Miracleborn Saga

The hearth crackled, casting shadows that danced like ghosts behind the soot-dark walls. Outside, the snow whispered quietly across the pine needles. Inside, the warmth wrapped around the two like a forgotten lullaby.

Henry wiped his mouth with the back of his glove. "That omelette," he said, "tasted like it was fried in nostalgia."

Eret grinned, his old face cracking into deep lines. "It was. Mixed in a little guilt and the tears of an old flame."

Henry chuckled. "Sounds like my last breakfast in university."

They both laughed softly. The moment felt harmless, cozy even.

"You know," Eret said, swirling the remains of his tea, "I once knew a man. Bit of a stubborn fool. Loved looking at stars more than people. Had this diary he'd never let out of his sight. Said it contained something bigger than gods."

The teacup in Henry's hand paused mid-air. His smile dimmed by a fraction. "Did he now?"

"Mhm," Eret continued, unfazed, eyes fixed on the flames. "Said if it ever got into the wrong hands, whole systems might collapse. And then one day—poof—dead. Just like that. Left the book behind."

Henry didn't laugh this time. His fingers shifted near his coat.

Eret kept talking. "Of course, such stories are common, eh? Star-obsessed fathers. Dead sons. Cities with broken clocks."

Henry's eyes narrowed. "You're not from here, are you?"

Eret tilted his head. "Aren't we all from somewhere forgotten?"

Henry didn't wait. His hand flicked open his coat with silent precision. The revolver gleamed, its barrel marked with runes still faintly glowing from the blessing ink. In one breathless movement—he fired.

The bullet howled through the air—an enchanted shot, designed to pierce through lies and masks.

But before it reached—

Boom.

An invisible force crashed into Henry like a divine storm.

The wall of the hut exploded outward.

Both Henry and Eret were flung through splintered wood and shattered stone, landing in the snow outside with a thundering thud. Smoke and ash swirled in the cold air as the hut's remains groaned behind them.

Henry's revolver slid into the snow, steam rising from its barrel.

The old man no longer looked just like a frail hermit.

The air was shifting now—charged, unnatural.

Henry grit his teeth and pushed himself to his knees. Something was wrong.

Henry lay half-kneeling in the snow, lungs burning, mind racing.

His eyes locked onto the scattered blood by the ruined hut—red, warm, recent.

Then it hit him like ice water through the spine.

Martin Lawden.

The name whispered in his head like a curse.

Father told me about him....

A man who vanished from the church records.

A Charmer, Route –3. A manipulator of illusions and minds.

The Fiend.

One of the only known Invokers to advance that far... and survive.

Henry's boots crunched against the frosted earth as he sprinted toward the bloodstained spot, revolver in hand, heart pounding like war drums.

But—

Nothing.

Just blood in the snow, seeping like spilled ink into parchment. No body. No footprints. No warmth.

He pivoted, breath ragged.

Where did he—

A sharp whistle behind.

Henry's instincts screamed. He twisted just in time—a dagger swiped past his ribs, barely missing.

He staggered back, weapon raised.

A gust of wind brushed away the ash and smoke behind him—revealing Martin.

The old man's disguise fell away in an eerie silence.

He reached up with deliberate slowness, his fingers tugging the gray wig off, then the heavy beard, letting them drift into the snow like discarded lies.

His face—young, angular, with cruel elegance.

The once-familiar grin was now soaked in venom. Henry's hand trembled.

The wind murmured between the skeletal trees of St. Don Forest. The ashes of the broken hut still drifted through the air like smoldering ghosts. Across the shattered clearing, Martin Lawden stood with a casual elegance—his coat torn open, revealing the runic lining stitched across the inside, pulsing faintly with violet sigils. His blade-like eyes studied Henry with the amusement of a puppeteer gazing at a tangled string.

"Come now, Henry," Martin said, his voice a velvet coil. "Just hand me the diary. Or I'll reduce every Vanguard to threads—starting with the loud one… Jeff, right?"

Henry's jaw tightened, his breath fogging in the cold. "You'll get nothing but regret."

Martin chuckled. "Regret is a luxury. I traded mine long ago."

Henry lunged for his revolver—but Martin's hand snapped out, a flick of his fingers sending a burst of twisting ink-like energy that shoved the weapon far into the snow. Before Henry could pivot, Martin was already in front of him. A brutal punch to the stomach drove the wind from his lungs. Henry reeled, coughing.

He stumbled back, hand out.

Feathers bloomed around him—translucent, shimmering, violet-aura cloaked.

He rose off the ground, feet floating. His eyes glowed dimly. Air cracked as his speed doubled, the feathers adapting to his intent. The trait activated completely.

Martin narrowed his eyes. "Ah… so the whispers weren't false. The 'Feather Host' trait. Pretty. But incomplete."

Henry didn't respond. He surged forward, zigzagging unnaturally fast in the air, propelled by feather-bursts like rockets. A sword formed in his hand, sleek and light, its blade feathered like a quill. He slashed with fluid precision.

Martin ducked, then clapped his hands—a detonation of leaves burst from his sleeves, morphing midair into shards sharper than bone. They homed toward Henry like seekers. Henry spun in midair, his cloak billowing behind him, feathers shielding him, slowing the shards or deflecting their course.

Henry landed low and whispered, "Inventory: Lock."

Time cracked.

Everything froze.

The leaves hung in the air like a paused snowfall. Trees stood in halted sway. Only Henry moved. He used a Luck point so he could move this time but not for long.

He took a breath. "I have ten seconds…"

He zipped forward—about to slash Martin's neck—

Crack.

A fist met his face.

Henry flew backward, stunned. How?!

Martin moved—inside the Inventory.

"You…" Henry gasped. "You moved… inside my time-lock?"

Martin rolled his neck. "Weak authority. That was a nice toy, Henry. But mine comes from conviction."

He smirked and clapped again.

The ground below Henry exploded—roots twisted upward like black serpents, trying to ensnare his ankles. He reacted fast, slicing the roots, flipping into the air using feather momentum.

Martin vanished.

Appeared behind him.

Henry twisted midair, slashed.

Too slow.

Martin's finger tapped Henry's forehead—a jolt of mental static struck.

Hallucinations flooded in—Mimi bleeding, Cull family's extinct, His childhood —Henry gritted his teeth, roared, and blew feathers outward in all directions, dispelling the illusion field.

"You use memories now?" he said.

Martin smirked. "Charmer Path, boy. Fear and love are just weapons."

Henry gasped for breath. Can't beat him in strength. Not in experience. I need unpredictability.

He stabbed the feather sword into the ground.

Martin cocked a brow.

Henry vanished.

Above.

Martin looked up—just in time to see Henry diving with both palms extended, feathers swirling like a storm funnel.

Henry roared, feathers condensing into a drill-shield, crashing downward.

Martin threw up a wall of leaves, but Henry's force shattered through it, pinning Martin briefly to the ground. He tried to slash—but Martin vanished into thin air again, a paper clone left burning.

"Coward!" Henry spun. "Stop hiding!"

Suddenly, the real Martin stepped from a tree's shadow, calm as water.

"I'm not hiding," he said, tossing an orb at Henry's feet.

Henry looked down—

Flash.

Silence.

A mirror dimension wrapped around him—a silver cube of refracted space. Henry floated inside, trapped.

Martin walked around the prison slowly.

"You're clever," he muttered, "but still soft."

Inside, Henry concentrated. The cube distorted perception—but not internal truth.

Feathers responded.

They danced along the edges of the cube.

Henry exhaled. Feathers don't obey geometry. They obey direction.

He folded.

His entire body folded between the reflections, and he reappeared behind Martin.

Martin twisted, too late.

SLASH.

His coat tore.

Blood spilled.

The Fiend hissed and backed up, now smiling wider.

"Good," he whispered. "Maybe you're worth killing after all."

The wind turned sharp.

Clouds gathered in thick, churning masses above the shattered glade, their bellies swollen with black rain. Pine trees stood crooked under the growing pressure. Henry panted, blood trailing down the side of his face, one hand clenched around the remains of his feather-blade, the other trembling slightly.

Then—

It began to rain.

Cold droplets fell from above, slow at first, like a mourning lullaby. They spattered the ash-blackened dirt, hissed on broken bark, and dotted Henry's coat with dark blooms.

Martin Lawden stood on the other side of the field, his leather jacket torn, his green cape flapping violently in the wind. He spread his arms wide, head tilting up, letting the rain kiss his face.

And then—

He laughed.

A sound that tore through the woods like glass dragged over wet iron.

It was deep, sharp, insane.

Martin's body began to glow with a twisting gray-violet aura, not of fire, not of wind, not of anything born of nature—but something from deeper strata of reality.

His laughter crescendoed. "Do you know what I hate about the rain, Henry?" he shouted. "It falls down. As if it knows better. As if it thinks it has somewhere to go!"

Then it happened.

The rain... stopped. Midair.

Every drop froze in place like beads on invisible strings. A thousand thousand droplets, suspended in stillness. Henry's eyes widened. The air tightened—a crushing weight like a storm pressing on his ribs.

Then—

The rain reversed.

Every single drop shot back upward, faster than it had fallen. Up. Into the sky. The clouds began to shrink—as if the water was being reabsorbed into time itself.

Martin was grinning like a man reborn through madness. His eyes gleamed. Blood still ran from the cut on his neck, but he didn't care.

He snapped his fingers.

The clouds vanished.

The wind died.

Stillness fell.

And then the pressure hit.

Henry staggered back. His legs nearly gave out. It wasn't just aura—it was something deeper. Thaumaturgic pressure—a fundamental rejection of ordinary existence. The world curved slightly around Martin. Space hummed.

Henry knew.

His mind whispered the obvious, buried beneath instinct.

If Martin truly used all his power right now... I'd die. Not in pain. Not in glory. But in an instant.

Erased. Like chalk in the storm.

Martin tilted his head. "You see, Henry... That diary? It's not cursed. It's truth. Truth in the form of a scream too ancient to understand. And I want it back."

Henry clenched his fists. He knew running wouldn't work. Fighting was suicide. But something inside him refused to kneel.

"You're insane," Henry said, voice hoarse.

Martin smiled wider. "Insanity is just a crown no one else dares to wear."

The smell of burnt pine and iron filled Henry's nose—if only faintly. His boots, torn and cracked, crunched against the scorched dirt as he rose with difficulty. The feather-trait trembled around him like nervous wings, sensing something was wrong.

And then—

Martin, standing ahead—his bloodied coat now still, his expression no longer manic but cold, precise. His smile returned like a dagger slipping through a familiar rib.

"You know what's funny, Henry?" he said, voice too calm. "Vanguards talk about duty. About protecting civilians. Yet not one of you ever stopped to ask—from what?"

He tilted his head, eyes glittering with contempt.

"From me? From yourselves? Or from the gods you pray to but don't understand?"

Henry, breath shallow, took a step forward.

Martin chuckled darkly. "The answer doesn't matter. What matters is…"

He snapped his fingers.

Everything exploded.

Not in flame. Not in noise.

But in form.

Martin's body unraveled into black threads of wind, light, and violent entropy—then spiraled upward like a serpent eating the sky. The very ground shook. Trees shattered like bones. The air bent and roared.

Martin became a cyclone.

No—he was the cyclone.

A towering, writhing tempest, taller than the mountains themselves, with eyes hidden in its whirling center. The clouds above cracked open in fear, splitting around the storm like glass around a bullet. The wind screamed—not with the voice of nature, but of a mind too old and furious to bear.

Henry screamed as he dropped to his knees, pressing his palm to the ground.

Feathers burst from his coat, wrapping around his boots, his legs, his spine—digging into the soil, anchoring him.

The storm touched the earth.

And then came the radiation.

A pulse—soundless, formless—spread like a death bell.

Henry's mind convulsed. His ears bled instantly. His nose too. Veins in his head bulged as a scream not made for human ears whispered through his neurons.

He gasped—but no breath came.

Images flashed—people melting under gravity, time collapsing into a single frame, feathers decaying into dust before ever forming. Names of gods never spoken, syllables Henry's mouth could not pronounce.

He dropped.

His body slammed onto the cracked ground, twitching slightly. Unconscious.

Above, the Cyclone marched toward Prada, swallowing clouds, valleys, and reason with every turning breath.

The world tilted.