Miracleborn Saga

The sky above Prada hadn't fully awakened. A muted blue lingered where dawn tried to break through. It was the kind of morning that held silence like breath—delicate, patient, waiting.

Henry stood by the edge of his bed in a half-lit room, barefoot on cold wood. A pot of tea steamed quietly beside a cracked window, untouched. He didn't need warmth this morning. He needed resolve.

On the wall, folded with the precision of ritual, hung the uniform: a black armed cloak with sharp silver lining, cut with the sleekness of pride and pain. The hood fell long like a shadow, stitched with faint runic embroidery—barely visible unless you knew where to look. Beside it, a worn top hat rested atop a stand, its band marked with a solitary silver star. Not just a symbol. A vow.

He reached for the cloak and slipped his arms through. The weight of it wasn't heavy, but it pressed differently. Like expectation wrapped in fabric. Like history you didn't ask for but couldn't deny.

The mirror offered no applause. Just his face. Sleep still clung to the corners of his eyes, but something else flickered deeper—determination, maybe. Or the ghost of a boy who once swore he'd never follow anyone's orders.

Yet here he was.

He buttoned the last strap over his chest, fixed the hood loosely on his shoulders, and set the hat down carefully on his head.

Then he crouched near the corner. Three kittens stirred in their makeshift bed—soft, furred, blinking at him with sleepy confusion.

"You'll have to grow up without me now," he whispered, brushing a finger behind one of their ears. "No more late-night milk. No more fingers to chase."

They mewled. One tried to climb his shoe.

He smiled faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Being a man," he muttered to himself, "ain't about proving anything. It's about standing where no one else will. Cleaning up the mess no one else wants to touch. Watching over even when no one's watching you."

A long pause.

"And sometimes… it's about leaving things you love behind. Because they need peace. And the world doesn't give it unless someone goes out there and bleeds for it."

He turned.

The front door creaked open. Cold morning air rushed in like a reminder.

Henry stepped outside.

The carriage was waiting. Its rider tipped a finger to the brim of his cap. "Vanguard, sir?"

Henry nodded and climbed in, his cloak folding neatly around him.

The wheels turned, slow at first, then faster as the city awoke in hesitant steps. The stone streets of Prada blurred past, golden roofs catching the earliest light.

Today after 9, he would stand guard not just as Henry—but as something more.

A Vanguard.

A wall between the quiet and the chaos.

The carriage wheels clattered along the cobbled street, echoing softly between rising buildings. Prada's morning was beginning to yawn awake—shops opening their wooden shutters, voices bargaining over crates of fish and bread, and children darting barefoot between merchant stalls with half-eaten fruit in their hands.

Henry leaned against the window of the carriage, one gloved hand gripping his top hat, the other resting on his knee. The sun had risen in full now, a mellow disc casting long shadows over the tiled roofs. Its golden hue hit the glass, warming his face, cutting clean across the half of him that still felt uncertain.

He looked at his reflection faintly mirrored in the glass. He didn't look like the boy who once picked fights in alleys or skipped confession. He looked like someone else now. Or maybe just the same soul—finally dressed to carry weight.

As the carriage slowed, the Vanguard Station came into view. It wasn't a grand fortress like in the capital, but there was pride in its bones. Iron-framed windows. White stone walls, freshly washed. The Vanguard insignia was carved into the arch above the gate—a silver star encased in a burning eye.

The carriage came to a halt. Henry stepped down, his boots crunching over gravel. He handed the old coachman three Gaus without a word.

"Good luck, lad," the man said gruffly, eyes crinkling. "You've got the look of someone about to write his own chapter."

Henry nodded, tucking his hat under his arm. The breeze was fresh. The kind that smelled of clean dew and the distant scent of parchment and polish.

Outside the station gates, a few Vanguards lounged casually—men and women in cloaks like his, a few smoking, a few laughing low, sharing some early-morning gossip.

"…I swear, the Minister's boy pissed himself just seein' the mask," one said with a half-smirk, drawing chuckles.

Another noticed Henry, nudging his friend with an elbow. "Fresh one," he muttered, eyeing Henry's uncreased cloak.

Henry didn't respond. He simply raised the top hat to his head, fixing it in place. The silver star caught the morning sun—subtle, but sharp. A reminder of the oaths worn, not just spoken.

The gate yawned open as he walked forward. A gust of cool wind swept across the courtyard within.

The inside of the Vanguard Station was quiet but alive. Footsteps echoed along stone floors. A pair of clerks moved with stacks of paper. A bulletin board listed names, shifts, and patrol sectors. Brass lanterns flickered gently on the walls, the light clear and crisp.

It didn't feel like a prison of duty. Not yet.

It felt fresh.

Clean. Structured. Purposeful.

Like a place for men who had stopped running from who they were meant to be.

The crisp order of the station surrounded Henry like a cathedral built from discipline. His boots echoed with each step across the polished black tiles as he moved further into the main hall, half-reading the bulletin board, half-lost in thought.

Then—

Thud.

Henry jolted backward.

A tall and fat, broad-shouldered man had collided straight into him, nearly knocking the breath from his lungs. The stranger wore the same Vanguard cloak, but with a far more worn flair—creases in the fabric, faint burn marks near the hem, and a tilted hat that gave off more swagger than protocol.

"Damn, you walk like a ghost," the man barked, before grinning wide. "Or maybe I'm just gettin' slow."

Henry steadied himself, hand briefly brushing near his belt out of habit. "I didn't see you coming."

"You're not supposed to. That's lesson one." The man extended a gloved hand, strong and calloused. "Name's Nelson Carter. Major here at the Prada station. I'm the poor bastard assigned to babysit you."

Henry blinked. "Babysit?"

"Welcome to the Vanguard, rookie."

Nelson gave him a hearty pat on the shoulder, then looked him up and down like inspecting a fresh recruit in an old army.

"You're greener than I thought." He scratched his stubble. "Still, better than the last one. Officer Andrew Fritz. You seen that lunatic?"

Henry shook his head.

"Guy farms aura like he's harvesting wheat. Meditates during raids, talks to trees, probably tries to flirt with ghosts. Brilliant, but weird. You'll see him around. He's on night watch now. Avoid sharing tea."

He reached into his cloak and pulled out something wrapped in black cloth. With one hand, he unfurled it to reveal a sleek silver-and-black revolver—elegant but utilitarian, with an ivory grip etched with the Vanguard crest.

"Your sidearm," Nelson said. "Don't drop it. Don't sell it. And if you shoot your foot, at least make it dramatic."

Henry took the revolver in both hands, the weight solid and real. His fingers wrapped around the grip, feeling the cold press of steel. This wasn't like the training models. This one had history in it.

"Is this part of orientation?" Henry asked, tucking the weapon into the holster beneath his cloak.

"Nope," Nelson replied. "This—" he jerked his thumb toward the wide doors behind them "—is."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"I've got a case. Patrol team found a cart by the west woods. Blood on the seat. No driver. No horses. Just... stillness." Nelson stepped forward, voice dropping slightly. "Normally, we'd write it off as bandits. But something feels off. Real off."

Henry stiffened slightly. His first day, and already the air felt heavier.

Nelson smirked. "C'mon, rookie. Nothing trains a man like walking into a quiet field where something unnatural might be watching."

He turned on his heel, cloak flaring behind him.

Henry looked down at the revolver one more time before following.

No training wheels. No speeches.

Just a mission.

A man's path started with the step you weren't ready for.

....

The carriage rumbled through the dirt path like a steel heartbeat—steady, grim, and braced for violence. Six Vanguards sat inside, their black cloaks swaying with each jolt of the road. No one spoke much. The silence was heavy, broken only by the distant clatter of weapons, the creak of belts, and the occasional grunt as the wheels bounced over old roots.

Henry sat beside Nelson, the revolver resting snug under his coat, fingers twitching near the grip. Across from them, four other Vanguards sat—faces half-covered by hoods, eyes fixed ahead. None of them seemed interested in conversation. They weren't rookies. Their armor was scratched, cloaks faded from sun and fire. This wasn't their first raid.

Nelson broke the silence, arms folded, boots wide apart.

"Intel says there's a bunker two miles past the Witherstone quarry. Old war shelter. Reinforced entrance. Locked from inside."

Henry glanced up.

"Bandits?" he asked.

Nelson nodded. "Real ones. Desperate types. Not the street rats who rob bread wagons. These bastards are organized. Took six civilians from the morning market. Left notes. Demands. Thought they could buy time."

He scoffed.

"They don't realize they're not dealing with town guards."

Henry swallowed. The weight in his gut didn't feel like fear—it felt like a tightening string. A pull toward a place he couldn't walk away from.

Nelson turned slightly toward him. "Your job today is simple. Eyes up. Move when I say. Shoot if you have to. And if you freeze…" He leaned in. "Make sure you freeze somewhere behind me."

One of the Vanguards chuckled darkly in the corner, checking the edge of a dagger.

Outside the window, the trees began to thin. The forest gave way to broken stone, rusted old signs, and the crumbling ruins of forgotten industry. The air grew colder. Dustier. A different kind of quiet settled over the land—the kind that only existed near places men buried their sins.

"There," said the driver from above, pointing with a gloved hand.

In the distance, nestled between jagged rocks and half-buried in dirt, was a thick iron door. Half covered by moss and time. Faint markings etched into its surface. The entrance to the bunker.

Nelson stood as the carriage slowed.

"Time to work," he muttered.

He stepped down first. The others followed, weapons drawn, boots crunching the gravel.

Henry was last.

The revolver was warm in his hand now.

He exhaled.

And descended into the earth.

The inside of the bunker was suffocating—narrow corridors lit by flickering torches, old rusted pipes trailing like veins across the ceiling. The Vanguard team moved in silence, footsteps padded, weapons drawn. Every breath tasted like mildew and rot.

Henry followed close behind Nelson, heart drumming against his ribs. The further they went, the more the walls closed in, and the faint noise of murmurs began to rise.

Then—

Voices. Boots. Movement. Too many.

From the far chamber ahead, the silence shattered.

Thirty, maybe forty bandits stormed out of the dark like a living flood, rifles raised, some with axes, others with revolvers and rusty blades. Their coats were mismatched, their eyes sharp and rabid, but their movements were rehearsed—disciplined, dangerous.

At the back of the horde stood a tall man with a long scar down his jaw and a long-barreled rifle slung lazily over one shoulder. He didn't bother drawing it.

Nelson stepped forward, calm and unconcerned, cloak brushing the dirt behind him.

"Thought you'd hide behind these walls forever, Vex?" he called out.

The bandit leader grinned, revealing missing teeth.

"You're late, Carter. Thought you'd be dead by now. I was almost disappointed."

"You always talk this much before dying?" Nelson muttered.

Then—

Gunfire erupted.

Nelson dove back just as the air exploded into chaos. Bullets sparked against walls, chunks of stone flying. The Vanguards scattered—two dashing behind a crumbled steel barrier, another diving for cover behind stacked crates. One took position behind a support pillar—until a bullet slammed into his side and flung him down with a grunt.

Henry ducked behind a half-shattered wall, breath caught in his throat, revolver shaking in his grip. He peeked out—

The injured Vanguard was crawling, dragging his leg, trying to reach the nearest cover.

And then—

A bandit aimed his rifle straight at the downed man. Finger tightening. Only seconds left.

Henry's hand raised his revolver almost on instinct, but the bandit was too far. His aim—untrained, nervous—would miss. The air blurred. Too far, too shaky.

But Henry closed his eyes.

A warmth stirred in his chest. Deep, silent, secret.

"Use it."

He spent one Luck Point.

A sharp breath.

His finger squeezed.

Bang.

The shot rang out like fate itself had pulled the trigger.

The bullet whistled clean through the bunker, striking the bandit's hand mid-squeeze—blowing it open in a bloom of blood and gunmetal. The rifle clattered. The man screamed, stumbling backward, disarmed.

The injured Vanguard didn't look back. He crawled and tumbled behind a pillar, breathing hard, out of the open.

Henry blinked. His hand was still raised. His aim still steady.

Henry didn't answer. He ducked low again, breathing hard.

Luck was real.

And now, so was war.

The air was thick with smoke and fury. Gunshots ricocheted down the stone halls of the bunker like thunder in a bottle—close, violent, and without pause. The flashes of muzzle fire lit the corridor in erratic bursts, revealing glimpses of chaos: blood splatters, broken crates, shadows moving fast between cover.

Henry pressed himself to the wall, revolver tight in hand, heart hammering like it wanted out of his chest. He counted bullets. Three left.

He peeked over the edge of a ruined metal box and fired once—

Bang. A bullet grazed a bandit's shoulder, sending him tumbling. Another shot whizzed past Henry's head. He ducked. Too close.

Then—

A noise above. A click.

He looked up.

A bandit, crouched on an upper platform, had somehow slipped through the mess. The muzzle of a long rifle pointed directly at Henry's face, not more than six feet away.

Henry's eyes locked on the barrel.

Time slowed.

He didn't even have time to lift his revolver. The bandit's finger began to move—

Crack!

A blast split the air.

The bandit's chest burst open with a thud, the rifle falling from his hands as he tumbled from the ledge in a heap.

A Vanguard leapt in from the side, having fired at full sprint. They didn't stop—just gave Henry a glance and disappeared into the smoke again, already chasing the next target.

Henry stood frozen for a breath, realization sinking in. He had been half a blink from death.

But the firefight didn't care.

The gunfire flared again.

Down the corridor, two Vanguards had engaged in close combat—one using a collapsible blade to deflect a bandit's machete, sparks flying as steel clashed. Another disarmed an enemy with a twist of the wrist and sent the man's jaw into the stone wall with a wet crunch.

To the left, a bandit tried flanking with a sawed-off shotgun—he got two steps before a bullet from the darkness blew out his knee. He screamed, fell, and was silenced by another shot to the neck.

Henry moved forward, crouched low, firing once more—bang! The shot caught a bandit in the thigh. The man dropped, rolling in agony.

Everything was noise and movement.

But somewhere in that chaos, something gnawed at Henry's gut—

Where was Nelson?

No time to think.

He loaded two fresh rounds, stood behind a low beam, and waited for the next breath of stillness.

Because in this bunker, every second could be your last.

The firefight had become a blur of smoke and shouts. Spent shells littered the floor like broken teeth. Blood streaked the stone tiles in crude trails. The remaining bandits were starting to falter—panic creeping in at the edges of their movements. Their shots grew sloppier. Their cover thinner.

But the leader, Vex, still stood tall in the central chamber, barking orders, rifle in one hand, cleaver strapped to his belt. His coat flared as he moved—confident, dangerous, and burning with arrogance.

He shouted, "Fall back! Regroup to the eastern—"

Thunk.

A faint thud echoed from behind.

Vex's voice stopped.

A shadow moved behind him.

Then—Nelson Carter stepped out of the smoke, eyes cold, lips tight, covered in streaks of dirt and blood. No cloak now. Just a man carved from raw resolve.

"You," Vex growled, twisting to aim his rifle.

But Nelson was already moving.

Crack!

Vex fired. Nelson spun to the side, the bullet slicing past his ribs. He kept advancing, eyes locked.

Vex slashed out with his cleaver. Nelson ducked low, slammed his elbow into Vex's stomach, and grabbed the bandit's wrist mid-swing, twisting it until the bone gave a sickening pop. The cleaver dropped.

Vex headbutted him in rage. Nelson stumbled back, wiping blood from his lip—and smiled.

"Cute," he muttered. "Now here's mine."

Nelson surged forward, tackled the bandit to the ground, knees pressing into his chest. With both hands, he gripped Vex's skull.

The bandit thrashed, snarling, kicking, spitting.

Nelson squeezed.

Crack.

CRACK.

With a final, brutal twist, the skull gave way like rotten fruit, collapsing inward with a wet crunch. Blood sprayed. The body twitched once… then stilled.

Silence.

For a moment, no one moved. The few remaining bandits who still had weapons dropped them.

Then came the shouts.

"Run! RUN!" one screamed, bolting toward the back passage.

Others followed, sprinting toward escape, pushing past one another in terror.

But they didn't get far.

A steel grate slammed down over the only exit, and from the corridor, a second team of Vanguards emerged, guns raised.

"You're trapped," one of them said flatly.

The bandits froze. Some fell to their knees. Others raised trembling hands. The sound of their weapons clattering to the floor was the only reply.

Henry stepped out from behind his cover, revolver still hot, breath still sharp.

And in the center of the room, Nelson stood over the crushed corpse of their leader, lit by flickering firelight.

The bunker smelled of smoke, blood, and cold metal. The chaos had settled, replaced by the low murmurs of captured bandits and the cautious sobs of freed civilians. Broken weapons lay scattered like relics of a brief, brutal war.

Henry leaned against a wall, catching his breath, revolver resting in his lap. His ears still rang from the gunfire. His heart still hadn't slowed. But more than that—his eyes kept darting to the center of the room.

To Nelson.

The man was crouched near the corpse of Vex, wiping blood from his gloves with a piece of torn cloth. Broad-shouldered, belly thick under his coat, gait heavy like a man who'd long abandoned vanity. And yet—

The way he moved.

That rush. That force. That precision.

Henry had watched soldiers train for weeks and never move like that. Fast, sharp, ruthless. It wasn't luck. It wasn't brute strength. It was something else.

"How the hell does a man that size move like lightning?" Henry muttered under his breath.

He didn't get time to answer himself.

Nelson approached, boots splashing faintly through blood pooled near the edge of the fight. His face was calm now, breathing even, eyes scanning Henry like a craftsman inspecting a newly-forged blade.

"Ford," he said with a low nod. "First mission. First blood."

Henry stood straight.

"You didn't freeze. You aimed. You reacted. You didn't die." Nelson tilted his head. "That's more than I can say for half the rookies I've seen."

Henry blinked, unsure if that was a compliment.

Nelson smirked. "Welcome to the Vanguard."

Henry gave a slight, quiet nod, still stunned. "We were supposed to arrest them?"

Nelson glanced back at the pile of unconscious and dead bandits. His eyes hardened.

"No. Orders were clear. No survivors. Too many disappearances. Too many bodies in shallow graves. This group had crossed the line."

Behind them, the other Vanguards were helping civilians—a woman with her hands still bound, eyes red from crying. A child clutching a bloodied blanket. A man limping with a shattered leg, whispering thanks through cracked lips.

One Vanguard hoisted a woman onto his back, another guided the others toward the exit tunnel. No one celebrated. No cheers. Just quiet movement—order after chaos.

"They don't write this part in books," Nelson said quietly, eyes on the people. "The part after the trigger's pulled. The part where you see what evil really costs."

Henry watched in silence.

Nelson turned to him again, voice softer this time.

"You did well, Ford. But this?" he gestured around the bunker, to the blood and the rescued—"This is just day one."

Then he walked past him, coat brushing Henry's arm, boots echoing down the tunnel.

Henry stood alone for a moment.

Gun in hand. Heart in storm.

And in the dark silence of that ruined place, he understood:

Justice didn't always walk with glory.

Sometimes, it walked in boots soaked with blood.

....

The carriage rocked gently as it trailed along the dirt road back toward the Vanguard Station. The sun had begun its descent, casting long shadows across the hills outside Prada. The sky was a fading gold, clouds tinged with bruised violet, like the afterglow of a wound.

Inside the carriage, the air was quiet. The other Vanguards sat in their corners, cloaks dusted, eyes tired, the blood and grime of battle still clinging to their boots. No one spoke. The silence wasn't awkward—it was earned.

Henry sat with his back to the window, one arm resting against the wood, his revolver holstered but still within reach. Yet his mind wasn't on the weapon.

It was on Zach.

He hadn't thought about him in days, but now, in the quiet aftermath of violence, Zach's face came back to him—sharp, grinning, full of life. The boy who always snuck sweets into study halls, who once tried to flirt with an instructor and ended up scrubbing floors for a week. Loud, obnoxious, loyal.

And now—gone.

They said it was suicide.

Henry stared at the floorboards, jaw clenched.

But Zach… he wasn't the type. He talked big about the future, always made fun of "people who give up."

They said he jumped from the east bell tower. Alone. At night. No note. No signs.

Did he fail something?

Was he rejected?

No—Zach didn't care about rejection. He would've cursed, laughed, and tried again. He wasn't soft. He didn't break easy.

So why?

A sickness crept through Henry's chest, slow and cold. Something didn't fit. Something wasn't right.

"Murder?" he whispered to himself, voice barely audible under the hum of the wheels.

He looked out the window.

The town of Prada sat on the horizon—silent, massive, full of stone secrets.

Zach was gone. Buried in whispers. Forgotten by the station.

But the question remained.

And Henry wasn't ready to bury it with him.