Under the velvety blanket of night, where a countless host of stars glittered like scattered diamonds on black velvet, the three travelers continued their slow and arduous journey. The pale moonlight, filtering through the dense canopy of ancient trees, painted the winding path ahead in shifting patterns of light and shadow, creating an ethereal, almost dreamlike atmosphere . The air hung still and cool, carrying the subtle fragrance of damp earth and the distant, hushed murmur of unseen nocturnal creatures.
Above them, the cosmos stretched out in an endless expanse, a silent and awe-inspiring testament to the vastness of the world beyond their immediate concerns. Utsuki, her steps light and sure despite the late hour, glanced frequently at Toki. His usually steady gait was now faltering, each movement betraying the strain he was under. The makeshift bandages wrapped around his torso and limbs were dark in places, a grim reminder of the brutal fight. He cradled the sleeping Tora in his arms with a tenderness that belied his exhaustion, his brow furrowed in a mixture of pain and protectiveness.
"Toki," Utsuki said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, as they entered a small clearing bathed in the gentle, silver light of the moon. The space was open to the sky, offering an unobstructed view of the celestial tapestry above. She stopped, placing a hand gently on his arm. "We should rest a little longer. Your wounds… they look like they're troubling you more than you let on."
Toki nodded, a wave of gratitude washing over him. His arms ached, his back throbbed, and a dull weariness permeated his very bones. Lowering himself carefully to the soft carpet of moss and grass, he leaned against the trunk of a sturdy oak, the rough bark a surprisingly comforting support. Utsuki gently lifted the sleeping Tora from his arms, cradling her delicate form in her lap. The little girl stirred slightly, a soft sigh escaping her lips before she settled back into a peaceful slumber. Utsuki stroked her soft, dark hair with a feather-light touch, her gaze distant, lost in the echoes of the terrifying events they had just endured.
"I still can't believe how quickly it all happened," she murmured, her voice carrying the weight of shock and disbelief. The image of Nihon Surughi's cold, sadistic smile flashed in her mind, sending a shiver down her spine. "And why Tora? She's just a child. What possible reason could that… that monster have had for targeting her?" Toki lifted his gaze to the star-dusted sky, his eyes searching for answers in the silent, celestial ballet above. Each pinprick of light seemed to hold a story, a mystery beyond human comprehension. "I don't know, Utsuki," he replied, his voice low and thoughtful. "Her mind seemed shrouded in darkness, consumed by a cold, relentless hatred. Perhaps Tora was simply caught in the crossfire, an unfortunate pawn in a larger, more twisted game. Or maybe…" His voice trailed off, the thought too grim to voice. A soft sigh escaped Utsuki's lips, her eyes filled with a sorrowful understanding. "I don't want to think about that," she whispered, tightening her gentle hold on Tora.
The warmth of the child's small body against her lap offered a small measure of comfort in the vast uncertainty of their situation. In the profound silence of the sleeping forest, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves in the gentle night breeze, Toki's admiration for Utsuki deepened. The silver moonlight bathed her face in an ethereal glow, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheek, the soft sweep of her eyelashes, the almost otherworldly beauty that seemed to radiate from within. He found it incomprehensible that anyone could harbor malice towards such a seemingly fragile and inherently good soul.
The stark contrast between Utsuki's gentle nature and the brutal cruelty they had just witnessed sent a cold shiver down his spine. Utsuki broke the contemplative silence, her voice soft and tinged with a nostalgic warmth. "Mother always told me that the stars are more than just distant lights, Toki. She said they are an endless source of knowledge and power, for those who have the patience and wisdom to truly listen to them. Each flicker, she believed, was a whisper of the universe, a secret waiting to be unraveled, a lesson waiting to be learned."
As Utsuki spoke of her mother's celestial teachings, a delicate dance of fireflies began to unfold around them. Drawn by the cool night air, they rose in shimmering clusters from the damp grass, their tiny lights blinking like miniature stars mirroring the vast expanse above. The gentle illumination painted Utsuki's face in fleeting strokes of warm light, and a sad, sweet smile touched her lips—a poignant reminder of cherished memories from a time long past. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the silence stretch. Toki waited, sensing that something deeper stirred within her.
"My mother..." Utsuki began again, her voice low and reverent, "she used to say that the stars were the only honest things in the world. That no matter how much people lie, or hide who they really are, the stars... the stars don't change. They simply shine. They simply are." Toki remained quiet, eyes fixed on her with quiet attention. He saw the tension in her hands, the tremble of a memory being coaxed from the depths of the soul. "She would take me out into the garden every seventh night," Utsuki continued, her eyes opening slowly, "when the moon was halfway between waxing and full. She believed that was when the veil between realms was thinnest—when dreams were nearest to truth." A smile ghosted her lips, but her gaze was far away. "She had this long indigo shawl," Utsuki said, her tone soft with nostalgia. "It was embroidered with tiny silver threads that glimmered just like the night sky. I used to think she was a star herself when she wore it."
She looked down at her hands, flexing her fingers slowly as if remembering the way her mother once held them. "I remember the night she told me the story of the Sky Weaver. Utsuki's voice took on a rhythmic lilt, as if repeating a lullaby she had heard a thousand times. "They say the Sky Weaver was born blind," Utsuki recited, "but she could see every thread of fate. She used her hands to gather starlight and wove it into cloaks for lost souls, so they could find their way home." "She always had stories like that," Utsuki murmured. "Not to teach lessons. Just… to remind me the world was still full of wonder."
Toki leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. "She sounds like someone who saw beauty where others wouldn't bother to look." "She did," Utsuki said, and this time, her voice trembled slightly. "Even when my father left. Even when the other villagers started whispering that her dreams made her soft. Even when she got sick... she never stopped looking at the stars." She fell silent again, and the air grew thick with memory. The fireflies drifted closer, their lights blinking gently between them, as if they, too, mourned. "She died when I was ten," Utsuki whispered. "It was early spring. The cherry blossoms hadn't even bloomed yet." Her fingers gripped her knees tightly. "I was so angry," she confessed. "At everything. At the world. At her. I couldn't understand why someone so full of life could just... vanish."
Toki reached out, resting a hand lightly over hers. She didn't pull away. "What did she teach you last?" he asked. Utsuki inhaled slowly, the memory vivid. "It was raining," she said. "She was already weak. I wasn't supposed to go in her room because the healer said she needed rest, but I snuck in anyway. She was lying on her side, facing the window. Watching the storm." She closed her eyes, and her voice dropped to a hush. "She said, 'Even the stars cry, sometimes. That's what the rain is, Utsuki—tears from the sky. Don't ever be ashamed of yours.'" A tear slipped down her cheek as if summoned by the memory. "She took my hand and pressed something into it. The ring. "Do you know what it does?" he asked. Utsuki shook her head. "No. And I don't think I'm supposed to. Not yet." Toki sat with that a moment. "Maybe that's the point. Maybe it's not about what it does, but why you choose to use it." She gave him a small smile, grateful for the simplicity of the thought. They both looked skyward then, their gazes meeting the same patch of night sky.
"Sometimes I still talk to her," Utsuki admitted. "In my head. When I'm scared. Or unsure." "What does she say?" "She says I'm stronger than I believe. And that stars only shine in the dark." Toki's expression softened, touched by the quiet strength in her. "She'd be proud of you," he said. Utsuki turned to him, startled. "You don't even know her." "No," Toki agreed. "But I know you. And the kind of person who could raise someone like you… must have been someone truly extraordinary." Utsuki looked away, blinking rapidly. "I miss her," she said, voice barely audible. "I know." And he did. In his own way, he did. A long silence settled between them—comfortable, not empty.
The fireflies, sensing the stillness, began to drift higher, blinking softly as they ascended toward the tree branches. Their light faded slowly, one by one, until the clearing was once again bathed only in starlight. Utsuki leaned back on her hands and let the night wash over her. "I'm afraid," she whispered. "Of what?" "That I won't be enough. That when the time comes… I'll hesitate. Or fail." Toki was quiet for a long moment before answering. "You're not alone, Utsuki. Not anymore. Whatever comes next… we face it together." She looked at him, truly looked—and in his eyes, she saw not pity, but trust. Faith. Toki listened, captivated by the beauty of the scene and the sincerity in Utsuki's voice. Yet, his own thoughts continued to explore the more tangible aspects of their world. "In our world," he interjected gently, his voice calm and measured, "the ability to wield mana is a precious gift, accessed in different ways. The most common is through the core of magic that resides within each of us, a wellspring of personal energy. Others possess a natural affinity for the ambient mana that permeates the very air around us – these individuals often exhibit remarkable control, shaping and directing magical energies with incredible finesse." Toki gazed into the distance, where the horizon dissolved into the shadows of the mountains, then continued in a voice slightly more solemn: "But control is only the beginning. To transform mana into something truly powerful—almost divine—it must be cultivated. I'm not speaking of incantations or formulas, but of an inner discipline—a merging of soul and energy. The cultivation of mana is a journey, and each step forward demands something in return." Utsuki watched him closely, her eyes reflecting the flicker of fireflies. Toki closed his eyes for a moment, as if opening an invisible book written in fire and silence. "There are five levels of mana," he said. "Each marks a stage of deeper understanding—and greater sacrifice." "The first is the foundational level. Mana appears bluish, like the cold light of lightning. It's chaotic, raw, and difficult to use in precise incantations. Those who wield it must constantly struggle, like a musician trying to play a warped instrument. And yet, it is the root of all higher forms." "That's why beginners tire so quickly," Utsuki murmured. "It consumes them..." Toki nodded. "The second level transforms mana into a green energy—calm, flowing. Here, mana begins to listen. It becomes pliable, responsive to intent. This is the level where beginners become true mages—when incantations find rhythm and spells flow naturally." "And yet," Toki said, "to reach this stage, many must first let go of what binds them: anger, fear, inner chaos. Mana won't settle until you do." "The third level… is a threshold. Mana turns golden—luminous, dense. At this stage, it's no longer merely a tool. It becomes part of your body. You see, Utsuki, this is where the real transformation begins. Those who reach this level can manipulate every aspect of their physical form—shadow, blood, hair, even bone structure." "The body and mana enter complete coexistence," Toki continued. "They are no longer two entities—but one. And here, every cultivator faces a choice..." "At this stage, the user must choose a path. The Virtuous Path, which demands balance, self-sacrifice, compassion, and understanding of the cosmic order. Or the Demonic Path, which embraces desire, raw power, ego, and uses emotion as fuel." Utsuki frowned. "It's like a splitting of the soul," she said. "More like an affirmation of it," Toki corrected. "Each path draws out your truest essence. And whichever you choose, there is no going back." "The fourth level… is a mystery even to most great mages. Mana becomes black. Dense. Vibrant. At this stage, you don't just manipulate matter—you create it. If the mana is abundant enough, you can create weapons, structures, even artificial life." "There was a cultivator named Hitaru," Toki added in a hushed tone. "They say he created a replica of his deceased son. A living being—but one without a soul. Many have perished trying to reach this stage without being ready." Toki paused for a moment. The wind stirred the branches above them, and the fireflies seemed to dim, as if bowing in silent reverence. "And then… there's the fifth level. White mana—or more precisely, colorless. It's so pure it reflects no hue—only existence itself. They say this mana doesn't just reshape matter or body… but fate itself." "The power of a god," Utsuki whispered, as if the words were sacred. Toki nodded solemnly. "But no one has reached that level. At least, not anyone who's returned to speak of it." "Mana cultivation is no easy path. With each level, mana grows a thousandfold in power. But with each tier, the sacrifice is greater. Sometimes the body gives out. Other times, the mind." "And yet… is it worth it?" Utsuki asked. "Depends what you seek. Power comes at a cost. But sometimes, that cost is the only path to salvation." "At the higher levels," Toki whispered, "mana begins to feel… alive. It starts reflecting who you are. Some cultivators grow wings, others speak through shadows, some manifest flames that sing their names, or spirals of time that protect them. It all depends on the self." "It's as if… mana gains a soul of its own?" Utsuki asked. "Exactly. And that soul cannot be lied to. If you carry darkness within, it will take form. If you carry light—it will too." The silence that followed was heavy. Beneath the star-laced sky, Utsuki felt small… and yet awakened. "And you, Toki? What level are you?" He smiled softly, without arrogance. "I made my choice. And I'm still paying the price for it." He paused, his gaze drifting to his own hands, as if he could still feel the phantom vibrations of the magic he had unleashed in the inn. The gentle glow of the fireflies cast fleeting shadows across his fingers, dancing like the remnants of a power long unshackled. "But the rarest," he began again, voice barely more than a whisper, "and by far the most perilous, method of cultivating mana is the collection of energy from the stars themselves." Utsuki tilted her head slightly, her brows drawing together. "Star collectors," he said, as though invoking a forbidden name. "They are few. Feared. Hunted. And for good reason. They possess a unique affinity, a gift—or a curse—that allows them to draw fragments of raw magical energy from celestial debris. Asteroids, comets, meteorites... each one, a vessel of forgotten power drifting through the void." He took a slow breath, grounding himself. "When one of these star-stones crashes to the earth, it carries within it a concentrated core of stellar mana. Unlike ambient mana or internal reserves, stellar mana is primal. Ancient. A fragment of the original creation. When absorbed, it doesn't merely enhance a mage's capabilities. It redefines them. It creates what is known as an 'authority'." "Authority?" Utsuki asked, her voice low and wary. "Yes," he nodded. "An authority is more than a power or spell. It is a fundamental law imposed upon reality itself. It becomes an absolute, one shaped by the collector's innermost nature, their deepest fears, ambitions, regrets, and dreams. It is not chosen, not trained. It is revealed." He leaned forward, voice now laden with solemn weight. "Once an authority manifests, it cannot be denied. The world bends to it, as if acknowledging a new truth. Some authorities manipulate time. Others command death. One collector bent all light around her, rendering herself and her followers unseen. Another could speak a single word and cause earthquakes to rupture the land beneath armies." Utsuki's breath caught. "But," Toki added grimly, "the price is monstrous. The human body was never meant to house such magnitude. Most who attempt to bond with a stellar core are torn apart—flesh, mind, and soul obliterated in an instant. The energy doesn't merely seep into them; it consumes them." He looked to the stars above, as if searching for the answers in their cold shimmer. "Those who survive," he said after a long pause, "emerge irrevocably changed. Some lose all sense of self. Others become inhuman—twisted not just in body, but in essence. Their personalities warp to match the authority they wield. Madness is a frequent companion. Paranoia. Rage. Obsession." A chill breeze passed through the clearing. "That is why the few who live through it are often regarded not as saviors or scholars, but as nightmares given flesh. Many have razed kingdoms. Cults form around them, driven by fear or worship. Some declare themselves gods. Others don't speak at all, letting their authorities communicate their will." Utsuki shuddered, drawing her knees close to her chest. "Each authority exacts a toll," Toki said, softer now, almost as if to himself. "And that toll is always in proportion to the power granted. I've read accounts of a collector who could reverse the flow of time for a single person—only to suffer memory loss with each use, eventually forgetting even their own name. Another could breathe life into stone, yet with each creation, a part of his own body turned to ash." He fell silent. For a long time, neither spoke. The only sounds were the whisper of wind through leaves and the quiet hum of distant insects. Then Toki continued, voice distant. "Six hundred years ago, the first humans to ever interact with mana were feared and revered. They weren't called mages, or cultivators. They were witches. Sorcerers. Their appearance marked the dawn of the Age of Witches." Utsuki's head rose slowly. "It was a time of chaos," he said. "Two hundred years of blood and fire. Kingdoms fell. Cities vanished. Magic was new, raw, untamed. Those who possessed it wielded it like divine wrath. But among them, one rose above the rest. She was not content with ruling or guiding. She sought to absorb all others. To become the sole conduit of mana in existence." Toki's voice trembled, not from fear, but from the weight of memory passed down in countless tomes and whispers. "They called her Seryatha. The Star-Eyed Witch. Her authority was... consumption. She could devour the mana, life, and even memories of others, absorbing all they were into herself. She became a force, no longer human. Entire nations disappeared beneath her gaze." Utsuki clutched her cloak tighter around her. "It is said she would have succeeded, had the sky not intervened. A mountain-sized asteroid fell from the heavens. Not summoned by spell or prayer, but by some greater will. It struck the continent, ending her rampage. Her body was never found. Only the crater remains. Some believe it buried her. Others... that she became one with it." The air thickened with silence. "And so," Toki concluded, "the practice of star collection became forbidden. The relics of the stars were hidden, sealed, or destroyed. But temptation is resilient. Even now, across the five kingdoms, there are whispers. Of stars falling. Of seekers gathering. Of a new authority taking form." Utsuki didn't speak. Her thoughts churned. Her heart pounded not just from fear—but recognition. Something in Toki's words had resonated, as though an echo of her own unspoken truth. He saw it. "You feel it too, don't you?" he asked gently. She nodded slowly. "Then be warned," he said, "power that comes from beyond the sky does not bow to mortal will. It reveals, distorts, and consumes. Should you ever find a shard of the stars... choose carefully." The fireflies scattered suddenly, like startled thoughts fleeing into the night. Utsuki looked up at the stars, her eyes wide. The silence between them now held a new weight. It was not just the silence of a story shared. It was the silence of destiny stirring.