Miracleborn Saga

The winter wind was quiet today.

In the heart of East Prada's Central Park, beneath the crooked branches of a leafless cherry blossom tree, Allen sat alone on a wooden bench. His white shirt fluttered slightly as the air brushed by, tousling his golden hair. The sun, veiled by silver clouds, cast no warmth—just a pale shimmer across the frostbitten grass.

In his small hands rested the Diary. The very one sealed with symbols no common man could touch. No one had told him to take it. No one gave him permission.

But he had it now. And no one dared ask him why.

His golden eyes didn't blink as he stared at the ancient leather cover. His reflection on its sheen looked… older. Tired. Not like a boy of fifteen.

Children's laughter echoed from across the park, distant—almost foreign.

Allen did not look.

He slowly opened the diary to the first page.

The glyphs glowed softly, breathing like something alive.

The light didn't hurt him. No voices screamed in his head. No madness seeped into his mind.

Instead, there was a strange silence. As if the world itself leaned in to listen.

Allen's lips moved faintly, reciting something no ear could hear. His thumb brushed one of the cursed letters.

A gust of wind swept past.

Nearby pigeons flew away as if startled.

And yet Allen remained still, calm—expression unreadable.

A moment passed.

Then another.

Finally, he closed the diary, hugging it close to his chest.

He looked up at the pale sky.

"…They all think I'm a child," he whispered.

His voice vanished into the quiet.

Somewhere far in the city, a distant bell rang twelve times.

Allen stood from the bench slowly, like a puppet winding back to life. He slipped the diary beneath his coat.

And walked away.

They say guilt is just proof of a conscience.

But I wonder…

Is a conscience worth anything in a world that no longer listens?

Every breath I take feels borrowed—like I'm stealing seconds from someone who deserved to live more than I did. I eat. I sleep. I talk. I move through the hours like a ghost wearing a skin that's growing tired of me. And all the while, the world continues—oblivious, indifferent, or maybe just bored of my noise.

I used to think there was a grand architecture to this life. That behind every shadow was a shape, behind every pain a purpose. But now… I see only random, patternless cruelty. I see children buried while tyrants breathe. I see smiles turned into screams by the hands they once held dear.

I see me, and I can't even look myself in the eyes.

You think guilt fades? No—it grows. It festers. It wraps around your spine like thorns, twisting every choice you make into a rebuke. Every joy you feel is hollow, every memory replays with edits you never made—edits where you could've done something differently, should've known better, should've saved them.

You didn't.

And now you carry the corpses in your thoughts like chains.

They don't haunt you.

You become them.

People talk about meaning. Love. Hope. Faith. All words too soft for a world this sharp. All bandages over a bullet wound that never closed.

What is meaning anyway? A story we tell ourselves to survive the silence?

Or a trick we inherited from gods who went deaf a long time ago?

Some nights, I think I understand why people go mad. Madness isn't weakness—it's freedom. A final rejection of this absurd architecture. A revolt against the lie that there's something worth holding onto.

But I'm not mad.

I'm still here.

Not because I want to be. But because guilt doesn't let you die.

It needs you alive—to keep reminding you.

To whisper that you could've stopped it.

To smile and say, "You didn't."

So I keep walking.

Through the rain.

Through the screaming silence.

Through a world that makes no sense and no apologies.

And maybe someday… the silence will answer back.

But not today.

The Sunlight broke through the overcast sky, casting the cobblestone streets of East Prada in a soft, diluted glow. The air was cold—autumn flirting with winter. Allen Iverson walked alone, hands in his coat pocket, scarf loosely wrapped around his neck. His expression was, as usual, unreadable—eyes half-lidded, mouth relaxed in permanent disinterest.

The leather-bound diary he always carried was nestled tightly in his pocket, his fingers resting against it like a reflex.

He was headed toward the Church of Hazaya. Not for prayer—he didn't care much for structured belief—but for the silence. The high walls, the filtered light through stained glass, the warmth in the winter air. A place where nobody stared too long.

Until someone did.

A sudden crash.

Allen stumbled back as he collided into three figures—two boys and one girl, about his age. Same school uniformed coats, same mismatched pride. They were loud, always had been. Loud enough to hide the emptiness in their eyes.

"Well, well," sneered the tallest boy, dark-haired with a toothpick lazily shifting between his lips, "Look what the wind blew in. The orphan."

Allen blinked slowly. No reaction.

The second boy laughed and jabbed a thumb at his friend. "Watch it, you'll break him. He looks like he'll shatter if you raise your voice."

The girl, hands in her pocket, pulled something from Allen's pocket with a grin. His diary.

"What's this?" she asked in a singsong voice. "His tragic little poetry? 'Dear Diary, today I pretended not to cry in the library again.'"

She laughed sharply, waving the book like a prize.

Allen didn't flinch. He simply stared at them—quietly, coldly—his breath steady in the chilled air.

"Say something," the taller boy goaded. "You always act like you're some mystery novel. What, too fragile to speak?"

Allen finally shifted his weight, eyes flickering down to the diary, then back to the girl. The breeze tugged gently at his hair.

He spoke, voice quiet like distant thunder.

"…You shouldn't read things you're not ready to understand."

They all paused.

Then laughed.

The girl tossed the diary from one hand to the other. "Big talk from the mute boy."

Allen didn't move. He just kept watching them—like one might watch something already on fire.

The church bell rang somewhere in the distance.

And Allen?

Still chilling.

The three teenagers flipped open Allen's diary, giggling like children playing with matches in a room soaked with oil. They thumbed through the pages, laughing louder with each half-understood entry.

"Listen to this one!" the tall boy mocked, voice cracking with amusement. "'I once thought silence was safety. But now I know—it's just the sound of being forgotten.' What does that even mean?"

The second boy cackled, "He probably thinks he's some kind of poet. Or a prophet! Hah!"

The girl, smirking, suddenly paused. Her eyes fell on a passage—one they hadn't expected.

"…Wait," she muttered, voice dropping, "Wasn't this the name of his dad?"

The other two leaned in.

"Yeah," the girl confirmed, lips curling. "Wasn't that the guy who—?"

She didn't finish the sentence.

But Allen heard enough.

He tilted his head. Slowly. As if listening to something in the air. Then, he chuckled.

It wasn't joyful.

It wasn't amused.

It was a dark, slow, haunted chuckle that peeled off his tongue like smoke rising from a mass grave.

Then—

The world changed.

The air thickened.

The light bent.

The skies cracked above like glass under pressure, and in a blink—

The street melted into hell.

Buildings now stood charred and crumbling, licking flames rising high into the suffocating red sky. Ashes swirled like snow, but they were heavier—fleshy, burnt.

Everywhere: corpses. Torn. Mangled. Slumped against burning walls.

Yellow sparks hovered near Allen's shoulders, like cursed fireflies. The trees were twisted, with veins. Blood oozed from cracks in the cobblestones.

The three bullies were frozen in place, white-eyed, mouths parted in wordless horror.

Allen stood at the center of it all, unbothered. Cold. Quiet.

His eyes—once dull with apathy—now blazed with absolute threat.

He pointed a single finger at them.

"Read the full diary," he said, voice heavy and sharp as falling steel.

"And I swear…"

His tone lowered like a death knell,

"There won't be a single one of you breathing the next second."

The shadows curled closer to the bullies.

The air shrieked.

One of them screamed, the girl dropped the diary like it burned her, and all three turned and ran.

Allen stepped forward.

But just as his boot pressed against the first trembling cobblestone, a firm hand caught his shoulder.

The world snapped back.

The fires vanished.

The sky cleared.

The corpses were gone.

The street was just a street again.

Allen blinked, dazed—like waking up from a fever dream.

Behind him stood a young Vanguard—lean, smug, an archer's glove tucked in his belt. He chuckled, arms crossed.

"Causing troubles in broad daylight now, are we?" the vanguard said mockingly. "You'll give the town council a reason to leash you, kid."

Allen didn't answer. He just stared ahead, breathing steady.

"Reckless kid," the vanguard muttered, stepping past him.

But a deeper voice interrupted.

"That's enough."

Father stepped out from the shadow of the nearby chapel, robes fluttering lightly in the cold wind. His face was as calm as always—but the storm in his eyes said otherwise.

The Vanguard shifted uneasily. "I was just—"

"I said enough."

The Vanguard stiffened and walked away, muttering under his breath.

Father turned to Allen, his expression softening. "You alright?"

Allen said nothing. Just nodded.

Father reached down, picked up the diary from the dirt, and dusted it gently. He handed it back.

"Let's go," he said quietly, placing a hand on Allen's back. Allen took his diary in hand.

Together, they walked toward the church.

Behind them, the air seemed… still again.

The sky was a soft grey, clouds rolling lazily above as the cold breeze brushed past the small, worn tea stall tucked near the cobbled lane.

Father sat on the wooden bench, his dark robes neatly arranged, steam rising from the porcelain cup in his hand. Across from him, Allen quietly stirred his own cup of tea, not adding sugar, just watching the slow whirlpool he created.

The stall owner, a wrinkled old man with more years than teeth, smiled as he wiped the counter nearby.

Father took a slow sip. "They say silence is calming, but I think it's just another form of conversation."

Allen looked up briefly, then down again. "Then we're talking a lot today."

Father chuckled softly. "Yes. We are."

A bird chirped somewhere far above. The scent of cinnamon drifted from a nearby bakery.

Allen finally took a sip. The warmth filled his chest. It didn't fix anything. But for now… it was enough.

Father had barely spoken, sipping calmly from his own cup, when Allen—after a long silence—broke the air with a soft murmur.

"She's… like a mother," Allen said.

Father looked up from his cup with a small smile, but said nothing.

Allen didn't meet his eyes. He stared out at the street, watching horses pass slowly and children run past puddles.

"Roze, I mean," he continued. "She makes tea for me when I have headaches. She tells me to sleep early. Even scolds me when I forget to eat."

Father's fingers gently tapped the edge of his cup. "A rare woman. Sharp enough to cut stone, but soft enough to bandage a wound."

Allen gave a tiny nod. "I don't remember my mother well. Just pieces… like her hand on my shoulder. The way she combed my hair with her fingers. That's all."

The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was respectful.

Father smiled faintly, but inside—inside he laughed. Not a mockery, but something deeper. A tired, melancholic amusement only an old soul could know.

One child who lost his parents. One mother who lost her child.

This world we live in… it truly is an illusion.

The birds chirped somewhere far away, as if echoing the silent truths neither of them wanted to say aloud. Steam rose and vanished between them, just like people, memories, and everything that was ever meant to stay.

Father leaned back and looked at the grey sky.

"Maybe we don't find who we need… Maybe we just become what others lost."

Allen didn't answer. He just looked down at his tea, and for the first time in a long while, he felt it warm something deep within him.

....

The sky above Prada was heavy with fading clouds, painted in hues of ash and pale gold. The sun hung low, veiled by drifting vapor, as if the heavens themselves were unsure of what had transpired hours ago.

Henry limped through the northern gate, cloak torn and dusted with blood. His new scarf hung loose from his neck, stained slightly, clinging to the scent of smoke and metal. Each step was deliberate, his muscles aching, ribs bruised, his eyes half-lidded and darkened beneath the brim of his fedora hat.

The guards at the gate stood confused, unsure whether to salute or offer help. One of them opened his mouth, but Henry raised a weary hand.

"Not now…"

The words came hoarse, edged with exhaustion.

He looked behind him, toward the wide valley he had left behind.

Where was it? The cyclone. The storm. The pressure that nearly boiled his brain alive.

There was nothing now. No tremor in the earth, no distortion in the sky, no trace of that godless being who called himself Martin. Only the wind stirred the dying grass.

An illusion? Or a trap set within a trap… a plan layered like veils upon veils?

Henry's mind reeled, but he pressed the thoughts back. He had no time to unravel cosmic threads right now. His body was giving out beneath him. Blood soaked his side from the impact. His right hand twitched from nerve damage. He needed rest—no, not rest. A moment. Just one quiet moment.

The streets of Prada were quieter than usual. A few people stared at him from windows. A mother pulled her child back into the house. Some knew who he was. Some didn't want to know.

He reached his home, door heavy under his shoulder, stepping inside like a dying soldier returning from war. The warm scent of wood greeted him. The lamps were off. The silence was complete.

Henry set his revolver on the table with a dull clatter.

Mimi wasn't in the room, but he could hear soft paws upstairs. That meant she was still okay.

With a soft grunt, he pulled off his coat and tossed it aside, staggering into the washroom. He found the bandages, the herbal paste Roze had given him once, the needle and thread.

He sat on a stool by the window, light from the dying sky bathing his face.

That thing… Martin.

It wasn't just brute power. It was calculated madness. Controlled chaos.

Henry clenched his jaw and began to wrap his ribs. The pain made him sweat. Every movement hurt. But that pain was grounding. He welcomed it.

Because pain meant he was still alive. And being alive meant the game wasn't over yet.

He tied the final bandage, wiped the blood from his lip, and stood to his feet again.

There was a knock on the door. Soft. Hesitant.

Henry didn't answer right away. He simply stared at the door, the tension returning to his spine.