Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 518 A Quiet Banquet Under the Cherry Blossom Curtain
When the curtains fall, the music and singing conceal the murderous intent.
Where flowers fall, blood and vows share the same fragrance.

If fate is the seat, then both guests and knives will cease to exist.

—Onmyoji Headquarters Secret Records

At the foot of Tokyo Tower, on the right is an old shrine.

Night fell, the flames of war and the flashes of light illuminated the sky, yet this place seemed like a quiet piece of land that had been forcibly carved out.

The vermilion torii gate trembled slightly in the fierce wind. Under the firelight, cherry blossoms drifted down from the sky, landing on the stone steps and vermilion railings, like snow and ash.

Inside the shrine, pink curtains hung low, and the soft sounds of flutes and drums, with their precise rhythms, carried an overly refined artificiality.

If it weren't for the deafening sounds of explosions and fighting in the distance, one might even think it was still Christmas Eve during the Spring Festival.

Abe Haruhisa leaned against the couch, his brocade robe open, the hem stained with cherry blossom petals.

He held a thin porcelain wine cup in his hand, with a few cherry blossom petals floating in it. The sake rippled slightly, reflecting his half-closed eyes and indifferent smile.

That smile didn't show anger, but it sent chills down your spine.

That was the smile of someone who had already decided the outcome of the gamble, a blade of murderous intent hidden beneath a gentle facade.

On either side of the prayer mat, several male Onmyoji sat upright.

The head of the group, Hideyuki Hanakawa, had a face as white as powder, empty eyes, and his knuckles pressed against a white paper fan, with veins bulging faintly.

His breathing was light, but the stiffness in his shoulders and back revealed an uncontrollable unease welling up inside him.

Geishas filed into the long corridor in front of the courtyard, their long sleeves trailing on the ground, their garments exquisitely draped, their steps slow and deliberate.

The lamplight reflected off their hair and the flowers in their hairpins, creating an illusory and beautiful scene.

Their smiles, however, were very faint, as if painted on, and not genuine.

Each flower, carefully trimmed, opens and closes again in the shadows.

Outside the shrine, the battlefield roared like a tidal wave, flames filled the sky, and shouts were chaotic and hoarse.

But inside the pink tent, not a single person turned their head to look back.

Abe Haruhisa picked up his sake cup and gently rubbed the rim with his fingers.

He didn't speak, but slowly sniffed the aroma of the wine, his eyes indifferent.

Is this a banquet?
No, this is a knife that has been left to stand still.

The music and the pink curtains were merely a veil, concealing the bloodshed and murderous intent.

If someone were to touch it too easily, they would discover that behind this gentleness lies a chilling and deadly atmosphere, colder than any battlefield.

Just then, a white butterfly flitted through the gap in the pink curtain, its white wings shimmering with a cold light, and landed on Xiuxing's fingertips in the Flower Garden.

Xiu Xing held her breath, and the fan trembled slightly.

The frequency with which the butterfly flapped its wings seemed to transmit the bloody winds and defeats from afar to this place through silent runes.

He listened for a long time, his face growing increasingly stiff.

Finally, he gathered his sleeves, stood up, lowered his head, his voice choked with emotion, yet he dared not hesitate:
"Your Highness, the Flower Nightmare Clan was wiped out by the Lord of Fate, Siming, but has been resurrected at the resurrection point."

After he finished speaking, the room fell into a deathly silence.

The flute and drum behind the pink curtain paused for a beat, as if lost in thought.

Haruhisa slowly raised the wine cup to his lips, drank it all in one gulp, leaving not a single drop behind.

He didn't look up at Xiuxing, but uttered a soft whisper, as if spoken casually, yet it felt like a thousand pounds pressing down:
"...Didn't I already state our purpose, Kakaiin?"

There was no anger, no shouting, only an undeniable chill, like gazing at a struggling sacrifice from an altar.

At that moment, what Xiuxing felt was not guilt or fear, but a sense of impending death, as if he were being watched by a giant beast.

Abe no Haruhisa is not the leader of the Onmyoji under the Tokyo Tower at this moment, but the master of the invisible giant net hanging above their heads.

With each breath he takes, everyone's fate seems to be just a line in his script.

The sound of the white butterflies' wings had not yet faded when the air in the hall seemed to freeze.

Cold sweat trickled down Hideyuki Kakaiin's forehead like broken beads. He gripped the white paper fan tightly, his knuckles turning white from the force. Finally, he bent down even lower, his forehead touching the couch.

"Yes."

His voice trembled slightly, as if he had to exert all his strength to utter each word.

"His Highness has indicated that the most important target in this operation is—the Lord of Destiny, the God of Fate."

Abe Haruhisa then slowly turned his face.

Those eyes were half-closed, a smile floating at the corners, yet they were like the surface of a lake covered with thin ice on a winter night, bright and cold.

"Then tell me,"

His fingertips traced the rim of the cup, as if lightly tapping a drumbeat, but his tone was extremely soft, as if casually flirting with a courtesan dancing behind a pink curtain:
"Knowing my goal, why do you still dare to underestimate it? Are the Nightmare Clan just an appetizer you prepared for me?"

These words were gentle, yet like a fine blade drawn from a fan, they pierced straight through the shadows in Xiuxing's heart.

Xiuxing suddenly lowered his head, his paper fan fell to the ground, and his forehead slammed heavily onto the wooden board.

"Your subordinate wouldn't dare! I just—"

Before he could finish speaking, Qingjiu raised his hand and interrupted him.

With a flick of her red sleeve, the drumbeats seemed to abruptly cease.

"I just want to protect the Sakura no Umi and win this round," Haruhisa coldly finished his sentence for him.

He slowly stretched out his hand, pointing to the towering iron tower in the distance outside the tent.

The firelight flickered at his fingertips, like a cold flame being lit.

"So you piled everyone on this side, thinking it would hold out for a few more hours. Hua Kai-in... when did you begin to have your own will?"

The word "will" echoed in the hall like a spell.

Xiuxing's heart felt as if it were being crushed by that one word.

He knelt on the ground, prostrating himself, his voice urgent and trembling: "Your subordinate has failed in his duty! I beg Your Highness to punish me!"

How could he not know the dangers posed by the God of Fate?

In his heart, however, Si Ming was merely a member of the Deep Sea Nightmare, and her whereabouts were elusive and difficult to capture.

The Sea of ​​Cherry Blossoms is the foundation of the Kakeruin family and the lifeblood of the entire clan.

In his mind, it was better to use the strength of the entire clan to safeguard the victory that could be held in their hands than to exhaust themselves chasing a variable.

This was his plan, and also his intention.

But in Haruhisa's eyes, all of this was nothing but a futile scheme.

He couldn't refute it, because the lifeline of the entire Kakaiin family, the life and death of the clan, had long been in the hands of Abe Haruhisa.

Under the gaze of the "King of Millions of Onmyoji," all his thoughts were exposed to the sunlight like a naked corpse.

Qingjiu raised his hand, stopping the drumming and music, and the hall fell silent.

He slowly set down his wine cup, his eyes turning from indifferent to cold: "Punishment doesn't come now. Remember my words—"

His tone was like an anvil striking, each word pressing down on the heart.

"I don't want to hear any more of that boring news about the Flower Nightmare Clan failing to defeat the Fate Master."

I only need one piece of information: the head of the Lord of Destiny, or that supreme card of destiny.

The light inside the pink tent suddenly flickered, making the dancer's smile appear stiff as a puppet's.

Haruhisa closed his eyes, as if murmuring, or perhaps declaring:

"It should not belong to mortals. It belongs to me—Mikadoin Abe no Haruhisa, the king of millions of Onmyoji."

Xiuxing felt as if he were being crushed by a thousand pounds, his chest heaving violently, and finally he mechanically replied, "I will obey Your Highness's command!"

He retreated quickly, his boots striking the wooden floorboards with a rapid, suppressed echo, like the footsteps of someone fleeing death.

The remaining Onmyoji in the hall held their breath and dared not speak.

After a brief pause, the drums and flutes resumed playing, their rhythm slow and gentle to the point of being almost unreal.

But this tenderness, to Xiuxing's ears, had only one meaning:
The stillness of the Dead Sea concealed the remains and swallowed the struggle for survival.

Hideyuki Kakaiin's figure gradually disappeared behind the door, leaving in a hurry, as if fleeing.

However, the chill in the atmosphere did not dissipate; instead, it intensified.

Abe Haruhisa's gaze did not follow, but instead fell on the other side, on the old man who had been silent all along.

It was a face like a wood carving, covered with deep wrinkles, and its eyes were as still as a well, like water that had been stagnant for a thousand years, worn silent by the wind and frost.

His clothes were neat and tidy, meticulous in every detail, as if every breath he took was for the sake of order.

"Your Excellency Yukitaka Gojinin," Harujiu said calmly,
It sounded like casual conversation, yet carried an undeniable sharpness: "I hope you won't force me to use your knife."

The music in the hall suddenly dropped a half tone.

Xinglong's eyelids twitched slightly, his fingertips tightened, then he steadied himself and shook his head: "Even a lion using its full strength to hunt a rabbit should do so. What's more, the opponents are two supreme holders."

His voice was ancient and slow, carrying a suppressed calmness.

"Please make arrangements as soon as possible, Your Highness. The Mishinin family and my granddaughter will certainly be loyal to Your Highness." These words conveyed nothing but unwavering loyalty to everyone.

But deep in his heart, there was another voice, suppressed, low, and invisible, yet burning with pain in his chest.

The blood of the Imperial Shrine... has been drained.

It wasn't for the continuation of the family line, nor for the preservation of the creed, but simply because Abe Haruhisa wanted to deduce a piece on the chessboard.

Hundreds and thousands of disciples were ordered to enter the dungeon, into the killing intent, and into the mouth of the Eight-Foot Lady, becoming "sacrifices" in vain, used to test the sharpness of the Lord of Fate.

All of this doesn't even need any reason.

He knew very well that if even a trace of this anger were to leak out, the remaining bloodline of the Imperial Divine Academy would be immediately uprooted.

Therefore, he wrapped this resentment in the shell of his most fervent loyalty.

Haruhisa looked at him, a slight smile playing on her lips.

I know your loyalty.

His voice was soft, as if bestowing a reward or a reminder.

His tone suddenly turned serious: "But your granddaughter is my most important pawn. You should understand my plan."

At that moment, Xinglong's gaze sharpened briefly, as if a glint of light was about to spill from an ancient well.

But it was only for a moment.

He bowed with his sleeves tucked in, his voice low yet flawless: "Your subject understands. All for the glory of the Onmyoji."

His figure seemed to have buried himself completely in the altar, without question or hesitation.

He turned and took his leave, his steps steady and his composure as firm as iron.

Only the hands beneath the sleeves, clenched tightly, knuckles digging into the palms, as if trying to crush the bones, could bring down the blood pressure in his chest.

Haruhisa raised his cup again. Behind the pink curtain, the geisha's sleeves swayed like flowers in the lamplight, her smile unchanged, gentle to the point of being absurd.

The roar from the outside world came along the courtyard wall, like an inescapable tide, both distant and pressing on the eardrums, making one's heart palpitate.

"Let's begin the encirclement."

Haruhisa spoke softly, as if he were referring to the end of a song and dance performance.

"We're not besieging the tower, we're besieging... people."

The drumbeats turned into longer beats, and the flower shadows suddenly became even more vibrant in the lamplight.

The wind, however, grew even colder at that moment.

The footsteps gradually ceased in the shadows of the corridor behind the shrine.

Yukitaka Mijinin leaned against the vermilion pillar, slowly bent over, and pressed his hand tightly against his abdomen.

"Ah-"

A sound like bones grinding came from deep within the chest cavity.

The excruciating pain, like a knife, crawled out of his body cavity little by little, burning his nerves and causing large beads of cold sweat to slide down his face.

Her clothes were slightly open.

The abdomen bulged, and a fox-shaped human-faced tumor emerged.

Its facial features were blurred, but one could clearly see the gaping, ferocious grin, with blood-red veins extending like vines, coiling under the skin, pulsating.

With each breath, the human face seemed to "exhale," like a living fox demon parasitizing his flesh and blood.

Xinglong lowered his head, breathing heavily, his voice hoarse like gravel: "...a little while longer."

His voice was soft, and it was impossible to tell whether he was speaking to himself or responding to the tumor in his abdomen.

Or perhaps, it is a murmur to a departed soul.

The flashes of light from the distant iron tower illuminated his face.

There was no ripple in the old man's eyes, no hesitation, only a straight line, as if it had been etched into them by long-standing family discipline and blood oaths.

Nobuna, I'm sorry.

He uttered these words to himself.

For the sake of the survival of the Mishinin, you have to be sacrificed.

He slowly gathered his clothes, hiding his hideous face under the fabric again, as if concealing an unspeakable sin.

The fingertips finally brushed across the fox-like growth on the abdomen, the movement as light as smoothing over an ancient vow.

Above the vermilion wall, a fox's shadow flashed and disappeared, as if laughing, or perhaps licking his soul.

The old man looked up, steadied himself, and straightened his back.

When he took the next step, his footsteps were decisive, as if he had buried the pain deep within his very being.

The wind blew in from the direction of the iron tower.

It carried the pungent smell of blood, mixed with the metallic rust of burning metal, like the breath of a battlefield rushing in prematurely.

Xinglong closed his eyes, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened.

The conspiracy is not a net, but water.

Whoever can remain calm will survive.

He disappeared into the darkness, his silhouette outside the lamplight like an old bone about to break but still standing strong.

The flute music and drumbeats in the courtyard suddenly stopped.

It felt like an invisible hand was gripping my throat, and even the air seemed to freeze.

A white butterfly fluttered in from the night mist, once again lifting the curtain of the pink tent.

It hovered lightly around Abe Haruhisa's sake cup, its wing tips reflecting the shimmering light of the sake.

The two Onmyoji sitting to the side looked up, their expressions changing simultaneously, but they dared not utter a sound.

Haruhisa simply smiled, the smile rising slightly from the corners of his lips but not reaching his eyes.

He raised his finger and gently hooked it, and the butterfly landed obediently on the tip of his fan, as docile as a flower stem that could be broken at any moment.

"The reactions to the Flower Garden are always too lively."

He commented in a low voice, as if critiquing a poorly written play, "Excitement doesn't equate to victory."

As soon as he finished speaking, he slowly rose, his sleeves trailing on the ground, and pushed open the pink curtain.

Outside the courtyard, the night wind howled, and cherry blossoms swirled in the air like blood-red rain and snow, falling softly.

In the distance, Tokyo Tower reveals its cold, imposing silhouette amidst the night fog and firelight, standing motionless like an iron-clad deity coldly watching over everything.

Haruhisa stood with his hands behind his back, not turning his head, and simply gave a brief instruction to his attendants:

"Tell them they don't need to fight those pirates."

Don't let those coarse sweat stain the fragrance of my Hundred Demon Cherry Blossoms.

Go, trap them in the iron tower.

The attendant bowed and listened intently, holding his breath.

Qingjiu continued, his tone calm yet sharp:
"All the shikigami on the outer perimeter were gathered together, and the barrier closed in on the base of the tower."

Respawn point... activated in the third sequence.

He paused, then slowly raised his gaze, like a needle steadily pressing against an unseen point in the night sky:
"Send another message to the direct subordinates of the Gomikadoin family—prepare for the Oni Festival."

"As ordered!"

The attendant obeyed and left, his footsteps fading away outside the Vermilion Torii gate.

The geisha procession behind the pink curtains resumed as if nothing had been interrupted.

The sound of flutes and drums echoed once more, and the dancer's steps and sleeves moved gently and slowly, so gently as to seem unreal.

However, that gentleness was like a shroud, concealing a deeper murderous intent within.

Abe Haruhisa raised his cup alone, his fingertips caressing the rim of the glass with the utmost gentleness.

His gaze fell on the towering iron tower in the distance, and he murmured to himself:
"Lord of Destiny... I hope you won't disappoint me."

A slight curve at the corners of his lips, utterly indifferent:
"The flowers have bloomed in this play, but they haven't withered yet."

He tilted his head back and drank it all down, the sake sliding down his throat until the cup was empty.

A sudden gust of wind rose outside the courtyard, swirling up countless cherry blossom petals, like an invisible curtain, on this night—

It slowly droops, then gently rises again.

Cherry blossoms are cold as blades, the warm mat feels like a prison;
The order was conveyed by a butterfly, and the oath was made by a fox.

The real game isn't in the tower.
The person at the foot of the tower.

—From "Secret Records of the General Headquarters: Cherry Blossom Tower Chronicles"

(End of this chapter)