Miracleborn Saga

In the farmost corners of existence, beyond time, beyond the reach of will or word, a void churned—not with silence, but with meaning too deep to be spoken. Here, where reality thinned and the laws that governed dimensions frayed into ribbons of madness, two shadows clashed.

Not shadows in the mortal sense, not darkness cast by light—but the imprints of beings too vast, too ancient, and too real to take shape in lesser worlds.

Around them, imaginable structures floated—frozen star-lattices the size of solar systems, inverted ziggurats built from screaming echoes, spheres that bled memories into the nothing. A cathedral of logic looped on itself infinitely, a shattered crown of dead planets spinning like halos. They hovered, anchored in the void by forgotten names and the unblinking eyes of ruined time.

The two entities did not move. No limbs raised. No mouths opened. But the void shuddered.

One breathed a concept into being—a fracture of infinite desire, a will that turned everything it touched into extension of itself. The clouded space around it warped, transformed into golden architecture that bent toward a throne that never fully manifested. The mere notion of ascendancy carved itself into the realm like scripture on bone.

The other responded with silence—a silence that erased.

The golden architectures collapsed inward, not by destruction, but by forgetting. What once stood as divine aspiration was now reduced to static and dust, like a dream lost upon waking. A response, without form, but undeniably final.

Then the first one spoke. Not with voice. With symbol.

An ancient rune appeared—a language older than creation, hovering in impossible geometry, rotating in seventeen angles at once. The rune didn't cast light; it bent it inward, drawing meaning like a black hole drinks gravity. The symbol pulsed.

It summoned a world—a world of screaming suns and rivers that cried, a paradise of broken faith. Souls rose from it, weeping light, and chained themselves to the entity's will. The weight of a billion prayers sculpted a sword from despair.

Before it could strike—

The other one inverted causality.

A ripple danced backward. Not in time—but in narrative. The symbol vanished from memory. The world of screaming suns never existed. The souls never wept. The sword was never born. The very idea of the move was deleted from the script of the moment.

And still, neither entity moved.

Only echoes trembled.

Above them, a galaxy blinked and became a serpent of thought. It curled around the battlefield like a spectator. Below, the skin of void peeled open, showing realms underneath—layers of reality discarded like rotting skins of an ancient fruit.

The first entity retaliated again, this time not by creation, but by reflection. It forged mirrors—cosmic mirrors, wide as continents, sharp as intentions. These mirrors spun around the void, capturing fragments of future possibilities and redirecting them toward its adversary.

Thousands of false futures crashed into the other being. In them, it lost. Was devoured. Was caged. Was rewritten.

But the second did not break.

Instead, it sacrificed its presence.

The mirrors cracked, not because they were shattered, but because they no longer knew what they were reflecting. Their target no longer existed in their lens. The second entity removed itself from the framework of being—a god unmade for a moment.

The battlefield held its breath.

Then it returned.

A single pulse followed. One so simple it could only be called truth.

Everything slowed. The mirrors wept and dissolved. The surrounding structures—ziggurats, lattices, cathedrals—crashed into unreality.

The first entity shifted. A crack. A tremor in its shadow.

And for a moment... hesitation.

They did not fight like beasts or men. They fought like ideas, like primeval authorities testing each other's convictions through the only language older than power—

Understanding.

And the void watched.

Still and trembling.

....

The bell atop the Church of Hazaya had only just finished its final toll. Its echo rolled like soft thunder across the ivory rooftops of East Prada, mixing with the murmur of dispersing believers. The Monday prayer had ended.

Henry adjusted the buttons of his black gentleman's coat, each one glinting slightly in the pale morning light. His boots echoed softly on the marble as he ascended the inner steps toward the Hall. His fedora cast a shadow over his tired eyes, and the air still clung with the incense of ritual and whispered hope.

He pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped into the long hall.

The chandelier swayed slightly above the long table. At its sides sat the familiar trio—Father, serene as always with his tea cup steaming beside him; Roze, leaning back in her seat, arms crossed, hat hanging from a hook on her chair; and Allen, motionless and unreadable, eyes like chipped amber focused on nothing at all.

And in the center of the hall, sprawled like a grotesque centerpiece on the floor—

A man, head wrapped tightly in a blood-specked sack, hands and legs bound with layered chains. He twitched, as if resisting a pain not only physical. Beneath the cloth, soft groans came, but no words. The sack was damp near the jaw. Breathing ragged. Dried blood and black ichor crusted along his wrists. He stank of rot and burnt herbs.

Henry's eyes narrowed as he took his seat beside Allen.

Roze didn't let the silence linger.

"He was seen near the Western Quarter," she said, her voice as cold and crisp as winter steel. "During the zombie invasion. My men saw him drawing enchantment runes in the mud… while civilians were being ripped apart."

She looked at the man on the ground with the kind of disdain usually reserved for insects.

"He wasn't summoning the dead," she continued. "He was channeling something. The fear. The panic. Draining it, somehow. Feeding it somewhere else. Maybe to someone else."

Father sipped his tea slowly. "A Cultist."

"More than that," Roze said. "We believe he's directly connected to the Cult Leader. The one behind this entire escalation."

Henry looked down at the sack-wrapped head. The man's shoulders shivered, reacting to the words. Roze noticed it too.

"He's afraid now. We found traces of Kresh Root on his tongue," she added. "A drug. Pain suppressor. Hallucinogen. Used in rituals. He didn't break when we interrogated him. But—"

She opened a small glass vial and set it on the table.

"He carried this. A zombie antidote. Crude. Temporary. But it works—if the victim's brain hasn't decayed yet."

Henry's hands tightened slightly on the arms of his chair. His mind flickered to the civilians he saw—turning, twisting, melting into horrors. How many could have been saved?

"Where did he get it?" he asked.

Roze shook her head. "That's the question. We're hoping you'll help us get the answer."

Father looked up from his tea. "He may speak today. Or he may not. But his rituals spoke clearly."

Allen finally moved, standing up to observe the chained man. "If he was draining fear," he said softly, "then we're dealing with someone who feeds on emotion. On chaos."

Roze nodded grimly. "Someone who wants this city to break itself apart."

Henry glanced again at the man. He wasn't just a pawn. Not fully. He knew something. Maybe he'd seen the leader. Maybe even worked under them. The sack over his head felt symbolic now. Like the darkness he chose to serve—willingly or not.

Henry's voice came quiet, but sharp.

"Let's make him talk."

The cold air in the hall pressed against Henry's skin like ice beneath his coat. He stepped forward, boots echoing gently across marble, and with a slow, deliberate hand—pulled the sack off the prisoner's head.

A gasp caught in his throat, but didn't reach his lips.

Norell Krave.

Bruised, sweat-soaked hair sticking to his temple, lips cracked, dark rings under trembling eyes—but it was him. The man who sat across the foretelling table just days ago. The brother. The one who sought Henry out in desperation.

Their eyes locked for a fraction too long.

Then Norell flinched and turned away, coughing blood down his chin. Henry instinctively leaned forward, but stopped. This wasn't the camp. This wasn't a man asking for help. This was a suspect, caught amidst an unfolding hell.

Henry stepped back, posture straightening, mask on. "So… this is the cultist?"

Norell looked up, blinking slowly. "Never seen you before in my life," he rasped.

Roze leaned in closer, squatting in front of him, fury flickering in her eyes like the fuse of a bomb. "You'll speak," she whispered. "You will tell us what you were channeling. What the hell you were summoning while children burned."

Norell winced.

Father stood silent for a moment, then slowly came forward. He rested a calm hand on Norell's shoulder.

"My son… there is no sin heavier than silence," he said gently, "when your truth could save a soul."

Norell looked away, broken, defeated—but defiant. "They… they took her," he whispered.

Everyone stilled.

"My sister. They took her because she fit. Fit what the leader needed. For his Route. For the Ritual."

Henry's stomach clenched.

He knew this. He knew this, and now the others knew too. But Norell's eyes turned toward him—just slightly, barely a flicker—and something deeper passed between them.

A reminder of the promise.

Henry had vowed to bring her back.

"Where is she?" Roze snapped.

Norell said nothing.

"Where is she!?" Roze screamed, and for the first time—truly lost herself. Her hands trembled as her saber hilt sparked from her belt. The air around her shimmered unnaturally, as if her wrath could tear the world apart.

"Roze." Father's voice boomed like a bell. "Control."

Roze froze. She stood, stepping back, hair falling over her eyes.

Norell spat blood on the floor.

"You won't get anything else. Go ahead. Do what you brought me here for."

Henry looked at him, lips parted slightly, heart pounding. "We can save her. You said you'd let me help—"

"Not like this," Norell interrupted, voice empty.

Father turned to Allen, who was in the background, casually chewing on a pink-iced donut, eyes glazed in a sort of lazy focus.

"Allen."

Allen blinked.

"Give me the revolver."

Allen silently walked over. Without a word, he reached into his shirt and pulled out a blackened, runed revolver and handed it over.

Father turned the weight in his hand, solemn. Then passed it back.

"To you."

Allen raised an eyebrow, donut in his left hand, revolver in his right.

"Wait," Henry said. "You're going to—"

"We are not here to kill him," Father said. "We are here… to judge him."

With a sigh, Father turned toward the door. "Let's give the boy silence."

Roze followed. Henry lingered, staring at Norell.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, more to himself.

They left the hall, closing the large oak doors behind them.

Silence.

Then—

Bang.

A single gunshot rang through the wood.

A moment passed. Then the door creaked open.

Allen stood, the revolver hanging loosely in one hand, a blood smear on his cheek.

"It's done," he said flatly, licking the last of his donut with his thumb.

Roze's jaw tightened.

Father nodded. "No sound left the room. The Luck Barrier held."

They walked together, quiet, upward through the church's winding staircase. No one spoke until they reached the upper floor. The sunlight streaming through the stained glass made long silhouettes across the stone. Henry remained behind them slightly, eyes cast to the floor.

Henry reminds, You said I'd save her, Norell. You said we'd do this together. You didn't let me. You let them bury you like a criminal. I promised.

But as he looked up, saw the light haloed around Roze's scorched scarf, Allen's casual steps, Father's steady back, and the cross above—

A thought struck him.

Maybe some promises aren't broken. Just passed on.

The ancient stone steps of the Church groaned beneath their feet as the four descended. The old cathedral doors shut behind them with a muffled thud. The wind was rising—soft at first, then lifting their coats with whispered fingers. It carried the scent of incense, distant baked bread, and old paper.

Roze pulled her scarf tighter, the one scorched from battle yet still stubbornly clinging to dignity.

"Next time," she muttered, "if you hand a kid a revolver, make sure he's not holding a donut in the other hand."

Father chuckled, deep and weathered like shifting stones. "Balance, my child. A killer must also know sweetness."

Jeff would've laughed at that line. But Jeff wasn't here.

Roze snorted. "If that's the case, Allen's either the sweetest or the deadliest man alive."

Henry allowed himself a crooked smile, keeping his coat tight. "He probably loaded the gun with sugar cubes."

They laughed. The breeze blew harder, tousling Roze's copper hair, making Father's robe flap like a torn flag. The sunlight dappled between clouds, chasing their shadows down the steps.

Allen said nothing.

He walked slightly apart from them, eyes lowered, footsteps calculated—not lazy, not rushed. In his hand, the revolver no longer dripped. His donut was gone too.

Not once did he glance back at the hall.

Roze leaned toward Henry and whispered, "Is he always this silent after... y'know?"

Henry glanced ahead. "He's never loud."

Father hummed a soft tune—an old funeral hymn turned lullaby—his eyes closed in brief prayer.

For a moment, no one said anything.

The wind swirled again.

Somewhere in the distance, bells rang for midday. Another Monday of war, peace, faith, and blood.

But here on the stairs, they laughed.

Except Allen.

....

In the darkest cradle of existence, beyond the edge of galaxies—

past time, past motion, past even the idea of "where"—

there was a silence so ancient it had weight.

It was not space.

It was the void within voids, a blind spot in the eye of reality.

Here, stars were afraid to be born.

Here, echoes refused to return.

Here, even the concept of form was a forgotten language.

And yet, something stood.

Floating—no—anchored, though no ground existed,

was a figure wrapped in black.

His cloak drifted unnaturally, extending far beyond his height,

its tail trailing through unseen matter as if dragging the dead souls of collapsed universes.

The hood masked all features.

Only darkness, coiling inside darkness.

He didn't breathe. There was no need.

He didn't speak. Not yet.

His presence—small, slender—was a contradiction against the abyss.

Above, below, within, and beyond—they watched.

The Outer Deities.

They had no shapes, no names that the living could know.

Some shimmered as impossible lattices of limbs that bled languages.

Others were just thoughts — enormous and obscene, unraveling the stars around them like thread.

Countless eyes blinked in unison.

Countless minds opened like wounds.

They had seen this cloaked one before.

Or perhaps they hadn't.

Perhaps they dreamed him.

Perhaps he was the nail in the coffin of their omnipotence.

And then—

Without gesture. Without flare.

He whispered.

Not with voice, but with intent.

"Come at me."

No challenge. No scream.

Just a sentence stitched from death and defiance.

Reality cracked.

All at once, they attacked.

The sky bled geometries.

Time screamed as it was ripped backward.

Impossible appendages. Laws. Prayers. Curses. Concepts.

All hurled toward him.

And the void ignited.