On a cold evening in the slums of Starlight City, the marshy roads lay in eerie silence. The air was heavy, damp with the scent of rot and stagnant water. Shattered lanterns flickered weakly against the wind, their glow swallowed by the shadows that clung to every corner.
That silence was broken by a scream—piercing, raw, and desperate. It echoed through the alleyways, bouncing off crumbling walls and rusted tin roofs, until it seemed the entire city was forced to hear it.
A woman in rags stumbled forward, her face streaked with tears. Her body convulsed as waves of pain surged through her, forcing her to arch her back and clutch desperately at a stone wall that threatened to crumble beneath her weight. Her breathing came in ragged gasps, each contraction dragging her closer to the inevitable moment.
The woman's trembling hands pressed against her swollen belly. Her cries mingled with the night wind, announcing to the city that new life was clawing its way into existence—even here, in the darkest of places.
She reached for the stone again, but her balance failed her. She collapsed into the mud, her scream rising louder, raw with desperation. "It's coming!" she cried, her voice breaking between sobs and terror.
The first child emerged. His hair was a deep crimson, slick with blood and grime, glowing faintly in the dim light. His eyes—though barely open—gleamed with a strange, unsettling sharpness. He did not cry. He simply stared, silent and cold, as though the world itself was beneath him. The mother's faint smile faltered, unease creeping into her heart. She felt as though she had birthed not a child, but a shadow.
Before she could dwell on the ominous silence, another wave of agony tore through her. The birth was not over. Her strength was fading, but the pain demanded more. She screamed once more, her voice hoarse, her body trembling as the second child forced his way into the world.
This one was different. His hair was pure white, shimmering even under the filth of the alley. His face carried a softness, a gentle calm that contrasted sharply with his brother's cruel aura. Unlike the first, he let out a fragile cry—weak but pure—like a plea to the heavens themselves.
The mother's eyes softened as she gazed upon him. For a moment, the pain seemed distant, replaced by a fragile hope. But her body had reached its limit. With one final breath, she collapsed into silence, her lifeless form cradling the two infants who had stolen her last strength.
The alley was heavy with silence after the mother's final breath. Two infants lay side by side in the mud, fragile and helpless. The white‑haired child whimpered softly, his cry fragile but pure.
Beside him, the crimson‑haired infant stirred. At first, it was nothing unusual—his limbs jerked weakly, his tiny fists clenched and unclenched, his head turned in short, twitching motions. He let out no cry, only shallow breaths that misted faintly in the cold air.
Minutes passed. The red‑haired child's movements grew more insistent. His body shifted in small, uneven lurches, nudging closer to his brother. His arm flailed, then settled across the white‑haired infant's chest, as though by accident. To any onlooker, it might have seemed like instinct—a newborn seeking warmth.
But the longer he lingered, the more unnatural it became. His twitching steadied, his grip tightened. The white‑haired infant whimpered again, his fragile cry swallowed by the night. The crimson child pressed closer, his shallow breaths quickening, his presence smothering.
The crimson‑haired infant's tiny hand, which had fallen across his brother's chest, began to tighten. At first it was clumsy, the weak grip of a newborn. But slowly, unnaturally, the pressure grew firmer, deliberate.
The white‑haired child whimpered, his fragile cry trembling in the damp air. Then, faint wisps began to rise from his chest—thin, silvery threads that shimmered like mist in the moonlight. They curled upward, fragile and fleeting, before sinking into the crimson child's body.
It was not breath, nor warmth, but something deeper. His very essence was being drawn out, piece by piece. The gentle aura that had clung to him since birth flickered, dimmed, and began to vanish.
The crimson infant's eyes half‑opened, gleaming faintly with unnatural triumph. He did not cry, did not falter. He consumed in silence, his brother's soul unraveling beneath his grip.
By the time the alley fell quiet again, only one remained outwardly whole—the red‑haired child, his tiny chest rising steadily, his body faintly aglow with stolen vitality. The other lay limp, his white hair dulled, his spirit buried deep within the brother who had devoured him.
The alley lay in silence, broken only by the faint rustle of the wind. The mother's body was still, her sacrifice already claimed by the night. Two infants remained in the mud—one crimson‑haired, breathing steadily, his eyes gleaming faintly with unnatural awareness; the other white‑haired, limp and silent, his fragile aura extinguished.
The slums of Starlight City reeked of damp rot and cheap wine. A crooked lantern swayed in the hand of an old man as he staggered down the alley, his steps uneven, his breath sour.
The slums of Starlight City were drowned in silence, until the sound of uneven footsteps broke through. An old man staggered down the alley, lantern swaying wildly in his hand, a half‑empty bottle clutched in the other. His breath reeked of cheap wine, his muttering thick with venom.
"Once they feared me!" he roared into the night, voice cracked and hoarse. "Once I could tear mountains apart! Now look at me—shattered, crawling in the dirt like a dog. All because of him. That bastard who broke me. The heavens laughed, and I've been rotting ever since!"
He hurled the bottle against the wall, glass exploding into shards. He kicked at the stones, spat into the mud, his lantern swinging as though he meant to smash it too. His laughter was hollow, edged with madness.
Then the light fell upon the alley, and he froze. A woman lay lifeless in the mud, her body twisted from labor. Two infants at her side. One crimson‑haired, silent but alive. The other white‑haired, limp and unmoving.
The old man sneered, his lips curling into a cruel grin. He staggered forward and shoved the dead woman's shoulder with his boot. "Pathetic," he spat. "Couldn't even survive birthing them. What good is a mother who dies in the dirt? Nothing but trash."
He crouched, his lantern casting jagged shadows across his face. His gaze lingered on the crimson‑haired child. The baby's silence unsettled him, yet those faintly gleaming eyes stirred something twisted in his chest. He jabbed a crooked finger against the infant's cheek, rough and careless. "Ah… this one lives. Cold. Quiet. Yes, I know that look. The world will fear him, just as they once feared me."
The white‑haired infant lay limp, unmoving. The old man prodded him with his boot, then scoffed. "Stillborn. Waste of flesh. Better buried than carried." His voice cracked, not with pity, but with rage at the heavens.
With no reverence, he wrapped the white‑haired child in cloth and dug a shallow grave beneath a crooked tree. His hands shook, not from grief, but from drink and fury. He muttered curses instead of prayers, spitting into the earth as he covered the tiny body.
The crimson‑haired infant he lifted into his arms, lantern swinging wildly as he staggered back toward the city. "You'll be mine," he rasped, voice thick with madness. "Not for forgiveness—I don't care for that. You'll be my legacy. My weapon. My spite made flesh. When the world sees you, it will remember me."
The old man staggered through the slums, lantern swaying, the crimson‑haired infant pressed against his chest. His curses bled into the night, bitter and broken, but the child remained silent, his half‑open eyes gleaming faintly in the dark.
Far below, in the depths where shadows breathe and forgotten wells whisper, the underworld stirred. A single spark flickered in the black, fragile yet defiant. Slowly, it grew—soft, pulsing, alive.
A new star was born in the underworld.
It did not shine with warmth or promise. Its glow was cold, hungry, and patient, a light that devoured rather than gave but even inside such a dark star a light emanated from the center . although it flickered weakly it was something pure ... something good.