Savior in Shadow Slave

"My destiny?"

Murphy's voice cracked—not with fear, but with something far more— disbelief.

His eyes, wide and unflinching, reflected the blood-sea's glow like shattered glass.

"Yes," the apparition said softly, but that soft voice seemed to tremble beneath the words.

"It's your destiny, Murphy."

She paused, her gaze fixed on him—not testing, but affirming. Then asked, as if inviting him to remember what he already carried:

"Tell me, Murphy… you know what Spell is knitted from, don't you?"

Murphy didn't speak at first.

"Spell," he murmured, "is a grand weave…"

His voice was quiet now, like a prayer whispered over old ruins.

"…woven by the Weaver—the first child of the Forgotten One…"

He looked up, meeting the apparition's gaze without blinking.

"…using the threads of Fate."

The moment hung there, as if the Red Sea itself dared not interrupt.

The apparition didn't smile this time.

She simply said:

"And so, you understand."

The apparition stepped closer, the red sea quiet beneath her presence, her voice lowering into something almost tender—almost mournful.

"You see, Murphy…"

She looked at him not as a relic, not as a God, but as something older—something that had watched too many stories rot before they bloomed.

"You are hated by Spell."

Murphy's eyes flickered with something—confusion, disbelief, or perhaps an instinctive recoil from the sheer impossibility of it.

"Not for what you are now…"

Her gaze pierced him.

"But for what you are fated to become."

The silence that followed wasn't still—it throbbed.

The air in the Red Sea rippled, as if even the fabric of that place reacted to the weight of her words.

Murphy's lips parted, but no words came.

So, she continued.

"Spell does not hate without reason. It is a Law. A mind. A will.

It is the pattern itself. The logic of consequence.

The web of stories, cause and effect, fate as it must be."

She let that settle—let the gravity form.

"But you… you are a tear in that tapestry. A flaw. A contradiction."

Her voice dropped to a whisper now, as if she feared even Spell might hear through the seams of reality.

"You were never meant to exist.

And that… that is the threat."

The words echoed like a knife drawn across the weave of time itself.

The apparition's expression darkened—not with cruelty, but with the weight of forbidden truth.

"Spell had two guaranteed chances to erase you.

Two moments where the threads converge with enough precision to cut you cleanly."

Murphy's breath caught. Not from fear—but from the feeling of being seen too deeply.

"The first chance…" she continued, eyes narrowing, "was meant to occur already."

She gave the faintest smile, a bitter, knowing thing.

"But due to my interference… and Griesha's long, sacrificial plan… it will most likely fail."

A pause.

And then her voice turned colder—like moonlight on a frozen blade.

"The second chance will come…

During the Winter Solstice."

The red sea beneath them shivered, as if it too felt the inevitability of that moment—something monstrous turning its gaze.

"And next time… the weave won't unravel so easily. Nothing and nobody will be their to help you."

The apparition stared into Murphy's eyes—unblinking, unflinching.

Her voice came like a still blade pressed to the soul:

"Do you understand?"

Murphy gave a long, weary breath, then cracked a faint smile—dry, crooked, but still somehow holding onto that ember of defiant humor.

"Well… that was quite the shocker, wasn't it?"

He crossed his arms, glancing to the red horizon as if doing mental math with the sky itself.

"If I'm not wrong, it should take… what? One, maybe two weeks at most to clear this Nightmare?"

He looked back at her, hopeful calculation in his tone.

"By then, the winter solstice will be long over. Which means…"

A small grin.

"I'll have a year. A full year to prepare for the second strike."

But the apparition did not smile.

In fact… her face darkened. Slightly. But unmistakably.

But Murphy wasn't looking at her.

His gaze was fixed on the endless red horizon, eyes distant—not in denial, but in quiet refusal to be crushed by inevitability.

He exhaled, shoulders rolling slightly as if shaking off the tension of fate itself.

"Now, enough of the dark talk," he said at last, voice steady, almost casual.

"Let's move on. I believe you still owe me a reward."

The apparition blinked—almost surprised by his composure. Then smiled.

"Ah yes. The reward."

She straightened, her form shimmering faintly with divine resonance.

"Yes," Murphy replied. "I'd like to get my time first."

But the apparition merely waved her hand, as if dismissing the thought like a wisp of smoke.

"Oh, you don't need to worry about the order."

She stepped forward, the red sea rippling beneath her.

"I'm going to use both rewards together."

Murphy frowned slightly. "Both?"

"Beast God's lineage and the restoration of time," she confirmed, eyes gleaming with eerie light.

"To reform you. Body and soul. Bone and flame. Time and blood."

Then she paused—her voice dropping to a whisper lined with sharp affection.

"Although… I should warn you."

A small smirk curled her lips.

"It's going to hurt like hell."

They arrived at the heart of the Red Sea—its silence dense, sacred, unbroken by ripple or breath.

The Apparition raised her hand. With slow, deliberate movements, she began to carve a runic circle into the air itself, the symbols glowing with an otherworldly pulse—primordial, precise, and ancient beyond reckoning.

When the final rune settled into place, her palm flashed with ethereal light. She pressed it into the circle's core, releasing a wave of spirit essence like a crashing tide.

Then she stepped back and waved her hand—

Boom.

A column of light erupted from the crimson waters.

From within it emerged something massive—divine—terrifying in its stillness:

An arm.

The severed arm of the Goddess of Carnal Desire, glistening with old power, suspended like a relic from forgotten myth.

Murphy's eyes widened.

"Wait—wait. You're planning to use yourself to make me stronger?!"

The Apparition gave him a sidelong glance, as though amused he was only now catching on.

"Ah. Didn't I tell you?"

"No! You didn't!"

She gave a soft, theatrical sigh.

"Oh well. I'm telling you now."

She turned toward the glowing runes, her tone casual, almost cheerful—as if explaining a recipe rather than divine reconstruction.

"You see, Murphy… I am the Goddess of Birth and Death."

"And so—I'll give you death."

"And then rebirth you—into the age group you've chosen. Same soul. Same body. But reforged."

"Of course… I'll have to destroy your current body first. Then dissolve this arm…"

She gestured toward the divine limb now humming with restrained power.

"…and recreate you by fusing it with your soul.

You won't end up becoming some insanely powerful being but you will have enough potential to break that final barrier. The barrier between Divine and us."

Murphy stared at her. The silence between them was not disbelief—but awe, confusion, and the sharp bite of unwanted grace.

"This isn't something a mortal should survive," she added.

"But you… you carry a Fragment of Pleasure and Passion inside you. A rare, sacred thing."

Her eyes gleamed now, not with power—but with truth.

"And I… I wield dominion over carnal desire."

She gave a faint smile, one that held the weight of something fated.

"So, you see—it all fits. As if arranged by someone."

Murphy exhaled slowly, a trace of both wonder and sorrow in his voice.

"So… you're going to sacrifice yourself?"

For a moment, the Apparition was silent. Then, she looked at him with a gaze both old and unbearably kind.

"Sacrifice is a big word, Murphy… for someone who is already dead."

She turned away, back toward the runes now glowing brighter with each pulse.

"I'm not the real Goddess," she said softly.

"Just a remnant will. Just something left behind to satisfy her curiosity."

The Apparition turned to face him one final time, the glow of the runes reflecting gently across her features—no longer fierce or cryptic, but soft, sorrowful… almost motherly.

Her voice came quiet, pleasant, as though carrying the last breath of a fading star.

"So, please, Murphy… let my wish come true."

He blinked.

The words struck something deep inside him—something unguarded.

"My first… and my last wish."

She stepped closer, and this time, there was no divine distance between them. Just one soul speaking to another.

"Walk the path you told me about."

"Look at the world with those same eyes—eyes that still burn, despite everything."

"And if one day it becomes too much… if it ever overwhelms you…"

Her voice wavered, like a lullaby choked by wind.

"Then don't force yourself to keep walking."

Silence.

Murphy felt something tightening in his throat—not pain, but something heavier, more real. The kind of weight that has no name.

His legs felt numb. Like the ground beneath him no longer mattered.

He looked at her—but the words wouldn't come.

Not because he didn't want to speak, but because nothing he said would be enough.

The Apparition smiled—not with triumph, nor sorrow—but something gentler.

The Apparition smiled one last time—softly, like a secret fading into dusk.

"Live well, Murphy."

And just like that—

She was gone.

No flash. No thunder.

Only absence.

Only silence where something sacred had once stood.

Murphy stared for a moment at the space she'd vanished from, his breath caught in his chest—then turned toward the runic circle.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward.

As his feet crossed the threshold, the runes surged with power.

His body began to dissolve—first fingers, then limbs, breaking apart like mist caught in moonlight.

And then came the pain.

A wave of it—blinding, absolute. A flame that devoured thought, memory, even sound.

But it couldn't overcome his sorrow.

Even as his form unraveled, even as only his face remained—even as his very being was stripped and reshaped—he held onto one thing:

A whisper of grief. Of gratitude. Of goodbye.

His lips moved.

"Rest well, Apparition."