Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 436 From This Day Forward, Lies Will Reign Supreme
"An admitted lie is more orderly than the truth." — Theatre Tips

The blood moon pressed down on the roof of the royal palace.

Spider silk and blood vines suspended Si Ming in mid-air, yet he seemed to be sitting in a private box—his back straight and his eyes calm.

He looked up, his voice not loud, yet it seemed to resonate from every wall simultaneously:

"A lie is not a whitewash. A lie is a deception—a deception of the masses, a deception of the gods, and most difficult of all, a deception of oneself."

Medici turned her head to the side, her pupils constricting; Lyseria lowered her eyelashes, her fingertips pressing against her knees.

The God of Fate flicked his finger—

Ding.

A thin pink line illuminated the ground, like the boundary of the stage. The flames of the oil lamps in the four corners were slightly off-center, not from the wind, but from the director's cue cards on site.

“My promotion criteria are simple: prove that the ‘fooling’ is true,” he said calmly.

The spider silk and blood-red tendrils retreated only an inch, as if politely reminded. The Fate Master looked at the two queens, as if inviting them to a premiere:
“Fooling mortals is boring. Fooling the gods is what I like. You two, please bear witness.”

Behind him, a figure in yellow silently took his seat. In the distance, the soft creak of a door hinge could be heard.

Medici raised her hand and sneered, "You think you can get away with a few nice words?"

With a flick of her finger, the crimson prayers snapped shut in the air.

The God of Fate glanced sideways, then snapped his fingers again—

Ding.

The prayer was as if it had been muted.

“You’re speaking lines, not commands.” He lowered his head, his tone calm, then added, “In my theater, even prayers are just lines.”

Liseria raised her eyes and said coldly, "Are you going to let this city continue to play out your lies?"

“It’s not acting.” Si Ming looked at her. “They are the audience. You two—you are the actors.”

His palm was facing upwards, and a thin line of light strung together: lighting positions, prompts, scene changes, entrances and exits, like a simple prop list.

“Don’t be nervous. Tonight, there’s only one thing to do—bear witness.” He laughed. “I’ll make the lie stand up, and you’ll acknowledge it.”

Medici lowered her eyelashes: "You're committing suicide."

"Quite the opposite."

He cast a faint light, and the light spots fell on various parts of the city: the engravings on chimneys, the rivets on road signs, the dark lines on the brim of newsboy caps, the numbers in the blank spaces of posters, the letters on manhole covers... all the scattered marks lit up at once, as if the city's little secrets were being revealed one by one.

“From now on,” Si Ming said clearly, “this is a theater. Follow the rules.”

An invisible curtain fell, and the air tightened. The faint crackling of flames and the gentle trembling of spiderwebs became clear. The God of Destiny bowed slightly to the unseen audience:
"Thank you for your cooperation."

Red lights illuminated one after another around the royal palace: the audience took their seats, the lead actors paid attention, and the playwright made his announcement.

"Welcome to my theater of lies." Si Ming raised his eyes. "Tonight, this city recognizes only one order—the order of lies."

He snapped his fingers a second time—

Ding.

Two extremely thin rays of light split off from the edge of the steps, like arrows pointing in different directions. Before the words at the ends of the arrows were fully illuminated, a blush of red had already fallen on the shadows of the two queens.

A distant clock tower chimed a warning, and the area fell silent.

“The first rule,” Si Ming said, “is that the lines will be recorded; and that acceptance will take effect.”

He stood under the light with his hands behind his back, as if he had never been hoisted.

Medusa stared at him; Lyseria's fingertips were taut.

Si Ming looked at them, like a teacher pointing out a topic, or a screenwriter reading an outline: "—Let's begin."

The curtain did not rise, but rather seemed to be gently pulled down from a corner of the sky, falling along the eaves of the royal palace.

The first change appeared in the largest stroke—the River of Blood.

The Blood River suddenly paused, as if its pulse had been pinched by unseen fingers. Then, it faded like silk threads being pulled away, transforming into a smooth red silk ribbon that hung down from the street corner and between the eaves, neatly retracting into a curtain rope.

The tentacles meandered and retracted, binding together into two calm curtain ropes that hung side by side from the eaves.

The wailing was no longer shrill, as if a musician had suddenly silenced it. The lingering sound trembled for two notes in the beams before turning into short, rapid tests by the brass: one note, two notes, off-beat yet perfectly synchronized.

The horde of corpses initially resembled a rapidly gluing shadow, then suddenly disintegrated into light scraps of paper, swirling against the wind.

The scraps of paper shimmered a few times under the streetlights before falling into the shadows, as if silently pushed away from the edge of the stage by a broom.

The city's skeleton emerged from the thick fog, revealing its old lines. The edges of the stone lions' noses, the bell tower's window lintels, and the circular characters on the manhole covers were polished, restoring the clarity that "should be noticed but is often overlooked."

As usual, the clock tower chimes once before the hour, crisp and clean, like a conductor's baton lightly tapping a musical score.

The following rhythm unfolds along the pier to Flour Street: the old baker pushes the oven, the first batch of rye bread releases a thick cloud of steam, and the aroma of butter and crust pours into the alley.
One by one, the small windows on Flour Street lit up, and children held bowls, slurping hot porridge, their fingers still stained with ink, as they turned the pages of newly printed serials;
The trumpet on Broken Tower Street played a long, off-key note, which was met with laughter and a "shh" from the audience.
At the intersection of Mirror Street, newsboys tied the new issue of the Morning Star Times with rope, held up the front page, and called out to the intersection.

Dr. Taran was cursing and swearing at the clinic entrance with his medicine box. Before he could continue, his wife patted him on the shoulder from behind and stuffed a steaming piece of bread into his hand. He stopped cursing, took a bite, and crumbs of bread fell onto his button.

At the warehouse entrance, children attending night school were drying calligraphy practice sheets on a rope. The ink was still wet, and the crooked strokes on the paper were glossy under the moonlight. A passing night patrolman glanced at them but did not stop them.

Looking up, I saw a clear moon, white and thin, like a stage light covered with a gentle filter. There was no blood, not even a red edge.

The steps of the royal palace were empty, and the wind flipped the flags, revealing the golden lion emblem.

The flag fabric made a soft rustling sound, like the folds of clothing rubbing against each other behind a side curtain.

There were no nail marks on the walls, no blood-stained guards at the street corners, and the prayer bells rang clearly from the eaves of every house, just like before—only metal, no thorns of punishment.

The God of Fate looked down at the city that had been "restored" to its former order.

The lights subtly illuminated the various hidden markings, and the rings on manhole covers, the rivets on road signs, and the rims of chimneys each emitted a faint red glow, like seat numbers lighting up sequentially before the event begins.

One row, two rows, three rows.

Behind each window pane, a tiny red dot flickers on and off, like the corner of a ticket that has been scanned when an audience member takes their seat.

At the street corner in the distance, the carriage stopped. The youngest princess, Liseria, jumped off the footboard, her skirt billowing up to her knees, her hands cradling a book of poems, her smile as if she had not yet learned to feign.

She crouched down, took out a handful of copper coins from her bosom, and gave them to the two children who were arguing over candy. She held their hands down and made them count to ten separately before running away together.

Further away under the lamplight, a graceful young lady walked through the crowd, a royal emblem pinned to her shawl. She was quietly checking the charity accounts with a nun, raising her glass in a toast, her words impeccable.

Someone called her softly—Your Highness Medici. She nodded slightly, her smile gentle.

This "Old Areston" unfolds leisurely, like a highly skilled rapid scene change:

The trolley glides in, the backdrop flips, and light pushes from the side onto the main stage. The beautiful, tangible everyday moments align themselves square by square, their neatness almost provocative.

Medici's bloodshot eyes lingered on this "merciful self" for a moment, then her pupils suddenly contracted, like a blade suddenly narrowing.
The muscles in her throat tensed slightly, and a cold line appeared on her smiling lips.

Liseria watched the "her" who was squatting down to unbutton her skirt, her fingertips unconsciously pressing the hem of her skirt tighter until her knuckles turned white.

They weren't ignorant of stagecraft; they naturally understood the intention behind the scene—it was a way of using "decency" as a pretext, and using their faces as a mirror for satire.

“You’re provoking me,” Medici said, her voice barely audible, like sand being ground between her teeth.

Si Ming's reply was merely a glance sweeping across the city wall, as if using his gaze as a whisk to gently brush away a layer of dust.

He didn't look at them for long, as if another important order was more worthy of attention—the bread coming out of the oven, the newspapers going to the streets, the schoolchildren hanging up their posters, the doctors eating bread—these constituted the breath of the night.

He turned his head to the side and smiled slightly. The smile was not meant to comfort anyone, but simply to confirm that the light had fallen precisely where it should: "The mundane world owes no explanation to the gods."

The bell rang a second time, carrying a metallic texture that drew nearer from afar, like a signal that the tuning was complete.

The knobs on the street were turned down a little, the beams narrowed, and a soft humming sound emanated evenly inside the glass covers.

The two queens' breathing became audible: one slightly faster, the other slightly deeper.

Their divine power was suppressed behind an unseen veil, not through brutal restraint, but through a stage manager's "please take your place."

Si Ming turned his gaze from the city back to their faces, as if returning to the main stage after the audience had taken their seats.

His voice was clear, as if reading the next line of a script: "Don't worry, I told you—they're not involved in tonight's gambling. The audience just needs to sit tight."

He turned slightly to the side, making the two thin lines on the steps of the royal palace clearly visible behind his shoulders.

Those were movement arrows, and also underlines for dialogue. The words at both ends finally came into focus:
Left side: Admitting: This is a lie.

Right side: Claim: This is real.

"The audience is seated," he added, his tone gentle yet authoritative. "Lead actor, please prepare your lines."

Two thin lines shone on the steps of the royal palace.

The clock tower clicked softly.

Si Ming, hands behind his back, said: "The rules are simple, and there's only one line left to say."

He pointed to the left: “Admit it’s a lie—you confirm with your own mouths that the ‘fool’ is established, the witness is complete, I am promoted; you, keep your throne tonight.”

Then it points to the right: "Claiming to be true—the world rolls back to true:"
Alleston returns to the clean version you see. The blood sacrifice and lament are null and void, and so is the foundation upon which you lay tonight.

He looked up at the city lights: "Both paths are unprofitable—I know."

The second "tap." The air fell silent.

Medici's fingertips tightened, leaving white marks on her palms; Liseria's hands rested on the hem of her skirt, her shoulders heaving.

They could sense that the divine power was being "invited to take its place," not imprisoned, but governed by rules.

Si Ming pointed to the right: "Here's a rehearsal for you."

Ding. The "Declared True" message lit up. The blood moon faded, and the prayer bells returned to their clear, metallic tones.

Several invisible power lines were pulled back from underground, like accounts being written off;

The talisman high up extinguished itself, and a string of dim lights went out as well. A child ran past at the street corner, his heels tapping crisply on the stone surface.

The light is withdrawn.

Si Ming said calmly, "Don't rush, this is just a rehearsal. The real show will start when you start speaking."

Medici looked at him coldly: "Your scheming cannot be concealed. No matter what we say, you have a winning hand."

The Master nodded: "Acknowledgment allows me to advance; declaration allows me to define. The price and the pardon are both written in the rules."

He added, "You want the throne of God, and I will acknowledge that."

He glanced up at the city walls: "I'm not joking with them. The audience just needs to sit down; the ticket stubs are in their hands."

Liseria asked for the first time, "Ticket stub? You turned the whole city into a theater?"

“More accurately, it’s development.” Si Ming spread his hands. “It brings the order from the shadows to the surface. The lines match the ticket stub; acceptance is the key to success.”

The third "ta" was a beat longer.

Si Ming retreated to the central marker, turned sideways to make the two arrows clearer.

The field was quiet, with only the soft crackling of flames and the gentle rustling of spider silk.

Medici swallowed her prayer. She understood that behind this veil, the prayer would be categorized as "lines." Either accept his mockery, or accept his definition.

Liseria lowered her eyelashes and quickly weighed her options:
—Acknowledgement: Preserve the divine throne, and the God of Destiny will be promoted;
—They declared: "Let's save face, let the city return to normalcy, and let them return to zero tonight."

She suddenly realized that for the people, both paths were "from blood to white"; for the gods, it was "from high to low".

“You’re forcing us to crown you,” she whispered.

"I'm asking you to sign for order. You're signing lines, not me," Si Ming said.

Medici sneered: "You think we'll follow your lead?"

“You are already following.” Siming pointed to the ground. “The markings, the breath, the divine power, are all in place. I will only draw the markings.”

He raised his hand, as if gesturing to the backstage area.

"Finally, a reminder: silence is also a choice. This city has already been turned into a stage. Not speaking is tantamount to agreeing to continue."

Ding. The side indicator light flashes once. The pendulum continues ticking.

The two queens locked eyes. Medici swallowed hard; Lyseria loosened the hem of her skirt, leaving a shallow crease.

Si Ming smiled and nodded slightly to the unseen audience: "The rehearsal is over."

He turned his gaze back to them, relinquishing the final shot:

"—To admit, or to declare?"

Silence was sliced ​​into pieces by the pendulum, like sheets of paper waiting to be bound.

"despair--"

Medici spoke first. Her Adam's apple bobbed, and her bloodshot eyes narrowed like needles: "...A laughable trick, an attempt to fool the gods—"

She stopped abruptly, as if an invisible teleprompter had shone on her face.

Her lips were pressed tightly together, and her fingertips trembled slightly.

She saw that her shadow was right at the end of the chalk line on the left, above the instep of her foot, and the two words on the stone were very clear: Admit.

She bit down on those two words, as if biting her own face.

After a moment, she uttered a cold, hard final sound, like pressing a nail into a wooden board:
"……admit."

Liseria raised her head, her eyelashes trembling slightly, like the wind turning over the tip of a wheat stalk.

She looked at another line of text, her throat tightened for a moment, but she finally finished the sentence:
“That’s a lie.”

—Landing.

Click.

Not just one place, but the whole city.

Every invisible ticket stub was punched in unison at this moment: behind the door latch, inside the curtains, beside the wicker chair in the porch, in front of the bread oven, between the knuckles of the newsboy, and beside the ink stains of the children studying at night.

The mallet struck silently in the old clock tower, its sound sharp and clear, like a premiere bell cleaving through the night.

One by one, the red lanterns around the royal palace lit up, forming a very thin crown of light.

The wind swirls down from the dome, but it doesn't stir the flag; it only turns the dust into fine white powder, which swirls around the God of Fate.

The white powder is not dust, but shattered mask fragments.

They flowed back from the corners of walls, cracks in stones, well openings, and chimney rims, like a tide of paper scraps returning.

The fragments swirled around him, initially disordered, then gradually coming together in rhythm, as if they had finally understood the drumbeats.

There was a moment of emptiness at the eye of the storm—as if someone had reached out an unseen hand and carved out the outline of a shape from nothingness.

The next moment, a clown mask with a mix of crying and laughing, and exaggerated laugh lines that were almost cruel, clicked onto Si Ming's face.

Quiet.

It was so quiet that even the faint sound of flames breathing out air receded into the distance.

Then, an invisible pressure spread out from the center of the Fate-Bearing Star, and the fine sand on the stone surface stopped and then fell back down.

Medici staggered back half a step as if struck on the back of the knee with a short cane, her boot heel scraping against the crack in the stone with a sharp, shrill sound.

Liseria's heart skipped a beat, her fingertips gripped the hem of her skirt, and her palms were covered in a layer of cold sweat.

The figure in yellow moved slightly behind him, but remained silent.

With a slight lift of his withered finger, it was like a stage manager making a subtle gesture backstage, without having to face the audience.

The stars understood the hint: in the night sky, rings of cold light surged inward from the edges, like huge, silent applause.

“White mask,” the voice behind the mask was clear and without echo, as if it came from behind every wall at the same time, yet it landed right next to your ear, “It’s the politeness of a beginner.”

He tilted his head slightly, letting the exaggerated smile lines on the mask contrast with the reflections of the two queens, "The clown—is the mirror of the gods."

He reached out—

The threads of fate cascaded down from behind his shoulders, as fine as static electricity, as bright as a sea of ​​stars.

Each thread found its own target: a ticket with a torn corner, a small hand holding breadcrumbs, the back of an old man bending down to collect calligraphy practice sheets, a renamed street sign, and a light bulb flickering behind a windowpane.

The intertwined threads transformed the entire city into a giant musical instrument, its strings taut, its key determined by a single finger.

At the same moment, several old signs in the foggy city popped up with new words:
Premiere—

The mallet in the clock tower, empty, strikes again, long and bright.

The sound wasn't deafening, but it delayed the rhythm of every heart by half a beat—and then, they all returned to their places.

Hundreds of cavities seemed to inhale and exhale under the same command, their synchronized movements terrifying.

Si Ming raised his masked face. Beneath the smile lines lay an unfathomable darkness. His voice was like gently tugging at a thread, then silently snapping it back: "Don't misunderstand—I'm not a gambler."

He paused slightly, the words falling with a soft tinkling sound, like a blade gliding through silk:

"I'm the one who brings the gambling tables to life."

Medici's fingernail finally cut her palm, and the blood droplet was held back by an unseen order, preventing it from dripping; Liseria's lips were pale, as if the stage lights had drained the color of blood from them.

They understood that this moment was not a "defeat of divine power," but a "relinquishment of the right to speak." The city had been relegated to another order—an order that required signatures, punching, and matching.

Si Ming lowered his head, very politely and professionally, as if he were greeting his sponsors after a rehearsal: "Thank you both."

He raised his hand, as if turning the pages of a script with a pre-written ending, the stellar threads of the sea of ​​stars undulating with it, and the smile lines at the corners of his black mask seemed to deepen in the light. His announcement was both a host's address and a verdict:
From this day forward, lies will have a king.

The King in Yellow remained silent, only slightly twirling his withered finger—

The night sky responded, and the stars shone and faded one by one in an invisible prompt, like memories being illuminated word by word.

The hearts of the audience behind the window skipped a beat again, then quickly returned to normal; some wept silently, while others unconsciously clutched their ticket stubs tighter. Everyone felt one thing: the lines had been recorded, the scene fixed, and they acknowledged that they had been archived in the innermost part of the world.

Si Ming slowly opened his palm.

A simple Joker card appeared before him: "King of Lies, Weaver of Deception, Fooler of Gods LV1".
Si Ming squinted carefully and could only see a line of numbers on the card: Star Calamity Value 1970, and several entries of text, some of which were already lit up, while others were still gray.

Si Ming's fingers swept over the first two entries, "A lie becomes the truth, the book of lies, truly a perfect line for tonight's performance."

“Only when the audience acknowledges it can it be considered a real show.” His voice was so soft it was almost like a wisp of white mist. “Tonight, you have given me the most expensive pre-show announcement I’ve ever received.”

A gust of wind caused the golden lion pattern on the flag to flicker. The firelight made the two chalk lines on the stone steps appear even thinner, as if smoothed out by the fingers of history.

Si Ming straightened his back, like an actor who had just put on a crown and was now taking his time.

He gave a composed and standard bow to the unseen audience, to the two gods, and to the renamed city.

"Thank you to the city that witnessed my promotion, and I am deeply grateful for your kindness."

"A screenwriter doesn't need to conquer the world; he just needs to make the world follow the script."

"From this day forward, lies have a king; all the gods are but spectators." — A line from *The Liar*

(End of this chapter)