Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 425 Corpse Flower in the Lamplight
“The crisp sound of their toasts drowned out the weeping outside the city.”

"The golden cup holds wine the same color as blood."

They called it the fruits of victory.

Outside the city gates, starving people were gnawing on their frozen fingers.

—The Dark History of Trelian: The End Times

The Duke of von Het's mansion, located on the north side of the capital, was brightly lit.

The chandelier with its hundred candles cascading down like a golden waterfall illuminated the marble-paved banquet hall with warmth and brightness, as if the city had never been touched by cold winds, plagues, or famines.

Silver platters were stacked on the long table, roasted pigeons with crisp, glistening skin, and sliced ​​beef liver exuding a rich aroma. Aged wine from the South shimmered with deep red light in crystal glasses.

Servants moved about to the accompaniment of soft music, refilling the guests' wine and serving desserts decorated with icing and gold powder.

Outside the heavy curtains, the night was deep, and the wind carried not the fragrance of flowers, but the stench of burning corpses and the cries of starving people in the distance—yet no one bothered to lift the brocade curtains to look.

Duke von Het sat at the head of the table, his silver hair neatly styled, his expression calm, as if he were presiding over an elegant poetry gathering.

To his left stood Nover Barletta, dressed in a well-tailored dark blue suit, his young face bearing a perfectly measured, humble smile.

Across from them, the representative of the Earl of White Rose was speaking quietly with two envoys from the Twelve Dukes' Alliance:
Marquis Roland's eyes were sharp, and General Agnes Rett arrived in military uniform, her cold demeanor clashing with the soft lighting of the hall.

"The pressure on city defense is steadily decreasing."

Roland set down a cup coated with ivory glaze, his tone as soft as if he were discussing tomorrow's weather.

"Famine and disease have driven away enough of the defenders that by the time that child is born, their city gates will be as fragile as rotten wood."

Agnes raised an eyebrow, a barely perceptible smile playing on her lips: "Meddes's army is busy suppressing the uprising; she'll thank us for diverting the enemy for her."

"grateful?"

The Earl of the White Rose's signature knife sliced ​​a piece of lamb chop, the juices sliding down the blade and splashing onto the porcelain plate, creating a dark ring.
"Perhaps, but more likely they will hate us."

von Het chuckled lightly, his voice devoid of any shame:
"Hate and love weigh equally on the scales of power. We are working for the future—and the future king is in your sister's womb, isn't he, Novell?"

Novell put down his wine glass, raised the stemmed glass filled with deep red wine, his expression solemn yet tinged with a hint of self-satisfaction:

"For the future king—and for the glory of Trean."

The crisp sound of clinking glasses echoed under the golden dome.

No one mentioned how similar the color of the wine in the glass was to the blood pooling in the ditches outside the city.

The sound of the wind outside the window seemed to carry a few distant cries, but they were quickly drowned out by the laughter and music inside.

The guests continued to chat and laugh, replacing "hunger" and "plague" with phrases like "for the people's hearts" and "for stability," and using "necessary cost" to describe "thousands of corpses."

As they raised their glasses, the gold rings on their fingers gleamed under the light, as if even death had to make way for them.

And the gazes of everyone present, upon hearing "the future king,"

They all revealed a scrutinizing and calculating attitude—as if the unborn child was not a life, but a bargaining chip that could be exchanged at any time.

Sophie's bedroom was warm and cozy, where the winter night outside had lost its power to invade.

A soft lynx fur rug covered the entire floor, and your toes sank into it, feeling as if you were walking on clouds. The fire crackled in the fireplace.
The flames illuminated the gold-lined wall decorations—the coat of arms of the ancient Terrian royal family. The air was filled with the scent of sandalwood and rare balsams imported from the south, mingled with the aroma of warm milk.

Two maids were carefully carrying an ivory basin with gilded edges closer. The basin contained a milky white liquid with delicate foam—fresh goat milk, just warmed to a temperature that was not too hot.

Sophie stretched out her slender white feet and slowly sank them into that warm, moist place, her fingertips gently stroking her swollen belly.

The lotion overflowed from the rim of the basin, meandering down the foot of the basin onto the lynx hide, where it was immediately and gently wiped away by the maid with a soft cloth embroidered with gold thread.

The meal was ready on the silver tray: a tender stewed pigeon stuffed with truffles and almonds;
The grapes, urgently sent from the western border, were plump and jewel-like.
There's also warm wheat porridge mixed with honey and red wine, its aroma sweet and mellow.

Bread outside the city has long been a luxury, but here, every ingredient is carefully selected to ensure it is "nutritionally beneficial for the fetus."

She closed her eyes and slowly chewed the pigeon meat, the truffle aroma on her tongue making her sigh softly.

Deep in her mind, those dark and damp days of the past surfaced—when she huddled in a cold little house, surviving on thin vegetable soup and moldy bread, her hands and feet so cold they were almost numb.

Now, surrounded by silk and fireplaces, she is revered as the mother of a future king.

"For my children, even the finest food in the world should belong to us."

This idea took root in her heart and burned like a fireplace on a winter night.

A faint smile appeared on her lips, yet it carried an inscrutable air of superiority and unwavering confidence.

She slowly rose and walked to the full-length mirror. The surface of the bronze mirror was slightly warmed by the fire in the stove, reflecting her tall figure and the curve of her belly.

The fetus seemed to move slightly, and that faint sensation flowed through her body along her blood vessels.

Sophie's gaze gradually became unfocused—in her reflection in the mirror, she seemed to see an ancient and dark shadow overlapping with her own silhouette, as if looking down upon the entire kingdom.

At that moment, she felt an almost fanatical awe: as if what was growing in her womb was not just her child, but some being chosen by fate, a ruler who would ascend the throne in the storm.

Her lips parted slightly as she whispered words that even the maid couldn't make out. The words seemed to belong to no language of this world, yet they strangely resonated with the rhythm of her heartbeat.

Outside the window, the distant tolling of bells drifted through the winter night air—slow and heavy.

A maid pushed open the door and bowed to report: "Your Highness, the plague in the capital is getting worse, and the Queen has ordered a thorough investigation into the culprit."

Sophie frowned slightly, her hand on her stomach slowly tightening, a subtle, unconscious pressure coming from her fingertips.

"Has the Queen finally started making a move...?"

She murmured softly, but a dark light flashed in her eyes, as if she were pondering something.

The firelight danced in the fireplace, casting a red glow on her profile—a light that was both gentle and dangerous.

Outside the observation deck at the highest point of the palace, the winter morning light, carrying a cold golden hue, slanted in from the horizon.

Medici stood before the arched window, draped in a black robe with gold patterns, her gaze passing over the city walls and pointed rooftops, fixed on the distant city of Areston.

Looking down from here, the whole city looks like a decaying painting.

Faint cries could be heard coming from the narrow streets and alleys;
The bonfire burning in the square emitted grayish-white smoke, the smell of burning infected corpses, which drifted into the palace on the wind, mingling with the scent of holly in the garden, and faintly seeping into the nostrils.

Her eyes revealed no emotion, only the secret report in her hand, the edges of which were wrinkled from being squeezed by her knuckles.

The brazier in the hall was blazing, illuminating her back, but it couldn't dispel the chill on her shoulders.

The advisors whispered behind her, their voices like eddies lurking beneath the surface of water:

"The movements of the Twelve Dukes' Alliance have been confirmed; they are mobilizing their private armies to gather in the north."

“There are signs of a split in the preaching of the church in the city, with some priests openly questioning His Majesty’s orthodoxy.”

"And then there's... the God of Fate. That 'yellow-robed lie' is spreading among the poor, and more and more people are questioning the legitimacy of the monarchy."

Medici slowly turned around, her expression calm and subdued.

She was not afraid of the rebels' swords—if the Twelve Dukes were to fight openly, she could crush them with her army.

What she was truly wary of was that man who was as elusive as mist—Si Ming.

"His lies were not ordinary lies."

She silently repeated this sentence to herself.

Those rumors took root in people's hearts like seeds, giving rise to doubt and confusion, and even cracks began to appear at the bottom of the church.

She vaguely felt that this was not a simple political provocation, but some kind of curse beyond reason—a hand stirring people's hearts in the unseen depths.

This reminded her of the "Plague of Language" recorded in ancient esoteric texts, whispers originating from nameless realms that need no evidence, only to be heard, to erode belief. This invisible corruption is more dangerous than the iron cavalry of rebels.

She could annihilate the army of the Twelve Dukes at the city gates; but the shadow of fate lurked in everyone's ears, ready to turn into a question at any moment.

She knew that if this lie was allowed to fester, even the strongest monarchy would crumble from its foundations.

She walked to the desk, bent down, and wrote a few lines in deep red ink on the secret order scroll, her wrist movements decisive and ruthless:
"Do everything you can to find out Si Ming's whereabouts."

He is the number one threat.

First take its claws, then crush its heart.

Her pen paused for a moment on the word "claws"—she had learned from intelligence that the woman known as the "Bloodthirsty Princess," Selian,
It is the sharpest piece in Si Ming's game, and also a key aid for him to advance to a higher rank.

Eliminating her would be tantamount to breaking one of the wings of the God of Fate.

Medusa stamped the royal seal and summoned the captain of the guard. The candlelight illuminated her face, a pale white tinged with a faint gold.

"Go, bring me that vixen, Serian—dead or alive."

The head guard knelt on one knee and solemnly agreed.

As he turned to leave and the heavy door slowly closed, Medici remained standing in the candlelight, gazing silently at the flames.

The firelight seemed to flicker silently, casting a shadow deeper than any conspiracy—a gaze from above, a gaze she herself could not explain, a gaze that seemed otherworldly and hung over the city.

She slowly clenched her fist, her knuckles turning white, as if to ward off the invisible chill.

The tallest tower of Dawn Manor was shrouded in darkness, the cold wind carrying the acrid smell of burning and blood from distant cities, rushing into its half-open arched windows.

Selene stood on the platform at the top of the tower, her back long and aloof, the silvery moonlight outlining her curves—it was a tight-fitting suit specially made for vampire warriors to hunt at night.
It clung to her body like a second skin, the fabric gleaming with a subtle obsidian sheen, every seam concealing the convenience and sharpness of a hunt.

The cloak fluttered in the wind like a pair of half-spread bat wings.

Si Ming stood quietly at the entrance of the platform below the tower, watching her—watching this servant who was about to walk into the eye of the storm.

Suddenly, Celian slowly turned around.

Her long hair shimmered with a deep red hue under the moonlight, and a chilling yet delightful smile played on her lips.

At that moment, her eyes were brighter than the moonlight, like two rubies soaked in the abyss, gazing at Si Ming.

Her voice was like aged wine overflowing in the night, mellow yet with a metallic sharpness:
"They... said I was prey."

"How interesting, Master."

“I, Selian—the princess of the Eternal Night Blood Alliance, have never been hunted down by anyone.”

She took a step forward, her footsteps silent, a dangerous flirtation creeping into her smile, like a feline predator pounding on its prey's heart.

"In my dictionary, there's only one ending for hunter and prey—I will always be the former. As for those knights who hunt me?"

"Ha...they're just my midnight snack and delicacy tonight."

The wind billowed her cloak, as if tearing a dark wound in the night sky.

Si Ming gazed at her, a slight glint in his eyes, but he remained silent.

Selene's smile faded, and her expression turned cold and stern.

"Don't worry, Master."

“I will hold them off for you and buy them as much time as possible—whether it’s with blood or with my life.”

With that, she turned around, leaped into the air, and transformed into a dark shadow with a scarlet glow, disappearing into the night below.

The wind whistled past their ears; the vampire hunt had begun.

In the distance, the bells from the direction of the palace were slowly tolling, heavy and deliberate—as if a prelude to an impending feast and slaughter.

The night was as dark as an endless curtain, pressing down on the rooftops and walls of Areston.

The Duke of von Het's mansion was brightly lit, with gilded crystal chandeliers casting showers of light under the dome.

The wine in the glasses reflected a crimson light, like blood slowly flowing through glass.

He raised a toast with the envoys of the alliance of twelve dukes, the coat of arms of the Count of the White Rose gleaming in the fireplace.

“The time has come.” von Het’s smile was calm and profound. “The city’s defenses are now weak, and the Queen’s hand can no longer reach beyond the palace walls.”

Others murmured in agreement, the clinking of silverware mingling with laughter like a symphony—yet each beat added to the wailing outside the city.

In a side hall of the palace, Sophie leaned alone against the carved window, her skirt trailing on the soft lynx fur carpet.

Her hand gently stroked her swollen belly, but her eyes were cold.

The city outside the window appeared distant and insignificant in the darkness, with occasional flickering lights—the light of burning corpses.

She murmured softly, "My child will ascend the throne on these ruins."

That smile was so complex, it was like a blessing, yet also like a curse.

Torches flickered in the royal palace hall.

Queen Medusa, clad in silver armor, had eyes as cold as frost. The tip of her sword lightly touched the ground, producing a chilling sound.

Have you found any trace of her?

The captain of the guard knelt on one knee: "Yes, Your Majesty. Serian has appeared in the city."

Medici raised her chin, a glint of light flashing in her eyes—not joy, but the calm before the hunt.

“Very good,” she whispered. “Use my will to make her have nowhere to escape.”

Outside the Dawn Manor, a dark shadow streaked across the eaves like a shooting star.

Selene's cloak fluttered in the wind, her eyes shining like a crescent moon stained with blood in the night.

Her footsteps were silent, but a faint smell of rust filled the air wherever she went.

"The hunter...will eventually drink the blood of his prey." She lightly touched the corner of her lips with her tongue, her smile wicked.

On the other side of the street, several squads of armored hunters were approaching her, the metallic sound of their boots striking the stone pavement with an ominous rhythm.

In a higher, darker place—a realm unseen by anyone—Si Ming stood silently before the star chart of destiny patterns, watching all this unfold.

Between the lines, characters and events are moved and arranged like chess pieces.

He reached out and touched a thin thread, his gaze showing both patience and coldness.

"The night is still long."

At that moment, the city of Areston seemed to hold its breath.

Every light, every hoofbeat, every heartbeat awaits that first shout to break the silence—

That will be the moment when the boundaries between hunter and prey, king and traitor, mortal and unknown are torn apart.

"On the chessboard, they think they are making moves and setting the stage, but little do they know that there are deeper hands moving the game from outside the board."

"Whispers come before the storm; shadows are longer before the light is extinguished."

—From *The Yellow Lie: Fragments of Alleston*

(End of this chapter)