Savior in Shadow Slave

[THIS CHAPTER CONTAIN SOME SCENE THAT MAY BE UPSETTING TO SOME READER'S. SO READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.]

One would wonder why some of a boar's teeth — even if the boar is an Awakened one — would be more valuable than its core. In fact, it's worth more than the cores of fallen ones.

Even Murphy himself thought there was something wrong with the records when he saw them. Convinced it was a clerical error or some oversight, he took the pages to his grandfather.

But the old man merely looked up, his weathered eyes distant, the same flickering light in them that had once shone when he explained his ideals — ideals Murphy never truly understood.

"That's how it is," he said, tone flat but final — a full stop to a question that suddenly felt far bigger than Murphy had imagined.

Setting aside the preciousness of this tooth — since it came from an Awakened monster known for using its tusks in battle — its durability far exceeded that of the mundane weapon he carried.

But that wasn't even its greatest boon. The true terror of the beast's fang wasn't its strength or its sharpness — it was the unseen ability it carried.

Wounds inflicted by it did not close. Flesh resisted mending. Blood clotted slower, pain lingered longer, and even the most minor slash refused to fade.

That made the tusk perfect for hunting his next target — the Druid.

Elusive and cunning, Druids were not creatures of brute force but of deception and terrain. Born of the forest and bound to its roots, they possessed the unnerving ability to meld into trees and reappear anywhere within a hundred-meter radius of the tree that birthed them. One moment they were there, the next — gone, laughing from the hollow of a distant trunk.

Druids thrived in misdirection. They never attacked head-on, always circling, always emerging from behind — whispering through the branches like ghosts with claws. But that wasn't what made them truly monstrous.

What made them terrifying was something quieter. Subtler. Their passive ability to awaken hidden cravings in the minds of those around them — to take suppressed thoughts and twist them into action.

Entire squads had gone missing in forests where Druids were known to dwell, only to be later discovered in compromising states, dead while having sex with trees. Their bodies dried up.

Women were found with roots and branches—dozens of them—forced into their bodies in their sexual and excretion areas... No, through every possible orifice, their faces twisted in a grotesque expression of pleasure, even in death.

The roots were coated in slick, viscous fluid of uncertain origin. And because Druids possessed unnatural vitality—and could extend it to their victims—the agony and twisted pleasure that should have ended a life in mere hours was drawn out for days.

Men were no exception to the Druid's cruelty. Their fates were perhaps even more haunting, for strength gave way to helplessness in the most humiliating way imaginable.

Some were found collapsed against tree trunks, naked and torn, vines coiled like serpents around their limbs and waist, anchoring them in positions that denied all dignity. The thick roots had forced their way into every vulnerable place, flooding them with sensations no human was meant to endure.

Their faces — frozen in a mask of delirium — bore a sickening duality: pleasure so overwhelming it bled into horror, joy that looked borrowed from madness.

And still they lived.

For hours. Days.

No one knew how they died —

Whether screaming or moaning,

Whether satisfied or unsatisfied,

Whether with clarity or in madness,

Whether by pleasure or by pain.

Records mention that Druids are both cursed and blessed — the easiest to grow, yet utterly incapable of doing so on their own. Time changes nothing. They can slumber beneath roots for centuries and remain unchanged.

For them to evolve, something far more grotesque is required: pleasure — not their own, but that stolen from the flesh and minds of other species.

It is said that when a Druid extracts the final gasp of euphoria from its hundredth victim, it transcends its bestial state and becomes a monster — something aware, strategic, and far more terrifying. At a thousand victims, that monster is reborn as a Demon, an entity possessing par or even superior to humans in terms of intelligence.

And it doesn't stop there. Every evolution feeds on pleasure, demanding ten times the suffering of the last.

Ten thousand victims to become a Devil.

A hundred thousand to become a Tyrant.

And that was only if the pleasure came from a mundane human.

For the Druid, such victims were like rainwater: enough to survive, enough to grow slowly.

But the pleasure extracted from the Awakened — and especially the Ascended — was something else entirely. It was not sustenance. It was Ambrosia.

Their bodies, sharpened by power.

Their souls, dense with potential.

Their pain and pleasure — volatile, amplified, ripe.

To feed on one of them was to consume concentrated evolution. What might take a thousand common lives could be achieved with just one Ascended, properly broken.

And Murphy... was both the hunter and the feast.

And that was the target Murphy was tasked with killing.

Had it not been for his countless deaths — in which he had experienced every form of pleasure imaginable, not just as a man, but as a woman, insect, reptile, cattle, and beast —sometimes it had been by his own will. Sometimes through stimulants. Sometimes through sorcery. Sometimes through chains and force. He would never have dared to face such a creature alone.

Stories of an Ascended — a powerful woman— captured and kept alive by the Druid for a full year. Not to break her body, but to feast on her unraveling pleasure.

And he was walking straight into its grove.

The grove of a Druid looked like any other part of the forest — with one unsettling difference: it was completely devoid of life, save for the trees.

No buzzing insects, no chirping birds, no slithering snakes. Not even the rustle of leaves.

There was nothing.

Murphy stood roughly 105 to 110 meters away from the Druid already made all the preparation prior to it, his eyes fixed cautiously on the creature. As if sensing his gaze, it slowly turned to face him.

It(her?)'s eyes were wide, innocent, yet laced with a quiet seduction, as though inviting him closer without a word. Her lips were soft, full, and impossibly pink, crafted with such unnatural perfection as if meant to exist only to provide immense pleasure whoever had her(it?) lips touched by her(?) whether men and women.

Her skin was flawless — too flawless. It shimmered faintly, dry even in the damp air, as though rain itself refused to touch her. Her figure was exaggerated in all the right places: smooth curves, soft flesh, and a presence that defied reason. Her chest rose with gentle rhythm, her form impossibly enticing — Her chest was huge and beautiful, her areola so pretty that make's one hold onto it and suck onto it.

Even her hips swayed with softness and plumpness, each imagined impact sending waves through the collision of two flesh, rippling with the promise of something pleasurable.

Without warning, she lowered herself to the base of the tree, reclining as if the roots had always been her throne. Her legs parted slowly, deliberately, revealing herself without shame — her sexual area was exposed in front of him with vividness, pink colour, and disturbingly perfect shape.

Every part of her body seemed designed to draw attention, to provoke instinct. Even the small and beautiful excretion hole was twitching as if wanting something hard and hot deep inside it.

Just as Murphy got a full look at her form, she slowly closed her legs and leaned forward, as if to shield her exposed chest and body. Her brows furrowed, seemingly displeased by his gaze. She tried to appear angry — but it only made her even more dangerously alluring.

Then, unexpectedly, her expression shifted. She began to think — and that thoughtful look, strangely enough, was... cute.

As if she had reached a decision, she stepped forward, one delicate leg extending with unnatural grace. Her toe was small, polished black at the nail, with a soft pink hue beneath the arch of her foot. She raised one pale finger in the air and gently beckoned Murphy toward her.

And yet, Murphy felt the instinct stir within him — not because he wanted her…

But because she made him want to want her.

He didn't loosen his grip on the blade.

He only tightened it.

And in that moment, the Druid seemed mildly surprised — a flicker of confusion crossing her face — which, strangely, only made Murphy want her more.

And then, she smiled.

And so the battle begin.