Astra made his way down to the officer halls of Shadowkeep, his boots echoing softly against onyx-stone tiles etched with old war crests and family sigils. The hallway loomed with vaulted ceilings and mana-lit banners, each bearing the insignia of ancient battles and long-dead victors.
He wore his special major uniform—black-on-black with silver trim, the crest of House Night embroidered across his chest and shoulder. His curly hair, already dark as a starless void, shimmered faintly under the enchantment lights. Iridescent strands caught the glow like nebulae coiling through midnight. His eyes—once a soft violet twilight—had deepened into a darker blue-purple, flecked subtly with sparks of inner mana. Not glowing, not blazing, but ancient-looking. Like something was watching the world from behind them.
"Damn it," Astra muttered under his breath, catching his reflection in a high-polished obsidian sconce. "I look like a walking propaganda poster again."
It didn't help that he was about to walk into a meeting with five field commanders, all Rank Threes. Veterans. Officers who'd probably been wielding mana before he could even write. No doubt they'd be older, likely more powerful, and almost certainly skeptical.
Right, he thought bitterly. I have to walk into a room of experienced killers and tell them how to run their squads. What could possibly go wrong?
He passed through the silver-etched obsidian archway that marked the Officer Wing. Maids and stewards bowed, shadows trailing behind them like disciplined ghosts. Even the guards flanking the war room saluted with strange stiffness.
Merry was awaiting him nearby "My prince" she bowed as they walked
He reached the carved door marked with the sigil of the Seventh Reserve Battalion — a stylized crescent blade eclipsing a field of falling stars. The guards outside bowed and opened it with a creak that felt louder than it should've.
Great, he thought. Experienced knights who don't like kids telling them what to do. How is this not going to blow up in my face?
Five figures stood within. Each wore the long-coat variant of the Shadow Legion's combat dress, with different insignia on their shoulders. There was no mistaking it — real soldiers. Weathered. Grim.
They turned as one.
"Special Major Astra Night," one of them greeted, with a voice like grinding ice. "Welcome to Shadow Battalion Seven."
Inside, the room was spartan—only a blackstone table shaped like a broken crescent, maps etched in glowing mana-thread, and five figures already seated, all watching him.
Their eyes, sharp and clinical, swept over Astra like measuring tape.
Astra felt their presence wash over him, they all were powerful rank threes, upper to mid tier from his initial estimations..
He knew all their names and histories from the files. All storied pasts with battles duels skirmishes under thier belts.
Captain Vael Dornis, the first to stand, had a wolf's gait and wore bone-gray armor with black pauldrons, his face scarred in a way that seemed to smile without lips. "Major Astra Noctis," he said with a shallow bow. "Or would you prefer 'My Prince'?"
Astra gave him a flat look . "Let's keep it professional, Captain Dornis."
"Good," Vael said, sitting back down. "Because none of us here are fond of ceremony."
The others introduced themselves in turn:
Captain Ilhera Vance, a lean woman with storm-grey eyes and silver-tinted fingers from years of lightning magic.
Captain Thorne Vail, dark-skinned, silent, wearing an eyepatch that flickered with rune-light—some kind of tracking magic embedded in the socket.
Captain Seth Oran, the youngest-looking, red-haired and almost boyish if not for the razor-edge of his aura.
And finally, Captain Drevan Kal, easily the oldest, with obsidian rings on every finger and a robe stitched with old prayer-sigils. A battle-priest turned tactician.
"You're younger than I expected," Drevan Kal said. Not unkindly. Just true.
"I get that a lot," Astra replied smoothly, taking his seat at the table's head.
He felt it then. The weight. Not just of their gazes—but of command. It settled on his shoulders like a mantle made of lead and silence. These weren't students, duelists, or spectators.
These were soldiers. Captain. Survivors.
And now… they were his.
Astra let the silence breathe a little too long—just enough for tension to begin blooming.
Then he spoke.
"Captains, I understand it may feel degrading to be commanded by a mere Rank Two teenager."
Not a flinch. But not full comfort either.
"I sense displeasure from some of you. That's fine. I'm not here to micromanage you or your units. You know your people better than I do. My role is coordination and survival. I'll give direction when needed—and expect full cooperation."
His tone sharpened.
"I don't intend to die. And I prefer everyone under me stays alive. That task falls to all of us. We're the backbone of the Seventh Battalion. Our first deployment is in two weeks, at Castle Vehlor. Until then, we train twice a week—joint drills—and you will handle your squads' internal cohesion."
He raised his chin.
"I'll personally command Squad 20. The rest of the 1,200 fall to you. I want to know which squads you'll take, and what your specialties are."
Commander Vael Dornis, old war-blood and blunt as an axe, went first.
"I'll take Squads 1, 4, 5, and 9. Heavy assault, tracking, and shadow-beast operations. Mostly close-combat specialists and monster handlers. Soul-severance magic is my focus."
Astra nodded. "You'll be the spear."
Commander Ilhera Vance, folded arms and a voice like lightning wrapped in silk, spoke next.
"Squads 2, 7, 10, and 14. Lightning magic, kinetic disruption, high-speed response teams. We break enemy spell formations and recover wounded fast. I prefer mobility-focused units."
"Fast and lethal," Astra said. "Perfect."
Commander Thorne Vail raised two fingers.
"Give me Squads 3, 11, and 15. Stealth, ambush, recon. Small strike teams for behind-the-line operations. Saboteurs and voidwalkers."
"Subtle hands in the dark. okay."
Commander Seth Oran, relaxed but eyes sharp, leaned in as he laughed.
"Squads 6, 8, 13, and 17. Mixed units. Elemental magic, spellblades, cross-discipline casters. I rotate them as battlefield needs shift. Adaptability is our strength."
"Versatility is always valuable," Astra replied.
Commander Drevan Kal, last and quietest, gave a formal nod.
"I'll lead Squads 12, 16, 18, and 19. Doctrine knights, ward mages, faith-based support. We specialize in fortification and counter-curse rituals. We'll hold the line."
Astra regarded him for a moment longer. "You're our shield."
With the 19 squads distributed among the five captains, Astra stepped forward again.
"That's the framework. Squad 20 will be our forward-response unit—small, elite, experimental. I'll lead them personally, and oversee all field operations."
He looked at each of them in turn.
"Training begins tomorrow. Drill orders will be passed through Lieutenant Merry tonight to your Adjuants. You are dismissed."
Astra walked out in silence, Merry at his side, the sound of his boots echoing faintly in the quiet, polished halls of Shadowkeep. He exhaled slowly, the weight of command settling again on his shoulders. It wasn't the meetings that wore him out. It was the realization that he was now the one giving orders—to seasoned knights, no less.
Older than him. Stronger, perhaps. Definitely prouder.
He clenched his jaw slightly as he descended the stairs toward the southern training fields.
Vael Dornis. The man looked like a mountain with a command voice. His Stonefire Mana could rupture a fortress from beneath, turn the ground itself into magma. Astra had seen the aftermath of one of his "training sessions." Craters. Melted armor. A dead wyvern. Vael didn't waste time on words—he spoke with force.
Then there was Ilhera Vance. Lightning in the shape of a woman. Her Stormlight Mana wasn't just about speed—it was precision dressed in illusion. Astra had watched her duel once. He wasn't sure the other guy realized he lost until his sword arm stopped responding.
Thorne Vail still unsettled him. Voidglass Mana. Not quite shadow. Not quite crystal. Astra had passed him once in the hallway and barely noticed—until the man spoke behind him. No footsteps. No presence. Just silence and the promise of something sharp.
Seth Oran, on the other hand, was impossible to ignore. His Fluxfire wasn't fire in the traditional sense. It sang, it hissed, it danced to emotion. Seth had laughed during the meeting, chaotic and bold. He was going to be either the most useful field captain or the most explosive problem.
And then Drevan Kal. Grave-sealed magic. Graveseal Mana wasn't pretty, but it worked. It snuffed. Nullified. Cursed. Defended. He was a walking wardstone with eyes that never blinked. Astra had heard he could look a wraith in the eye and force it to flee with a single gesture.
"Gods," Astra muttered, almost to himself. "I'm not even sure if I'm the commander… or the intern."
Merry chuckled softly beside him but said nothing.
He reached the arch leading to the outer barracks where Squad 20 waited. His squad. His command. His mess. He adjusted his coat, ran a hand through the storm of his curls, and stepped forward.
Astra stepped through the eastern gates of Shadow Legion I, where black pennants whipped against the chill dusk wind, each marked with the coiling black and gold serpent-and-sword crest of the Shadow Legion.
The camp was colossal — an ever-expanding sprawl of blackcloth tents laced with mana-thread, humming faintly with protective enchantments. Towering obsidian wardstones rose from the ground like ancient monoliths, casting slow pulses of mana across the encampment. Soldiers moved in disciplined streams, some drilling, others hauling crates marked with glyphs. Fires flickered beside outdoor forges, where smiths chanted under their breath while hammering void-forged alloy into weapons.
It was like stepping into a militarized version of some arcane Hogwarts—except here, there were no students. Only soldiers, all trained to kill.
Astra's boots struck black cobbled stone as he passed into the Outer Conquest Courtyard, where the 7th Battalion had been quartered. Here, carved obsidian archways denoted company zones. His mana coin pulsed.
PLATOON 20 — SHADEBURNSTATUS: Active Conquest / Strike PlatoonRANKS:→ 10 × Rank 3 (Squad Commanders)→ 35 × Rank 2 (Senior Forces)→ 75 × Rank 1 (Core Troops)
DEPLOYMENT ORDERS: Castle Vehlor, 14 DaysTACTICAL ROLE: Forward Strike / Conquest Breach Team
The black banners of the 20th fluttered faintly overhead as Astra walked the broad main path of the Company's encampment. His coat gleamed faintly under enchantment light—threads of shadow woven into silver trim—and his boots struck mana-hardened stone with clean rhythm. Every step was a statement.
Beside him strode Elric Vorn he was the second in command of this company, Astra chose him simply due to him absolutely hating Dawn and Dusk, something about a massacre, his tower shield slung across his back like a vault door, spear tip glinting faintly. The older man's face was cut from stone, sun-beaten and blunt.
The stares came in waves. Rank Ones halted in the middle of lifting crates. Rank Twos paused mid-sparring. Even a Rank Three or two nodded stiffly—unsure whether to salute or pretend they weren't staring.
"Yeah," Elric muttered, just low enough for Astra to hear. "Get used to the gawking my prince. They think you're some kind of divine mistake."
Astra didn't respond immediately. A younger soldier whispered as he passed:
"That's him. The Mythical one. The kid who is considered our realms genius…"
Another muttered, "...Still just Rank Two. What the hell's the command thinking?"
Elric huffed a quiet breath through his nose. "You hear it, right?"
"I'd be more worried if they weren't talking," Astra replied. "Silence means they've decided already."
Elric gave a short grunt—neither approval nor doubt. Just acknowledgment.
"You'll want to know what kind of animals you're working with. Your ten squad commanders," he began, voice a steady growl, "all Rank Threes. Mostly mid-tier. A few closer to low-tier. But they've survived more battles than most see in three lifetimes."
They passed under a black arch where tents flanked the path like small houses, and Astra's coin pulsed softly as mana signatures drifted past.
"Elric Vorn," the older man said with dry sarcasm, motioning to himself. "Ironcall mana. Smash things. Hold lines. Try not to die. That's me."
"I figured," Astra said, glancing at the great shield.
"Jessa Myne—Windthread. You'll meet her soon. Moves like a whisper and kills faster. Doesn't trust anyone under thirty."
A pair of soldiers stepped aside quickly, almost tripping over their gear as Astra passed.
"That's Dren Kelthas' smoke-pit over there—Ashwake. Obnoxious, good with crowds, better with chaos. He likes you, for some reason. Said you 'got spooky eyes.'"
Astra scoffed.
"Kellen Brax leads the hammer line—Coalheart. Breaks walls, laughs too loud, probably punched a volcano once."
They turned a corner toward the sparring yards. A Rank Two saluted stiffly; Astra nodded back.
"Lys Temren, swordswoman. Bloodwake. Calm as glass, hates nobles. But... she follows power. And your mana? It's power. She knows it."
Astra tilted his head. "And the others?"
"Halek Varn—Stonebind. Solid. Doesn't like change. Mira Thorne—mounted mage. Jokes too much. Fayne Dorran—Runeskin, old-timer. Probably muttered a prayer when he saw you. Selia Norr—Mistveil. Almost too quiet to exist. And Rellik... well. He's Shadowpress. Real charming."
They walked in silence a moment, boots echoing past rows of squad tents.
"You're an odd one," Elric said at last. "You look like a painted myth, but you walk like someone who's bled. That'll help."
Astra met his gaze. "And what if it doesn't?"
Elric shrugged. "Then we die. Simple math."
They reached a ridge overlooking the assembly yards, where soldiers were beginning drills.
"I know the numbers," Astra said quietly. "I know I shouldn't be here. But I also know that if someone like me can rise, it means there's still a ladder left in this hellhole of a war."
Elric gave a dry chuckle. "Good. Just make sure when you climb it, you don't kick it down behind you."
Astra looked out over the field of black banners and steel, of soldiers training under a shadow veiled sky.
He nodded."I won't."
They made themselves to the tent
The tent was less a tent and more a sprawling field-hall wrapped in black silk and faint enchantments, its roof enchanted to shimmer like the night sky above, constellations slowly shifting as if the heavens themselves were pacing in thought. Inside, dozens of mana-lanterns glowed softly—pale silver, deep violet, and hints of cold blue casting the air in a regal twilight. The command tent of the 20th Company, Reserve Battalion VII, Legion of Shadows looked like a war mage's dream crossed with the study of a prince.
Scrolls hovered mid-air, sealed in floating sigils. Tactical maps of mana-sensitive ink crawled across illusionary tables, plotting terrain movements, realm-fronts, and enemy estimates. Officers came and went like clockwork—some nodding in deference, others watching him from the corners of their eyes. Rank Two or not, Astra was the perhaps youngest Company Commander in the Legion. And with that came… a lot of paperwork.
Merry was already snapping through logistics faster than any adjutant should reasonably manage. "Mount requisitions for 5th Platoon, formal approval on Tier-2 rations for the elite squads, transport sigils for cross-field maneuvering…" she sighed, brushing a curl out of her eye as she handed Astra his mana coin again.
"Sign. Then approve. Then review. Don't get them mixed up, they'll court-martial you for sending our weapons to a fishing guild by accident."
Astra blinked. "Did that happen?"
"It always happens," she muttered darkly.
He signed. Again. And again. For an hour straight.
When he finally leaned back, eyes aching from sigil review, he sighed.
"Summon all platoon officers," he said quietly. "All the rank threes in the Company, I want everyone present. Formal uniform, three hours."
Merry looked up from her fourth logbook. "All of them?"
"We lead a thousand. I need to see if they can handle structure. I want to feel the chain of command before the fighting starts. If they're smart, they'll know this is a test." He paused. "Put Eric on the announcement and prep. He needs to show initiative too."
"Understood." She gave a sharp nod and immediately went to task, her voice already ringing out with command as she relayed orders through the mana-threaded web.
Astra exhaled and sank back into the tall, ebony-stitched chair at the heart of the tent. His desk, lacquered in shadow-oak and edged with silver trim, was stacked with doctrines he had been studying nonstop—texts on military logistics, battlefield psychology, formation strategy, speech tone modulation, morale control, and how to inspire dread in an enemy while keeping your own soldiers from crumbling.
Command was a weapon, but also a performance.
Astra glanced around the tent—dozens of lieutenants murmuring, ensigns running messages, maps alive with glimmers of movement. This wasn't some game. He was the commander of an entire strike company. Twenty platoons. A thousand lives. And whether he liked it or not… he was the face they'd look to when the realm started to burn.
His eyes narrowed slightly. He didn't feel like a leader.
But maybe that didn't matter.
He reached for his cup of Strawberry tea and took a slow sip, gaze falling on the shimmer of his sigil-sealed blade propped in the corner.
"I suppose I'll fake it until I don't have to," he murmured.
As the hours ticked by, the time finally came.
Astra was to face all his officers—every Rank Three knight under his command. He stood in front of the mirror in silence, adjusting the high collar of his formal uniform. He tried to look serious, but—gods—it was practically impossible.
He looked like a damn princess half the time.
He sighed, long and dramatic. "Oh gods…"
Merry, already waiting by the tent flap, raised an eyebrow. "You good?"
"No," he muttered, "but let's go impress some heavily armed skeptics."
They stepped out into the night, the soft glow of enchanted lanterns painting golden halos across the camp's cobbled paths. The officers' assembly tent loomed ahead, stretched in layers of black enchanted cloth, trimmed with black and gold marked with House Shadows sigil.
As they walked, Astra brooded.
Do I flaunt my aura?
They'd definitely feel it—especially the Rank Threes. But in a room packed with knights of that caliber, his aura would match theirs at best… hardly overwhelming.
Then he stopped.
"Oh," he muttered, smacking his forehead gently. "Right. I command stars and shadows."
He let out a breath. I can't brute-force their respect. But I can make them feel it.
His mana stirred.
Subtle at first—like a breeze before a storm. Shadows coiled tighter beneath his boots, then stretched, alive and listening. Not hostile, not oppressive… but obedient. Dignified. Heavy with potential. He shimmered faintly—his star core flickering beneath his skin like constellations winking through midnight clouds.
He ran a thread of mana through his limbs, sharpening his senses, amplifying his presence just enough. Not a roar—just a reminder.
Then he stepped into the tent.
And the room changed.
The shadows deepened. Voices faded. The quiet wasn't forced—it was instinctive, almost reverent. His mythical core hadn't even released its full pressure, and yet the air stirred with energy, faintly excited, like mana itself was responding to him.
Astra barely showed off—and it still stood out that much.
He stepped to the center of the assembly, cloaked in focused silence. Officers lined in rows turned to him, all dressed in their deep sable uniforms marked by their platoon sigils. Rank Three knights, hardened veterans, many older than him by decades—all staring at the boy-prince with the aura of dusk and starlight.
He spoke.
Cold. Clear. Sharp.
"Officers. Greetings.
I am Prince Astra Noctis of House Night.Special Major of the Legions of Shadow.Your new company commander."
His voice was steady, but not theatrical. He didn't need theatrics. His presence was doing the talking for him.
"I'll be honest with you.
I know I'm young. I know I'm Rank Two. I know some of you don't like it.
As I've told the Company Platoon commanders before I don't intend to micromanage you or your squads. You know your men better than I do. I'll offer guidance when I deem it necessary—and I will expect excellence in return."
He let his eyes scan the room, letting the silence stretch just enough to make the tension tighten
"I have unreal ambitions and expectations and I intend to meet them,
"I don't plan on dying. And I'd rather not see any of you die either. That's my responsibility—and yours.
We deploy in two weeks. Castle Vehlor. Enemy Skirmishes have been nearby that region.
Until then, we train. Twice a week as a company, and independently under your leaderships. Squad leaders will drill their units in siege reinforcement and offensive field ops.
I will lead the 20th Special Platoon personally.
Squad Leader Eric Valen is hereby named Second Commander of the 20th.
The transport corps will handle logistics."
He paused. Thought for a moment.
Do I say it? ...Yeah, fuck it.
"My House had a saying once. Old Saharan. A motto, really.
'Fortune favors the bold.'"
He let it sit in the air a moment longer before repeating it again in the modern tongue, for those unfamiliar with the ancient language.
Then he gave a slight bow, cloak catching behind him, and turned to leave.
The moment his footsteps faded beyond the canvas, the whispers began.
"...That was him?""He clashed with two pinnacle geniuses Lucien and Aster with spells that make them transcend ranks and won.""He did forge a mythical core in the finals with Aster.Multiple Domain spells. At Rank One.""Is it true he can rival a Rank Three in direct combat?""He looked like a cursed moonborn—scared the shadows straight.""I thought he was going to butcher the speech, but…""No, that landed."
They watched the tent flap sway behind him like a curtain closing on a stage.
And for a second, everyone believed it.
The fallen prince had arrived.
He looked like it. Spoke like it. Carried himself like it.
They weren't sure if he could lead yet—but he hadn't pretended to be something he wasn't. He'd surrounded himself with capable officers. Delegated smartly. Trusted others to carry the burden with him.
And that, they all quietly agreed, might just be the wisest thing of all.
Astra let the officers mingle.
They laughed, shared old war stories, leaned on walls with half-empty mugs of Shadebrew. Rank Threes, veterans of countless skirmishes, some already decades into their service. They had earned the right to camaraderie.
He hadn't.
And he wouldn't try to force it.
He slipped away without a word—just a faint shimmer of mana and a brushing of shadows that signaled his retreat.
He didn't intend to fraternize. He couldn't afford to.
A leader like him—a fallen prince, a Rank Two commanding knights—had to play the part of something other. Distant. Alone. A star above, not a brother in the mud.
Magnificent, in the way only things too far to touch could be.
He exhaled quietly as he walked through the torchlit paths of the Shadow Legion camp. The wind tugged gently at his cloak. Black banners rippled overhead, stitched with the insignias of the companies encamped here, a dozen empires' worth of soldiers encircling each other in tents and command posts like coiled serpents.
It was exhausting, these little games of posture and presence.
But he understood.
Respect wasn't something they'd give freely. Not to him. Not yet.
But once the real battles begin…
Once the star above the battlefield was his, once his domain clashed with others and his shadows drowned the earth in celestial twilight—they would feel it.
They would know.
He'd command not just with words, but with the very sky and void around him.
That was enough.
Tomorrow, he would finally meet his squad leaders—face to face, not just their files and mana signatures. The ten Rank Threes entrusted with the lives of a hundred and twenty men, each a commander in their own right. Not noble-born. Not brilliant. But steady. Hardened. Common and uncommon mana alike—no myths among them, but no weak links either.
He looked forward to it, in a quiet way.
But for now, he returned to his command tent.
It waited for him like a war palace wrapped in black velvet—soft on the outside, bristling with tension within. The lanterns inside cast starlight patterns on the ceiling. Merry was already asleep, papers stacked like fortresses around her cot.
Astra didn't disturb her.
He lit a small sigil for warmth, sat at his desk, and opened a report. But his eyes drifted upward, toward the canvas roof where no real sky hung—just the shadows of one.
Soon, he thought.
Let them wait. Let them doubt.
Stars were always distant—until they fell.
Astra sat outside his tent, the cold air stirring gently around him. Duskfall's artificial sky—forever night, forever veiled—offered no stars, but the power of them still burned faintly in his blood. He clenched and unclenched his fingers. Mana itched beneath the skin, restless. He wanted to fight, to move, to cast something just to feel the release.
But there was no partner, no immediate battle. Just silence.
So he let his mind drift. To his training and advancements
Constellation Enhancements.He'd come far with those. Months of practice had taught him to etch star patterns into his body with pure celestial mana—each one an internal circuit, a mimicry of constellations he could no longer see but remembered by heart.
Some like Orion boosted his strength—like flipping a switch, muscle and movement surged.Sagitta sharpened his mind—he could think ten steps ahead, feel time slow.Cassiopeia helped him stay grounded, push through illusions, mental noise, pain.
He couldn't hold them all at once—not yet. His body burned out too fast. But one at a time, in the right moment? It felt like wearing fate itself.
His firepower spells… they were efficient. Brutal.
Star Cannon was still his go-to. A concentrated, high-speed shot of raw celestial mana—it broke shields, crushed walls, and left a crater behind. But it also nearly dislocated his shoulder if he didn't brace.
Celestial Wave was the answer to crowd control—a sweeping arc of radiant force that sent enemies flying. Less elegant, but reliable.
And the newer Starshards—tiny celestial fragments that orbited him like moons—he hadn't mastered them fully, but they were fast, reactive, and flexible. Like having a second blade that thought with him.
There were way more ways to use the firepower part of his mana as well
Then there were the strange ones.Spells that didn't fit neatly into firepower or support.
Celestial Manifestation— the ability to make weapons items and manifest tangible shapes, it was hard extremely hard and powerful, way more powerful then water and fire based on his mana type, he can create swords walls and other items but durability depends on the shape
Astral Sight, Astral Sense—perception magic that let him feel spells before they were cast, or see mana currents others missed he can also see the stars wherever no matter how veiled, it made his eyes become like a night sky too. Combined with Sagitta or Cassiopeia, he was nearly untouchable for seconds at a time. and not even mentioning his curse and how it synergies's with it.
Heat of the Stars, Weight of the Stars—they made him feel like a meteor walking. One scorched the field around him. The other made every swing of his blade impossibly heavy. Devastating... but so costly.
These played on the concepts he had no idea how to even access and had limited acess too as he controlled Star mana, not gravity or heat.
His sword hummed faintly beside him—his current one. Temporary. It wasn't what he needed, it was a standard issue for officers, mid tier rank two, this sword wont last the battles he was supposed to fight.
Bishop Diliday had told him to wait. That something far greater was coming.
A Saint Master Blacksmith...Even just placing an order with one was unheard of. Royalty barely got the chance. But war changed things. Doors opened that were meant to stay sealed. And so, he waited. The real weapon would come. When it did, Sword of the Stars should evolve again.
Already, it responded better to his constellation patterns. Strikes became sharper, faster.
His domains. He exhaled slowly, focusing.
Blackmoon. His base. A small, personal domain of shadow and will. It boosted him barely to rank, defended him, flowed around his style like a second skin. Its range was still limited, but in duels? It made him a nightmare to pin down and overwhelm , he can see himself using this a lot as it was effect and cheap.
Shadowfall. Specialized. Born from study, frustration, and vengeance. It existed to counter Sun of Dawn, the signature domain of that arrogant solar mage from House Dawn. Against solar spells, it devoured light, turned it into shadow, and sent it back corrupted. Against anything else, though... it was too narrow. Still useful, but dangerous to rely on and he legit cannot use it alone.
Then there was...
Black Star.
His breath caught just thinking about it.
A domain that surged him to Rank Three strength, even if only for a short time. He'd built it from pain and ambition, from the twin forces of light and shadow. In that moment, with the star above him, he could unleash barrages, empower every shadow, and if he chose... collapse the whole thing into a starbomb. A pseudo-maximum spell that burned everything.
It was his greatest creation.
But not his final one.
He looked up at the sky—sealed, fake, starlight kept away by divine shadows.
He wanted to bring down a real star.
He could feel it, somewhere deep in the marrow of his bones—if the sky weren't locked, if the knowledge weren't hidden, if he just had more mana, more technique, more understanding...
He'd tried to make it—tried to summon a true star as a fourth domain spell. But his reserves failed. His control faltered. The divine shadow veil rejected him.
He wasn't there yet.
But he would be.
He gritted his teeth.
Black Star had progressed enough to push past most low-tier Rank Threes. He could even clash with mid-tier ones, briefly. None of them had what he had: a Mythical Core, and unique mana. They had more raw power, sure—but they lacked the edge.
Most domain spells didn't transcend rank only top geniuses can boast about such a feat. His did. Or at least, would.
And if—when—he hit Rank Three? If he perfected Black Star, or succeeded in making the genuine star spell?
He wouldn't just keep up with the world's elite.
He'd eclipse them.
He opened his palm slowly, mana flowing like starlight across his skin, faint blue and silver threads dancing between his fingers.
"Not yet," he murmured.
"But soon."
Astra stayed outside for hours simply in deep thought.