Savior in Shadow Slave

[I WOULD APPRECIATE IF YOU MENTION WHAT YOU THINK ABOUT THESE QUESTIONS.(●'◡'●)]

Murphy stood in silence. Eyes narrowed, Jaw set, the lines of time and loss etched deep across his face, staring at the so-called reward as it hummed a lullaby—soft, sweet, and utterly chilling:

"Hush now, little wanderer…

Lay down bones so tired and thin…"

Murphy's fists clenched, then slowly released.

There was no third option. No door. No retreat.

He exhaled through his nose and spoke at last—his voice rough and tired, yet steady.

"Fine," he said.

"Let's play your little game."

Its smile widened.

The figure clapped its hands once, gently, almost politely—like a child welcoming a guest to teatime.

"Wonderful, I will give you 3 rewards for 3 questions," it said.

"Let's begin."

"For the first question," the being said, folding its hands like a teacher about to begin a lesson, "I will ask… what kills what, okay?"

Murphy raised an eyebrow.

"Sure," he muttered, already knowing that saying no would've changed nothing.

The being smiled.

"Then tell me… what kills laziness?"

Murphy blinked. He thought he'd misheard.

"Sorry… what?"

The figure tilted its head, grin widening ever so slightly.

"Is that your answer? 'Sorry, what?'"

"What? No!"

"Ah," it said, faux-sincerely. "So, your final answer is 'What? No!'?"

Murphy groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

He dropped to the floor with a heavy sigh. His bones protested immediately—sharp pain shooting up his knees, spine creaking like old wood. He winced but didn't move again. The void offered no comfort. Just pressure.

He closed his eyes. Breathed. Then answered.

"Laziness kills ambition."

A soft, approving hum echoed from the figure.

"Good," it said. "Next."

"What kills anger?"

Murphy didn't hesitate.

"Wisdom."

"What kills ego?"

"Growth."

"What kills doubt?"

A longer pause. He looked up into the void.

"Confidence."

The being leaned forward slightly, shadows dancing across its ever-shifting form.

"Excellent," it purred, voice both delighted and unreadable.

"You're more aware than I thought."

The being's tone shifted, curious—perhaps even probing, like it was trying to peel something open inside him.

"Humans suffer for their children.

They bleed, sacrifice, grow old… so the young might grow strong and healthy.

Shouldn't they expect something in return?"

"Is that right… or is it wrong?"

Murphy narrowed his eyes.

But instead of answering, he asked in return—quietly, but firmly:

"Whatever humans do for their children…

is it love?"

"Or is it business?"

The being didn't hesitate.

"Love."

Murphy nodded once—tired, slow.

"Then why," he asked, voice sharpening ever so slightly,

"should you want something in return, apparition?"

He let the word echo.

"Return is something you find in trade.

Something seen, counted, measured.

A weight on the scale.

That's business, not love—apparition."

The void fell quiet again.

The being said nothing. Watching.

Murphy continued, more softly now—his words less an argument, more a quiet truth spoken into a place that had forgotten warmth.

"A parent who raises their child with love and care…who teaches them consequence, who stands beside them when they fall—that child, if they've learned anything at all, will grow to protect their parents in return."

He looked up—into the face that wasn't his, wasn't Shen Xi, wasn't the Entity—just the being's curiosity staring through masks.

"But a child's actions…their sins… their virtues—those are their own."

"And if we, as parents, have no hand in what they do…"

"No say in what they choose…"

"Then what's the point in clinging to hope?"

"What's the point in expectation, apparition?"

His voice faded.

But the silence that followed wasn't empty.

It was weighted.

The being's smile returned—gentle now, almost tender, like a physician delivering the final question of an examination neither of them believed he'd pass.

"Now," it said softly, "the last question."

It floated a little closer, not menacing, just present.

"Answer this correctly, and I will give you what you came for."

Murphy raised an eyebrow, wary.

"And the question?"

The being's eyes shimmered like molten glass.

"What's the difference between seventy years… and six months?"

Murphy's brow furrowed.

"Why does it feel like this question's pointed?"

The smile didn't falter.

"Because it is."

Its voice deepened slightly—not louder, just heavier, like it carried more truth than it should have.

"You're about to die, Murphy. You know that. At best, you've got half a year left. Maybe less.

Your body is spent. Your time has exhausted. You are too weak to clear what lies beyond this place."

It floated in a slow circle around him, not touching—just orbiting.

"Which means… no reunions. No triumphant return. No final goodbyes."

It stopped in front of him again.

"So then—why?"

"Why aren't you despairing?"

"Why don't you fear death, Murphy?"

"Even gods," Apparition said softly, "were not indifferent to death.

That's why they despised the Shadow for creating it."

The words lingered, curling in the air like smoke.

And then, silence.

Murphy fell quiet—thinking.

Remembering.

And then, unexpectedly, he smiled.

It was small.

Wry.

Real.

He looked up at the being—this shapeshifting thing of questions and riddles—and spoke with a voice not burdened by fear, but anchored by truth.

"Apparition… You must know, I've lived and died a million different lives, haven't I?"

The figure nodded, amused.

"Yes. That was arranged by the child… Griesha."

"Correct," Murphy said.

Murphy's gaze didn't waver.

"After witnessing countless lives—their regrets, their sorrows—and even that twisted imitation of maternal love the Entity showed me..."

He exhaled, the sound like pages turning in an old book.

"I've realized something."

He rose slowly to his feet, the ache still there, but no longer defining him.

"You see, apparition—death is just a moment.

One single instant, no matter how sharp or cruel.

It will come, and it will take me. It's an eventuality."

He paused, letting the stillness stretch.

"But what about the millions of moments I can still live… in the six months I have left?"

He held the being's gaze, unflinching now.

"I could spend that time running toward the edge of this nightmare."

"I could battle some Awakened or Fallen being—burn the last sparks of my life in one final blaze."

"Or I could return to my manor. Sit by the hearth with my grandfather. Watch the wind play in the wheat."

A breath.

A smile.

"And today… I spoke with you, apparition.

A strange relic that lives in a red sea.

A memory or a god or a ghost—I'm not even sure."

He took a step closer, voice lowering to something warm, almost kind.

"Who knows what else I'll see before the end?"

Then his smile faded, replaced by a calm beyond even courage.

Murphy's voice was calm, final.

"As long as I live, I'm not dead. And when I'm dead—"

A slight tilt of his head.

"—I won't be here to care."

His eyes locked onto the being's shifting form.

"So why fear, apparition?"

The apparition did not smile this time.

Its ever-shifting form stilled. The sea of red held its breath.

Then it spoke—calmly, quietly, with a weight that felt like the closing of a great book.

"That… was the correct answer."

Its eyes—no longer imitations of Murphy's—gleamed with something deeper than approval.

"You are not fearless, Murphy.

You are simply… free. You are... different from Weaver's pawn."

The being bowed its head—not in mockery, not in reverence, but in acknowledgment.

"So, what are you really, apparition?"

"I... am the hand that Goddess of the Moon, as well as hunting, carnal desire, blood, beauty, and the cycle of birth and death severed and gave it to Griesha to escape the penalty to defy the Absolute Law of Time to such an extend.

"I am the whisper in the Gloomveil, the one who bade it to consume the mist… and the orb."

"I am the breath behind your rage—the one who stoked the fire of your wrath until you bled time dry with Sacrifice."

"I am the silence that weakened your mind, so that the Gloomveil might slip its fingers into your thoughts."

"I am the hand that took your only chance of escape…and broke it beneath your feet."

The words were not loud.

They were not cruel.

They were clean. Precise. Like the slicing of silk.

Then, softly—almost gently—it asked:

"So tell me, Murphy…"

"What do you feel right now?"

"Hatred?"

"Anger?"

"Sadness?"