Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 154 Blood Whale Echo: The Death of the God of War
"Discipline is steel forged in blood."

"But when you forge it with your own hands, can you still look into the eyes of those who died for it?"

The storm was like a beast, and the warships roared.

A huge crack appeared in the sky of the Blood Whale Sea. The strong wind was like a sharp claw cutting the earth. The echoes of war drums and heavy artillery intertwined into a symphony of death.

The heaven and earth are like a bronze bell filled with fighting spirit, and every cannon shot is the heartbeat of the world.

On the bridge of the "Judgment", Allison was wearing a hood and her long hair was fluttering in the wind.

She stood at the highest point of the warship, like a peerless Valkyrie.

Behind him, the blood-red battle flag hung high, covering the sky like a curtain. The battle patterns surging in the strong wind were like a roaring fighting spirit, burning endlessly in the sky.

Her voice pierced through the wind and thunder, clearly transmitted to the entire ship's system:

"Full fire! Turn the ship five degrees to lure the enemy's main guns into the error zone! All fleets, listen to the command—activate the mysterious 'Blood George Death Banner'!"

Her orders were as cold as steel, crisp, decisive, and without hesitation.

At that moment, the fear in the hearts of all the crew members seemed to be eradicated, leaving only the instinct to fight and the desire for glory.

The battle flag named "Bloody George" was spread out in the air, shining like flowing blood.

It carries an out-of-control oath: win or die.

There is no middle ground.

They knew that the moment that flag was raised, it would ignite the life of the entire fleet.

Each fighter knew what they were about to face, but they did not waver.

Those young people who originally came from the frontier, docks, and mines now raise their flaming eyes to look into their fate.

A frigate was the first to break out of the formation under the lock of enemy heavy artillery. After igniting its main gun like a torch of death, it turned into iron ash residue in the next moment and was engulfed by the sea fire.

At the last moment, the captain shouted into the communication channel:

"Commander! To die alongside you is the greatest honor of my life!"

Alison didn't shed a tear. She just stood in the center of the storm, took off her hat, and replied in a low but clear voice:
"—It is also my honor."

There was a gentle sadness in her calm voice, but it sounded more like a farewell vow.

The strong wind swept in again, and the roar of artillery fire became more intense.

The Judgment drew a lonely and glorious trail in the flames and storm, just like the trajectory of her life - rushing into hell without taking a single step back.

She won that battle.

The Empire won that battle as well.

On the nautical chart, the Battle of Blood Whale Sea was marked as the "Immortal Battle".

She thought that her name would be engraved in the imperial military code and be titled "Bloody Star".

But she didn't know that from that night on, her world had become absurd.

Imperial Navy Headquarters, inside the courtroom.

There is no sea breeze, no sound of waves, only silence - the cold white light illuminates every inch of the space without any warmth.
The walls were snow-white, the floor was polished spotlessly, and there wasn't even an echo.

This is the "end point" for those who have made great military achievements and the "laundry room" for power to wash away the bloodstains.

At the end of the long table, nine senior officers sat side by side, dressed in ceremonial formal attire, with medals hanging heavily on their black uniforms.

They didn't look at her, their eyes always fixed on the documents and numbers, as if she was just a case file waiting to be processed.

"Alison Griffith."

The presiding judge spoke, his voice as cold as a machine, without any emotion.
"During the Battle of the Blood Whale, you initiated unauthorized combat action, resulting in the deaths of 3,241 people. Do you plead guilty?"

She stood straight, with a standard military posture and shining epaulettes.

Her right arm was still wrapped in an unhealed bandage, blood soaked through the military cloth, but she did not avoid everyone's gaze.

Her voice was not loud, but it was resounding:

"I was carrying out a strategic operation to cover the main fleet's outflanking maneuver."

A naval marshal in a blue and gold uniform flipped through the documents and said casually:

"You caused three thousand men to sink to the bottom of the bloody whale sea."

Another person added, his voice almost calm and cold-blooded:

"You raised the 'Bloody Battle Flag' without authorization. It's a mysterious military flag symbolizing a fight to the death, and once deployed, it cannot be retracted. You escalated the conflict and cost the Empire unnecessary resources."

The word "resources" cut her nerves like a rusty knife.

She had stood under the bridge with those 3,000-plus men, training, executing, and celebrating their achievements;
Some of them were going to the battlefield for the first time, some were preparing to submit their applications for promotion, and some had not yet had time to write back to their lovers.

She remembered every one of their names.

Now, they are classified in the third column of the "Battle Damage Resource Statistics Table".

Her throat seemed to be strangled by wire, and she couldn't make a sound.

Not out of anger.

But because she couldn't refute it - she did raise the "Bloody George Dead Battle Flag".

She had indeed entrusted the lives of three thousand men to a charge from which there was no turning back.

She was indeed the one who gave the order "fire".

The air was as heavy as the deep ocean hanging overhead.

Every face behind the judgment table was so blurry, she only remembered one thing:

This is reality.

Not a dream.

It was not the illusion that she replayed every night, nor the battlefield that could allow her to repent and start over, but the real present that could not be restarted.

Reality does not allow crying.

No atonement is allowed.

She could only stand there in silence, letting the accusations of "statistics" pile up on her shoulders one by one.

At that moment, she suddenly realized that what was more terrifying than the nightmare was not the memories, but the fact that reality was never ready to accept her regrets.

The nightmare transformed again.

The iron and fire faded, the flames were gone, replaced by a black veil and a pair of eyes that were shattered by war but still maintained their dignity.

She walked on the streets of the imperial capital, her boots stepping on the brick and stone ground after the snow melted. Her leather cloak fluttered in the cold wind, but it could not hide the heaviness on her shoulders.

The black leather suitcase in her hand weighed heavily on her breath with every step.

She wasn't there to accept the award.

She came to atone for her sins.

She visited one by one the families of the young soldiers she had taken into the war but had not been able to bring back.

She did not carry orders and a glorious military uniform, but instead set foot on this snowy and muddy alley as a lone woman and a "war criminal" who had not yet walked out of the ruins.

The first one was her adjutant, the mother of Cassan Wallace.

She was an old woman with cracked fingers who lived in the dilapidated Kerosene Alley in the south of the city. Her house was as dark as a tomb, the charcoal fire was weak, and a few unbrewed tea leaves floated on the teapot.

The old woman stood up with difficulty using a cane, and bowed slightly as she poured tea for her.

"Is it a worthy death for my son, for victory? ... Thank you, Commander."

When she heard this, her throat felt like it had been cut by a blunt knife, and the words were stuck at the back of her tongue, unable to come out no matter what. She could only nod slowly, but could not respond.

At that moment, she saw those eyes - time had clouded their pupils, suffering had blurred their vision, but respect was still there, like a thorn blooming from the ruins.

She had never seen such pure eyes on the battlefield, nor had she ever felt so dirty.

She stood up and saluted, but couldn't utter a word of comfort.

The second is the widow of the bridge helmsman, Thred.

The woman was young, but there were two dark tear marks under her eyes, and she was holding a baby tightly in her arms.

The child did not cry, but just leaned quietly in his mother's arms, like some kind of souvenir surrounded by silence.

"He said that even if he died in battle, as long as he could gain military honor, his life would not be in vain."

She put down the heavy purse, which contained gold notes she had earned from black market smuggling and pirate transactions, stained with blood, fire and storms.

She wanted to say, "You deserve it," but she couldn't open her mouth.

She knew it wasn't honor.

The real glory had long been frozen in the imperial budget declaration form and buried at the bottom of a certain congressman's folder.

And now, the only thing that can cover up these scars is her confession built with the stolen money.

She lowered her head like a prisoner.

The woman took the gold bag without refusing or thanking it.

She simply lowered her head and kissed the child's forehead, her voice barely audible:

"He will...know what kind of person his father is later."

As she walked out of the house, the snow fell again, falling on her shoulders and on the blood-red battle flag embroidery.

She had led countless charges under this banner, winning the empire's heaviest victory in a torrent of fire and iron.

But at this moment, it was like a black curtain that could not be washed away, turning every door and every face behind her into a nightmare that she could not look directly at.

Victory, she got it.

But she also personally pushed these families into a darkness from which there was no return.

The night was as dark as ink.

She sat alone in the cabin and took off her heavy military uniform.

The sound of the metal buckles falling to the ground echoed between the empty bulkheads like silent monuments.

The wind blew against the porthole, and the sail ropes rustled softly in the night, as if they did not dare to disturb her silent outline.

The light was dim, and she looked at the mysterious card on the table.

That is the source of her power and the authority of judgment that she cannot remove when she issues an order.

On the card, the bloody battle flag was fluttering, just as her name symbolized - a fight to the death.

Suddenly, she stretched out her trembling hand, and her fingertips slowly reached for the red flag, as if she wanted to peel it off from her memory and fate.

But she paused.

She can't.

That flag is more than just a symbol of glory.

It carries her beliefs, anchors the meaning of what she once fought for, and also carries the weight of countless corpses, settling in her heart like rust, unable to be washed away.

"I'm not a coward... but I am an executioner."

She carved these words on an empty wine bottle with a dagger. Each word was embedded in the glass, like a scar condensed in her heart.

She never drank that bottle of wine, but she would look at that line of words every night, as if she was repeating herself in judgment.

She won't cry.

She can't.

She is Alison Griffith, a major general decorated by the Empire, the temporary supreme commander at the "Blood Whale Showdown", and the executor who won the victory at the cost of thousands of casualties.

She couldn't let her emotions get the better of her.

But in her dreams, she always turned back into that fourteen-year-old girl, standing in the square of the military academy, with her hair tied straight and a stubborn expression, saluting her father who had long been sleeping under the monument to the martyrs.

She once made a solemn promise to the flagpole in the clearest voice:

"Dad, I will be a general who will not let his soldiers die in vain."

But the mirror in the dream reflected her at that time, her thin and firm outline trembling in the night. The girl in the mirror looked up, her eyes were gentle, but sharper than any enemy on the battlefield.

"Then you did it?"

She was silent.

She didn't dare answer.

That night, she dreamed that she walked up to the mast of the "Judgment" alone and raised the bloody battle flag again with her own hands.

But this time, the sound of wind fluttering under the flags was no longer heard, but faces - her lost subordinates.
Those young lives, those bloody comrades, their faces hung there quietly, their eyes like lights, swaying in the wind.

No blame.

No anger.

They just looked at her.

It was a look of trust and honor—the look she had fought so hard for.

But this time, there was a tenderness in his gaze that she couldn't bear. That tenderness was deeper and heavier than any enemy's blade.

She suddenly understood:
She is not afraid of death.

What she was afraid of was that these people... still believed in her.

But she no longer believed in herself.

She didn't dare to enter the "battle flag area" again.

Not because it would devour soldiers.

But it was because she began to doubt whether she was really worth letting them die for her.

She left the imperial capital, abandoned her military status, her identity, and the glory she had built with her own hands.

She fled to the sea and became a mercenary, a pirate, a wanderer who was nothing.
Some even call her the "Lost Blood General", while others say she is just a ronin who makes a living by relying on her past glory.

She doesn't care.

But she never ran away from a fight.

She only escaped from - their eyes.

Those eyes that have died but are always in her heart.

Those gazes are heavier than orders and more painful than memories.

She had been their banner.

But now, she didn't even dare to blow the wind.

"I have never regretted raising that flag."

"But I never dared to look back and see the shadow beneath it."

(End of this chapter)