Savior in Shadow Slave

Murphy narrowed his eyes, scanning the skyline of the ruined city, the heavy scent of dust and ancient grief filling the air.

A Crimson Spire pierced the heavens—its very presence stirred something deep and unnameable in him. Sorrow. Not his own but old and infinite, echoing like a bell through time. Its mere existence made his soul ache.

In stark contrast, nestled at the heart of the decay stood a white castle, luminous and pristine like a memory untouched by ruin. It glowed softly in the gloom, ethereal, as if made from moonlight and forgotten dreams.

To the east, an ancient lighthouse stood defiantly against time, its structure battered yet whole, silently watching like an old sentinel.

In the west, crumbling pillars and shattered walls marked what once had been a grand library—now a graveyard of knowledge.

Far in the south, a Cathedral loomed, regal and silent. Its steeples rose like fingers reaching for gods long gone. There was reverence in its stillness... and perhaps something darker beneath.

And behind him—A breath caught in his throat.

The Black Sea.

Endless, featureless, alive with whispers and unseen currents. It stretched beyond the horizon, reflecting no stars, no light. Not like there was any.

It was not water. Not really. Just darkness. It stirred his instincts in all the wrong ways.

Wrong.

Wrong.

Wrong.

The Crimson Spire alone was enough confirmation. But now, seeing the whole landscape laid out before him, the truth settled like a final verdict:

"I'm in the Forgotten Shore."

The city, he could survive—its creatures, even the Lords, if fought with all his strength, were manageable.

But the Dark Sea behind?

That was not something one could survive.

Not unless they were Sacred or Cursed.

'First, I need to confirm whether I'm the only one the Spell cast into this place…Or if others were dragged here too.'

If there are others, the next question becomes critical:

'Am I the first to arrive… or has the First Bright Lord already awakened?'

And if the Bright Lord is indeed here…

'Who is it?'

That answer may change everything.

But that's not the end of it.

If memory serves, seven were meant to appear in the Forgotten Shore. So the final, and perhaps most troubling question is this:

'Did I replace one of them? And if so… who?'

'Please, let it not be the Bright Lord. I have no desire to lead. No interest in commanding others.'

Leadership demands more than strength—it demands patience, empathy, sacrifice.

'Although I have patience, empathy, and even the will to sacrifice… I seriously lack the social energy required to deal with people day in and day out.'

He sighed, looking down the dizzying height.

Only one way to find out who else is here.

Murphy stepped to the edge of the wall and peered over.

At least a hundred feet to the ground. The surface below was cracked stone and debris. The outer wall itself was almost unnaturally smooth—no handholds, no ledges, no vines.

Climbing down was out of the question.

"Of course," he muttered under his breath, "of course it would be."

And then, as if surrendering to inevitability—

He jumped.

The wind howled past him, his coat flapping wildly.

'I can heal my legs. I can heal my legs. I can heal my legs.'

CRACK.

"…Fuck."

***

After healing his legs with a quiet grimace and a muttered curse, Murphy began to roam the fractured cityscape of the Forgotten Shore. He moved like a ghost, careful not to draw attention from the strange, slumbering horrors that haunted the ruins. Cracked archways, collapsed towers, and narrow alleys whispered tales of long-lost glory and lingering madness.

He kept his distance from the inhabitants—twisted shadows of what might have once been human. Murphy had no intention of drawing their gaze.

'I just need to know if there's anyone else here. A Sleeper. An ally. Anyone.'

But as the hours passed and every ruin he scouted turned up empty, a familiar numbness began to settle in his chest.

'Alone again, huh...'

Just then—BOOM.

The sound tore through the alleyway up ahead—a sharp, resonant burst of power cracked the windows.

Murphy froze.

The echo of that force still vibrated faintly through the stone beneath his boots.

'That wasn't a Sleeper… too dense. Too refined. It's either a Fallen—or a territorial clash between Awakened remnants. But just to be sure…'

He pulled the shadows around him like a cloak and darted forward, careful and silent. His heartbeat steady.

One month.

Murphy burned through a month of his time.

He darted into the alley, golden radiance dripping off him like leaking starlight—too bright, too wrong for a place like this.

There, slumped against a wall smeared with old blood and fresh filth, was a man.

Barely breathing. A human. Chest flat—male, maybe.

But it was hard to tell beneath all the torn flesh.

His face was caved in places. His limbs twisted like snapped branches.

And above him loomed a thing. A troll. Broad-shouldered, swollen with sinew, eyes burning a muted red. Its mace swung lazily, like a butcher hesitating before the final blow.

Murphy felt nothing.

No rage. No pity. Not even surprise.

A quarter of a year.

A blade of burning radiance answered for him. It came down from above like a divine execution—and tore the troll's arm from its socket.

The creature bellowed in confused agony, stumbling back, clutching the ruin that used to be a limb.

And then it saw Murphy. Truly saw him.

And it charged. Not out of bloodlust, but desperation.

Murphy summoned Rengoku in silence. The black blade hissed into his grip, glowing with a muted, eerie warmth—less like a weapon, more like a living judgment.

They met.

The clash was thunder without lightning. Murphy was pushed back three steps. The troll, two.

But something changed. Not in strength. In atmosphere.

The troll blinked. It faltered. It had expected prey. It had found a mirror. And fear—primitive, crawling, deep—began to dig into its bones.

They clashed again. Then again. And again.

Each strike saw the troll yield just a little more. Not because Murphy grew stronger. But because of fear.

That first radiant slash wasn't just to take an arm. It was meant to brand. To curse.

His Attribute—[Terror]—had seeped into the thing. The more it feared him, the duller its edge became. He was already using Karma on both himself and the troll.

Rengoku fed on certainty. The more Murphy believed, the more it sang. He honed his mind using his Karma, carved away doubt, until only one truth remained:

This troll could not defeat him.

That thought became a law. And laws bend the world.

Rengoku howled. One final clash.

The troll raised its mace, limbs trembling. It tried to block. It tried to live.

But the blade did not care.

The blade cut.

And the troll was undone.

Its halves slid apart, lifeless meat thudding against stone.

[You have slain a Fallen Beast: Cursed Troll.]

[You have gained a soul.]

And then the maddening whispers began to rise—a chorus of clawing voices pressing against the walls of his mind.

Murphy, in another moment, might've welcomed them. Another time, he would've stopped to listen, eager to learn from their twisted tales about consequence and cost.

But not now.

He sprinted toward the crumpled figure ahead— a man, or what was left of one. Blood coated him in thick layers. His face was barely a face, sunken and unshaped. His limbs hung like broken branches, too bent to belong to the living.

Murphy knelt beside him without hesitation. He placed a hand on the man's chest.

One month.

A portion of his time—his life—surrendered without fanfare.

The effect was immediate. The air trembled, sacred radiance filled the dark alley.

The man's caved-in features began to lift, bone rising beneath skin with slow, deliberate cracks.

Arms twisted back into place, joints groaning as they returned to their rightful angles.

Flesh, once torn and raw, closed over muscle and sinew like it had never been breached.

It wasn't beautiful. It wasn't clean. But it was healing.

The whispers still howled at the edges of Murphy's thoughts—telling their cursed tale.

He ignored them. He had made his choice. And for now, that was enough.

The young man—No.

The young woman lay unconscious, her body slack from the pain. He only noticed it when the face repaired.

Murphy didn't hesitate. He lifted her gently, carefully, as if afraid the world might break her further. Then he ran—toward what passed for a safe zone in this cursed place.

Whatever safe even meant here.

He scanned the broken skyline, thoughts already calculating, mapping paths from fragmented memory. He remembered where the protagonist lived.

Not far—but not close enough, either.

The Ruined Cathedral. That was the destination.

His pace quickened, breath measured, steps unwavering.

Then, a thought—dry, bitter, unwanted—slipped into his mind:

'I don't want to deal with that bastard.'