Savior in Shadow Slave

Murphy moved through the cave with unhurried steps, searching every forgotten corner and quiet crevice.

There was no urgency in him now—only the steady weight of knowing that his time was nearing its end.

He wandered not with intent, but to pass the silence.

Boredom, strange and subtle, began to creep in like dust settling after a storm.

On a whim, he glanced at his runes.

Most of them remained unchanged.

All but one.

[A Fragment of Pleasure and Passion.]

[...One of two sacred fragments, born of intertwined pleasure and passion.

Currently undergoing digestion.

Progress: 4%]

Murphy blinked. A faint, crooked smile tugged at his lips.

"I suppose unleashing that much power sped things up…"

Even as night surrendered to day, and the first pale shafts of sunlight crept into the hollow spaces of the cave, Murphy's search had yielded nothing.

Murphy had searched all night—turning over rocks, running his fingers along fissures—but found nothing.

No answers. No signs. No relic of the "third thing."

He paused beside a stone outcropping, exhaling sharply.

"Did that bastard lie to me?" he asked aloud, the question falling into the silence like a stone into still water.

But the doubt didn't linger long. No—it hadn't lied.

Not out of virtue. Not out of honor.

But because, at the time, Murphy had been too weak—too helpless, too far beneath notice to be worth the effort of deception.

And in this cruel world, no one lies to the powerless.

They simply forget them.

Murphy continued walking, the ache in his bones growing sharper with each step—like a relentless clock telling him what little time he had left.

After another futile search, he made his decision.

"If the relic was meant for me alone, he thought, then only I can unlock it."

The entity had only begun its machinations after encountering him. And what did they share?

Sacrifice.

Him, with his attribute. The entity, with its luminous crown.

Both bore the light of traded years.

Murphy raised his hands.

He would pay again.

He walked slowly toward the place where that damn Entity had once made its nest.

Murphy stood at the center, he drew a breath.

"I sacrifice my 1 min of life."

Golden light enveloped him, knitting his scratches that appeared hours of searching, smoothing his aches—but nothing more. No door materialized. No hidden path revealed itself.

He stood there, awkward, slightly confused—alone beneath a sky of stone.

He furrowed his brow.

"Alright… let's try more."

One hour. Then two.

The light came each time—faithful, warm, and healing.

But that was all.

No reaction. No revelation.

He clenched his fists.

A half-day. Then a full day.

His jaw tightened. Resignation settled in his bones.

"I sacrifice one month of my life."

The words left his lips like a sentence passed.

This time, the light didn't descend—it rose.

Soft at first, like mist curling around his feet. Then brighter. Warmer. Until it crept up his legs, his torso, his arms. Not healing. Not comforting. Something else.

It was weighing him. Measuring.

And then—The cave blinked.

There was no flash. No sound. No drama.

One breath, he stood in that cold, silent hollow.

The next—Everything had changed.

The walls were gone. The ceiling, the floor, the very air—replaced.

Murphy now stood in a void of crimson—a sea of blood-red stretching endlessly in every direction.

There was no sky. No stars. Only this vast, gleaming liquid expanse, perfectly still yet faintly breathing, as if the world itself were alive beneath the surface.

Beneath his feet, the ground rippled like water.

But it held his weight. No splash. No descent.

Just an illusion of fragility.

And before him, suspended in the gilded nothingness, was—himself.

Or rather… what he used to be.

The figure hovered, serene and timeless, appearing no older than twenty-five.

Bright. Mirthful. Unburdened by grief.

Wrong.

The figure smiled.

"Are you the one that child mentioned?"

"The one He spoke about?"

Murphy's fingers tightened. His instincts flared.

He lashed forward with intent—ready to strike, to test, to end. But then—he stopped.

Not because the figure raised a hand.

Not because of pressure. Not because of some ability.

But because something deep inside him screamed.

A silent, primal cry.

'Don't. You will die. Your head will roll before the thought completes.'

Even if he had all his years back. Even if he were in his prime.

Even if he invoked the full power of his Sacrifice and split himself into a hundred perfect clones—

He would not land a single blow. He wouldn't even reach it.

The figure just smiled wider, folding its arms. It didn't feel threatening. But that was what made it worse.

It didn't need to.

Holding back the quiet, gnawing terror curling in his gut, Murphy asked—his voice raspy, worn, and weathered by Sacrifices:

"Who… are you?"

The figure smiled lazily, head tilting just slightly, as if amused he had to ask.

"Me? Well…"

"I'm your reward."

Murphy narrowed his eyes.

"A sentient being?"

The younger version of himself—perfect, radiant, unscarred—gave a small shrug.

"Of course. Don't you already have that Druid sleeping in your soul?"

Murphy coughed—a laugh or a scoff, it was hard to tell.

"Sorry," he said dryly, "I don't have the perverted habit of spending what little time I have left with something that looks like my younger self."

The figure chuckled, the sound rich, echoing unnaturally through the blood-red void.

"Oh, this?" it said, gesturing at itself.

"That's just for your comfort. How about—this?"

The form shimmered. Skin rippled. Muscle shifted.

In the blink of an eye, Shen Xi stood before him—poised, graceful, her expression unreadable.

Murphy blinked.

"Or perhaps…" the voice continued, unchanged, echoing from her lips,

"You'd prefer someone more… familiar?"

The form twisted again.

Now it was Druid, radiating that perverted, pleasure seeking smile, glowing ever so faintly with wild essence.

And then—

"Maybe someone older...?"

The smile widened.

The figure stretched, elongated, darkened.

In a moment too fast and too fluid, the image changed again—now taking the shape of the Entity, or rather, what it had once pretended to be:

a petite, graceful woman with eyes like glass and a smile that never reached her face.

A maternal horror in human skin.

Murphy didn't flinch, but his breath hitched.

Even the illusion carried weight.

"I can be anyone," the being said.

Murphy's eyes lingered on the shifting form before him—now draped in the soft menace of the Entity's old disguise, still wearing that ever-smiling mask. A chill prickled at the back of his neck, instinct whispering that this thing—whatever it truly was—was not a reward in any sane definition of the word.

Still, he held his ground.

His voice, roughened by age, cut through the silence.

"Who are you… really?"

The being—whatever name it wore—arched a brow.

Its voice was smooth now, neither mocking nor kind. Just curious.

"If you're going to press so hard, fine. I'll tell you. But there's a catch."

It stepped closer, the void rippling faintly around its feet.

"You'll answer my questions first. And if I find your answers… unsatisfactory—"

It snapped its fingers casually. "—I'll kick you out of this place. Wipe it all from your memory. Like it never happened."

It smiled again, sharper now.

"How's that for a bargain?"

Murphy frowned. His hand instinctively drifted near his side—though there was nothing left to draw.

"And how do I know you're not just doing this for fun?" he muttered.

The being laughed—not loudly, not cruelly, but delighted, as if Murphy had just offered it a favourite dessert.

"You don't."

"But you've come this far, haven't you? You have lived and died a million times in this nightmare.

You fought a raging boar,

A seductive druid and

A horror draped in maternal figure. Just to escape from this Nightmare."

Its head tilted, the smile never faltering.

"Why stop now?"