office, broken only by the distant rumble of the printing press.

Alan nodded silently.

Even though he didn't understand where Si Ming's judgment came from, he knew that his trust in his mentor was beyond question.

He engraved this warning deep in his mind—the kind of deep that could save his life in a critical moment.

Si Ming walked back to his desk, picked up a printed sample, and began to peruse it as if nothing had happened.

In that instant, Alan suddenly felt that the light in this office was colder than the morning sun.

The morning mist still lingered in the streets and alleys of the slums, and the damp air carried the lingering smell of last night's cooking smoke.

Arno strode quickly along the narrow stone path, the sound of his boots striking the ground rapid and rhythmic, like a war drum ready to charge at any moment.

On the street corner, a group of people were waiting for him—bulging shoulders under coarse cloth short jackets, gleaming knife hilts, and dark cloth straps tied uniformly around their arms.

He was Arno's confidant and a key member of his gradually forming "brotherhood".

Upon seeing him, they both fell silent and touched their foreheads in a salute.

"And then what happened?" someone asked in a low voice.

Arno gave a cryptic smile, waved his hand, and led the group toward the dilapidated wooden box at the alley entrance.

He stepped onto the platform with one foot, towering half a body length above the crowd, so that his voice could cleave through the mist like a blade.

"You want to know what Si Ming has to say?" Arno's gaze slowly swept over each weathered face, which was now filled with anticipation.

He suddenly chuckled, as if he were telling a ridiculous joke.

"He's nothing but a foreign clown, a dancer who manipulates words and paper."

Arno waved his hand dismissively. "He keeps saying he's willing to deliver hope, but what is that hope? Is it empty words, a belated letter of condolence, or a pass to wait for death?"

Some people chuckled, while others muttered a curse. Taking advantage of this atmosphere, Arno suddenly raised his voice.

"Look at our city! The streets of Alleston are rotting with the stench of the starving dead, and children are coughing louder than church bells! Who has brought us to this point?!"

He swung his arm sharply, his fist slicing through the morning mist.

"It's the barbarity of outsiders! It's those foreign sorcerers who claim to be learned, yet unleash bizarre powers on our land!"
Their insidious schemes have dragged our homeland into a nightmare, while the so-called royalty, nobility, and church—watched us bleed, starve, and fall!

The crowd began to stir; some growled, while others gripped their short swords.

Arno seized the opportunity to strike hard: "Enough! Alleston belongs to us Trelians, not to any outsiders! Remember—you're either a fellow countryman or an enemy!"

That slogan was like a spark falling into a haystack, instantly igniting anger throughout the alleyway.

The followers shouted in unison, some were moved to tears, and some raised their weapons.

Arno stood on the wooden crate, his chest heaving, his voice booming like a war drum:
"From this day forward, we will no longer wait for others to save us! We will save Alleston ourselves! We will make this land remember its owners again!"

The fervent shouts echoed through the stone alleyways, mingling with the morning mist and soaring into the sky, as if announcing to the entire city that a new banner was being raised.

Arno jumped off the wooden crate and walked into the crowded throng, shaking hands with several veterans one by one, whispering, "Unity, we will prevail."

Every time his gaze met someone's, it was as if he were making a vow to that person.

This intensity and frenzy is enough to make one overlook how respectfully he addressed his "mentor" at the Morning Light Times office just moments before.

The crowd gradually dispersed, and the fervent slogans faded away like embers at the alley entrance.

The morning mist was tinged with a cold gold by the rising sun, and at the end of the winding streets of the slums, the high walls of the palace and the spire of the Tower of Sacred Chastity could be vaguely seen in the distance.

Arno slowly raised his head, like a beast that had caught the scent of its prey, his gaze climbing along the horizon to the two buildings that symbolized royal power and sacred authority.

The morning light bathed them in a sacred glow—but in Arno's eyes, that glow was nothing more than the hypocritical incense burning at the grave.

“Look,” he said in a low voice, with a disdainful laugh, “they’re still standing. But in my eyes, they’ve long since collapsed.”

Several of his closest confidants stood behind him, waiting in silence.

He turned around, his face divided in two by the morning light and shadow—one half a gentle smile, the other a cold, stiff expression, as if two faces coexisted on the same face.

"Royalty?" He uttered the two words softly, as if spitting out some filth.
“They’re nothing but stumbling blocks. One day, I will kick them away myself and erase them, along with the church, from the history of Areston.”

The confidants exchanged hesitant glances, and one of them tentatively asked, "Then...do we really have to make enemies of the royal family? After all, they are—"

Arno abruptly raised his hand, his sharp gaze cutting off the other's words like a bayonet:
"The royal family is the past, Alleston is the future. My loyalty is not to those puppets who cling to life by bloodline and incantations, but to this land—the land that belongs only to us Trelians!"

His voice began to rise, as if returning to the rhythm of his speech, but this time there was no audience, no slogans, only a few people and the silent city in the morning light.

“Remember what I said today,” Arno said, approaching the holy tower step by step, each step feeling like stepping on the chest of an enemy about to be judged.
"Soon, all of Areston will be reborn under our banner. The monarchy? The Holy Tower? Prepare for your doom."

The morning light climbed up his profile, bathing the face that should have belonged to the savior in a warm glow, but his eyes beneath the light were as cold as iron and as hard as stone, burning with a promise of fire and blood.

At this moment, he was no longer retired Sergeant Arno Heard, no longer the instigator of the rally—but an extreme believer who united himself with the country and the nation, a shadowy figure waiting to be unsheathed behind the flag.

Some flags fluttered in the wind.

It carries not hope, but fire and blood.

When it rises, every heart, inside and outside the city walls...

They will all be forced to choose—to kneel in worship, or to be crushed.

—The Dark History of Trelian, Volume Five: The Chronicles of Shadows

(End of this chapter)