Miracleborn Saga

Far from the screaming streets of Prada, beyond where cobblestone ended and grass grew wild under sun-touched skies, the land changed.

Valleys unfolded like emerald tongues, licking at the edges of the mountain's jagged teeth. Wind curled through the peaks in silence, brushing against black stone and whispering to no one.

Nestled in the belly of one such mountain—half-forgotten by history, hidden from both man and map—there sat a base. A crooked, pulpy fortress carved from rotwood and sealed by iron vines. From outside, it looked like a wound in the earth.

Inside, the air reeked of damp leather and oil-burned skin.

Rotted timbers groaned above. Dim green lanterns hung on rusted hooks. Weapon racks lined the corridor like coffins of violence. Muted voices buzzed beneath the floorboards. Every room smelled like sweat, blood, and old bark.

Then—

An alarm wailed.

Sharp. Long. Like something dying.

A horde of men, dozens strong—tattooed, ragged, armored in whatever they could loot—came rushing toward a central chamber, footsteps clattering like hooves in a stampede.

They stopped at the end of the hallway.

The Throne Room.

The walls here were curved. Veins of greenish fungus crawled across the surface, pulsing faintly like nerves. At the far end, elevated on a slab of carved blackroot, stood the throne—a mess of steel bones and melted wood.

And on it sat him.

A figure of impossible calm in a nest of madness.

A metal mask covered his face, polished to a mirror sheen except where it cracked like porcelain. Eyes hidden beneath a low-drawn hudy, draped in an old green cape over a faded, blood-stained leather jacket—too worn to be ceremonial, too intact to be discarded.

He sat slouched, one leg hooked over the other. Fingers tapped the hilt of a rusted dagger at his waist.

Not a single word was said.

Then—like a spell—everyone dropped to their knees.

Even the scarred ones. Even the murderers. Even the madmen.

"Where is it?" the masked man asked, voice slow, syrup-thick with venom.

No one answered. They knew what he meant.

The Diary.

"The last flare of the city's fire lies between its pages. You know this. I know this."

His voice shifted from cold to caress to cruelty with every word.

"I want it."

He leaned forward.

"I need it."

Silence.

Then—foolishly—one thug in the back mumbled.

"Boss... what if it ain't worth it—?"

The moment the last syllable left his lips, reality convulsed.

The masked one didn't move. He didn't blink.

But that man—

Turned 2D.

Flat. Like paper. A living silhouette. Mouth stretched in a mute scream. Flapping against the floorboards like a broken playing card.

The masked man flicked a finger.

"Kick him."

They did.

Without question. Without mercy.

Boots rained down like hammers. The 2D figure screamed in ink.

Then, still seated, the masked one leaned his head to the side, muttering to no one:

"Do you hear it? The stars are laughing. I told them I'd burn this world just to read a sentence."

He giggled. A sound like glass breaking underwater.

"Such a heavy little book."

He ran a gloved hand down his mask. A sharp breath in. A hiss out.

Then silence.

"Go," he whispered. "Let Prada drown in its own history."

The men bowed again, terrified.

And scattered like insects.

He remained alone.

Rocking gently on his throne.

Murmuring something to himself again and again.

A lullaby in a language that hadn't been born yet.

The masked man looked down.

The mask slipped—silent, weightless—falling from his face like a dying breath.

But it never touched the ground.

It stopped midair, hovering, spinning slowly as if caught in unseen fingers.

A beat passed.

Then, with unnatural grace, the mask floated back up.

He caught it.

No hesitation.

He wore it tightly, pressing it into his skin like a second face.

No one saw the glimpse beneath.

And no one dared to ask.

.....

The stairs groaned with every step. Wood that had soaked too much silence and blood.

Down below—beneath the bones of the mountain—light had no meaning. Only the soft dripping of condensation from stone to floor marked the rhythm of the place.

The man in the metal mask descended, one hand brushing the cold wall, the other gripping the small lantern. A faint, wavering glow spilled forward, casting elongated shadows that danced like specters across the damp stone.

There were no guards. No locks on this level.

Not because there was no danger.

But because nothing could escape.

And within that cold belly of earth, behind rusted bars, a girl sobbed.

She was curled against the wall. Clothes torn. Shackles dangling from wrists too thin for iron. She looked up as the masked figure approached—eyes puffy, face hollow.

Her voice cracked.

"P-please… please let me go… I didn't do anything. I'm not—I'm not whoever you're looking for."

The man stood still. Silent. The glow from his lantern caught the edges of her tears. Then, with a hiss of breath, he stepped forward and slid the lantern onto a hook.

"…They all say that," he said, voice like a lullaby left too long in poison. "In the beginning."

The girl swallowed, pressing herself further into the wall. She tried to speak, but he interrupted.

"I'm not going to lie to you. I could. I used to. But I'm… tired."

He removed the mask.

The flicker of light revealed a face too handsome for war. Delicate jaw. Smooth skin. Youth. But beneath it—a horror of expression. Calmness not forged in peace, but crafted from loss so complete it bent into serenity.

"My name," he said, "is The Fiend."

The name hung heavy. Like a curse that knew it would never be undone.

"I wasn't always called that. I was once a boy in a green, endless forest."

He sat down on the cold floor, just outside the bars. His back to her.

"I lived with a tribal in the Cahm Kingdom. They were arrogant people… but vibrant. Bold. Proud of their madness. They taught me how to catch fireflies in the rain, how to grind bone into paint. Their art was made of rot and beauty. They could make armor from beetle shells and songs from wolf cries."

His fingers trembled a bit.

"But then, the disease came. A curse, or maybe just a sickness. Doesn't matter now. People collapsed. Not all at once. One by one. Faces became masks of sweat and bruises. Breath turned shallow. I was the youngest, the weakest. But I could think. So they sent me away. To the town. To search. To… learn."

He took a deep breath. Voice steadied, sharper.

"In that city of brick and lies, I met a puppeteer. An old man who twisted souls and strings alike. He smiled at me. Gave me bread. Let me sleep in his shop beside the hollow dolls."

The girl remained still, eyes wide.

"One night, he said I had the touch. That I wasn't like the others. He asked if I wanted to matter. I nodded."

He closed his eyes. A faint glow pulsed from his fingertips. It wasn't light—it was memory.

"That's when he marked me. That's when I became a Miracle Invoker."

He turned his face slightly, so she could see his eye. No longer young. No longer human. There was something else behind the pupil now. A flicker. A charm. A void.

"At first, it hurt. The Rituals were cruel. Each one took something. My sense of taste. My ability to dream. My father's voice, gone from memory. All traded away. I bled in shapes that didn't belong to this world."

He stood.

"But pain is temporary. What matters is growth."

He turned toward her.

"You, Hana Kraves… you are my fourth Ritual."

She flinched. "I—I don't understand…"

"You don't have to." He tilted his head gently. "You were already dead. When your brother left you behind, when the Cult marked your soul, you were touched by something ancient. Something unfinished. You are a Dead Living Spirit now."

She began to cry harder. "My brother… he'll find me…"

"No," the Fiend whispered. "He won't. He's still clinging to the idea that promises mean safety. That memory means protection. But memory is ash. It burns. He'll arrive too late. Or too early. Or never at all."

He walked toward the bars and knelt.

"You were kind once. But kindness doesn't survive in this world unless it's sharpened into a weapon. You'll understand. In time. As I did."

She stared. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I don't hate you."

His voice cracked. He didn't hide it.

"I never wanted to be this. I wanted to find a cure. I wanted to save them. But now… I walk among devils with a devil's name. And even the stars close their eyes when I pass."

He stood.

"I am on the Charmer Path, Route –3 The Fiend. My path is built from manipulation, from charm, from shame. I am not loved. I am obeyed. I am not whole. I am used. Every Ritual I gather deepens my fracture. Every power I gain burns another memory from my mind."

He picked up the mask and held it to his face.

"But the Rituals… the Rituals are all I have left."

He turned away. "And soon, you'll be one of them."

The girl's screams echoed down the prison hall long after he left.

And the mask smiled as it sealed.

The Fiend stood silently as the heavy iron door unlocked with a slow groan. His black cloak trailed behind him like a wound that refused to close. He said nothing at first—just looked at Hana Kraves through the bars.

Her sobs had grown weaker, quieter. Eyes dry now, as if her soul had stopped asking for help.

Then he spoke, softly.

"I promised myself… you would have a good memory before you go."

The lock clicked open. The metal door swung wide.

She backed away, instinctively afraid. But he held no chains. No blade. Only… a box in his hand.

"Come. There's no ritual today. Just a… moment."

He turned and walked without waiting. Hesitantly, barefoot and trembling, Hana followed.

Inside the wooden base, down a separate hall of painted doors and empty rooms, he pushed open one chamber. Dozens of beautiful dresses hung from ropes and hooks, hand-stitched and folded in colors she never imagined existed—silks, lace, long robes sewn with stars and tiny pearls.

"I stole them from fate," he said, lips curled slightly. "Today, one of them is yours."

Hana blinked. "Why?"

The Fiend didn't answer. He simply gestured to a mirror.

Hana stepped forward. Her fingers brushed the fabrics. She chose a soft blue one with embroidered white flowers. It hugged her gently, neither heavy nor revealing. It looked like it was made to be touched by wind.

And then, everything changed.

Without warning, the world around her melted.

One moment she stood in that shadowed, splintered base—and the next, the wind was real. The sky was open.

She gasped.

They stood now in an endless field—golden and green and full of blooming cosmos flowers that bent in the soft summer breeze.

In the distance, cloud-wrapped mountains watched over them, blue and ancient.

Birds sang overhead. The sun was warm, not harsh. The air was alive with wildflowers and the smell of rivers that couldn't be seen but were surely nearby.

Her bare feet touched soft earth.

She turned to the Fiend.

He was no longer masked. His face was young, gentle—though sadness clung to it like old moss.

He smiled, and for once, it wasn't haunting.

"I once imagined this place. Back when I thought I could still be forgiven. Took me years to create it."

"A dream?"

"A memory. Twisted into reality."

Hana stood silently, her hand brushing against the blossoms.

He stepped beside her, gently placed a crown of small white daisies on her head.

"You remind me of someone I knew… long ago."

She looked up. "Who?"

"My sister. She died before I could find her again. Just like you'll disappear before your brother can."

Hana didn't cry this time.

Instead, she whispered, "But you didn't have to do this for me."

"I know," he replied, turning toward the distant mountains. "But monsters have hearts too. We just stop using them before they rot."

They spent what felt like an hour walking the field in silence.

He picked fruit from a tree that hadn't been there a moment ago. Shared it with her. Sweet like honey and forgotten times.

He let her sing. She danced once, slowly, awkwardly—bare feet skipping in the wind.

And he watched. Quiet. Unmoving. As if trying to memorize her every motion.

Then, just before the light began to fade—

He knelt and took her hand.

"This world will swallow you. But let this moment be your rebellion."

Her fingers gripped his tightly.

"I'm scared."

"So was I," he said. "The first time I died."

Then the sky cracked faintly. Not thunder—but time folding.

He stood up. His voice changed again.

"We should go. Rituals can't wait too long once the dream starts to break."

As she turned to him, the field began to darken. The petals lost color. The wind fell still.

But for that brief, impossible hour, Hana was a daughter.

And The Fiend was a father.

Even if just in memory.

.....

The dim room flickered with the light of a lone lantern swinging gently from the low wooden ceiling. Shadows stretched and curled like sleeping beasts across the cracked walls. In the center of the room, beneath a thick woolen blanket, Hana Kraves lay breathing softly, her face calm—unshackled, unchained, unbruised.

Her hands rested neatly over her chest. A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips. She was asleep. But not just that—she was dreaming something warm.

Sitting beside the bed on a creaky wooden chair, The Fiend watched her in silence. One leg crossed over the other. His black-gloved hand held a small notebook, half-open, though he wasn't reading it anymore.

He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, and muttered softly to himself:

"Fascinating… How fragile hope is. But how addicting."

He glanced at her again—sleeping so peacefully, like none of this horror ever existed. His mask was off, lying by his side. His face—pale, faintly lined, with tired yet curious eyes—tilted slightly as he continued his explanation. Even though she couldn't hear it, even though she was far too deep in the dreamscape he had crafted… he spoke.

"It's the Parasitism Trait. The real heart of the Charmer Path. Unlike most, I don't need to corrupt the body. Just the anchor of consciousness."

He took a deep breath, running his hand through his wild black hair.

"I slipped a single strand of my hair into her mouth. It wriggled through her tongue and laced into her neural pathways before she could even blink. Such a delicate act. Like threading a needle through a flame."

He stood slowly, walking to the small table nearby. On it sat an empty porcelain teacup and a white candle still burning low. His voice was barely above a whisper, like reciting a quiet confession to the void:

"She doesn't even know it's not real… The dresses, the mountain field, the crown of daisies, the songs and fruits—all of them fabricated, pulled from fragments of her own longing, bent and stitched into something almost believable."

He tapped his temple gently.

"I'm not inside her mind... not exactly. I'm perched above it. A parasite who drips nectar instead of venom. That's the trick. Don't show them horror, not at first. Show them the illusion they would kill to believe. Give them warmth, a sense of control. A beautiful cage..."

He turned back to look at her again. Her breathing remained soft and even, her chest rising and falling as if nothing at all were wrong.

"She will wake, and still think it was just a dream. She may even ask me for it again," he said with a subtle smile. "And when that time comes, the fourth ritual… will be easier."

But his smile faded as quickly as it came. His voice dropped lower.

"...And yet, I hate this."

The Fiend sat back down beside her, resting his elbows on his knees again.

"I told her I would give her good memories before the end. I never said they would be hers."

The candle flickered. The shadow of his face stretched across the floor, thin and monstrous.

And beside him, Hana Kraves slept, a false dream playing gently behind her closed eyes—while the parasite sat watching, patient and methodical, waiting for the light to fade.

....

The Fiend stepped into the throne hall, silent as ever. The wood beneath his boots creaked with a tired groan. The air was dry, still carrying the scent of burnt incense and bloodied cloth. Cold winds slipped through the mountain cracks, whispering to the abandoned walls of the hidden base like phantoms too old to scream.

He ascended the crooked steps of the elevated platform, where his throne—a twisted seat made from pale bones, rusted pipes, and war-torn leather—awaited him like a mocking king's joke.

He slumped into it.

His fingers clenched the armrests. His breaths were slow. Heavy. Thoughts of Hana, of the ritual, of the missing diary, swirled around his skull like a thousand whispering voices.

Then—

The room darkened.

A black ripple shivered through the air like oil across water. The lanterns flickered. The shadows in the corners grew denser, deeper, as if something enormous now watched from the walls themselves.

And then it arrived.

Not with footsteps. Not with shape. But with presence.

A shadowy entity unfurled itself from thin air—no form, no face, just flickers of outline, as if stitched together from spiderwebs, cosmic ink, and broken thoughts. It hovered before the throne, and when it spoke, its voice came from every direction and none.

"Still playing warlord, little parasite?"

The Fiend stiffened. The color drained from his pale cheeks. His fingers curled harder around the arms of the throne.

"Tell me, child... where is the diary?"

It didn't wait for an answer.

"You promised it. You and your brilliant little schemes... such arrogance. And now, you play dress-up with broken girls, building a throne out of fear and failure."

The Fiend's jaw clenched. His eyes trembled—rage flaring within—but he didn't rise. His entire body was taut with restraint.

"Look at you. A human so desperate to matter, he stitched together dead rituals like cheap thread. And still... you kneel."

The Fiend stood slowly, his voice like a buried growl:

"Mock me again and I'll—"

The entity twisted violently—its voice sharpening to a dagger's edge.

"You'll what? Bite the leash? You forget who allowed you this path. You forget why you still draw breath. I am not your enemy. I am your owner."

The Fiend stepped forward, trembling with fury. His mouth opened, but words failed. Something invisible had wrapped around his throat—not literally, but cosmically, spiritually, as if the laws themselves refused him the right to rebel.

"You failed. The diary is still out there. In their hands. And you sit here... chasing ghosts."

Then, the shadow began to recede, shrinking into a crackling silhouette with a final laugh:

"Find it. Or next time—I'll send someone far worse than you."

And with that, it vanished. Like breath on glass.

The silence afterward was deafening.

The Fiend stared at the space it had occupied. His legs gave out. He fell back into the throne like a man thrown from the sky.

He screamed—a soundless scream, deep in his chest. His hand reached up and ripped the metal mask from his face. He slammed it against the throne's side. Again. Again. Until the edges bent. Until blood leaked from his palm.

His breaths were jagged. His eyes wide. Red. Wet.

"Why… Why can't I move beyond this? Why am I still a slave… even now?"

He lowered his head, trembling in raw humiliation. His voice was a whisper only the dead could hear:

"I just wanted to matter."

And across the hall, the shadows returned to stillness.

But they remembered.