The winter had been unending.

Snow lay heavy on the mountains, a pale shroud over the world, and the wind howled through the valleys like the voices of the dead. Villagers on the lower slopes of Mount Fujikasane huddled in their homes, praying for warmth that never came.

Then, on a night when the moon was thin and the clouds thick, the wind stopped.

Silence fell—a silence so complete it felt unnatural. The clouds parted, revealing a sky so vast and clear it seemed to stretch into eternity. Then, from that dark ocean above, a single star fell.

It was slow, graceful, trailing a tail of silver light. Then another fell. And another.

Within moments, the heavens were ablaze. Thousands of stars rained down like silver fire, cascading in slow, beautiful arcs across the night. The snow caught their glow, shimmering as if the earth itself had turned to crystal. People emerged from their homes in awe, whispering prayers to the gods, wondering what omen had come upon them.

But far above, in a place no villager could reach, something far greater was unfolding.

At the mountain’s summit stood the Celestial Shrine, a place few mortals had ever seen. Its pale stone steps were worn smooth by centuries of wind, and its vermilion torii gate was faded but unbroken. Tonight, its courtyard glowed brighter than it had in a hundred years.

Shouen, the shrine’s lone keeper, had been tending the sacred fire when the first star fell. Drawn by a strange warmth outside, he stepped through the torii—and stopped.

At the gate’s base, half-buried in untouched snow, lay a basket.

Shouen’s heart pounded as he approached. Inside, wrapped in silk unlike anything he had ever seen, was a newborn girl. The fabric shimmered faintly, as if woven from threads of moonlight and stardust. Her tiny fists were curled, her breath soft and steady despite the cold.

But what truly stole his breath was her hair—longer than any newborn’s, silver-white and faintly glowing in the starlight.

Her eyes opened, and Shouen froze. They were gold, ringed with a halo of soft light that seemed to pulse in rhythm with the falling stars. The heavens themselves reflected in them.

The stars slowed. One, brighter than the rest, streaked directly overhead and bathed the child in a warm, celestial glow. Then it vanished beyond the horizon, and the sky returned to its quiet watch.

Shouen whispered a prayer, his voice trembling. This child is not of this world.

When the Master of the Demon Slayer Corps, Kagaya Ubuyashiki, arrived at the shrine hours later, the stars brightened upon his arrival, casting the newborn in an ethereal glow.

Shouen handed the girl to him with reverence.

“She came with the stars,” he murmured.

Kagaya gazed at her for a long moment, and a faint, knowing smile touched his lips.

“No,” he said softly. “She is the stars.”

And under the fading glow of that miraculous night, he named her:

Amaya Hoshigaki — Night Rain, Fruit of the Stars.

The Celestial Estate was unlike any place in the mortal realm.

Suspended between heaven and earth, it existed in a perpetual twilight, neither day nor night, yet illuminated by a soft, silvery glow that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The air was fresh and cool, scented with blossoms that bloomed all year. Ponds mirrored constellations that shifted as they pleased, and the trees whispered secrets in a language only the wind understood.

This was the world where Amaya Hoshigaki took her first steps.

From the moment she could walk, the stars seemed to answer her.

When she laughed, faint motes of silver light floated through the air around her. When she spun, a comet‑like trail shimmered briefly behind her. Her presence had an unexplainable gravity—drawing attention without asking for it, commanding stillness without force.

The Kakushi who tended the estate had served the Demon Slayer Corps for generations, yet even they struggled to put into words what it felt like to be near her. They moved silently in her presence, not out of duty alone, but out of awe.

When she was four, Amaya wandered into the central courtyard barefoot.

Her silver‑white hair, too long for a child her age, spilled down her back, catching the glow from the lanterns that never burned out. In the middle of the courtyard lay the great Star Pond, its surface still as glass, reflecting a sky full of constellations.

She crouched at the edge, her golden eyes fixed on the reflection. Then, softly, without thinking, she began to hum.

The melody was simple, almost like a lullaby—yet no one in the estate had ever heard it before.

At her voice, the water began to ripple, not from wind or touch, but as though stirred by invisible hands. And then, impossibly, the stars in the pond’s reflection began to shift. Slowly, methodically, they realigned into new shapes—strange constellations no human had ever charted.

The Kakushi watching from the veranda froze.

It wasn’t a trick of the light. It was as if the heavens themselves had bent down to answer her song.

When she finished humming, the pond went still, and the constellations returned to their usual positions. Amaya tilted her head, blinking as though waking from a dream, and wandered off without a word.

That night, the Kakushi whispered among themselves: She calls to the stars.

By six, her strange abilities had grown stronger.

If she held her hands apart, small orbs of starlight would gather between them, floating lazily like fireflies before fading. She would send them drifting across the gardens, laughing softly when they landed on the branches of the blooming sakura trees.

It was around this time that the Master himself began to visit her more often.

Kagaya Ubuyashiki never rushed her training. He would simply watch as she explored the estate, his faint smile never leaving. When he did speak, it was always to ask her questions that made her think—about what she saw in the stars, about the shapes in the constellations, about what she felt when she moved her small practice sword.

When she turned seven, she was given her first real wooden blade.

It was light in her hands, perfectly balanced for her small frame. The first time she took her stance, her posture was so steady it was as if she’d done it a hundred times before. Each strike she made was deliberate, each step precise.

One afternoon, while training in the courtyard, she struck three times in the air—smooth, flowing motions. At the final cut, a faint arc of silver light traced her blade’s path and lingered for a heartbeat before fading.

The Kakushi watching exchanged uneasy glances.

The Master only nodded, his voice soft.

“The stars are already guiding her blade.”

But it was the nights that truly revealed her nature.

Amaya had a habit of climbing to the highest balcony in the estate after everyone else had gone to rest. Barefoot, wrapped in a light robe, she would sit cross‑legged and gaze upward for hours. Sometimes she whispered, sometimes she simply stared.

And sometimes… the stars answered.

Once, a shooting star fell so close in the reflection of the pond below that the air seemed to hum with its passage. Another time, the constellations shifted almost imperceptibly, forming a shape that lingered just long enough for her to smile at it.

No one knew what passed between her and the heavens in those moments.

But they knew she did not look at the stars the way others did. She looked at them as one looks at old friends.

Her bond with the Master was quiet, but strong.

Though she was young, she understood that she was not like the others in the estate. She was being prepared for something, though she did not yet know what. Kagaya never lied to her, but neither did he reveal too much.

“Your path will not be easy, Amaya,” he told her one evening as they walked through the glowing gardens. “But the heavens do not give gifts without purpose. And you… you were born with theirs.”

She did not fully understand, but she nodded. And deep inside, she felt the truth of it.

⸻

Years later, when she would stand beside the Nine Hashira in battle, she would remember these quiet days—the silver gardens, the glowing ponds, the balcony where the stars bent close to listen. She would remember the soft voice of the Master and the way the air always felt lighter here.

But for now, she was still a child of the estate. A child who laughed when the blossoms glowed, who danced with drifting starlight, and who sang to the heavens with a voice they could not ignore.

The Celestial Estate was her sanctuary.

And somewhere far beyond the veil, the stars were watching.

The Celestial Estate was never truly still.

Even in the soft twilight hours, there was always the sound of wind whispering through the sakura trees, or the faint ripple of water in the Star Pond. But on this night, when Amaya was barely nine years old, the air felt… different.

Heavier.

She had been reading by lamplight in her chambers—a scroll of old constellations drawn by hands long dead—when the lamp’s flame sputtered. The silvery glow of the estate seemed to dim, like a lantern covered by a shadow.

A chill ran down her spine.

She rose, padding silently across the tatami mats, and slid her door open. The corridor beyond was empty, but the soft hum of the estate’s magic felt muted, like the deep breath before a storm.

She had never seen the sky above the estate completely dark. Until now.

Amaya hurried to the central courtyard. The Star Pond, usually a perfect mirror of the heavens, was black. Not the deep, endless black of space—but a heavy, suffocating void.

She knelt at the edge, her heart pounding. “Why…” she whispered. “Why have you gone silent?”

The water rippled in answer, though no wind stirred. A shape began to form in the void—two eyes, wide and lidless, glimmering faintly red. A low, distorted growl reverberated through the air, not from the pond, but everywhere at once.

Amaya stumbled back.

This was no star.

From the shadows beyond the torii gate, a form stepped into the courtyard. It was human‑shaped, but too tall, its limbs too thin, its skin pale as moonlight. Black veins crawled up its neck and face, and its mouth was full of jagged teeth. A demon—yet nothing like the ones she’d glimpsed in the Master’s illustrated records.

It tilted its head, eyes fixed on her. “A little one,” it rasped, its voice like rust scraping stone. “And yet… you reek of the heavens.”

She swallowed hard, her small fingers curling into fists. “You are not meant to be here.”

It laughed—a sound that made the air twist unnaturally around her. “Nor are you.”

Amaya had trained with her wooden blade every day, but she had never drawn a real one. Not until now. From the wall rack near the veranda, she pulled down a sheathed katana meant for practice drills. Her hands trembled as she slid it free, the steel whispering like a living thing.

The demon took a step forward, its feet making no sound on the stone. “Do you know what happens to children when they stand alone?” it asked.

Her fear was real—but so was the voice in her mind, the one that had always been there when she looked at the stars.

You are not alone.

And then she felt it—heat in her chest, rising, spreading through her limbs. Her vision sharpened. Above the estate, the darkness shifted, revealing a single point of light piercing the void. It grew, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat.

The demon lunged.

Amaya stepped aside, the movement almost instinctual, her blade flashing upward. The steel bit into its shoulder, and silver light erupted from the wound, searing like fire. The demon shrieked, reeling back, clutching at the smoking gash.

Amaya didn’t understand what had happened—but the star above her pulsed brighter. Silver motes began to fall from the sky, landing on her blade, coating it in a faint glow. Her breath slowed, deepened, and without meaning to, she whispered words she had never been taught:

“Celestial Breathing, Seventh Form—Silver Veil.”

Light exploded around her, forming a shimmering barrier between her and the demon. The creature struck at it, but each blow dissolved into harmless sparks.

Still, the barrier wavered. She could feel her strength bleeding away. This form wasn’t meant for a child—it was raw, unshaped power, and it was eating at her limbs like fire.

The voice returned, urgent now.

Strike. End it.

The barrier collapsed into a rain of motes, clinging to her blade. Her feet shifted into a stance she did not remember learning—low, balanced, her weight perfectly centered. The air around her stilled.

She exhaled.

“Final Form… Heavenfall.”

The world seemed to slow. The star above flared, bathing the estate in silver light. Her blade moved in a single, perfect arc—neither too fast nor too slow, but inevitable. It cut through the demon’s neck like silk.

The head hit the ground, dissolving before it could bounce. The body followed, breaking apart into fine dust that scattered on an unfelt wind.

When it was over, the estate’s glow returned. The Star Pond shimmered once more with the constellations, the sky overhead alive with their watchful light.

Amaya’s knees buckled, the katana slipping from her grasp. She fell forward, catching herself on her palms, gasping for air. Her arms trembled violently.

“Amaya.”

The Master’s voice came from the veranda. Kagaya Ubuyashiki stepped into the courtyard, his pale features calm but his eyes unreadable. Behind him, several Kakushi rushed forward but stopped when he raised a hand.

“You called upon Heavenfall,” he said softly. “Too soon.”

She swallowed, tears pricking at her eyes. “I… I didn’t mean to.”

He approached, kneeling so they were at eye level. “The stars never act without reason. Tonight, they tested you. And you prevailed.”

“I was afraid,” she admitted, her voice small.

“As you should be,” he replied, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Courage is not the absence of fear—it is the choice to act in spite of it.”

That night, she lay in her chamber, unable to sleep. Through the open shoji, she could see the stars above the balcony. One in particular—bright, steady—seemed to pulse faintly, as if in acknowledgment.

She whispered, “Thank you.”

Somewhere deep in her chest, warmth answered.

She didn’t know it yet, but this was the beginning of her life’s true path—the first step toward becoming the unseen shield of the Nine Hashira, the guardian they would never know walked beside them.

The stars had chosen her.

And one day, she would understand why.