Miracleborn Saga

The sun spilled into the room in long golden beams, cutting through the wooden shutters like warm blades. The scent of dew on grass, old paper, and the faint lingering aroma of cooked barley filled the modest space.

Henry sat at the edge of the bed, already dressed. His white shirt clung neatly to his frame, sleeves rolled to his elbows. A deep gray vest hugged his torso, slightly worn but pressed. His long black coat, stitched at the cuffs with quiet silver threads, hung nearby like a loyal shadow.

He reached for his fedora—dark brown with a curved brim—and slid it onto his head. The mirror near the door caught his reflection briefly: the man who had fallen through dreams, battled Death in chess, and held kittens while whispering to the moon.

And yet, today, he was just a man… walking toward clarity.

Mimi lay asleep in her curled form on the windowsill, tail twitching occasionally. The kittens remained nestled together in their box, breathing softly, unaware of the steps their guardian was about to take.

Henry looked at them one last time, then turned toward the door.

Outside, the morning had bloomed into life. Villagers moved about on dirt paths, voices low, faces still draped in the gentleness of early light. The bell from the old church tower hadn't rung yet—it would soon. He knew it.

As he stepped down from his porch, hands in his coat pockets, he muttered under his breath with a spark of fire in his voice—

"I don't care how many layers you hide behind."

He adjusted the brim of his fedora, eyes sharp with intent.

"I'll find out your real name, Father."

The church stood far at the end of the road, high on the slope like a watching eye—white-stoned, haloed in ivy, and veiled in a thin mist still lifting from the ground. Its doors were closed, but Henry felt them calling.

He walked with steady steps, the morning wind catching the hem of his coat.

He remembered Father's words:

"Come back only when your Route shows itself to you... and your Luck points are full."

Henry didn't fully understand what that meant. Not yet. But something in him had started to shift.

Divine Acts. Death's strange loyalty. And that feeling—deep in his chest—that someone had written a story long before he began walking it.

As he strode through the waking town, people greeted him. He nodded, tipped his hat.

And with each step toward the church, toward that nameless man who smiled like he knew the end of all things, Henry swore again,

"I will know who you are. I will learn the name behind the collar."

The wind rose behind him.

And far above, the church bell finally rang—slow, solemn, and ancient.

The sky had brightened to a pale gold as Henry stepped through the town's edge, fedora tilted slightly against the breeze. His long coat swayed behind him, brushing against cobblestone. The path to the church wasn't far, but he wasn't in the mood for walking. Not today. The weight in his chest—questions about routes, divine acts, and hidden names—made every step feel heavier than it should've.

A small carriage waited at the edge of the square, its driver slouched lazily, pipe in mouth, eyes half-lidded beneath a straw hat.

Henry raised a hand. "One seat. Church of Hazaya."

The man grunted, shifting his legs off the bench. "Four Gaus."

Henry nodded, reaching for his coat pocket—then froze.

Frowned. Patted the other side. Reached deeper.

Nothing.

He checked his belt satchel. His side pouch. His boots, for god's sake.

Still nothing.

"…Shit."

The driver eyed him. "You boarding or not?"

Henry forced a smile. "I'll be walking."

The man scoffed and leaned back again, pipe smoke curling up into the air like lazy spirits.

Henry stepped aside, muttering under his breath. "Brilliant, Henry. You managed to forget the only thing between you and comfort."

He started walking, hands in his coat pockets, head low as the sun climbed above the rooftops. His thoughts drifted—again—to the old pouch sitting somewhere on his table back home. A bag half-filled with glinting Gaus.

His father's savings.

A military officer. Decorated. Stern. A man who never smiled without command. He had left behind medals, old journals, and—more than anything—a fortress of coin. Henry had been living off it for years now. Slowly. Quietly. A coin here. A handful there.

But even steel runs out under the tide.

And no matter how thick the bag seemed, Henry knew the truth: it wouldn't last forever.

And he had no job. No plan. No claim to purpose.

He passed through a row of tall reeds and found himself at the old stone bridge—moss-lined and cracked with age. The water below sparkled gently, carrying the scent of algae and wild mint. A single duck floated in the stream, ruffling its feathers in morning ease, then dipped under with a splash, only to rise seconds later shaking droplets into the light.

Henry paused at the center of the bridge.

The duck blinked up at him. Then continued bathing, uncaring, elegant in its simplicity.

Henry exhaled slowly.

"Wish I could live like that," he murmured. "No struggling. No divine holes. Just… water. Sunlight. Some feathers."

The duck sneezed and swam away.

Henry smirked.

He leaned on the bridge's edge, watching the ripples dance across the surface.

Then, quietly, his fingers traced a small brass coin tucked in the inner seam of his coat. Forgotten. Probably there for months.

He held it up to the light.

"One Gaus," he said to himself. "Enough for bread. Not a miracle."

He put it back in his coat.

And then turned toward the winding hill again.

One step after another.

Toward the church. Toward the truth.

And toward the name that still waited behind a collar and a smile.

....

Henry's boots struck the final stone step, his breath slow but steady. The path had wound high through cypress trees and pale wildflowers, guiding him to the crown of the hill—where the Church of Hazaya sat like a silent monument.

There, as always, Father waited.

Same plastic chair. Same chipped porcelain teacup. The steam curled lazily in the golden air, catching threads of sunlight that fell through the overgrown grapevine arbor above the church gates. Birds perched on the edges of broken statues. The wind carried a faint scent of wax, dried parchment, and rose incense.

Father looked up as Henry approached, expression unreadable behind his smile.

"You're late," he said, finishing the last sip of tea.

"I forgot my coin pouch," Henry muttered, brushing dust from his coat. "Again."

Father set the empty cup on the ground, stood up slowly, and without a word, pushed open the tall wooden door behind him. Its surface was engraved with a spiral sun motif, and the metal handle hummed with residual warmth—as if remembering every soul that had entered before.

Inside, the church breathed.

The ceilings rose into a grand, vaulted dome painted with soft murals—images that didn't depict gods or men, but roads made of light twisting into the heavens. Lanterns hung from silver chains, flickering with ever-burning candles. The stained glass windows told no single story. Instead, they shimmered with abstract shapes—fractals of color that danced with every breeze.

The pews were carved from aged oak, smooth and polished by the weight of prayer. Beyond them stood the altar, wrapped in cloth of deep indigo and lined with brass symbols. A single bell hung above, unmoving but impossibly heavy.

To the right, nuns knelt in silence—rows of them. Hoods low, hands clasped. Their breaths barely audible, lips moving in wordless rhythm. The air felt thicker here, soaked in decades—centuries—of faith.

Henry stood for a moment, his voice low. "This place feels older than the country itself."

Father nodded. "Because it is."

They walked slowly through the side aisle, shadows rippling across the marble floor.

Henry glanced sideways. "So… you believe in divinity. I've seen how you talk. How you speak of Acts, fate, things outside logic."

He looked at Father sharply. "What religion are you part of, exactly?"

Father stopped walking, the candlelight catching faint scars on his hands. His voice came quieter now—deeper, like speaking from beneath a well.

"There are six kingdoms on this earth," he said. "Each one swears by six great religions. Some ancient, some newly formed. All shaped by the miracles—or curses—they were born from."

"And this one?" Henry asked.

Father turned, gaze distant as if looking beyond the dome itself.

"The Kingdom of Francis holds its truth in Tanhzil—a belief born from suffering, fire, and a voice in the dark. We follow the divine word written in shadow and flame. Our prayer ends with the same line each time."

He looked Henry in the eyes now.

"May the God of Fate have mercy on you."

Henry blinked, a chill creeping into his collar.

Father gestured toward the grand altar.

"This is the main church of Francis. The only one. The Church of Hazaya. All other churches across the land are lower—lesser reflections of this sanctum. Only one main is permitted per kingdom."

Henry looked around again, the nuns, the murals, the echo of unseen whispers in the stone.

"So this is the heart," he muttered.

Father smiled, but something flickered beneath it. Tiredness, maybe. Or something older.

"This is the heart," he said softly. "And it beats because fate demands it."

Henry nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the pulpit.

And for a moment, he thought he heard the sound of a bell—distant, hollow, and divine.

....

The doors of the Church of Hazaya groaned closed behind them as Father led Henry along a narrow stone path, winding up the side of the hill.

The morning sun had begun to rise in full, casting long slashes of gold across the sky. Mist curled at their feet as they climbed, slowly revealing the other side—a breathtaking expanse of rolling meadows, distant forests, and calm rivers slicing through green.

Wild lavender grew along the edge of the cliff, brushing against their coats as the wind passed. Birds danced in the open air, unburdened by the weight of faith or fate.

Henry adjusted his fedora slightly, glancing sideways at the silent man walking ahead. "You always take people this way?"

"No," Father replied, voice firm but calm. "Most aren't ready to see anything past their own kingdom's dirt."

Henry smirked. "Guess I should feel honored, then."

Father gave a soft grunt, then stopped beside a moss-covered stone. Below them, the valley stretched out like a painted canvas, dotted with sleepy cottages, prayer flags fluttering, and winding roads that looked like scars carved by gods.

"You asked what religion I follow," Father said, hands folded behind his back. "But what you truly wanted to know is how this world works."

Henry remained silent.

Father turned his eyes to the horizon. "There's a reason I told you to return only once you'd begun to feel your Route. It's not just belief—it's connection. And with it comes your Inventory."

Henry frowned. "Inventory?"

Father nodded slowly. "A trait of the Route. Think of it as a reservoir—a private chamber of the soul, gifted when your being resonates with the characteristics of your Route."

"You can't force it. It's not something taught in books or drawn in diagrams. It reveals itself when you act in alignment with what your Route stands for."

Henry narrowed his eyes. "You mean like… when I saved that woman the other day?"

Father glanced at him.

"The time stopped," Henry continued. "At least—it felt like it. Everything slowed. I didn't think. I just moved. And I remember feeling something pour into my limbs. Not energy. Something deeper."

Father's eyes brightened—not with shock, but with knowing approval.

"You've unlocked your Inventory," he said.

"Already."

Henry let out a quiet breath, half-relieved, half-unnerved. "Didn't know it'd be that fast."

"You acted instinctively, not rationally," Father said. "The Route answered. That's rare. Just act as the Watcher or at least try sometimes. "

A bird passed overhead, casting a flickering shadow over the grass.

"You mentioned it felt like something filled you," Father continued. "That sensation was Thaum—the life energy in all things. The breath before action. The soul before name."

"Everyone has it," he added. "But only those with authority over it can shape it. Wield it. Expand it."

"And let me guess," Henry muttered, "the more I act like my Route..."

"The more power you gain," Father finished. "Your Inventory becomes more versatile. More unnatural. More you."

Henry let that settle for a moment. The grass rustled. Distant bells chimed faintly, carried by the wind from a neighboring village.

"And if I act against my Route?" Henry asked.

Father's voice became lower—colder.

"You don't grow. You rot. Your Thaum stagnates. Your body breaks down. You become a vessel without voice. And the Route either leaves you…"

He looked Henry dead in the eye.

"…or devours you."

A silence passed.

Henry looked out over the landscape, jaw clenched. "Sounds fair."

Father stepped forward, hands still behind his back. "This world doesn't care about fairness. Only resonance."

Henry took a deep breath. "So the only way to survive is to stop asking what's right—and start asking what my Route wants."

"That," Father said, a faint grin on his lips, "is the first true prayer you've spoken."

They stood in silence, overlooking the world neither of them belonged to anymore.

They descended from the cliff's edge and passed through a thin grove of crooked pine trees, their scent crisp and earthy in the warming breeze. The forest floor gave way, suddenly and seamlessly, to a grain field that stretched far and golden into the horizon.

The sunlight danced across the tips of the tall, honey-colored stalks, each one bowing gently under the weight of the morning air. As the wind passed, the field moved like a living sea—undulating waves of gold, shimmering, whispering. The sound it made was soft and sacred, like distant chanting.

Henry stopped walking.

He turned in a slow circle, eyes wide behind the brim of his fedora.

"…I never knew this was back here," he murmured. "Behind the church, behind all that stone. I thought the world ended at the chapel walls."

"It does for most," Father said, not turning around. "But some… need to see further."

Henry took a slow breath. The air was rich. Full of life. His muscles ached from the climb, but something about this place made his blood stir.

Then he heard the shift in tone.

Father's boots slid into stance. Arms loose. Back straight.

He looked over his shoulder.

"Let's see what you've learned."

Henry blinked. "You're serious?"

"You've tasted Thaum. You've brushed your Route. Time to understand the difference between awareness… and survival."

Without another word, Father moved.

He was fast—blindingly fast. One moment Henry was watching the stalks sway; the next, Father's fist was in front of his face.

Henry ducked, stumbled, rolled back instinctively. He coughed dust and raised his arms just in time to block a roundhouse kick that sent him staggering into the grains.

He grinned. "You've been waiting to hit me, haven't you?"

Father didn't reply.

Instead, something shifted in the air.

The wind paused. A subtle shimmer spread from Father's body, rippling out in a radius—about fifteen feet wide. The grains inside that radius bent against the breeze. The air turned heavier, tighter, as if unseen threads were being pulled in strange directions.

Henry's eyes widened. "What is this?"

" A Thaum Field," Father said, stepping forward. "Within it, luck becomes curse. And curse, becomes opportunity."

Henry moved quickly—but his foot caught a root that wasn't there moments ago. He dropped into a stumble. A second later, he recovered just in time to see a sudden gust throw sand into his face.

"Dammit!" He lunged blindly, swinging out.

Father sidestepped effortlessly, seized his wrist, and threw him over his shoulder.

Henry hit the dirt hard, gasping.

Everything was going wrong. Every dodge became misstep. Every strike turned into exposed weakness. He clawed his way out of the radius—crawling past the edge of the Thaum Field.

Then time stopped.

The grains froze in mid-sway.

Dust hung like glass in the air.

Henry sat still. Breathing hard. His coat torn at the sleeve.

"This isn't just strength," he thought. "It's manipulation. He's bending probability. Skewing the weight of moments."

He reached inward.

He felt them—two Luck Points pulsing faintly within him. Earned through action. Through alignment.

A whisper of his Route stirred in his chest.

"…Screw it," he muttered.

He burned them both.

The air rushed back. Time surged. His body screamed as energy poured into his limbs—not raw strength, but precision. A single, perfect thread of opportunity.

He launched forward.

His boots barely touched the ground.

He entered the Thaum Field again—but this time, his actions curved around misfortune like a blade through fog. His fist shot out, inches from Father's chest.

Then—

"Stop."

Father's voice. Calm. Final.

Henry froze. His breath caught.

Father didn't flinch. His hand rested gently on Henry's wrist. Not tense. Not blocking. Just... there.

"You would've landed the blow," Father said. "Just barely. But it would've cost you more than you realize."

Henry stepped back, still panting.

Father adjusted his collar, expression unreadable. "You fought well. For a newborn in the storm."

Henry dropped to one knee, catching his breath, sweat stinging his eyes.

Father looked toward the sunlight.

"Now," he said softly, "you're ready to ask the question that truly matters."

Henry looked up, wiping blood from his lip.

"…Which question?"

Father turned.

" You may find that out by yourself one day."

Henry knelt at the edge of the pond, its surface smooth as polished glass, nestled quietly beside the golden grain field. Morning light dripped across it in streaks of silver, reflecting the swaying stalks and the stretch of the blue sky above. Dragonflies hovered in the air like fragments of a dream, and the wind carried the scent of grain, wet stone, and sunlit water.

He dipped his hands into the pond—cold, clear.

Then splashed the water across his face.

The shock of it struck him awake again—not just from the physical exhaustion of sparring, but from the weight of everything. The field. The Thaum. The Route. That strange, still space where time bent to will. His fingertips trembled slightly as the water dripped down his jaw.

He pulled off his fedora, holding it in one hand, letting his forehead cool under the soft light. A breeze combed through his hair, drying the droplets almost immediately.

For a long moment, he simply stared at the water.

He saw his reflection—not the boy who once sat on rooftops or begged fate for meaning—but a man now touched by things beyond language. There was something older in his eyes.

He looked up.

The grains danced.

The world was alive.

And for once, he felt it. Not as something outside him. But within.

"It's beautiful," he whispered.

Father stood a few paces behind, arms folded, coat catching in the wind.

"This is what you're meant to protect," he said softly. "Not just people. Not just belief. But the truth of things. The beauty that asks for nothing, yet gives everything."

Henry rose, hat still in hand.

"You're sending me off, aren't you?"

Father gave a nod.

"For now."

The sunlight caught the lines on his face, the shadow beneath his collar, the ever-watchful calm in his expression.

"You've touched the beginning of your Route. That's enough for now. Let it shape you. Let the world test you. There are answers you'll never find inside a church."

Henry smirked faintly. "And no luck points left to cheat my way back, huh?"

"No," Father said. "You'll have to earn those the hard way."

Henry slid the hat back onto his head, adjusted the brim, and turned toward the path winding back through the trees.

Then he paused.

Father said nothing.

But the wind replied.

As Henry dried his hands and rose from the pond's edge, fedora in hand, Father gestured silently to follow—not down the hill, but toward a shaded stone arch tucked into the cliffside near the edge of the field.

Henry raised a brow but followed, boots crunching lightly over gravel.

They stepped through a short corridor that opened into a circular garden terrace—high above the lower roads—ringed with stone benches and vine-wrapped columns. In the center stood two figures waiting beneath a sun-dappled tree.

Father cleared his throat.

"These," he said, "are members of the Higher Church of Hazaya. You'll want to remember their faces."

The first was a boy—barely fifteen, slim, standing at a stiff angle with arms crossed and head slightly turned away as if the world didn't deserve his full attention. His golden hair shimmered unnaturally under the sun, short but wild, as though constantly stirred by divine winds. His eyes were just as golden, sharp and hollow, and he wore loose, war-stained clothes that looked more suited for a battlefield than a chapel.

He didn't greet Henry.

"Allen Iverson," Father said simply. "Our youngest. Most don't know his story. That's how he prefers it."

Allen gave the slightest nod, not even looking directly at Henry. His gaze remained fixed on some distant point, jaw clenched.

"Friendly," Henry muttered under his breath.

The second was a woman in her early thirties, standing with her arms relaxed at her sides. She was striking—not with extravagance, but with an effortless calm beauty. Her long, raven-black hair fell over a high-collared coat stitched with sun-etched embroidery, and her posture held the kind of grace that made people instinctively listen when she spoke.

"Roze Fildart," Father said, with the faintest trace of warmth in his voice.

Roze stepped forward and offered her hand.

"So, you're Henry," she said, her voice low and melodic, her eyes—hazel with a slight violet ring—studying him with curious precision. "Word travels fast when a new Initiate burns through two Luck Points before lunch."

Henry shook her hand, slightly thrown off. "I didn't realize I was already a story."

"You're walking one," she said gently. "Allen just doesn't like talking much. Don't take it personally."

Behind her, Allen gave a sharp scoff and turned away, arms still folded.

Henry raised a brow. "He always like that?"

"Only when he's awake," she replied dryly, with a hint of a smirk.

Father stepped forward again. "One day, you may stand beside them. For now, remember—Hazaya is not a lonely god. And this church… is not run by one man."

Henry looked between them, his fedora still clutched at his side.

Something settled in his chest.

A recognition.

Not of power—but of pain.

....

Henry's boots landed with a soft thud on the final stone step.

The church and the golden fields behind him now lay out of sight, veiled by the bending trees and sloping path. The sunlight filtered gently through the canopy above, dappling the earth in shifting patterns—warm, breathing, alive.

His coat fluttered slightly as he adjusted it, the walk back having cooled his body but sharpened his mind. He reached the flat stretch of path at the bottom of the hill.

Then—

He stopped.

Brows furrowed. His gaze narrowed slightly, as if a word had just fallen through his memory like a dropped coin.

His fingers slowly reached up, brushing the brim of his hat.

"…Damn it."

He closed his eyes, then sighed—long and low.

"I forgot to ask his name."

There was a softness in his voice, not frustration, but something close to resignation.

He slipped the fedora back onto his head and tilted it forward, shadowing his eyes. A lazy breeze passed by, carrying the faint scent of tea and grain down from the hilltop.

Henry gave a small, crooked smile. "Of course I did."

He continued walking—back into the winding town, back into the murmurs of daily life.

He would remember next time.

Or die trying.