Savior in Shadow Slave

[THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS MANY SCENES THAT MAY UPSET SOME READERS. SO, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.]

Murphy stood at the mouth of the cave, expecting something — anything.

A sudden lunge. A whisper. An eye in the dark.

But… there was nothing.

Just the silence.

The kind that pressed against your eardrums. That made your own breath feel too loud. The cave yawned before him, stretching into a darkness so deep that it looked like a mouth, as though it might swallow light whole.

Murphy hesitated. His feet stopped just past the threshold.

A sliver of doubt slid in. Should he turn back?

Come again when he was stronger? Better armed? More prepared?

But after contemplating for a bit, He decided to go in.

Not out of some foolish bravery but because he had no choice.

Because Murphy knew that no matter what Murphy does he won't be able to grow any stronger. He couldn't awaken or forge some weapon that would make him immensely powerful.

And he neither had time...

So, he had no choice.

The deeper Murphy walked into the cave, the more it began to change.

The jagged walls smoothed. The damp air dried. The floor, once scattered with pebbles and moss, was swept clean — too clean. A strange, dry floral scent clung to the air, mingled with something faintly...bloody?

And then… he saw it.

The cave had been remade. Not as a lair. Not as a den.

But as a home.

Not real — a parody of one.

A nightmare's interpretation of what comfort should look like.

The walls were draped in flesh as if like a wall paint, delicate and eerily warm to the touch, stitched with long, dark strands of human hair.

Furniture — if it could be called that — had been constructed from bone and preserved tissue, shaped into chairs and tables. Deliberate. Symmetrical. Every surface polished.

Along with cushions, made from using women chests to provide softness.

There was a mirror framed with heads showing expression of not despair but comfort, reflecting nothing but shifting shadows. A chandelier hung from the ceiling — spindly fingers of jointed bone and muscles, cradling candle-like growths that gave off a pale, golden light.

A dining table sat at the center of the space. Plates were arranged neatly, but the food was… sculpted. Constructed from waxy flesh to seem like steak, braided muscle to seem like bread, curled locks of hair dyed in colour as if to seem like spaghetti. A grotesque imitation of a meal.

Murphy's stomach turned.

In one corner, a rocking chair moved gently — as if someone had just risen from it. Draped over the back was a faded shawl. Made from Female flesh. Most likely from stomach. Worn.

He stepped into what resembled a bathroom. The tiles were black, smooth and bit cuishy. Most likely made from burned skin. A bathtub was also there. 

A woman and man were standing there where the tap should be, both of their eyes were empty and bleak as if dead. 

Some things moved in the shadows — wooden dolls. Sculpted to look like the most beautiful woman but with penises. Two of them per doll. As if existing to only provide pleasure.

Their hands were fondling and fingering the woman's sexual and excretion area constantly. While their wooden penises thumping every hole in her body, a strange and obscene liquid was flowing out filling the bathtub.

While the man was constantly thumping and pushing his penis into these wooden dolls, while one licking his balls, one his chest, one his tongue while other his hole, white semen releasing and pouring into the bathtub.

These human taps made Murphy so disgusted that he almost vomited. 

He wanted to end them and free them from this suffering but seeing the house, he knew it won't work at all...

Because all of this was alive. These living beings were still breathing and living. Only their forms have changed but they were alive.

Feeling something unfamiliar in him, he walked away.

He stepped into what resembled a bedroom this time. The "bed" was soft-looking, stitched together from layers of skin that had been smoothed and padded. Dozens of glass eyes were embedded in the canopy above, watching silently.

And then… he heard it.

Soft. Gentle.

A lullaby.

The melody didn't come from somewhere else within the cave —Instead it was coming from within the room. From a chair that rocked beside the bed. It was barely louder than a whisper, like it had been drifting through the room for centuries. But Murphy heard it clearly, as if it was meant just for him.

The voice was feminine. Sweet. But… not human.

"Hush now, little wanderer,

Lay down bones so tired and thin…

Close your eyes to light and flame,

Let shadow cradle you within…

No more steps, no more to roam,

The forest sings you back to stone…

Dream of hands that never part,

And lull your heart where roots have grown.

Sleep where echoes softly speak,

Through hollow teeth and silent cries…

Taste the kiss of earth and ash,

And bloom beneath the weeping skies…

Hush now, darling—don't you fear,

The stars have drowned, the sky is near…

We'll keep you warm, we'll hold you tight,

Just lie still… and lose the light…"

The notes curled through the bedroom like honey. The lullaby was slow, dragging on the last syllables like a mother reluctant to let go.

But there was no comfort in it.

Murphy's skin prickled. His breath caught in his throat. He couldn't move — not because something held him, but because the song felt intimate, as if it knew him. As if it had waited for him.

Behind the sweetness, there was something… ancient. Not malice. Not hunger.

Longing.

The soft creak of the bone-framed rocking chair came to a stop.

The being who had been seated in it —humming a lullaby and still for gods-knew-how-long — slowly rose.

She moved like mist, each step a whisper against the cold stone.

Her hair was the first thing Murphy truly saw — a cascading river of silver-white, impossibly long, brushing against the floor like a bridal veil spun from moonlight.

Her skin, in contrast, was a deep earthen brown, like fertile soil or ancient bark. Warm. Rich. Alive.

And her face…

Her face was tender — painfully so. Her features were mature, not old — the quiet, ageless kind of woman who might cradle a child for the first time.

As she walked closer towards him, he got to see the rest of him.

Her height and build were petite and small.

Her chest was bare. A bit sagged. Her areola was a bit pink in hew. Fully shown in front of him in all its motherly glory.

Drops of milk was dripping down from her tits as if she had just finished breast feeding her child.

Noticing his gaze, the woman blinked — her expression shifting with quiet, human embarrassment.

A faint blush spread across her cheeks, like dusk spilling over twilight skin. With a soft gasp, she tugged the dark folds of her black and crimson gown closer around her body, as if only now aware of her own vulnerability.

Then, as if struck by something unseen, she paused. Her silver brows furrowed, and she extended a hand — not physically, but spiritually. Her finger pointed toward Murphy's chest… and invisible hand pocked at him.

Strangely, Murphy didn't feel pain.

She gasped.

Her eyes widened — filled with a strange and sudden knowing — and her hand flew to her mouth in disbelief.

Tears welled instantly. No buildup. Just overflow, as though a dam had broken behind her heart.

And before Murphy could react, she leapt forward.

He flinched, thinking it an attack — instinct firing — and tried to step aside.

But she was faster.

She adjusted mid-air with an unnatural grace, and instead of striking…

She wrapped her arms around him.

Warm. Desperate. Trembling.

Not violent. Not seductive.

Just… aching.

Her face pressed into his shoulder as soft sobs broke the cave's silence — her body shaking against his like a mother who had been waiting far, far too long.

She clung to him, trembling.

Her voice, when it finally came, was fragile — like a prayer too long unspoken, cracking as it reached the air.

"Finally… you are here, my grace.

Finally… you are here.

The one who will free me from this curse."

"The one who 'He' told me about…"

Murphy's breath caught.

He felt her words more than heard them — like they bypassed his ears and sank directly into the marrow of his bones. His pulse thundered.

She pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him. Her silver hair spilled around them like liquid moonlight. Her eyes — once steady — were now brimming with something far older than grief.

Devotion. Worship.

And something like… relief.

Her fingers reached up, hovering just below his face, as if afraid he might vanish.

"I waited… through rot and silence.

Through the dreams of others.

Through the song I dared not sing."

Murphy's lips parted, but no words came. There were a thousand things he wanted to ask — What curse? Who are you? Why am I the saviour? — but none of them could escape his throat.

The cave around them remained silent.

The mirror on the floor shimmered faintly behind her.

And from somewhere —distant and near— the lullaby began again…

"Hush now, little wanderer…

Lay down bones so tired and thin…"

And Murphy felt overwhelming love, the one between a mother and son, towards her...