Savior in Shadow Slave

[Prepare for appraisal…]

Murphy found himself suspended in a realm between dream and reality—an endless, obsidian void adorned with stars like scattered gems across velvet. Between those stars stretched countless strands of silver light, woven into a vast and incomprehensibly intricate tapestry. Nexuses bloomed like celestial flowers, constellations shifting in sacred geometry. It was beautiful beyond words—a map of the divine, and of fate itself.

He still wore the body of a child—barely three years old—but his red hair had grown wildly, trailing behind him in coils and waves that blanketed the ground beneath like rivers of fire.

His eyes, which should have gleamed with innocence, held only grief. And beneath that grief—something deeper. Something ancient.

The Spell lingered in the void, slow and reluctant, appraising him with the cold precision of a machine forced to acknowledge something it did not want to see.

Murphy didn't care.

Not for its judgment, not for its appraisal.

He had already won what mattered. He had already lost what could not be measured.

He only wanted to leave.

To walk forward. To carry her memory. To breathe again beneath a sky that didn't burn.

[You have received a Memory: Kalpaṭa]

Murphy felt an overwhelming sadness settle in his chest—an ache too vast for words.

The weapon now in his hands had once been born from his own resolve, crafted in a distant loop using the raw resentment of every soul that had perished in the village. Not for vengeance. Not for glory. But for her—Kaenaria, the twisted, broken woman who had called herself his mother.

If he wasn't mistaken, the only reason he had been able to manipulate such overwhelming hatred, to mold it into a weapon of divine power, was not solely due to his Aspect. It had been something else. A subtle force at play. Likely her ability—a forgotten signature of Kaenaria's most grotesque gift: the power to transform the memories of others into her own and manifest them into reality.

It was through that ability—her transformation of shared grief, of stolen pain—that the wheel was shaped.

Later, it had been perverted by the Spell. Twisted into a perfect instrument of execution. Meant to be his end.

But she hadn't used it.

She couldn't.

Even with all her lifetime suffering—even after enduring chains, betrayal, and madness—Kaenaria hadn't found it in herself to raise the blade her son had bled to forge.

She had spent five long years feeding him pieces of her soul.

Five years nurturing him.

And in the end, she returned the weapon not as a sentence—but as a parting gift.

Murphy stared down at the divine wheel, its runes pulsing faintly in his hands. It no longer radiated judgment. Only sorrow.

"That must be why I lived," he whispered into the silence, voice trembling like a truth too long buried.

He wanted to take a look at the Kalpata, but there was no more time. The Spell was done with its appraisal.

Here in the void, its voice didn't sound subtle and familiar anymore. Rather, it seemed like the universe itself was speaking. Murphy looked at it and turned his head away as if not wishing to hear it's so called stories.

[Aspirant, your trial is complete.]

[Once, there was a boy with no will to live—found and raised by a Devil cloaked in the shape of a mother.]

[She fed him purpose. He swung until his hands bled, advised until his enemies wept. He rose to her expectations. He freed her.]

[But she craved more. So, he lived again. And again. Sixty-six times. Until the boy became a weapon.]

[Time broke around him. Miracles followed him. Monsters fell before him. But the price was cruel.]

[And when even the Spell turned on him, a goddess wept.]

[So, he returned and held a grand burial that will resound through history. The Devil fell. And the boy—once light, once blood—was born anew as a child.]

'This bastard.'

Spell continued as if wanting to mock him.

[You have slain a Transcendent Human, Kaenaria.]

[You have slain an Awakened Demon, Human-Skinned Shadow.]

[You have slain an Awakened Monster, Blood Feind.]

[You have slain an Awakened Monster, Black Boar.]

[You have slain a...

[You have slain...

[You have...

[You...

[You have received the Beast God's blessing.]

[You have achieved the impossible!]

[Final appraisal: glorious. Your Mercy and Radiance knows no good and evil.]

Murphy turned his head, eyes smoldering with a light too old for his small frame. The stars in the appraisal void pulsed with ancient curiosity. And yet, he stood—barefoot, grieving, determined.

He looked up at the heavens, where the Spell resided beyond form or face, and shouted:

"I want to make a deal with you!"

His voice rang out through the silver-threaded stars, not as a request—but a declaration.

Silence followed.

The vast tapestry of constellations seemed to hold its breath.

The stars flickered in the endless void, each pulse of light like the beat of a god's ancient heart. Murphy stood defiant, small in frame but vast in will. The Spell's presence loomed around him—vast, unknowable, irritated.

[You have received a Memory: Messenger.]

[Memory Description: What is it that you want? And why should I help you, you hateful being?]

Murphy narrowed his eyes.

'That's an interesting way to talk,' he thought. Then, aloud:

"I want three things from you."

[Your Memory has been destroyed.]

[You have received a Memory: Messenger.]

[Memory Description: What, and why do you think I will help you?]

He folded his arms.

"If you don't agree to my deal, I will tell Broken Sword where all the Weaves left behind by the Weaver are hidden. I'll even tell him how to unlock them. And your precious epigone?"

He smiled coldly.

"They'll inherit ashes."

For a long moment, nothing stirred.

Then:

[Your Memory has been destroyed.]

[You have received a Memory: Messenger.]

[Memory Description: Fine. What are the terms?]

Murphy raised his hand, fingers curling like a monarch naming tributes.

"First," he said, "I want my sword—[Rengoku]. In memory form."

[Your Memory has been destroyed.]

[You have received a Memory: Messenger.]

[Memory Description: Agreed.]

He didn't pause.

"Second… I want to return to the exact point—one year after I was first thrown into the Nightmare."

The void pulsed—glistening with silver strands, trembling with the weight of choices made and unmade.

[Your Memory has been destroyed.]

[You have received a Memory: Messenger.]

[Memory Description: Not possible.]

Murphy didn't flinch. His eyes, burdened far beyond his years, narrowed as if staring down divinity itself.

"Yes," he said softly. "It wouldn't have been possible... if the time around the village hadn't been fractured. I know you can use that instability—bend it, thread it—to send me to my intended point."

There was a pause. A long one.

As if even the Spell sighed.

[Your Memory has been destroyed.]

[You have received a Memory: Messenger.]

[Memory Description: Fine. But I will only send you back three years later. It is non-negotiable.]

Murphy gave a slow nod. "Fair enough."

His voice dipped lower, steadier, laced with something raw. "Now for my final demand... I want Kaenaria's shadow. Her echo. Her memories. Her consciousness."

The stars froze.

[Your Memory has been destroyed.]

[You have received a Memory: Messenger.]

[Memory Description: I won't help you on this.]

Murphy's eyes dimmed—then flickered with calculated cruelty.

"Let's think, shall we?"

"The Blood Weave is perched atop an Awakened Terror's branch. A single Saint-class could stroll in and claim it."

"The Bone Weave? Bottom of the Chained Isles. Beneath a sea of divine flame. Tough, sure. But Broken Sword?" He smiled thinly. "He'd carve through flame like paper."

"And the Soul Weave…" He let the silence finish the threat.

[Your Memory has been destroyed.]

[You have received a Memory: Messenger.]

[Memory Description: You really are an interesting one. Fine, I agree. But in return, I want something.]

Murphy tilted his head. "What is it that you want?"

[Your Memory has been destroyed.]

[You have received a Memory: Messenger.]

[Memory Description: First, I will take away eight years of your time. And second… you must swear never to touch the Weaves or bring harm to the Epigone's life.]

He didn't even blink. Though he found it strange that time was what the Spell asked for—eight years carved from his very life.

But then again…It aligned with his own heart.

A promise of peace.

"Agreed, also keep it in sealed form." Murphy whispered.

And the void began to shimmer.

Murphy felt something in him as if he was bound by strings of fate.

[Dreamer Murphy, receive your boon!]

He was an Aspirant no more. Murphy felt proud.

[You have been bestowed a True Name: The Star That Turned Back.]