Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 429 The Morning of the Fall of the City
"The fall of a city begins with the hearts of its people. Only then does the city gates come into play."
-
Elegy for the Nameless Empire, Fragments

The pharmacy on Pota Street opens very early. Behind the counter, the owner doubled the prices of the medicines again.

Taran counted the few coins he had left and gritted his teeth as he asked for bandages, rubbing alcohol, and painkiller powder. He had come with an empty medicine box, intending to fill it before returning to Dawn Manor.

The bells suddenly went off-beat. They weren't prayer bells, they were alarm bells.

A scream erupted at the street corner, followed by the sound of horses' hooves approaching in droves. The ground trembled.

"Close the door!" The boss, his face pale, reached for the door latch.

Before they could even pull it up, the first group of routed soldiers crashed into them—the city's militia, their armor disheveled and their eyes darkened.

Some people shouted, "The North Gate can't hold on any longer!" and some people cried.

The area in front of the pharmacy was immediately packed with people.

The medicine box was overturned, the glass bottle rolled to the sidewalk and shattered with a crack, and the smell of alcohol immediately filled the nostrils.

Taran grabbed a fallen boy and dragged him through the doorway. It was the newspaper boy, a blood blister at the corner of his mouth, barely able to speak: "Rider—Rider—"

Outside the door, the tips of a row of spears flashed.

The iron hooves squeezed into the alley entrance, and no one had time to make way.

A beggar was kicked over, his head hit the cart shaft, and he immediately stopped moving.

The old coachman tried to help him up, but the wheels were run over by the scattered horses, and he rolled with the carriage, coming to a stop without a sound.

"Make way, make way!" someone shoved. More people squeezed into the pharmacy, breaking the door latch in the process.

Taran pressed down on the newsboy's chest, and the soft cracking of his ribs could be heard.

He pulled out his belt, tightened it around his lower chest, stuffed in folded gauze, and pressed it down to stop the bleeding.

The boy's eyes darted around, trying to grab his hand.

“Don’t move, breathe with me,” Taran whispered in his ear. The boy nodded vigorously.

Shouts of battle erupted from another street. It wasn't cavalry, it was a mob.

Down with the grain hoarders!

"Grab the grain!"

"For Alleston!"

He recognized the rough black flag, which depicted a roaring sea dragon—the man of Arno.

The shop's rolling shutter door was pried open, and the winery, gold and silver shop, and grain store caught fire first.

The fire was fueled by the wind, and black smoke billowed from the window frame.

Someone was dragging a cabinet out when another person swung an iron bar and knocked him down.

Screams, wails, and curses were mixed together.

The horses' hooves are getting closer.

Dust billowed up on the roads outside the city, and the sound of horns drowned out everything.

The knights of the noble alliance were pressed into a wedge formation, their armor blackened and their shields painted with their respective emblems.

Without slowing down, they burst through the congested street corner. Those who fell didn't have time to get up before being trampled by the second row of hooves.

Taran pushed the newsboy behind the counter, blocking the way himself.

"Doctor, save him—" A woman holding a child rushed to his feet. The child's face was blue and he couldn't cough.

Taran ripped off his scarf, pried open the child's mouth, cleared the phlegm from his throat, and pressed on his chest repeatedly. The child finally gasped for breath and cried.

The woman collapsed to the ground, repeatedly saying thank you.

Across the street, two young men took advantage of the chaos to climb up the stairs and rob the pharmacy's second-floor inventory.

The boss lunged forward but was kicked to the ground, two teeth flew out, and his mouth was full of blood.

"Stop!" Taran shouted. No one paid him any attention.

He grabbed a wooden ruler from the ground and swung it at one of the men's wrists, causing the medicine bottle to roll away.

Another man turned and cursed at him. Just as he raised his iron bar, a runaway horse outside the window crashed into the doorpost. The horse's head swung violently, and the man was thrown sideways and slammed heavily to the ground until he was motionless.

Taran shouldered his medicine kit and packed everything he could carry with him.

The newsboy grabbed his sleeve: "Sir...I still want to sell morning papers."

“No newspapers today.” Taran looked down at him. “You have to survive.”

He handed the newsboy to the mother and told her to retreat to the back alley with him.

He carried his medicine box, pushed through the crowd, and headed towards the Dawn Manor on Broken Tower Street.

Someone pushed a wooden cart through the alley, carrying two people lying on it, their faces covered with burlap. The driver kept muttering:
"The church has collapsed, the bell tower has collapsed..."—the ruins of the church district from yesterday are still smoking, and today it will only get worse.

Taran turned into a narrower alley, slipped, and stepped into a muddy mess of flour and blood.

A new notice was posted on the wall, the handwriting crooked: "The Noble Council's National Salvation Alliance is established."

It was then covered by another piece of paper: "The Arno Alliance, assemble today." The two pieces of paper were dampened by the rain and fell down.

He paused for a second, looking north. In the pale light of the sky, a new column of smoke rose from the direction of the city gate.

The horn blasted a long blast followed by a short blast, repeated three times, followed by a loud crash as a series of chains snapped.

The north gate was open—whether it was forced open or simply opened, no one could tell.

"Back to Dawn Manor," he said to himself.

He kept walking.

Another troop of cavalry turned in at the street corner ahead, followed closely by a line of civilians carrying black flags.

Someone started firing into the air, and shrapnel shattered the last pane of glass in the pharmacy.

Taran never looked back.

—When the city falls, it's not the walls that collapse first.

It was the human heart that first crumbled, leaving behind a piece of rotten flesh.

The alley was narrow, and the firelight reflected in from the street corner, looking like a flickering red.

Alan Herwin, holding a club and gun, blocked the middle of the alleyway, his voice strained: "Arno, what are you doing? This isn't saving the city, this is robbery, arson, and murder!"

Arno slowly approached, his leather boots making a crisp sound as they stepped on the broken glass.

He reeked of blood and smoke, but his eyes shone with an alarming intensity.

"Doctors starved to death, children were taken away by the plague, and the granaries were lit by nobles."

He pointed to the burning street, saying, "Those shops are their warehouses, the tongues and stomachs of termites. Cut them off, and the city will be saved."

“The oath the Night’s Watch took wasn’t for this!” Alan’s hands trembled. “You said it was to rescue Her Highness the Princess from the Tower.”

Arno smiled, but his smile was cold: "We will rescue them. Not now. First, let's make sure there's food on the streets, and let's raise their courage. Revolution is not your childish game, Alan. Revolution needs fire."

“You’re deceiving me.” Alan almost choked on the words. “Siming warned me—be careful of you. ‘A devil lurks beneath the guise of a savior.’ I didn’t believe it, but now I do.”

Arno spread his arms, feigning tolerance:
"Call me whatever you want. Demon or savior, those who follow me will have food tonight, knives in their hands, and a goal. And you? Are you and your dozen or so half-grown boys chanting prayers at the corner of Broken Tower Street?"

He turned his head and nodded to the Night Watchmen behind him who were already tempted: "Go to the equipment shop and take everything you can."

Send another twenty men to probe the outskirts of the Tower of Saintly Chastity—remember, it's 'probe'. Her Highness is our night tutor; I will bring her back at the right time. Now, turn this city upside down.”

Several watchmen responded and left.

Most people didn't move, but just looked at Alan with evasive eyes.

Some people put down their pistols, while others quietly tied black cloths around their arms.

Alan's Adam's apple bobbed. He slammed the butt of his gun heavily on the stone slab: "Those who come with me, come now. We're guarding people, not fire."

The silence stretched on. In the end, only seven people followed him.

The rest either retreated or moved closer to Arno. Arno didn't stop them; he even stepped aside to make way for them: "Go on, Captain. When you've thought things through, Alleston will still welcome you."

Alan turned around.

As he retreated from the alleyway, he turned back for one last look at Arno—his face, in the firelight, looked like it was cast in iron, showing no sign of retreat.

A chill ran through Alan's chest: he had been tricked, and tricked cleanly.

They crossed a scorching hot street and stepped onto the central Royal Promenade.

The wind blew the ashes into threads, which stuck to my face.

Alan was stunned.

At the end of the road, a black torrent was surging in from the north.

Heavy knights stood in rows, their shields black and their emblems a menacing dragon. The ground trembled under their horseshoes, and their banners formed a wall.

The main force of the Black Mountain Duchy – the Black Mountain Demon Riders.

At the very front, a young man was clad in dark iron armor, his cloak long and narrow.

Alan recognized him: Lucien Blackhill. The young man calmly closed his armor, drew his sword, and pointed the blade towards the royal palace.

His voice pierced through iron and wind: "For Trean—Charge!"

Bugles sounded in unison.

The black flag tilted forward, and the iron tide surged toward the heart of the city.

Alan gripped the gun tightly, his knuckles turning white.

He only had seven people left with him.

Behind him was Arno's fire.

Ahead lay the Duke's massive army.

The city, nestled between two streams of darkness, began to crumble.

The news arrived quickly, and Lucien Black Mountain stared grimly at the distant palace gates.

At that moment, a maid who had escaped from the palace barged into the meeting room of the noble alliance, her knees buckled, and she knelt on the ground, her breath reeking of blood.

"The Queen... brought Princess Sophie into the palace. She said... her 'Fertility Mother' would personally bless the newborn king."

A moment of silence fell over the tent.

Duke von Het rose to his feet, his voice low and firm: "No more waiting for gender, no more waiting for the ceremony. Move now. A moment's delay and we'll lose everything."

So Lucien Blackhill said nothing more. He fastened his gloves, turned and left the tent: “Use the Royal Road. Heavy cavalry first. We’ll open the gates, the rest of you follow, straight to the bedchamber.”

On the main road, the Black Mountain Knights were lined up in three wedge formations.

Spears raised, black flags lowered. When the helmets fell, the world was left with only iron and wind.

At the first bugle call, the horse's pace shifted from a gallop to a trot. The second call brought it to a rapid pace.

The third sound: the horse's chest pressed against the shield, the spear tip tilted forward, and three hundred cold lights pressed down at the same angle.

The horseshoes pounded on the stone surface, creating waves of vibration that spread outwards.

The armor clashed against the knight with a dull thud.

The spear lashed against his ear, and his breath turned into a sultry mist inside his visor.

Lucien stood at the wedge tip, his back pressed against the saddle, his arms like iron, his eyes fixed on the shadowy line of the main gate.

The crossbows on the outer corridor of the palace were hastily deployed. The first volley of arrows rang out, striking the shields and sending splinters of wood flying. A few horses neighed and fell, mercilessly trampled by the subsequent torrent of iron arrows, but the formation did not break.

The spear tip was lowered another half inch, the reins were tightened, and they were less than a hundred paces from the gate.

"Break down the door," Lucien uttered.

The torrent of iron pressed down, like a black snake biting straight at the palace gate. The tips of the first row of spears collided with the iron guardrails of the gate, the rough wood groaned, and sparks flew from the rivets.

The second row immediately filled in, spear shafts snapped, knights threw shields to close in, heavy armor shoulder armor clashed with the facade, and the horse continued to push.

The knights in the rear row swung out their hooks and chains, aiming them at the door knocker.

More footsteps converged behind the cavalry—the White Rose infantry, the lightly armored squires of the Barletta family, and the allied standard-bearers—they awaited the Black Mountain Knights to tear open the first breach.

The palace gates began to loosen, and the iron chains on the hinges screamed in agony.

The outcome seemed to hinge on a single breath.

At the same moment, atop the watchtower within the inner city of the royal palace, a figure in red stood in the wind.

The priest's eyes were half-closed beneath his mask, his gaze passing over the layered rooftops to the surging tide of black armor.

He sighed softly: "What a pity, Duke of Black Mountain. You've forgotten—this is the age of mystery."

He raised his hand and removed his mask. It was Rex—the red-robed high priest who had been missing for many days.

Rex turned his head and gazed into the distance toward Dawn Manor, as if speaking to someone who was not present: "She has already embarked on the Cataclysm."

He paused for a moment, his thin lips curving slightly, his voice low: "And you, Si Ming? If you haven't yet stood shoulder to shoulder with her—we've lost this round."

Rex descended the tower, passed through the eerily quiet inner corridor, and pushed open the door to the temple.

There were no bells in the main hall, only the sounds of water and meat.

The once pristine white jade "Madonna of Fertility" is gone. The entire statue, from base to fingertips, has been "replaced"—the jade's wrinkles have been transformed into fleshy folds.
Stone fingers droop down into soft, blood-red roots, and the chest cavity pulsates, like an enlarged heart rhythmically rising and falling under the arch.

The statue's waist and abdomen split open, forming a blood bed like a uterus. The thin membrane was translucent, with dense blood lines that pulsated slightly.

Sophie lay on it, her face pale, her lips bloodless, and sweat like salt crystals clinging to her temples.

With each contraction, she arched her back, gasped for breath, and dug dark cracks into the silk blanket with her fingertips.

Medusa stood beside the bed of blood, her palms bearing fine life lines, like the veins of a plant leaf.

She didn't shout or urge her, she just watched quietly.

With each onset of pain, her eyes would brighten a little, as if waiting for a perfect musical note.

She no longer merely "possesses" that card; she has become the embodiment of the "Mother of Procreation"—the highest authority in the life system is firmly grasped by her, and she can control it at will.

She turned the cloak of compassion inside out, revealing the inherent coldness of power: life as a machine; pain as a clarion call.

Rex stopped and bowed: "Your Majesty."

Medici raised an eyebrow, clearly annoyed: "What is it?"

"The Black Mountain Demon Riders stormed the palace gates, with the allied forces following behind. The 'path' we had planned is now clear."

Rex spoke calmly, recounting his observations from the top of the tower and the reports from the front lines in one breath.

Medici, who had been displeased, softened upon hearing the words "all lit up," and a sweet, gentle smile appeared on her face—the smile of a hunter before his cage.

She closed the lines on her palm, like sheathing a knife: "Was they where they were supposed to be?"

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Rex looked up, his eyes filled with undisguised admiration.
“Sefir and the Divine Knights are in position according to your route: the triple barriers inside the north gate of the royal city, the Holy Spring Arch Bridge, and the end of the Imperial Road are all sealed off. They await your signal—to hunt for you.”

The crimson roots hanging from the ceiling trembled slightly. Sophie curled up in pain once more.

The baby's movements felt like fists pounding on the membranes. Medici leaned down and whispered clearly, "Very good. Closer."

Outside the palace gates, the distant groans of the palace gates could be heard. Inside the palace, the blood-soaked bed continued to rise and fall.

Medici placed her hand back on Sophie's abdomen, pressing lightly with her fingers. The life lines scattered like starlight, illuminating the invisible patterns throughout the entire palace.

“Remember, God, patience is limited,” she said softly.

Rex bowed his head and replied, "Yes, sir."

"On that night, 'fertility' was refined into a weapon, and 'compassion' was forged into shackles. The crown called itself the mother; and the womb became the sharpest instrument of torture in the palace."

—From Volume Thirteen of *The Chronicle of Blood Moon: Secret Records*, "Record of the Temple of the Holy Mother"

(End of this chapter)