The heavens were restless that night. Even hours after the streak of fire had torn the night sky apart, Yunlai Village could not sleep. The air smelled of ash and rain though no storm had fallen, and every breath carried unease, heavy and strange.
Children whimpered in their mothers' arms, their cries muffled against trembling shoulders. The men stood in uneasy circles at the square, clutching torches that crackled weakly against the overwhelming night. Even the village dogs had gone silent, their ears flat, their gazes fixed on the eastern mountainside where the light had fallen.
They whispered of omens.
They whispered of curses.
They whispered of a star that had refused the heavens.
But none of them knew that at the cliff's edge, lying broken against the earth, was a boy who had watched it fall.
Han Zhen woke to silence. Not the comforting silence of a sleeping village, but a silence that pressed against his ears, heavy and suffocating, as though the entire world were holding its breath.
His eyes cracked open. Pain rushed in at once—his skull throbbed, his chest ached as if he had been struck by lightning, and his throat tasted of copper. He rolled onto his side with a groan.
Above him, the sky glittered with countless stars. Yet amid their cold beauty, there was a wrongness he could not ignore—an emptiness in the heavens. A place where light had vanished, leaving only a hollow scar in the night.
"It… really fell," Han Zhen whispered. His voice was hoarse, trembling with awe and fear alike.
The wind shifted, carrying with it a faint scent—smoke, sharp as charred wood, and something stranger, like burnt incense at a forgotten shrine. When he turned his head, he saw it: faint pulses of silver glimmering from deep within the eastern forest, glowing like fireflies scattered across the dark.
Something inside his chest stirred in response, a low, insistent pull that was neither pain nor comfort, but both. His heartbeat quickened, echoing the rhythm of the faint glimmers.
"Why do I feel… drawn to it?"
His fingers curled into the dirt. He did not know why, but he was certain—whatever had fallen was calling to him.
A distant bell rang from the village, breaking the silence. The sharp clang carried across the night air, summoning people from their homes. Han Zhen forced himself up, swaying unsteadily, before staggering back toward Yunlai.
Whispers in the Night
By the time he reached the village square, the entire population had gathered. Torches burned brightly, their flames fighting against the encroaching dark. The faces around him were grim, some pale with fear, others etched with suspicion.
At the center stood Old Man Wu, Yunlai's elder. His long white beard swayed as he leaned on his staff, his voice carrying with surprising force for one so frail.
"Hear me, people of Yunlai! The star that fell tonight is no blessing. The heavens do not gift fire to mortals. They mark destinies with calamity!" His staff struck the stone beneath him. Thud. Sparks leapt from the torches as though agreeing with him. "No one—no one—must approach that place!"
The crowd murmured, unease shifting into fear.
"But Elder Wu," a farmer's voice quavered, "what if it's a divine relic? What if it blesses our harvest?"
"A divine relic?" another spat. "Don't be a fool! The heavens punish arrogance. Who among us dares touch the wrath of the sky?"
Yet even as they spoke, eyes turned toward a single figure slipping quietly into the square.
"There he is."
Han Zhen froze.
Whispers slithered through the crowd like snakes.
"That unlucky brat again…"
"Didn't he always stare at the stars like a madman?"
"I saw him at the cliff before it fell. Don't tell me… he called it down?"
The words cut sharper than knives. Han Zhen's ears burned. He kept his gaze low, his fists trembling, nails digging into his palms. He had heard insults before, but tonight they carried venom that tasted like fear.
A sharp laugh rang out, cruel and mocking. "Of course it's him! Heaven doesn't waste its fury without reason."
Han Zhen's chest tightened. He wanted to shout that it wasn't his fault, that he hadn't done anything—but his voice died in his throat.
Only one person stepped forward, his presence like a shield against the whispers.
"Enough!" Liang Hu's voice boomed.
The tall boy placed himself between Han Zhen and the villagers, his broad shoulders squared, his torch burning high. His face was pale, but his eyes were steady.
"You all blame Zhen without proof. He's just a boy like the rest of us."
"Like the rest of us?" someone sneered. "No, he isn't. The heavens chose him to bear misfortune."
"Chosen?" Liang Hu snapped. "Or are you just too cowardly to admit you're afraid?"
The murmurs faltered. Some looked away in shame, others muttered curses, but none dared press further.
Liang turned to Han Zhen, lowering his voice. "Zhen… are you alright?"
Han Zhen forced a weak nod.
Liang frowned. "Listen to me. My father says fallen stars bring nothing but disaster. He told me if anyone goes near, they'll be burned alive. Promise me—you won't do anything reckless."
Han Zhen's lips parted. Words hovered at the edge of his tongue. But Liang… I feel it calling me.
Instead, he swallowed the truth. "…I'll be careful."
But deep down, even as he said it, he knew it was a lie.
The Call of the Star
Midnight came. The village slept fitfully, though no dreams were peaceful. Han Zhen lay on his straw mat, eyes wide open, the faint pull in his chest stronger than ever. Each heartbeat thudded like a drum, echoing the fragments of silver light beyond the forest.
Beside him, his younger sister stirred in her sleep, murmuring softly. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his heart aching with guilt. If he left, she would be alone. But the call was unbearable. It was as though the star had embedded itself in his soul, whispering his name with every pulse of light.
"I… I have to see it," he breathed.
Barefoot, he crept outside. The moon hung low, casting pale light across the fields. Crickets sang, yet even their song felt muted, as though silenced by a presence greater than the earth.
He entered the forest.
The deeper he went, the more the world twisted. The air grew colder, mist curling around tree roots like ghostly fingers. Leaves glistened as if dusted with frost, though summer still lingered. Branches bent unnaturally, leaning toward the same direction, as though bowing to an unseen force.
The ground itself was scarred—blackened patches where grass had burned away, leaving soil cracked and brittle.
Finally, the trees parted.
Before him yawned a crater vast and jagged, its edges glowing faintly silver. Smoke curled lazily upward, carrying with it the scent of iron and ash. At its center lay fragments of crystal, broken yet radiant, their glow steady like shards of a moon fallen to earth.
Han Zhen's breath caught.
The largest fragment pulsed, each beat in perfect harmony with his own racing heart.
"I… was meant to find this," he whispered. His voice trembled, not from fear, but from certainty.
Drawn like a moth to flame, he stepped forward. The stars above seemed to shift, aligning with his path. The world around him blurred, every sound muffled, as though the universe itself waited.
He knelt. His hand shook as he reached toward the glowing fragment.
The moment his fingers brushed its cold surface— Light exploded.
Visions of the Stars
Agony. Flame and frost surged at once, racing through his veins. His palm burned as though pierced by fire, yet his bones froze with glacial weight. He screamed, collapsing to his knees as light poured into him.
The world vanished.
He stood amid a sea of stars, endless and eternal. Constellations blazed brighter than any torch, filling the void with shimmering rivers of light. Yet even as he watched, they cracked. One by one, the constellations shattered, fragments scattering like broken glass across an infinite abyss.
From the fragments rose shadows—colossal, formless, their eyes burning like suns. Their whispers thundered in his ears, vast and incomprehensible.
"Fate… shattered…"
"…gather the fragments…"
"…the stars must rise anew…"
The weight of their voices crushed him, bending his knees. His chest heaved. He tried to speak, to ask who they were, what they meant, but no sound left his lips.
Pain surged again, ripping through his meridians, carving fire into his blood. His vision blurred.
Then, as suddenly as it began—darkness swallowed him.
A Shadow in the Crater
When awareness returned, Han Zhen lay sprawled at the crater's heart. The fragments still glowed faintly, but their brilliance had dimmed. His body ached as if torn apart and stitched together again. Each breath burned, his limbs too weak to lift.
Then he heard it—the soft crunch of footsteps.
His eyes fluttered open.
A figure stood at the edge of the crater.
The man was tall, robed in simple garments that drifted as though touched by a breeze unseen. His hair, long and dark, was tied loosely with a jade clasp. In his hand rested a bamboo staff, plain yet shimmering faintly under starlight.
But it was his eyes that froze Han Zhen.
They were calm, fathomless, yet within them swirled constellations—entire skies contained in a single gaze.
"You touched it," the stranger said. His voice was quiet, yet it carried across the crater with the weight of inevitability.
Han Zhen's lips parted, but no words came.
The man stepped closer, shadows stretching across the fractured earth.
"Foolish… and yet… fated."
The last thing Han Zhen saw before darkness claimed him once more was that gaze—an ocean of stars gazing back into his soul.
Who was this wandering Daoist? And why did it feel as though the heavens themselves had turned their eyes upon Han Zhen?