Savior in Shadow Slave

Murphy was silent.

The void held its breath again.

Even the blood-red sea seemed to still, waiting for the outburst.

Waiting for fury.

For cursing. For despair.

But none came.

Only a breath.

And then—Murphy smiled.

It wasn't warm. It wasn't sharp. It was tired. But it was real.

He looked into the emptiness, into the voice that had unmade his life a hundred times over, and whispered:

"I forgive you."

The words didn't echo.

They didn't need to.

They simply settled, like snow falling on embers.

"You twisted me. Used me. Took what I might have had—and still, I walked forward."

He exhaled, slow and steady.

"Because even if you carved the path…

I took the steps. I made the choices. I lived with them. And now I die with them."

He looked down at the relic in his hand. It glowed softly—brighter now, steadier.

"You don't deserve my rage. And I… I don't need it."

He looked back up, voice a little stronger now.

"So no. Not hatred. Not anger. Not even sadness."

He paused.

"I just want peace. And live what little remains of my life, satisfying my curiosity and see different things."

Silence.

For a heartbeat, the void was still.

Too still.

Then—The blood-red sea beneath him began to churn.

Ripples widened into waves. The air darkened, thickened. Something deep beneath reality snapped.

The apparition's voice returned.

No longer calm.

No longer curious. It shook with something feral.

"You… forgive me?"

It laughed.

But it wasn't amusement.

It was disbelief. Then outrage.

"You—nothing—you who have suffered, bled, lost—you forgive me?"

The void cracked like glass under pressure.

"I orchestrated your downfall. I fed your hatred until it scorched everything you could have become.

I stole time from your very bones!"

The air trembled around him now—light warping, red turning black.

"I carved your fate to the edge of annihilation—and you think your meager grace means anything to me?"

A figure began to change form again—taller, darker, its face a shifting blur of every person who'd ever wronged him. Its voice split into layers—male, female, divine, monstrous.

"You were supposed to break, Murphy.

To curse the gods. To demand meaning from the pain."

"But you gave it freely.

You gave it peace."

It stepped forward, the sea boiling at its feet. And asked:

"Why?" the apparition asked.

Murphy shrugged lightly.

"Well… I'm a big fan of the Shadow God, so—peace."

The apparition's gaze sharpened, the mirth drained from its expression. Its eyes were cold now—glacial—unamused by the jest.

Murphy held the silence for a moment, then sighed.

His voice lowered, steady and old.

"You see, apparition… in this world—no enemy exists. Only the ones we haven't forgiven."

He turned away, speaking more to the red sea than to the being now.

"We invent enemies… to justify our violence."

"We retaliate instead of trying to understand."

"We perpetuate suffering in the name of justice. Or vengeance. Or pride."

His footsteps were soft against the rippling surface as he wandered along the endless sea of blood. Not aimlessly, but reflectively, like a man pacing through the corridors of his own memory.

The apparition watched him in silence.

Then finally, its voice returned, curious—flat.

"So, what? You've become a pacifist now?"

Murphy smiled—faintly.

But it wasn't amusement.

It was the kind of smile that hurts more than it heals.

A smile that belongs to someone who's seen too much, lost too much, and understands too well.

"Sadly, no," he said, voice hoarse and hollow. "I'm no pacifist."

He took a slow step, eyes cast across the crimson sea as if it could show him the answer he already knew wasn't there.

"I just… want to understand."

He paused. And then, almost like confessing a sin to the void, he spoke:

"Let's say one day… a group of giant rabbits attacked a village."

A ridiculous image. Almost laughable. But Murphy's voice didn't waver.

"Not corrupted. Not evil. Just… hungry.

And the village? Helpless. Ordinary.

Mothers. Children. Elders. Just people trying to live."

He breathed in, slow and jagged.

"So what do I do? Kill the rabbits? Call it justice?

But their children are starving too.

If I don't act, the villagers die. If I do, the rabbits do."

The words were quiet, but they struck like thunder.

"So maybe I feed the rabbits instead.

Try to make peace. Try to keep everyone alive."

His voice trembled, just slightly.

"But then… the predator comes. The one that feeds on rabbits."

He looked up, and now his gaze was steady—not with certainty, but with grief.

"And then what? Do I kill the predator too? And when its ecosystem collapses—what then?

How many lives do I erase in the name of balance?"

He turned toward the apparition, and there was a tired kind of fire behind his eyes.

"You see… the world isn't cruel because it enjoys pain.

It's cruel because no one ever sees the whole picture."

A pause. The sea quiet again.

Then:

"So I've made my choice."

"I will destroy. And I will create.

And I will wield fate—not with righteousness, but with eyes open."

His voice was low now. Barely more than a whisper.

"Because someone has to choose.

Someone has to look at all of it—the hunger, the death, the compromise—

and still try to stop it."

"I will walk the path of a Mad Saviour in the Shadow Slave."

He exhaled, and for a moment, he looked older than time itself.

"Even if it costs me everything."

After a while, Murphy broke the silence again—his voice soft, heavy with memory.

"A sane man… might have chosen to kill all the rabbits."

He wasn't just speaking to the apparition now—he was speaking to himself, to the past, to the weight of all the lives he'd carried like scars beneath his skin.

"To protect the village. To protect his own. That would be the reasonable choice."

A pause. He looked down at the shifting red beneath his feet.

"But I am no longer just a man."

His eyes lifted, distant, not lost—but expanded.

"I've lived among them, apparition. The rabbits. The predators. The hunted. The hated. The forgotten. I've lived as them."

His voice, though quiet, carried like a truth too long buried.

"In the myriads of lives, I've passed through… I've been human. And beast. And things in between."

"And somewhere along the way, the line between humanity and the rest of creation began to blur."

His expression didn't harden—it softened. Not in weakness, but in understanding.

"Their fear, their hunger, their rage—it's not different from ours. It's only shaped by who has the sharper teeth… and who has the smaller voice."

He looked back at the apparition, calm and unafraid.

"So, tell me, if I know that… if I've lived that… how can I ever raise my hand and say: these ones deserve to die?"

"I'll wander the Dream Realm," Murphy said at last, his voice carrying like wind across still waters.

"Searching for a way to heal my time."

He looked into the endless crimson beyond, not with desperation—but with quiet defiance.

"And if I perish along the way… then so be it."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his worn lips.

"At least I'll fall with a smile—knowing I gave my best.

Whether in chasing lost time, marvelling at the strange beauty of the Dream Realm,

or clashing with some ancient being in all my fading glory."

He let the words settle in the air, like falling ash.

Then, after a moment of thought, he spoke again—softer now.

"Maybe… that's what Griesha wanted all along."

His eyes narrowed slightly—not in anger, but realization.

"To carve away the boy who wanted answers for himself…

And leave behind a broken man who sees the world as it is."

He paused. Not in sorrow, but in understanding.

"Not as something fair. Not as something cruel.

Just… something vast. And fragile. And real."

***

The apparition—the severed hand of the Goddess of the Moon—watched him in silence.

And then… it smiled.

Not cruelly. Not mockingly.

But with something ancient.

Almost fond.

"You really are different from the others," it said, voice like silk wrapped around old stone.

"Just like Griesha wanted."

Murphy said nothing. The sea of blood beneath his feet barely stirred.

The being's form shifted slightly, shimmering between beauty and distortion.

"To be honest," it continued, almost lazily, "the Mist and the Orb… they were meant for you.

You were always the intended heir."

It tilted its head, smile sharpening like a crescent blade.

"And I—well, I was supposed to kill you. If you lost yourself. If you became drunk on power.

If you forgot your scars."

A pause.

"But…"

The air thickened. Something real pulsed in its voice now—something bitter, old, and… lonely.

"Out of boredom... and resentment… I gave them to that ghost instead."

Its smile faded. For a moment, it looked less like a god's fragment, and more like a soul that had lived far too long in the shadows of divinity.

"I wanted to see what would happen if I broke the story."

"But I didn't forget about you, Murphy.

While that ghost writhed in stolen power—I prepared something else for you."

The red sea began to ripple outward, slow and deliberate, as if space itself was shifting in anticipation.

"Me."

Murphy blinked.

He looked at the apparition, truly looked at her, baffled and flabbergasted.

Then he sighed, rubbing his temple with a slow, weathered hand.

"You should really watch your choice of words," he muttered.

The apparition tilted her head, clearly confused—as if unable to understand what part of her divine declaration had caused offense.

Murphy shook his head, exhaling through a tired smile.

"Now then," she said, with a theatrical flick of her wrist, as if his reaction had never happened, "I shall name your rewards."

"For the first question, I grant you the lineage of the Beast God."

"For the second, I will rebirth you into any age of your choosing. Childhood, youth, midlife—it is yours to decide."

"And for the third, I offer the most dangerous reward of all—a single question. Any question. One truth."

Murphy crossed his arms, squinting thoughtfully.

"Can I use the third one first?"

The apparition gave a small shrug. "As you wish."

Murphy didn't hesitate.

"Why is this Nightmare so messed up?"

Silence.

The kind of silence that weighs more than words.

The apparition's expression grew still. The mirth drained from her eyes. Her smile faded—not into sadness, but into knowing.

And then, softly she spoke:

"Because of what lies at the end of your path…"

A pause.

"…Because of your Destiny."