Do you believe in miracles?

I did not, at first. It may be a strange thing to say, with the obvious existence of angels and demons all around us these days, but that was part of the reason for my disbelief. Angels and demons could do magic. Humans can learn how to do magic. Therefore nothing about what angels and demons do could be considered miraculous.

A real miracle is the equivalent of achieving the impossible. Not merely a skillful display of magic. A miracle is an act worthy of a god.

Magic has a way of deceiving the ignorant. It makes the eminently possible seem impossible. Oversells the capability of its wielder. That is why so many had fallen for the spectacle put on by the Host and Legion. The promise of power that seemed beyond the grasp of humanity. One of those people taken in by the fanfare was father.

Father was one of the first human mages fighting during the early stages of the Millennium War. From what I was taught, the fighting during those days was incredibly one sided, and for father the experience was no different. Humanity's lines broke and the army father was with retreated to what is today known as Neo-Cardiff. The Host caught up to the defeated army without problem and simply demanded that humanity submit and surrender the city to them.

The human leadership had been completely cowed by the heavy military defeats and quickly complied. The Host entered the city with the promise that as long as humans accepted their role as the angels' flock, the Host as good shepherds would work to uplift them. The war had proven that the Host possessed powers beyond human ability. The power of miracles. And the Host promised that they would share that power with us.

The human mages like father were the first to be co-opted by the Host. Already impressed by the Host during the war, the prospect of developing their magic further with the help of actual angels was an opportunity that not many could resist. Father told me that being defeated by the Host was a blessing from heaven. It opened his eyes and allowed him to receive the miracles that the Host had bestowed upon him. The miracle of power as father's strength grew under Host tutelage, and the miracle of wealth as father became an influential man in the new era.

As a boy, I admired father's strength in both business and magic. Father was the best proof that miracles could happen. A mere soldier turning into one of the world's most influential men. Father probably believed the same thing. Thinking back, it was perhaps for this reason he kept insisting that I learn magic. Father was hoping for another miracle.

But as I grew up, I fell out of love with the concept of miracles. What father had accomplished was difficult, but not impossible. Many people became wealthy and influential after the war. Humanity began developing its own style of magic as well. None of that could compare with the impossibility that father and sister had posed to me. To do something that was, for me, literally impossible. To cast magic.

And before the miracle father wanted could occur, I plunged into the cold, dark sea.

No matter how I reflect on the events of that night, there was no question about it. I had drowned when the taxi plunged into the ocean. At the last moment, the Black Stallion appeared before me once more, and bore me away to a place where I could dream once again. In that place between the waking world and endless eternity, the Stallion told me that the great evil had made an attempt on my life. Only by once more joining the Stallion in its quest could I save myself.

And for my labor, the Stallion would perform the impossible. The stallion would grant me the magic that I had vainly sought for years.

I would be granted a miracle.

....

I squint as the light dies down and survey the carnage before me. Cars that have been turned into wreckage. Men lying on the ground bleeding. The Stallion waiting patiently by the side of the road. I came here to do something, didn't I? To stop something from happening. Three demons face me, carrying swords in their hands, performing an arcane ritual. I desperately rack my brain for any kind of answer to what is going on.

Kidnappers. I had come to stop these men from committing a crime. They were the servants of the great evil.

They were my enemy.

I focus on my enemies and recognize the spell they are casting, the long hours of forced study paying off. A battle ritual meant to generate a single overpowering blast of energy. Vulnerable to disruption based on my lessons from father.

Pay attention boy. The first miracle shown to the prophet, the first miracle granted to me and now the first of many to be taught to you.

Burning Bush. The first "miracle" that father showed to me. I was so impressed then. Now it seems so insignificant to what a true miracle is.

I move my spirituality in the manner described by father. It comes easily, as if I had been able to do this for my whole life. But I know that it is only because of the Stallion that this is possible. With a wave of my hand, I send the spell flying out at one of the trio.

My target's clothes erupt into flame and he stumbles backwards desperately trying to beat down the fire. It does him no good though. Burning Bush may just be a minor combat spell, but with the power of the Stallion behind it, the flames possess a voracious appetite and consume the unfortunate kidnapper utterly. With the formation disrupted, the ritual fails and the remaining two kidnappers reel from the magical backlash.

With a shout, both of them charge towards me with their swords raised. Instead of actually seeing my attackers, my mind zones out and once again drifts back to father's lessons.

What is wrong with you boy? A simple protective ward. Can't you even manage that?

Anger flashes in my heart. Yes father. I can manage that. After all, you forced me to learn the casting sequence for hours.

Exorcism - Rebuke.

My power surges outwards and washes over my charging opponents. Both of them howl in pain as lesions and hives form across their skin. I press my spirituality down on my opponents, holding both of them in place as they slowly sink to their knees.

Boy! You will master my personal technique or I will disown you! Do you hear me?

I stride forward with fire burning in my eyes. I jab both my index fingers into the chests of my attackers and cast the spell father had given me so much grief over.

Finger Of The Mountain.

The power surges through my fingers into the bodies of my opponents, and in a great wave of pressure, pulps their innards completely. Blood starts to flow from their mouths as they collapse to the ground in literal boneless heaps. I then hear a wail coming from somewhere in front of me and look up.

One of the kidnappers, with a boot print stamped on his suit immediately drops to his knees with his hands up, pleading for mercy. I scowl and start moving towards him when -

Never mind boy. Just ... go have your dinner. Its getting cold.

- the fight goes out of me. Forget it. This fellow is in no shape to kidnap anyone right now anyway. I tiredly dismiss the would be kidnapper with a wave of my hand and he scarpers without any further ceremony.

I turn towards the Stallion who has been waiting patiently all this while. Cynical and selfish. That would be the best way to describe it. The last being I would have expected to be doling out miracles.

Yet it did not change the fact that the quest that I was on was a worthy one.

It did not change the fact that for the first time in my life, I was someone that actually mattered. I was relevant.

I smoothly mounted the stallion and it galloped towards the setting sun.