Stars That Never Were
“How about it? Doesn’t it look pretty fun?”
After dinner, the place Julian had taken me to was a fairly large theater. The performance and the play itself weren’t bad. The story was a common love tale—two lovers who kept missing each other because of misunderstandings finally realize their feelings and come together. There were a few forced misunderstandings here and there that felt a bit off, but the actors’ performances were quite good.
Even so, after the play ended, Julian kept expressing his disappointment, as if the story hadn’t lived up to his expectations.
“The actors were decent enough, but bringing in a rival lover after that point felt too contrived. And after that scene, the woman doesn’t even appear again. It would’ve been better to extend the male lead’s monologue or flesh out the female lead’s hesitation instead of padding the runtime that way.”
He went on for quite a while, pointing out several professional flaws, the parts inevitably omitted due to the nature of theater, and the awkward staging.
“Well, at least it didn’t drag on with unnecessary tragedy or cruelty.”
There were plenty of works that forced a tragic ending for the sake of “artistic merit,” or piled on gratuitously stimulating scenes just to chase entertainment value—pieces that left a bad taste even if that wasn’t their intention. Of course, some people enjoyed those works, but they simply didn’t suit me.
“Right. You’ve always hated that kind of thing, Anak. Still, you liked Miriel Lune’s works, didn’t you?”
“Even if everything else is forced together just to create a certain scene, I can somewhat understand it if the ending is happy. But if it’s a tragedy, I don’t like it. And I hate works that expose the vulgar, petty nature of both creator and audience while glorifying or justifying it without any remorse or reflection.”
Affirming imperfection and denying perfection or righteousness were two entirely different things. Yet so many people confused and conflated the two.
We spent some time talking about literature and popular commercial works, just like we used to back at the academy. Occasionally our voices rose and drew glances from passersby, but honestly, far more eyes were drawn to Julian’s appearance than to our conversation.
“Well then, where should we go next? How about that hill over there? The night view should be nice from up there, don’t you think?”
Even though it was quite late, I couldn’t refuse him when he asked with such sparkling eyes. I understood that he wasn’t simply hoping to see the night view—he wanted to stretch out the end of this day a little longer.
“Yes. Let’s go, then.”
We walked through the streets and onto a quiet forest path. The hill looked quite far, but Julian didn’t seem to mind. After all, back at the academy, during training or endurance drills, he and Rowell were always the last ones standing.
“Come to think of it, do you remember that time? When you and Rowell got scolded by Teacher Mee together.”
Teacher Mee. Right. She had been there too.
“Yes. Though it wasn’t our fault at all—especially not mine.”
“Mee” was a nickname the students had given her. I couldn’t quite recall her real name, but the goat-like beard and perpetually bored expression had earned her the moniker. She had been in charge of character and etiquette at the academy. When female students kept climbing over the wall into the boys’ dormitory to see Rowell and Julian, she had summoned us and scolded us publicly.
“Honestly, when I was called out, I wondered why I was even there.”
Of course, it had been a show of discipline on the teacher’s part. After that, the girls did stop trying to climb the wall so often, not wanting to cause trouble for Rowell and Julian. Still, even back then—and even now—I couldn’t help wondering why I had to be dragged into it.
“It’s because you answered the girls’ questions too well. They started asking you when and where Rowell and I would be, remember? And come to think of it, you were the one who told them what color underwear I sleep in, weren’t you?”
“The atmosphere made it impossible to refuse.”
Honestly, when groups of them swarmed me during breaks demanding information about Rowell or Julian—sometimes pitifully, sometimes high-handedly, sometimes offering money or jewels as bribes—refusing had been impossible for me back then. Especially in the last case.
“Anyway, after that incident, everyone from our classmates to our juniors kept asking, ‘Why were you even involved?’”
I had answered with a single word—“accomplice”—and they stopped asking.
“That’s why I told you to stay by my side.”
“You already had plenty of people around you, Senior.”
And it wasn’t just the girls. Though in most cases, what they felt was more reverence than love.
“Aren’t you tired? Want me to carry you?”
Even after all this time, his playful question and smile were exactly the same as before.
“…Senior. I traveled with Rowell too, you know. I can handle this much by now. Besides, it wasn’t so bad that you had to carry me back then either.”
During one of the academy’s physical training sessions, I had collapsed because of a mild cold I’d caught the day before and the resulting lack of sleep. I hadn’t actually lost consciousness—just lost strength in my legs. Before Rowell could do anything, Julian had picked me up and carried me to the shade.
I had been flustered and embarrassed, insisting I was fine, but he hadn’t listened at all.
“The girls who heard about it were so jealous. And you know the number of girls fainting during joint classes increased after that, right?”
Of course, those fainting acts were immediately met with fierce glares from the other girls who rushed over.
Chatting like that, we eventually reached the top of the hill. The night breeze swept past us, and the sky was so full of stars it looked as if they might spill over at any moment.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
The night sky was the record of this world, embroidered by the gods. Each star carried a fragment of their will. Their twinkling, their movements, their changes expressed, in fragments, the fates of all who had died and all living beings in the present world.
We stood in silence for a while, simply gazing at the night sky. Because the hill was quite high, even more stars were visible.
“…Your achievements will probably become stars in the night sky someday too, won’t they?”
“Yes. The gods said that after we die, new constellations will be carved into the eastern sky.”
When I had asked why it had to be after we died, the gods had smiled gently, as if humoring a child’s question, and replied that this was the record. They also said our achievements were not yet finished.
“…I see.”
At my answer, his voice dropped slightly. That voice—somehow sorrowful, somehow fearful—sounded so unlike him that it felt alien.
“Is something wrong?”
“No, what could be wrong?”
His voice and smile quickly returned to normal, and for a moment I wondered if I had misheard. But that couldn’t be. No matter how much the summoned lights and starlight reflected in his eyes, I couldn’t have missed the dissonance that would never have been there before.
“……”
Still, I didn’t know what to say. If he didn’t want to talk about it, what right did I have to ask? And even if I did ask, what answer could I possibly give?
“…Are you worried about me?”
After I had stared at him in silence for a long time, he gave me a strange smile and let out an uncharacteristic sigh.
“…Haa. It’s nothing. It’s just… thinking about death makes me a little sad. Unlike you two, there’s no way my trace will remain in the night sky.”
“You never know. Of course, defeating the Demon King or saving the world would be difficult, but someone like you could easily leave behind achievements worthy of history.”
Not every star in the sky belonged to someone who had saved the world. Even someone as narrow-minded as Morotai had been recognized for his deeds and convictions in life and ascended to the heavens, albeit in a minor position.
Probably, without him knowing, at least one of those stars was meant for him. If someone like Morotai could do it, there was no reason Julian couldn’t.
“Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”
But his expression didn’t brighten. He had only answered formally; there was no sincerity in it at all. Faced with this unfamiliar sight, I could only stare quietly at his face.
Even though we hadn’t seen each other for over ten years, this was the first time I had seen him like this. While I stood there unsure of what to do, he leaned his head slightly forward and gave me a playful smile.
“Of course, rather than becoming a star in the night sky, I’d rather remain in your heart, Anak.”
I was glad to see the sadness in his eyes fade a little. But because of that, I was a moment too late in dodging as he half-threw himself toward me.
“……!”
The layered barrier I had set up before leaving the royal palace in Aiman had only been three layers thick, since I’d expected to have plenty of free time. On the way here, riding Erill, all of them had already been triggered by her playful antics. I still had Janus’s talisman, but it wouldn’t activate unless there was clear malice or serious harm to my body.
“……!”
His face stopped just inches from mine. It was thanks to his extraordinary physical abilities. He had moved anticipating that I would dodge backward, so stopping at that speed and angle couldn’t have been easy—yet he had stopped cleanly.
“W-why didn’t you dodge?”
He looked visibly flustered that I hadn’t moved. The playfulness had vanished from his face, replaced by bewilderment and a bright red flush.
He looked so beautiful. If I hadn’t known he was male, I probably wouldn’t have been able to stay still like this either. My heart was pounding, and the moonlight and starlight gently illuminated him.
“Um, um!”
He slowly turned away and stepped back. It was almost the first time I had seen him this embarrassed. I had seen him smile awkwardly many times, and I had seen him deliberately avoid situations, but this feminine reaction was new.
Then Julian suddenly pulled a mirror out of his pocket and began staring into it. Now that I thought about it, he had taken out that mirror several times during the play as well. It didn’t seem to be just for checking his appearance. Sometimes he had angled the reflective surface not toward himself, but toward the theater or toward me.
After putting the mirror away, he looked at me with a face even redder than before. I could see the hesitation flickering in his eyes. He parted his lips several times, but in the end, he only gave me a gentle smile. A beautiful yet somehow resigned smile—one I had never seen before, yet felt strangely familiar and old. That sorrowful smile.