Hoshizora

“You may think it’s a show. But the curtain never falls. It only shifts.”

— Seraphis Nightvale, Librarian of the Last Home

NOTE: Work In Progress - sub articles are coming.

Hoshizora does not sleep.
It changes costume.

The lights are constant, but the rhythm is not.
By day, it is romantic: all candy-coloured charm, polished storefronts, and glowing vending machines.
By night, it burns: spotlights in alleyways, magic on rooftops, and rival factions beneath the glitter.

People come here to fall in love, to be seen, to chase something that doesn’t exist.
Many find what they’re looking for.
Some do not remember what they lost in exchange.

Most never notice the difference.

Where Neon Replaces Sunlight

This is the city’s stage. The dreamscape with street names.

Every part of Hoshizora feels designed for emotional impact. The main avenues are lit in shifting gradients of violet and blue. Shopfronts compete by volume and sparkle. Pedestrian walkways glide past open-air cafés, idol billboards, and convenience stores that always seem to stock exactly what you needed—but forgot to ask for.

It looks artificial. It isn’t.
The ward simply learned long ago that sincerity sells best when wrapped in spectacle.

This is the setting for first kisses, rooftop lunches, midnight confessions, and photo-worthy breakdowns. The train always arrives on time. The music always swells at the right moment.

And the camera is always watching—even if no one is holding it.

Who Controls the Spotlight

Hoshizora is not lawless. It is choreographed.

The ward’s power structure is... layered.
Not hidden, merely distracted by aesthetics.

The official civic duties fall to the district council. They are, on paper, in control. They regulate crowd density, approve concert permits, and remind people not to levitate without clearance. But the real pulse of the ward is maintained by three groups—none of them acknowledged, all of them effective.

The first is the idol scene. Not a faction, but a force. Led by the luminous Shirayuki Rayne, the idol economy dictates event schedules, public holidays, and emotional weather. If Rayne cries on stage, the entire ward wears umbrellas the next day.

The second is the Black Orchid Society, Hoshizora’s velvet-gloved underworld. They are politeness and knives, yakuza in all but name. They keep the streets clear, the noise controlled, and the district council’s inbox mysteriously empty.

The third is the magical girls. Plural, officially. In practice: singular.
The others are missing. No one says so aloud.
And the one who remains is growing tired.

Sparkle Above, Steel Below

By daylight, Hoshizora is a postcard.

Lovers stroll beneath LED cherry blossoms. Students eat street food beside costumed mascots. Idol cafés compete for attention with bubble tea arcades and themed convenience stores. Neon foxgirls offer shrine fortunes near coin-operated karaoke booths. Everyone smiles. Everyone’s voice echoes with soft filters and stage-laughs.

Then the sun sets.

And the alleys stop pretending.

Behind the bright façades, maid cafés wage war. Rival teams defend turf with parasols, stilettos, and suspiciously military choreography. No one speaks of the bloodstained aprons. No one questions the disappearances. The waitresses remain cheerful.

Gang turf disputes play out with baseball bats and transformation sequences.
The Black Orchid’s enforcers patrol politely, bowing before breaking ribs.
And if two magical girls begin fighting mid-crosswalk, the traffic stops. Photos are taken. No one intervenes.

This is not denial. It is etiquette.

Idol Lights and Hidden Threads

There are three major idols currently adored across the ward—though to suggest they are equals would be laughable.

Shirayuki Rayne, angelic perfection and brand myth. She performs rarely, but when she does, time pauses. Her affiliated unit LUX♡SYNC handles the ground work: five talented idols with synchronised moves and merchandising contracts.

Hanabira Kotone, soloist of solitude. Her songs cause tears. Her interviews cause reflection. She does not belong to a group—she is the narrative. Fans gather in unofficial constellations to honour her silence.

Vyxen Vermielle, punk demon with weaponised voice. Her group NERVEKISS is less backup, more demolition crew. Their music leaves bruises. Their shows leave craters. Fans adore her. Property managers less so.

Each agency has its own shadow. Sponsorships vanish. Rivalries burn.
But smiles remain fixed until the cameras leave.

Maids, Gangs, and Girls Who Bite Back

The Maids of Hoshizora are not employees. They are warriors with loyalty bonuses.

Every café is its own kingdom. By day: sweetness, service, saccharine voices. By night: grudges, ambushes, unspoken truces. The streets are not safe after midnight—especially if you’re wearing the wrong apron.

The public plays along.
The council pretends not to notice.
The police arrive just late enough to sweep the glass, not the blood.

The street gangs of Hoshizora are similarly performative. Jackets are customised. Codes are followed. Duels are spectacular. Violence is narratively satisfying. The Black Orchid Society tolerates them—for now. As long as the streets remain beautiful, and the money keeps flowing, they are permitted to make noise.

Then there are the Dark Magical Girls.
Unofficial. Unregistered. Uninvited.

They do not follow the old rules.
They do not seek fame.
They seek feeling.

And when they arrive—
—something always breaks.

The City That Forgot Its Heroes

There used to be magical girls here. Plural.
They gave interviews. Sold merchandise. Saved the ward twice a season.

Now? There’s just one left. And no one seems to notice.

Their posters are still up. Their cafés still serve commemorative drinks. Their slogans remain etched in vending machine lights. But the names behind the logos have gone quiet.

The only one left still fights. Quietly. Relentlessly. Alone.

Ask too many questions, and the conversation turns awkward. Ask the right ones, and someone might whisper about “the girl with the whip” or “the mask that smiles too wide.”

They’re just rumours.
Except when they aren’t.

Hoshizora Believes in Second Acts

This ward does not care who you were before you arrived.

It cares how brightly you shine.
How long you last.
How many cameras stay on you when you fall.

Hoshizora is beautiful. Loud. Exhausting.
It welcomes love stories, transformation arcs, mid-season betrayals and rooftop songs.
It tolerates rebellion—until the merchandise stops selling.

The stage is never empty. The costumes are never clean.
But the lights?
The lights never go out.

Final Thought

If you must visit Hoshizora, do not forget your name.
Someone else may be wearing it by morning.

And if a maid bows too deeply?
Bow back.
She may be deciding whether or not to kill you.