Savior in Shadow Slave

[THIS CHAPTER MAY CONTAIN SCENES THAT MAY BE UPSETTING TO SOME USERS. SO READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.]

The moment her smile softened, Murphy moved.

He lunged — not with reckless fury, but with the cold precision of someone who had fought numerous battles. His blade, forged from the fang of an Awakened monster, hissed through the silent grove like a crescent of moonlight.

But she didn't flinch. She welcomed it.

Vines exploded from beneath her skin — not sprouting from the ground, but from within her, bursting from between her legs, her arms, her mouth, her pointed chest and her hips. Some lashed out at his legs, others coiled midair in spirals of floral mockery, releasing clouds of pollen that made one carve for sex.

Murphy slashed once, twice — his blade biting through the vines with sizzling fury and intention.

She hissed—and it wasn't pain. It was pleasure. Overwhelming Pleasure.

Her body convulsed, arching against the tree behind her, moaning as though his attack had touched something intimate. Her moan was so beautiful and loud, Murphy found all the blood towards his lower area. Sap the colour of bruised roses leaked from her wounds, fragrant and warm. Her mouth opened in a breathless gasp as if the fight itself aroused her.

"You strike like a lover... like someone desperate to unleash all his lust on me," she whispered, her voice seeping into his ears like warm smoke, curling around the base of his skull. "Do it again. Harder. With more desire. Make me moan so loudly the trees ache with envy."

When Murphy heard those words, the colour drained from his face — not from arousal, but pure, bone-deep horror.

'Only beings who speak like that,' he thought, 'are those who've surpassed monstrosity — demons, or worse... devils.'

Murphy gritted his teeth. The trees swayed, not with wind, but with need — bending violently, rhythmically, as if aroused by the sounds she made, drawn into the heat of her pleasure. The entire forest seemed to breathe with her, drunk on her ecstasy, obedient to every sigh and moan.

She moved, no longer pretending. Her form blurred — not with speed, but with desire. She disappeared and sound of her giggles could be heard from everywhere.

Murphy looked around frantically, trying to find her — but she was gone.

She remained hidden for long stretches, only to flicker into view at the edges of his vision. Sometimes she stood in the distance, smiling, her eyes half-lidded with desire.

Sometimes she bend down her back facing him.

Worse still were the moments she appeared bound — vines of the grove wrapping around her limbs, her chest, her hips. They coiled around her mouth as if to stifle moans that begged to escape. Each time the vines struck her, she convulsed in ecstatic response, her screams muffled and her body trembling, a strange, glistening liquid dripping from between the legs onto the moss below.

Sometimes she was closer — tracing the outline of her figure with teasing fingers, or fondling her chest with slow, deliberate movements — before vanishing again.

It wasn't just a game. It was mockery. And it was working.

And when she attacked, it wasn't with claws.

It was with touch.

She was suddenly close, too close — fingers, glistening with some questionable liquid, brushing between his legs, not tearing, but inviting. Murphy's legs nearly buckled. Not from injury, but from the wave of unnatural desire surging up his spine.

He felt...aroused.

His grip faltered.

He swung again — not with precision, but out of desperation.

The blade grazed her shoulder, parting skin like silk.

She gasped — then moaned.

Soft. Shuddering. Ecstatic.

The sound pierced him deeper than any scream could.

He felt it — the urge to surrender.

Not to her power.

To pleasure provided by her.

To sink into her chest and let everything else fade — the weight of the world, the blade in his hand, the purpose that brought him here.

'Ah, just how plump, soft and comfortable they appear. I wonder how they would taste like.'

His thoughts no longer his own, drifting into forbidden places.

He imagined her skin — the warmth of it against his mouth.

The scent of her hair, wild and sweet. He wanted to lick her orifice that was between her legs

The taste of her lips on his penis.

The motion of her hips, rising and falling as she take it deep inside her, his name drawn from her in gasping breaths.

Her neck, pale and elegant, moving in drinking motion—drinking his slimy, hot and white semen.

Her chest, full and rising, lit by the flicker of invisible fire as she moved over him, wrapped in temptation.

He wanted her — all of her.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Suddenly, with a sharp twist of his torso, Murphy drew the hidden dagger from his breast pocket — and stabbed himself in the stomach.

The pain was immediate, raw, and unforgiving.

He knew it wasn't the smartest place to strike — not with so many vital organs clustered there. But he didn't have a choice.

His arms were still needed to fight.

His legs — slow as they were — were the only things keeping him upright.

This… was the only wound he could afford.

The shock of the blade tearing into flesh ripped through the haze clouding his mind. Desire twisted into agony. Ecstasy shattered into cold, brutal awareness.

Blood spilled down his front in dark rivulets — but his thoughts cleared.

And for the first time since entering the grove, Murphy felt like himself again.

Seeing the dagger plunge into his gut, the Druid let out a long, trembling moan — not of pain, but ecstasy.

Her back arched, her fingers clawed at the moss-covered ground, and her voice rose in a cry that made the very trees shivered from her arousal sounds.

The severing of her influence — that violent rejection — only fed her pleasure.

Of course it did.

She was no longer a creature who thrived on submission.

She thrived on resistance.

Murphy clutched the hilt buried in his own stomach, the searing agony grounding him. His breath was ragged, but his mind, for the first time in what felt like hours, was clear.

He stared at her — still moaning, hips grinding into the forest floor, body writhing with euphoric spasms. Liquids dripping on mossy grass.

'When she evolved from monster to demon… and then beyond, into devil… She gained transformation along with pleasure and desire.'

Sensual pleasure from pain.

Ecstasy from failure.

Arousal from denial.

Libido from struggle.

Passion from killing intent.

Eroticism from death itself.

Now, she was nothing more than a creature sculpted by corrupted desire. A living paradox.

A being whose very nature turned suffering into seduction, combat into climax, and violence into an act of intimacy.

Murphy staggered backward, hand pressed to his stomach, blood seeping through trembling fingers. Each step felt like his spine was made of glass. Pain flared, sharp and deep, but it was his only anchor.

The Druid watched him, still writhing in the aftermath of his defiance. Her breath came in shaky gasps, thighs pressed together, body twitching with waves of corrupted pleasure. Her eyes fluttered open slowly, drunk on the high of being denied.

She saw him retreating.

And smiled.

As if thinking: There it is. The fear. The surrender. The unending pleasure.

Murphy stumbled. His knees buckled. He let the dagger fall from his hand, let it clatter across the moss like a discarded weapon.

He could feel her eyes on him — not tracking, but enjoying.

Her desire surged. He could almost hear it: the roots twitching beneath the soil, the breath in the trees tightening, the whole grove leaning toward him like seeking enjoyment from his retreat.

'Don't look back. Don't clench your fists. Don't let her feel you think.'

He counted the seconds. Every heartbeat a curse. Every footstep a lie.

Murphy was screaming, running towards her as if wishing to deny everything.

Her hips shifted, slow and fluid. The motion of someone exhausted after a rough intimate night.

Her spine arched back in that agonizingly graceful curve — decadent, relaxed — like she was stretching before indulging in something sweet.

Her fingers slid across her thigh absentmindedly, eyes half-closed, drunk on her own imagined pleasure.

That hunger on her face wasn't predatory.

It was arousal.

She didn't just want to win.

Murphy exhaled.

And in that breath, he struck.

Fast. Brutal. Focused.

His hand shot down, scooping the fallen dagger in one fluid motion, pivoting hard on his heel. Blood sprayed from his wound, but his aim was clear:

Not at her.

At the ground behind her.

At the base of the tree.

Where the root-core pulsed — just once — like a second, hidden heart.

In a single motion, Murphy activated the enchantment. The enchantment was never at the blade he was using but on the dagger.

It was a diversion.

A faint glow pulsed through the blade — subtle, almost invisible — but he felt it surge like lightning through his arm.

An enchantment designed for one purpose: velocity.

The weapon didn't just move faster — it ripped through the air, dragging gravity itself in its wake.

Coupled with the blade's innate ability to halt regeneration — and the crushing force of the downward angle —

the strike became devastation incarnate.

There was no resistance. No slow push.

It bit through.

Her body arched violently, every muscle seizing in place — not in agony, but in final ecstasy.

Her mouth parted, lips trembling.

Eyes rolled back, lids fluttering like wings caught between pleasure and oblivion.

Her breath hitched once… twice…

Then poured out in a long, shuddering and beautiful moan that echoed across the dead grove.

It was not a scream of death.

It was the climax of her existence.

Final. Absolute. Terrifying.

Her fingers dug into the earth as her body spasmed with one last, uncontrollable wave of ecstasy — so deep it looked like release.

Not from the world.

But into it.

Murphy stood there, blood-soaked, breath ragged — blade still buried in her root.

Watching as her form began to dissolve, not with resistance…

but with gratitude.

A smile curled on her lips, radiant and obscene.

At the last moment she gave a wry and seductive smile. And waved her hand.

She died as she lived —

a creature of want,

whose final truth was not fear…

…but pleasure.

And a lovely melody resounded.

[You have slain an Awakened Devil, Pleasure Seeking Druid.]

And after a pause.

[You have received an Attribute.]

Sadly, Murphy was already unconscious by then.