Miracleborn Saga

The Next Day,

The morning sun cut through the cloud-veiled sky, casting a pale warmth upon the cobbled courtyard in front of the Vanguard Station. Crows flitted above rooftops, their wings briefly eclipsing the mellow light. The streets were quiet for once—no alarms, no screams—just the distant clatter of wagons and a cold breeze whispering through the alleys.

Henry stood near the entrance of the station, coat unbuttoned, scarf loosened. Jeff leaned against the rail chewing on his signature Toast Stick, while Mary stood properly with arms crossed, always a little too upright to be casual. Her expression, as usual, hovered between stern composure and silent calculation.

They were chatting about the latest clues in the case—the diary, the cult, the recent sightings—when Nelson Carter, sitting cross-legged on a cracked wooden bench, folded his newspaper with a loud slap.

"You're too noisy in the morning," Nelson muttered, the edge of a yawn still hanging on his lips. He rubbed his round belly and tilted the paper toward them with a smirk. "Zombies made the third page. City Council finally accepted it wasn't a theater stunt. Took them long enough."

Jeff snorted. "They'll believe a dog reads scripture before accepting cosmic contamination."

Mary didn't smile. "They believed the quarantine was from a grain fungus."

At that, Nelson stood and stretched, the hem of his coat barely reaching his sides. "Anyway, important stuff now—two new flies in the hive."

From behind the station gate, two figures approached, their boots polished, long coats fluttering faintly in the wind. The first was tall, regal in posture, with a smooth moderate brown complexion and flowing shoulder-length hair bound neatly with silver pins. His face was striking—noble in an old-world way—and he walked as though the world parted for him.

The second was older, shorter, his skin pale and creased from time and burden. His face bore a permanent scowl, eyes dark and watchful. His movements were quiet but deliberate—like a man who had no interest in wasting muscle or breath.

Nelson raised an eyebrow, then waved toward the others. "Alright, formality time."

He cleared his throat, surprisingly serious for once.

"These are the Investigators sent from Calvary Kingdom's Vanguard Special Department." He gestured with a finger. "This charming guy is Alister Neo, gentleman, noble, trained with royal Inquisitors. Looks like he was painted by a drunk artist but somehow ended up perfect."

Alister gave a modest smile, his voice smooth and measured. "Pleasure to meet you all. The name's Neo, but feel free to call me Alister."

"And this," Nelson nodded to the grimmer man beside him, "is Flynn Tie, combat strategist and forensic expert. Don't try jokes. He's killed men for smiling in court."

Flynn gave a small nod, hands tucked behind his back. "We've reviewed your recent reports. This city's situation has attracted high-level attention. We're here to assist."

Henry extended a hand. "Henry. Vanguard, investigator. Thanks for coming."

Jeff added with a grin, "Jeff Hardy. I eat toast and solve cults."

Mary's introduction was simpler. "Mary Janet. Coordinator and shooter."

Alister looked over them approvingly. "Good. Seems we have a team that knows how to bleed but still walk straight."

Flynn's eyes landed on Mary for a moment. "You—former north border operative?"

She nodded.

"Impressive," Flynn said, then turned away, already assessing the station building.

Nelson watched them with narrowed eyes. "Guess the big dogs are sniffing our yard now. Let's not give them reason to piss on it."

Henry chuckled softly. "Let's see what they find."

The breeze returned, lifting the edges of their coats as the gates of the station closed behind them. The real work had just begun.

....

The narrow corridor of the Vanguard Station echoed faintly under Jeff's steps. Afternoon light spilled through the stained glass windows, casting colored patterns on the floor—reds, blues, a sliver of gold that flickered like flame over the stone.

Jeff reached a wooden door marked with a tarnished brass plate: Officer Andrew Fritz.

He knocked, once—sharp and confident.

"Come in," came the low, composed voice from within.

Jeff opened the door.

Andrew sat at his desk, surrounded by paper towers—documents, dossiers, maps pinned with thread and pins. He didn't look up right away, his pale fingers turning a page with habitual care. His overcoat was folded neatly over the back of his chair, and the scent of ink and old paper filled the room.

Jeff stepped in, hand in his coat pocket. "Sir."

Andrew finally raised his gaze, his face impassive but focused. "Jeff Hardy."

"I came to ask…" Jeff hesitated for once, his usual playfulness absent. "About the diary. We're thinking of taking it outside. It might help with a potential lead."

Andrew closed the file he was reading. "No."

Jeff blinked. "Just like that?"

Andrew stood and walked over to the small iron rack where a kettle rested, half-full. He poured himself a cup of lukewarm tea and didn't offer any. "That diary has already drawn attention. You know what happened during the invasion. That wasn't random."

"We'll keep it safe," Jeff pressed, serious now. "Henry, Mary, and I—we know what's at stake."

Andrew turned to him, setting the cup down gently. "You misunderstand me."

Jeff tilted his head.

"I'm not saying no to the investigation," Andrew said, voice cool and slow, "I'm saying you do not take the diary outside. It stays within Vanguard jurisdiction. Period."

"Then how do we investigate leads connected to it?"

"Find a way to bring the clues to you. Not the other way around."

Jeff ran a hand through his hair, sighing. "This diary better be worth all the blood spilled over it."

Andrew walked back to his desk and leaned slightly forward. "It is. That's why it stays protected."

Jeff opened his mouth to say something, but Andrew's next words silenced him.

"Sometimes, Jeff, the bait doesn't belong in the water. Sometimes the bait is better off locked in an iron box—because what it draws in... can't be killed."

The room fell quiet, the muffled tick of a wall clock the only sound. Then Andrew sat down again, as if the matter were closed.

Jeff nodded slowly. "Understood, sir."

He turned to leave, pausing at the door. "But just in case... I'll keep an eye on who's circling the iron box."

Andrew didn't respond.

Jeff closed the door behind him.

....

The valley stretched in eerie silence. Far from the bustling heart of the town, it felt like a forgotten wound carved into the land. Wind moved like breath between the dead stones and bent trees. The old valley soil was dry, but not lifeless—its quietude carried a kind of anticipation, like something waiting underneath.

Henry adjusted his goggles as he looked around cautiously. Beside him, Jeff smacked the dust off his gloved hands, eyes narrowed at the distant horizon.

Flynn Tie, the older Vanguard from the Calvary Kingdom, stood at the center of a barren patch. His posture was firm, deliberate, like a man who'd done this ritual too many times in places that should've never seen light.

Mary Janet, ever the sharp-eyed guardian, silently turned and sprinted to a tall, aging palm tree nearby. She scaled it with agile precision, anchoring herself in the branches where she could see the entire open area.

Jeff chuckled, tilting his head toward her, whispering just loud enough, "Didn't know she had monkey roots."

Mary, from the tree, didn't even glance down. "Your dinner's off tonight."

Jeff's face twisted. "Oh come on, it was a compliment—!"

"Focus," Henry cut in, voice steady, eyes on the man preparing the ritual.

Flynn had placed the violet-bound diary on the ground as though setting down a beast in chains. Around it, he dragged his heel to mark a broken circle in the dirt, shaping it into a chained sigil—ancient, fractured, yet symmetrical. The nails of the symbol were jagged with intentional imperfection, designed to snare power like a net instead of channel it. He worked silently, breath sharp.

"This diary doesn't want to be opened," Flynn murmured, pulling a rusted iron nail and a small hammer from his bag. "It's not bound with locks. It's bound with consequence."

He looked to Henry and Jeff. "You'll need to keep it grounded while I force an anchor."

The violet aura had already begun to seep from the edges of the diary like slow smoke, undulating, alive. As Flynn whispered in a tongue they didn't understand, the ground began to pulse softly.

Henry crouched, pressing both palms on the thick cover of the diary. Jeff mirrored him, though he glanced at the glowing sigils with suspicion. "I swear if this thing bites, I'm retiring."

Flynn stepped into the circle, holding the nail above the diary. He began chanting louder now, his voice shifting in tone—forceful, guttural, almost as if it wasn't entirely his.

The air around them began to vibrate. A low hum swelled into the wind.

The moment the nail touched the diary's surface, everything screamed.

A surge of raw thaumic force exploded outward like a cannon blast. The sigils erupted in violet lightning. Henry and Jeff braced their weight, muscles tensed, teeth gritted, as the diary fought back—straining, writhing, burning. The hammer hit the nail once—twice—

The third strike split the air.

BOOM.

The blast sent all three flying backward like rag dolls. The earth cracked. The valley roared like a creature disturbed. Dust surged into the sky like fog, swallowing all color.

Henry hit the ground, back-first, rolling once before he coughed violently, lungs full of smoke and shock. Jeff groaned somewhere to his left. "I think… my spine just relocated to my neck…"

Mary leapt from the tree, landing with a swift roll. She rushed toward the blackened circle. " Elder Flynn! Henry!"

Flynn had landed farther, lying motionless for a second before pushing himself up slowly, blood dripping from his nose. His gloved hands trembled. The hammer was broken. But the nail—it was lodged into the diary now, faintly glowing violet with cracks of blackness crawling out from its edges.

Mary reached him first, helping him stand. " Sir, what were you thinking?"

Flynn smiled faintly, eyes haunted. "Thinking… that it'd kill me slower if I was careful."

Jeff and Henry joined, limping toward the still-smoking circle. The grass within a twenty-meter radius had been scorched clean—blackened, glass-like in texture. The sigil still burned faintly in the dirt, etched into the soil itself.

Henry stared at the diary. The glow was gone. It was quiet now. Cold. But something had changed.

"What did you do?" Henry asked softly.

Flynn exhaled. "We didn't unlock it."

He looked at each of them, his tone distant.

"We just awoke it."

....

Dust still clung to their boots as the four walked through the narrow alley that wound between the silent outer blocks of West Prada. Cracked stone, vines crawling the walls, the occasional clatter of a stray crow above—it was a forgotten path, but it felt oddly fitting after what had just happened.

Flynn Tie walked in front, hands tucked behind his back, calm as ever. Mary trailed a bit beside him, her coat brushing with each step, eyes constantly scanning. Jeff and Henry walked behind, Jeff still shaking his fingers like they were burnt, while Henry was lost in thought—until Flynn finally spoke.

His voice was low. Controlled. "You know… I only saw the first four pages."

Jeff blinked. "Wait. You foresaw them?"

Flynn nodded slowly, not stopping. "Yes. Before we even left the station, I performed a peripheral foresight. Didn't touch the diary directly—just skimmed the shadows around its presence. What I saw… was enough."

Mary narrowed her eyes. "You said nothing."

"Would you have allowed us to proceed if I did?" he replied, still without turning. "None of you would have. And we had to test it."

Henry's voice was softer than usual. "What did you see in those pages?"

Flynn finally stopped and turned, his expression grim. "They weren't written like text. Each page… showed an event. It wasn't just words. They happened to me. As if I lived them. There was many things related to astronomy and cosmology. Even I don't know what are those things mentioned in the diary."

He paused.

A silence settled among the four.

Jeff exhaled slowly. "Well, I suddenly miss my toast stick."

Mary shook her head. "So… it's cursed."

Flynn continued walking. "Cursed? That would be a mercy. That diary isn't bound by human sorcery. It's anchored. If we had tried to hold it longer—force it open—we wouldn't be standing here."

He glanced at them. "We would've been harvested. Not killed. Taken. Our spirits ripped from our bodies like threads pulled from a loom. And not all at once—methodically."

Henry's stomach turned slightly at the word. He clenched his gloved fists. The feathered trait inside him stirred briefly, sensing his unease.

"So, just four pages?" he asked.

Flynn shook his head. "Those were just the ones I could bear to see. The diary isn't written in sequence. It exists in layers. Some entries exist across different realities. And some might not even belong to this world."

Mary bit her lip. "So what do we do now?"

Flynn stopped again. "We don't open it. Not without guidance. We need someone who can withstand the burden of reading without triggering the mechanisms inside."

Henry said nothing. He was already thinking of someone. Oracles, dreams, monsters, a diary that could flay souls—

He had a feeling the true test hadn't even started.

The alley narrowed as they neared the edge of the town, where old bricks turned to blackened stone and rusted railings framed the path like forgotten ribs. The air was getting colder now—not from the evening wind, but from something else. From what still clung to their skin and minds after touching that diary.

Flynn slowed again, glancing toward a crooked lamppost barely flickering to life. He turned to the others, his voice lower than before, laced with intention.

"I'll write it down," he said.

Jeff raised an eyebrow. "Write what?"

Flynn met his gaze. "Everything I saw. Every detail, every shade, every scream in the pages. The scenes I didn't dare to explain before."

Henry narrowed his eyes. "You're going to record forbidden content?"

Flynn nodded. "Yes. But not in just any paper. I'll scribe it into a cursed manuscript. The book itself will be refined—through rituals—to withstand and absorb those forbidden forces. Once it's ready, I'll inscribe the diary's contents inside."

Mary folded her arms. "Is that even safe? You're talking about replicating text that could… harvest souls."

Flynn looked at her, serious. "That's why the book must be transformed first. A cursed force needs to be inscribed into the book's spine, layered by glyphs that ward corruption, while welcoming knowledge. It must be born through rituals. And once it becomes strong enough… those words from the diary won't be able to override it. Rather, they'll become bound—trapped in that book's system."

Henry looked away, thinking about the implications.

Flynn continued, "Then—and only then—can the investigation team, or others with clearance, read it. It won't be direct exposure to the diary, but they'll know the truths buried within it… through a filtered medium. But that's the gamble."

Mary's voice was measured. "Gamble?"

"If the cursed energy used for the binding isn't strong enough, then copying even a single sentence might… awaken something. The diary might react. It could be drawn to the replica. Or worse—influence it back."

Jeff muttered, "So, we're basically baiting a monster with a sketch of its own shadow."

Flynn allowed a tight smirk. "Exactly."

The wind stirred a piece of old paper across the alley floor.

Henry finally spoke. "Will you be able to handle it? Writing those scenes again?"

Flynn didn't answer at first.

Then, slowly, he said, "I won't write them like a scribe. I'll transcribe them like a witness. That's how I'll survive it."

The moment lingered, heavy, before Flynn looked ahead again.

"I'll start the book tomorrow. But I'll need something... rare. A cursed ink from the archives. Something that's tasted memory and madness."

Mary sighed. "I'll contact the archive keepers. But if this thing fights back…"

Flynn whispered, "Then I hope it remembers who tried to warn it."

They continued down the alley, and behind them, the air felt like it was reading their thoughts.