Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 428 Crown, Blade, and Death Knell
"When God stretches out his hand, mortals have nowhere to escape."

God's patience is merely a luxury in the illusions of mortals.

As He bent down, the crown and the blade descended simultaneously.

—Treant's Court Secrets, Volume XII

Sophie's bedroom was shrouded in a morbid stillness.

The gold leaf and carvings on the walls are layered and overlapping, like skin that has been polished repeatedly.
The heavy curtains blocked out the sunlight, and the swirling scents of spices and herbs in the air intertwined, like sacrificial smoke created specifically to conceal something.

The so-called "safe haven" was a name given to her by the nobles, but it was also a cage woven by Medici's eyes and ears—there was no wind in the gaps, only unseen gazes.

The palace doors slowly opened. Medici stepped in, her steps unhurried, her skirt brushing against the marble floor, her voice as sharp and cold as the gentle rustling of a robe on an altar.

The accompanying knights of divine grace stood by the door, their faces as stone, even the fluctuations in their eyes were sealed by etiquette.

"Your Majesty." Sophie forced herself to sit up straight, her dry voice like grit scraping against glass.

“Sophie.” Medici’s tone was as gentle as spring sunshine, yet it carried an irresistible chill.

“I’ve come to see you, and… the future king of Trelian.”

Sophie lowered her eyes: "He hasn't even been born yet, and Your Majesty is already calling him king. Isn't this eagerness a bit too premature?"

Medici smiled faintly, as if she heard a child repeating a wrong line of doctrine: "God never waits. What He wants, He gives immediately."

She extended her right hand and gently closed her five fingers together.

The air immediately seemed to sink, as if the deep sea had silently fallen into the room;
The light from the wall lamp was dimmed, and only the golden-white radiance blooming in her palm danced, like the heart of a holy icon.

Each pulse seems to confirm a law: will precedes form, destiny precedes birth.

This is the power of the Virgin Mary—the supreme mystery card of the Life System.

From the moment she stepped onto the planet of the Star Calamity, she completely took control of this power.
She doesn't need to command the world; she only needs to signal, and the world will willingly follow.

Miracles don't make a fuss; they simply make everything irrefutable.

Sophie's body bent over suddenly, her face turning ashen white with pain.

The fetus in her womb seemed to be called by name, churning violently as if eager to break free of an unfinished cage.

The pain climbed up her spine, like scorching vines wrapping around her joints. She suppressed a low, labored gasp—a sound that seemed to be absorbed by the curtains and then echoed coldly against the stone wall.

Medici looked at her quietly, her expression almost benevolent, as if gazing at a flower forced to bloom prematurely.

"I originally wanted to wait a few more days," her voice was gentle, yet carried an unyielding weight.
“But God has no patience, Sophie. What He desires, He will grant immediately.”

In this declaration, time is stretched into a thin thread, and human requests and maternal hesitations all become superfluous and can be cut off.

The maids in the palace rushed around in a panic, summoning a midwife and preparing a bed;
The aroma of herbs quickly intensified, as if polishing what was about to happen into a recordable order.

Each tray and each layer of cloth performed its designated place, as if the entire room had become a legitimate sacrificial altar—mortal hands completing the procedures of divine will.

Medici turned and left, the sound of her skirt sweeping the ground steady and certain, as if announcing that an irreversible upheaval had been approved.

Outside the door, the messenger hurried away, his footsteps echoing coldly down the corridor.

The curtains fell again, isolating the outside world and sealing away the breaths, whispers, and pain inside into an even denser darkness.

However, any movement within these palace walls would soon penetrate the stone walls and travel along pipes, stairs, and whispers to reach the entire city of Areston.

Duke von Het sat at the end of the long table.

The heavy oak curtains blocked out the morning light, leaving only a few oil lamps burning coldly in the room;

The flames danced on the curved surface of the silver goblet, like a surgical lamp gliding over sterile instruments, cold and merciless.

The parchment map spread out on the table was densely marked with red ink and symbols, depicting the fortresses, streets, and passages inside and outside Alleston, like a dissected beast—every street and every open space was an exposed blood vessel and nerve.

Touching the edge with your knuckles, you can feel the soft lines left by repeated folds; that's the warmth of an old scheme, and also the back of a blade yet to be drawn.

“Medeth went to the bedchamber herself.”

The announcement fell into the secret room like a stone thrown into a deep well, the ripples slow and heavy, even the lamp flames seemed to shrink into tiny tongues.

Novell Barletta leaned back in his chair, his fingertips tapping the table in a steady rhythm, a barely perceptible smile playing on his lips: "It seems she wants to bring all of this to fruition herself."

His tone carried the arrogance of youth, but the light in his eyes was like a hunter spotting the outline of his prey in the shadows of the forest—restrained, excited, and already cocked.

Lucien Blackhill frowned slightly, his gaze lingering on the palace area on the map for a moment.
He said slowly, "No... If she only wanted to deliver the baby early, blocking the news would have been enough. Her personal appearance means she wants the news to spread."

He spoke each word in a low voice, like a blade pressed against the hilt of a sheath, revealing only coldness, not light.

Fonte raised his eyes, his white eyebrows casting a deep shadow in the lamplight: "That's right. She's trying to force us to take action."

The air tightened instantly, like an invisible ring suddenly closing, and the silver cup on the table made a very soft clinking sound, as if agreeing to the impending inevitability.

Novell turned to the Duke: "So you suspect that she has already set up a trap, waiting for us to step in?"

von Het slowly raised his glass, the amber liquid swirling in a small vortex at the bottom:

"Doubt? No, young man, I am certain of it. But you and I both know—we have no way out. The arrow has already been released."

His tone was calm, as if he were stating the weather. Power and fear never argue; they only keep time.

Lucien gripped the hilt of his sword, his knuckles moving calmly yet forcefully.

Hesitation and resolve intertwined in the depths of his gaze. He recalled the news of Orion's death, the inconsistencies behind the rumors, and Liseria's solitary figure imprisoned in the Tower of Saint Chastity—names like nails, hammered into the bone.

If we don't act today, we may never have another chance.

Opportunity doesn't knock on the door; it just passes by.

von Het slammed his glass down, the dull thud echoing through the room.
“We’ve waited too long. No matter how tightly she tightens her net, we can only fight back. Pass down the order—act immediately, before the child is born.”

This sentence is like a taut string being plucked forcefully, the vibrations spreading through the table legs, wall cracks, and the veins of the person.

Fate often manifests itself in the shape of a net, and all one can do is choose how to crash into it.

The city gate symbols on the map were almost blood red in the candlelight, like lit pupils, coldly watching the road that would be crushed by iron hooves.

The soft creaking of chair legs scraping the floor echoed intermittently.
The nobles exchanged glances; some licked their chapped lips, while others nodded slowly—a mixture of agreement, bewilderment, and greed blurred in the dim light.

The command was quickly broken down into finer whispers, which flowed through servants, messengers, and secret messages into passageways and staircases, reaching the knights and occultists outside the city.

The wax seal was still warm, the writing not yet dry; but once you step out the door, the words grow legs and travel along pipes, wellheads, and shadows.

Outside this table, Alleston remained unaware that a storm was brewing beyond the city walls, rising and falling like a sleeping sea in the darkness.

When it arrives, people will think it's just a change in wind direction—but they don't know that some winds don't come from the sky.

The pre-dawn mist, like a damp, cold shroud, covered the wheat fields and irrigation ditches outside Alleston; the moisture clung to the soil like an unsealed grave.

Behind the fog came a low tremor, initially like distant thunder rolling across the horizon, then breaking down into a symphony of countless iron hooves and war drums, so heavy that even the air seemed nailed to the spot.

The city guard stood on the arrow tower at the north gate, striking the morning bell with a wooden mallet in his hand.

The bell should have been high-pitched, waking the whole city, but now it was as weak as the gasp of a dying man—he had to pause for a moment to catch his breath with each strike.
Hunger and disease nested in his shoulders and arms.

The tolling of the bells echoed between the city walls, like a heart that had lost its rhythm, forcing him to turn his gaze to the outside of the city.

Crossing the city moat and canals, he saw the approaching black tide. Formations stretched out one after another, their banners appearing and disappearing in the mist; the metallic lines of the armor gleamed coldly in the morning light.

The long spears stood in neat rows, as orderly as a field of steel wheat swaying in the wind.

The warhorse's breath exhaled white mist, which mingled with the condensed aura beneath the knight's helmet, creating a chilling sensation that seemed to wash over you—like an ancient, nameless sea pushing its crests onto the land.

In that instant, he seemed to have returned to forty years ago.

As a child, I stood on this very city wall, watching the allied forces of the six duchies sweep in at dawn.

That year, wheat fields turned to mud under the hooves of warhorses; that year, irrigation ditches were stained black with corpses and blood.

The siege of the city by 300,000 people lasted a whole year, until plague and famine dragged both sides into hell.

The scene today is so similar to my memories—even more so.

Back then, he still had strong arms and sharp eyes, but now, his hands are trembling, and his vision is dulled by illness and hunger.

History is not a circle; it is a hammer repeatedly striking the same stone.

"The footsteps of national destruction... have returned."

He murmured, the mallet almost slipping from his hand. The fog was pushed aside by the army formation, the war drums drew closer, each beat like a blow to his heart.

The black tide continued to expand in his field of vision until it filled the horizon; the gazes of those knights, even from hundreds of paces away, were like cold arrows, piercing his chest.

The bells were still ringing out, their tolling shakily, but the city's reaction was no longer one of orderly preparation for war—

It was frantic running and chaotic shouting;
Some people prayed under the eaves, while others fled south of the city with their belongings.

Fear spread like flames along the alleyway, the walls reflecting a shimmering, grayish light.

The city garrison commander understood that this was merely the prelude to a storm; the wind was testing the waters around the corner, while the real sea was still churning.

Before the echoes of the alarm bells had faded, the street seemed to have been torn open, and chaos poured in from all directions.

Someone was pushing a cart full of grain at breakneck speed, and the wheels ran over a fallen beggar.

Some people smashed open shops with wooden sticks and stuffed handfuls of bread into their arms; others huddled under the eaves, tightly holding their children, their eyes shifting between fear and numbness.

Order is like a piece of paper soaked in water; with a gentle tear, all the fibers break.

Just above the sound of the tide, a clear and loud voice pierced the noise:

"The dawn of Alleston has arrived!"

The crowd turned around and saw a one-armed man standing on the dilapidated fountain platform.

He wore a faded military jacket with tattered epaulets, but his posture remained upright, like a command flag that had not yet been withdrawn from the battlefield.

His left arm was raised high, and a blood-red mysterious card gleamed in the morning light; the "Roaring Sea Dragon" on the card seemed to slowly twist in the light and shadow, emitting a deep resonance, like the deep tide echoing in the belly of a stone.

"Did you hear that? The hoofbeats outside aren't coming to save us, they're coming to crush us!"
They keep talking about fighting for Trerian, for the King, for God—but in their eyes, we're nothing more than dead dogs thrown into a ditch!

His voice was rough, each word like a nail driven into the ear canal, and into those already shaky beliefs.

"We bled and fought desperately to defend this land! But when we returned, we were left to die of hunger and plague!"
Looking at those nobles behind those high walls, drinking from golden cups and cutting meat on golden platters, they still dare to tell you—to endure!

Someone in the audience growled, "Enough! We can't take it anymore!"

Some people's eyes welled up with tears, and they clenched their fists; many more just stared at him blankly, as if they could see a spark that had been buried under the dust for a long time breathing again.

Arno lowered his head slightly, as if listening to the surge of anger, then suddenly raised his face, his eyes like an eagle's: "Patience is a virtue of slaves, not of the Trelians!"
Today, we will reclaim this city from the hands of maggots and traitors!

He raised the Mysterious Card, and a beam of blood-red light suddenly burst forth from its surface, illuminating every face that looked up at him, eclipsing both hesitation and obedience.

At that moment, his voice was deep and firm:
"Remember—Aleston belongs only to the people of Aleston."

Anyone who stands in our way, whether king, god, or their lackey—will be crushed!

The crowd went wild.

Some people shouted along, some drew their knives, and some overturned the carriages next to them to make roadblocks.

The chaos began to take direction, and the riots were given a name. Arno stood on the fountain platform, his face appearing and disappearing in the light and shadow, like a king emerging from chaos.

He slowly lowered his arm, a smile that bordered on arrogance with confidence playing on his lips.

At this moment, he was no longer just a street agitator—but rather the embodiment of another kind of "dawn" in this city;

The city walls, the tolling bells, and the fog, like three ancient, blind guardians, silently witnessed the forced diversion of an old river channel.

The cobblestone streets of North Areston gleamed coldly in the pre-dawn mist.

Commander Seifer of the Divine Grace Knights reined in his horse, his silver spear hanging at his knees.

Her gaze was icy as she stared at the sheepskin edict that had just been unfolded in her hand—a star-studded seal personally written by Queen Medici, the words concise yet chilling:
"Abandon the city-wide manhunt."

They lay in ambush on both sides of the imperial road in the northern suburbs.

Tonight, we will leave our most important guest in Alleston.

Sephir didn't ask any further questions.

She raised her hand to signal, and dozens of knights quietly dispersed from the street corner, disappearing into the fog and dark alleys, like the teeth of a trap about to close.

The morning breeze blew through her cloak, carrying the distant clamor—the sounds of riots in the city, the clatter of hooves from the outer city—but her expression remained unwavering.

She knew that this time, the prey was not the vampire princess, but another group of "people who thought they could rewrite the fate of the throne."

Meanwhile, in the west wing study of Dawn Manor, heavy curtains hung down, blocking out the first light and the noise.

Si Ming stood quietly in the center of the ground, which was covered with star patterns and destiny markings.

The twelve star positions were now filled with silver light, which flowed and intertwined into a surging stream of light like the sea, as if the entire starry sky had been compressed into this study.

He slowly opened his eyes, and the brilliance of every star in his vision was clearly visible, like a precious jewel rolling in his palm.

In that instant, he smiled wistfully—a smile devoid of joy, only a chilling coldness that pierced through the mundane world.

"Today, Alleston was not destroyed by war, not by the blood moon, not by disease and famine..."

His voice was deep, as if he were talking to the stars.

"But they will be destroyed by my lies—utterly ruined."

He raised his hand, his fingertips gently touching the center of the star map.

The sea of ​​light suddenly surged like a tide, and starlight reflected the abyss in his eyes.

Between daylight and darkness, truth and lies are indistinguishable.

When lies become faith, faith becomes shackles.

Tonight, the stars themselves have sealed Areston's chains.

—Morning Times, Sealed Archives, No. 7

(End of this chapter)