Little Pink Starfish

“Basketball…?”

Jung Noeul tilted her head at the suggestion.

“So you’re saying… I should try playing basketball?”

“It was just an example.”

There was no need for her to actually play basketball.
The point was the message: achieving something without the help of a Constellation.

“…Still, choosing basketball specifically is kind of rude. Are you teasing me for being the shortest?”

She pouted and muttered, then leaned in with a sly smile.

“You saw it before, remember? I’m going to be taller than you someday.”

“Wow, good for you…”

I sighed.

“Anyway, it doesn’t have to be basketball—just something in a similar vein.”

“Basketball sounds good.”

Surprisingly, Noeul agreed right away.

“A short kid who works hard to make up for the lack of height with skill… sounds like something out of a manga, right?”

Fair enough.

I felt like I’d read a manga like that before too.

“Basketball, huh…”

Noeul wrapped her hands around a glass of fresh juice, deep in thought.

“Someone not that tall working hard to excel in basketball… yeah, it really does sound like a manga.”

I nodded at her words.

“Right? Feels like something that only happens in manga…”

“Which is exactly why it seems fun.”

Noeul smiled.

“So is basketball confirmed for Noeul?”

Suddenly, Han Iro chimed in while placing a glass of juice beside me. The fruits were from his grandmother’s house, blended in the mixer.

I took a sip.

‘…It’s good.’

A smile crept onto my face.

“So then… what should I do?”

Han Iro sat down, scratching his head.
The sunlight coming in from the kitchen window lit up his face.

“Something I want to accomplish without a Constellation’s power…”

He crossed his arms and pondered for a while.

“…What if I tried to grow flowers in a desert city?”

“A desert…?”

I echoed, and Iro nodded.

“Constellations sponsor people through individual contracts. Their powers aren’t what you’d call universal miracles, right? In my case, thanks to the goddess’s power, I can hide my scars. But that’s only because I made a contract with her.”

But—

He muttered,

“…It’s not like she’s going around hiding everyone’s burn scars, right?”

He was right.

The power of the Constellations, while bordering on miraculous, was dispensed like a one-on-one transaction in a game.

Only individuals could receive their support.
The use of large-scale miracles had been banned by ‘The Savior Who Is One and All’ from the very beginning.

So no Constellation could rain down miracles to make flowers bloom in a desert.

“Sure, some might grant their contractors the ability to grow flowers in a desert…”

Iro rested his chin on his hand.

“But that would mean only one person could do it. Just one person in a vast desert… that doesn’t sit right with me.”

So then—

“…What about being someone who researches how to grow flowers there?”

“Not bad.”

I responded honestly.

“So I’m a short kid who wants to play basketball… Iro hyung is a researcher trying to make flowers bloom in the desert…”

Noeul scratched the back of her neck and said,

“…We’re all picking things that people generally think are impossible.”

I nodded.

We weren’t saying effort alone could achieve the impossible.

Rather, we believed that the motivation to keep trying, even if failure was inevitable, lived inside the human mind.

Even if it all ends in failure—or because we know it might—that drive is what matters.

‘If we assume the Constellations withdrew their support out of mistrust for their creations…’

Perhaps they would take back their power when they saw people like this.

---

There wasn’t much time left.

We had to release our debut song before the end of the year.

Min Heejae’s working speed was almost absurd.
Even though the lyrics weren’t complete, he had already begun shaping the framework of the song using the ideas I’d been giving him.

“You must’ve had a lot of songs you wanted to make.”

He shrugged with a gentle smile, and I thought again—what a monster of a person.

Our debut song, tentatively titled “A World Where the Constellations Are Gone”, was shaping up to be a bright, string-heavy track with a pop base.

Heejae was generating tons of variations based on this foundation, and even though the songs had the same core, each one sounded distinctly different.

We’d probably finalize which one to go with once my lyrics were done.

Since the sound was progressing faster than the lyrics, instead of Heejae getting inspiration from my writing, I was now the one who had to draw inspiration from his melodies.

‘…The eternal chicken-and-egg problem.’

Still, I couldn’t shake the sense of inadequacy. I felt like I wasn’t pulling my weight.

In the meantime, our meeting schedule kept piling up.

As we spoke with experts from various industries and heard about their work…

“Great concept.”

“A world without Constellations, huh…”

Every time I heard such comments, the pressure weighed heavier on my back.

Of course, I wasn’t the only one struggling to come up with ideas.

“I… don’t know what I should do.”

Madojin was having a hard time deciding what he wanted to achieve without the help of a Constellation.

“Hmm… I don’t know either…”

I exhaled softly.

Madojin sat on the edge of my bed, head lowered.

His pastel-colored pajamas looked oddly out of place on his large frame.

‘…Did he pick those himself?’

Due to all the implanted knowledge he’d received, I couldn’t say his mental age was exactly low—but it wasn’t exactly high either. It hadn’t even been a year since he’d been brought back to life by Enoch.

When you’re young, you act on instinct.

To develop more complex motivations, you have to live a bit first.

Having only recently started blending into human life, the theme of our debut song probably felt quite abstract to him.

“…Is there really nothing you want to achieve without a Constellation’s power?”

I asked, and after a pause, Madojin replied,

“If not for a Constellation’s power, I wouldn’t exist in this world.”

…He had a point.

“I was a life that died before I could even be born from my mother’s womb. That’s not something humans could fix, is it? That’s probably why I can’t think of anything.”

Madojin’s existence had always been linked to a Constellation.

And throughout his short life, he’d been constantly controlled by one.

Even if he’d broken free from Enoch now… he was no longer human. He was a celestial being.

‘And also…’

The power he’d used in CYB—implanted knowledge, the command to harm me—none of it had been his choice.

He didn’t feel the miracle.
He had been used by the divine.

‘…He was more a victim of a god’s manipulation than a recipient of its blessing.’

And his relationship with Mika was more like teacher and trainee.

Madojin still didn’t know how to live as a human.

And that was making it harder for him to find his answer.

<Then don’t think like a human.>

Suddenly, Star Fragment chimed in after reading my thoughts.

He lay sprawled out on the bed, glaring at Madojin like this was all a huge hassle.

He’d been unusually irritable lately, probably because Mika had been dragging him around to teach him how to do road manager duties.

<Hey, trainee angel.>

He addressed Madojin mid-chew on a snack.

“…Yes.”

Madojin nodded.

<You’re not human. Trying to think like one will get you nowhere.>

“That’s kind of harsh.”

I shot him a look over my laptop.

<I’m just stating facts. Sure, you’re acting like a human for now, but eventually, you’ll ascend with that Mikael brat to the Celestial Realm. Though, that probably won’t happen for another 500 years…>

He gave a lazy grin.

<…And 500 years is plenty of time to erase whatever humanity remains in you.>

Humans only live around a hundred years.

What does it mean to live for 500?

Can you still be called human?

Probably not.

Enoch had once been human too.

But the way he revived Madojin and used him…
The way he tried to kill me to achieve his goal—

It was hard to see any humanity in that.

“…Will I become like Enoch someday?”

Madojin asked Star Fragment.

<Who knows?>

Star Fragment chuckled.

<From my perspective, Enoch’s just a rookie angel who got a nepotism promotion thanks to Daddy’s favoritism… But from your side, I guess it does seem like he’s lived an eternity.>

That was true.

Even during his human years, Enoch had lived 365 years.

Then he’d supposedly ascended with ‘The Savior Who Is One and All.’

So the total time Enoch had lived as a celestial being…

‘…Seriously, that guy’s been around forever.’

He really had lived through something like eternity.

<You mortals don’t really understand what “eternity” means. But to me, eternity is boring. Mortals find urgency in their limited time. Immortals like me… time loses meaning. You can just put everything off till tomorrow.>

“Yet you’ve been very busy lately, haven’t you?”

I teased.

<…Shut up.>

Star Fragment ground his teeth.

<Anyway, trainee angel.>

He turned back to Madojin.

<You’re suffering because you keep trying to think like a human. Face it—after your contractor here dies of old age, you’ll still be around.>

“When Eunyul dies…”

Madojin looked up at me.

“I’ll still have to keep living…”

<Exactly.>

Star Fragment replied.

<So think about it. In that near-eternal span of time… what kind of existence do you want to be? That eternity… a Constellation can’t help you with it. You’re already becoming something close to a Constellation yourself. Meaning—>

That Madojin might end up like Enoch one day.

Of course, I didn’t believe he would, but… who could say for sure?

And no Constellation could shape Madojin’s future.

Even a Constellation can’t control a life that’s already stepped into their realm.

“I see.”

Madojin’s eyes widened as if he’d realized something.

Then he turned to me.

“…Eunyul, I want to become an angel.”

“You already are one…”

I replied with a helpless laugh.

And so—

Madojin decided that his “true form” would be his concept.