Savior in Shadow Slave

Murphy stood still, the stench of dried blood and decay thick in the air, the buzz of flies the only sound in the world. The mountain of headless corpses loomed before him, a grotesque monument to something far darker than mere slaughter.

He stared, unmoving.

Waiting for the grief to come.

For the fury.

For the despair.

But none of it rose within him.

Instead—something else stirred.

Something… quiet.

Subtle.

Like the soft click of a puzzle piece sliding into place.

Then came the flood.

Not of tears, not of rage—but of doubt. Of questions.

Of a chilling, inevitable understanding.

Why…?

Why had the village, from the very beginning, felt so perfectly tailored to him?

So warm, so safe—everything he loved, everything he found beautiful, laid out like a handcrafted dream?

Why had he found the silence of bugs and other creatures at the beginning so absolute?

No buzzing insects. No distant birdsong. Just sterile quiet.

Until he noticed.

Until an ant bit him, and suddenly the cicadas began to chirp—as if on cue.

Why had Shen Xi—perfect, poised, alluring—fallen at his doorstep at the exact moment his thoughts had nearly brushed against something forbidden?

Why had he almost… taken advantage of her?

Him—who had endured temptations from Druid herself. Why had this nearly broken him?

Why had his grandfather talked about his way of life as wanting to Sin?

And then… the dream.

It came rushing back, vivid and cold:

His younger self.

Wandering through the temple of Beast God, barefoot and smiling, carrying the severed heads of everyone Murphy had ever known— putting them carefully, methodically. A grotesque ritual of tenderness.

And then that child—his face far too serene—turned to him and whispered with blood-soaked lips:

"Sixty-Seventh."

Murphy staggered back from the memory like he'd been struck.

No… not just a dream. Not just madness.

A warning?

A prophecy?

A confession?

He felt the mountain of corpses behind him, silent and waiting.

A cruel echo of what he had already seen—before it ever happened.

Sixty-Seventh what?

Trial? Life? Death?

Village? Cycle? Victim?

He clenched his teeth. The wind blew.

And for the first time since the Apparition vanished—Murphy felt watched.

Not by a god.

Not by a monster.

But by himself.

"How did I never see it?"

It was as if some unseen force had been erasing and rewriting his memories… like his five senses had been placed gently—deliberately—into someone else's hands.

Perhaps that was the veil that had once clouded his thoughts.

A shroud now burned away by his Rebirth.

Had it remained…

He would have returned to this place.

He would have lived among them.

As if nothing had ever happened.

As if none of it was real.

Murphy gritted his teeth and muttered:

"The only way to know... is to step into the temple.

To see with my own eyes whether what I witnessed was a lie or the truth—

A dream or madness... prophecy or memory."

But before facing the unknown, Murphy turned toward something familiar—his family's treasury.

He needed a weapon worthy of what lay ahead. His current blade, though reliable, wouldn't withstand a single blow from a Great Terror, not even one that claimed to be sealed.

But was it truly sealed?

The vision Spell had burned into his mind told a different story—A figure dancing through carnage with haunting elegance, as screams rose and blood became rivers.

Only one way to know for sure.

Murphy sprinted toward the treasury.

To his surprise, it stood untouched.

Pristine. Untainted by the bloodshed that had consumed the rest of the village.

As if it had been waiting for him.

Murphy pushed. He pulled. The gate stood unmoved.

With a tired breath, he stepped back and muttered,

"One week."

Then drove his fist into the gate.

The resulting blast shattered the ancient hinges, sending echoes down the stone corridor.

"The enchantment must have weakened," he said dryly. "Otherwise, that wouldn't have worked."

Before him lay the family treasury—once a place of wonder and pride. Now, just another stop on a path soaked in blood.

Hundreds of weapons gleamed under ancient lights, each humming with dormant power. Blades etched with runes for the Awakened. Spears tempered in Ascended flame. Relics, trophies, legends.

But He didn't even glance at them.

Murphy moved past them like a ghost chasing something real.

There—at the far end—stood the secret door. Already open. Likely left ajar in panic, a final act of haste by an elder now lost.

He stepped through.

Inside, eleven weapons waited.

Three Supreme. Eight Transcended.

He didn't bother with active enchantments. Most were unusable.

What he needed was simpler.

An enchantment that won't take.

A blade that wouldn't break.

A weapon that wouldn't fail.

The sharpest edge against whatever nightmare waited next.

After a while spent testing weight, balance, and bite of steel, he found it—a blade unlike the rest. A Supreme-class weapon, silent and dignified even among legendary kin.

It was a katana. He recognized the curve, the soul of it.

He'd seen something like it in an anime long ago, when life was simple and death was fiction.

Its name was carved into the steel: Rengoku.

The blade shimmered with quiet menace.

Two enchantments marked it—one passive, one active.

The passive enchantment, he decided to call it [Unyielding Inferno], fed off suffering. The more damage he took, the stronger he became. Strength, speed, endurance—rising in proportion, maxing at a terrifying 30%.

The active enchantment, he named it [Dragon's Maw], was fire—red-hot and relentless. With a single strike, it could ignite an enemy with cursed flame, flame that clung long after the blade moved on.

But sadly, He had no essence to activate it. Not now.

"You'll do."

With all preparations complete, a shadow passed over Murphy's face. He knew what lay ahead—and that the price he would pay would be everything.

So, he ran, swift and silent, toward the old temple of the Beast God.

There, amidst the crumbling stone and forgotten prayers, stood a statue—tall and luminous. A beautiful woman sat gracefully upon a crescent moon, her eyes closed in serene stillness. Around her feet, the carved forms of deer, rabbits, lions, and wolves looked up in silent devotion, their stone eyes filled with awe.

It was a sight untouched by time.

Sacred.

Divine.

Finding it a bit strange to see the Apparition looking like that, Murphy went to the basement, trying to hide his embarrassment.

The basement door was wide open, and such a terrible scent was coming from it that Murphy began to regret his heightened sense of smell.

Praying for his nose to still function after he escaped from this place, he stepped inside—and what he saw was exactly what he had expected:

The heads of every single village resident were arranged systematically.

Old and young. Women and men. Neatly arranged on the floor.

Each face was silent. Frozen in the moment before death. Some with despair. Some with tears. Some with pleasure. Some with peace.

He moved without thought, drawn to the smallest head in the row.

A girl. Hair in braids. Eyes wide open, with nothing in them. He remembered her giving him a flower. But when, even he couldn't remember.

His knees buckled.

The silence in the room grew unbearable.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "You didn't deserve this."

And then—he rose.

He took her head. Walked to the mountain of corpses. Found her body—small, delicate.

He carried her home.

He laid her in her bed, smoothed her hair, cleaned off the dried blood and joined her head to her shoulders.

Then he reached inside himself. For time.

Time that would never come back.

He gave a day.

Then another.

Her body healed. Whole once more.

No breath. No life. But no longer butchered.

It was enough.

And so began the ritual.

Back and forth he walked through the village. The mourning undertaker of the forgotten.

One head.

One body.

One home.

Over and over.

He gave time. He gave effort. He gave love.

His child body faded. His bones grew strong. His skin radiant. He now looked like a breathtakingly beautiful young man in his twenties.

He no longer looked like a man who had carried death—but like one who had embraced life.

He became something more than human. Not just in power—but in pain. In grace. In responsibility.

By the end, Murphy stood as a beacon of what he had lost. And what he had refused to let be forgotten.

The homes were quiet.

But now they were whole.

And in that silence, he wept.

Not for sorrow.

But because, at last—he had done something that even time would remember.

Something stirred within him—like an anchor lowered into the depths of his being, steadying him in ways he couldn't yet name.

With the mountain of corpses gone and the basement cleared, Murphy's steps carried him to its farthest wall—where darkness yawned wide in the form of a narrow passage, hidden from all but those fated to find it. It pulsed with the faint hum of another dimension.

He took a breath. Heavy. Steady.

Then stepped in.

The world twisted. Colours bled into shadow. And for a moment, he felt like a leaf caught in a storm, spinning through a vortex without end.

When the turbulence ceased, he stood in a vast, silent void.

Three runic circles glowed around him—ancient, humming with intent. One to seal. One to gather. And the third… the third he knew intimately. A circle to draw the hatred, anguish, and deep-buried resentment of those claimed by the former two.

A soft voice rose, smooth as silk and sharp as memory.

"Welcome, my descendant," it said, rich with maternal warmth. "It seems you've done quite a few unnecessary things above the ground."