Miracleborn Saga

The soft hiss of water faded, and steam drifted through the hallway like a ghost reluctant to leave.

Henry stepped out from the bathing room, bare feet against cool stone, hair damp and clinging slightly to his forehead. A white linen towel hung around his shoulders, drops of water trailing down the line of his neck and spine. The scent of cedar soap and warm iron lingered in the air—a scent that reminded him, vaguely, of the hills outside Prada, and of baths he used to take in buckets behind his childhood home.

He moved slowly to his bedroom, still wrapped in that damp silence, and stood before the mirror—its frame old, iron-forged and cracked at one edge, but still honest in reflection.

He didn't rush to dress.

Instead, he stared at himself.

Eyes too tired for his age.

Jawline tight from nights spent grinding doubt into his teeth.

Chest—lean, hardened not by war, but by living alone.

He whispered, to no one and everyone, "Do I look like someone who saves lives?"

He reached for his clothes.

A soft grey tunic, buttoned to the collar. A pair of well-pressed ash trousers, slightly frayed at the seams. Over it, he slid on a deep navy vest, stitched with subtle black thread. He combed his hair back neatly, slicked behind his ears.

It was formal. Presentable. Civil.

He looked at his Fedora hat, resting on the corner of his bed.

He reached for it—then paused.

His fingers hovered just above the brim.

"...No," he murmured. "Not today."

He turned away from it, leaving it behind like a mask not meant to be worn in the light.

As he fastened his wrist cuffs, his eyes caught on the window—and through it, the city waking slowly. A carriage passed. A boy on crutches limped beside his mother. A cat leapt from rooftop to rooftop.

He clenched his jaw.

This wasn't just a Viva.

It wasn't just about joining Vanguard.

It wasn't even about a career.

It was the line between blending in and becoming.

Henry sat for a moment on the edge of his bed, towel still damp on his shoulders, elbows on knees.

He whispered to the quiet room:

"Am I worthy of being someone's last hope?"

"Of saving people when I still don't know how to save myself?"

No answer came.

Only the sound of distant bells, ringing the eighth hour. He needs to attend the facility before ten.

He stood.

The day was waiting.

The test was near.

And whatever the outcome,

he would face it bareheaded and honest.

The cobbled streets of Prada stretched beneath Henry's worn leather shoes, still slick from the morning mist. The sun peeked shyly from behind low-hanging clouds, casting golden strips through the narrow alleys, where clotheslines swayed gently and pigeons clattered overhead. Chimneys puffed lazy trails of smoke, and the earthy scent of roasted grains, ash, and old stone filled the air.

Carriages rattled past on the main road—hooves clacking sharply on stone, drivers shouting half-sung curses or greetings to passersby. Most of the traffic was headed toward the central district: merchants, scholars, artisans, all converging into the rhythm of a living city. The kind of city where every footstep held weight and meaning, even if only in small ways.

Henry walked with purpose, but not so fast he missed the smells drifting from the side stalls.

And then—he paused.

His eyes landed on a small iron cart parked beside a smithy wall. The cart bore a wooden sign with faded red paint that read:

"LENTABITE – One Gaus. Hot. Fresh. Made with Guts and Goodness."

Behind it, an older woman with wiry grey hair and soot-smudged hands worked two flat iron skillets. She flipped small, golden parcels that sizzled and smoked gently, the smell utterly divine.

Henry stepped closer.

The woman looked up, recognized the hunger in his eyes, and smiled. "One Lentabite? Just came off the skillet. Still huggin' the heat."

He nodded. "One, please."

She slid one onto a thick paper-wrapped tissue and handed it over with the casual grace of someone who'd done this for thirty years. He passed over a single Gaus coin, and she dropped it into her apron pocket without counting.

Henry walked on, lifting the Lentabite to his lips. It was soft, warm, and delightfully savory—a folded pastry filled with mashed lentils, wild greens, and crushed roasted seeds, seasoned with sharp mountain herbs and just a whisper of dried pear zest. The outer layer had been pan-crisped in goat's butter, giving it a golden, lightly flaky finish.

Healthy. Satisfying. Affordable. No grease on the fingers. He could feel the warmth spreading through his chest already.

He took another bite as he walked.

The world around him felt alive—vendors shouting, bells chiming in distant towers, carriage wheels bouncing over cracks in the stone. The scent of bread ovens. Church choirs humming faintly in rehearsal down the block. A bard's flute bleeding into the breeze from some unknown corner.

Henry chewed, wiped his lips with the tissue, and smiled faintly.

One Gaus well spent.

He had a test to face.

But for now, the world felt like it was still worth being a part of.

Prada – Passing the Old School Walls

"Sometimes, you circle the whole world just to return to the loneliness you began with."

---

The air grew heavier as Henry turned a familiar corner.

And there it was.

His old school, nestled between two stone buildings with ivy growing up its back walls, its tall iron gate rusted but proud. The emblem above the wooden arch—an open hand holding a feather quill—had faded, but not enough to forget.

He stopped.

The children's voices inside were distant echoes—laughter, recitations, the clatter of wooden chairs. The sound of innocence attempting to form a structure.

Henry stood still, one hand lightly gripping the wrought-iron fence.

His eyes narrowed.

A memory stirred.

In the Prologue,

A small boy, alone at the edge of the yard, watching others huddle together during recess. His hands always smelled of paper and chalk. He never knew how to ask to be included.

And no one ever offered.

He used to sit under that crooked fig tree, nibbling on dry bread, sketching lines in the dirt. Some days he believed he liked the silence. Other days, it felt like suffocating in a glass jar.

In the Middle of story,

He made friends, or at least, what he thought friendship was. Boys who laughed at his odd jokes. Girls who borrowed his notes.

He thought he belonged.

Until the day of the midterm.

He'd finished early. Done well. But he hadn't shared the answers.

He wanted them to try.

He wanted them to learn, to understand that chasing answers meant nothing without understanding the question. That copying didn't make them smarter. It only made them quieter versions of each other.

But they didn't see it that way.

After school, behind the well, they found him.

They didn't scream. They didn't even speak.

They just hit.

Fists. Elbows. One boy slammed his shoulder into Henry's chest and knocked the wind out of him. Ripped his bag off.

He didn't fight back.

He didn't cry. There was none he could complain to or share words....

He just watched the sky between each blow and thought, "This… is the price for caring too much."

In the Epilogue,

There was no difference between the prologue.

He walked these streets alone now. No messages. No reunions. No old laughs shared over drinks.

The ones who hurt him had gone their own ways—some to the mines, others to trade. Some to graves, likely.

Henry never wrote them letters. Never wished them harm. He simply erased them from the blackboard of his life.

The fig tree was still there.

Smaller now. Or maybe he had just grown taller. He took a breath. Then another.

And then walked forward again.

No anger. No bitterness.

Just the same silence that had always followed him.

A familiar companion. A quiet friend.

Henry stood before the tall arch of the Vanguard Facility's east wing. The walls here were newer, cleaner—white stone polished with lime dust and oil, the crest of the Vanguard etched above the doorway in silver. A bell chimed faintly behind the gate as he stepped in, echoing like the breath of something ancient and organized.

The halls were quiet. Purposeful.

A Vanguard officer in a deep navy coat with red-stitched cuffs stood by a side entrance, holding a scroll and looking half-bored, half-alert.

"You for the civilian viva?" the officer asked, not quite looking up.

"Yes," Henry replied, adjusting his collar. "Henry Ford."

The man scanned the scroll, nodded, and pointed to a door halfway down the marble corridor. "Room C-5. Wait inside until you're called."

Henry gave a silent nod and walked forward. His footsteps tapped against the stone like a slow metronome—measured, calm, but echoing something quieter underneath: tension. Not fear, exactly, but the tightness of knowing your future might hinge on how well you pretend to be calm.

He pushed the door open to Room C-5.

Inside, a few others were already seated—men and women around his age, all dressed formally, silently waiting. One flipped a coin nervously in their fingers. Another read from a crumpled cheat sheet. No one spoke. All eyes flicked toward him as he entered, then quickly returned to the floor or the clock.

Henry took a seat, resting his palms on his knees.

No one knew each other here.

And that was somehow a comfort.

Fifteen minutes passed.

A bell rang above the door.

A different Vanguard—a woman in ceremonial uniform, armor polished but unused—opened the side door and glanced at her list. "Henry Ford."

He stood.

The Examination Chamber was not cold, but it was unnervingly silent.

The space was intimate—no larger than a private study. A large mahogany desk dominated the room, polished smooth as glass. A white carpet stretched beneath it, clean and soft. On the far wall, a tall bookshelf stood filled with dusty tomes, rolls of parchment, and law codes. A chandelier of iron and brass hung from the ceiling, its candles flickering gently like watchful eyes.

On the opposite side of the desk, a middle-aged Vanguard Officer sat, cloaked in black and gray, his uniform crisp, hair slicked back in military order. A silver badge shone on his chest—six-pointed with the Vanguard crest.

He looked up as Henry entered.

"Mr. Ford," he said gently, motioning to the chair across from him. "Do have a seat. Let's talk."

Henry nodded, stepped forward, and lowered himself into the chair with quiet grace.

The door shut behind him.

Examination Chamber – Vanguard Facility, Room C-7

"Some questions are doors. Others are mirrors."

---

Henry sat rigid in the chair, fingers curled slightly against his thighs beneath the desk. Though the room was warm and tastefully furnished, it felt sterile—no scent, no noise from outside, just the faint creak of the chandelier's slow swing above.

Across the polished mahogany desk, the Vanguard officer sat with unnerving stillness. His uniform bore no unnecessary flair—just muted black and gray layers, tailored to exacting precision. His gloved hands were folded neatly on a leather-bound portfolio.

He looked up, eyes like wet stone.

"I am Andrew Fritz," he said in a low, even voice. "Commander of the Vanguards in Prada. Every deployment, every clearance, and every civilian enlistment goes through me."

Henry gave a sharp, respectful nod. "It's… an honor, sir."

"Save the pleasantries," Fritz replied flatly. "Let's get to it."

He opened the folder slowly, not looking down as he asked, "A man walks three leagues east, two leagues south, and ends up in the same place he started. Where is he?"

Henry blinked.

He swallowed. "A… polar loop. North Pole?"

Fritz didn't nod.

Another question. "You walk into a house. There's a candle, an oil lamp, and a fireplace. You have only one match. What do you light first?"

Henry straightened. "The match."

A flicker of approval crossed Fritz's expression—barely. The silence after was suffocating.

Then Fritz closed the folder with a soft snap.

And leaned back.

"That'll be all for riddles," he said, voice shifting—quieter, heavier.

Henry looked up, confused. "That's it?"

"No," Fritz said. His gaze sharpened.

"I know what you are, Henry Ford."

The words fell like iron into the room.

Henry's heart skipped a beat.

He didn't move.

Fritz didn't either.

"Do you understand me?" the commander continued, fingers now gently tapping the desk. "I know you've been to the Church on the Hill. I know you spoke to the Father. I know you experienced a domain. And I know… what you saw."

Henry's throat was dry. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

"I… I don't know what you mean."

Fritz's lips twitched—neither a smile nor a frown. "You think you can just blend in by applying to a civil desk job?"

Henry's fingers gripped the edge of the chair.

This man wasn't guessing. He knew.

Fritz leaned forward now, voice calm but sharpened like a scalpel.

"You're a Miracle Invoker, Route: The Watcher. -5. Born into a world that never gave you a choice. But make no mistake—whether you wanted it or not, fate marked you."

Henry's voice came out hoarse, almost childlike. "How do you know all this…?"

Fritz didn't blink.

"Because I can know anything about anyone by their face, body language or dreams. "

He paused.

"And you're not the only one."

There was no stamp. No signature. No formal word of passed.

Only Andrew Fritz's cold voice, dropping the weight of the moment like it meant nothing:

"You've passed. Get out."

Henry didn't move at first—caught in that strange, uncertain place between fear and relief. The kind of place where one word could split your fate two ways.

Then, slowly, he stood.

His legs felt heavier than when he'd entered.

He gave the commander a quiet nod, but Fritz had already returned to the papers on his desk, as if Henry had become irrelevant the moment the truth left his lips.

The door creaked open.

Closed behind him.

Back in the hallway, the tension broke—like a fever retreating. Henry leaned slightly against the wall, heart still fluttering like a sparrow under his ribs.

He walked out of the building into the bright midday sun, where the world resumed its regular noise—carriages rolling over cobblestone, a vendor yelling about smoked cheese, a paperboy racing down the street with a bundle of leaflets.

But inside his head, the silence lingered.

Was he one of us?

Fritz… that man. Was he a Miracle Invoker too?

He replayed the way Fritz looked at him. The exact words. The certainty.

It hadn't been guesswork. That wasn't secondhand knowledge.

That was experience.

And if he knew Henry was The Watcher—at Route -5, no less—then Fritz had access to something most of the world couldn't even pronounce.

Henry's eyes scanned the faces passing him on the street as he walked, the thought sinking deeper.

Could that man buying bread be one?

Could the woman sweeping her shopfront have once entered a domain?

Could the boy who passed me in the hallway have heard the same whispers from the beyond?

The world suddenly felt different.

Not just dangerous.

Layered.

He pulled his coat tighter around him, the wind curling through the alleyways with gentle sharpness.

They're everywhere. Hidden in plain sight.

Just like me.

And yet…

For the first time in a long while, Henry didn't feel so alone.

Not safe. Not even comforted.

But seen.

He didn't smile.

He just kept walking.

Toward home.

Toward the next unknown.

The town of Prada lay silent beneath a silver-shaded sky. Not even the wind dared speak at this hour. Lanterns had long gone out. The chimneys, too, were dark. It was the kind of night that pressed into the soul—a stillness that asked not to be disturbed.

But above that silence, shadow moved.

A masked figure darted across the sloped, tiled rooftops—swift, fluid, and silent. Cloak trailing behind like smoke. He leapt from one building to the next, landing with precision between chimneys and ledges, disturbing only the dust and the occasional startled bird.

He paused atop a slanted slate roof near the old clocktower—ready to jump again—when he saw her.

A girl, sitting alone under the moonlight, long silken hair catching the glow. She was wrapped in a flowing, midnight-blue dress laced with silver thread, feet bare against the cold tiles. Her eyes reflected the stars as if she mourned them. Fragile, yet unmoved.

He knew that face.

"…Mimi?" the masked figure called softly.

The girl flinched and looked up slowly, her expression shifting with sorrow—and reluctant recognition.

The man removed his mask.

It was Father—the silver-haired priest of the Church on the Hill. Calm eyes, lined with age, shimmered with a quiet ache. His clerical robes rustled faintly as he lowered himself to sit beside her.

"You shouldn't be out like this," he said gently.

"I couldn't sleep," Mimi replied. Her voice wasn't childlike, like the feline Henry knew. It was older, layered, almost celestial—like notes of a lullaby sung backwards.

"You're hurting again," Father said.

She nodded. "The curse tightens. I can't stay in my true form around him… even now. Even after all these years. Every time I try—pain. Fire in my bones."

"You care for him."

"That's not the point," she whispered. "I was made to guide him. To protect him. Not to purr at his feet while he carries the world."

Father looked out at the moon, silent for a long while.

Then he spoke, low and grave. "It's worsening. The signs are aligning."

Mimi closed her eyes. "…Allstar."

The name alone was a wound.

"The one who fractured time," Father continued. "Who broke the structure of destiny. Who clawed at the spine of history and bled it dry."

"He destroyed the future once already," Mimi said. "In another thread. Another Earth. Only pieces remain."

"And now he's here," Father muttered, voice steady. " Dwelling somewhere on this Earth. A ghost of a man who shouldn't exist."

"We need to find him," Mimi said. "Before the fracture spreads again."

Father nodded. "But fate is bound to Henry now. Whether he wants it or not, he's part of this."

Mimi looked down. Her hands trembled slightly. "He doesn't know. About me. About himself. About what it means to be a Miracle Invoker of the Mystic Path."

"Let him breathe a little longer," Father said. "There's still a little time."

Mimi's voice cracked like ice. "Not enough."

Above them, the stars wheeled slowly through the midnight sky—watching.

Silent.

Judging.

Waiting.