Star Academy · Conversa

As the great bronze gates of Star Academy, etched with astral runes, slowly creaked open, Meixing had her face pressed against the carriage window, her warm breath fogging over the reliefs of the twelve constellations. She clutched the vial of star sand her father had slipped into her pocket before departing, his parting words still echoing in her ears: "Go find the Heartstone." She couldn't understand it—her admission letter clearly said "Freshman Orientation." At the very same moment, Philo stood alone at a fork in the road, her fiery orange hair caught in the morning breeze. She looked down at the crumpled recommendation letter in her hand, the embossed emblem of the "Pandora Fantasy Society" shimmering faintly in the dawn light. She hadn't told anyone that last night, the astrolabe had foretold: "An anomaly shall arise." A metallic clash echoed in the distance, and she leaned aside on instinct—a training magic bullet grazed the ends of her hair and struck the plane tree behind her. A young man stepped out from behind the trunk, shaking out his numbed wrist. "Sorry, couldn't quite control the recoil." The constellation pocket watch at his wrist suddenly flared burning hot; its lid snapped open, and the hands began spinning backward wildly. Meanwhile, on the slope of evening primroses to the west of the academy, Xiaoyue was tiptoeing to reach a flower stem bent under the weight of morning dew. Hearing footsteps behind her, she turned to see a blond boy walking over, laden with a heavy stack of magical tomes. At the very top, a volume titled *Origins of the Heartstone* teetered precariously. "Let me help," Xiaoyue offered, reaching out to steady the spine. From the distant clock tower, the first bell tolled for class, startling a courtyard full of white doves into the sky. Meixing was the first to burst into the classroom, the hem of her skirt knocking over a cauldron rack by the door. Without missing a beat, Philo flicked the tip of her wand, deftly catching a potion bottle just before it shattered. Leaning by the window, Zhijiang wiped down his equipment, his gaze drifting toward the hallway—where Xiaoyue and Beilin were walking side by side, conversing in hushed tones about the constellation charts from the ancient texts. Above them, the wheel of the twelve zodiac signs turned silently across the vaulted ceiling, while deep within the sanctuary's altar, the first fine hairline crack split across the Heartstone.