Savior in Shadow Slave

Bathed in the warm, golden cascade of light, Murphy stood still.

At first, it felt like peace.

The kind of peace that settles after a storm — fragile, tender, too quiet.

But then…

A strange sensation bloomed in his head.

Not pain. Not dizziness.

But something… unveiling.

As if a curtain inside his mind — long forgotten, always present — had been partially lifted.

Murphy staggered slightly, steadying himself against the bark of a newly-mended tree.

His breath hitched. His vision blurred for half a heartbeat.

He didn't know what this veil was.

He felt it for just a moment —A current, soft and deep, flowing beneath the surface of his thoughts.

But then —It was gone.

Like water slipping through his fingers.

The warmth of the golden light faded, and with it, so too did the clarity.

The stillness returned.

The veil… repaired itself.

Murphy blinked, startled by the sudden emptiness left behind. Where once there had been a presence pressing gently against his consciousness — now there was only silence.

He reached for it. Tried to follow the thread backward. Tried to focus.

But all he found was wall.

An immovable, insurmountable mountain.

'What… was that?'

His thoughts echoed inside his skull like a prayer lost in a dead cathedral.

He pressed inward again — mentally clawing at the veil, willing it to shift again.

But it didn't.

It refused to budge.

Frustration surged in Murphy's chest like a storm breaking free of a dam.

He used the sacrifice again, more strongly, hoping for answers—

But all he got was a surge of exhaustion. His legs gave out, and the world faded as he collapsed in silence.

***

After a while, Murphy woke up.

His eyes fluttered open to the soft rustle of leaves and the gentle hush of wind across the grove. The light was dimmer now, the golden aura long gone.

'Why… did I collapse?'

He sat up slowly, his body aching in strange, subtle ways — not like soreness from training, but like something inside him had been torn loose.

And then he felt it.

A part of him — some essence, or emotion, or piece of soul — had vanished.

"What do I sacrifice to use this ability…?"

He tried to trace it, to name what was missing, but it was like chasing fog with bare hands.

No answer came.

Only silence.

Murphy's expression darkened.

"If the Druid had not been in her sleep…"

He shook his head.

If the Druid had been awake, maybe she could've explained what this ability truly was — where it came from and what it took.

But now?

All he had was questions… and an ability that felt like a bleeding wound hidden behind beauty.

Frustrated by the mounting questions and the lack of any real answers, Murphy let out a tired sigh.

He decided to stay within the grove for a while longer — just a day.

Enough time to regain his strength, run tests on his body, and prepare.

He spent the hours sharpening his blade and weaving enchantments into its edge — one to accelerate, another to wound deeper, and a third that he hoped might disrupt spiritual essence.

Between each repetition, he pushed at the limits of Sacrifice, carefully this time, monitoring its drain and reach. The ability was powerful — almost too powerful — but dangerously unpredictable.

As the sun dipped behind the canopy, Murphy sat in silence, a map of possibilities forming in his mind.

His next target wasn't a creature of flesh or bark.

It was a ghost.

A name whispered by hunters in broken tones…

Gloomveil.

There were no official records of Gloomveil.

No one knew what Gloomveil truly was, or where it came from. Some claimed it was once human. Others swore it was born from the soul of an infant who was sacrificed to appease a deity.

What was truly horrifying about was the way it killed his opponents.

It didn't kill like the Boar, who crushed his prey beneath raw weight and violent speed, bones splintering under muscle and momentum.

Nor did it destroy like the Druids, who drew perverse pleasure from the soul itself — violating body and will alike with acts too unspeakable to name, turning torment into ritual.

No.

Gloomveil was quieter.

Slower.

Infinitely worse.

It hollowed its victims — scooping out thoughts, memories, identity — until what remained was a shell. A breathing corpse that didn't scream, didn't bleed, didn't understand it was dying.

What made Gloomveil truly terrifying wasn't just its ability to kill — it was the grotesque care with which it arranged what remained.

Its victims weren't left scattered or forgotten.

They were curated.

One woman — the sole survivor of an expedition team — was found crouched in the corner of a ruined outpost, her eyes glassy, her mind visibly fractured.

Around her were the bodies of her teammates, dismembered and meticulously rearranged with perverse precision.

Some had arms where legs should be.

Others bore heads fused at the pelvis, blank eyes staring upward.

Hips were turned inside out.

One woman had her chest where her hips should've been, her torso grotesquely reshaped — a mockery of form and function.

All of them had their jaws pried open, as if caught mid-hymn.

A silent chorus of agony.

Or praise.

A puppet show of meat and memory.

When the search team found her, she didn't scream. She didn't cry.

She simply whispered two words:

"It smiled."

As if the thing had left her alive to admire its masterpiece.

In the aftermath of that atrocity, vengeance followed quickly.

An elite strike team — composed entirely of Awakened women — descended upon the site. Led by an Ascended, their goal was clear: eradicate Gloomveil, whatever it took.

But the result was no different.

No contact was ever reestablished. Their camp went silent within three days. When scouts finally dared to enter the area weeks later… they found nothing. No cave. No tent. No bodies. Not even litter.

The team simply ceased to exist.

And now, Murphy was heading there — to the cave they had used as their base. The same cave now whispered to be part of the monster's lair.

He walked alone, armed with borrowed power, uncertain answers, and a growing sense that whatever he was about to face… had been waiting.

Not for soldiers. Not for vengeance.

But for him.

Murphy didn't know when the feeling started. Maybe it had been gnawing at him for hours. Maybe it had been planted in his mind long before he ever set foot on this path.

But now, standing before the mouth of the cave — its black maw breathing out a cold, damp wind — he felt it clearly:

This wasn't just a battlefield. This wasn't just where others had died.

This was where he was supposed to be.

Not by chance. Not by mistake.

But by design.

The cold dread in his spine wasn't fear anymore — it was recognition.

"This… this is the key," he whispered.

'Not to the Nightmare. Not to the Trial. But his final piece of inheritance.'

Only then would he be able to fight the TERROR.

He stared into the darkness ahead, and for a brief moment, the shadows inside seemed to twist into the shape of an open eye. Watching. Blinking. Waiting. Almost happy.

Not the perverse kind of happiness or greed. But purely happiness.

As if a mother watching his child return to her after an year.

And then, the door opened.