Ten minutes had passed since Inannael's departure.
Adam remained seated at the foot of the tree, his back resting against its ancient trunk, his gaze drifting toward the still sky of Zephyrios. The wood beneath his shoulders felt solid—unyielding, almost reassuring—an ironic contrast to the thoughts spiraling relentlessly through his mind.
His soul.
Heavier than the others.
The words lingered, refusing to fade.
There was nothing tangible to grasp—no threat, no verdict, no clear judgment. Only a mystery, and the unsettling sensation of being an anomaly, even among those who shared his fate.
Footsteps broke the silence.
Adam turned his head slightly. Clayton approached first, his movements steady as ever, followed closely by Hana and Sophia. None of them tried to mask the concern etched into their expressions.
Clayton sat beside him without a word. Hana and Sophia settled nearby, leaving a respectful distance around Adam, as though instinctively giving him space.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Clayton broke the quiet.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked simply.
There was no pressure in his voice—only a calm openness.
"We're curious, sure," he added after a brief pause. "But if you'd rather keep it to yourself, we'll respect that."
Adam exhaled slowly. His features tightened, betraying the anxiety he had been trying—and failing—to contain.
In truth, he thought, it hardly even deserved to be called a secret.
After a few seconds, he finally spoke.
He told them everything.
Inannael's words echoed in his mind—the weight of his soul, the uncertainty, the mystery that followed.
Clayton, Hana, and Sophia listened without interrupting him once.
As Adam spoke, he noticed their expressions shift. Their brows furrowed—not in fear, but in a mixture of intrigue and unease. When he finished, silence settled once more between them.
Hana and Clayton remained thoughtful, each drawing their own conclusions in silence.
Then Sophia moved closer and met Adam's gaze directly.
"I think you're overthinking it," she said calmly. "And worrying for nothing."
Adam blinked, caught off guard.
"She said your soul is heavier," Sophia continued. "That's strange, yes. An enigma, certainly. But a mystery doesn't mean immediate danger."
She paused, choosing her words with care.
"Honestly, I doubt the other gods would give us clearer answers either. Maybe we're simply not ready to know. For now, there's no point tormenting yourself. She never mentioned a threat—only that it might cause complications."
Her tone was steady, almost detached. There was no trace of panic in her voice.
As though, to her, the issue simply did not deserve the power Adam had been giving it.
Strangely enough, that composure eased something inside him.
She's right.
Adam drew a deeper breath, feeling some of the tension loosen.
For now, it was better to focus on what could be understood. On what could actually be dealt with.
"Thank you," he said, offering her a faint, more relaxed smile.
Clayton and Hana seemed to come back to themselves, nodding quietly in agreement.
Hana spoke next, her voice gentle yet firm.
"Thank you for trusting us, Adam. That matters. We're human, and we all carry personal secrets… but information like this shouldn't become a wall between us. Otherwise, it leads to mistrust. And eventually, to division."
Before Adam could respond, Clayton pulled him into a brief, solid embrace.
Adam stiffened slightly. He wasn't used to that kind of closeness.
Yet despite the initial discomfort, he felt something warm—genuine concern, shared without the need for words.
"You don't have to carry this alone," Clayton said gravely. "Your problem is ours now."
He released him and looked at all three of them with quiet resolve.
"We share the same fate. And it's only by standing together that we'll have a real chance of getting through this."
There was a natural authority in his voice, forged through experience and loss. A quiet charisma that reminded them that, despite the tragic circumstances that had brought them together…
They were no longer alone.
They were a group now—bound not by choice, but by fate.
And for the first time in a long while, Adam felt that this burden did not have to be borne by himself.
Sophia's POV
A few seconds passed after the conversation about Adam's soul came to an end, and Sophia remained silent. Her gaze briefly returned to him. Outwardly, she had sounded calm—almost careless. Beneath that composure, however, lingered a quiet concern she had chosen not to reveal.
She wasn't dismissing the issue outright.
She simply believed that dwelling on it endlessly would achieve nothing.
Whatever made Adam's soul different deserved attention—but not fear. Not yet. Until there was something concrete, tormenting himself would only weaken him. That was why she had spoken the way she did.
Satisfied that the tension had eased, Sophia shifted her posture and spoke again, deliberately lightening her tone.
"Well," she said, glancing at the others, "let's move on to something more interesting. Is it just me, or does everyone here look like they've had some kind of cosmetic surgery? I can't be the only one noticing it… unless you've all suddenly gone blind."
The remark immediately drew their attention. Whatever unease remained seemed to loosen as their gazes turned toward her.
When she had woken earlier, Sophia had noticed the changes almost instantly.
Her silhouette felt lighter somehow, her skin clearer—healthier than she remembered it ever being.
She frowned inwardly.
If she was being honest, that particular detail irritated her slightly. Her body had been… optimized. Some weight had been redistributed, refined.
She didn't need a mirror to know that her chest was no longer what it had been.
Still, she released a quiet breath.
It wasn't entirely a loss. Carrying a heavier burden was not always a blessing—balance, posture, comfort all came at a cost. She could live with that trade-off.
Her thoughts were interrupted when Hana spoke.
"I feel better too," Hana said softly. "Stronger. Taller. And… younger. Both physically and mentally."
Sophia turned her attention to her.
The change struck her more clearly on Hana than on the others.
She remembered the woman she had first met—mid-thirties, unremarkable in appearance, a quiet weariness etched into her features. Now, that fatigue was gone. Her traits had softened, revealing a gentle beauty Sophia hadn't noticed before. Her hair, once short, now flowed down to her hips, dark and glossy, catching the light faintly.
It wasn't immediately obvious at first glance. Hana still tied it back simply and carried herself with the same reserved demeanor. But the transformation was undeniable—to Sophia's eyes.
She reflected that constant exposure to gods might have dulled her sense of astonishment. Compared to beings like Astéria or Inannael, human beauty felt almost insignificant. Standing before divinity, even obvious changes became easier to overlook.
By that measure, she and Hana were still ordinary.
Sophia had always been considered beautiful among her peers—not striking, but comforting. Her presence tended to soften the mood. It wasn't arrogance, merely an observation she had grown used to over time. Only jealousy ever seemed to twist that perception.
Adam spoke next, noting that the changes were visible on him as well.
That left only one.
Clayton scratched the back of his neck before answering.
"I don't feel much or see notable changes," he admitted. "Just… younger. Maybe by ten years. Same as Hana."
Sophia studied him quietly.
If anything, his appearance seemed largely unchanged—aside from a vitality that sharpened his posture and presence. He had never struck her as someone who relied on appearances in the first place.
He straightened and looked at them all.
"All right," he said. "Let's go find Tamiel. According to what Elyon told me, today's training is going to be tougher than the last."
The other three groaned in unison.
They weren't veterans like him.
Still, Sophia could tell—without needing words—that Clayton cared for them in his own way.
And for now, that was enough.
______
In the corridors of the Divine Abode of Hope
A short while later, the group had recovered their practice clothes and left their quiet rooms beneath Zephyrios' sky.
Judging by the position of the sun, Adam guessed it was already afternoon—though he couldn't be sure. Time, here, felt unreliable.
The corridors stretched endlessly before them, vast and luminous, their walls adorned with faintly shifting patterns of light that seemed alive—responding not to touch, but to presence itself.
Adam barely noticed the length of the passageways anymore.
His thoughts drifted elsewhere, tangled in everything he had witnessed since their arrival. Around him, the others moved in silence as well, each lost in their own reflections. The wonders surrounding them had begun to blur together—miracles stacked upon miracles, until even the impossible started to feel routine.
And yet, it remained divine.
The gods had reshaped reality with effortless precision. A room once meant for lessons had been transformed into an obstacle course, its structure rewritten as though the very concept of space were nothing more than clay in their hands.
Adam kept those displays of power firmly in mind.
One day, he thought, I too will gain the power to do what I want.
His first goal was simple: to acquire enough strength and knowledge to survive without divine monitoring.
The young Comorian carried a rebellious heart. He respected power—but trusted it little. And the attention of the gods was something he neither sought nor desired.
After a long walk through the corridors, they finally arrived at their destination.
Clayton stepped forward and pushed the doors open.
They found themselves facing their teachers.
Tamiel and Astéria awaited them inside.
The two deities were seated face to face, engaged in some kind of unfamiliar chess-like game. The Goddess of Magic and the Arcane frowned, clearly troubled.
A faint smile, tinged with arrogance, rested on her opponent's face.
"Shall you concede, my dear friend?" Tamiel said lightly. "I would hate for you to lose control and retaliate afterward."
Astéria exhaled sharply.
"Very well. I concede. You are insufferably good at games like this."
Her gaze sharpened.
"But would you dare play one of mine? Magic. Or wagers."
Tamiel rested his chin against his hand, thoughtful.
"I would be a fool to accept," he replied calmly. "I am known for wisdom, not recklessness. I know your strengths—and my limits."
His smile deepened, quiet and knowing.
"And I have no intention of losing. Though today, I am in a generous mood. I may even allow myself to step into your comfort zone."
Tamiel's serene tone only fueled Astéria's irritation; his nonchalance had always been the sharpest edge of their rivalry.
Tamiel never liked to lose to anyone, despite his relative weakness.
So the God of Wisdom devised a way to ensure his opponents would think twice before crossing him. The idea earned him a title—whispered first by rivals, friends, then by enemies.
The Trickster.
On Astra, it was widely known that if anyone—deity or mortal—encountered the Trickster's mark, their fate was sealed. It was not merely a name, but an aura, unmistakable and impossible to ignore within civilized realms.
The God of Wisdom was not strong, but he possessed secrets in abundance. Some were dangerous enough to make even him hesitate before acting.
"So," Tamiel said at last, lifting his gaze toward the newcomers, "what do you think?"
His eyes lingered on them longer than necessary. The weight of his gaze made the group subtly uneasy, as though they were being measured rather than greeted.
Fortunately for them, Clayton stepped forward.
He inclined his head respectfully, his posture firm but controlled.
"Lord Tamiel," he said evenly, "I do not believe I am wise enough to offer counsel, nor worthy of judging such matters. That is merely my opinion. My companions here may think differently… unless I am mistaken."
Adam and the two women understood instantly.
The tone Clayton used was deliberate. Careful. A warning wrapped in courtesy.
Tamiel's smile widened—just a fraction.
"How prudent," he murmured. "And how very human."
His gaze shifted, lingering briefly on the others.
Adam felt it then—the silent invitation. Or perhaps a test.
He hesitated for a heartbeat before stepping forward, just enough to be seen.
"We share Clayton's opinion," Adam said carefully. "At least, I do."
He glanced at Hana and Sophia. Neither contradicted him.
"But perhaps," he added, meeting Tamiel's eyes, "you already know our answer. Or maybe you wish to hear it spoken."
A pause followed.
Then Tamiel laughed softly.
"Very good," he said. "You understand more than you think."
He rose from his seat at last, his movements unhurried, deliberate. When he stood, something about him changed—not in presence, but in intent. Gone was the idle player of games. What remained was something older.
Sharper.
"Today," Tamiel said calmly, "you will not study theory. Nor will you chase abstractions."
He walked past them, stopping near the threshold of the chamber beyond. The space responded subtly, shifting as though anticipating what was to come.
"You will begin your introduction to combat."
The words settled heavily.
"This is not training in the full sense of the term," he continued. "You will not master techniques, nor will you leave here as warriors. What you will do is become familiar—with movement, with contact, with impact."
His gaze flicked briefly toward Clayton.
"You," Tamiel added, "have experience. You were a soldier."
Clayton nodded once.
"But do not mistake experience for expertise," Tamiel went on evenly. "The nature of Astra renders most human combat doctrines incomplete. Still, your instincts will serve as a foundation."
He turned back to the group as a whole.
"In this world," Tamiel said, his voice steady, unembellished, "power often expresses itself through violence. Not because violence is noble—but because it is effective."
He let that sink in.
"You will not resolve every conflict through dialogue. You will not disarm every enemy with reason. There are beings who do not listen, who do not negotiate, who do not care."
Astéria crossed her arms, observing them silently.
"To face such opponents," Tamiel continued, "pacifism is not virtue. It is vulnerability."
He stepped forward, placing himself at the head of the group.
"I will lead today," he said simply. "Not as a god—but as one who has fought, survived, and learned the cost of hesitation."
His eyes hardened slightly.
"Watch. Follow. Adapt."
He turned toward the chamber, its interior already reshaping into something harsher, more grounded.
"Come," Tamiel concluded. "If you are to survive in Astra, you must first learn how violence feels—before it is forced upon you."
As they followed him inside, Adam felt the familiar weight stir within his chest.
Not fear.
Not reluctance.
But the unsettling realization that this world would not bend to ideals.
Only to strength.
______________
Author's Note
To everyone who has been following Life in Astra—thank you.
As we approach 10,000 views, I want to express my sincere gratitude to every reader who has taken the time to follow this story and to walk through the world of Astra with me. This journey means more to me than words can easily convey.
I should also say this openly: I am still a beginner, and English is not my native language. Every chapter is both a story and a learning process for me. Knowing that readers choose to stay, read, and continue despite this makes your presence all the more meaningful.
If this story resonates with you in any way, I would truly appreciate hearing your thoughts—whether encouragement or critique. Your feedback helps me grow, not only as a writer, but as a storyteller finding his voice.
Thank you for reading, and for allowing Life in Astra to exist and evolve through you.