Savior in Shadow Slave

Murphy knelt beside her.

The room was still, the distant echoes of the cathedral quiet now—no whispers, no footsteps, only the soft breath of the unconscious woman.

He extended his hand slowly, hesitantly, and placed it gently on her head.

A faint pulse of warmth met his palm—faint but alive.

Murphy hesitated. Not out of fear, but... something quieter.

Guilt. Curiosity. Excitement.

"It's my first time looking directly into someone's mind," he murmured, half to her, half to himself.

His fingers tightened just slightly.

"I just hope this doesn't go wrong..."

"Also—sorry in advance for prying into your secrets."

It wasn't like Murphy was doing this to take advantage of her. Far from it.

This wasn't curiosity. This was caution. Necessary caution.

The sheer force released during the clash between the Cursed Troll and this woman had left clear marks on the surroundings.

It hadn't felt like an accident.

It had felt like a battle between two Awakened creatures or even fallen ones.

And that changes things.

He couldn't afford to blindly trust someone capable of that much destruction. Not when she could wake up and, in a moment of panic or confusion, harm him before he could react.

"I can't have someone like that by my side," he muttered, almost defensively, "not without knowing what's hidden behind her eyes."

He wasn't judging her. But he would not gamble with his life.

Not here. Not in a city where a single mistake could get him devoured.

'But aren't I becoming way too paranoid towards this lady?'

Shaking of this thought.

He exhaled. Then reached inward.

Not with hands. But with will.

As Murphy reached deeper, the air grew heavy with memory. Raw, unfiltered, and painfully human.

The world blurred. The priestess's room faded.

And then—Her past.

A cramped kitchen. Flickering lights.

A young girl sat at the table, too still for her age. In front of her: a cracked bowl of cold rice, barely touched.

Behind her, muffled voices fought through the paper-thin walls. A woman shouting. A man too tired to care.

She flinched at the sound of a plate breaking. Then slowly—almost guiltily—took another spoonful of rice.

She didn't cry. She was used to it.

The memory shifted.

Now she stood in the rain. School uniform soaked. People passed her on the sidewalk, umbrellas angled away.

She wasn't waiting for a ride. There was no one coming.

She just hadn't wanted to go home yet. So, she stood there. Counting raindrops.

As if standing still could delay the inevitable.

A bedroom now. Sparse.

A mattress on the floor. Garbage lying across the room.

She lay curled up under a too-thin blanket, staring at a crack in the ceiling as sirens wailed somewhere distant.

The communicator buzzed beside her. She didn't check it.

Not because she didn't care—but because she knew it was another apology that wouldn't mean anything.

She closed her eyes. And pretended the ceiling crack was a star. And in that moment—she slipped into her First Nightmare.

It was a normal Nightmare. Just a dirt road. A worn-out caravan surrounded by wilderness.

She stood beside it, armed with a dull sword and a simple shield—both far too heavy for her small frame.

The wind carried the scent of something wrong. Moments later, the first Dormant Beast emerged from the trees—spine twisted, flesh hanging loose like wet cloth.

Then came the second. And third.

They attacked without hesitation. And she stood between them and the caravan.

Not out of duty. Not out of courage. But because she had nowhere else to run.

She fought. And she bled. And she won.

When she returned to the world of waking flesh, the Spell granted its judgment:

An Awakened Aspect, named [Aegis].

It allowed her to counterattack physical strikes—sending back twice the force of any blow she received. But only by taking the hit. Fully.

Her dormant ability was simply this: Endure. And make it hurt to try again.

A brutal blessing.

And then came the flaw.

"I must say," he murmured aloud, pulling his hand away,

"it's just as bad as Anvil's. If not worse."

He sat back on his heels, breath steady now.

'Now, his paranoia makes sense.'

Quite a mundane life.

No grand destiny. No ancient bloodline. Just a girl—scraping by in silence, building strength in the cracks no one saw.

A life carved quietly by pain—and endured.

That was the difference. She hadn't broken. She'd endured.

He looked at her again. Still unconscious.

But now her face was different—relaxed, unburdened. Peaceful, for the first time since he had found her in that alley of blood.

Murphy gave a quiet exhale.

"Maybe she's not just dangerous."

"Maybe she's worth trusting. At least a little."

Someone like her wouldn't crack easily. And in a world like this, maybe that was the rarest strength of all.

Murphy walked to the window. The first light of dawn was cresting the horizon, painting the ruined skyline in hues of muted gold and ash.

The Dark City never looked peaceful—but for a moment, it looked still.

He stood there for a while, letting the silence settle again.

Then he turned to glance back at her—the girl who had survived more than anyone had a right to, and still hadn't broken.

Her chest rose and fell steadily beneath the worn blanket. The shadows on her face had softened in sleep.

Murphy's voice was low. Barely above a whisper.

"I respect you, Akame."

It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't earned with grandeur.

Just a truth—spoken in the quiet, as the sun rose over a city still drowning in darkness.

'I should go and procure some food.'

Walking across the beams of the cathedral, he approached the hole in the roof and climbed through it.

***

Murphy moved through the ruined city like a shadow, footsteps muffled, body low. His senses were stretched outward—hyperaware of every shift in air.

And then he saw it.

Lumbering slowly down a narrow, debris-strewn alley was a meaty, round figure. Its legs were thick and stubby, but each step landed with surprising weight. Its arms were short and malformed, ending in thick, hooked claws caked with dried gore. But the worst part—was its head.

Or rather, the absence of one.

There was nothing atop its shoulders. Instead, a gaping, jagged mouth yawned open across its stomach, lined with rows of razor-sharp fangs, wet with spit and stained dark red.

Murphy crouched behind a crumbling wall, watching it lumber forward. This was his target. His prey.

He couldn't say with absolute certainty whether it was an Awakened Demon, but judging by its aura and the sickly pressure it exuded, it was dangerous enough to be worth the effort.

Still—he wasn't worried.

This one was a City Dweller.

And City Dwellers, while physically powerful and often grotesquely mutated, had a crucial flaw:

low intelligence.

Unlike Foreigners, who had migrated into the Dark City from across the Forgotten Shore and operated with a cold, predatory cunning, City Dwellers were either twisted remnants of what had once been human—or else created by human hands.

Broken minds. Simple instincts. Predictable movements.

That made them dangerous… but also manageable.

Especially for someone like Murphy.

'I have no doubt I can kill it in one strike.'

He gripped Rengoku lightly, its dormant heat pulsing faintly beneath his fingers.

He waited. Watching. Calculating. And then—he moved.

Murphy moved. A silent blur across broken stone.

The creature didn't even sense him. By the time it began to turn, claws twitching—Rengoku was already drawn.

A single arc of burning steel carved through the air—and the monster's body.

There was no roar. No shriek. Just a wet, collapsing sound as its round mass split cleanly in two,

its stomach-mouth still gaping mid-snarl.

The body twitched once. Then went still.

[You have slain an Awakened Demon, Flesh Fiend.]

[You have gained 3 Souls.]

[45 Souls]

And maddening whispers assaulted him again.

'I am really start to hate this feeling.'

Murphy waited a few seconds more, scanning for movement—other eyes, other hunters. Nothing stirred. He stepped out from the shadows and approached the corpse.

The stench was thick—hot blood, bile, something chemical just beneath the rot. But he'd smelled worse.

He knelt beside the carcass and placed a hand just above the stomach-mouth, making sure it was truly dead. The flesh was already cooling.

"Disgusting anatomy," he muttered, "but meat's still meat."

He drove the blade in with practiced care, slicing beneath the thick hide—avoiding the bile sac, avoiding the gland cluster, harvesting only what wouldn't kill him later.

The creature's muscles, despite the grotesque form, were dense and nutritious.

Corrupted, yes—but not entirely toxic.

He worked quickly, wrapping cuts of meat in cloth taken from the priestess's wardrobe earlier.

Enough for at least three days. If he and Akame stretched it.

He stood, wiped the blade clean on a rag, and gave the twitching jaw of the corpse one last glance.

"I really shouldn't waste food."

Then he turned, and vanished into the broken city once more.

When Murphy returned to the cathedral, the air inside had changed.

Akame was awake.

She stood near the corner of the room, chest rising quickly, eyes darting from wall to wall.

She looked ready to bolt, fists clenched, panic trembling just beneath the surface.

Murphy set the wrapped bundle of meat down quietly and said,

"Don't make so much noise. You'll expose us to our neighbor."

Her head snapped toward him—and for a split second, she just stared.

Her breath caught in her throat. Eyes wide, unblinking. Not in fear—but something closer to disbelief.

Like she'd just seen something that should belong in a fairy tale.

Then, like a curtain being drawn, her expression hardened again.

"Who are you?" she asked, voice sharp.

"Are you… an Awakened? Or maybe an Ascended?"

Her gaze was cold and calculating—but beneath it, Murphy saw the edges of her flaw working.

He lifted both hands casually.

"No. I'm not an Awakened. And I'm definitely not an Ascended."

She narrowed her eyes.

"Then… your mentor? A family member? Someone close to you—are they?"

Murphy shook his head.

"No mentor. No family. No hidden benefactor."

Akame opened her mouth again, something forming behind her guarded posture—

"Then is it—"

"First, sit down."

His tone shifted. Not aggressive. Just firm.

"Listen."

She hesitated—then obeyed. Warily.

Murphy sat opposite her and began, tone flat, deliberate.

"There are no Awakened, no Ascended, no humans here except us."

"We're in an unexplored region of the Dream Realm. No maps. No conquered gateways. No help."

"No one's coming to save us."

He let that settle. Watched her eyes shift. Watched the wall around her tighten.

Then added,

"Third—and I'm only saying this once—I'm the one who saved you."

"At least try to be a little grateful."

Akame didn't flinch. Her expression didn't soften. If anything, it hardened.

"How can I trust you?" she asked, flatly.

Murphy didn't react. Not immediately. He just tilted his head, studied her, then spoke—quiet, clipped.

"Go to the window."

"Look at the landscape. You'll understand."

Akame hesitated, her jaw tight. Then she turned and walked slowly to the shattered window.

She looked outside.

Her shoulders visibly stiffened.

She didn't respond right away. But something in her jaw eased, just slightly.

A heartbeat passed between them. Not trust. But the beginning of something close.

Survival, maybe.

And that would have to be enough.

Akame remained by the window for a moment longer, then turned, her expression unreadable.

"So… who are you, Mr. Saviour?"

Murphy gave a half-smile as he leaned back against the wall, eyes half-lidded, voice dry.

"Murphy."

He tilted his head slightly. "And you, Ms. Damsel in Distress?"

She scoffed faintly, but didn't argue.

"Akame."

For a moment, it was just two exhausted teenagers trading sarcasm in the aftermath of nightmares.

But fate was already watching. And the world, ever hungry for meaning, would later write this moment differently.

It would call this the first meeting between the God and His Guardian Angel.