Savior in Shadow Slave

Murphy's gaze lingered on his runes, particularly the once-a-year ability, before settling on the enigma that had haunted him since the Nightmare began:

[Broken Being]

Unlike what he'd assumed—that this attribute manifested after his battle with the Druid—it had been with him from the very start.

Could it be an external affliction? Like [Soul Conduit], turning him into a living battery, or [Enthralled], marking him as another's pawn?

But after a moment's consideration, he dismissed the thought.

Not because such forces didn't exist.

But because [Broken Being] felt…

Personal.

Like a scar carved into his soul long before the Nightmare.

And if it had been imposed by another, surely it would have lifted by now—just like the veil that once clouded his mind.

Indeed, the veil that once clouded his mind had finally lifted.

And yet…

It did not bring the clarity or peace he had longed for.

There was no wave of triumph. No rush of fulfillment.

Only silence.

And within that silence—A deeper, heavier loneliness.

Moving on, It seemed he could now wield most of the Druid's spells with ease.

The knowledge didn't feel borrowed or stolen—it felt innate, as if it had always been resting just beneath his skin.

He already knew how to call vines from the earth, to make the roots dance to his will.

And yet…when he tried, nothing came.

A force—subtle but impenetrable—coiled around that part of him, refusing to yield.

His jaw tightened. His thoughts sharpened.

"That damned Spell."

Trying to distract himself from the storm of emotion gathering in his chest,

Murphy turned his attention elsewhere—to his newly forged body, reborn through pain and divine sacrifice.

And what he saw…

Even he had to sigh.

His form was now carved like a hymn to forbidden longing. Grace and power entwined.

Eyes that shimmered with unfathomable depth and gaze that seemed to have seen every suffering. Every longing. Every sin. Every virtue. 

Skin like marble kissed by moonlight. Hair that flowed like red flame.

A body and face beautiful enough to make all women, and a fair number of men,

seriously consider sinning towards him.

He looked away with a tired huff.

"Great," he muttered to himself.

"Now I look like a tragedy worth chasing."

And that was only when he was in 10 years old body. Who knows how he will look after becoming an adult?

Well, Murphy certainly could by shaving away 8 years of his time. But even Murphy wasn't that mad.

Having confirmed all he sought to know, Murphy activated Sacrifice once more, surrendering a month of his life.

The Red Sea faded behind him—a place of blood and memory—

its echoes still humming in the marrow of his soul.

As he drifted into the fold of space, one thought lingered in his mind:

"When will I be able to create a world like that, too?"

Upon returning, he found himself back in the cave where he had battled the Entity. Looking around, he noticed that nothing had changed.

Judging by the stillness, Murphy guessed that not even a day had passed.

With curiosity burning in his chest, he decided to test his new strength—by hunting a few more Awakened beings before the day was over.

***

Murphy stood on the rocky ledge, staring down at the stone-covered valley below.

A dull rumble echoed from the cave mouth ahead.

Then it stepped out.

A Stone Giant.

Easily five times his size. Skin like cracked granite, glowing faintly with molten seams.

Its movements were slow but heavy—each step thudding like a falling hammer.

Murphy cracked his knuckles as the earth trembled. It roared, a sound like grinding boulders, and swung a fist the size of a wagon.

Murphy didn't flinch.

The massive fist came down. He sidestepped casually, and they smashed into the stone with an echoing boom, sending shards flying.

He didn't even look back.

Before the giant could recover, Murphy darted forward, faster than it could react.

A simple punch—precise, nothing fancy—landed square in its side.

There was a dull crack. The Stone Giant stumbled, wheezing in surprise as a chunk of its torso broke off and hit the ground.

"Strong" he muttered.

The Giant reared back, confused, and struck again.

This time, Murphy caught its fist.

His fingers dug into solid stone, cracks spiderwebbing from his grip. With a sigh, he twisted.

The Giant's arm shattered like cheap pottery.

It staggered, unbalanced, but Murphy was already moving. A single leap carried him onto its shoulder. He drove his knee into its temple—once, twice—until the stone skull exploded into gravel.

The Giant collapsed, lifeless before it even hit the ground.

[You have slain an Awakened Monster, Stone Giant.]

Murphy stood there, staring down at the broken creature. Not a scratch on him. Barely winded.

"That was disappointing."

He dusted his hands off and walked away, his voice low and tired.

After the fight with the Stone Giant, Murphy frowned.

"Maybe that one was just weak."

He didn't want to believe his power had grown that much. Not yet.

So, he kept walking.

Soon, he came across two more Awakened Monsters—one of them a familiar face.

The Black Boar. Its bulky frame still as brutal as before, tusks cracked from past battles.

The other was something new—a Blood Fiend, skin stretched thin over lean muscle, veins pulsing with crimson light.

Both charged without hesitation. Murphy draw his blade.

He danced through them—swift, efficient.

The Black Boar fell first, its head cleaved clean with a flicker of the Moonblade.

The Blood Fiend lasted a bit longer, managing to land a few deep gashes on his arm and side. But Murphy didn't even wince.

He touched the wounds lightly.

"One day."

With that, a soft golden glow enveloped him as he burned a single day of his time. The injuries vanished like mist in sunlight.

He moved on.

Next came a Demon—an Awakened creature far more dangerous.

It was called a Human-Skinned Shadow.

At first, it looked like a twisted man cloaked in rags, but its aura was wrong. Off.

It fought fast, clever, shifting forms in flashes. Blades for arms, wings of ink, voices that didn't match its face.

Murphy fought it without using his time at first—testing himself.

They traded blows. He was winning, yes—but not by much.

Then it changed.

Its form warped and stretched… until it became something that Murphy knew very well.

Gloomveil.

The same ghostly, maternal figure—the Entity that had once tried to consume him in the cave.

He raised his hand.

"Half a year."

A surge of raw time flowed into his body, and in a single heartbeat, he moved.

A single strike—an eruption of light and intent—tore the demon in half.

***

Feeling that he'd played around enough for one day, Murphy decided it was time to return to the village.

He ran at a leisurely pace, no longer in a rush for anything. Every couple of hours, he stopped to rest—enjoying the stillness, the wind, the rare chance to simply be without conflict.

Between breaks, he kept trying something new.

Lifting his hand, channeling time through his body, he tried shaping it—guiding it outward like energy, like light.

"Should I yell 'Kamehameha' or 'Rasengan' while doing this?"

He grinned to himself at the thought, but the humor faded as quickly as it came.

The truth was… his attempts weren't working. Not fully, anyway.

Nothing exploded. Nothing fired.

But it didn't fail, either.

A faint shimmer would form in his palm—glowing and warm, pulsing with raw potential—then flicker out the moment he tried to release it.

Not a beam. Not an orb. Just possibility, stalled halfway to reality.

He sighed and flexed his fingers, watching the light fade.

"Stuck. Just like me, huh?"

He dusted off his cloak and kept walking, a strange mixture of peace and restlessness weighing quietly on his shoulders.

After walking and running for half a day, Murphy finally saw it—the familiar silhouette of his village gates on the distant horizon.

A warmth bloomed in his chest.

"Home."

He smiled for the first time in what felt like ages and picked up his pace, legs moving faster with every heartbeat.

But halfway there, he stopped. Not because he was tired—far from it.

It was the smell.

Very familiar.

But not something he want from that direction.

Blood.

His senses, reforged from rebirth, told him everything he want to hear.

His breath caught in his throat.

"No..."

He sniffed again, trying to deny it. But there it was—saturating the air. Not from outside the village. Not from the forests or roads. From within the walls.

Panic and confusion warred within him.

"Did the village... get attacked by Nightmare creatures?"

"But... isn't the smell way too heavy and... old?"

"Damn it. What's happening?"

Murphy surged forward, muscles tensing as he burst into a sprint—covering a hundred meters in mere seconds. It was raw, terrifying speed—no Aspect, no Essence. Just the sheer, terrifying strength of his reborn body.

But even that felt too slow.

"One month."

He whispered the words, and power flooded into him. Time burned. His speed surged again, blurring past trees and stone like a phantom wind.

When he reached the village gates, he stopped.

And stared.

What he saw struck him harder than any weapon ever had.

'This can't be real'.

He half expected to wake up. To feel the tug of illusion magic, a mental hex, some trick of the Nightmare…

But nothing came.

He had been reborn. Reinforced. His mind fortified to resist even the strongest illusions. Only a god could fool him now.

And that… was why the scene before him chilled him to his soul.

Blood. Ruin. Silence.

Dried blood painted the streets, flaked and rust-colored. Houses burned out. Walls scorched.

But not a single corpse.

Not human. Not beast.

As if—whatever did this—had cleaned up after itself.

'No… not cleaned. Removed.'

Fear gripped him. He clenched his fists.

"Half a year."

Another whisper. Another sacrifice. And he vanished in a blur, tearing through streets, searching—begging—for any sign of life.

But there were no survivors. No screams. Not even bones. The village was hollowed out.

Like it had been devoured by something that didn't leave anything behind.

Then, it hit him.

That dream.

The strange one from the beginning of this Nightmare—the one that he had strangely dismissed, forgotten.

The temple.

His eyes widened as he ran.

He dashed toward the old stone temple built by the Third Elder, once a serene place of worship dedicated to the Beast God.

But when he arrived, all serenity died.

There, in the center of the temple courtyard, stood...

A mountain.

Not of rubble.

Not of stone.

Of corpses.

Rotten corpses.

As if for years.

Bodies stacked upon bodies. Men, women, children, elders. But he couldn't tell who they were anymore.

Because the mountain was a...

A mountain of headless corpses.

And realization dawned upon him.