Prologue: The Sky That Never Noticed Me
I always liked the stars.
Not because I was poetic. Or lonely. Or cursed with some ancient destiny.
I just liked the silence they offered.
They never asked questions. Never stared too long. Never laughed when I stuttered through my sentences in class.
They just… were.
Scattered across the sky like someone spilled glitter over black velvet, they burned quietly—distant, indifferent, eternal. They made everything else feel small. Even me.
Even the pain.
It was raining the day I died.
No flashing lights. No screech of brakes. Just wet pavement, a missed step, and the sharp, stupid sound of my skull hitting concrete.
I remember wondering if the world would stop. Or rewind. Or offer me some final memory—like a mother's voice, or a friend's face.
Instead, there was only cold.
Cold, and the soft tap of rain on my cheek. Like the sky was crying a little too late.
And then…
Stars.
Not the distant kind. Closer. Brighter. Spinning.
Like they'd finally noticed me.
When I woke up, the sky was bigger.
Too big.
There was no ceiling, no power lines, no airplane trails slicing the clouds. Just an endless stretch of blue, impossibly vast and impossibly real.
I was lying in a field, the grass swaying gently against my arms. A breeze carried the scent of wildflowers and distant rivers. Somewhere nearby, I heard the cry of a hawk.
And then I heard the name.
"Caelion."
A voice. Not human. Not cold either. Just… still.
"Caelion," it repeated. "This is your name now."
I sat up slowly. My body felt lighter. Smaller. Younger.
I looked down—my hands were those of a child. Pale fingers. Slender wrists. My sleeves were rough, woven from coarse brown fabric. No blood. No scars. Just a new body under a sun that felt far too warm.
"What is this?" I whispered.
But the voice was gone.
Only the wind answered me now.
It took days before I found a village.
Not that anyone helped me.
To them, I was just a silent boy who had wandered in from the woods with no past, no name, and no magic worth speaking of. I told them I had Star Dust Magic—a lie and a truth.
I could make faint glows appear. Let little glimmers trail from my fingers like glitter caught in moonlight. Children clapped, adults frowned, and I was given scraps and a barn to sleep in.
"You're not meant for battle," one man said. "Pretty tricks don't feed families."
Maybe he was right.
But I had nowhere else to go.
So I stayed.
Years passed.
I grew.
I read whatever scraps I could find—old scrolls, dusty grimoires, tales of guilds and dragons and S-Class wizards.
Fairy Tail became a dream. A whisper in my mind I never dared speak aloud. That was their story—Natsu, Erza, Gray, Lucy. Not mine.
I wasn't meant to fight on the front lines or win tournaments.
But I trained anyway.
Every night, under the stars, I practiced. Shaping light. Sculpting sparkles. Trying to turn illusions into weapons.
I failed. Over and over. My magic fizzled, dimmed, vanished.
And the stars just watched.
Never answering.
Never noticing.
Until the night they did.
It was during a meteor shower.
I'd climbed a ridge above the village, hoping to feel closer to the sky.
Stars fell in arcs of fire across the heavens. Dozens. Hundreds. Trails of silver streaking across black.
But one… didn't fall.
It hovered.
Hung in the sky like a frozen tear of light. Then it pulsed.
And fell straight toward me.
There was no time to run. No time to scream.
Just light.
Blinding, holy, impossible light.
And then—
Nothing.
I woke in a crater. My body burned from the inside out, every nerve alight with power I didn't recognize.
But it wasn't Star Dust anymore.
Something else had taken root in my soul.
A voice. Distant. Divine.
"Bearer of Starlight. Slayer of False Gods. You are not ready."
The light inside me trembled.
So I buried it.
Sealed it.
Forgot it.
Because I was not ready. Not for divine fire. Not for god-slaying truth.
Not yet.