Miracleborn Saga

Smoke drifted over the rooftops of East Prada like funeral silk. The air was acrid, burned with rot and a strange chemical sweetness—the stench of living corpses.

Henry crouched in front of a crumbling stone wall, his coat torn, his arms spread wide as he shielded a group of five trembling civilians behind him—two women, a boy no older than ten, and an old man struggling to breathe.

Beside him, Mary Janet stood like iron. Her uniform scorched at the shoulder, her eyes narrowed and calculating behind her monocle. Her right hand held a revolver steady, while her left gripped a broken blade slick with black and violet ichor.

The street before them was chaos.

Zombies—but not the slow, drooling things of myth—these moved with jarring, twitchy grace, spitting acidic poison from between open ribs and eyeless sockets. Their skin pulsed and rippled, filled with malignant gases that hissed and shimmered in the dying light.

One flung a handful of violet bile toward the group. Henry grabbed the boy and rolled—it splashed against the stone, sizzling, carving holes into the wall like acid on wax.

Mary fired three rounds into the crowd—two heads burst, one staggered back screeching before she calmly stabbed it through the heart and yanked out.

"Henry!" she called out, teeth clenched. "We can't hold this wall!"

Henry looked back at the civilians. They were huddled, crying softly.

He whispered, "Not yet... not until backup arrives…"

Suddenly, a whistling noise—a distant echo.

Boom—boom—boom—BOOM.

Gunfire.

And then, like the calm after a lightning strike—

Jeff Hardy appeared from the left alley, cloak flaring, a full squad of Vanguards behind him, rifles leveled.

He jumped over a low gate, winked mid-air, and opened fire.

Rounds of silver-steeled bullets tore through the infected. Each shot aimed with lazy precision. One head. One collapse. Another. Another.

The Vanguards spread like a wall of death. Mary took position at their side, wiping blood from her cheek.

One of the mutated undead shrieked and leapt—but Jeff, still chewing the stub of his toast stick, shot it in the mouth without blinking.

"Hope I'm not late," he said with a grin.

Henry grinned faintly back. "You're late enough to make it stylish."

The battle was over in minutes.

Dozens of zombie corpses steamed in the street. Some still twitched. Acid blood pooled and hissed in gutters.

The air hung thick with the smell of gunpowder and death, but the worst had passed.

Henry stood and turned to the civilians, gently lifting the old man by the arm.

"You're safe now," he said, voice calm.

The child looked up at him, tears crusting his cheeks. "Will they come back?"

Henry glanced at the torn bodies, then at the silent sky overhead.

"…Not today."

From behind, Jeff clapped him on the shoulder.

"Town's almost cleaned out. Another two blocks and it's done. The city's breathing again."

Mary nodded, wiping her blade. "Let's finish this."

The ash-laced air still clung to Henry's boots as he parted from the group. The wounded town whispered around him—shattered stalls, overturned carriages, violet blood drying like cursed ink on the cobblestones. Jeff gave him a look, but didn't stop him. Mary nodded once, knowing.

"I need to go somewhere," Henry said. "I'll be right back."

The Vanguards escorted the rescued civilians away, one of the children clutching Henry's coat for a second before letting go.

And then Henry was alone.

He walked through Prada's hollowing silence, past broken windows, flickering lamps, the sound of bells tolling faintly in far-off sectors. His cloak fluttered lightly in the wind as he turned into the eastern lane—toward the Church of Hazaya.

There, as always, Father sat on a white plastic chair, leaning slightly to the side, sipping tea from a chipped clay cup as if the city hadn't just been attacked by the dead. His robes were half-wrinkled, one slipper missing, his expression: unreadable calm.

Henry approached, not even catching his breath.

"The dead walked," he said.

"Zombies. Organized. Infecting with poison. Almost like… they were called."

Father took a slow, loud sip.

Then blinked.

"Then it has begun."

Henry froze.

Father set the cup down on a rickety wooden table beside him, folding his hands.

"I was waiting for this, Henry. That's why I didn't go fight. I needed to be still… to confirm the timing. But now I can say it."

"Zach's death was not suicide, not even murder. It was a trigger."

Henry's blood ran cold. "What do you mean?"

Father looked him straight in the eye.

"His soul… or something in him… was used to open something. A gate? A key? I don't know. But the diary? That wasn't just an artifact."

"It was a container. The moment his father died, the lock weakened. When Zach fell, it cracked. Now, this wave—this invasion—was just a plan to distract everyone and claim the diary."

Henry's fists clenched.

He took one step back.

And ran.

Through alleys. Over debris. Past hollowed homes and silent shadows. Wind howling through broken bricks like breath from another realm.

Toward Zach's home.

He needed to check the house. The diary. The sister. The Mother.

He didn't wait for the gate. He vaulted over it, landed rough, stormed up the path.

The truth had been quietly blooming under their noses all along.

And something told Henry—if he was even one moment late—

He'd lose more than answers.

....

The gate creaked open with a tortured groan.

Henry didn't knock.

He shoved the wooden door with a force that splintered the frame, and it slammed against the inside wall with a violent crack.

The smell hit him first.

Not rot.

Not decay.

But something hot, wet, and still fresh—blood.

Inside, the house was dead silent, save for the soft tick... tick... tick of a broken wall clock struggling to keep time.

A lamp swung on its frayed wire in the corner, its light flickering, casting chaotic shadows across the ruined living room.

Henry's breath caught.

Blood on the floor.

Blood on the walls.

Streaks. Smears. Handprints.

He stepped in, slowly, like walking through the aftermath of a dream turned nightmare.

On the floor near the fireplace, lying twisted like a broken marionette—

Mandeline Cull.

Zach's mother.

Her head… split open.

Her face, unrecognizable.

Her eyes… ripped from their sockets, with only raw red hollows left to weep blood. Her hands reached out, stiff and frozen mid-prayer.

Henry stumbled back, mouth open but no sound coming out.

His boots crunched over broken glass. His vision blurred. He wanted to scream, but—

"Bra....ath....er"

A broken voice.

Behind the hallway door.

Henry snapped his head toward it.

He ran—pushed open the door—

And stopped cold.

Zach's sister.

The little girl.

She was lying in the hallway, propped against the wall, her dress soaked red.

Both arms gone, wiped out. Both legs severed below the knees.

Blood soaked the wood beneath her, pooling, pulsing still. Her face—pale as bone—streamed with crimson tears.

"They said… you would come play…" she whispered.

"You promised…"

Henry fell to his knees.

"No… no no no no—" he murmured, gathering her mangled body into his arms. Her head dropped against his chest like a lifeless doll.

"Stay with me," he whispered. "You'll be okay. I'll take you—I'll take you to the hospital. Just—just don't close your eyes."

She blinked slowly. Her lips quivered. "It… hurts…"

He picked her up, stumbling out the door, feet splashing through blood, running into the open road.

No one stopped him.

No one could.

His cloack flapped behind him like a black flag. His boots pounded the stone. Her blood dripped from his arms.

"Hold on, just a bit—just a bit more—"

"Stay with me—please—please—"

Her breath grew slower.

Slower.

Then—

Still.

Right there, in the middle of the street, the warmth in his arms faded.

She had passed.

Henry dropped to his knees.

The world blurred.

His ears rang with silence.

And then, it hit him—

"You promised…"

He remembered her smile. The broken toy. The tea her mother made.

The way she'd waited for her brother to come home.

And he had made a promise.

To come back.

To play.

To protect.

Now all that remained was blood.

And silence.

Henry didn't cry.

Not yet.

He just sat there, in the middle of the road, holding her body like a ghost,

while the wind carried the scent of her blood

into the cold breath of the coming night.

....

The sky above Prada was bruised purple. Clouds drifted like funeral veils across the stars as Henry—face hollow, clothes soaked in dried blood—dragged himself through the empty streets.

His boots were heavy with grief.

Each step echoed the weight of a promise broken.

Each breath stung with the memory of Zach's sister's final words.

He reached his home.

The iron gate groaned as he pushed it open.

Silence. Only the wind brushing past the trees.

The front door creaked when he entered. His coat slipped from his shoulder but he didn't stop to hang it. His heart slammed in his ribs as an unspoken terror clawed into his mind.

"Please…."

He staggered down the hallway, each step louder than thunder in the stillness. The house smelled faintly of wax, candles, and fur.

He turned the corner into his bedroom—

And froze.

His eyes widened.

His breath caught.

His knees almost gave out.

There she was.

Mimi.

Perched on his bed like a dream carved into moonlight, her tail gently curled around her paws.

She stared at him with those deep, ever-knowing eyes—half wild, half divine—gleaming with soft black shimmer beneath the dark.

Her fur glowed faintly under the oil lamp's flicker.

She blinked once. Slowly.

She was home.

Henry stood there, stunned.

He took a step forward. His voice cracked.

"...Mimi?"

She didn't run.

She didn't vanish.

She meowed, the sound like silk through fog.

Calm. Familiar. Real.

A rustling sound followed.

Henry looked down—Jeena and Marsh, the two kittens, tumbled out from behind the desk drawer, looking up at him with sleepy, innocent eyes. They stretched their legs, blinked, and yawned—safe. Alive. Normal.

Henry's body trembled.

Everything shattered in him all at once. The blood. The screams. The girl's final breath.

It cracked inside him.

He fell to his knees beside the bed, trembling hand reaching out.

Mimi leaned forward. Rubbed her cheek against his fingers.

Tears fell.

Not from pain now.

But from the cruel, sudden mercy of a universe that had just taken everything—and given back this one impossible thing.

She came back.

And Henry, head against the edge of the bed, whispered in a voice only she could hear—

"Where were you…?"

Mimi simply closed her eyes.

And the night held them in silence.

Just for a moment—

peace returned.