Savior in Shadow Slave

Seeing Murphy enter the classroom, Julius felt a strange and sudden joy bloom in his chest.

It wasn't because of some grand fate or prophetic instinct.

It was because in Murphy's eyes—calm, watching, deep, strangely weathered for someone so young—he saw the same gaze he once wore.

The gaze of someone who wishes to survive.

"I'm Awakened Julius," he said cheerfully, standing a little straighter. "You can call me Teacher Julius. Sit down, sit down! What's your name?"

Murphy took the chair across from him, folding his hands over his lap like a model student.

"It's Murphy."

"Murphy…" Julius repeated, rolling the syllables like they might unlock some meaning. "That's a strong name. Means sea warrior, I think. You like the sea?"

Murphy blinked. "I've drowned before."

'In the Red sea when my body was being remade.'

He added inwardly.

Julius paused. Then let out a short, amused breath. "Well, that's one way to answer."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "So, Murphy. Why'd you come to me instead of, I don't know, swordsmanship, archery or combat?"

"Because I know what kills people," Murphy said softly. "It's not blades. It's not magic. It's the cold when you've lost your fire. It's the hunger when you can't tell what's edible. It's drinking from the wrong stream and bleeding from the eyes three hours later."

Julius stared at him, not smiling this time.

Murphy's voice remained even. "I came because I don't want to die stupid."

Silence followed.

Then, slowly, Julius grinned—wide and real.

"Good answer."

He stood from his desk, walked to the chalkboard, and with a snap of his fingers, the wall behind it rotated to reveal a series of strange survival gear—knives, flint kits, bundled herbs, arcane field compasses, beast masks, portable spell runes, and something that looked suspiciously like a divine fishing rod.

"Rule one," Julius said, walking over to a small satchel and tossing it at Murphy's feet. "The world won't care how powerful you are if you can't stay warm at night."

Murphy caught it. It was heavy, practical. Inside were bundles of coiled rope, nutrient wafers, salve tins, a battered flask, and a sewn-up book labeled How to Not Die Horribly in the Dream Realm – Volume 1.

Julius scratched his beard. "Let's start with the basics. Fire."

"I can make one," Murphy said.

"Ah, but can you make one in rain? With no wood? Surrounded by beasts who track scent? When your fingers are frozen and shaking and your Aspect is sealed?"

"…No."

"Good. That's why you're here."

He knelt and opened a leather pouch, spilling out herbs and glinting stones onto the floor. "We'll go over six types of fire today. Survival fire. Beacon fire. Trap fire. Decoy fire. Anti-beast fire. And comfort fire."

"Comfort?"

"Boy," Julius said, meeting his eyes, "sometimes survival is just finding the will to keep walking. Comfort can save you when logic can't."

Murphy was silent for a while.

Then nodded. "Alright. Teach me."

And so the lesson began.

They sat on the floor. They burned herbs and studied smoke patterns. Julius showed him how to layer waxed leaves between wet logs. How to read wind by the hairs on his knuckles. How to carve sigils into stones to repel dream-flies. How to braid string from spirit grass.

For the first time in a long time, Murphy didn't feel like some saviour.

He felt like a student.

A child learning how to live, not just how to kill.

And Julius—rambling, sharp-eyed, forever scribbling into margins of his mind—smiled as he taught.

Because he knew.

He wasn't just teaching one boy how to survive.

He was teaching the boy who would one day help others survive everything.

The lesson kept on going on and sun set and night arrived.

Julius let him go.

The old man had smiled—a quiet, distant smile—his eyes already growing hazy, heavy with the weight of sleep. Murphy recognized the signs. Julius was about to be transported into the Dream Realm, as all Awakened eventually were in slumber.

"Stay alive, teacher."

After that, Murphy returned to his room, undressed, and went to sleep.

Early in the morning, Murphy washed up in his private bathroom and, bursting with energy, hurried to get breakfast in a happy mood.

Murphy returned early—earlier than the instructors, even.

The air was still. The academy's great trees whispered in the breeze, but beneath their rustling, Murphy sat cross-legged in the Wilderness classroom, flipping through How Not to Die Horribly in the Dream Realm – Volume 1.

It wasn't magical. The paper was yellowed, the ink smudged, and the margins were filled with someone's sarcastic annotations:

"Don't eat anything that's smiling at you. Seriously."

"If a place smells like home, it's lying."

"Time is a liar. Kill it before it kills you."

Murphy was still pondering that last line when Julius arrived, holding two wooden mugs of something hot and bitter-smelling.

"Here," he said, tossing one to Murphy. "Dream-root tea. Keeps your memory sharp. You'll need it for today's lesson."

Murphy caught it and sipped.

It tasted like smoke and pine needles. Burned his throat a little.

"Today, I'll only teach you till afternoon," Julius said with a mock sigh, rubbing his temples. "The others emptied my brain out for keeping you occupied so long yesterday. I swear, if I get any smarter I'll forget how to breathe."

Murphy raised an eyebrow. "Is that how intelligence works?"

Julius grinned. "In my case? Absolutely. The moment I learn one more useless fact about interdimensional fungus migration, I'll forget my own name."

Murphy chuckled softly, setting down his satchel. "Then let's make today's lesson worth the memory loss."

The old man gave him a crooked smile. "Spoken like someone who's been old before."

"I have."

That gave Julius pause. But instead of pressing, he just gestured toward the wooden board behind him.

"Alright then, wise one. Today's about edible plants, false shelters, and how not to die drinking river water."

And so, time flew.

Murphy's life wasn't uneventful—just… monotonous.

Each day began with a familiar rhythm. He would wake, wash, and enjoy a hearty breakfast before walking to class. Mornings belonged to Julius—an ever-curious man whose teachings stitched together survival with theory, mystery with method. They spoke of moss patterns, animal trails, water purification, and how to read the wind. Murphy drank it all in.

But by afternoon, peace ended. Other professors—eager and sharp—would swoop in like hawks, dragging him through endless lessons in combat. Swordplay, spearmanship, hand-to-hand, and martial conditioning. Murphy, to his surprise, found it all quite useful.

After all, he only truly knew how to wield a sword.

And through it all, Elaine hovered like a sunbeam he couldn't shake—bright, persistent, and always smiling. Buzzing around him with praise, care, and unspoken intentions. Murphy often wondered how much was genuine, and how much was her role.

It was during these uneventful days that he truly understood his Flaw.

The realization came in the smallest, most ridiculous way—

A mosquito.

It had been bothering him for hours, whispering maddeningly into his ear like a cursed mantra. Eventually, in irritation, Murphy swatted it with a flick.

He thought it ended there. But then the voice began.

Soft at first. Humming. A story. The mosquito's story.

At first, Murphy tried to ignore it, tried to shove it aside like a buzzing afterthought.

But the more he resisted, the louder it grew.

Until finally—he gave in. He listened.

And then it changed. What was once noise became melody. Memory. A beautiful tale of wind, light, water, birth.

A life.

A short, flickering, insignificant life.

'Huh… I must say,' Murphy whispered to himself as the story ended,

'That was beautiful.'

The story went like:

In a quiet puddle, on a warm summer day, a tiny egg hatched.

Out came a small, wiggly creature. She was not yet a mosquito.

She wriggled through the water, eating tiny bits of plants and dirt.

She grew slowly, changing her skin again and again.

Days passed. And then, one day, she stopped moving.

A thin shell formed around her. She rested inside.

Then, under the early morning light—she came out.

Now she had wings. Long legs. And a needle-like mouth.

She was a mosquito.

She dried her wings on the water's surface, then flew for the first time. The sky was big, and her body was light. She buzzed and danced.

But she was also hungry. Not for leaves. Not for flowers.

She needed blood. Not to be mean.

But to make eggs—eggs that would bring more life.

She flew near animals, near people, drawn by warmth, by the beating of hearts.

She landed softly on skin, gently, quickly—and drank.

Then, she flew off again, her body full, and found a quiet place to lay her eggs: a puddle, a wet leaf, a bowl of rainwater.

And there, new eggs waited to be born.

Her body grew tired.

Her wings slowed.

One day, she rested on a windowsill and saw flame like red haired human. Thinking that it was blood, she flew towards trying to get one sip of blood last time.

SMACK.

The mosquito, light as a whisper, was turned into a small, red stain. A puddle of her own making.

The human didn't even look. Just wiped her away.

She had lived. She had danced. She had created.

But now, she was nothing more than a spot on a windowsill.

A life ended without a thought.

And far away, in a quiet puddle, her children stirred—never knowing their mother would never return.

And from then on, he knew—

The Bell of the Fallen Moon was not a flaw born of punishment.

It was a burden.

A memory-keeper.

A silent listener to lives that would otherwise go unremembered.

Even those as small as a mosquito.

The wind outside turned cold.

The skies grew quiet.

One month remained.

Before the Winter Solstice.