The air over the battlefield was thick with ash and grief.
What remained of the Twelve Stars huddled in the shadow of a half-collapsed mountain pass, their bodies wrapped in bloodied bandages, their spirits quieter than ever before. The fight had been won, but it was a victory hollowed out by its cost. Of the original twelve, several lay unconscious, and others bore wounds that refused to clot.
Even their starstones—once gleaming beacons of celestial will—now flickered ominously. A few had dulled so completely that they gave off no light at all, a grim sign among them: a dying will, or worse, a lost one.
They were supposed to be the finest, the strongest. But now, the mountain winds sang only dirges, as though mourning the pride that once stood tall.
Suddenly, a rustle in the trees. The last remaining scouts tensed, weapons half-raised. But it wasn't another wave of demons—it was something far more unexpected.
A group of demon soldiers approached from the treeline, visibly unarmed. Their formation was loose, their pace slow, deliberate. One among them held a white banner—a symbol no one had seen in generations.
Truce.
Suspicion rippled through the Twelve like electricity. The demons halted a dozen steps away and bowed slightly. In the harsh, guttural accent of the northern clans, the leader spoke:
"Our king wishes to negotiate. We offer no further battle. He desires only a meeting."
No one moved. Even the wind dared not speak. Eventually, First Star stepped forward, his voice hoarse but steady.
"Only the Celestial Lord can answer a king."
The demon bowed again. "Then summon him."
But this was not a matter so easily resolved.
Once the demons vanished back into the mist, the arguments began.
Half of the Twelve believed negotiation was suicide—a veiled surrender. "How can we trust them?" shouted the Sixth Star. "They kill without mercy, and now they come asking for talks? They must be plotting something."
Others disagreed. "We can't fight again," murmured the Ninth Star, barely able to sit upright. "Look around. If we don't talk, we'll all die the next time."
The group splintered, tempers rising like storm clouds. The wounds were deeper than flesh—they were fractures in unity.
It was the First Star who finally stood tall and said:
"Enough. There will be no further division. We will request an audience between the Celestial Lord and the Demon King. If either refuses—then we prepare to die. But not like this. Not as cowards… and not as children squabbling over pride."
He met each of their eyes. Most held his gaze. A few turned away.
Thus resolved, the group gathered what remained of their strength and began the journey back to the Celestial Peak, where the Lord awaited.
But the mountain roads were treacherous—and not merely for their terrain.
Along the narrow ridge, as storm clouds rolled in above them, the internal pressure boiled over. Words turned to shouts. Accusations flew—of cowardice, betrayal, even treason. The Eleventh Star lunged at the Eighth; the Fifth drew steel.
It was Miexing who stepped between them.
She didn't speak—at first. She only stood, sword sheathed, her eyes cold and commanding.
Then softly, with iron in her voice, she said:
"You think the enemy is behind us? He isn't. He's ahead. You draw blades here, we all die there."
The tension broke. One by one, they sheathed their weapons, shame burning through their silence.
It was in that fragile stillness that they reached the Celestial Peak. But what awaited them was not relief. It was fury.
The Celestial Lord, draped in ragged robes, met them not with welcome—but with chains.
"You return empty-handed," he said, voice cracking like thunder. "You failed. You fled. And now you return to speak of peace?"
There was no reason in his eyes. Only madness.
He raised a hand, and in a flash of light, three stars were pinned to the ground by spectral bindings. Even Miexing felt her limbs stiffen, the familiar pressure of divine power weighing against her will.
"You were chosen," the Lord said, "and you brought shame to the stars!"
His breathing was ragged. His aura was unstable, flashing uncontrollably with arcs of celestial energy. Miexing's heart tightened—not in fear, but in realization:
He's breaking.
Just as the world threatened to fracture, another presence entered the scene—like a blade slicing through sky.
A howl of wind.
And then—they descended.
The Demon King, towering and horned, flanked by the ethereal and terrifying Demon Queen, stepped into the peak as if they owned the heavens.
The Celestial Lord turned in fury—just in time for the Demon King to crash a fist into his chest.
The sound echoed like thunder across the mountaintops.
The Lord flew back, smashing through the stone walls of his own sanctum, coughing blood.
The Twelve Stars stared, stunned.
The Demon Queen, her voice like ice over a fire, spoke:
"We never wanted war. We wanted space. Land. Life."
The Demon King's power radiated outward, rippling through the stones beneath their feet. He was not yet whole—but he was enough.
Enough to terrify the Celestial Lord.
Enough to make even Miexing waver.
The game had changed.
The balance was no longer certain.
And the war… might just be ready to end.
If only someone dared to speak first.