Chapter 23: The One Who’s Strong Isn’t the Star Origin, but Tendou Himself

Chapter 23: The One Who’s Strong Isn’t the Star Origin, but Tendou Himself

Three days after the final examination—inside the medical wing of Ember Base.

“...Ugh.”

With a faint groan, Chen Kong slowly opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was a blinding white light that stabbed straight into his pupils.

He instinctively tried to raise a hand to block it—only to realize that his entire body was submerged in a pale blue nutrient solution, crisscrossed with countless tubes and monitoring devices.

“Doctor! Chen Kong’s awake!”

One of the nurses on duty cried out the moment she noticed the boy, who had been unconscious for three whole days, finally regained consciousness.

A few minutes later, the attending doctor rushed over. After a thorough round of checks, they came to a unanimous conclusion:

Not only had Chen Kong completely passed the danger period—his body showed no signs of lingering internal damage whatsoever.

It was almost absurd. As if the boy who had been wheeled in days ago, bones shattered and organs on the verge of collapse, had never existed.

Still, the doctors didn’t seem all that shocked.

After all, no matter how “ordinary” Chen Kong acted, he was still one of the Children of the Stars—and within the medical staff’s private gossip, that title had an unspoken translation: “little monsters.”

Because, truth be told, none of their bodies were remotely human anymore.

Even so, procedure was procedure.

After running him through another round of comprehensive scans, the team confirmed that Chen Kong’s condition was perfectly stable. He could be safely moved out of the intensive care pod and into a normal recovery room.

Upon hearing that, Chen Kong let out a sigh of relief.

After all—right now he was stark naked, floating in a tank of glowing fluid, with a whole crowd of people staring at him.

Sure, they were “professionals doing their job.”

But for a twelve-year-old boy who had recently begun to understand what privacy meant... the situation was mortifying, to say the least.

Especially since some of those professionals were very clearly beautiful nurses in their twenties.

. . .

Half a day later, dressed in a clean white patient’s gown, Chen Kong walked with careful steps through the corridor, supported by one of the nurses.

He was supposed to be resting quietly in the sanatorium for at least a few more days.

But through a few casual words from the staff, he had already learned that eleven of the other Children of the Stars had successfully obtained their own Star Origins.

And curiosity—about the power born from the fusion of a Star Origin and a Star Core—had driven him here, to their exclusive training ground.

“Eh? You’re up already?”

The moment Chen Kong stepped into the indoor arena, a lazy voice called out to him.

Lying sprawled by the wall, in the middle of what was clearly an unauthorized nap, was none other than Jing Liuli, one of the more infamous members of their group.

Her amethyst hair shimmered faintly under the light as she blinked at him with mild surprise.

“You recovered that fast?”

“Um… yeah. I just woke up this morning,” Chen Kong replied, scratching his cheek a little awkwardly.

Jing Liuli tilted her head, then—shockingly—sat up straight, abandoning her nap entirely.

“Huh. Then why aren’t you still resting in bed? If it were me, I’d stay there for at least another week!”

She puffed out her cheeks in mock annoyance.

“Do you have any idea how many times I tried to ask the medics for a sick leave? Those mean people refused me every single time! And when I kept bothering them, they said if I didn’t stop, they’d tell Instructor Tachibana about it. Can you believe that? I was so scared that even when I actually caught a cold later, I didn’t dare go near the medical bay again!”

“So—” she jabbed a finger at him dramatically, “why aren’t you enjoying such a rare chance to slack off? You’re weird!”

Chen Kong could only give a helpless laugh, rubbing his face.

Because honestly—between the two of them, she was the weird one here.

But just as he was about to reply, he suddenly froze.

Something about Jing Liuli’s appearance felt… off.

She was clearly talking fluently, even gesturing animatedly with both hands—

Yet her eyes were closed, her expression peaceful, and a faint line of drool was hanging from the corner of her mouth.

She was asleep.

Perfectly, serenely asleep.

Chen Kong stared at her in bewilderment.

And then, a familiar voice sounded from right behind him.

“That’s Liuli’s Star Origin—Daydream,” a calm voice said behind him. “Its base effect lets her maintain a deep-sleep state while still being fully conscious. In other words, her training method is… sleeping. And dreaming. A lot.”

The voice paused for a moment, carrying a trace of helpless amusement.

“Honestly, I hate to admit it—but that ability basically amplified her talent for slacking off. No one can ever tell whether she’s actually training… or just napping.”

Chen Kong turned around in surprise.

Standing there was his elder sister, Chen Xing—appearing silently behind him as if she’d materialized from thin air. He hadn’t sensed her presence at all.

A reflexive chill ran down his spine. Years of sibling-induced trauma instantly kicked in, and he lowered his head without thinking, posture small and deferential.

Chen Xing frowned slightly at the sight, the urge to scold him rising by instinct.

But then she remembered what he’d done during the final test—the way he’d fought, the way he’d refused to back down.

The rebuke died in her throat.

Instead, for once, her tone softened.

“Hold your head up, Kong,” she said quietly. “You’re not that useless boy everyone used to look down on anymore.”

“After all… if it weren’t for you, Rin and I wouldn’t have been able to hurt that thing in the first place.”

Even with those rare words of praise, Chen Kong couldn’t quite meet her eyes. Confidence wasn’t something that bloomed overnight.

Chen Xing sighed, shaking her head slightly. Then she turned toward the still-dozing Jing Liuli and held out her hand.

“Liuli, give me one of your Dream Candies.”

“No way!” Liuli hugged her pillow tight, puffing her cheeks in protest. “You still haven’t paid me back for the sweets you owe me from yesterday! And now you want more? Not happening!”

Chen Xing’s smile twitched.

“Oh?”

Her hand shot out and grabbed the front of Liuli’s pajamas. With a single firm shake—

Clatter clatter clatter!

A cascade of colorful candies spilled from Liuli’s pockets, scattering across the floor in a glittering rainbow of shapes and glints under the light.

Chen Xing crouched down, picked up one piece, and tossed the rest back into Liuli’s pocket.

“Just one,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’ll repay you later with the organization’s dessert rations.”

“Liar!” Liuli shot back immediately, sitting up and glaring. “You lost all your dessert rights to Tendou in that bet! What are you even going to pay me with!?”

“…”

Chen Xing froze. The air itself seemed to stiffen with her.

Right—thanks to that stupid wager, the next three months of her post-meal desserts now belonged entirely to Tendou.

Which meant… she had nothing.

Her expression twisted ever so slightly in embarrassment—a rare sight indeed.

Before the silence could stretch too long, Chen Kong quickly stepped in to save her.

“L–Liuli, um… you can have my dessert instead.”

At that, Liuli’s eyes snapped open for real this time, sparkling with delight.

“One month’s worth!”

“Liuli, that’s extortion,” Chen Xing snapped, glaring. “I only took a few Dream Candies from you, and you’re trying to rob my brother of an entire month’s desserts? How is that even remotely fair?”

“One week. That’s final. Or I’ll find another way to pay you back myself.”

Liuli pouted for a long moment, then finally sighed in defeat, slumping her shoulders.

“Fine, fine. One week. But you have to promise—you’re not allowed to snatch my Dream Candies ever again!”

“No problem,” Chen Xing said flatly, tucking the candy into her pocket.

Just as their sugar-based negotiation came to an end, the entire training field suddenly shook with a deafening boom.

The ground trembled violently, the floor panels cracking underfoot.

Caught completely off guard, Chen Kong staggered, his still-recovering body nearly collapsing to the floor—

But the nurse beside him reacted in time, quickly supporting him by the arm.

And as suddenly as it came, the tremor vanished—leaving behind only a heavy silence that buzzed faintly in their ears.

When the tremors finally died down, Chen Kong exhaled shakily, clutching at his chest.

“...Sis, what was that just now? Don’t tell me someone’s attacking the base?”

Chen Xing didn’t answer right away. Her expression was unreadable—calm, but with a faint trace of irritation—as if she didn’t particularly want to explain.

Jing Liuli, on the other hand, had no such restraint.

She waved her hand lazily, tone as casual as if she were talking about the weather.

“Relax~ it’s nothing. Probably just Tendou experimenting with his Star Origin again. Happens all the time.”

“...Huh?”

Chen Kong blinked in disbelief.

That level of shaking—walls rumbling, ground splitting—was “nothing”? What kind of Star Origin research could cause something like that without blowing up the entire facility?

“Was the Star Origin that Tendou’s got that strong?”

At his question, Jing Liuli made a strange face—as if she couldn’t believe he’d just said something so innocent.

Before she could even reply, Chen Xing cut in, her voice calm and certain.

“Kong,” she said quietly, “it’s not the Star Origin that’s strong. It’s Tendou.”

“Because honestly—if it weren’t him, I can’t imagine anyone who could push that Star Origin to this level of development.”

The words made Chen Kong’s curiosity flare even stronger.

Just what kind of training—or madness—was Tendou conducting to shake the entire base like an earthquake?

Sensing that interest, Chen Xing gave a soft snort and turned toward the exit.

“Come on. If you want to see, then I’ll take you. He doesn’t mind others watching anyway.”

As they started walking, her tone grew almost reflective.

“Three days ago, Tendou said something that stuck with me. He said—‘Only the weak waste their time worrying about being targeted. They tiptoe through life afraid of shadows. The strong, however—move through heaven and earth with absolute confidence. They fear nothing.’”

“He said… a true powerhouse should live as though they alone reign supreme between heaven and earth.”

Chen Kong’s mouth twitched slightly. He could hear Tendou’s smug voice in his head, dripping with that same unshakable arrogance.

“Yeah… that really does sound like something Tendou would say.”

Chen Xing gave a low, almost dismissive huff.

It wasn’t that she disagreed—she simply didn’t like being reminded of him.

After all, she’d once believed—naively—that by obtaining a Star Origin of her own, she could finally close the distance between them.

She’d trained harder than anyone, pushed her body beyond its limits, clawed her way up with everything she had.

But the brutal truth had struck her again three days ago.

After all her effort—after awakening her Star Origin—the gap between her and Tendou hadn’t shrunk.

It had grown wider than ever.

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