In the realm of Force Art, stars were all the rage for measuring mastery. And no, you weren’t having déjà vu—this wasn’t about Vision.

So, stars weren’t exactly the same as Vision’s circles. Circles measured mastery over specific spells: like, you could be a 5-circle fire mage and a 2-circle, I don’t know, mosquito zapper. Naturally, people would call you a “5-circle mage,” sizing you up by your biggest accomplishment. Meaning? Technically, yes, you could be a 9-circle bug repellant mage.

Maybe at that point, you might have been someone with a specialty in bug extermination. Yes, a literal Vision Specialty. Imagine that on a business card.

But what about Force?

Forget Burn; he was never in the league. Stars couldn’t measure him in the first place. Heck, he achieved mind-body unity before he awakened his Force.

Normal folks like Tristan and Yvolt (well, back when she was still Ysolt) actually had to struggle to figure their bodies out, step by step.

One star was where they’d find themselves when their bodies first, or maybe halfway through—or heck, maybe even before—they awakened their Force.

At that point, their body was just beginning to understand why it needed mana in the first place and was dabbling in how to make it work. Driven by the intention to be the most effective machine a human could ever control, it unlocked itself a new potential. But hey, baby steps.

Two stars meant they’d started integrating that mana with their specific body type, creating what was affectionately known as a Force Art type.

This stage was a piece of cake for most, thanks to family traits. Who didn’t love a little ancestral bonus? Unless, of course, your genetic luck decided to throw in some unexpected mutation or, let’s say, a ‘fun little twist.’ Because, surprise! Force Art types had a habit of evolving over generations.

Which brought us to three stars: the patch-up phase, where the user had to iron out those fun little ‘quirks’ and might even start finding their own ‘style.’ For first-gen Force Art types, this was their jam—no baggage, no weird family legacy weighing them down.

That was why the first three stars were a breeze, especially for those who came from a long line of Force Art masters or were born with more martial arts talent than they knew what to do with.

Four stars meant you’d reached that lofty level beyond family legacies and the limits of your wildest potential. Get to this stage, and you might qualify to be the lord of your clan, or at least an exceptional Force Master if you didn’t have one.

Heck, a lot of people felt ready to start their own clans by then.

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It was impressive, after all. Most people who reached mind-body unity were around this level. By this point, they knew their bodies like a well-read instruction manual and were prepared to micromanage every single cell—well, almost.

That would come with five stars.

Because, as you reached five stars, you essentially broke everything down and started from scratch again. It was like relearning how to breathe—no, scratch that, even how to beat your own heart.

But here’s the kicker: at five stars, you no longer needed to get overwhelmed by every little detail. You didn’t just stay aware of what your body was doing; you’d become so used to manually controlling every last thing that it was practically second nature.

Then came six stars, the stage most people aimed to reach only to… well, die.

With manual control over your body, sure, you could tack on some extra years and dodge that pesky life expectancy. You’d do your best to keep your body in top condition, just to prolong the slow-motion disintegration a bit.

This was the stage where you could even live a few hundred years.

But the ultimate stage? Seven stars. Here’s where you reached that elite level of enlightenment where you knew exactly what was best for your body… and chose to ignore it. Because even if your body turned to dust, you'd still be set on growing stronger.

This was the stage Urien Pendragon hit when he decided to die. Burn called this phase “Intention Awakening.” Not exactly a common term—since barely anyone ever achieved it.

And it wasn’t hard to see why. Breaking free from the full potential, or in this case, limitation of your physical body, brushing it aside, and forcing it to obey pure willpower was the ultimate state of control.

Burn had actually reached this phase ages ago, but back then he didn’t have the energy or the means to craft the kind of body that could obey his every whim.

But when he finally got the chance, with energy from the White Dwarf and Morgan helping with his transformation, he reached a new state entirely: Vessel Immortality.

Galahad was a Six Stars Force Master. Practically brushing up against that elusive enlightenment, teetering on the edge of it.

Percival and Landevale? They were just barely nudging their way through the Six Stars—trying to keep up, bless them.

And as for Tristan and Yvolt...

“I love you!”

SLASH!!! SPLAT!

Four stars. Both of them. But hey, somehow, that was more than enough to throw down with the top-tier crowd.

Ahlgrath’s left arm tumbled off the roof, courtesy of Yvolt’s blade. But it was unexpectedly tough. For someone with experience in the fine art of arm removal, this one had put up a surprising amount of resistance. It felt denser than an orc’s limb on its worst day.

Sure, Force masters could beef themselves up with mana, but this? This was pushing the limits of plausible arm density.

Then came the man’s laugh—a low, ominous rumble that felt more like a storm rolling in than someone enjoying a good joke.

His blood—or what passed for it—splattered the roof in thick, black droplets. Definitely not the usual red stuff. Honestly, it wasn’t even clear if “blood” was the right term. And, as if the situation wasn’t already questionable enough, something began to writhe and squirm from the freshly-made stump.

A grotesque mass of flesh began bubbling out, looking like a particularly cursed tumor from someone’s nightmares. Dark blue veins snaked through it, and the stench? Let’s just say they’d both smelled better things rotting in ditches.

“What is that?” Tristan muttered, his tone caught somewhere between horrified and insulted.

The fleshy monstrosity twisted itself into something vaguely resembling an arm—or at least a bad sketch of one. Three oversized fingers with claws poked their way through, and it radiated the kind of strength that screamed, “Try me.”

“Lowly humans…” the man hissed, his voice dripping with disdain. “Time to pencil in a meeting with your creators.”