A Village Beneath the Stars
The mountain winds carried the scent of pine and wet earth through the narrow paths of Qinghe Village, a place so small and remote that most maps forgot it even existed. Perched against the foot of the Azure Cloud Range, the village clung to survival much like its people—weathered, tired, but stubborn. Houses of wood and mud leaned against one another like weary elders, and fields of thin rice barely yielded enough to feed the bellies of its inhabitants.
Among those weathered souls was Han Zhen, a boy of seventeen whose back had already bent from labor, though his spirit had not. At dawn, while others still clung to sleep, he rose from his straw mat, slung a dull hatchet across his shoulder, and trekked into the forest. Woodcutting was his daily burden, and though his calloused hands were cracked and raw, he never complained. No one would have listened anyway. He was an orphan, the son of a nameless mother and a wandering drunk who had died in the mountains years ago. To the villagers, he was a reminder of bad omens, and thus fit only for silence and menial labor.
Yet, when the day's work ended and the stars began to shine above, Han Zhen's gaze would always drift upward. Others huddled around their meager fires, gossiping or cursing fate, but he sought the heavens. Constellations glittered across the ink-black sky, their patterns etched deep in his heart. Sometimes, when the moon was thin and the night silent, he thought he heard whispers—faint voices carried by starlight, speaking of paths untrodden and destinies unseen.
The villagers mocked him for this strange habit. "That boy is addled," they would sneer. "Dreaming of stars when he can't even fill his belly." But Han Zhen did not care. The stars were the only family he had left, the only companions who would never scorn him.
On this particular evening, the sky was clear, the air sharp with mountain chill. Han Zhen sat atop a weathered boulder near the village outskirts, his hatchet resting at his side. His clothes were patched beyond recognition, his sandals worn thin. Yet his eyes—dark, steady, and strangely luminous—remained fixed on the heavens. The Great Azure Dragon constellation stretched proudly across the horizon, while the Twin Phoenix shimmered faintly near the zenith. He traced them with his gaze, lips moving in quiet reverence, as if memorizing sacred scripture.
For as long as he could remember, he had felt a pull toward those distant lights. Not mere curiosity, but a calling. He could not explain it, yet deep within, he believed his life was tied to the heavens above, not the muddy earth that tried to chain him.
And perhaps, somewhere far beyond mortal eyes, the stars watched back.
Mockery in the Dust
The rooster had barely crowed when the village awoke. Smoke rose sluggishly from chimneys as women stirred thin rice porridge, and men sharpened rusted hoes to coax life from barren fields. Han Zhen had already returned from the forest, his bundle of chopped firewood stacked high on his back. Sweat soaked through his ragged tunic, dripping down his lean frame as he staggered under the weight.
At the village square, he dropped the wood with a thud beside the communal storage hut. A handful of villagers stood nearby, their conversation pausing as they eyed him.
"Look at him," one man muttered loud enough for all to hear. "Back bent like an old mule, yet still staring at the sky every night as if it will rain silver coins."
The others chuckled. "Han Zhen the Dreamer," an older woman cackled, "born with his head in the clouds and his feet in the mud. If only starlight could fill our bellies, eh?"
Han Zhen straightened slowly, his chest rising and falling with exhaustion. He did not answer; he never did. Words against them only invited more cruelty. Instead, he wiped the sweat from his brow, tightened the fraying rope belt around his waist, and turned to leave.
But Zhou Heng, the butcher's son, blocked his path. Broad-shouldered and smug, Zhou Heng was a year older and had spent his life bullying weaker children. Now, as the upcoming Sect Recruitment Day drew near, he strutted with the arrogance of one certain of his own greatness.
"Well, if it isn't the star-gazing fool," Zhou Heng sneered, planting a foot on the pile of wood Han Zhen had cut. "Tell me, will the heavens choose you this year? Or will you shame yourself again when the sect testers laugh at your useless veins?"
The onlookers laughed, voices sharp as knives.
Han Zhen's lips pressed into a thin line. He wanted to retort, to throw Zhou Heng's words back at him. But what would it change? He had been tested Once, years ago—declared talentless, unable to cultivate even the faintest thread of Qi. That judgment had branded him worthless in the eyes of everyone here.
"I only do my work," Han Zhen said quietly, his voice rough from disuse. "Let me pass."
Zhou Heng's eyes glittered with amusement. "Work? That's all you'll ever be good for. While I, Zhou Heng, will join the Azure Cloud Sect and ascend to greatness. Remember my name, Han Zhen—you'll still be chopping wood when I return as a cultivator."
The laughter echoed as Han Zhen pushed past, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles bled. Each word lodged like a thorn in his chest, but he swallowed the pain. He had long since learned that anger, without strength to back it, was useless.
When he reached the edge of the village, he paused, tilting his head toward the sky. The morning sun had risen, hiding the stars, yet he whispered all the same.
"One day," he murmured, "I'll prove them wrong. If the heavens won't open a path for me… then I'll carve one myself."
Somewhere far above, unseen by mortal eyes, a faint flicker stirred among the constellations.
That night, the village slept under the soft glow of lanterns and weary sighs. But while the others snored in their straw huts, Han Zhen climbed the jagged cliff behind the fields, carrying nothing but a worn blanket and the ache in his arms.
The mountain air was sharp, cutting into his skin, but he did not mind. This was the one place where no jeers or stones could reach him.
He lay flat on the cold rock and stared at the heavens.
Countless stars stretched across the night sky, vast and unreachable. Some shone steady and gentle, others flickered as though whispering forgotten secrets.
Han Zhen's lips moved silently, reciting the same prayer he had since childhood:
"If fate has cast me as nothing, then let the stars prove fate wrong."
His chest rose and fell, and for a heartbeat, he thought he heard an answer. A soft hum—faint, like the breath of the cosmos itself—threaded into his ears.
He sat up abruptly. The night wind was cold, but it carried something else, something alive.
Above, a cluster of stars shimmered more brightly than the rest, forming a broken pattern—like a constellation shattered in the sky.
Han Zhen's heart raced. The stars were shifting.
One point of light detached itself from the heavens. Slowly, impossibly, it grew brighter, descending with silent majesty.
The earth trembled faintly beneath him.
Han Zhen's eyes widened, his body frozen between awe and terror.
The stars… they're falling.
The last thing he saw before darkness swallowed the mountainside was a streak of silver fire cutting through the sky, plunging toward the forests near his village.
The heavens themselves had moved.