When I think about constellations, I don't just see patterns of stars pinned against the darkness. To me, they feel like stories that got trapped in the sky—fragments of myth, memory, and imagination that people long before me tried to make sense of.
A constellation is really just a grouping of stars that forms a shape when you connect them in your mind. But the meaning behind those shapes? That's where things get interesting. Different cultures looked up at the same night sky and drew their own legends onto it. Heroes, monsters, hunters, guardians—entire mythologies mapped into the quiet light above.
And honestly, I get why fiction likes to treat them as gods. When I look at them, especially on a clear night, there is something ancient and watchful about them. They don't move to our rhythms. They don't age the way we do. It's easy to imagine that each constellation is a celestial being frozen mid-gesture, staring back across centuries.
So while constellations are, in a scientific sense, patterns we humans assigned to stars, they've always felt like more—like a cosmic cast of characters, each with their own story, each carrying a presence large enough that calling them "gods" doesn't seem like much of a stretch.
So that's how it hit me—no blinding light, no choir, no dramatic cosmic unveiling. Just…
◤You have died. Updating database.
Not exactly the comforting afterlife message I expected.
And then the next line slid across my vision like some bootleg anime HUD:
◤Designation: Constellation Pending…
I swear, for a moment I just floated there, stunned. Imagine spending your whole life assuming death is the end, only to wake up and realise you're being uploaded like some character file. And the kicker? I wasn't even a hardcore anime fan anymore. I'd dropped the whole phase the moment I staggered out of my first year of college, exhausted and done with tropes about reincarnated heroes and overpowered skills.
Yet here I am—living one of those tropes I stopped watching. Or… unliving it?
The funny part is, I'm not even a constellation yet. More like a candidate waiting in some cosmic queue while a system rummages through everything I ever was. My memories, my traits, my embarrassing life choices—all being processed to determine what kind of celestial story I'll represent.
If I'm being honest, I'm equal parts horrified and fascinated.
I mean… who knew death came with patch notes?
The moment the last line flashed before me, the entire void brightened.
◤Database Complete!
◤Rating Star: ★★★★★★
◤Please Enter Your Constellation Name: ______
I just stared at it—all three prompts floating in front of me like some celestial UI no one bothered to explain. Six stars. Six. As in… the highest tier I'd only ever seen given to mythic beings in those anime I used to binge before I dropped the whole habit after my first year of college.
And now the system thought I deserved that?
Honestly, I expected something way more humble. Like ★★☆☆☆☆, maybe with a warning label. But instead, here I was, apparently premium-grade constellation material even though I once managed to injure myself with a plastic spoon.
The prompt pulsed again, as if tapping its foot at me:
◤Please Enter Your Constellation Name: ______
Great. Not only am I dead, uploaded into some cosmic database, and slapped with a rating I definitely didn't earn, but now I have to pick a name that won't make me look like a complete fraud in the heavens.
I let out a breath I'm not even sure I still had and muttered to myself:
"Six stars… Me? Seriously?"
But then another thought hit me, sharp enough to cut through the initial shock.
If I'm ranked six-star… how many ranks are there?
Is six the minimum? The maximum? Somewhere in the middle?
Because honestly, the system didn't bother to include anything even remotely resembling a tutorial.
No welcome message.
No orientation guide.
Not even a cosmic FAQ.
Just "Congrats, you're dead—now pick a cool celestial name."
I glanced back at the glowing prompts floating around me, as if they might suddenly reveal a hidden info tab.
Nothing.
Not even a flicker.
◤No Additional Information Available.
…would've been nice to see, but of course, the system didn't even give me that.
I couldn't help it—I sighed. A full, defeated, soul-deep sigh that echoed in the empty expanse around me.
"Great," I muttered. "Top-tier constellation, zero-tier instructions."
If this was supposed to be some grand cosmic promotion…
Well, it would've been nice if someone had left a manual.
Now came the hardest part—naming myself.
You'd think becoming some cosmic entity would give me instant inspiration, but no. My mind turned into a barren wasteland the moment I tried to be creative.
Constellation of War?
Too dramatic. Also implies I know how to fight. Spoiler: I don't.
Constellation of Gods?
Feels like asking for divine lawsuits.
Constellation of All Constellations?
Yeah, no. That one physically hurt to think about.
I kept cycling through ideas, each one worse than the last. Everything either sounded overpowered, pretentious, or straight-up cringe. This was becoming torture.
Eventually, I gave up.
"Screw it! I'll pick this one!"
And there it appeared, glowing proudly like it wasn't an absolute disaster:
◤Constellation of the Worlds
I stared at it.
…
Heh…
Heh… heh…
What a horrible name.
Who in their right mind would choose something that sounded like a rejected title from a fantasy webnovel? Oh right. Me. Brilliant.
"Well, good thing I haven't—"
◤Constellation Name has been approved!
I froze.
"…Ah shit."
Before I could protest, the system went all-in, fireworks practically exploding behind the text:
◤Welcome, Constellation of the Worlds!
Just like that. No undo button. No confirmation prompt. No "Are you sure you want to ruin your entire cosmic image?" pop-up.
Fantastic.
I was officially stuck as that.
Then suddenly—everything blinked out.
The floating windows, the text, the cosmic UI… all gone in an instant.
And just like that, I was back in endless darkness again. No sound, no shape, just the kind of void that made you wonder if you actually existed.
"Great," I muttered into the emptiness. "Now… what happens next?"
That's when it appeared.
A single bright star—small enough to fit in my hand—sparked into existence right in front of me. It hovered there like a glowing ember, pulsing gently with a rhythm almost like a heartbeat. The warmth was faint, soft, familiar in a way I couldn't explain.
And then it started to change.
The light stretched, swirling inward and outward at the same time, as if the star was folding and unfolding itself. Its glow deepened from white to a soft blue, and the heat grew stronger, gathering into a perfect sphere. Tiny sparks broke away from its core like fragments of molten glass, orbiting in slow arcs before dissolving back into the forming surface.
I watched, breathless, as the sphere cooled.
Its brilliance dimmed, replaced by a glossy sheen—shadows and reflections playing over the surface like ripples of liquid.
And then, with a low, resonant hum, the first transformation began.
Water.
Thin streams formed from the sphere's surface, running like silver veins that grew wider, deeper, merging. In moments, the entire surface was a churning ocean—a planet of pure liquid, swirling under its own gravity. Waves had no wind to push them, but they rose and fell, creating patterns like shifting glass.
But the change didn't stop there.
The waters began to break.
From deep within, shapes pushed upward—massive cracks and ridges forcing their way toward the surface. Molten rock surged through the depths, glowing orange through the clear water as it cooled rapidly on contact.
The first landmass tore free.
Stone, still steaming, broke through the ocean's surface like the spine of some ancient creature awakening. More followed, rising from the deep in jagged slabs, forming continents that split and drifted.
The atmosphere thickened around it—mist at first, then clouds.
Rain fell, sizzling against molten surfaces, sending up towering pillars of steam.
And soon, the first volcano erupted.
Fire burst from one of the newborn mountains, painting the sky red with ash and magma. Lava spilt down its sides, carving glowing rivers across the rough terrain. Other volcanoes followed, each one adding layers of rock, expanding the newborn continents.
Little by little, the world stabilised.
The oceans calmed.
The land cooled.
Forests had not yet grown, but the soil was there—raw, untouched, waiting.
Still no life.
No movement except wind and waves and the distant rumble of volcanic breath.
It was a world in its infancy.
A blank canvas.
And somehow… I knew it was mine.
◤Enter the Planet's Name: ______
Eh… why now?
Why at this exact moment?
I barely have my head wrapped around becoming a six-star constellation, and now the system expects me to brand an entire planet?
I stared at the blank prompt, my mind utterly blank. Nothing heroic. Nothing grand. Just… nothing.
Then, before I even realised what I was doing, the words slipped out of my mouth unconsciously:
"Terra."
The glow around the floating prompt pulsed, like the system had been holding its breath for that very word.
◤Planet: Terra.
◤Congratulations on naming your planet [Terra]. All lifeforms will automatically appear on your planet.
◤Welcome to the [Primitive Age].
…Wait. What?
All lifeforms? Automatically?
Did I just… do that? Did I just name a planet and make it spawn life without even thinking about it?
I froze, staring at the empty darkness around me.
"…Like what??? Huh!? Eh!?"
Because seriously… how is this even a thing?
I was supposed to be a star in the sky, a glorified cosmic file, not some omnipotent planetary god. And yet… somehow, naming a planet had triggered what sounded like the start of an entire biosphere.
I felt a mix of awe and terror—and maybe a tiny spark of excitement.
Terra. My Terra.
Now… I had no idea what would happen next.