In an era where kingdoms crumbled like rotting wood, war was no longer a tragedy—it was a currency. Smoke blackened the skies for decades, and the rivers ran red with blood. Peace was not merely absent; it had become an old tale no one dared to tell. The land was fractured, torn apart by rebels, warlords, and broken promises. And above this chaos, watching with eyes like frozen suns, stood one man: the Heavenly Lord.
He had no throne, no temple—only fear. But that was enough.
And he wanted more.
"Peace," he once whispered to his generals, "can only be born from fear. The kind that seeps into your bones. That kneels before no gods—only me."
To build this peace, he needed not warriors. He needed monsters.
Two hundred children—orphans of war, famine, and plague—were taken from ruins and ashes. Some remembered their homes. Most did not. All were broken, fragile things.
They were brought to a sealed stone facility deep beneath the earth. No sunlight reached them. No voice offered comfort. Only food twice a day, water once. No names. No instructions. No hope.
Then, one day, a voice echoed from the ceiling.
"Only twelve may live."
Nothing more.
Then the doors opened.
And the killing began.
She had no name. No memories of a mother's warmth or a father's voice. She remembered hunger. Cold. The sting of hands on her skin. But not much else.
When the fighting broke out, she didn't join it.
She ran.
She was small. Thin. Ten years old, perhaps. A girl with hollow cheeks and sharp, frightened eyes. Her bare feet barely made a sound as she slipped through cracks and shadows.
Screams erupted behind her. Bones crunched. Blades sang.
She found a room—bare, dark, empty. In the corner lay a broken dagger. Rusted. Blood-stained. She picked it up with trembling fingers.
It was heavy.
And it would decide whether she lived or died.
She curled up in that room for hours, listening to the chaos outside.
Then footsteps came.
A boy, perhaps a year older than her, stood at the door. His clothes were torn. Blood smeared across his chest. He had no weapon.
Their eyes met.
"I don't want to die," he said. His voice was soft. Frantic. He took a step forward. "Let's escape together. I—"
But the dagger was already moving.
Her body moved before her mind could stop it. The blade sank into his chest with a sickening crunch.
His eyes widened. Disbelief. Pain. Confusion.
He fell. Blood pooled beneath him.
She stood frozen. The dagger still in her hands.
Then she dropped beside him, her small hands pressing against the wound as if that could undo it. As if she hadn't just become something else.
Tears spilled silently. Her shoulders shook.
She hadn't even screamed.
Elsewhere in the halls, carnage reigned. Children fought with shattered glass, broken chair legs, teeth, and nails. One boy snapped another's neck with his bare hands. A girl used a sharpened spoon to gut her attacker. Blood soaked the floor.
Among them, one figure stood above the rest—tall, gaunt, eyes like ice. He moved like he'd done this before. A steel pipe in his hand became a blur. He disarmed, dismembered, and destroyed without pause. He racked up kill after kill, all within minutes. His name would be Yao (the first star), though no one knew it yet.
When the chaos died, the floor was slick with blood. Only twelve children stood.
They were herded into a chamber lit by pale torches. Eyes sunken. Bodies trembling.
The air shifted.
A man entered. Draped in white and black silk, embroidered with celestial patterns. His presence pressed down like thunder. He was not old, but time had touched his eyes.
He was the Heavenly Lord.
He looked at them like one might look at a pile of iron ore.
"These are the blades," he said.
He walked past them slowly. One by one.
"You," he said, pointing at the tall boy. "Twenty-one kills in nine minutes. You shall be First Star."
Another boy. Silent, with cold eyes. "Second Star."
Then he reached the girl. Her face was unreadable. Blood on her cheeks. The dagger still in her hand.
"She has no name?"
"No," a soldier confirmed.
He regarded her for a long time.
"Then she is the Annihilating Star."
The twelve were taken above ground for the first time in months. The sky hurt their eyes.
They were led into a courtyard—wide, barren, ringed with armed soldiers.
The Heavenly Lord's voice echoed again.
"You survived each other. Now survive me."
No further warning.
The guards surged forward.
Blades clashed. Screams rang.
The girl—the Annihilating Star—ducked a spear, rolled across gravel, slashed upward. Blood sprayed. A soldier fell.
Then another struck her in the ribs. She staggered. Coughed blood.
Yao—the First Star—fought like a demon. Twin blades spinning, slicing, leaping. He cut down three men in moments.
But the guards were trained. The children were not.
One fell. Then another. Then another.
The girl tried to reach Yao's side. But a spearhead stopped her path. She dropped low, slashed a leg, was kicked backward into the dirt.
Everything blurred.
The sky. The blood. The screams.
She tried to rise.
A boot pressed her down.
Black robes. The Heavenly Lord.
He looked down at her. "Is this your limit?"
She said nothing.
He turned, arms wide. "You thought survival made you strong. But survival is only the beginning."
He faced the broken, bloodied twelve.
"You belong to me now. Each of you is a star. And I will forge you into a constellation that the world will never forget."
The girl's eyes met his.
And in them, something died.
And something else was born.
She whispered, "I am the Annihilating Star."
The other stars looked at her.
Then they bowed their heads.
From that moment on—they were no longer children. They were weapons.
And war… had just begun.