The moon still reigned over the sky. The stars sang amidst the darkness—a sound that the ears could not hear, yet existed, like a vibration behind a wall that was far too thick.
Carsel opened his eyes.
The calendar on the wall: January 7, 1015. Beneath it, the timepiece spoke more honestly.
Kala 3:05
He closed his eyes again, but not to sleep. He simply allowed himself to exist between those two states. This pattern had repeated for the last few days—always waking up in the middle of the night or just before dawn, ever since leaving Heartwood.
The room was silent. Of course, there was no one here but himself. But there was a pressure different from ordinary silence, something older than stillness, deeper than the absence of sound, and he could not fit it into any category he already knew.
He let that pressure be.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the curtains were closed. As far as Carsel remembered, the curtains had been open before he went to sleep. Marta? Or someone else? The question circled in his head for a moment, then he let it go. Not every question needed to be chased on the same day—that was something he was slowly learning.
His hand moved to his neck without being asked. He touched the two necklaces that had become part of his daily rhythm—one that could change his appearance, and one that he had never been able to fully read.
There was a low frequency beneath his fingertips. Too low to be heard, but it could be felt in his bones—like the most basic note of a melody that was never fully played.
This time, he wanted to feel it without any layers.
He removed both necklaces.
And the world he saw changed.
It wasn't drastic, not like a light switching on in a dark room. It was more like eyes finally finishing their adjustment. The colors in his room felt more saturated, more present, as if there had been a thin pane of glass between him and the world that had just been lifted.
A short laugh escaped his throat. Not out of happiness, nor out of spite. It was the kind of laugh born from someone seeing how absurd his life was and choosing it over anything else.
And still choosing to live it.
✶ ✶ ✶
He pulled a titleless book from his storage ring.
It was thin, not even fifty pages by his fingers' estimate. He had found it two days ago among supplies that had dwindled significantly and objects of unknown origin. It wasn't because he was looking for it. The book was just there.
The cover was dark. There was no title on the outside.
The curiosity he had suppressed for two days finally won.
The first page greeted him with handwriting—not the neat script of an official manuscript, but the writing of someone scribbling quickly for fear of forgetting:
> The Constellation Realm.
>
His fingers stopped at those words. He didn't know what they meant. An alien term that had never entered any vocabulary he had learned at Heartwood.
He read on.
> People born with a star affinity carry something that other affinities do not possess: a space within themselves called the Constellation Realm. It is a pure manifestation of the owner's soul, formed from the energy circulation that has flowed in their veins since birth.
>
*Interesting. That means I have one too.*
He turned the page.
> At the center of this Realm, there is a core star that pulses in sync with the owner's heartbeat. It is the source of all their affinity's authority—not mana borrowed from the outside, but energy that is fundamentally their own.
> Every understanding they reach about themselves will form something there: a new constellation mapping out something that has never had a name before.
>
His hand unconsciously moved to his left chest.
He read again, slower.
> The Constellation Realm can be used as a space to understand one's own affinity more deeply. They train directly with their respective energy sources—not with techniques borrowed from someone else's book, but in ways born from within themselves.
> One hour inside equals one second in the outside world.
> But there is something you need to know: The Constellation Realm only trains understanding and affinity control. Your physical body does not participate. Muscles, reflexes, stamina—those remain the business of the real world.
> And there is a price to be paid.
> A short practice inside, and you will emerge a little tired—easily managed. A long practice, and your body in the real world bears the consequences even if you haven't moved an inch: dehydration, hunger, sometimes nosebleeds. Practice that is too extreme—don't. You could faint upon returning. Or you might not be able to return at all, and your body in the real world will be declared comatose by people who don't know where you went.
>
He read that last sentence twice. Then he closed the book for a moment, exhaled, and reopened it to the last page.
> Method of entry is simple:
> Place one hand on your left chest, where your heart is. Close your eyes. Sink inward—follow the flow of that sensation, downward, until the Realm opens itself.
> Do not force it. If you force it, you will find nothing.
>
His eyes shifted to the bottom corner of the page and stopped.
Separated from all the other writing, there were two letters and a period, written in pink ink.
A . S
He stared at it for quite a while. Then he closed the small book.
✶ ✶ ✶
Kala 3:20. The thin hand of the clock pointed to the number XXV.
He crossed his legs. The book was back in his storage ring. The room was silent, and the stars outside the closed curtains could not be seen but were still felt—the way stars are always felt even by someone who doesn't know their names.
Place one hand on your left chest. Close your eyes. Sink inward.
He followed the instructions.
His hand landed on his left chest, right above where his heart resided. Darkness replaced everything. He didn't force it; he just waited in the same way he would wait by a fountain for three hours without asking where the time went.
Follow the flow of that sensation downward, until the Realm opens.
Then he found it: a faint sensation that was almost nonexistent, too subtle to chase, so he didn't chase it. He just followed it, inward, deeper and deeper.
Then, a speck of light.
It was very bright. His eyes stung. His hand naturally moved to shield his vision, a reflex from a body that didn't know there were no hands here to shield anything.
The light widened.
✶ ✶ ✶
It wasn't a room. It wasn't a hallway. It wasn't a place with boundaries he could touch.
There was only a deep, profound darkness, and within it, seven giant stars interconnected, emitting a golden light that wasn't blinding but was present in a way that made everything around it feel more real.
There was no ground. There was no ceiling. He was floating, or standing, or something in between, in a place that required no explanation for how someone could exist without a floor beneath them.
He observed.
Thin lines connected the stars to one another, like the bones of something growing and unfinished. An incomplete picture. A shape that didn't yet have a name.
His hand moved forward, trying to reach one of those lines. He couldn't reach it. But his fingers felt something: a warmth that did not burn, one that asked for nothing as a condition to be given.
Is this the source of my star affinity?
No voice answered. But the answer was right in front of him, in the way those stars pulsed—constant, unchanged even though he had just arrived, even though he didn't know how to speak to them, even though he brought more questions than answers.
He crossed his legs in the textureless air and watched.
This is one of my true selves.
The stars pulsed.
He noticed something: they did not change when he doubted. When thoughts of Mama Clara surfaced—about how far away she was now and how he didn't know where to look for her—the stars did not dim. When thoughts of Seraphina surfaced—about her status, about the affinity he had to hide—the stars did not quiver.
He tried something: remembering all the questions that had no answers. About who his father was. About the kidnappers who moved through shadows.
The stars kept pulsing. Constant. Warm.
They didn't ask if he was ready. They didn't ask if he was strong enough. They didn't wait for him to prove something before they were willing to shine.
Carsel sat with that observation for a long time, without drawing it to a conclusion, without wrapping it in words.
They had existed before he entered here. They would remain after he left. Their existence did not depend on whether he believed in them or not.
And one thing settled, not from a conclusion but from sitting long enough in front of something that knew no doubt:
They do not need me to be present in order to shine.
And if this is a part of me, then perhaps I am like that too.
It wasn't a sentence he spoke aloud. It was just something that quietly settled, like stardust falling onto a surface and going nowhere else.
He stared at the incomplete pattern: seven stars already connected but not yet forming something with a name. He bit his lip gently.
And I have to hide this from the world.
His hand clenched into a fist. He had to learn not to be seen, to take up little space just to survive. But he wanted to be seen. Those two things stood side-by-side within him, neither willing to give way.
I have choices. But my circumstances always overshadow those choices.
So many questions. He no longer chose to chase them all right now.
These stars were warm.
A thin smile broke across his face, not because of something solved or found. Just because these stars were warm, and for this moment, that was enough.
Returning to his conversation with the rabbit, those words surfaced uninvited:
I want to be considered precious. Not because of what I represent. But because of who I actually am.
He looked at the seven stars pulsing constantly before him.
They didn't ask if they were precious. They didn't wait for someone to acknowledge their light before they were willing to shine.
Carsel understood that, not from taught knowledge, but from sitting long enough in front of something that knew no doubt.
The desire to be seen didn't go away. But there was something beneath it that no longer felt like a question: he didn't have to wait for someone to see him to know that he existed.
He already existed.
He always had.
✶ ✶ ✶
Carsel straightened his legs, his back erect. It was enough thinking about that.
Star projectiles floated around him. He observed the place where he was now.
There were no targets. How should he do this?
His hand rose, idly trying to create a shadow object of himself that didn't move. The shadow formed from the energy that came from his will.
His fingers rested on his chin.
This is my inner world. That means I can create more than this.
He aimed at the shadow and released his spell. All the projectiles moved in a straight line and exploded upon impact. The shadow vanished.
What if the projectile doesn't explode when it hits something, but instead passes through it?
His mind drifted back to the line in the book:
> The Constellation Realm only trains understanding and affinity control, not physical condition.
>
Meaning, training here wasn't about muscle repetition or stamina. It was about how to understand and manipulate his star energy.
His eyes closed.
His mind drifted back five years, to an afternoon where he and Uncle Maru watched the sunset over green grass swaying in the wind.
The monkey was the one who broke the silence first, with a voice that was soft yet deep.
"Carsel."
Carsel, who had been lying on the grass, pushed himself up and sat properly beside him.
"Yes."
"You must always reflect on yourself."
He paused, thinking of the right words for a ten-year-old.
"A meaningful life is achieved through contemplation." Only then did his gaze meet Carsel's.
One of Carsel's eyebrows shot up. The previously peaceful atmosphere shifted into something else. Uncle Maru was the type who liked to lighten the mood, not the wise type like Uncle Rey. So this was different.
Why the life advice in such a random situation? But he tossed the thought away. He focused on what was being conveyed.
"You mean, Uncle, that life isn't just about following habits or meeting basic needs." His gaze broke away; he stared at the sunset in front of them. "But also thinking about the quality of the life we are living. Isn't that right?"
A small smile bloomed on Uncle Maru's face. Carsel caught that tiny detail from the corner of his eye.
There was no verbal answer. But that smile was answer enough.
✶ ✶ ✶
Carsel hugged his knees to his chest.
His gaze opened. The atmosphere of that memory lingered for a moment, then faded.
He pointed his index finger upward, right in front of his chest. A single small star projectile appeared at the tip of his finger. His eyes observed it minutely.
What is the true nature of a star projectile?
All this time, I've been using it with a simple mechanism: throw energy at the enemy.
And it seems I was wrong.
His gaze lifted to the seven stars glowing in this void. Stars don't throw light like throwing a stone. Starlight radiates in all directions, constantly, without choosing a target. What determines where that light goes isn't the star, but what lies in the light's path.
His eyes returned to the small projectile still hovering over his finger, pulsing slowly and patiently.
"It shouldn't be me directing it. I should be the one determining what will stop it."
The sentence felt right in his head. But feeling right and being doable were two entirely different things.
He created a shadow of himself again, standing still at the same distance as before. But this time, he didn't aim immediately. He just stared at the small projectile above his finger.
If I'm not the one directing it, then what should I do?
The question circled. He closed his eyes and tried something: not imagining the projectile moving toward the shadow, but imagining the shadow as the point where the energy stopped flowing further.
The projectile vibrated. Then it shot in a straight line as usual and exploded against the shadow.
Exactly the same as before.
Carsel exhaled through his nose.
I'm still pushing. Just with different words.
He created another shadow. This time, he closed his eyes.
If light radiates in all directions, this projectile doesn't need to be sent anywhere. It should already be there, between Carsel and the shadow, at every point in this space. All that needs to be done is to set where the energy stops.
Instead of imagining the projectile moving... the space between him and the shadow was already full, already filled with energy that hadn't yet chosen a form.
Something different began to happen.
The projectile above his finger started to change: instead of floating away, it spread out, its edges dissolving and losing their compact shape. Carsel felt the change in his hand, like holding something that was slowly becoming air.
His instinct almost won. It screamed to gather that energy back, to shape it again, to push it in a clear direction.
But he remembered what Maru said.
A meaningful life is achieved through contemplation. Not through moving faster. Not through pushing harder.
He didn't gather the energy back. He let it spread.
And the energy that was once compact in a tiny point above his finger began to fill the space around him. It wasn't dramatic. It was more like a very thin, almost invisible light that slowly existed between him and the shadow in front of him, to his left, above his head.
Carsel opened his eyes slowly.
This room, if it could be called a room, felt slightly different. There was a very subtle pressure in the air—not heavy, but present.
He stared at the shadow in front of him.
And for the first time, he didn't try to direct anything there. He just watched it in a way that was different from aiming. Not focusing on attacking, but more like the way his eyes would follow the spiral of candle smoke aimlessly until something shifted.
Just watching.
The energy that had already spread throughout this room began to move—not because Carsel pushed it, but because his attention became a reference point. From all directions at once—from above, from the side, from below—everything headed toward one point: the shadow he was observing.
Carsel watched this with his breath nearly stopping.
The energy didn't form a projectile first and then move to the shadow. It was already between them, already filling the space, and now it found its purpose from that existing presence.
Then everything converged at once.
There was no big explosion. No dramatic sound. The shadow simply wasn't there anymore, like a candle being blown out.
Carsel didn't move for several seconds.
Inside his chest wasn't the satisfaction of hitting a target, nor the adrenaline of a projectile striking true. It was something calmer than that.
I didn't throw anything.
His mind was still processing. His hands dropped to his lap; he hadn't realized when they had been raised. Above his finger, there was no longer a projectile, no more energy gathered in any form. The seven stars pulsed as before, constant and unhurried.
"Attention is the mechanism."
Not the will to attack. Not the calculation of angle and distance. Not power pushed from one point to another.
Just attention—full, present, not trying to control what happens next.
Carsel tilted his head slightly, staring at the spot where the shadow had stood. He wanted to try it again, with a moving target, with different conditions. Could this be repeated, or was it just an accident born of coincidence?
He didn't start immediately. He let the silence of the Constellation Realm sink in, maintaining the sensation he had just found.
He closed his eyes, then visualized a target: a sphere of dim light, no larger than a fist, ten meters away in the endless darkness.
Move.
The sphere jerked. It shot to the right, dove sharply downward, disappeared beneath Carsel's imaginary foot position, and reappeared behind his head with ever-increasing speed. It was patternless, unreadable.
Carsel froze. His eyes moved, following the speck of light cutting through the darkness; his neck tensed, his shoulders rose. Every time the ball darted, his instinct screamed to immediately raise his hand and release a projectile before the target vanished again.
"Calm down," he whispered, his voice swallowed by the void.
He tried the old way on purpose. His index finger rose, condensing star energy at its tip until it formed a sharply pulsing projectile. His eyes locked onto the ball circling above him.
He released the spell. The projectile shot straight, cutting the air with a thin hissing sound. But just as it nearly reached its goal, the light sphere performed an impossible zigzag maneuver.
A small explosion in the void. Empty air.
He tried again. One projectile, two, three. All exploded in the wrong place. He was a second behind the target. The more he speeded up his shots, the more his energy became coarse and unstable.
He lowered his hand. His fingers were slightly numb.
"With the old way, a fast opponent will always evade," he muttered. "But now, it will be different."
His eyes stopped following the sphere of light. He let his eyelids droop.
He took a deep breath, feeling his heart rate sync with the pulse of the seven stars behind him. Then he began to release energy—not as arrows, but as an existence—letting it seep out and spread in all directions.
Slowly, the Constellation Realm that was once just empty darkness began to feel dense. He no longer saw the light sphere, but he felt it moving within his energy body; every movement created a tiny ripple, a vibration he could feel in his bones.
He didn't need to chase the target, because the target was already inside him.
The ball shot forward, aiming straight for his face at full speed. In the real world, his instinct would have commanded him to dodge.
Carsel remained still.
No hand raised, no aiming. He shifted his entire attention to a single coordinate where the target's vibration felt strongest, and determined that at that point, the energy must cease to be passive.
Collapse.
Without a flash moving from his body, the energy already filling the space around the light sphere suddenly condensed instantly. It was as if space itself had gripped the target.
There was no sound of an explosion. Only a subtle click inside his head, and the sphere of light disintegrated into golden particles that fell and vanished.
A thin smile—far more genuine than before—etched itself onto his face.
Another curiosity won out. He visualized five targets at once. Then ten.
The room turned into a storm of light. Ten points moved randomly, creating a chaotic ripple within his energy consciousness. Carsel felt his head begin to throb. Paying attention to one point was contemplation; paying attention to ten was something else entirely.
He began to dance in the middle of that storm—not a physical dance, but a dance of attention. One, two, three vanished. The star energy around him flickered every time he concentrated his focus. The Constellation Realm, once calm, surged with the intensity of his thoughts. The seven giant stars above him pulsed faster, emitting a brighter light.
After the last target vanished, Carsel fell to his knees in the textureless air. His breath came in gasps. His mind felt as if it had just been forced to read a thousand books in a single minute.
The stars around him began to look blurry. The golden light felt painful to his eyes.
"That's enough."
He placed his left hand on his chest, feeling his heart drumming hard behind his ribs. He withdrew his consciousness, returning to his sleeping physical shell.
A cold sensation seized him.
✶ ✶ ✶
Kala 3:28. The thin hand pointed to the number XXVIII.
His eyes snapped open. The bedroom wall was the first to greet him. The world seemed to spin; his body collapsed onto the mattress.
A sharp cramp attacked both his legs, the result of being crossed for too long. His buttocks also ached. He was certain his backside would turn flat if he did this too often.
"Ugh..."
An incredible thirst hit his throat as if he had just crossed a desert for days. His head throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat, creating a sharp pain behind his eyes.
He touched his nose, which felt wet.
In the dim moonlight peeking through the curtain gap, he saw red on his fingers. Blood. Warm.
The price was indeed real.
He regulated his breathing. His body felt shattered.
A heavy drowsiness moved in, forcibly closing both his eyes.
He let it happen without a fight.