"In a world ruled by the stars, a child born without one is not a miracle. He is a mistake."
The night sky above the Mortal Vein shimmered with thousands of constellations — each a blazing destiny. On this sacred night, a hundred newborns across the continent would receive their Starblessing — a divine rite where Heaven would mark their souls with fate.
But in the forgotten village of Hollow Root, beneath the rotting edge of the Black Lotus Swamp, a cry broke the silence.
A baby, wrapped in ragged cloth, lay beneath the dying branches of a lone willow. There was no midwife, no warmth, no mother. Only a silver fan — old, cracked, humming with a vibration that didn't match the world's rhythm.
Above, the heavens stirred.
A priest nearby, part of the Starblessing Envoy, looked down at the child, his face pale.
He held his Astral Lantern above the infant — waiting for the light to bind.
Ten seconds passed.
Then twenty.
Nothing.
The lantern flickered… then shattered.
The priest recoiled, whispering,
"No Star… The child was not chosen by the heavens."
The wind howled — the willow trembled.
As the priest raised his palm to strike the child dead, the silver fan moved on its own.
Not floated. Not trembled.
Moved.
It glided upward, glowing faintly, then stopped… hovering between the priest's hand and the infant's chest.
A voice, deep and silent at once, echoed through the minds of every cultivator present:
"This one… is mine."
Time halted. The stars above dimmed for three breaths.
The fan gently settled into the baby's tiny hands — folding shut with a metallic snap.
The priest dropped to his knees, shaking.
"It… it chose him…"
The elder cultivator took a single step back, eyes narrowed.
"Artifacts do not choose the unblessed. That is not a weapon… It is a relic of the First War."
"This child… is not meant to exist."
And so the order was given:
"Seal his existence. Erase all record. Leave him to die in the swamp. If Heaven finds him, let Heaven strike him down."
They left before dawn.
The baby did not cry again.
The wind grew still.
The willow watched over him.
And the fan — ancient, cursed, whispering with the remnants of a dead god — pulsed once, its glow seeping into the baby's soul.
A name would come later.
But the world would come to know him as one thing:
Heavenbreaker.