Well, of course, every story has to have a protagonist, right?

  Someone great in their way, whether it be intellect, strength, intuition, or rather creativity.

  Our protagonist is unique in his own right.

  He doesn't give hope to others, oh no.

  Nor does he have any strengths, nope.

  He doesn't even have a tragic backstory.

  Well, what makes him worthy of being the protagonist?

  I don’t know. Seriously, just because I'm the narrator doesn’t mean I have to know everything.

  Anyways, our protagonist’s name is Kian Zayar, you can call him Kian.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Far above the lands of high kings, there exists a place — a realm, if you will.

  A realm untouched by time.

  A realm of shimmering skies, gentle winds, and eternal calm.

  It’s quite a nice place.

  Actually… It’s a very nice place.

  And it is home to the Celestials.

  Not gods. No, no. Let’s not get carried away.

  Celestials.

  The first of them came into being as powerful creatures — second only to the primordial deities themselves.

  They weren’t immortal, not quite. But their lives spanned ages.

  They weren’t born with power, either. Not like the gods.

  And unlike the chaotic mortals below or the arrogant gods above, the earliest celestials were... pretty chill, actually.

  So, what did they do?

  They settled down.

  Started families.

  Built happy lives in the sky.

  But that was a long time ago,

  As time passes, people change - their behaviour, their lifestyle change quite drastically, especially when you are half immortal beings, who live for centuries on end.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Kian loved life, especially when he got to go to parties in it.

  Mortals definitely knew what they were doing when they came up with the idea.

  Oh, and drinks,

  how he loved a good wine.

  And coffee, especially coffee.

  How could one think that putting fermented beans in milk would taste good.

  Come to think of it, most of the things Kian liked were made by mortals

  Guess that's why their mortals.

  Anyways, it was a dull rainy evening.

  The news channel said that the sun god was out on some business.

  Well when you gotta go, you gotta go.

  Kian couldn’t care less.

  He was having a nice day and thats all that mattered.

  With a bowl of coffee in his hand and a slice of bread in the other

  How could the day get any better.

  So there he was, just a celestial dude in pyjamas with some coffee, on his parents front porch.

  Yes Kian was 300 years old and still lived with his parents. 300 is a ripe age for a young adult its when most people find jobs and get a life for themselves.

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  But what was the point? Who cares.

  Well, that’s what Kian told himself anyway.

  Who cares, right?

  He had his routine.

  Wake up at noon.

  Sip overpriced mortal-imported coffee from oversized celestial mugs.

  Avoid divine responsibilities.

  Repeat.

  Kian was what you might call… cosmically unbothered.

  Which, in celestial society, was practically a crime.

  Not a real crime — those were reserved for things like universe-scale tax fraud or stealing star cores — but a social crime. The sort that made elderly celestials clutch their pearls and whisper things like “He’s wasting his potential” or “That boy won’t get very far in life.”

  Whatever that meant.

  Kian didn’t mind.

  He liked his quiet life.

  He liked his unremarkable status.

  He liked being completely and utterly unimportant.

  So, naturally, the universe decided it was time to ruin everything.

  It began, as most cosmic disasters do, with a spark.

  Not metaphorically.

  An actual, literal spark.

  It zipped through the sky like a rogue comet.

  Blue and silver, trailing lines of light like a calligraphy stroke gone rogue.

  It danced, it weaved, it pirouetted... and then it promptly crashed into Kian’s porch table, sending his sacred bowl of coffee flying.

  Plop.

  The universe had made its first move.

  Kian stared at the smoldering ruin of his table.

  Then at his coffee, now bleeding slowly into the floorboards.

  Then at the spark, which was now hovering midair like a smug little firefly.

  The spark hovered.

  Kian stared.

  They were both very still.

  The kind of stillness usually reserved for wildlife documentaries, right before the predator pounces.

  Or, in this case, right before the glowy, possibly cursed spark decided to do something incredibly invasive.

  It buzzed slightly.

  Not threatening, just...vibrating with anticipation.

  Kian squinted at it.

  The spark didn’t have a face.

  But if it did, it was definitely making a face at him.

  Probably that smug, all-knowing celestial grin that philosophers and prophets loved to pretend they understood.

  Kian pointed at it with one cautious finger.

  “You better not.”

  The spark pulsed innocently.

  “I swear on every last bean of coffee in this realm, if you do something weird—”

  ZIP.

  The spark shot forward before Kian could finish that sacred oath.

  “AAAAAAAAAAA!”

  — was Kian’s very dignified reaction as the spark slammed into his chest, slithered up his arm, and burned itself into his forearm like a shooting star leaving a scar.

  A brand of swirling silver and pale gold lit up on his skin, glowing with a heartbeat not his own.

  Kian stared at it in horror.

  “OH NO. NOPE. NO THANK YOU. I DID NOT CONSENT TO THIS.”

  Kian stared at the glowing mark on his arm like it had just insulted his fashion sense and cursed his bloodline in the same breath.

  He bolted upright, knocking over his chair in the process.

  “NOPE. NOPE. THIS IS FIXABLE. I CAN FIX THIS.”

  He sprinted into the kitchen, shoved his arm into the basin, and slammed his hand down on the water rune.

  Water burst out like a small waterfall, and he began scrubbing. Wildly. Desperately.

  “I’m TOO YOUNG FOR DIVINE SYMBOLISM!”

  he screamed, rubbing faster.

  “I STILL LIVE WITH MY PARENTS!”

  The mark pulsed back gently like it was enjoying a nice spa day.

  Kian was not enjoying anything.

  Then everything... tilted.

  The sink spun.

  The kitchen lights danced.

  His vision tunneled like a drain swirling shut.

  And with all the grace of a half-conscious celestial with soap suds in his hair,

  Kian fainted.

  Collapsed right there — one arm still halfway in the basin, the other twitching slightly, glowing softly beneath the warm kitchen light.