Astra stood at the edge of his soul sea, the abyss yawning beneath him like a mirror to the heavens. The lone star hung low above the black waters, its radiance scattering into ripples that bent and broke against the dark. Around him, shadows stirred like restless beasts, patient but hungry. His celestial mana burned within him—strange, volatile, new—demanding mastery with the urgency of a voice whispering behind his ear.
He raised his hand.
A burst of starlight lanced from his palm. Blinding. Brief. The shadows recoiled, curling back with an almost feral hiss. Yet the light flickered out too quickly, its brilliance collapsing under its own instability. Astra's lips thinned. Not enough. Again.
Another flare, sharper this time, jagged and bright. The waves below churned with its reflection, scattering light into fractured pieces. Better. Still imperfect.
Exhaling, he shifted. Shadows gathered at his fingertips, pliant under his will.
One slipped free—detaching from his feet like smoke. It crawled across the water, formless and sly, until it latched onto an unseen presence. Its whispers were unintelligible, not words but intention. A spy made from the absence of light itself. He almost laughed. Yes. That will do.
He pivoted smoothly. A streak of starlight cracked from his palm, arcing like a comet before striking the surface of his sea. It shattered, sending ripples glowing outward. Weak. Inconsistent. A promise without teeth.
The shadows answered with seething displeasure, thickening around him like smoke choking out a flame.
He snapped his fingers. The reflection beneath him convulsed, then stilled as a patch of shadow froze unnaturally solid amidst the shifting dark. Astra stepped onto it, testing. A subtle tether tugged against his weight, fragile but real. His mouth curved upward. Progress.
Starlight surged once more, wrapping him in brilliance. His body blinked from existence, reappearing a few feet away on the abyssal plane. The rush came first—then the dizziness. His jaw tightened. Not yet stable. Not yet perfected.
The shadows pounced on the lapse. Darkness curled up around him, swallowing his glow until his form merged with the night. His pulse quickened. This time, the magic clung to him. His steps were quieter, his spells steadier. As though the shadows wanted him.
"Good," he muttered, unable to stop the smile from twitching across his lips. "Very good."
He summoned his weapons.
In his right hand, a blade of starlight burned into being, its edge singing with celestial energy. In his left, the same form was swallowed, distorted, drowned beneath layers of shadow until it became something unseen and terrible. Light and darkness fused into one deadly edge, twin halves of the same truth.
His gaze flicked to the daggers strapped at his waist—the stolen one, and his own weathered blade. Familiar tools. But compared to the longsword forged by an angel… they were pebbles before a mountain.
The star above pulsed. The shadows below writhed. Astra's breath came sharp, his chest heaving with exhilaration.
He was not simply caught between light and dark. He was the bridge—the place where the two bled together. And bridges, he realized, could carry armies.
....
Later, Astra slumped on a cracked stone bench outside the Forge District, sweat cooling against his skin, the air thick with the stink of coal and molten steel. Every muscle in his body ached from hours of forcing light and shadow to obey him, his head pounding with the aftershocks of clashing mana currents. Yet beneath the exhaustion was something else. Excitement. A restless fire. Progress had been made, and mastery felt tantalizingly close—even if the stars themselves still mocked him from their unreachable height.
The Regal Coin thrummed faintly in his palm, alive, eager, as he flicked through the archive. Lines of ancient script shimmered before him, knowledge carved into the bloodline of his House. His eyes lingered on one entry:
The Sword of the Stars.[Mastery: 0/9]
He studied the description. A style of brilliance and inevitability—momentum and dazzle. Strikes that fell like fragments of constellations, weaving radiance into every motion. Elegant. Unpredictable. It was a swordplay made for those who declared themselves openly, who fought in the blaze of truth.
His temple throbbed as something foreign stirred—instinct, faint but undeniable. Fragments of a foundation laid for him, weak yet present. A door cracked open.
On the other hand.
The Sword of Shadows.[Mastery: 0/9]
A stark contrast. Where one dazzled, this concealed. Precision sharpened into inevitability. Movements honed until waste did not exist. The unseen hand that ended battles before they began. Its practitioners were executioners who moved as the darkness itself, their enemies never knowing the moment they had already lost.
Astra leaned back, breath spilling white in the cool night air as he rose from the Forge District, the path winding upward toward the Human District. Coal smoke gave way to the softer scents of the city, but his thoughts burned hotter than ever.
Two legacies. Two blades. Two truths.
He did not yet know whether he would choose one—or weave them into something that belonged to no one but him. But the answer would come, and when it did, the world would see not just a heir of House Night, but its rebirth.
For now, there was work to do.
The clang of hammers faded behind him, replaced by the distant hum of the Springtime Advent Festival still raging above. Yet, something had changed. The fireworks had stopped, and the air felt charged, as if the city itself was holding its breath.
He walked calmly avoiding eyesight as he glanced back down at his Regal Coin, his mind a storm of thoughts.
"Sword of the Stars... Sword of the Shadows..."
He had never been trained in either. Never had a proper mentor—save for those few sessions with Iskander, before the madman disappeared chasing adventure. The last word Astra had of him placed him somewhere in a mana-dense zone, one so saturated it disrupted the Regal Coin networks. That was two years ago.
Astra exhaled, the sound heavy.
In truth, he had always fought like a survivor, not a warrior. But now—with his star awakened, his shadows answering his call—he stood at the threshold of something more. The potential to walk both paths, light and darkness alike.
"I wonder if it's possible to make my own sword style…" His fingers brushed the coin, violet eyes narrowing. "Odin did say I was the only one ever blessed by both Shadow and Night…"
Even so, Astra did not dare whisper the true gods' names aloud. He could. Being of their blood meant the world's resistance would not choke him for it. But it still felt wrong—blasphemous in a way he was not yet ready to embrace.
He sighed again, violet eyes catching the glimmer of lanterns as a breeze tugged at his curls.
He stepped into the festival streets. Warmth washed over him—lantern glow, the scents of roasted meat, honeyed bread, and spiced wine mingling in the air.
The Springtime Advent Festival was still in full bloom. Silken banners of midnight blue and gold rippled from rooftops, and enchanted globes hovered above the cobbled lanes, flickering like captured fireflies.
But something had shifted.
The revelry lingered, yet beneath it thrummed unease. The fireworks had stilled. Music dwindled to softer chords. Laughter carried thin and brittle, stretched over conversations sharp with caution.
Duskguards flooded the streets. The air grew heavy.
Astra caught it at once—the change in guard activity.
The usual ceremonial patrols, loose and half-drunk on festival cheer, had been replaced by ranked knights clad in blackened steel. Their Regal Coins glinted like cold stars on their cloaks. They moved in disciplined formations, steps in perfect rhythm, hands never straying far from the hilts of their weapons. Lantern light shivered across polished breastplates. Their eyes were alert, scanning, calculating.
He tugged his hood higher, melting into the current of the crowd. He wasn't the only one who noticed. Merchants darted wary glances across their stalls. Nobles whispered behind jeweled fans. Even the street performers—those who lived for such nights—kept their acts subdued, their gazes drifting to the looming silhouette of the fortress walls.
Something had happened.
Something big enough to put the city on edge.
Wait. No. I'm an idiot. I definitely caused this.
A wry thought cut through the tension. This is because of my godhoods. My little stunt was loud enough for half the world to notice. I still remember those gazes—indescribable, suffocating—trying to pry into what Odin was doing. If not for him shielding me, the Seraphs would have intervened outright.
A slow grin tugged at him, unbidden. So I've set the whole city on edge, have I? Gods, I really am moving up. I went from putting a district on high alert to rousing an entire city… He fought back a laugh, shaking his head at his own mockery.
He kept walking, footsteps light across stone. The mana in the air shifted—subtle, but undeniable. The shadows leaned toward him, drawn close. The stars above, veiled by violet twilight, bled through brighter than before, pricking at his awareness.
Astra walked among them, clad in the Nightshroud. Its underlayers hugged him like a second skin, snug, fitted. The travel cloak draped over him in flowing waves of gray and midnight blue, shadowed folds shifting with every step. Woven enchantments blurred his outline, dulling edges and swallowing light. He seemed less a figure than a suggestion—something the eye might slide over unless it truly sought him.
At his hip, the Regal Coin pressed cool against the fabric of his Nightshroud, its surface gleaming with a mirror-black sheen. Across it coiled a golden Ouroboros, a Perfect replica of Shadows insignia.
He had sent out a request through his Regal Coin using a encrypted subtle mana network message, one that would avoid detection from other houses, or even worse the Eternal Keeper and her wrath, He had to actually worry about Gods now, a thought that startled and absolutely terrified him.
Anyhow Astra invoking Shadow's authority was like a flare in the dark. The response had not been immediate—House Shadow was many things, but swift in matters of politics was not one of them—yet the coin's features had been granted.
For all legal and political purposes, he now walked beneath Shadow's banner.
Astra almost smirked at the thought. I can only imagine how confused they are right now—receiving an asylum request from someone carrying an imperial coin of House Night. His house had been eradicated long ago, only the Church of Night persisting, bound in uneasy alliance with House Shadow and its ever-watchful clergy.
Coins bearing Night's crest still existed—dusty heirlooms in vaults, forgotten tokens in collectors' hands—but none carried imperial clearance, that was reserved for core members. His must have caused a stir. More than that, the angels of Shadow would have felt the divine disturbance he had roused. However minor, no ripple in the higher realms went unnoticed. Any person can put two and two together and figure out who was seeking asylum.
As Astra walked his intuition sharpened. He felt it: presences reaching, threads of intent brushing faintly at the edges of his being, as if trying to fasten him to a location.
Deep within his soul, a shadowy cloak of secrets stirred. A heavy mantle, corporal and unseen, its folds obscured him however subtly. Astra had but a mere claim on this godhood and its effects were already astonishing.
The anti-divination properties are holding… good. A small measure of comfort, knowing no god could simply fix their gaze on him and send some saint or angel to capture or kill him by letting some lower rank individual do it.
House Shadow has countless branches, countless scions and offshoots slipping through the city's veins. To most, I'll look like just another visiting noble. With care, I could blend with their bloodlines, link up with a few of their agents, draw support.
But he had to be careful. Avoid the wrong circles. I need to steer clear of any Houses or Churches with strongholds in Duskfall. Especially Knowledge, Dawn, and Dusk. They'll be searching for me already, or trying to.
He slowed near a modest street stall, drawn by the scent of sugar and citrus. A broad-shouldered vendor ladled out rosy-pink lemonade that glistened in the lantern-light, faintly fizzing. The air was sharp with fruit and sweetness.
Gods knew he needed a drink.
Astra passed three bronze standards across the counter, fingers brushing briefly against the man's calloused hand, and lifted the glass. The liquid was chilled, sweet, tinged faintly with alcohol. Refreshing.
Astra did not fail to notice an encircled X on a vertical stick with a star shining above it. The holy symbol for the Illuminator. Most believers of his divine church are usually very welcoming truthful and have an absurdly strong moral compass. Also there is a stereotype that most of his believers tend to own business's quite a fitting one. Ironically, a lot of lawyers also believe in him.
he exhaled, savoring the fleeting ease, then leaned against the stall's frame. His voice, when he spoke, was smooth and casual, the practiced cadence of nobility slipping easily into place.
"The festival feels… different tonight." His gaze flicked toward a passing patrol of knights, their armor throwing hard gleams into the night. "Did something happen?"
The vendor rubbed his chin, eyes narrowing slightly as though he were replaying the moment. His voice, lowered, carried unease despite the effort at composure. White hair caught the lantern-glow, his dark features lined by age and rank. A man weathered, a Rank Two if Astra guessed right.
"Aye, my lord," he said, leaning a fraction closer.
The vendor rubbed a rough hand over his chin, eyes flicking toward the sky as if replaying the moment in his mind. He leaned in slightly, voice hushed but tinged with unease. His features were weathered, darkened by sun and soot, framed with a crown of white hair. His bearing wasn't that of a simple lemonade peddler—no, Astra could see it in the way the man's shoulders rolled, the faint crackle of mana clinging to his skin. An old Rank Two, hardened by years of battle, reduced now to selling drinks to survive.
"It was just after dusk," the vendor began, his voice low and deliberate. "The fireworks had been lighting up the sky, aye? But then—" he snapped his fingers, the sharp crack cutting through the air—"they stopped. Like someone had smothered the fuse. No final burst, no embers falling, just… silence."
His hand tightened against the stall's edge, knuckles pale. "And then the air changed. Heavy. Suffocating, like the whole damn city was holding its breath. The stars—" his gaze darted upward, sharp and suspicious, as though expecting them to shift again—"they weren't right. Too sharp. Too bright. Like something behind them was pushing through."
He hesitated, and his fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the counter. "And the shadows…" His breath hitched. "They moved. Not by torchlight. Not by lanterns. They moved on their own. Stretched where no light cast them. Twisted like they were alive. Celebrating."
The vendor's jaw clenched. "Only once in my life have I seen that before—when a Shadow Lord came down upon a battlefield. We thought the war was won, till the darkness itself turned traitor. I barely lived to crawl away." His gaze, suddenly sharp and prying, cut toward Astra. "And tonight, the shadows danced again."
Astra nearly choked on his lemonade, the fizz pricking the back of his throat. Shit. Did I leave too large a mark? Already discovered? The thought knifed through him, his heart racing faster than he let show. His instincts screamed. The Regal Coin at his hip seemed to grow heavier, its golden Ouroboros gleaming like a beacon daring the world to notice.
But then—no. The panic dulled, replaced by cold logic. Calm. He doesn't know. He's fishing. Probing like a soldier who's seen too much, desperate to confirm his suspicions. Plus a shadow lord? A ceremonial title, given to those with high affinity with shadows and extreme potential, it's crazy I was actually given such a title. Astra forced his breath even. The mask of a Shadow noble slipped neatly back into place.
Still… damn. Did I really cause such a commotion? The vendor's words rang truer than he liked. If ordinary men were seeing faces in the dark, feeling the weight of celestial gazes, then his awakening had been anything but subtle. He cursed inwardly. Congratulations, Astra. From putting one district on high alert to throwing an entire city into panic. He mocked inwardly. Wait it's actually worse I put churches on high alert as well! Wow what a truly a meteoric rise.
The vendor, perhaps misreading Astra's silence as permission, pressed on.
"People whispered after. Said they saw faces peering from alleyways that vanished when looked at twice. Guards muttered they felt something brush against their armor—like invisible hands testing their steel. And the knights…" He gave a bitter laugh, though it quavered. "You ever seen a Duskfall knight rattled? Those bastards wear steel hearts. But tonight, I saw fear in their eyes."
He shook his head, muttering almost to himself. "Something passed through the city. Divine, aye. But not holy. Not blessed. If it was a miracle, it was one for the gods, not for us. House Dusk knew it, too—that's why their banners fell silent. This wasn't meant for common folk to witness."
Finally, his gaze slid back to Astra, deliberate, searching. "But you nobles…" He gestured toward the Regal Coin gleaming at Astra's hip. "You always know more. So excuse this old man for being preposterous oh lord but do tell me,—" his voice hardened, a challenge wrapped in false deference—"should we be worried?"
Astra swirled the glass in his hand, the pink liquid catching lanternlight. He let the question hang, savoring the faint tremor in the vendor's tone. Internally, he weighed the risk. Press me too hard, old man, and you might learn more than you bargained for.
He met the vendor's eyes with a seriousness that could have frozen blood. "Oh, absolutely. You should start digging a hole to hide in immediately."
The vendor froze. His cloth slipped from his hand, forgotten, as his expression contorted between disbelief and mounting dread. His eyes flicked down to the cobblestones, as if already judging how deep he'd need to dig before the world collapsed.
Astra sipped casually, relishing the absurdity. Then, at last, he smirked. "Or better yet—sell doom-proof lemonade. Triple the price. The nobles would pay it gladly."
He lifted the glass in mock toast, his posture refined, his smirk cruel in its elegance. "To surviving ominous celestial events and mysterious shadow shenanigans." And with the composure of a man born to House Shadow, he took a dignified sip of his very pink, very harmless drink.
The vendor blinked, his mind stumbling between terror and confusion. "A… a hole?" he muttered, dazed. He even bent slightly, staring at the street as if imagining shovel hitting stone.
Then Astra's smirk clicked into place.
The vendor jolted back upright, exhaling hard. "By the Illuminator, don't jest like that my lord!" He slapped the counter with his palm, the sound sharp and irritated. "Nearly had me sprinting for the hills.."
His hand trembled slightly as he picked up the cloth again, wiping the stall with exaggerated force, as if scrubbing away his own fear.
Astra's smirk lingered, faint but knowing. Relax, old man. If I told you the truth, you would take me for a heretic lunatic.