Miracleborn Saga

Morning light spilled gently across the wooden floor of Henry's small home, filtered through thin linen curtains that swayed with the breeze. Outside, the city of Prada stirred to life—carriages rattling on stone, distant chatter rising from market streets, the clink of iron and the creak of gates. Life continued, as it always did.

But Henry didn't move from the balcony.

He stood there alone, arms resting on the rusted iron rail, a cup of lukewarm tea untouched by his side. The wind brushed his cloak, now hanging loosely over a plain undershirt. His uniform was folded neatly inside. His hat sat forgotten on a chair behind him.

In his coat pocket, 30 Gaus rested—cold, round, heavy like small promises.

Blood money, some would call it. But in Prada, it was called wages.

He exhaled slowly, watching the rooftops. Smoke curled from chimneys. The church bell tolled once, low and deep.

His hand reached for the coins, fingers brushing their ridges. Thirty Gaus. Enough for a week's rent, a bottle of something strong, maybe even a new pair of boots.

But it didn't feel like a reward. Not after yesterday.

He remembered the way the bandit leader's skull had caved in beneath Nelson's hands. The sound. The way it silenced the room.

He remembered pulling the trigger at the bandit aiming for the injured Vanguard—his first real shot.

And how the bullet had landed perfectly.

Too perfectly.

His fingers tightened around the railing.

It wasn't skill. It wasn't training.

It was something else. Something invisible, watching, guiding, correcting his aim at the cost of—he didn't know what yet.

Was it a gift? A curse? Or just… a cheat?

A soft wind swept across the balcony, carrying the faint scent of bread and metal from the lower districts. Henry closed his eyes.

He had killed.

He had been praised.

He had been paid.

And now he stood here, alone, staring at a city that didn't know his name yesterday—and might not care tomorrow.

They gave him a day off.

A day to rest.

But he couldn't.

Because somewhere beneath the cracks of memory, Zach's face lingered.

And that same question still hung in the air like smoke.

Why?

Henry opened his eyes.

The city was awake.

But his answers were still asleep.

Henry stepped back inside his small room, the quiet morning still heavy in the air. Just as he moved to close the door,

—wham!

A small ball bounced off his leg, knocking him slightly off balance.

He looked down, eyebrows arching in surprise.

Two tiny kittens, full of boundless energy, stared up at him with bright eyes, tails twitching mischievously. One of them held the culprit—a crumpled piece of cloth shaped like a makeshift ball, slightly soggy from past adventures.

Henry raised an eyebrow. "You two are relentless."

Without thinking, he scooped the ball, cradling it against his chest. The smaller kitten—Jeena—blinked up at him with challenge in her eyes. Then, with an unexpected burst, she darted forward, launched herself up, and—

Headshot!

The ball shot back at Henry's chest with the precision of a trained marksman. He staggered, barely holding his ground.

Not to be outdone, Henry grinned, locked his gaze on Jeena, and pushed the ball forward with a sharp knee strike.

Before he could celebrate, the other kitten—Marsh—came barreling in, cheekily hitting the ball with a sudden buttshot that sent it ricocheting wildly toward the far corner of the room.

Henry's eyes widened. The kittens' tiny match was full throttle now.

Jeena dashed after the ball, her paws skidding on the wooden floor as she swerved to intercept Marsh's next move. Marsh spun, tail flicking with smug determination. Henry crouched low, trying to anticipate the next strike.

Mimi lay elegantly on the bed, watching the chaotic scene with lazy amusement, her tail flicking softly.

The ball zipped unpredictably between walls, bounced off furniture, and zipped toward Henry again. He lunged forward, snatching it just before it grazed his foot.

"Not so fast," he muttered, eyes narrowing, "You think you can outplay me?"

Jeena leapt again, twisting mid-air, attempting a surprise shot that grazed Henry's shoulder. He staggered back but kept his balance.

Marsh circled him like a tiny warrior, eyes gleaming with mischief.

Henry tightened his grip, holding the ball close, then pivoted—

Knee push!

The ball flew straight toward Jeena, who barely caught it with a swipe.

The two kittens collided mid-pounce, tumbling into a soft heap, paws and tails tangling in a hilarious mess.

Henry laughed aloud for the first time that day, the tension melting away in the whirlwind of their fierce, unpredictable game.

Mimi flicked her eyes toward him, almost smirking.

This battle was far from over.

The room had become a battlefield. Not of blood and steel—but of claws, grit, and raw, unrelenting chaos.

Henry was panting slightly, sleeves rolled up, socks half-off, one leg braced behind him like a war general holding the final line. Across from him, Marsh stood poised—tail rigid, eyes closed.

Wait.

Eyes closed?

Henry narrowed his gaze. Marsh's tiny body began to shimmer, ever so faintly, a soft golden hue pulsating around him.

"…You're aura farming," Henry muttered in disbelief. "You smug little—"

Boom!

Marsh shot forward like a furry missile, the ball flying off his head with absurd speed. Henry dropped low, arms flailing, and—barely—countered with a last-second sidekick, sending the ball spinning left. It grazed the bookshelf, knocked over a teacup, and zipped back—

Straight toward the corner of the room.

Henry's eyes went wide. No angle left. No time.

"Dammit—"

The ball curved, kissed the edge of the wall, and was about to cross the handmade goal line when—

Fwump!

A blur.

A shadow. No, not a shadow—

Mimi.

She descended from the top of the bed with feline grace, coat fluttering like wings, paws glowing with faint, abnormal pressure. Her body moved slow in Henry's eyes, but he felt it—

That burst of thaumic force, not loud or flashy, but deep, unnatural, as if the air itself hesitated to challenge her.

She struck the ball with one paw—

Boom.

Straight through the goal. The wall shook with the impact.

Goal.

Silence followed. Even the kittens froze.

Marsh turned to Mimi, stunned. Jeena's jaw dropped so low it almost looked human.

Henry stood motionless, eyes fixed on the spot where the ball had landed.

"...That," he whispered, "wasn't normal or something peeking.....?"

He looked at Mimi. She was already lounging again on the bed, cleaning her paw with casual indifference, as though she hadn't just unleashed a divine counter-kick in a kitten war.

But Henry wasn't fooled.

He had felt it. In that one instant.

That pressure. That subtle but suffocating thaumic weight behind her motion.

It wasn't just skill.

It was power. Controlled. Cloaked in fur and silence.

He blinked once. Twice.

"…I could've overtaken that shot," he lied to himself half-heartedly.

The kittens began to cheer—Jeena doing circles, Marsh nodding solemnly like a monk who had seen God.

Henry remained still, staring at Mimi. His grin faded, replaced by something quieter. Thoughtful.

The match was over.

The kittens had won.

But the real mystery had just started watching him.

Henry stood by the window, the sunlight soft and golden across the floor. The match had ended over an hour ago, but his mind still played it in slow motion—Mimi's strike, that impossible pressure, the blur of motion that felt more divine than feline.

He sighed, long and tired.

"Well… I can't sit here brooding all day," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "You two need fresh air."

At the sound of his voice, Jeena perked up from the floor and Marsh rolled off the blanket like a potato gaining sentience. Both kittens trotted up to him, tails up, eyes wide with anticipation.

Henry grabbed a little pouch, slung on his light coat, and opened the front door.

"Let's go," he said simply. "But no buttshots in public."

The morning air kissed his face as he stepped outside. The city was already breathing—bakers waving from behind clouded windows, newspaper boys yelling half-truths in rhythm, distant carriage wheels humming against cobblestone.

Henry walked along the footpath, hands in his pockets, the two kittens bouncing beside him like miniature bodyguards. Marsh occasionally swatted at a falling leaf, while Jeena marched forward like she had a kingdom to rule.

But then—

Something caught Henry's eye across the street.

Father.

That old, familiar silhouette in a worn clergy robe, usually calm, usually slow…

Now hunched, hurried, carrying a large sack over his shoulder—its shape irregular, like it wasn't filled with grain or cloth. He was trying to keep it hidden under a faded blanket, head ducked low beneath his wide-brimmed hat.

Henry instinctively slowed his pace.

Father paused at a corner, glanced around, and slipped down a side alley toward the old quarter. Not toward the chapel. Somewhere else.

Henry's jaw tightened.

"Odd time for devotion."

He looked down at the kittens.

"Stay quiet," he whispered.

Then he crossed the street and followed silently, boots light, breath steady.

Something about the way Father moved—too fast, too careful, too different from his usual, saintly calm—put a chill under Henry's skin.

Whatever was in that sack…

It wasn't meant to be seen.

The alley twisted through empty stone arches, narrowing until it opened into a secluded courtyard—silent, forgotten, choked in ivy and the soft decay of time. Broken benches, a shattered fountain, and not a soul in sight. Morning sunlight failed to reach this place.

Henry pressed against the wall, eyes sharp, breath low.

He watched Father slip behind the back of an old building. The sack on his shoulder twitched slightly. Blood—dark, thick—dripped steadily from the corner of it, staining the hem of his half robe. The man didn't limp, didn't panic.

He moved with grim purpose.

Henry stepped forward, revealing himself.

"Father."

The old man didn't flinch. He turned his head slightly, as if he had been expecting him.

"I was wondering when you'd stop watching and start asking."

Henry's eyes dropped to the sack.

"What's in it?"

"Dead meats," Father said simply.

The cloth shifted again. The stench hit Henry a moment later—burnt fur, iron, something older and colder than rot.

He took another step forward, eyes narrowing.

"Your robe. It's soaked."

Father looked down at the blood on his side, then at the wet trail behind him. His face didn't change. Calm. Weathered. But his fingers clenched tighter on the rope holding the sack closed.

"I'll need to go to war dressed like this today," he murmured. "Shame, really. It's my last clean one."

Henry's fingers hovered near his coat, where the revolver rested.

"…That's not animal blood, is it?"

Father smiled faintly, but his eyes didn't.

"No. Not anymore."

Silence.

The sack twitched again.

Henry's voice dropped. "What are you doing with it?"

"Not 'it.'"

Father looked down at the sack like he was addressing something sacred and dangerous.

"These were once Epic Creatures—born from ruptured places, kept hidden by the old chains of this city. Not beasts, not spirits. Something in between."

Henry felt the air around them grow heavier, colder.

"And now?" he asked.

"Now…" Father lifted the sack slightly. "They've outlived their purpose. Their echoes are growing loud. And the God of Fate needs to feed."

Henry blinked. "What?"

"I'm taking them to Gascoigne's Well. You've never seen it, have you? Deepest hole this city's ever carved into the world. A wound that never healed."

His tone shifted—devout and cold. "That well's mouth has been dry for years. But tonight, it will drink again."

Henry took a step closer.

"That's not scripture. That's madness."

Father met his gaze.

"Sometimes they're the same thing."

The sack twitched again.

Something inside it whispered. A low, impossible sound—like a dying prayer wrapped in bone and wind.

Henry's hand hovered over his revolver.

Father didn't move.

He simply turned.

"You've seen too much to pretend now, Henry. Go home. Stroke your kittens. Wear your medals. Forget this."

Then he walked on, into the shadows of the old district, the sack bleeding behind him like a dragging sin.

Henry didn't follow him anymore.

The warmth of the sun returned as Henry stepped back onto the main street, the quiet intensity of the courtyard behind him quickly drowned by the bustle of everyday life. The street hummed with life again—cobblers hammering boots, vendors shouting over one another, and the rolling of carriage wheels carving soft groves into the dusty stones.

But Henry's mind was far from the noise.

He ran a hand through his hair, still thinking of Father, the blood-soaked robe, the God of Fate, and that well.

What the hell was that…?

And why didn't I stop him?

He passed a vegetable stall painted in chipped green and orange, piled high with carrots, spring onions, tomatoes, and something that looked like purple spinach. The stallkeeper was a plump old woman with rolled-up sleeves and sharp eyes.

"Oi, Mr. Vanguard," she called out, wiping her hands on her apron. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Or maybe became one."

Henry stopped. Gave a tired smirk.

"Neither. Just hungry."

"Ah! Good. Hungry men buy more. That's my rule."

Henry glanced over the produce. "How much for the carrots?"

"Two for a Gaus," she said.

Henry picked up a few, examining them. "You sure? They look half-starved."

The old woman squinted at him. "And you look like you haven't slept in days, but I'm not charging you less for that, am I?"

He chuckled under his breath and held up four fingers. "Alright, I'll take these. And a handful of those tomatoes."

She bagged the vegetables with a practiced hand and handed them over. "Something else bothering you?"

Henry paused.

"…Just city things."

"Hah," she snorted. "City things have a way of killing people slowly. Be careful. That uniform makes you a wall, not a god."

He nodded, dropping a few Gaus on the counter. "Thanks."

As he turned to walk off, the bag of vegetables in one hand, her voice called after him:

"Try adding salt to your worries. Either they'll taste better or rot faster!"

Henry gave a half-hearted wave, but her words lingered strangely.

The street continued to roll past him. Children ran with sticks, a bard played something slightly off-key near the fountain, and two officers were writing up a drunkard napping under a cart.

He looked toward the far end of the road—

Toward the Vanguard Station.

The spire was visible above the rooftops, black against the sky, shining faintly under the sun like a spear pointed at the heavens.

He adjusted the bag of vegetables on his shoulder.

"…Maybe someone there knows more than I do," he muttered.

And he turned.