She never tells people this, but if Mila wrote it herself, it would sound like…
The girl was born in 2005—a healthy child in a world that did not always know how to treat differences kindly. Her father was a fisherman who greeted each dawn by the waves, while her mother ran a small catering business that filled their home with the smells of warm rice and simmering spices. For a time, theirs was the sort of quiet, hopeful life you might find tucked away at the sea's edge.
But Mila was not ordinary. From her very first breath, she was marked by a variant of albinism. Her snowy white hair caught the morning sun like silk. Her eyes, a bright and burning red, seemed to pierce through every shadow. In the little town, whispers followed her everywhere—some called her beautiful, ethereal, even otherworldly.
Others, more often, called her cursed, a bad omen, a creature from old vampire tales.
Yet, Mila always smiled. Despite the sidelong glances from the children who stared too long, and the adults who avoided her mother at the market, she smiled. She learned early how to let the world's unease slide off her like water.
The kindness that her mother taught her is a shield.
Forgiveness, her father would say, is a form of strength.
For a while, these things were enough.
In her fifth year of elementary school, Mila faced 'unfairness' for the first time. At the time, unlike how it usually goes. A boy came close to her, and he said, 'You look so beautiful, Mila. ' Of all the things she had to face, this boy complimented her on her otherwise odd look.
"Thank you." She said with a soft smile.
It wasn't long until Mila told her parents. From there, she knew that the boy had, in fact, had a crush on her. An innocent fondness that helped her feel like she had a place in the world where she was the odd one. They would hang out quite often.
But who knew that it would end so soon?
Another girl was jealous. She saw Mila as an obstacle, as she, too, had liked the same boy.
What began as harmless pranks—a hidden shoe, an 'accidentally' spilled drink—soon grew malicious. The laughter turned sharper.
The whispers grew into open scorn.
The boy tried his best to protect Mila, but the other somehow kept bullying her.
Mila tried to ignore it and tried to forgive.
However, the unfairness does not often relent simply because its target is kind.
One day, the taunts grew too much.
The jealous girl had spoken things that shouldn't have been spoken.
She speaks ill of Mila's parents, about her father being a good-for-nothing loser who could only manage to be a fisherman. While her mother is a good-for-nothing mother who didn't take care of Mila, otherwise, Mila wouldn't have been born with albinism.
Cornered and humiliated, Mila finally snapped.
She lashed out.
She grabbed a chalkboard eraser and a pencil and straddled onto the girl.
She hit the girl's head with a board eraser, giving white dust from the residue of the chalkboard, and scratched her eyelid with a pencil, leaving blood everywhere.
At the time, Mila thought to herself,
Why was she so different?
Is being different not allowed?
Is being different a sin?
I haven't done anything bad, so why am I being treated like this?
She was crying as she did all of that, and the teachers pulled her away.
The other girl was hospitalized; they said the eye might be lost, but it healed.
But even though it healed, everyone saw only Mila's anger, not the months of torment she had endured.
No one spoke for her, no one defended her.
Not even the boy who had a crush on her.
It was as if he was convinced that Mila's true nature was shown at the time she fought off her bully.
Her classmates turned their backs.
Even the teachers only shook their heads.
At the time, she finally felt truly like an outcast.
Not only as an odd-looking girl, but also as an evildoer
The world shrank to the small, dark room of her childhood.
Mila stopped going to school.
She sat by the window, watching the tide, listening to the voices she could never please, until her parents' voices—gentle, insistent—pulled her back.
One day, a visitor came.
The woman introduced herself as a 'psychologist,' a word foreign to her.
She didn't bother asking.
But the woman then say that she was something like Mila's "fairy godmother." She smiled with a kind of patience that made even heavy silences feel light. The first few meetings the woman didn't asked anything crucial.
She just played with Mila, talking about what she likes.
Talking about what books she likes.
Talking about mythos that she didn't know.
One day, while they were relaxing in Mila's house yard, the woman sitting beside her asked, "If you could wish for anything, what would it be?"
Mila hesitated, then blurted, "I don't want to be different!"
"Are you sure?"
As she thought about it, she began to think it through properly.
She wasn't truly the one at fault in the situation.
"I just want people to leave me alone! I never did anything wrong!"
"Are you sure?"
The woman asked again.
Mila thought hard about it again. She reflected on the way she acted.
Even if the bullying was the fault, what she did was. Going feral like that might be going too much.
She looks down, saddened.
"In truth, you just want to be with everyone else, am I right?"
She looks up at the woman.
The woman nudged closer as she caressed Mila's head.
"You only wish to live peacefully. But to live like that is hard, because not everyone is kind."
The woman smiled and reached into her bag.
She tied a red gem ribbon to the center of Mila's shirt.
"What is this?"
"This is a charm for you. I am sure that if you wear it, your dream will eventually come true. But you have to be brave."
Mila clung to the token.
She was determined to be brave once more.
A few weeks passed peacefully. She felt as if what she dreamed about was finally happening, only to find out that they had been planning another prank.
The classmates snatched the gem ribbon from her and broke it.
At the verge of her anger, Mila remembered her fairy godmother's words.
This time, she won't act feral like that again.
But will this bring the peace she wanted?
What she did that day was run.
She came home in tears.
"Why am I so different? Am I fated to always be treated like this, Mom, Dad? Why can't I live peacefully?"
Her parents drew her into a tight embrace. "You don't need to think about it anymore," her father murmured. "No one should treat you like that. We're here for you. Always."
Mila's parents decided to drop her out of school.
Her ribbon was returned to her with its red gem whole again.
Maybe her father fixed it for her, or maybe her father bought a new one. She never knew.
From then on, Mila's world changed.
Her parents found tutors willing to teach her at home.
Mila is free from the eyes of others. She learned a lot from her books and tutors.
In her country, there was an education equivalent program that is comparable to elementary, middle, and high school diplomas. They are known as Packet A,B,and C. This program specifically helped those who failed formal school or simply doesn't have the time for formal school to have a diploma that is equivalent to what they needed.
Mila passed her exams with ease and, by fourteen, had already finished Packet C, which is comparable to finishing high school. Her parents were very proud.
At the announcement of her success for the exam, her mother snuggled her, "Mila!! You are so great I promise to cook you cakes anytime you wanted!"
"I can't believe my daughter is so smart that she finishes Highschool at 14. I am so blessed." He thought as he cried ugly also snuggling to her.
"I love you, Mom and Dad. You guys were the best!" Mila said.
But she wondered what would she do after this? Isn't worklife just as scary? What would she do if she doesn't fit in? Would she run away again?
Her parents saw her hesitation and asked, "Mila, would you like to help me sell fish and help Mom manage the catering?"
She looked towards the two.
The answer was so simple.
"Yes! I do!" She smiled.
If she can't fit in anywhere, staying with her parents and working with them will always be fine.
At this time, Mila believed in a simple, peaceful future.
Not knowing that it was but a fleeting peace.
It happened in the dead of night, without warning. The year was 2020.
One moment, Mila slept, dreaming of the ocean and her mother's laughter.
Next, the world howled.
She woke to her father shaking her shoulder, urgency burning in his voice.
Shadows flickered outside the window—shapes too large, too wild to be human.
The air stank of smoke and panic.
Her mother pulled her close. "We need to go, now!"
Outside, chaos ruled.
The sleepy town was no longer home but a battlefield—werewolves, a half-animal, half-human.
She also saw a human with pointy ears and see-through figures tearing through the streets in a savage turf war.
Houses burned.
Windows shattered.
People ran, or screamed, or simply disappeared in the darkness.
They ran—her father leading, her mother behind, Mila clutching her backpack and her red gem.
All she could hear was the pounding of her own heart and the distant, furious roars.
Then two massive, wolf-like demi-humans burst from an alley, their fangs gleaming. Her mother barely had time to cry out before they were upon her.
The world turned red and black as Mila watched in paralyzed horror—her mother's scream cut short, her father's shout breaking as he saw his wife fall.
"Run, Mila!" he said, shoving a backpack into her hands.
His voice was rough, commanding—more desperate than she'd ever heard.
"Go! Don't look back. Live your life—live the way you dreamed, like you always wanted."
"But Dad—!" Mila sobbed, frozen, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Her father's eyes hardened. "Mila!" he shouted, furious and terrified.
"Go! Daddy and Mommy love you—now run!" He kissed her forehead, then pushed her away with all the strength he had left.
She stumbled, turning to flee.
Behind her, her father's voice rose in rage and heartbreak. "YOU MONSTERS! I'LL KILL YOU ALL!"
Mila ran. She ran until her lungs burned and her legs threatened to give out.
She ran as the night echoed with screams and gunfire and the monstrous howls of beasts.
Everything after that blurred—the sound of her own sobbing, the terror twisting in her chest, the weight of her father's last command.
When she finally made it to the city's safe zone, the dawn was pale and cold. Around her were dozens of survivors—wounded, traumatized, weeping. The town was a landscape of corpses and ruins, bodies strewn where hope had once been. She saw children orphaned, men and women with missing limbs, faces burned or bloodied, or simply empty.
Mila closed her eyes, trying to block out the horror, but it would not fade.
In her mind, she could still hear her parents' voices, still see her mother fall, still feel her father's final kiss on her forehead.
She curled in a corner, clutching the red gem at her chest, and whispered through her tears, "I wish I could help them. But I can't do anything. I'm powerless."
And then, as if in answer, her red gem began to glow.
A soft, gentle warmth spread through her, cutting through the numbness and pain.
She heard a voice somewhere deep within, soft and kind.
You can help them. Let me show you.
A vision unfurled before her eyes—a world where she could heal, mend the broken, and offer hope where there was none. Her hands glowed with power in the vision, soothing pain and restoring life.
When she opened her eyes, the world had shifted. Instinctively, Mila rose and walked toward a boy, his arm missing, blood soaking the rags wrapped around the stump. Kneeling beside him, she gently asked for permission, then placed her hands over the wound.
Green light blossomed from her palms, bathing the injury in a warm, healing glow. The boy's pain-stricken face relaxed, awe and hope shining in his eyes as new flesh knit itself together. In moments, his arm was whole again.
Gasps echoed around her.
People began to gather, whispering, praying, begging.
One by one, Mila healed them—cuts, burns, broken bones, sickness, and scars.
Where her hands moved, suffering lessened.
That day, the survivors gave her a new name—the Child of Miracles.
Yeah, ever since that day when I became the so-called Child of Miracles, everything went downhill.
***
After the incident, once people realized what I could do, the government whisked me away to Jaka City—the capital. I was still just a kid, fifteen years old, but they looked at me like I was a weapon, or maybe a cure.
They said I had a duty to save the country from the chaos the incursions had brought. An official, Mr. Adit, was assigned to "guide" me and help me adjust. He was somewhat different. Unlike others, he talked to me like I was still a person, a child, not just some living legend.
Others wanted me to act like someone far older.
Maybe that's why, back then, I just did what they asked.
I didn't think about what it meant—not really.
But I believe that all of this will eventually help me reach the peaceful life that I long for.
But things didn't get better. They got worse.
At first, all I did was heal. But soon they realized I had talent for all kinds of magic.
Suddenly, every "awakened" mage or sorcerer they could find—no matter where they came from—was dragged in to teach me. They pushed me through every kind of spell: offensive, defensive, enhancement, support, healing, things I didn't even have names for yet.
They called me a prodigy.
Some say that I am, indeed, the Child of Miracles, destined to bring peace.
At my sixteenth birthday, I wasn't at home.
I was in a war room, monitoring troop movements, advising soldiers, channeling magic to the front lines.
The same demi-humans that destroyed my family were now my enemies on a battlefield.
I feel a thrill at getting to fight them.
Why shouldn't I? They killed my parents.
When we finally won that battle, I thought about a lot of things.
What would happen to the prisoners?
Yet I feel I was exacting justice.
I was doing a good thing.
I believe I was right.
Until I saw what happened to the prisoners...
They brought in the captured demi-humans—females and children.
They were obviously innocents, and I thought they'd be treated fairly, maybe questioned, maybe just kept out of harm's way.
But that's not what happened.
Our own soldiers—men and women both—turned on them with a kind of hatred I'd never seen before.
They whipped them, electrocuted them, smeared their feces and urinated on them, and laughed as they burned their bodies.
It didn't matter if the prisoners were unarmed or terrified.
There was no mercy.
And that was when doubt crept in.
Was this the justice I wanted?
Was this what I'd been fighting for all along?
Was I really making anything better?
Those questions spun in my head, over and over, and no one could answer them. Not even me.
Ever since my first successful deployment, I have been sent out again and again—bounced from one battlefield to another, caught in the same cycle every time. Humanity would be losing, desperate, and terrified.
Then I'd arrive.
My power would turn the tide, and suddenly, the human army would win.
But after every victory, I'd witness the same horror—the victors desecrating everything the defeated had left.
It didn't matter who the enemy was: elves, demi-humans, spirits. No one was spared. If they surrendered, it just meant a slower, more humiliating death. The prisoners of war became playthings—stripped of dignity, subjected to torture, sometimes worse. The cruelty wasn't limited to the soldiers either; sometimes the people who'd just been "saved" joined in, too.
The faces changed, the uniforms changed, but the hate was always the same.
"Thank you, Child of Miracles. We couldn't have done it without you!"
"Child of Miracles, it was because of you that we could win against those monsters."
"Child of Miracles, I believe you are the epitome of Justice. You yourself are justice."
Praises sung towards me by the people who knew the reality of the battlefield. Even though my name or my existence wasn't published, the officials and VIP from my government knew my existence as they too sung praises on my 'good deeds'.
There were nights when I wished for death—just for a way out, just to stop being the tool that made all this possible.
All these victories, all this "hope"—they were built on my power.
I wore the title, Child of Miracles, like a chain around my neck.
I was supposed to save humanity.
But the more I saw, the more I realized—humans weren't any better than those they called monsters.
Sometimes, they were worse. So why was I fighting for them?
But it wasn't that simple.
I was too important now.
The government would never let me walk away.
Maybe they'd even find a way to keep me on a leash, like some pet or a living weapon.
I was trapped—locked inside an endless nightmare, forced to keep playing a role I'd come to hate.
On my seventeenth birthday, there was finally a pause—a truce with the elves.
I was ordered to study under their magicians, learn everything I could from them.
Elven instructors were flown in, each one a master of mana theory and the secrets of magic that human sorcerers could only dream of.
I grew even stronger—too strong.
I started creating spells that had never existed before, magic that could rewrite the rules.
They called me a Spell Weaver.
My proudest spell was called 'Round of Aias.'
The soldiers knew it as a miracle, a blessing—a spell that amplified the power of those I chose, making them ten times stronger than before.
If cast suddenly, humans will wield destructive spells that could level entire battlefields.
Mortars and tanks became obsolete compared to what I'd unleashed.
But you already know what happened next.
They used it not to defend the innocent, but to obliterate everything in their path.
They wiped out invaders, yes—but also innocents, bystanders, and entire populations. By the end of that year, every "invasive species" had been erased from my country.
This was also why my country was saved and never faced many dangers, unlike other parts of the world. The humans in my country especially live a very nice life compared to other countries.
Then I was flown overseas.
One country after another—wherever humanity struggled, I was sent as "The Child of Miracles."
My spells tipped the scales. My presence became a symbol of a miracle to those who knew about me.
Eventually, the world stumbled into something that looked like peace.
A public figure named Grand Saint Veuz stood at the center. Her organization 'United Front' had created collaborations many would deem impossible, such as erecting a four-race project or creating a Unified Region where all races can coexist.
Her leadership was based on her belief that every race is created equal, and instead of using Mana for war, we should use it for the betterment of our lives. Many would then openly support Veuz.
But most of them were all a lie.
Even with Veuz's leadership, the hatred between races, especially humans, can never die.
Some countries have only ever done lip service to peace, but they have never changed.
Prisoners were still tortured, desecrated, burned—like it was just another ritual of war.
Humans had become the very monsters they once fought, and no one seemed to care.
No one even noticed.
And me? I just kept going.
Because what else could I do?
As I said before, there is no way for me to get out.
I can technically kill myself.
But to die now, I find it devoid of meaning.
At least, now, I can defend something to protect humanity.
Even though they are worse than other races.
I still protect many lives, and I am not taking any human lives either.
So I bear with it.
***
Sometime near the end of that year, Mr. Adit—my liaison officer—pulled me aside.
It had been almost three years working together, and though he'd always been kind, that night was different.
He asked me about my well-being, voice gentle, eyes concerned.
Usually, I would just tell him, "I am fine. Nothing's wrong."
Or give him a warm smile and say, "I am perfectly fine!"
But that day, I was too exhausted.
Exhausted with everything.
So, for the first time, I let everything spill out.
I told him the horrors I'd witnessed, all the twisted things I'd been part of as the so-called Child of Miracles.
His face crumpled. "Mila... I had no idea you were enduring this kind of pain alone."
He actually cried, tears streaming down his cheeks that night.
Maybe all this time, he'd thought I was fine, whatever I was going through. He thought I never had to face that kind of thing. Then again, Adit was just a civil servant who was randomly chosen to be my liaison officer, not one who is dedicated to me. So it is natural that he has some things he didn't know about.
But now he knew the truth. To him, I was still my own person—never a weapon or tool.
"Tomorrow I will have a word with the officials!" he promised, voice firm. "I'll use every connection to improve things for you. And if you ever get the chance, please have dinner with my family!"
"Me? Are you sure?"
"Yes. My daughter would love to have a big sister!"
For the first time in ages, I felt a flicker of real joy.
Someone cared about me.
Someone saw me as more than a miracle, more than a symbol.
"Yes, I will, Mr. Adit. Thank you for having me."
"You are not alone anymore, Mila! Please don't be afraid to tell me things again if you are having a rough time!"
He spoke as he waved goodbye.
He was a very nice guy.
But he died because of me.
The very next day, I found out Mr. Adit had been executed.
They killed him at dawn using a gun, labeling him a traitor, accused of selling secrets to the enemy.
I saw the reasons on a noticeboard.
Treason against humanity.
Adit became a scapegoat. Another excuse to stoke hatred against "others."
I thought that was the worst until I saw what came next.
Adit's wife and his three-year-old daughter were also killed.
The information I received was delivered to me by officials who were close to Adit and felt the need to inform me.
"Adit was a nice guy."
"He was," I said.
"But he was no doubt a traitor."
I didn't agree to what that official is saying. But I played along. "Yeah he is."
The man then handed me a photograph.
I smiled, looking at the photograph.
"No loose ends whatsoever. Our government is too serious."
"Yeah, it is."
I walked back to my room and locked the door.
I vomited, followed by tremors throughout my body. The scene from the photograph haunted me—burned into my mind forever.
To think I would be so dumb to think the officials didn't know of Adit's motivation.
It was clearly a threat to me.
They intentionally slipped the picture over solely to keep me obedient—proof that they could erase anyone who cared for me. No matter how important they were.
In that picture, Adit's wife and his child were burned alive.
The photograph showed very clear signs of their organs rupturing and going everywhere.
This world has gone insane.
Perhaps this world really did have an apocalypse.
What good is a world like this? I regret everything.
Why didn't I die that night along with my parents?
No, why am I still here? Why didn't I kill myself long ago?
Then I heard it—the whisper that spoke to me at the time I gained my healing powers.
"Isn't this what you wished for, Mila?"
"No. It never was."
"Didn't you wish to help?"
"No. This isn't what I want."
"Then what do you want, Mila?"
"I want it all to end."
Silence. The gem offered no answers.
***
In January 2022, I was summoned for a private audience with Grand Saint Veuz. The moment I entered her chamber.
I feel an oddly familiar feeling.
"I have heard a lot about you, Mila."
"I see, from the news?"
Veuz smiled and said, "No... from your fairy godmother."
Grand Saint Veuz knew the psychologist, the woman who gave me the red gem years ago.
She spoke softly, "To think the child I heard so long ago was here now as the Child of Miracles. How have you been, Mila? You must've been through a lot."
I barely managed to reply. "I'm sorry. It was my fault for being so naïve. I wanted prosperity for humanity, but now I see that's not what I truly wanted."
Veuz regarded me with that same gentle, inscrutable smile. "Then what do you want, Mila?"
"My dream... It was just a simple dream. I wanted lasting peace. For all races. But I know now that's impossible."
"So, are you giving up on your dreams?"
"Yes," I admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
"All I want is my life back. A simpler life. I don't want to kill anyone, nor help people kill anyone. I don't want to make it easier for others to kill. I just want to heal people. To help, without becoming a weapon."
She asked, "Mila, do you hate your current life as the Child of Miracles?"
The answer left my lips before I could think. "I hate it. I hate it so much. I wish I'd died sooner, but now... I'm too strong to die easily, and I'm too scared to die now that I have done nothing but bad things. But at the same time, I don't think I can go on living. I don't know how to go on."
I fell to my knees, overwhelmed and desperate.
"It's hard to disappear—you're too famous. But there's a way," Veuz said quietly.
"Mila, the Child of Miracles, will disappear. I'll give you a new life. You'll become Carmilla, the Saint Candidate."
"But what about my powers, Grand Saint Veuz? No doubt people would know that I was indeed the child of miracles."
"I'll seal them inside your ribbon." she replied. "This will limit you to healing magic and sealing magic. Enough to convince people you're only a Saint Candidate."
"What is the red gem anyway?"
"It was a gadget that would help you realize your dream of living peacefully. By that, I mean it was a device made by your fairy godmother to help your body withstand Mana poisoning. Have you ever contracted Corona?"
Mana Poisoning, people say it happened because the body can't take in Mana.
"Yeah, I never experienced that."
"That's what it does. It trains your body by absorbing minuscule parts of your life force and trains it to regenerate. It also filters mana before letting it inside your body. The device took in mana, and your life energy. Then, it makes them compatible before giving them to your body. Throughout the years, you have been using the red gem. It has been helping your body adapt and prepare for the incursion of worlds that happen."
"So my fairy godmother knows that Mana will eventually enter this world?"
"Perhaps. She was an odd person. I never truly understood her, either. Just when the incursion happened, however, she vanished."
"I see.."
To think someone so important would just vanish, maybe someone in this world wanted her dead because she knows too much.
"Then are you ready for your powers to be sealed? Of course, it does come at a price."
"What is that?"
"Your powers can never be unsealed unless you get to a level strong enough to withstand your original power. You're ability will basically be reset, and you will need to gain approximately 25% of—"
"I don't need any more details, Grand Saint Veuz..." I said with dark eyes.
"I see you've longed for freedom for so long, and I think at this time, you deserve it."
That day, I was saved.
Grand Saint Veuz smiled as her long white hair floated as she performed her spell, sealing away my overwhelming power, sealing all of it in my red gem ribbon. My white hair turned a lilac tint.
I was left with just enough magic prowess to heal and protect.
And that's how my new life began—as Carmilla.
The following two years of my life passed quietly. As Carmilla, a Saint Candidate, my world narrowed to hospitals, shelters, and recovery wards.
My job was only to heal.
I didn't push myself, not like before.
I knew too well how quickly I could grow in magic and surpass the others.
So I held back.
I did things half-heartedly, content to let the world think I was simply diligent and gentle.