Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 434 Trean's Calamity
"When the first law of God was written, human names lost their subject."

—A manuscript of "An Introduction to Family Studies"

The main gate of the palace collapsed into an open iron plate.

The Royal Promenade was torn in two by two colors: one half was the dark red of the blood moon, and the other half was the cold white of mournful light.

Si Ming stepped into the edge of the shadows and looked up.

A lion came treading on the gravel, its mane like a banner. Liseria sat atop it, a black veil falling over her shoulders, her fingertips lightly touching the lion's back, as if reading a lament.

Behind her were rows of "people"—their limbs suspended by thin threads, their steps synchronized; each head bore two or four different faces.
Crying, numbness, sobbing, silence. Spider-like joints twitched beneath the robe, and spider silk left damp trails on the stone slabs.

At the front of the line, Alan Herwin knelt with his sword in hand, his face smeared with blood and tears, forming a mask of suppressed emotion.

He dragged a blood-red cocoon behind him, and through the cracks, Selene's pale profile was revealed, her breath faint.

On the other side, the blood moon hung low over the palace dome. Medusa stood on a petal-shaped pedestal of flesh and blood, its veins resembling placenta, her gaze looking down.

She didn't raise her voice, only uttering a line of sobs warmed by blood and tears:

"Children, don't look at him. Look at me."

The city seemed to have its pulse gripped.

At the end of the avenue, behind the broken wall, and on the terrace, thousands of sternums simultaneously bulged with "bloodshot eyes," their red membranes swirling, kneeling like a tide.

Liseria raised her hand and plucked the strings of the air.

The cold white silk threads were slowly drawn from under the collarbones of many people, wrapping around their wrists, entwining their necks, and entering their hearts.

Those were students in the evening classes, mothers and children who had heard her talk about "destiny lines" at the Door Mirror Academy and on Broken Tower Street.

As soon as the silk thread fell, a small, sorrowful face appeared on her forehead, facing inwards, silently reciting a eulogy.

The Blood Moon Legion and the Sorrowful Silk Legion met at the center of the road and automatically gave way half a step, like a military salute between two nations.

There was no collision, only acknowledgment.

Si Ming's gaze swept across the crowd and landed on the two of them.

He raised his hand, his fingertips picking up an extremely thin thread of fate, trying to sever the nearest strand of sorrow.

Before the silk thread even touched them, someone in the distance groaned and collapsed to the ground—more than a dozen “tragic family members” clutched their chests, curling up in pain.

The bloodshot eye on the other end also shrank slightly, as if someone had pinched its pupil.

Si Ming withdrew his hand, his palm returning to his sleeve. His gaze sharpened slightly: The rules, I've memorized them.

Medici looked at him as if he were a freshly washed stone tablet:
"Kneel down, Master of Fate. This is my decree."

Her breath carried a controlling gentleness, like a command yet also pity.

Liseria lowered her head, her eyelashes casting a shadow, and her voice was like an evening prayer:
"Come closer. You're too noisy. — Let me hold you tight, and the world will be quiet."

As her fingertips fell, a wisp of cold, white sorrowful silk hung vertically in the air, stopping an inch away from the wrist bone of the God of Fate, like a signature line waiting to be stamped.

Si Ming looked at that wisp of silk, then looked up at the blood moon.

The wind swept through the ruins, but he did not move.

The lion stopped.

The flesh and blood pedestal also stopped.

Two pairs of eyes locked onto him, like two laws.

In the palace, a broken bell rang softly in the wind, not loud enough, but just right.

Si Ming spoke first, his voice very calm:
"I only have two questions. First, Liseria, why did you kidnap and injure Celian? Second, you are already above the Star Calamity, why do you still want to extend your reach into the mortal world?"

Medici glanced at him, as if patiently explaining a common sense fact: "Above the Cataclysm, the extraordinary never walk alone."

Since we are gods, we need retinues. The kingdom of God may be late, but our retinues cannot be absent.

Power must be transmitted, and will must be responded to; this is the gift of those who are divine.

She raised her chin: "Look carefully, family members don't appear out of thin air."

"Rice on Ninth Street, look up."

At the other end of the city, a man who was adding porridge to a soup kitchen suddenly shuddered. A "bloody eye" bulged on his chest, and the red membrane rotated.

His knees buckled, and he half-knelt on the ground. The wooden spoon fell to the ground, and the people around him clutched their chests and let out suppressed gasps.

Medici turned her gaze back: "All those in Alleston, once the Blood Moon ritual is complete—are my subjects. I call, and they obey. This is called the Blood Register."

Siming looked at the blue lion on the other side. Liseria sat upright on it, her black veil falling over her shoulders, her gaze serene.

She raised her hand, as if brushing the air: "My turn."

On both sides of the avenue and behind the broken wall, many people slowly drew out a thin thread from below their collarbone, wrapped it around their wrists and necks, and finally gathered in the air towards Liseria's fingertips.

Among those people were those who lit lamps, students of her night classes, and mothers and children who had attended her public lectures. Small "sad faces" appeared on their foreheads, some crying, some stunned, their emotions as if nailed to their bones.

Liseria said softly, “All those whom I have taught, comforted, and followed are my followers. I only need to call them, and they will come. They are called Ais.”

She looked at Si Ming and added to the first question you asked: "As for Celian—I took her away early to clear away your last attachment. You need some peace and quiet, so I'll turn the noise outside down for you."

Si Ming narrowed his eyes: "You're very confident."

“It’s not confidence.” Liseria shook her head, her expression as if she were reminiscing.

“It’s a decision. Ever since you first edited my manuscript at the newspaper, deleting that noisy adjective, I knew—you’re too much of a force to be reckoned with. I don’t want a city, I just want you.”

She calmly said her last words: "My sister and I have reached an agreement: Alleston is hers, and you are mine."

Si Ming remained silent for a moment, then extended an extremely thin thread of fate, attempting to sever the nearest strand of sorrow.

The moment the thread touched them, a man in the distance groaned and collapsed to the ground—more than a dozen lamplighters simultaneously curled up, their faces pale.

At the same time, many of the "bloodshot eyes" suddenly contracted, as if the entire street's breath had been gripped.

Si Ming stopped, put the thread back into his sleeve, and his eyes darkened slightly: Moving one thread will implicate a whole group of people.

Medici picked up the conversation, as if making a final summary: "If you act now, the whole street will convulse; if you refuse now, the whole city will fall. This is not a threat, this is the rule."

Liseria let the strand of sorrow from her fingertips dangle an inch from Si Ming's wrist, as if waiting for a signature: "Come. You don't need to look at this city anymore. I don't want the city—I only want you."

She turned her head slightly and directly addressed your question: "You ask why we are still immersed in the mortal world? Because our family is the mortal world. The voice of the gods must be heard."

You see—her bloodline, his sorrowful threads. My sister wants this city, I want you. Is the answer clear enough?

On the Royal Promenade, the red of the blood moon and the cold white light stood in stark contrast.

Si Ming glanced down at the strand of silk resting on her wrist, then looked at the blood moon in the distance.

He raised his eyes and said calmly, "I understand. 'Family' is merely an extension of your power—a city that obeys orders, and an individual who follows them."

Medici said nothing more, only looked at him quietly: "Kneel down, and don't make me repeat myself."

Liseria remained gentle: "Come closer. You're too noisy. Let me hold you tight, and you won't have to argue with the world anymore."

A strand of cold white silk fell from her fingertip, stopping an inch in front of Si Ming's wrist bone, as if waiting for a signature.

She looked him straight in the eye, her tone flat: "From the day you first edited my manuscript at the newspaper, I wanted to keep you with me. I don't want the city. I want you."

Si Ming smiled faintly: "You divided things very smoothly. But I'm not in your ledger."

Medusa said, “You are here. If you act now, all the people of Alleston will weep for you; if you refuse now, Alleston’s tomorrow will never come. This is my law.”

Liseria raised the strand of silk: "Raise your hand. Come with me. You don't need to look here anymore."

The wind rushed in through the broken door, and the iron bell tolled softly. Before the lion, Alan Herwin knelt on one knee, his blood and tears already dried into a shell; behind him, in the blood-red cocoon, Selene breathed weakly.

Sima Ming did not move.

She glanced down at the strand of silk resting on her wrist, then at the blood moon in the distance.

Within the sleeve, an extremely fine thread of fate was silently plucked and recorded.

Si Ming smiled, the playing cards in his palm twirling between his fingertips.

"What makes you think I would sacrifice myself for the people of this city?"

His tone was like placing bets at a gambling table: "Don't get me wrong, I'm not a saint, nor a savior."

He turned his head and looked out of the city, in a direction that faced the Dawn Manor.

"Conscience, humanity... I left those burdens at home long ago."

He smiled, his eyes narrowing. "Right now, I only have two things on my mind: to kill you, or to be killed by you. That's all."

Medici chuckled softly, like a warm metal brush against her throat: "How lovely, the stubbornness of a mortal."

Liseria merely glanced sideways, a wisp of sorrow still lingering on her fingertips: "Do you think a single sentence can rewrite a rank?"

Medici looked at him as if he were an unbound page: "Siming, do you think you can rely on those twelve overflowing star-shaped markings of destiny?"

Liseria continued, her voice soft yet cold: "You stand before the threshold, yet you mistake it for the door. The difference between a celestial calamity and a mortal is not a single level."

Si Ming shrugged, the cards rustling softly in the wind: "Then reveal the cards."

Medici merely raised a finger.

The blood moon resembled a lake torn open, with the entire sky pouring down upon the palace.

The blood wasn't water; it was a series of broken human figures—half skeletons, half flesh and blood, with red membranes rolling in their eye sockets, like sorrowful souls crawling out of a giant placenta.

"Don't keep me waiting too long," Medusa whispered.

The moment the blood waterfall hit the ground, the grieving souls stood up in unison, as if awakened by an invisible drum.

They clung to the limbs, chest, and neck of the God of Fate, layer upon layer, their bony fingers digging into the fabric, their flesh and blood forming a web.

More people rushed up from behind, like countless warm hands pressing him into an invisible bowl.

As Si Ming tried to raise his arm, the moment the playing cards were flipped over, a bony finger slipped through the back of his hand and between his fingers, pinning the cards firmly to his palm.

On every hand is written a name; on every face is pain.

"Kneel down," Medusa said softly. "I command you in the name of the Blood Moon Queen."

Liseria looked at him and said softly, "Be quiet and become my servant."

The blood was still falling, and the sea of ​​bones and flesh enveloped Siming into a living statue.

There was still a smile in his eyes—very faint, like the last breath at a gambling table.

The back of the card trembled slightly between his fingers, almost imperceptibly.

The sea of ​​bones and flesh pressed him down, turning him into a living sculpture. The God of Destiny raised his eyes from between the skull's fingers, his smile faint:
"Above the Star Calamity, it turns out, there is nothing more than this."

I'm sorry—I've seen more celestial disasters than you think.

——Buzz.

Countless threads of fate around him tightened simultaneously, like a string encircling the center of a bell being plucked by a finger.

The layers of bloody skulls were violently shaken apart, retreating and scattering, with bone spikes leaving neat white marks on the stone slab, and bits of flesh spread out like ink marks flattened by the back of a knife, forming a page.

Si Ming opened his hand, and a script naturally fell into his palm, its cover an unnamed yellow paper.

Paper fibers appear like tiny nerves in the light.

The air beside him collapsed an inch, and a figure in yellow rose from the void—not "appeared," but rather "that void was replaced by it."

The folds of the garment reached the ground, and tiny characters crawled slowly within the folds; there was no face in the shadow of the hood, only a slowly rotating night sky, where stars were arranged in impossible geometry, and quietly rewritten with each blink of an eye.

It's hard to tell which way it's facing because the angle at which it's seen will automatically turn into a frontal view.

As it stood there, the wind in front of the palace suddenly became dry, like scraps of paper being stirred up when turning over old playbills.

At this moment, the Seventh Clock Tower in the distance played a reversed chime, the bass tone inverted, as if someone had turned the city's time backwards.

The text on the road signs along the Royal Avenue began to shift slightly, alternating rows and columns to form meaningless sentences, yet those reading them nodded unconsciously, as if there were some truth to it.

Si Ming tilted his head and casually introduced himself as if to an old friend: "Let me introduce my new companion—the ruler from Lake Hastur. Joy and sorrow are fleeting, the script is unpredictable—the King in Yellow."

The King in Yellow did not respond, or rather, his silence itself was an answer.

It raised a withered, thin finger. The surface of that finger bone was not bone, but the texture of worn parchment, with an indescribable yellow flowing along its edge—not a color, but a syllable that could be misread as a different word.

It made a fleeting stroke on the script of fate. The fingertip didn't touch the paper, but the paper trembled slightly, like breathing.

There were no sentences, no announcements, just a line of stage instructions. The words themselves were so illegible that the eyes would automatically skip over the blank space after the second letter, as if it were a misfilled square.

The next moment——

Throughout the entire royal city, all the "blood eyes" etched with the blood moon softened in unison.

They first inhaled in unison, as if someone had pressed down on their sternums; then, their bodies first knelt and then laughed—not with joy, but with a commanding laugh: their jaws dislocated, their tongues retracted, and a "hehehe" sound was pried open from their throats.

Laughter rose and fell, forming a chaotic and disorderly net that overshadowed the roar of the bloodfall.

Some people laughed and then cried, tears dripping from their bloodshot eyes; others coughed up their laughter into a series of parallel sentences, exhaling not breath, but words—tiny printed characters—slipping from between their teeth and melting upon landing.

Fine ripples appeared along the edge of the blood waterfall. They weren't water ripples, but rather lines of brackets rapidly expanding and closing, as if someone was using the waterfall as blank spaces in a dialogue, revising the script repeatedly.

The shadows of the palace pillars shifted on their own, their positions reversed, and the audience and stage were swapped, suddenly turning the viewers into the ones being watched.

Several Blood Moon priests looked up at the sky, and a second smiling face grew out of their helmets. The smiling face slid forward from the back of their heads and aligned perfectly with the original face. The two faces smiled from the same mouth, and the laughter had a three-dimensional echo.

Medici's gaze froze. At her command, the waterfall of blood pressed down another half inch, but as if pricked by an invisible stage prophecy, the waterline knotted, and only continued to fall after half a second.

She tried to gather her blood and suppress the laughter, but the laughter, like mold, continued to grow and spread in every vein.

For the first time, she shifted her gaze from Si Ming to the yellow robe—her eyelids twitched slightly, as if she had seen a line that shouldn't exist.

Liseria's fingertips tightened slightly, and the strand of sorrow on her fingers trembled silently.

She was supposed to control the "quiet," but instead, she heard laughter erupting throughout the city. The "quiet" had been altered to "laughter" simply because of a line of illegible stage directions.

She looked at Si Ming, her eyes still gentle, but a subtle hint of alertness appeared in her pupils: —He is more than just a playwright.

The King in Yellow turned slightly to the side. The "starry sky" inside the hood surged gently, and all the mirrors in the city fogged up at the same time, like the audience collectively bowing their heads and sighing.

A child pointed at his mother's face and said, "Mom, you're wearing a mask." The mother smiled and tried to take it off, but found that her gloves were full of lines. Every time she took off a line, a new one would be put on.

The two Blood Knights attempted to sever their own laughter, slashing horizontally with their spears, but instead struck each other—because the "each other" they saw had been changed to "clowns" by the prompt.

A crow flies by in the sky, its shadow flips over, and in the shadow stands a person in yellow, larger than the crow and smaller than the sky. It passes by the shadow, but the shadow arrives at the palace before the real person.

Si Ming tilted his head, his expression as bizarre as someone watching a play under a lamp on stage: "It seems that even God's retinue enjoys the comedy I wrote myself."

He closed the script, the threads of fate still trembling gently behind his shoulder, as if writing music, stitching the rhythm of "laughter," the brackets of a waterfall of blood, and the trembling of sorrow into an invisible page.

The King in Yellow remained silent, simply standing beside him.

The wind passing through its folds would sound like pages turning, as if a larger book were about to be turned out from the back of the city.

"You're using the theater law to counteract the family law?"

Liseria finally spoke, her voice still that of Evening Prayer, but a half-tone lower, "You're changing the rules."

"He's stealing my words."

Medici pressed her knuckles even tighter, the blood cascading down her face, refusing to retreat any further.

She looked at the woman in yellow and, for the first time, it was as if she were seeing a stomach that could never be filled.

Si Ming raised the script, as if tapping the table with his fingertip: "A script, in exchange for a city full of laughter. Not bad for the start, right?"

The laughter continued.

Some people laughed until their lungs bulged out blood, some laughed until tentacles grew from between their teeth, and some laughed so hard they knelt down, clasped their hands together in apology to the empty seats, as if apologizing to the audience.

At this moment, a non-existent sound of waves came from the sea behind the palace—because a lake had been temporarily assembled on the back of the city.

The King in Yellow nodded almost imperceptibly, as if bowing to a lake.

"Welcome to the script."

Si Ming's voice was extremely soft, so soft that only the two queens could hear it, "You thought I was standing at the threshold? No. I've brought the door here."

Medici did not laugh. She spread her five fingers, and a red silencing shield rose above the waterfall of blood, trying to suppress her laughter.

Liseria gathered Ais, and the four small faces at the end of Ais closed their eyes at the same time, trying to turn the "laughter" back into "silence".

The yellow-clad creature didn't stop it. It simply paused its fingertip above the paper, then stopped drawing.

Once it stops moving, no one dares to make a move first.

Because in the "theatrical law," whoever acts first is responsible for memorizing their lines.

The laughter was still echoing through the city when it suddenly seemed as if someone had gently pressed a stop button on his throat.

Liseria looked up, but without moving, her thin lips parted.

There was no accompaniment, no drumbeats. A solo performance, like a cold needle thrust out of the mist.

As the first line fell, the mournful strings trembled slightly, as if ten thousand strings were playing in unison;

The second line continues: fine, rippled patterns rise on the surface of the Blood Moon Waterfall, like extremely cold hands smoothing the water.

The wind subsided for a moment within the folds of the King in Yellow's robes, and the theater lights seemed to be enveloped by a thin curtain—the comedy was over, and the stage manager turned to the "Elegy" page.

She sang lyrics that no one could understand.

Like having the bones of "words" removed, leaving only pure emotion—

"Your name is light, like ash."

"Your dream has no owner."

"Your path is on a blank sheet of paper, and a blank sheet of paper has no direction."

Each syllable is like a grain of frost, falling on the lungs, the spine, and the knuckles of a clenched fist, gradually extinguishing the power.

The people in the city stopped laughing one after another. They didn't make a fuss or shout; they just sat down or knelt down quietly, as if returning to a night that had never truly left.

Even the tip of the Blood Knight's spear slowly drooped, and the heartbeat inside the armor seemed to fade into the distance.

The sound of the yellow-robed figure turning pages faded from Siming's ears, and another weight pressed down upon him—

It wasn't fear, it was a bone-chilling sense of meaninglessness.

The light before his eyes changed color. The script pages felt cold on his fingertips.

The next instant, the illusion pushed open a door through the gap in the "song"—a casino.

The desktop is black, like it's just been oiled.

The dealer wore white gloves, and four faces were stacked together: sadness, tenderness, calmness, and exhaustion; her movements as she handed out the cards were extremely steady, like covering a patient with a blanket.

Si Ming lowered his head and looked at his hand—it was always the lowest set: seven, three, two, and nine, with the suits scattered.

He knew the answer even though the opponent's hand hadn't been revealed: it was always the best hand, and the entire deck had been designed to reveal the brightest path for his opponent.

He tried raising the bet, but the chips seemed to melt away with the song, turning into a lump of warm wax.

He tried to count probabilities, but the probability scale suddenly distorted into the silhouette of his opponent; he tried to manipulate the threads of fate, but the threads loosened at his fingertips, as if someone had gently pressed them back in.

"Put it down, Sir Fate."

The a cappella singing wasn't high-pitched, but it felt like a slow twist from behind the ear.

"I hope it's too noisy."

"Come, be my quiet page."

The King in Yellow stood beside him, the starry sky inside his hood slowly rotating; but the melody dimmed the stars one by one, as if someone were plucking the night sky from the sky.

The theatrical rhythm hasn't disappeared, but it's as if it's been covered with a blanket.

There were no lights or scenery on the stage, only a beam of white light falling on Liseria's brow bone and fingertips.

Si Ming raised his hand, the playing cards clicked softly, and then fell to the ground.

He saw that every time he placed a bet, he was losing to the same answer.

He tried to laugh, but only a breath of white air escaped his throat.

In the distance, Rex's Cocoon of Fate rose and fell quietly, like a small fire on a winter night, afraid to disturb anyone.

Nearby, the four small faces at the ends of the silk closed their eyes together, drawing the last sounds in the city into a bottomless silence.

The God of Fate's shoulders slumped slightly. The threads of destiny loosened a little within his sleeve.

He glanced sideways at the darker patch of darkness inside the palace gate, like someone preparing to fold their chips at a gambling table.

The song continued to fade into the depths.

His shadow receded slightly by half an inch, as if unilaterally admitting defeat.

"When elegiac songs take over the stage, all bets lose to the same answer."

—The Seventh Leaf of the Secret Text of Awful Destiny

(End of this chapter)