This book is not for everyone. It is raw. It is brutal. It is unflinching. And it was never meant to be polite.
TALIA is a work of fiction, but the darkness it exposes is all too real. It is a spiritual parable—set in a world where ancient powers still hunger, where innocence is traded for influence, and where the unborn are not forgotten but fought over. It is graphic not to glorify evil, but to show what evil truly is when it hides behind modern language and “enlightened” ideals.
This story walks the blood-soaked border between life and death, truth and deception, sacrifice and salvation.
There are depictions of ritual abuse, spiritual deception, and distorted motherhood. There is symbolism—Catholic, occult, prophetic—that is used deliberately to confront, unsettle, and awaken.
And if it shakes you, it’s doing its job.
To those who have experienced abortion personally, this book is not meant to condemn—it is meant to open up a sacred, if painful, conversation. One that has too often been silenced by shame or hijacked by politics. This is not a religious sermon. This is not a culture war grenade. This is storytelling as soul surgery.
The horror of Talia’s path is not a celebration—it is a cautionary tale of what happens when a culture forgets the sacredness of life, the gift of motherhood, and the reverence due to every soul—born and unborn.
You are invited to read with courage, not comfort. With discernment, not distraction.
And with the understanding that even in the darkest tales, redemption can rise.
This book may be banned. It may be misunderstood. It may be hated.
But may it also ignite something deeper than outrage. May it ignite remembrance—of who we are, what we've lost, and what we must reclaim.
Welcome to her legacy. Welcome to Talia
Author’s Note
I did not write this book to be liked. I wrote it to tell the truth—through fiction that bleeds, aches, and confronts.
Talia is the beginning of an epic saga that explores the dark spiritual roots of abortion culture—through the eyes of a woman raised in silence, trained in shadows, and crowned by powers most would never believe exist. But underneath the horror is a greater question: What happens when the sacredness of life is forgotten?
This is not a manifesto. It is not a sermon. This is a mythic mirror, held up to a culture that no longer sees the unborn.
As the founder of The Great Unborn Wall, I’ve spent years helping people honour, remember, and heal from abortion—not through shame or blame, but through grace, mercy, and truth. This story flows from that same river.
It will disturb you. It is meant to.
But if you stay the course, you may also discover the deeper work—the work of rehumanizing what was lost… and restoring what was stolen.
1. Talia
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This book is a reckoning. MOTHER does not follow where TALIA left off—it breaks through. It invades. It constructs an empire where death becomes doctrine, and blood becomes bond.
This is a work of fiction. But as with all parables, its power lies in how close it brushes against what we dare not speak aloud. MOTHER is the story of how belief can become brutality. How the sacred womb—the place once revered for nurturing life—can be distorted into a throne for death.
It contains graphic depictions of abortion rites, ritual sacrifice, psychological fracturing, and theological heresies that are not written to offend, but to awaken. The darkness here is not exaggerated. It is revealed. What Talia builds is not just evil—it is seductive, logical, and dangerously modern.
There are echoes of Catholicism, the occult, ancient myth, biotechnology, and political ideology. These are not thrown in for flair—they are foundational. Because MOTHER is not simply about abortion. It is about what happens when a culture deifies choice, forgets the sacred, and reinvents motherhood without reverence.
If you have experienced abortion personally—this book is not your judge. It is not your sentence. It is your invitation. An invitation into sacred memory, into long-silenced grief, into a story where even the most shattered hearts are remembered by name. This is not activism. It is soul excavation.
You may feel disturbed. You may feel furious. You may feel seen. All are valid. But if this book calls something deeper to attention—let it. Let it disturb the dust we’ve let settle. Let it shake our comforts and provoke our prayers. Let it remind us that storytelling can still pierce through shame and ignite honor.
This book may never be safe.
But may it be sacred.
And may the unborn—those taken, those remembered, those named—find in these pages a kind of resurrection.
Welcome to Mother. Welcome to the empire rising in her name.
Author’s Note
I did not write Mother to entertain. I wrote it to expose, to honour, and to confront.
This story was born from a sacred ache—an ache shared by millions who have experienced abortion, not as a debate, but as a life-altering silence. The Unborn Saga was never meant to take a side in the political war. It was meant to tell the stories that have been buried beneath it.
TALIA opened the gates. MOTHER builds the kingdom. A kingdom shaped by Talia’s gospel—one of distortion, darkness, and divine ambition. But beneath every twisted ritual, beneath every blood-stained altar, there is still something holy worth reclaiming: the womb. The name. The child. The truth.
Yes, this book is dark. Unapologetically so. But that darkness isn’t here for shock. It is here for exposure. For revealing how easily evil can disguise itself as enlightenment. For showing how language, technology, and culture can seduce us into forgetting the sacred.
But there is another thread running through these pages—one of redemption, of memory, of naming the unborn not as victims, but as vessels of destiny.
To the mother who aborted and feels alone—you are not alone.
To the father who never had a voice—you were never voiceless.
To the child whose name was never spoken—may this book be your echo.
Every name etched into The Great Unborn Wall matters. Every story matters. And though this book plunges into the depths of darkness, it does so with a single purpose: to bring forth light.
Thank you for reading with courage.
Thank you for remembering with me.
The Wall is rising.
2. Mother
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This third book into the saga, Zhai, is a descent into a machine of pain—a world where guilt is harvested, blood is power, and loyalty is a blade that cuts both ways.
If Talia showed us the birth of darkness and Mother its roots, Zhai unveils its engine: a cult forged not just to destroy, but to feed. It asks a question sharper than any knife: What happens when suffering becomes a currency, and you’re forced to pay?
This book doesn’t flinch. It walks through shadows of abortion, spiritual deception, and rituals that twist the sacred into the profane. It’s not here to comfort. It’s here to confront—with scenes that will claw at your nerves, words that will spark anger, and choices that will haunt both the devout and the doubtful. Zhai is about control—how it’s built, how it binds, how it breaks.
You may hate this book. You may want to burn it. That’s fine. But if you’ve ever felt the weight of a choice you can’t undo, or stood in the grip of something bigger than yourself, you might find a mirror here—not of answers, but of questions. Not of peace, but of truth.
This is not a story of heroes or villains. It’s a story of humans—flawed, bleeding, clawing for meaning in a world that demands their pain.
Welcome to the third step. Welcome to Zhai.
“The life of man is of no more duration than the breath of his nostrils.”
— Psalm 39:5
Author’s Note
Zhai is a word that cuts. It’s not just a name—it’s a pulse, a hunger, a mirror held to the parts of us we’d rather bury.
Writing this book was like walking through fire. Not because it’s cruel—though it is—but because it’s honest. It lives in the space where pain isn’t just felt; it’s weaponized. Where guilt isn’t private; it’s harvested. Where faith isn’t a refuge; it’s a blade. Zhai isn’t about the end of the world—it’s about the world we’re already in, the one we don’t always see.
This story came from watching people carry invisible debts—choices, losses, moments that mark you forever. It came from knowing that sometimes the hardest thing isn’t the pain itself, but what we build to hold it. Zhai is that machine—a cult, yes, but also a truth. We all have our ledgers, our rituals, our prices.
For those who’ve walked the path of loss—through abortion, shame, or the silence of what could’ve been—this book isn’t here to judge. It’s here to see you. To say that even in the darkest forge, there’s a crack where light might slip through. Not yet, maybe. But it’s there.
For those still running from their debts, Zhai waits. It’s patient. It knows you’ll turn around one day.
And for those who’ve started to face it—your pain, your truth—this book is yours. Keep going.
3. Zhai
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Mercy is not a book that arrives quietly. It steps into a world already fractured by the revelations of Talia, where shadows cast long and jagged truths. Here, we meet Mercy—a girl born into a death that never came, a woman forged in the crucible of choices no one should face. This fourth chapter dares to ask not just what survives in the aftermath of evil, but what thrives when grace dares to take root.
Be warned: this is no gentle tale. Mercy delves into the raw edges of human experience—abortion, blood rites, spiritual deception, and the haunting weight of generational wounds. It does not shy away from the visceral or the provocative. Scenes will unsettle you. Dialogues will challenge your convictions. Choices made by these characters may anger or alienate, whether you hold sacred or secular ground. Yet at its core, this story is about the fragile, defiant space between ruin and redemption—a place where shame meets longing, where the past can be neither undone nor ignored.
Mercy contains mature themes and graphic content, including depictions of violence, human trafficking, abortion, and psychological trauma. These elements are integral to the narrative and are approached with care, but they may be distressing for some readers. This book also explores spiritual and moral questions that may provoke strong reactions, particularly around topics of faith, forgiveness, and societal taboos. Reader discretion is advised, especially for those sensitive to discussions of reproductive choices or childhood trauma.
This book is not a sermon, nor is it an apology. It is a mirror, held up to those who have ever wrestled with the unbearable weight of what was, and the flickering hope of what could be. Mercy is costly, as real mercy always is. It will not leave you unchanged.
You may reject this story. You may question its place in the world. But if you’ve ever carried a secret too heavy to name, or yearned for a hand to pull you from the fire, these pages offer something rare: not judgment, nor absolution, but a voice that says, You are not alone.
Welcome to the next step. Welcome to Mercy.
Author’s Note
Mercy is the most dangerous word in the world.
Because once you’ve tasted it, the lies can’t hold you anymore.
Writing Mercy was like walking through a storm with no shelter in sight. It demanded more than Talia—not because it’s darker, but because it’s deeper. It lives in the quiet ache of what’s left unsaid, the names we carry in silence, the wounds we fear will never heal. This book isn’t about erasing pain; it’s about learning to hold it with love instead of hate.
Mercy, as a character, came to me not as a concept but as a presence—a girl who shouldn’t exist, yet does, with a strength that defies her origin. Her story, and Krynn’s, is for those who’ve felt like ghosts in their own lives, unseen, unclaimed, yet fiercely alive. Through them, I wanted to explore what mercy really means—not a cheap grace that glosses over truth, but a costly, transformative force that dares us to remember who we are.
As someone who’s walked alongside those touched by the abortion journey—through The Great Unborn Wall and beyond—I’ve seen how pain and hope collide. Some flee. Some falter. But others rise, carrying their stories like lanterns in the dark. This book is for them—the risers, the fighters, the ones who dare to believe they’re more than their past.
And for those who aren’t there yet, who feel too broken to stand, Mercy waits. It’s not a map out of the storm, but a voice whispering that you’re not alone in it.
Thank you for stepping into this world. It’s not an easy one, but it’s ours.
4. Mercy
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Book 5: Osias - plunges into a darkness where love becomes a blade, and truth burns hotter than any fire.
Where Zhai forged pain into power and Mercy dared to seek grace, Osias asks a question that cuts deeper: What does it mean to father a child who was never born? This is not a story of answers. It’s a story of a man—strong, broken, human—facing a truth that gods and monsters would rather keep buried.
Osias is relentless. It walks through blood-soaked rituals, spiritual betrayal, and the raw ache of loss—abortion not as debate, but as a wound that bleeds across generations. You’ll find no comfort here, no easy heroes. Instead, you’ll face scenes that sear, choices that provoke, and a world where the sacred and profane collide with merciless force. This book is about power—not the kind that conquers, but the kind that endures.
It will unsettle you. It may anger you. It might break you. That’s the point. If you’ve ever carried a grief too heavy to name, or stood at the edge of a truth you weren’t ready to claim, Osias sees you—not to judge, but to walk with you into the fire.
You may want to turn away. You may want to scream. But if you stay, you’ll find something waiting—not salvation, not yet, but a spark. A chance to rise.
Welcome to the fifth step. Welcome to Osias.
“My soul is in deep anguish. How long, Lord, how long?”
— Psalm 6:3
Author’s Note
Osias is not just a name—it’s a cry, a wound, a man daring to face what was taken from him.
Writing this book was like staring into a mirror I didn’t want to see. It’s not darker than Zhai or Mercy—it’s heavier. It lives where love and loss twist together, where a father’s heart beats for a child he’ll never hold. Osias isn’t about the end of hope; it’s about the cost of finding it in a world that thrives on pain.
This story grew from watching men carry silent burdens—griefs they’re told not to name, losses they’re expected to bury. It came from knowing that fatherhood isn’t just biology—it’s a fire that burns even when the child is gone. Osias is that fire: a man, a soldier, a soul, stepping into a battle not for victory, but for truth.
To those who’ve felt the weight of an unborn child—through abortion, through silence, through a choice that haunts—this book isn’t here to preach. It’s here to kneel beside you. To say your pain is real, your love is real, and you are not alone. There’s a path forward, not easy, but possible—a path where grief becomes power, not shame.
To those still hiding from that truth, Osias waits. It’s patient. It knows the moment will come.
And to those stepping toward healing—naming the loss, claiming the love—this book is yours. You are the spark. Keep burning.
5. Osias
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Seraphina, the sixth plunge into this saga, is a reckoning—a descent into the wreckage of a man’s soul, where memory is a blade, grief is a fire, and truth is a weight that can crush or redeem.
If earlier books unveiled darkness and its roots, Seraphina carves open its aftermath: a wound that festers in silence, a fatherhood stolen before it could breathe.
This is Osias’s story, a lieutenant forged in combat but unmade by loss. It asks a question that burns: What happens when the child you never held becomes the ghost you can’t escape?
Seraphina doesn’t shy from the shadows of abortion, trauma, or the rituals that haunt the edges of faith. It’s not here to soothe or sermonize—it’s here to confront, with visions that will sear your mind, words that will stir your rage, and choices that will linger like smoke.
This book may unsettle you. It may break you. That’s as it should be. If you’ve ever carried a pain you couldn’t name, or felt the pull of something sacred amidst the profane, you’ll find no answers here—only a mirror. Not of comfort, but of raw, unshakable truth.
Seraphina is not about judgment or absolution. It’s about a man—broken, searching, clawing for meaning in a world that demands he face what he’s buried.
Step into the fire. Step into Seraphina.
“For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.”— Psalm 139:13
Author’s Note
Writing Seraphina has been a profound and humbling journey, one that required me to sit with the weight of grief, the fragility of memory, and the courage it takes to name what’s been lost.
Osias’s story is anchored in the first of the Four Healing Paths of The Unborn Father at The Great Unborn Wall—Acknowledgement—where he names his unborn daughter, Seraphina, giving form to a love and loss that refuses to stay silent. This act became the heartbeat of the book, guiding me to explore a grief often overlooked in society.
This story doesn’t take sides or cast blame; it aims to illuminate a quiet pain that shapes lives. The name Seraphina, born from fire and ascending to stars, carries a flicker of hope—a reminder that even in our deepest wounds, transformation is possible.
The Great Unborn Wall website is a real resource offering Four Powerful Healing Paths for both Unborn Fathers and Unborn Mothers (see Book 8: Rhea), culminating in an Online Memorial Wall that honors those who complete them. Osias’s journey mirrors the power of these paths, particularly the act of naming, which I hope resonates with readers.
My hope is that Seraphina offers you a space to reflect—on loss, on love, on the raw, sacred work of claiming what matters. May Osias’s courage to name his daughter inspire you to face your own truths and find light in rising.
Thank you for carrying this story with you. Your trust in this Great Unborn saga means more than words can express.
6. Seraphina
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From Heartache to Healing: Stories of Transformation
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