Miracleborn Saga

The clang of metal echoed through the hollow chapel ruins as Father Vain Xar ducked beneath a sweeping kick, his cassock trailing like a shadow. Martin Lawden was fast—faster than before, his movements honed by rage or maybe something deeper. His blade scraped past Vain's collar, carving a spark from the stone behind.

Vain clicked his tongue.

"You're quicker when you're pretending not to care," he muttered, stepping back with a smirk stitched between his bloodied lips.

Martin didn't answer. His breathing was steady. Calculated. Every movement, a message he refused to write out loud.

Vain raised two fingers, humming an old gambler's hymn under his breath. A faint glimmer, like dice clinking in a divine pocket, shimmered at his fingertips.

Vain uses " Infusion " trait where he fuses any two objects bearing spiritual divinity. Vain, fused his two luck points.

From nothing—fluttering into existence—a "Paper Knife" formed in his hand. Its blade was impossibly thin, parchment-folded steel glowing faintly, dancing between visible and imagined. No heavier than a letter. Yet sharp enough to cut silence.

Martin's eyes narrowed. "You mock me with toys?"

"No," Vain whispered. "I mock fate."

And they clashed.

Paper sliced metal. Flesh grazed ink. Sparks flared as blade met blade in a rhythm too elegant for war and too violent for dance. Vain moved like a gambler placing bets on muscle memory. Martin struck like a truth denied too long.

Each strike pressed a question into the bones of the other.

Finally, during a clash of forearms and locked eyes, Vain spoke low, breath against Martin's cheek.

"You're trying to save this town, aren't you?"

Martin's grip twitched. His left foot hesitated. Only for a moment.

Then the mask returned.

"No," he said.

And drove his shoulder forward.

The Paper Knife tore across Martin's sleeve, just missing the vein. Vain barely avoided a gutting slash, stumbling back. Dust rose around them like incense from the floor.

Martin pointed his sword again.

"I don't need your sermon, priest."

Vain didn't smile this time. His eyes, for once, looked tired.

The duel resumed, both men bleeding from inside, both carrying truths neither wanted to say aloud.

The old cathedral groaned in the wind, its windows humming with distant thunder. The blood-stained altar loomed behind them, illuminated by moonlight pouring through the collapsed dome. Candle wax froze mid-drip on the stone floor—time seemed slower here, heavier.

Martin Lawden raised his hand.

The veins on his palm pulsed black and violet. A circular brand glowed—etched into flesh like it had always belonged there. It was no longer a tool.

It was Him.

The Necromancer's Log, a forbidden scripture made manifest, now fused with Martin's very being. His soul had burned and bled to embrace its gift. The trait of Necromancy, once mundane and vulgar, now shimmered with a forbidden elegance.

"I've stolen kings from their coffins," Martin said coldly. "You won't be an exception."

He opened his palm.

A spiral glyph formed—black as void, swirling with death's hunger. The spell struck Vain Xar in the chest like a viper's kiss, invisible threads shooting inward to drain life essence—the very soul-sap that powered a being's continuity.

But the moment it touched Vain…

It collapsed.

No resistance. No countermeasure. The spell simply fizzled out like a breath on cold glass.

Martin froze.

"What—?"

Vain didn't blink. His coat fluttered as the pressure shifted subtly around him, like the room itself remembered something old and terrifying.

Martin staggered back. "No… I fused the Log. I wield perfected death. How did it—?"

"It didn't work because it cannot," Vain said softly. "I have no life to steal in the way you understand it."

The Paper Knife shimmered in his hand—thin, pearlescent, like it had been folded from divine parchment and memory. It glowed faintly, tracing the outline of Vain's presence.

"You forgot, Martin," he said, stepping forward. "I am not a mortal. Not even a sanctified one."

Martin's lips parted.

"…What?"

"You forgot," Vain whispered again, almost kindly. "Because I made you forget."

And then he said it:

"I am a Pillar."

The words cracked the world.

In the bones of the church, something groaned. Even the moonlight flickered. The pews trembled; the shadows lengthened and recoiled.

Martin's face twisted, as if a puzzle piece had just slammed into place. His grip faltered.

"I… I knew that," he muttered, voice dry. "Long ago. You—how—?"

"You met me before," Vain replied. "In a time before your faith, before your rebellion. You kneeled before me once, Martin. And I gave you the blessing to forget."

Martin's expression warped with fury and disbelief.

"No!" he shouted. "Don't—don't twist this! Don't you dare turn it into fate! I chose this path!"

He screamed, throwing both hands outward. The brand on his arm exploded in violet flame.

From the dead soil outside, limbs clawed up through moss and stone. Dozens—no, hundreds—of the forgotten dead dragged themselves into the world again. Their eyes hollow, mouths silent. Drowned priests, strangled heretics, plague-ridden mothers—they all marched under Martin's will.

Vain didn't even look.

Earlier—long before this confrontation—he had moved silently through the convent, whispering nothing into the air. Each nun, each sister and faithful, had collapsed gently into dreams, tucked away by his hand. Protected. Hidden.

Only the sinners remained.

The Paper Knife flicked forward.

One movement. One slice.

Martin's shoulder erupted with blood. The cut didn't appear immediately—rather, it remembered itself a moment after impact. Time bent. Cause and effect blurred.

Martin screamed and clutched his arm. "How are you this strong?! You were never—"

"I am not strong," Vain murmured. "I am consistent."

The zombies charged.

Vain weaved between them with no effort, slicing with elegance. Not fury. Not desperation. Just inevitability.

One by one, they fell. Not dead—they were already dead—but undone, like lines erased from a book.

Martin stumbled back, blood soaking his robes.

"I knew… I knew you were familiar," he hissed. "You were the one behind the ivory door… the voice in the storm… the hand that lifted me in the marsh..."

Vain's gaze was unreadable.

"You remembered."

Martin's knees buckled. He coughed blood.

"Then why did I forget?"

Vain walked slowly forward, the Paper Knife still at his side.

"Because I needed you to. So you could choose your path. So your rebellion would be real."

He leaned closer.

"Even Concepts don't get to interfere forever."

Martin stared up at him—broken, furious, confused, afraid.

And the dead around them…

Stood still.

The fight wasn't over.

But for now, truth had landed its own blow.

A crack echoed through the ravaged cathedral.

It wasn't stone breaking.

It was reality.

Vain stood unmoved, the Paper Knife humming in his hand, its edge dripping with faint, unnatural light—like severed memory.

With his other hand, he reached into his Inventory—a space not for items, but for Concepts. His fingers vanished into empty air, pulling not a weapon, nor a relic—

—but something formless.

He whispered, "Let's see what makes you tremble, Necromancer."

And then he drew it.

Not a blade.

Not a name.

But the Concept of Fear itself.

It slithered out like liquid shadow, coiling around his arm, then flaring outward like wings made of screams. No sound came from it—only the weight of horror, the smell of drowning, the feeling of being watched by something infinitely greater and infinitely crueler.

The room darkened.

Martin gasped. A tremor struck his spine. His knees buckled—not from damage, but something worse.

Recognition.

Memories he buried.

Doubts he never dared to voice.

The moment he feared he wasn't chosen—but simply allowed.

"Stop it," Martin growled, gripping his skull as shadows danced across his face. "This is trickery—mind poison—!"

Vain's voice came like distant thunder. "No, Martin. This is a mirror. Drink deeply."

Martin's mouth opened, and he screamed—not in pain, but in revulsion. His arms convulsed, jerking in opposite directions. His face cracked down the center.

Then…

It split.

From his jaw, shoulder, ribs—billions of small, silvery Spade Worms spilled forth like a divine infestation. They didn't fall or scatter. They latched, threading over his skin in horrifying synchrony.

They weren't parasites.

They were him.

Half of Martin's body became a writhing hive of Spade Worms. They moved like gears made of meat and light—crawling over his eye, into his neck, his cheekbone. The worms fed—not on flesh, but on something invisible.

They devoured the fear.

The concept Vain unleashed was torn to pieces—not destroyed, but chewed up, processed, eaten alive by a divine logic that Martin no longer remembered inheriting.

Gaslightings, insecurities, the false guilt of old sermons—devoured.

Then slowly… the worms began to retreat.

Melding back into his form.

Flesh restored. Breath stabilized.

Martin stood upright, half-steam rising from his neck, the echo of the Concept still twitching in the walls.

His eye twitched. A grin followed.

"You thought I feared it," he murmured. "I do. But they don't."

The cathedral vibrated as the Spade Worms' holy stench lingered, sweet and horrifying like burnt honey and bone marrow.

Vain raised his Paper Knife again.

Martin roared and raised both hands—summoning three corpses from below the church's foundation. Their flesh twisted, heads blooming with eyes. One of them was a dead Inquisitor—another, a Saint. But their holiness was inverted now.

They charged.

Vain rushed in.

The fight resumed, no longer just a battle of strength, but of who they had become.

Of what had been buried.

And who had the right to exist.

....

Vain Xar ducked under the sweeping hook of Martin Lawden's necrotic claw, his body leaning at an impossible angle. Sparks of raw conceptual light flared behind him, reacting violently to the Paper Knife clutched in his grip. He struck upward, but Martin had already vanished—melting into the rotted air, only to reappear behind him with a tendril of bone stabbing for his ribs.

The bone cracked against Vain's side, but his body twisted unnaturally, absorbing the blow. He didn't flinch. Not anymore.

"You're persistent," Vain muttered, brushing crimson off his coat.

Martin grinned, his teeth rotting and regenerating at the same time. "You're rusty."

With a guttural snarl, they lunged again. Flesh against concept. Blood against legend. Both defied the rules they once memorized as Miracle Invokers.

Martin struck first—his palm twisted, fingers like scythes as he tore a fissure through Vain's upper chest. Vain stumbled back, blood gushing like ink from an overturned script.

But the wound pulsed, then sealed. Not with flesh, but with stories—memories—stitched in golden threads. The world responded to Vain, not because it liked him, but because he was part of its rules. A Pillar.

Vain didn't speak. He ducked low and kicked Martin in the abdomen, then followed it with a savage uppercut. Bone cracked. Martin spat blood.

Martin reeled but snapped his fingers, summoning corpses from the walls—naked, eyeless things crawling out of cracks in the church's design, moving with twitchy steps. They grabbed flesh from nearby corpses, slapping meat onto his wounds like grotesque bandages.

Vain conjured light around him—a sharp, blue halo—before swinging the Paper Knife in a wide arc, cutting through three ghouls mid-air. The blade was rusted and barely held its shape, but what it cut wasn't flesh. It tore through concepts. Wounds of truth.

Martin slithered beneath, grabbed Vain by the throat, and threw him across the altar. Stone shattered. Blood trickled.

Vain rose slowly, coughing. He grinned, even now. "You always had anger issues."

"You always had a face worth punching."

They clashed again.

Martin summoned shadow-chains woven with the regrets of dead priests. They wrapped around Vain's arms like a judgmental curse, yanking him toward the ground. But Vain exhaled, and those regrets turned to fog. With a gesture, he reversed the fear—projecting it outward. Martin stumbled, breathing sharp. For a split second, he hesitated.

Vain saw the crack in his armor—emotional, not physical.

But then something… monstrous stirred in Martin.

His face twisted. His jaw unhinged. Half of his body bubbled, then cracked—breaking into billions of writhing Spade Worms. Divine, pale creatures, squirming and feeding off the pain, damage on him.

They devoured every ounce of terror Vain had conjured, feasting like angels at a corpse-table. Martin's form stabilized—his expression blank, beyond human.

He charged again.

Vain didn't speak this time. He raised the Paper Knife and parried, the blade screaming as it met Martin's claw. His knuckles bled. Martin broke through his guard and punched his gut—once, twice—each blow resounding like thunder. Ribs snapped.

But Vain gritted his teeth and headbutted him in return. Martin's nose burst.

Then they both healed. Not with spells. But by ripping flesh from the walking dead around them—stapling it into their bodies, drawing energy from agony.

They were not human anymore.

Vain slammed Martin into a pew. Martin countered with a spell that reversed gravity, sending Vain smashing into the vaulted ceiling before he came crashing back down. Both coughed blood. Neither stopped.

Their punches weren't just strikes—they rewrote moments.

Vain's punch to Martin's face came with delayed guilt, making Martin relive a thousand regrets with each impact. Martin returned with a kick charged with the memories of people Vain had failed to save.

Both were breaking each other apart—soul and body.

Finally, they stepped back. Breathing ragged.

"…You still fight like a drunk monk," Martin said, voice cracked, smiling despite the blood on his chin.

"You still dress like one." Vain spat. "I thought you burned that coat years ago."

Martin chuckled. "Only because you dared me to."

Their eyes met—no longer full of rage, but... history.

"Do you remember when we first met?" Martin asked, standing half-scorched, hair ragged. "You had that smug look. Told me I couldn't even light a candle with invocation."

"You couldn't," Vain replied. "You cried for an hour."

"I was twelve!" Martin snapped. Then laughed.

Vain, though exhausted, gave a faint smile. "We were going to change the world."

Martin looked up at the cracked ceiling, at the crimson moon outside the glass. "Maybe we still can."

He held out his hand, fingers twitching.

Then—

Reality cracked.

Martin reached into midair. Into nothingness.

And pulled out a floating, invisible key—a concept disguised as silence. Hidden in the folds of broken space. With it, he twisted open a point between realities.

From that rift, he pulled a black-covered book: The Diary. The lost one. The one they sealed together when they swore never to let in evil's hand.

Vain's face dropped.

"So, you knew where it was hidden."

Martin opened it with the key.

The church exploded in golden light, yet made no sound. Space curled, then tore apart—shredding the timeline itself. Pages turned with no hands. Letters rewrote themselves. Languages collapsed. Prada turns into ash like a paper. The world stun.

And then...

Time splintered.

One timeline became two.

Two became four.

Four became endless.

Branches formed, frayed, died, and grew again.

Uncountable realities collapsed into one another, rewriting history until a single timeline matched the destroyed one—until the universe could understand what just happened.

The timelines trembled around —waves of potential crashing in from all directions.

WHAT JUST HAPPENED?