Miracleborn Saga

White.

That same suffocating, surreal whiteness swallowed Henry again—formless, scentless, without gravity or edge. There were no walls. No sky. No voice to call it a dream.

Only silence. Until…

It dimmed.

Not blackness, but something deeper. Something ancient.

Up above—or was it below?—a star hung in the void, heavy and vast, swollen like a wound in the firmament. Its light pulsed irregularly, golden at the edges, but the center had begun to cave inward. Its skin cracked and rippled, boiling with unseen screams. The force of its death rolled across the white domain like a breathless whisper.

Henry stood barefoot. The surface beneath him shimmered faintly like holy water—cool, liquid, not wet. A place that shaped itself to his presence.

And then Death spoke.

Not with a voice.

With presence.

From the collapsing star, a form slowly descended—a silhouette woven from solar flame, draped in threads of dying light. Its face was undefined, only the outline of a crown of embers, flickering and crumbling with each pulse.

"You again," Henry muttered, his voice echoing too smoothly, like it didn't belong to the air around him.

The being hovered a short distance from him, a thousand suns whispering in its aura.

"I did not summon you," it said—not with words, but through meaning that unfurled directly inside Henry's mind.

Henry looked up, eyes narrowing.

"This place again," he murmured. "Let me guess… a dream? A warning? Or am I just caught in the current of someone else's death?"

The figure pulsed softly.

"A system collapsed. A star, larger than thought possible, crossed its threshold. It bloomed—beautiful, then cruel."

Henry squinted toward the burning sphere. "Supernova."

"Yes," the being said. "And with it, over one trillion lives perished. Silently. Unseen. Erased. Not mourned."

Henry was quiet.

Then he knelt slowly. Touched the surface of the water beneath him.

It shimmered brighter.

With slow fingers, he sculpted a coat from the light—woven from the water, shaped by thought. Black with golden threads. A collar high. Sleeves wide. A quiet dignity to its folds. A gentleman's armor.

"Did they deserve it?" he asked softly.

"No one deserves erasure," Death answered. "Yet time does not ask permission. It only flows."

Henry stood again. "Is this some lesson?"

"No," the being whispered. "It is a conversation."

He stepped forward, lifting his head to face the celestial form.

"Then let me ask this—why do I keep coming here? Why do you show me these things?"

A long silence.

Then:

"Because you are the only one in this century who remembers what should not be remembered. And who might yet act when others will fall silent."

The star cracked.

The light bled—

And Henry's breath hitched as the world shattered like porcelain around him—

He woke up.

His back ached against the stiff wooden chair. His cloak was slightly wrinkled. His fingers still twitched, like they remembered holding something heavy.

The sounds of the Vanguard Station surrounded him: boots on stone, the soft thud of paper stacks, the distant whistle of the evening bell.

He glanced around.

He was back. Dressed in full black uniform, the silver star pinned just right. 3:52pm, according to the pocketwatch ticking faintly on the table beside him.

On the desk: a folded note and 10 Gaus coins beside it.

From Julius, no doubt.

"Not bad for an hour of pretending I know the future," Henry muttered.

He rose, feeling the world solid again beneath his feet.

But the heat of the supernova hadn't left him.

And neither had the whisper:

"You are the only one who remembers…"

As Henry adjusted his gloves and prepared to rejoin the others, he didn't notice it—

—but in the shadows of the station's far wall,

a faint flicker of white flame

coiled once and vanished.

....

The silver tower bell rang faintly from the heart of Prada, echoing between stone alleys and marble balconies. It was 4:18pm—sunlight turning soft, the golden kind that made even the broken pavement glow.

The streets buzzed gently with post-labor warmth. The clang of trolley carts, the distant murmur of water carriers. Somewhere nearby, a lute player plucked a haunting old folk tune.

Mary Janet had taken the train to West Prada, off to retrieve sealed archival documents from the Colonial Registry. Her coat flared behind her like a crow's wing as she disappeared into the haze of merchant traffic.

Jeff Hardy, as usual, was untraceable—last seen hopping between tea stalls near the eastern edge of the River District, mumbling something about "finding the ideal jasmine roast."

And Henry—still on duty, badge hidden beneath the folds of his black Vanguard cloak—walked alone beneath the gate of Central Park.

A wide iron arch, crawling with rusted ivy vines, marked the entry. Inside: a sanctuary from the city's pulse.

Birds chirped in strange, lyrical rhythm. Cherry blossoms drifted from the trees like scattered memories, blanketing the winding cobbled paths in soft petals. The wind was smooth, like silk brushing against the cheek.

Children laughed somewhere beyond the hedges. A boy chased his own shadow. A girl spun with her arms wide in a spiral of pink petals. Couples sat with heads on shoulders. An old man fed bread to ravens.

Henry walked slowly, gloved hands behind his back. His eyes moved, not searching for anything—just noticing.

And then—

He saw him.

Andrew Fritz.

Calm, unreadable as ever, dressed in a gray buttoned coat, Vanguard insignia barely visible beneath a wool scarf. The man sat on a public bench beneath one of the blooming cherry trees, watching a flock of sparrows arguing over a crust of bread.

Andrew looked up.

He noticed Henry instantly—those sharp eyes under heavy lids narrowing just slightly.

Then he lifted a hand and gestured to the seat beside him.

"Watcher," he said simply.

Henry approached, cloak brushing against the grass and loose petals. He sat beside Andrew, the bench creaking slightly.

For a moment, they said nothing.

The wind carried a fresh wave of blossoms across the path, some landing on Henry's hat brim.

Andrew glanced sideways.

"You've got quiet steps," he murmured.

Henry smirked faintly. "You've got quiet thoughts."

A soft chuckle—barely audible.

"I come here," Andrew said, eyes still forward, "because it's the only place in Prada where I can remember what peace felt like. Before all this."

Henry followed his gaze: a young couple holding hands, their eyes speaking louder than any vow.

Andrew sighed. "You ever wonder if we're preserving peace, or just watching it get further out of reach?"

Henry didn't answer immediately. The wind brushed past again.

A petal landed on the revolver holstered beneath his coat.

He gently brushed it off.

And said, "I think we're trying not to drown in a world that's already bleeding."

Andrew nodded, slowly. "Then let's sit a while longer. Before duty calls again."

They sat in silence.

Two men in uniform. One park bench.

Surrounded by the illusion of peace…

and the cherry blossoms of a world trying to forget what it's become.

The hush of Central Park held steady around them—birds chirping high on cherry branches, petals slipping from the trees like nature's own slow heartbeat. The air smelled of sun-warmed stone, falling blossoms, and a faint sweetness from someone selling roasted sugarfruit nearby.

Andrew Fritz sat still beside Henry, arms rested on his lap, calm as always—his gray coat barely moved in the wind, his eyes locked somewhere between the children playing and the horizon beyond the city's cathedral towers.

Henry stole a glance at him.

A silent curiosity nudged at the edge of his thoughts.

"Let me see..." he murmured internally.

With the subtle shift of his perception—his eyes briefly reflecting a shimmer—Henry activated a minor prophetic twitch granted by his Invoker trait. Just a glimmer. A split-second glimpse.

Andrew's future.

A flash.

A bottle shattering on a marble floor.

Blood. Screaming. A woman clawing at the door.

A girl, face blurred, falling back in horror.

Gunfire. Then silence.

Andrew—drunk, bearded, haunted—standing in ruins, muttering to a mirror that wouldn't reflect him.

It lasted less than half a second.

Henry exhaled sharply through his nose, pulse jumping beneath the calm surface.

No movement from Andrew. He remained serene, watching sparrows dance across the grass.

Henry knew the limitations of his prophecy trait.

"Only 40% accuracy on unanchored foresight. Visions are often metaphors. Or worse—traps."

He whispered in his mind: That's not him. That won't be him.

Brushing the shadow off, Henry asked quietly, "Can I ask something personal?"

Andrew glanced at him with slow curiosity. "If you can ask it without flinching."

Henry smiled faintly. "What Path are you from?"

Andrew's gaze returned to the children playing.

"Strategist Path. Route –4: The Dreamer."

Henry's brow rose slightly. "Same as Sebastian Marcel. From the foretelling camp."

"I know him," Andrew replied. "Our dreams are… different. But we walk the same scaffolding."

Henry leaned slightly forward, curious. "What makes a Strategist? Are you all prophets?"

Andrew shook his head gently. "Not prophets. We're… systems. Networks. Intuition made mechanical. Dreamers find ways where reason ends. We don't always see the future—but we understand how one action becomes another."

Henry nodded slowly, feeling the weight of that answer.

Andrew added, "It's not an easy Path. You don't dream like poets do. You dream like surgeons. You dissect fate."

Henry stood then, dusting off his coat lightly.

"I should return. Still on duty."

Andrew remained seated, hands folded on his knee.

As Henry turned to go, Andrew said softly—almost too softly to catch—

"God of Mysteries may have mercy on you, Henry."

Henry paused mid-step. The words lodged strangely in his mind.

He didn't look back, but replied with a nod.

And then he walked, cherry petals swirling around his boots, each step carrying the echo of a vision he refused to believe…

and a benediction he didn't quite understand.

....

The sun had already begun to dip behind the copper spires of Prada, staining the sky in hues of amber and bruised violet. The air was thick with the scent of distant rain and market spice—warm bread from open carts, and the faintest traces of coal smoke.

Henry, still in his black Vanguard uniform, cloak clipped neatly at the shoulder, walked steadily through a cobbled street near the Old Library Ward. His gloved hand rested on the hilt of the revolver holstered beneath, not out of caution, but habit. Civilians passed by—some offering nods, others a simple gesture over their chest in respect.

"Vanguard," a baker muttered with a half-smile and flour-covered hands.

A little girl waved from a fruit stall. Henry nodded back once, quietly, before continuing.

He turned left into a narrow lane where no people lingered—an abandoned courtyard between two forgotten buildings. Cracks in the stone ground held tufts of stubborn green grass. There was a silence here that didn't belong in the city.

He had merely paused, eyes on the sky, when it happened.

At first, a pressure—soft but undeniable—settled on his shoulders, like breath at the nape of his neck.

Then, without warning—

Twenty to thirty violet-hued feathers appeared around him.

Not falling.

Not spinning.

But suspended, vibrating gently in midair—alive with a strange, pulsing radiance.

They did not touch the ground.

They simply orbited him.

Henry took a step back instinctively, his eyes widening. His breath caught in his throat, and his hand reached for the revolver out of reflex—but he hesitated. What would he even shoot?

No one else seemed to notice.

The alley beyond the courtyard was still filled with the city's hum.

A woman pushed a cart of onions. A man cursed at a bird.

But no one looked his way.

Then he looked down—

His boots were no longer touching the ground.

He was floating, barely a few inches up—but enough to feel the drop of gravity disconnect. The wind rustled his cloak, yet no dust was disturbed beneath him.

"What... is this?" he whispered.

No one heard.

He focused. Tried to lower himself. Nothing happened.

Instead, his body rose further, lifted by an invisible force—weightless, painless, effortless.

The feathers followed, ascending with him like quiet guardians.

They glowed faintly, their violet light rippling like soft breath on water.

And then he was above the rooftops.

The city sprawled beneath him, a breathing mosaic of lights and lives. The bell tower gleamed to his right. The rivers glimmered like veins. The cathedral of the God of Fate rose like a crown in the east.

Rain had started to fall.

But not on him.

Not a single drop touched his body, though he heard it patter around him—on rooftops, cobblestones, metal gutters. The sound was clear. The scent of petrichor wafted up.

But he remained untouched.

Shielded.

The violet feathers were forming a barrier—not dome-shaped, but fluid, shifting with the air, adapting like intelligent cloth to the storm. Raindrops evaporated the moment they neared.

"Am I… invisible?" he muttered.

He looked down—no one looked up. No startled screams. No pointing. Not a single reaction.

He flew—slow at first, unsure, then swifter, rising above the clock tower as it chimed the hour.

5:00pm.

His heart pounded. Not in fear. In awe.

The feathers around him shimmered in sequence, almost like they were alive. A pattern. A language? A will? Something older than spells, older than names.

And for a brief moment—

He felt the overwhelming sense that something was watching him.

Not from below.

From beyond.

From somewhere higher.

Somewhere that shouldn't look down.

The feathers quivered as if responding to the unseen gaze.

Then—

One by one—

They began to vanish, dissolving into particles of violet ash, slipping through his fingers like stars fading at dawn.

His body slowly descended, gliding back toward the stone ground of the empty courtyard.

His boots touched down.

The world returned.

The wind. The noise. The smell of wet cobblestone.

Henry stood still, rain gently dripping around him now—but not on him.

His cloak remained dry.

His breath fogged slightly.

And no one in the world had noticed what just happened.

He looked up at the sky, the clouds rolling past.

Whispered, quietly—

"…What am I becoming? Was that another trait of the Watcher Route I've just unlock?"

The rain had thickened by the time Henry walked the last stretch toward home. His boots splashed quietly through shallow puddles on the cobbled path, and his black cloak now clung damp against his frame. The earlier violet feathers—the strange guardians of air and secrecy—were long gone.

But their feeling lingered in his skin.

The weightless sensation. The airless silence. The sheer freedom of flight.

A power he didn't understand.

A trait he had never unlocked.

And yet—his body had known what to do, instinctively.

Henry glanced up as the rain hit his fedora, sliding off in rhythmic taps.

A smirk briefly tugged at the corner of his lips.

—If that was just the surface of what I can do… what happens when I really try?

No spell. No artifact. Just… my body responding to something old inside me.

He exhaled slowly, watching the fog of his breath curl under the street lamps.

Keys clicked. Door creaked.

He stepped inside his home, the heavy scent of dry wood and faint incense wrapping around him like a welcome scarf. He slid the fedora off, tossed it near the coat rack, then let his damp cloak drop on a nearby hook.

The house was dim, save for the soft flicker of a lantern left half-lit in the hallway.

He stepped out of his boots quietly.

The silence was peaceful. The kind that spoke of safe walls.

But something tugged at him.

Mimi…?

He walked down the corridor, water trailing behind him from soaked socks.

Jeena and Marsh were curled into a ball on the plush cushion near the hearth, their tiny forms rising and falling in unison.

Safe. Dreaming.

Henry paused, hand resting on the edge of the doorframe.

But where's Mimi?

He checked the windows. The reading chair. The kitchen ledge.

No sign of her usual lounging spot, nor her silent gaze from the shelves.

Not even that faint scent of lavender and fur she carried.

He stood there, wet clothes clinging to him, staring into the low-burning coals of the fireplace.

The kittens twitched in their sleep. Jeena's paw flopped over Marsh's tail.

Still—no Mimi.

Henry sighed, softly.

This wasn't like her.

Not to vanish without leaving something behind. Not to disappear this long.

And especially not on a rainy night.

He looked once more down the hallway, shadows stretching longer under the flicker of lamplight.

The silence now felt heavier.

Almost… watchful.

He turned toward his bedroom, his voice barely above a whisper:

"Where are you, Mimi?"

And the only answer was the distant hum of the wind

and the slow, cold drip of water falling from his sleeve to the wooden floor.