Miracleborn Saga

The breeze stirred the treetops gently, masking the tension coiled in every muscle of Henry and Mary as they crouched on a wide, gnarled branch of an old alder tree. From above, they had a narrow view of the street—a corridor of cracked cobblestone and fallen banners stained with footprints and ash.

Below them, the world felt like it had stopped breathing.

Not a single groan.

Not a single step.

Just waiting.

Mary held her blade loosely, eyes sharp, breath measured.

Henry kept one hand on his revolver, but the other gripped the bark beneath him, white-knuckled. They had counted their bullets.

Too few.

They couldn't afford waste.

Henry's mind drifted, uninvited—

To Vain.

That calm voice echoing across the chapel.

The way he never raised his tone but always silenced a crowd.

"Truth requires pain. Clarity requires silence. God hears neither panic nor doubt."

Henry's chest tightened.

A snap of wind rustled the leaves around them.

Below, the street remained still. Not empty—still.

Mary nodded toward the ground, barely a whisper escaping her lips: "We move."

Henry nodded.

They leapt down in practiced motion—soft, silent.

Feet landed on damp stone.

The world felt quieter here. But not safe.

Not yet.

They pressed forward, boots padded against broken stone, into the thick of whatever had claimed Prada.

....

The house was a modest one—wooden walls, sagging roof, shutters nailed tight with trembling hands. Inside, a family of five sat huddled in silence. The parents kept their arms tight around their three children, the youngest no more than five, her face buried in her mother's shawl. Each creak outside sent a wave of panic through them.

The wind howled. Something groaned in the alley.

And then, like a splinter from sanity, the front door creaked open—just an inch.

The middle child, curious and restless, had slipped free. Small fingers. Light feet. He crept toward the edge of the street, laughing softly, drawn by the flutter of a windblown scarf that reminded him of a kite.

The sky above was sickly gray.

A deep snarl rumbled from behind the garden wall.

Then came the sound of thudding flesh—fast, four-legged.

The mother screamed.

The child turned—

—just in time to see a massive, undead lion lunge over the stone fence.

Its mane was in tatters, clotted with black moss and clumps of fur. Patches of bone jutted from its side, its ribs scraped open, exposing rotting muscle that steamed with strange, violet fumes. Its eyes glowed, not the mindless white of the walking dead—

—but a sharp, calculating violet, like fire fed by corruption.

The thing leapt, jaws wide, fangs dripping something thick and hissing like acid.

Then—

BOOM.

The lion's body stopped mid-air, like it had hit an invisible wall.

A giant fist had caught it—knuckles clad in reinforced black gloves, etched with silver runes glowing faintly. The lion's body twisted from the impact, smashing into the cobblestone with a dull, wet crunch.

Nelson Carter stood there, towering and wide, his breath heavy, cloak flapping around his large form like a storm-rolled curtain.

The gloves on his hands crackled, coated now with burning fluid from the lion's mutated skin—but unaffected.

His gloves weren't just steel.

They were Vanguard-forged toxin-shields, treated to resist zombic poison and viral acid, a rare artifact even among elites.

"Shit," he muttered, squinting at the lion as it stirred again, its front leg bent backwards—yet it tried to stand.

The violet glow in its eyes intensified.

This isn't just a reanimated beast, Nelson thought grimly, lowering into a stance.

This one's... controlled. Or worse—mutating. It's not mindless.

The lion snarled, a horrifying mix between a growl and a gurgling scream. Its broken jaw hung sideways, revealing rows of teeth that hadn't belonged to a lion before. Mutated. Something grafted inside.

Nelson gritted his teeth. "You're not some street stray, are you…"

The mother inside the house pulled her son back in, screaming, slamming the door shut again.

Nelson stepped forward, cracking his knuckles.

The lion lunged again.

Nelson's glove met it mid-skull, this time with full force.

There was a sickening crack, like a log splitting in fire.

The creature dropped—twitching, smoking from its face.

He stared down at the corpse.

It was still leaking violet mist.

"Something's changing…" he murmured, eyes narrowing.

"And I don't like where it's heading."

In the silence that followed, the street around him was still empty.

Nelson stepped back, panting, boots crunching against shattered gravel.

The lion twitched—then stood again.

Its skull, which should've been caved in from that last blow, was now reforming. Tendons slithered back into place, bones crackled and hissed as if stitched by invisible fingers. The violet glow in its eyes intensified, not with rage, but with... calculation.

"This isn't right," Nelson growled, low. "You're not just undead."

The lion let out a snarl that cut the wind—a guttural sound that echoed through the ruined street. Its tail lashed the air like a whip. The violet fumes steaming from its joints didn't dissipate—they coiled in the air, dancing with shape, with intent.

Nelson tightened his gloves, feet shifting.

He couldn't let it touch him—not even a graze. That poison?

Corrosive. Mutagenic. Possibly sentient.

"Alright, monster..."

He stepped sideways, baiting the lion toward the narrow path between buildings.

"Let's see if you can out-think a fat man with broken knees."

The lion pounced.

But Nelson wasn't there.

Instead, he was already sliding under the creature, placing a quick-detonation trap on the beast's underbelly—a magnetic flash bomb, Vanguard-issued and layered with binding threads. He kicked back, rolled, and detonated the sigil with a sharp snap of his fingers.

The lion was engulfed in an instant—silver threads wrapping around its limbs, the bomb stunning its nerves.

Smoke hissed.

Nelson rose, lips curling in tired triumph—

But the lion shook off the bind.

The Lion opened his mouth and six large venomous tongue came out crashing like pillars at Nelson continuously. Not letting him a chance to breath.

Nelson dodges them. From the blind spot, a tongue rushed at Nelson.

But—

Nelson managed to cut it off with his dagger. Without wasting a second he takes down all the tongues of Lion except one. He grabbed the tongue and slammed the Lion with brute force on a barrel. Which spread smoke. For a moment, Nelson was blind...

Its limbs stretched unnaturally, dislocating and snapping back into place. It moved through the traps like a thought slipping past logic, and in a blur—

It found an opening.

CRACK.

The lion headbutted Nelson, straight into the ribs.

The world shattered for a second.

Nelson's massive frame smashed through the wooden wall of the nearby home, splinters flying, dust choking the air.

Inside, the family screamed.

The mother covered her children's eyes, backing away, sobbing.

The lion entered the breach in the wall, low and slow, like a god of rot stalking his sacrifice.

Its head tilted once.

The glow in its eyes now a silent question:

What will you protect, broken Vanguard?

The lion crept closer.

And the house—filled with terror.

The lion crouched low, muscles coiling under shredded skin, its violet-glowing eyes locked onto the trembling family pressed into the farthest corner of the ruined room. The air pulsed with that same foul heat, a stench of iron, rot, and something older—like burnt offerings left too long in a temple.

The mother whispered a prayer through her teeth.

The father clutched a broken chair leg, hands shaking.

The children cried silently.

The beast snarled—then lunged.

BOOM.

A sound like air being ripped open.

And just like that—the lion vanished.

One moment, its claws were stretched mid-air. The next, nothing. A sudden emptiness, a clean silence.

Before anyone could breathe—

The wall on the far side of the room exploded.

Wood shattered. Dust clouded the entire space. Bricks rolled like thunder.

Smoke poured in, thick and curling—and then through it came footsteps, slow and oddly elegant.

Out stepped a man.

Short. Slender. And impossibly clean.

His black shoes didn't even seem dusty. He wore a tailored three-piece coat, jet black with blood-red stitching, a brooch in the shape of a silver moth on his lapel. His skin was pale, cheekbones sharp. Dark eyes gleamed beneath a curtain of wavy brown hair. A faint smile graced his lips, like someone always one step ahead in a private joke.

In his hand:

Five perfectly fresh roses—each one a different color. Blue. Gold. Crimson. Ivory. Violet.

He glanced around at the broken home, the paralyzed family, and Nelson's barely conscious form lying near the collapsed wall.

With graceful steps, he approached the mother and calmly handed her the roses—one by one—then turned to face the room with a dramatic bow.

"Apologies for the mess," he said, voice velvet and deliberate.

Then he stood tall, smile widening.

"My name is Nelson Carter, for the rescue."

A blink of silence passed.

The smoke still hung in the air, drifting like incense around broken furniture and shattered faith. The family—too stunned to speak—watched as the elegant version of Nelson Carter handed the children rose-shaped lollipops with a wink.

"Sweetness keeps the mind sharp," he said, placing the last one into the smallest child's hand.

Then he turned.

The humor in his face melted. His back straightened. His eyes narrowed.

Outside, lying amidst the fractured cobblestone and burned grass, the mutated lion twitched violently—its limbs spasming as it tried to rise. Violet ooze spilled from its torn flank, smoking where it touched stone, sizzling like acid. Its mane was half-burnt, parts of its face chewed away by its own body's attempt to regenerate.

Nelson stepped into the street.

No cloak now. No jokes. Just two black curved daggers, pulled from the leather holsters behind his back. The blades gleamed unnaturally in the dusk—Vanguard-forged relic steel, kissed with dreamsilver.

The lion noticed him. It hissed—not a growl, but a high-pitched, human-like scream, as if something within was trying to claw out.

"You're not an animal," Nelson muttered, circling.

"You're a puppet. And I think I see the strings."

The lion lunged without warning—fast.

Nelson slid sideways, boots barely skimming the ground. He twisted low and slashed at its underbelly, one dagger digging shallow, the other parrying a mutated claw. Sparks flew.

The lion countered, tail whipping like a mace. Nelson ducked beneath it, then leapt forward, driving one dagger toward the beast's ribs—only for the lion to roll, unnaturally, its back bending too far, avoiding the strike with a shuddering, bone-snapping twist.

The creature reared up, both claws striking downward.

Nelson dropped flat, rolled, came up behind it—cut upward across its hind legs.

It howled. Violet blood sprayed.

But the lion spun unnaturally, swiping at Nelson's gut. He blocked with crossed daggers—metal screeched. The impact forced him back several paces.

Breathing heavy, Nelson cracked his neck.

Then he smiled.

"You thought I'm slow just because I'm fat?"

The lion roared, foam and smoke flying from its twisted mouth.

Nelson moved again—faster than before.

This time, it was a dance.

He rolled beneath its swipes, stabbed its shoulder joint, dislocated the front leg with a twist, cut through its jaw hinge. Each strike precise, economical, and vicious.

Blood poured. But the lion still stood.

Final moment.

The lion charged, jaw wide, ready to bite—

Nelson threw one dagger straight into the beast's mouth. It sunk deep in the throat.

He ran behind the lion in the blink it hesitated, and with a cry from deep in his chest, he leapt, grabbed the beast's mane, and drove his remaining dagger straight into the back of its skull, twisting it downward with all his weight.

A crunch.

A squelch.

A flash of violet light bursting like a popped star.

The lion collapsed, finally still—ooze spreading beneath its corpse like ink poured over sacred stone.

Nelson stood above it, chest heaving.

He pulled the dagger from the skull with effort, wiped it clean on his coat, then turned to the family now peeking out from the broken doorway.

He said nothing.

He didn't need to.

The fat man who gave children candy... had just ended a nightmare.

And for a moment, even death respected him.

Nelson stood over the lion's steaming corpse, violet blood dripping from the edge of his dagger. His chest rose and fell beneath the fine, tailored coat that now clung tight against his true frame—lean, cut, and nothing like the bulky figure the world knew him for.

For a few seconds, the street was quiet.

The wind picked up again, rustling the edges of the collapsed door. The family stayed inside—watching with wide, silent eyes.

Nelson rolled his neck, clicking his shoulder back into place, and muttered under his breath:

"Too flashy, Carter. Too fast."

He glanced down at himself—no glamour on. No illusion. Just the actual man.

And that's when he saw it.

Far down the road, barely visible through the orange dusk and drifting smoke—

Jeff Hardy, walking briskly toward the Vanguard Station, a basket still slung on his shoulder. A streak of dirt across his cheek. Civilian clothes. Toast Stick half-eaten in one hand.

Nelson narrowed his eyes.

Jeff hadn't looked back.

But… had he seen?

He didn't seem in a hurry. No pause in his step. No change of pace. He simply adjusted his coat and kept walking.

Nelson exhaled slowly, wiping the blade on his thigh.

"Let's hope he thought I was someone else."

With a flick of his fingers, a ripple of thaum moved across his body—his girth returning, his cloak refastening, the charming clumsiness curling back into his shoulders like a familiar habit.

The mask of the fat, jolly Vanguard was back on.

Nelson looked toward the Station, then toward the corpse behind him.

He grunted. "Guess I'll owe him a drink now."

And quietly, he vanished into an alley—

Before questions could catch up.

The back gate of the Vanguard Station creaked open with the hush of practiced familiarity. Jeff Hardy stepped through, brushing soot from his sleeves, his half-eaten Toast Stick now reduced to a chewed stem clamped between his teeth. His boots clicked softly against the stone floor, still damp from mop water and sweat.

The hallway was dim—long banners of red and black lining the corridor, marked with the silver star of the Vanguard Order. Guards posted on either side of the back corridor straightened when they saw Jeff, recognizing the dust-covered man with the sharp eyes.

He didn't stop to chat.

Jeff pushed through the northern door into the Command Bay, where wall-maps, troop rotas, and glass-etched strategic layouts shimmered with slow thaum-projection. In front of it stood a figure, unmoving—tall, calm, and dressed in layered dark blue.

Andrew Fritz.

Arms behind his back, posture like an iron pillar.

Jeff approached.

"Sir," he said, nodding respectfully.

Andrew turned his head slightly. No expression. Just acknowledgment.

"Report."

"There's a zombie outbreak in the lower east blocks. Not a small skirmish either. Civilians scattered everywhere," Jeff said, tone serious for once. "Me and two others helped evacuate a few, but it's getting worse. We need reinforcement squads. Now."

Andrew's gaze didn't change, but something tightened in the air around him.

"I've already received word from the scouts. But no reports on scale." He looked over his shoulder at the projection table. A section of the city now glowed red. "How many infected have you seen?"

" No," Jeff answered. "Zombies weren't slow and stupid either. Organized—clustered. Some even looked... fresh. Not just bodies risen from disease or curse. More like summoned."

A faint crease appeared on Andrew's brow.

"Any sign of a necromancer or thaum residue?"

Jeff shook his head. "Too much chaos. But there's something else…"

He hesitated.

Andrew raised an eyebrow.

Jeff continued, "…Someone is guiding the horde. Or it's reacting to something bigger."

Andrew turned fully now. His presence seemed to fill the room without effort.

"Very well. I'll mobilize Reinforcement Unit Twelve and dispatch a Vanguard mage to support ground control." He paused, then added flatly, "No one is to engage beyond what's necessary. If you see coordinated behavior from the dead—observe, report, do not provoke."

Jeff gave a mock-salute. "Copy that, Sir."

Andrew turned toward the command board again, fingers pressing on a glowing sigil. A bell rang faintly in the distant halls.

Jeff stepped back toward the door—then stopped.

"One more thing," he said. "You hear anything about a lion?"

Andrew paused.

He looked over his shoulder. "A lion?"

Jeff shrugged, playing it casual. "Forget it. Could've been street rumor."

Andrew stared at him a moment longer. Then turned away.

"…No, nothing about a lion," he said.

But in the pit of his chest, a sliver of unease had planted itself.

And it was growing.