✧ ✧ ✧
Night fell upon the divine kingdom of Zehpyrios.
An incredible spectacle was unfolded in the sky.
Mortal eyes would be hypnotized: countless stars and constellations danced together in a celestial harmony that, to the gods, was nothing out of the ordinary.
As the wondrous starry dance continued, some people settled into comfort after a long day within the domain of the God of Hope.
✶ ✶ ✶
Meanwhile, Adam lay on his bed, enjoying a brief moment of sweet rest.
"I wonder if this world is really worth all the trouble."
That thought kept trotting around in his mind.
The day had been exhausting, and the young boy knew that even greater challenges awaited him.
"No."
He shook his head, as if rejecting a wrong answer.
"My main goal is to find a way to go back home… and to see whether my brother has any chance of returning as well. Yes. That's it."
He jumped out of bed with sudden excitement—then immediately stumbled.
BAM!
His cheek turned slightly red from the fall, but the pain didn't bother him.
What bothered him was the uncomfortable feeling of being selfish.
He frowned, reminded of the true reason behind his sudden arrival in Astra.
"Heroic duty, my ass! I was torn from my home to fix other people's problems when I can't even fix my own. I hate this situation!"
Anger bubbled inside him.
He wanted to scream, but held himself back—he was staying in the house of a god.
Maybe the god was even listening. If he noticed Adam cared little about his mission, he might eliminate him… or simply withdraw his support.
"Haaah…"
He sighed in defeat. Everything that had happened to him was frustrating, but he could only advance step by step.
As he lay down again, a strange calm washed over him.
Resentment faded, replaced by a quiet sense of peace.
A few moments later, he fell asleep.
A faint glow appeared on his forehead—
Adam was being pulled into his memories.
··· 2 years earlier ···
When he was fourteen, in sixth grade, Adam was arguing with his brother Abdillah.
They were heading home when they met an old man who asked for help carrying cassava.
A blond boy with black hair stared ahead with an annoyed expression.
"Fuck! I'm hungry and I just got out of school. Why should I care about other people?"
He didn't have time to complain further before his name was shouted.
"Adam!"
A young black man, slightly shorter than him, called out.
It was his older brother, Abdi. A wild beard and mustache covered his face, his brown skin deepened by the sun. He had big curly hair — an average appearance, but if he cared more, he could've looked cool. His tense expression showed the effort he was making.
"Come help me, and be a little nice, will you?"
Adam finally approached and lifted a bag of cassava.
The bag was heavy but manageable — about fifteen kilos.
What bothered him wasn't the weight, but the discomfort.
It was an improvised bag made from cement sacks, slippery and hard to grip. It kept sliding from his hands, but each time he tightened his grip and pulled it back.
"Marahaba, watro tro." (Thank you, child.)
The old man thanked them in Comorian language.
He wore what people called service clothes — the kind used for fieldwork.
A thick, worn tracksuit, a faded military jacket, heavy boots.
A huge machete rested in his right hand.
With a thick gray beard covered his chin, and his shaved head reflected the sun like polished stone.
They walked along the slanted road under the crushing afternoon sun.
It was around two o'clock — that unforgiving hour when the heat clung to the skin like a second, unwelcome shirt.
The old man led the way, silent as always.
Each step sounded steady, familiar, like someone who had walked these roads for decades.
He was a bit short of breath, not because of the cassava or the climb — simply because age had begun whispering reminders into his bones. Still, he held on without a single complaint.
The sunlight glared directly onto his shaved head, making it shine so brightly that Adam couldn't help thinking it looked like a solar panel absorbing every ray of heat.
Adam squinted, annoyed by everything — the sweat on his neck, the heaviness of the cassava bag, the rough fabric scraping his palms.
But more than anything, he was annoyed by Abdi.
Not the houses.
Not the weather.
Not even the errand.
Abdi.
Hypocrite… greedy… lazy… always teasing people… and now pretending to be the kind saint helping the old?
It drove Adam crazy.
At fourteen, he didn't have the patience to deal with what he saw as Abdi's "fake good deeds," the little heroic moments he performed from time to time — like trying to redeem himself or prove something no one had asked for.
He acts like an angel now, but tomorrow he'll be annoying again. And yet he wants me to help him? Tsk…
Still, Adam followed.
Because despite everything he thought of his brother, he knew Abdi wasn't a bad person. Just… frustrating.
The road gradually took them uphill, past a strange mixture of homes —
tin-roof houses patched with metal plates, their walls warped by time… and right beside them, bright villas with clean pillars and white gates, cohabiting in a disorder that somehow worked.
Finally, the old man slowed down and pointed at a wide gate leading to a large villa.
He stopped in front of it and turned to them.
"Ndavanu, maraheba. Mgu na mba rakini."
That was all he said.
Here we are, thank you. May God bless you.
His voice was soft but sincere.
He took the cassava from them — surprisingly firm despite the small tremor of age — then pushed the gate open and walked inside without another word.
Adam exhaled sharply, relieved.
His shirt clung to his back.
His stomach twisted with hunger.
Abdi wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
"Well… that's done. Let's go home."
Adam rolled his eyes and stuffed his hands in his pockets.
Yeah, great. Until the next time he wants to act holy…
They walked away from the villa, heading downhill between the tin houses and bright walls.
A warm breeze rose, dust lifting briefly around their feet.
As they continued down the narrow path, the wind brushing dust around their ankles, Adam let out a small sigh. He glanced at his brother's back—the broad, tired shoulders, the uneven steps, the stubborn posture of someone who never asked for help but always pretended not to need it.
Without thinking, he whispered:
"…You're strange, Abdi."
It came out almost accidental, barely louder than the wind.
Abdi stopped for a second, as if the words tugged gently at him, then resumed walking.
"Strange, huh?" he muttered with a crooked smile. "Maybe. But not for the reasons you think."
Adam looked away, pretending he hadn't said anything.
But Abdi was already speaking again, his voice quiet at first, then slowly gaining weight.
"Look… I know what you think of me," he said. "I'm not blind. I tease people, I get lazy, I get selfish. I complain a lot. I… mess up."
His fingers drummed nervously against his thigh—an unusual gesture.
"I'm not a good person, Adam. I've never pretended to be. I'm not kind or selfless. I'm just… trying."
They walked in silence for a few seconds.
Only the wind and the distant sound of goats broke the quiet.
Then, unexpectedly, Abdi's tone deepened—almost philosophical.
"What we did back there… helping that old man…" He paused. "It wasn't a holy act. It wasn't virtue. It was hypocrisy."
Adam frowned, not expecting those words.
Abdi continued:
"I helped him because one day, I'll be the one needing help. And I know that if I don't do something—anything, even small—then when my bad day comes, the world won't give a damn about me."
He tapped his chest with two fingers.
"We don't help because we're angels. We help so we won't be forgotten when we're weak."
He let out a breath—long and raw, as if emptying something old inside him.
"That's what being human is."
Adam slowed his steps.
Abdi looked up at the sky—blazing, merciless, beautiful in its own way.
"You see, generosity… real generosity… is a luxury. It belongs to people whose hearts don't crumble when life squeezes them. Me? My heart is small. It shrinks when things go wrong."
His voice wavered—not breaking, but thick with a truth he rarely shared.
"Maybe you've already guessed it," he said quietly. "But in that, you and I… we're alike."
Adam blinked.
Alike?
Abdi continued, eyes fixed ahead, expression strangely calm:
"We only feel noble when trouble steps away for a moment. When life loosens its grip, just enough to let us breathe. Only then do we act good, as if trying to convince ourselves we aren't as selfish as we fear."
He stopped walking.
Turned to Adam.
And for once, his gaze wasn't teasing, lazy, or annoyed.
It was honest.
Deep.
Human.
"Goodness isn't natural for people like us," he said. "It's something we perform… hoping one day it might become real."
A warm gust of wind passed between them, stirring the dust.
"Maybe that's why you think I'm strange."
Abdi shrugged softly.
"But I'm just a man. Flawed. Tired. Trying to stay standing without letting my soul rot."
Then he walked again, slow and steady, like a man carrying more weight inside than outside.
They continued down the slope together, dust lifting lightly around their ankles. Neither spoke for a moment. The air was still warm, but the earlier tension had thinned, stretched out by the long road and exhaustion.
Abdi slowed his steps.
He didn't turn to Adam fully — just enough for his voice to be carried by the soft wind.
"Listen," he said quietly, "I know I mess up. I know I annoy you. I know you think I do things for show."
Adam kept his eyes on the ground.
Abdi continued, tone steady:
"But being human isn't about doing everything right. It's… trying again when you look at yourself and realise you acted wrong."
He rubbed the back of his neck, thoughtful.
"When we make a mistake, we repair it. And when we fail, we learn. That's what I believe. If we don't do that, we just stay… stuck."
He exhaled, long and tired.
"That's all I wanted to say."
Adam didn't answer, but something in him eased — not forgiveness, not admiration, but a tiny shift, like a stone moving slightly inside the heart.
They walked the rest of the road in silence.
Side by side.
··· End of Flashback ···
A slow breath left Adam's lips as the memory faded.
Darkness dissolved.
Morning arrived.
________
Adam opened his eyes to a gentle light spreading across the ceiling — soft, clean, almost translucent. Morning in Zephyrios didn't feel like Earth; the air was lighter, the shadows calmer.
He rose from the bed slowly, still half-asleep.
Something felt… strange.
Not painful.
Just different.
He ran a hand through his hair — and paused.
It slid through smoother curls than he remembered. He frowned, rubbed one curl between his fingers.
"…Huh?"
He approached the mirror.
What he saw made his stomach twist.
His face was still his, unmistakably — the bones, the expression, the slight tiredness — but there were changes. Quiet, subtle, unsettling. A sharper jawline. Clearer skin. His hair had gained a soft curl he never had. And his eyes… the black had lightened, just a shade, into something closer to pale purple-blue.
Too slight to call supernatural.
Too obvious to ignore.
His height seemed fractionally different too. He straightened. Yes. Taller.
179 cm, maybe.
"It's me… right?"
He leaned closer to the mirror.
There was no divine aura, no glow, no dramatic magic. Just a version of himself that felt… edited. As if the world had smoothed out some imperfections he hadn't asked to lose.
A quiet discomfort crawled under his skin.
He touched his face again.
"Why…?"
"If this world keeps reshaping me without asking… will I still recognize myself by the time I return home?"
No answer came.
He didn't notice the faint trace of silver that had brushed the air near his door earlier — the tiny, harmless residue of Inannael's passage. He had been asleep when she walked by. The effect was subtle enough to feel like nothing more than a good night's rest.
To him, the change had no explanation.
Only mystery.
And unease.
He washed his face slowly at the basin, the cold water grounding him. Then he dressed in the clothes Elyon had left — simple, clean, comfortable — and stepped out of his room.
The corridor was calm, filled with the soft breath of morning wind moving through barely-open balconies. Adam walked quietly, still bothered by the reflection he'd left behind.
As he rounded a corner, he saw her.
Inannael.
She stood near an arched opening, her back partially turned, long hair falling like a calm, silvery waterfall. She wasn't glowing, or floating, or performing anything divine — just standing in the gentle morning light.
Adam noticed that her presence made the air feel strangely quiet — not heavy, just aware.
When she noticed him approach, she offered a small, serene nod.
"Good morning, Adam."
Her voice carried the same tone she always used — composed, teasing, almost easygoing but there was no malice from her just a sincere concern that slightly scared the young boy.
Adam stopped a few steps away.
"…Morning."
She studied him for a second, eyes calm, unreadable.
"You seem uneasy," she said simply.
He looked away.
"Just… thinking."
She didn't pry.
Instead, she gestured lightly toward the long hallway.
"Elyon is waiting in the dining hall. Come."
Adam followed her, still lost in thought, still unsure of the changes in his body, still carrying the memory of Abdi's last words.
Trying again.
Repairing.
Learning.
Maybe that was all he had for now.
But it was enough to walk forward.
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Author's Note
Thank you for reading this chapter of Life in Astra.
As always, I salute every one of you who follows the story.
But I must be honest: I'm a bit disappointed. I don't see comments, reviews, or reactions anymore. It feels like I'm writing into silence.
So for now, I'll reduce the chapter word count until I see a little more support or feedback. Even a small comment helps keep the flame alive.
Thank you again for staying with the story.
See you in the next chapter.