"I'm home," I called out as I hung my coat on a nearby chair.
"Welcome home!" Ella bolted straight into my arms.
I wrapped my hands around her, hugging her back.
"I got a job," I smiled.
"You did? Yesss!" Ella jumped up and down enthusiastically. "Now we can pay back all the decorations I bought!" Ella exclaimed.
"What?! You bought what?!" I pulled away from her embrace.
"Whoops, that slipped out quickly," Ella looked away. "Uh, I just bought some lights,…" She started listing off about a few hundred things. "Oh! And just a Christmas tree because winter's already here, that means Christmas is on the way, hehe," She finished.
"Hehe?! That's about a few million things!" I exclaimed.
Boooom!
I crashed into the floor, fainting from the shock. I can't believe my sister's a shopaholic! This is insane.
"Please…give me a break…" I groaned.
"Brother? Brother, are you ok? Hello? Brother? Your eyes are open, stop pretending! Hurry up and talk!"
"Do I look ok?" I groaned again.
"No…hehe. Oh my, Brooooother! There's black smoke coming out of your head!!" Ella yelled.
"I'm fine," I sat up. "I've got strong pain tolerance. I'll naturally heal myself anyway. But my fainting is definitely your fault." I looked straight at her.
"Sorry, Brother," She looked away.
"That's more like it——"
Then I saw it.
Big watery tears started streaming down her face like a gushing river. Her nose turned red as she tried to hide her sniffles.
"Hey, Ella, don't cry," I tried to comfort her, but to no avail.
"Sorry, brother, sniff, I've been a bad girl, sniff, sorry, I wasn't able to make you happy, sniff. It's all my fault that we have no money now, sniff, sorry," Ella whimpered.
No, I should be the bigger person here. Ella's my only family left. I shouldn't do this to her. I can't let her blame herself. I'm her only family left, too. We need to support each other no matter what.
"No, Ella, it's ok, you're not bad. Actually, Brother was very happy when he saw the decorations." Ella looked up at me. "I'm sorry, I wasn't able to say it out loud. And we still have lots of money since I'm getting a job. So Ella," I bent down to look at her tear-stained face. "Don't blame yourself," I said, tucking her hair behind her ear. "You're not a bad kid. We have to support each other through this difficult time, ok? Together. We'll get through this together."
"Together," Ella whispered.
"Now come here," I opened my arms and smiled.
"Brotheeeerr waaaaah!" Ella cried, leaping into my arms.
~~~~~~~~~~
That night, after putting Ella to sleep, I lay on my own bed staring at the ceiling of our new home.
"Valtheris, I need to talk to you," I whispered.
"Your wish is my command!" He sounded pleased.
My eyes closed as I was pulled into that familiar heaven once again. This time, I was sitting on a chair facing Valtheris.
"I see you chose to save your sister. That was fairly unexpected." Valtheris said with faint amusement, pouring us a cup of tea each. "My prophecy did come true in the end, did it not?" He looked up.
"Yes," I nodded.
"And I see that you are here to ask me about the woman in black?" He continued pouring tea.
"Yes,"
"Ah, I see," he murmured. "Well, since this is not a prophecy but advice, let me tell you this," His voice was smooth as he pushed a cup of tea to me. "That woman in black is the key figure of your current life. Not for long, though, the key figures of your life tend to change a lot. But," He sipped his tea. "Trust her, Hoshikawa, or should I say, Alistair? She will give you the job you crave. She might seem hostile to you, but in reality, she isn't. I would say," Valtheris looked into the far distance. "She is the person you can trust the most right now, as well as your three other friends."
"I will keep that in mind," I stated coolly.
"I have another query," I stood up from my seat and walked slowly towards Valtheris. "Is Azelarion behind—?"
"Yes," He replied with relaxed confidence. "Most likely. He did not warn you of this, did he?" This was no question. Valtheris said it as though he was stating a fact. "Therefore, I believe this is his way of 'making your life interesting', he said he would, did he not?" I froze in my tracks and turned to face him.
"You're sure?" My eyes widened.
"Why would I not be sure?" Valtheris laughed. "I was only able to see a glimpse of the part when you first met Azelarion, but I am sure I heard that 'I'll definitely make your life interesting…' or something along those lines, correct?" His lips curled into an unsettling smile. "Well? Am I?" Valtheris interlocked his fingers.
"You are not wrong." I do not deny that Valtheris's theory is somewhat reasonable.
"I also happen to know that after that accident, my vision of fate has been tampered with." Valtheris also stood up and walked towards me. "This only means that…Azelarion must have suspected me, a weakened fragment of a great soul, is helping you...his successor, and hence cut off my vision of fate."
"Excuse me?" I tilted my head.
"Ah, of course you don't know," Valtheris stopped right in front of me. "Let me repeat myself, you, Alistair Nightfall, are Azelarion's successor, heir to The Seventh Throne." He paused, letting the words sink in.
"This can only mean that…just like him, you can see fate and meddle with it," He noted, fairly entertained. "And so…today, 'on behalf of Azelarion', I will help you help you unlock your true potential," He said slowly, as if letting me digest his words. "Will you allow me…" He paused and lifted my chin as if checking me out. "...to do the honours of providing you with the first step of revenge?"
I stepped back. "I trust you, you're my only ally, however…"
"However…?"
I shook my head. "Let's get started," I said firmly.
Valtheris's touch was warm—too warm for something that felt so wrong. The moment his astralis crossed the boundary of my skin, it was as if invisible threads were being woven straight into my spine, tugging, tightening, searching for something buried deep within me. My breath hitched despite myself. The air grew heavy, dense, like the world was holding its breath alongside me. I could feel my own astralis recoil at first, instinctively resisting the intrusion, flaring like a wounded animal—but Valtheris didn't force it. Instead, he guided it, slow and deliberate, coaxing rather than commanding, as if whispering promises directly into my core.
"Relax," he murmured near my ear, his voice low, almost reverent. "Your astralis is fractured, not weak. It remembers pain, betrayal… loss." His hand pressed more firmly between my shoulder blades, and suddenly the pressure vanished—replaced by a plunging sensation, as if I were falling inward. Memories surged unbidden: firelight dancing on walls that no longer stood, screams swallowed by smoke, the unbearable stillness that followed. My knees buckled, but Valtheris held me upright, anchoring me as the past clawed its way to the surface. "Good," he said softly. "Do not turn away from it. Vengeance is not born from hatred alone—it is forged from remembrance."
Something cracked inside me then. Not painfully—not at first—but with a soundless rupture that echoed through my bones. My astralis reacted violently, flooding outward in erratic waves, colours bleeding into one another, refusing to settle. I gasped as heat and cold collided within my chest, my heart pounding like it was trying to escape. Valtheris's presence sharpened, his astralis intertwining with mine in precise strands, isolating the chaos, pulling it apart layer by layer. "This is the first step," he continued, unshaken. "Acknowledgement. You are no longer running from fate—you are standing in front of it, staring it down."
Valtheris finally withdrew his hand, though his astralis lingered like a shadow wrapped around my own. "Congratulations," he said, stepping back just enough for me to breathe again. His eyes gleamed with something sharp and unreadable. "You have taken your first step toward revenge." Then, after a pause, his smile softened—just slightly. "From here on, every choice you make will echo. Remember that. Power does not ask whether you are ready… only whether you are willing."
"Thank you. However, there is one problem. I can't see!" I yelled at him.
"Close your eyes, everything will unfold by itself," He chuckled.
The world tilted. Lines—no, threads—appeared before my eyes, countless and overlapping, stretching into infinity. Some glowed faintly, fragile as spider silk. Others burned bright, taut with inevitability. I knew, instinctively, that each one was a path, a choice, a life diverted or destroyed. My chest tightened as understanding settled in. So this is what he meant. I could see it—the places where fate bent, where it could be nudged, severed, or violently torn apart. My hands trembled, not from fear, but from the weight of possibility.
And as I stood there, surrounded by invisible threads of destiny, one thought rang louder than all the rest:
I would never let fate decide for me again.
Then I saw myself.
Not as the boy I once was, nor the fragile shape I remembered in dreams, but as Alistair—a presence that felt both foreign and inevitable, as if fate itself had finally peeled back the veil and whispered, this is what you were meant to become.
My appearance was striking, though it did not demand attention—it commanded it. My hair fell in long, smooth strands, pale yet not lifeless, as moonlight brushed with silver, carrying a quiet, sacred sheen. It framed my face gently, softening features that were otherwise sharp and composed. My violet eyes, hidden behind a white blindfold, glimmered faintly with an unfathomable glow, as though countless prayers, oaths, and unspoken resolve had settled there over time. They were not the eyes of someone young, but of someone who had endured, observed, and chosen to carry burdens without complaint.
My clothing spoke of solemn authority rather than vanity. Long, layered robes flowed naturally with every movement, as if they were an extension of my own will. The fabric was pristine yet understated—light-toned, elegant, etched with faint, intricate patterns that only revealed themselves under certain angles of light. Those markings were more than decoration; they were symbols of faith, order, and devotion, woven directly into the cloth. The sleeves trailed slightly, dignified and deliberate, reminding me that I belonged not to the battlefield alone, but to something higher—an altar, a vow, a destiny.
A mantle rested over my shoulders, carrying subtle weight—not heavy, but meaningful. It marked me as someone set apart, neither fully human nor fully divine, standing on the thin line between them. At my chest hung a small, refined emblem, pulsing faintly with restrained power. It was not ostentatious, yet its presence was undeniable, like a heartbeat of light bound close to my soul. Less ornament than witness, it had seen every choice I had made and accepted them all.
Even my posture had changed. I stood straight, composed, serene, as though chaos could rage around me and still fail to disturb the stillness at my core. There was gentleness in my bearing, but no weakness—only an unshakable resolve, born of trials endured and faith reforged countless times.
Looking at myself, I realised I was not meant to shine like a blazing star, nor dominate through sheer force. I was meant to endure. To stand unwavering when others faltered. And in that moment, I understood—this wasn't just what I looked like. This was who I had become.
I was Alistair, the god of stars.
I looked down, and I saw Aetherion. With these eyes of mine, I could see everybody and anybody at the same time and predict their next move.
"Look at that unmatchable divine beauty of yours," Valtheris lifted my chin and smiled.
Pooof!
A soft displacement of air rippled before me.
I looked down to see a floating geometric relic suspended above my palm, constantly rearranging itself. It did not settle into a single shape. Fractured segments interlocked and separated in slow, deliberate rotations, forming something between a cube and a prism—as if geometry itself had been denied the right to remain still.
Thin lines of light connected each segment. At first, they were barely visible, like fine threads caught in moonlight. I could feel them more than see them, tugging gently at my awareness, humming with quiet inevitability.
Valtheris's voice reached me then, calm… pleased.
"So you see the Prism of Fate now," he said. "Good. That means your eyes are finally aligned with what is, not merely what appears."
The lines of light sharpened at his words.
They extended outward.
Not into space—but into everything.
I felt them stretch toward people, toward places, toward moments yet to occur. Decisions. Turning points. Endings that had not happened and yet already existed somewhere beyond time. My breath caught as the realisation settled in.
"This is not a weapon born for coincidence," Valtheris continued. "It does not rely on chance. It does not gamble. What you hold is clarity made manifest."
The relic rotated once, slowly, and the threads pulsed.
"It does not strike flesh," he said. "It intervenes in fate."
I understood without needing further explanation.
A subtle alignment—just enough for a blade to miss by a hair's breadth. A spell delayed by a single heartbeat. Outcomes nudged, not shattered. Fate adjusted, not rewritten. And when resistance rose—when someone struggled against what they themselves had set in motion—the threads tightened, locking them into the consequences of their own choices.
Valtheris's tone grew quieter.
"There is judgment in it. An inevitable seal. The harder one resists, the harsher the correction becomes."
The relic responded, its geometry tightening, growing more precise.
"And yet," he added, "there is mercy."
I felt it then—a single thread set apart from the rest, fragile, luminous.
"One destined failure," Valtheris said, "may be denied. One life preserved. One fall prevented. But the cost is yours alone to bear. That is the price of touching fate without claiming dominion over it."
The threads receded slightly, returning to their gentle hum.
"A sword declares intent," Valtheris went on. "I will end you. This does not bother with threats."
A pause.
"It merely states the truth: you were always going to fall."
I watched the shifting geometry in silence.
Its form mirrored what I felt—structured, yet fluid. Absolute, yet restrained. I did not command fate through it. I read it. I nudged it. Nothing more. Nothing less.
"At first," Valtheris said, almost thoughtfully, "this power will hurt. To see fate is to feel every unavoidable loss. Every tragedy that cannot be averted."
The relic slowed, as if listening.
"But in time," he finished, "you will stop flinching."
The threads of light steadied.
And I knew he was right.
This was not simply a relic in my hand.
It was a witness.
Just like me.
"Press the button at the side," Valtheris instructed.
I did as I was told. Instantly, the Prism of Fate transformed into twin swords. They were two elegant, asymmetrical swords that mirror each other in form but not in colour or texture. One is pale, almost translucent silver, faintly glowing with an inner light; the other is dark, like obsidian, absorbing nearby light. They are joined at the hilt in a way that allows the god to wield them separately or together, forming a single double-edged weapon when crossed. The design is sleek, sharp, and slightly ethereal—like they were forged from raw destiny itself.
"This is the Twin Blades Of Choice. The silver one reveals and enforces inevitability. Strikes with it "cut" the threads of events that are meant to happen, bringing them to fruition. It can force outcomes that are fated, but cannot create randomness. However, the obsidian blade creates possibility and choice. Strikes with it open new paths, alter probability, and bend potential futures without fully dictating them. Wielding both together allows the god to both create and enforce destiny in perfect harmony—turning abstract possibilities into unavoidable realities." Valtheris explained.
"You will probably learn this later, but your skill for starlight is threads, if you can't tell. Since I helped you get to this god level, do me a favour, will you?"
"Alright, what is it?" I sighed.
"Could your skill for shadow cards? That's my skill, so it'd be nice if my favourite human had it." Valtheris looked oddly small today, like a little kid begging his big brother to do him a favour.
"Sure, but Valtheris, have you shrunk?" I asked.
"Let's not talk about that," Valtheris looked away, oddly embarrassed. What is up with him today?"
"Anyway," I continued. "Where are we?" I looked at our surroundings. There was a long table where thirteen thrones sat, one for each element/compound. At the end of the table was the thirteenth throne, majestic and stunning.
"We're in your domain," Valtheris smiled. "Come," He led me to the thirteenth throne and pulled it out for me. "Sit, heir to The Seventh Throne," I sat down.
Immediately, the room sprang into life. A futuristic sphere made of particles floated towards me. It had a central orb with orbiting rings, depicting the lives of everyone. I turned the sphere till I saw Ella. She was snuggling up against Teddy, sleeping soundly. "Good," I murmured.
"Oh, now that I think about it, I haven't explained to you about your eyes yet," Little Valtheris squeaked.
"Listen carefully, Alistair," His voice suddenly became deep and firm once more. "For what I tell you now is not legend nor mere exaggeration. It is the truth of what your eyes can do. You possess Astra Nocturne—the Hidden Constellation. Do not misunderstand this: your eyes do not simply hold power. They rewrite how power is perceived. Starlight exists inside your vision, and shadow exists outside you, as a sheath.
In darkness, in shadow, or even when blindfolded, you see what no one else can: the paths of constellations themselves. These are not decorations—they are movement, intent, fate. Every step, every strike, every breath that might threaten life or balance is traced in collapsing starlight before your pupils. But in bright light, this power risks leaking outward. That is why the blindfold is not ornamentation—it is a seal. Without it, your starlight presses outward, your shadow thins, and those sensitive enough may glimpse the constellations forming within your eyes. Fate itself bends around you, and ancient beings may take notice.
To those who observe you, your presence is a riddle. They cannot measure your strength, nor can divination reliably reveal your nature. They misread your element as shadow. Enemies mock you, unaware that what they see is only the veil you allow them to perceive. And that veil—the Perceptual Veil—ensures that reality misjudges you, that attacks miss, that destiny falters before your presence, and that no record can truly capture you.
Your perception runs half a beat ahead of reality—the Black Halo Offset. Blades pass too close, strikes arrive early or late, spells detonate where you are not, and yet to you, it feels like standing at the edge of a falling star.
Movement itself bends to you. Through Shadow Steps, you follow starlight paths already seen, slipping between moments rather than across space. Distance is irrelevant. Alignment matters. You ascend walls, cross falling debris, and appear behind enemies before they know you have moved. To them, you flicker, slide, or simply exist where you were not. And though not untouchable, you are always misaligned, never fully present, already positioned at the end.
This is why the blindfold is mandatory. Without it, the constellations within you might externalise, fate-altering phenomena spike, and your element risks being misclassified as celestial. With it, Astra Nocturne remains compressed, safe, and subtle. Blindness is safer than being seen. Only in the rarest moments—when someone you love faces death, when absolute darkness surrounds you, and when you accept the risk—do you lift it. Then, your pupils deepen into a starless void, tiny collapsing constellations forming inside, and pressure radiates from your gaze alone. No glow. No aura. Just inevitability.
Remember this, Alistair: your eyes do not just perceive—they stop motion, halt rain, distort reality, and crush perception into shadow. You do not fight fate with them; you rewrite where it allows you to exist. Starlight defines the ending. Shadow defines the space where you are allowed to be. You are never fully in the present. Half a moment ahead—or already gone.
Those who face you will not understand until it is too late. Attacks miss. Spells fail. Observers misjudge you. You are the Hidden Constellation that refuses to be seen. Not flashy. Not untouchable. Not openly divine. But when you act, when you release Astra Nocturne even slightly, the world itself bends to the paths your eyes have traced.
Understand this, Alistair: your eyes are not just weapons. They are the law. They are the boundary between what must happen and what is allowed to exist. And in the rarest moments… they are inevitability itself."
"Take this black blindfold and put it immediately after you wake up, Alistair. This divine blindfold of yours only works in this domain," He handed me the blindfold. "You understand what I mean, right?"
"Yes,"
"Then farewell, Alistair, you'd better wake up now, or you'd be late. Till we meet again,"
And reality pulled me back.