Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 424 Dawn Breaks, Shadows Linger

"In Alleston, daylight never signifies safety."

Some people burn out their lives fighting against illness.
Some people lock the warehouse door tighter than their heart door.

They say this is order—

But order never satisfies the hungry.

And in the deepest darkness of the night,

There will always be someone who refuses to close their eyes.

—From *Random Notes from Broken Tower Street: The Nameless Physician's Journal*

There are no birdsong on Pota Street in the early morning.

Only heavy coughs, muffled groans, and footsteps rising and falling in the corridor—footsteps of survival, and footsteps driven by despair.

When Dr. Taran pushed open the wooden door of the clinic, the morning mist had not yet dissipated, but the room was already packed with people.

In the narrow hall, patients either huddled on makeshift mats made of straw or leaned against the corner of the wall, half-sitting and half-lying down.

The air was thick with the bitter smell of medicine and the stench of blood and sweat, heavy like a damp, cold cloth pressing down on every breath.

He was almost immediately enveloped by the gazes of the crowd as he stepped in. Those eyes held anxiety, pleading, and numbness after repeated rejections.

"Doctor...please take a look at my child first, she hasn't woken up all night."

"Please, please change my father's bandages, his leg—"

Taran raised his hand, gesturing for them to be quiet. His voice was hoarse, but he tried to remain calm: "I will read them all. Please sit down."

Deep wrinkles etched between his brows, and dark circles under his eyes bore the marks of sleepless nights. His hands paused briefly on the examination table—a brief respite for the doctor.

The next moment, he bent down, knelt on the ground, and examined the wound of a little boy with a fever.

The cold floor seeped through his trousers and into his knees, but he ignored it, his movements swift and gentle.

When he stood up, his forehead was beaded with sweat. Before he could even take a sip of water, a cry of alarm came from the other side: "Someone has fainted!"

Taran almost instinctively rushed over, helped up the pale-faced middle-aged patient, and moved him to a spot near the window so he could get some fresh air.

When I exert myself in my arms, my muscles feel a sharp, stabbing pain – the result of days of hard work.

—If this continues, I'm afraid I won't be able to save any more people.

The thought surged up like an undercurrent, but he forcefully suppressed it.

He saw a nurse clumsily disinfecting an elderly man's festering wound; her gloves were torn.

Taran went over and took her place, whispering instructions as she spoke: "Be gentle...don't let the medicine splash into his eyes."

His voice was steady, but his fingertips trembled slightly from overuse.

The clinic's light shone through the dilapidated windows, casting a faint band of light on the dusty floor.

Taran's shadow stretched long on that strip of light—a solitary figure, busy and struggling in the darkness.

Hurried footsteps came from outside, mixed with the creaking sound of a wooden door being pushed open.

“Dr. Taran!” a young, breathless voice rang out—it was Alan Herwin, a reporter for the Morning Times.

Taran looked up, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead in the dim light.

“Someone is willing to help,” Alan said, walking quickly to him and lowering his voice. “It’s Mr. Si Ming—he asked me to lead the way.”

Taran froze, his eyes seeming to light up for a moment.

He slowly straightened up, his gaze passing over Alan's shoulder, and saw the upright figure in the doorway—the neat robes contrasted sharply with the chaos in the room, yet those eyes were as calm as the deep sea, silently watching him.

Taran felt as if something had pushed open a crack in the pent-up frustration in his chest.

When despair reached its lowest point, a glimmer of light finally shone in.

The dim light flickered as Taran put down the tweezers and prepared to change into a new pair of gloves.

Footsteps approached from afar on the worn floor, carrying a steady rhythm that didn't belong to this street. Si Ming walked in.

His neat, dark robe stood out starkly in the cramped and chaotic clinic.

But his first step was not to go to Taran, but to squat down, help up a frail patient who had fallen to the ground, and put him back on the straw mat. He then whispered to the nurse, "Change his bandages."

This scene left Taran slightly stunned.

“Dr. Taran.” Si Ming stood up, looking directly at him, her voice calm yet firm.
“I heard about your situation from Alan—this is one of the few remaining lifelines in the city that is still functioning, but it is too small and won’t last much longer.”

Taran pursed his chapped lips and said hoarsely, "That's true. But we... have nowhere else to go."

Si Ming nodded slightly, as if he had been prepared: "From today onwards, my Dawn Manor is yours to use."

There's a large hall, a courtyard, clean water, and empty rooms that can be converted into wards. I'll have Alan contact the private doctors who are still treating patients and bring them all over.”

These few words were like a tear in the morning mist, letting in the light.

Taran stood frozen in place, seemingly unable to believe what he was hearing. "You... are willing to open the manor?"

"There's no time to lose." Si Ming's tone was unwavering. "There are still people in this city who can be saved. We shouldn't let them wait to die."

Taran's eyes shifted from shock to hesitation, and then a glimmer of light appeared on his face.

Those eyes, heavy with sleeplessness and exhaustion, seemed to be ignited at that moment.

He stepped forward, reached out his hand, and grasped Si Ming's hand tightly—his knuckles turned white from the force.

Her eyes were moist, but she smiled and said, "Thank you, Mr. Siming...you gave us a way to live."

Si Ming's gaze remained calm, as if he had long been accustomed to others seeing him as a source of salvation: "Then let's go, Dr. Taran. The darkness will not recede on its own."

Taran nodded vigorously and turned to instruct the nurses to pack up any portable instruments and medications.

When the patients heard the news that they were to be transferred to the manor, some of them, though weak, had a faint light return in their eyes.

"There's no time to lose, let's get moving." Si Ming confirmed one last time before walking out of the clinic side by side with Talan.

Outside the door, the morning light was breaking through the mist and falling on their shoulders.

—By afternoon that day, the gates of Chenxi Manor opened, welcoming the first batch of patients and doctors…

By that afternoon, the gates of Dawn Manor were completely open.

The spacious courtyard and long corridors are no longer the tranquil gardens of the former aristocratic manor, but a makeshift field hospital:
Rows of white tents stretched along the meadow, like pale waves surging into the depths of the estate;
The lobby, corridors, and even the former ballroom were all neatly filled with hospital beds.

The air was filled with the mixed smells of medicine, blood, sweat, and herbs, and the heat wave carried the pungent odor of disinfectant, making one's throat dry.

Taran squeezed through the crowd and looked around—the orderly scene here was indeed a sight that Pota Street Clinic could not have imagined.

Private doctors, nurses, and volunteers from all over the city are treating patients in an orderly manner in different areas;
The patients were no longer huddled in the cold alleyway, but had clean beds and the opportunity to be washed with clean water.

Sunlight filtered through the tall sycamore leaves, dappling the patients' faces, adding a touch of tranquility even to their groans.

He couldn't help but smile, a smile he hadn't shown in a long time, and nodded to his old colleague who was passing by.

But the smile didn't last long.

Taran took the registration book from the volunteer and glanced at it quickly—the number of new patients was still rising rapidly.

There were fewer than ten people on the estate who could practice medicine; the number of nurses and volunteers combined was less than one hundred.

As soon as a hospital bed became available, it was immediately occupied by a new patient; a basin of water, before it had even cooled down, was already stained dark with blood and medicine.

A young nurse was struggling to support an elderly doctor who was on the verge of collapse, while the medicine box on the other side was empty except for a few rolls of bandages. Taran's heart tightened, and he looked up to find Si Ming.

He walked quickly over and said in a low, urgent voice:
"Master Si Ming, we... are almost overwhelmed."

In that instant, his eyes held both a stubborn refusal to give up and an undisguised anxiety and guilt.

Si Ming did not respond immediately, but stood silently by the pillar, his gaze slowly sweeping over the wounded and sick in the garden, as if he was weighing something.

The sunlight shone on him, casting a long shadow that also revealed a hint of elusive coldness.

Taran clenched his fists, a heavy thought surfacing in his mind:

—Is there really no other way?
As soon as Taran finished speaking, Si Ming remained silent.

He simply raised his gaze slowly and looked up at the sky above the Dawn Manor.

The sunlight was bright, but in that instant, the sky seemed to have had its luster wiped away by some indescribable hand, as if an invisible curtain was slowly lowered.

What followed was a whisper that was hard to discern—it seemed to come from the distant sea of ​​stars, or it seemed to echo directly in the ear.

Those words and phrases have no known form in language, yet they leave a profound echo in people's hearts.

Taran shivered and instinctively wanted to speak, but then held his breath.

Siming slowly drew an arc with his fingertips, and life patterns appeared all over his body like a galaxy.

Each line shimmers with an almost imperceptible glow, weaving together a spiraling star map.

At the end of the star map, an unfathomable "door" opened.

It was not a real portal, but a crack torn open by the distortion of reality itself, with thick starlight and strange runes flowing along its edges, as if it were breathing according to some kind of rule.

The air in the manor suddenly became still, and even the groans that had been rising and falling seemed to be wrapped in thick cotton wool, becoming distant.

—The Illusory Corridor.

Taran felt he had seen something that mortals shouldn't be looking at.

The colors of the sky began to become chaotic, with gray, purple, blue, and black intertwined and flowing;

The edges of the ground and walls trembled slightly in my field of vision, as if their existence was only a temporary agreement.

Then, a miracle happened.

Right where he was standing, he saw his own shadow suddenly lengthen, as if being sculpted and peeled away in the starlight, and finally a figure emerged from beside him.

That was another "Dr. Taran," with the same features, clothes, and movements, even the same weariness and anxiety in his eyes.

One...two...three.

Three identical clones of him existed simultaneously between the hospital beds, skillfully bandaging patients, dispensing medicine, and comforting their families.

The movements were precise and natural, as if he were doing them all at the same time.

And it wasn't just him—every doctor, nurse, and even a few experienced volunteers in the manor gradually found their "other selves" emerging.

These clones remained silent, yet carried the memories and skills of the original body, immediately throwing themselves into the torrent of healing.

Some people screamed in shock, while others rubbed their eyes in disbelief.

Taran stared blankly at the three "selves," his heart pounding as if it would burst from his chest. He reached out, almost touching the shoulder of one of the clones, but then abruptly pulled back—as if afraid of disturbing this fragile miracle.

After a few seconds of stunned silence, his breathing quickened, his eyes welled up with tears, and his throat tightened so much he could barely speak, until he finally managed to squeeze out a whisper:
"...This is simply a miracle."

His voice trembled, but his eyes burned with intensity. He immediately rallied, rushed to the nearest clone, and began directing them to treat the patients in their respective areas.

His movements suddenly became as swift as if dozens of hands were working together, and the efficiency of the treatment almost doubled in just a few minutes.

The entire manor quickly returned to order from chaos.

The groans were no longer drawn out by despair, but were instead covered by an atmosphere of busyness and hope.

Si Ming stood quietly in the center of the domain, his eyes as calm as an abyss.

His hand remained in the void, maintaining the enormous star map, the life runes shimmering and flowing, as if enveloping the entire manor in a tranquil dream.

However, a careful observer would notice a fine sheen of sweat trickling down his temples.

During a brief moment when Taran looked up, his gaze met Siming's.

He didn't speak, but nodded solemnly—a doctor's most sincere tribute to the savior.

“The biggest problem… is solved,” he murmured to himself, as if announcing it to himself and to everyone else.

But behind the cheers of hope, the crack in the sky still pulsed slowly, like a giant eye, silently watching everything.

The twilight light filtered through the canopy of the manor trees, casting long, sickly red shadows.

The makeshift hospital, which had been bustling and invigorated by the miracle, was now shrouded in a heavy silence.

Taran had just finished changing the bandages for the last patient and was about to check on another ward when he suddenly saw Siming in the corner of the courtyard, talking quietly with Selian and Alanhewen.

The three men all wore solemn expressions, an atmosphere that made him instinctively stop in his tracks.

Selene spoke first, her voice low but filled with barely suppressed anger:

"The grain reserves are only enough for three days, four days at most. If this continues, not only the patients, but also the medical staff will starve."

Alanhewin added, his voice trembling slightly: "The black market... I've inquired about it. Medicines and food are all strictly controlled by the authorities. Merchants would rather ship them to the noble district at high prices than share any with us."

At that moment, it was as if a cold wind swept through the center of the courtyard, blowing away all the warmth and hope that had just been there.

Taran took a few steps closer, heard the words clearly, and his heart sank: "How could this be... we were just..."

His words were cut short by reality. He covered his forehead, a bitter smile tinged with almost self-mockery, "So, we still can't escape despair?"

Selene clenched her fists, her knuckles turning white, and gritted her teeth as she muttered under her breath, "Those black-hearted parasites...may God curse them."

Alan Herwin's eyes reddened slightly, as if he wanted to say something more, but he could only exhale heavily and turn away.

Si Ming remained silent, his gaze fixed on the empty storage shelves not far away. In the dim light, the rows of empty spaces seemed to be mocking him silently.

He slowly closed his eyes, as if pressing all of this into his heart. When he opened them again, a cold light flickered deep in his eyes.

“Just a few hours ago, this place was bustling with activity and laughter,” Taran murmured. “Now… there’s only an unsettling silence.”

No one answered.

Deep in the courtyard, the patients' coughs and groans sounded particularly clear, as if reminding them that the next, even crueler test was approaching.

The wind blew in through the courtyard gate, swirling up a few withered leaves that twirled on the stone path, making a dry, rattling sound.

Si Ming slowly raised his head and looked at the distant city of Areston, which had been swallowed by the night.

The city now resembled a sleeping behemoth, its fur dark and its heart cold.

“The first rays of dawn have already pierced the darkness,” he said softly, “but the darkness has never given in easily.”

His departing figure, in the lingering twilight, seemed to carry a lonely ray of light back into the depths of darkness.

Sometimes, light is not swallowed by darkness, but rather it chooses to enter into darkness.

It did this not because of the odds of winning, but because someone had to.

— Unpublished editorial of the Morning Times

(End of this chapter)