Savior in Shadow Slave

Within the twisted alleys of the Dark City, a swift shadow slipped through the gloom—silent, unseen, deliberate.

Murphy moved like a ghost, every step calculated to avoid the monsters that hunted by sound, smell, or worse. His senses stretched in all directions, but nothing useful had shown up yet.

His jaw clenched.

"Where the hell are the defensive types hiding?" he muttered under his breath.

Today's objective was clear: scavenge some food and track down high-defense creatures. He needed these creatures for some memories something to keep Akame alive a little longer.

But so far? Nothing.

'Just where are those bastards when I actually need them?'

He ducked beneath a collapsed archway and scaled a broken drainpipe, eyes scanning the rooftops and alley ends.

'So far I've only confirmed twelve possible locations.'

His frustration was mounting. Every second wasted was another second the city might swallow him... or draw something worse to their doorstep.

He needed results.

Fast.

After roaming for half the day, Murphy returned—dust-covered, sweat-soaked, and breathless.

Still, there was a faint light in his eyes.

"Fifteen possible locations," he muttered to himself as he stepped into the ruined cathedral.

Akame was in the corner, practicing with the battered training sword he'd given her.

Murphy didn't waste a second.

"How's it going? Have you swung it ten thousand times like I told you?"

Akame glanced over, her expression neutral.

"Yes, Murphy. Though… I'll be honest, I don't really feel any different. It doesn't feel productive."

Murphy exhaled and dropped onto a half-collapsed bench.

"Of course you don't."

He reached for his water flask, took a sip, and then gestured vaguely toward her hands.

"What I'm doing is building your muscle memory. Combat is always split in two parts—body and mind."

Akame tilted her head.

"Mind?"

He nodded.

"Yes. The body handles what you've trained for. But the mind—"

He pointed to his temple.

"—that's where most die. What should I do? How did he move like that? Am I doing this right? Should I dodge or block?"

"All those questions flood your brain during battle—especially for beginners. And by the time you answer them…"

He drew an invisible line across his neck.

Akame stared at him for a moment, then looked back at the sword in her hand.

"…So I have to make it automatic."

Murphy gave her a small nod, impressed.

"Exactly. The more your body remembers, the less your mind has to think. The less you think, the longer you live."

"Got it!" Akame said, gripping the sword tighter.

Murphy nodded, but his expression remained sharp.

"Listen. With your [Weapon Prodigy] Attribute, you can pick up any weapon and learn it fast—but that's not enough. It won't train your mind."

She raised an eyebrow.

"What do you mean?"

"You need to start seeing everything—everyone—as a potential threat."

He leaned forward, voice low.

"Learn to imagine a thousand ways to kill anyone you meet. Friend, foe, stranger. And do it while keeping the friendliest face possible."

Akame blinked.

"That sounds… like I'm becoming a psychopath."

Murphy cracked a tired smile.

"Who isn't, in this godforsaken realm?"

He gestured vaguely to the broken cathedral walls, to the city beyond.

"Being able to control ourselves here—that's already a miracle."

Akame didn't argue. She simply nodded, the weight of it slowly sinking in.

"Fair enough," she muttered.

"So... how do I even start doing that?"

Murphy's eyes narrowed, calculating.

"Tell me," Murphy said, gaze fixed on her, "what's the essence of combat?"

Akame fell silent, brow furrowing. She chewed on the question, trying to dig deeper than just the obvious.

Finally, she answered.

"Endurance."

Murphy raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Endurance?"

He leaned forward, folding his arms.

"Care to explain?"

Akame nodded slowly, gathering her thoughts.

"It's not about who's stronger or faster. Not really. It's about who lasts longer. Who holds on past the point of breaking. Pain, fatigue, fear—they're constant. You can't avoid them. But if you can endure longer than your enemy, you win. Or at least… you survive."

Murphy regarded her for a moment, the smile fading into something more thoughtful. He nodded once.

"Not bad," he said quietly.

"You're not wrong. Endurance isn't just about the body—it's about keeping the will to kill when everything in you is begging to run."

He tilted his head.

"But remember, enduring isn't the same as freezing. It's not standing still. It's moving forward even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts."

Akame took a deep breath and looked down at her sword again.

"Then I'll learn to endure better."

Murphy smirked faintly.

"Good. Because in this place? The ones who last the longest are the ones who endure and adapt better."

And so, two weeks slipped by.

Murphy hunted relentlessly—every day, every night—never missing a cycle. His targets were mostly Fallen Beasts, chosen not just for the richness of their essence, but because they swarmed the city in staggering numbers. He harvested between three to four soul cores a day, each hunt carved out of blood, sweat, and calculated violence.

His soul corner now brimmed with a growing harvest:

[96 Souls]

And yet, despite the effort, the Spell remained silent—offering no Memories, no Echoes.

Murphy wasn't surprised anymore. It seemed the Spell had no intention of handing him any extra power.

During this time, he'd also grown better at handling his own flaw. The maddening whispers, once constant and debilitating after each kill, could now be silenced—suppressed—for nearly an hour. A small victory, but a meaningful one. Enough to think clearly when it mattered most.

Akame, meanwhile, was evolving.

Under Murphy's harsh regimen, she grew fast—faster than most. Her grip had steadied. Her steps had found rhythm. Her strikes, once clumsy, now bore intent. Though far from a master, she could wield a sword with about 20% efficiency… and more importantly, she'd started thinking like a fighter.

Watching her progress sparked something in Murphy, something dangerously close to hope.

So, when he wasn't hunting or scouting, he delved deeper into the Art of Sacrifice. Not in practice—he couldn't afford the time cost just yet—but in thought, in theory. He mapped every possible application, every hypothetical scenario, drilling strategies into his mind like mantras.

The dream realm was sharpening them both.

And something was coming.

He could feel it in the silence between the whispers.

***

"Today," Murphy whispered, "is the day our dear Akame takes her first step into battle. Unless, of course, we count that glorious one-sided slaughter with the Troll—which, as you all know, was brought down by the ever-handsome and immensely powerful Murphy."

"Stop that!" Akame snapped through clenched teeth. "I'm already tense!"

Murphy smirked, crouched atop a jagged wall, eyes narrowed at the alley below. Beside him, Akame gripped her sword tightly. Her breathing was steady—but just barely. Tension coiled in her muscles like a spring waiting to snap.

"Target's just ahead," he whispered, voice low and precise.

Down in the street, a grotesque silhouette lumbered through broken stone. This was an Awakened Beast—its grotesquely bloated frame heaved with wet, gurgling breath. Chitinous plating lined its arms and spine like overlapping tombstones. One mutated limb dragged behind it like a flesh-wrapped club, while the other ended in a grotesque, malformed shield-arm. A single eye pulsed with a sickly red glow, oozing dark fluid.

"It's slow," Murphy said, "but not stupid. Brutal. You've got one shot at setting the pace. Pressure it—don't let it think. And remember… I'll only interfere if you're dying."

Akame swallowed hard and nodded, jaw clenched with determination.

"No matter what happens," she whispered, "don't step in unless it's fatal. I need this."

Murphy gave a rare, silent nod.

She dropped silently from the ledge, hitting the stone below with a muted crunch.

The monster turned, nostrils flaring. For a second, the alley was still.

Then it screamed—a shrill, liquid howl—and charged.

Akame didn't wait.

She dashed forward, slashing at its arm. Her blade sparked off hardened plating. The beast reacted instantly, swinging its club-arm in a deadly arc that shattered stone and sent debris flying.

Akame ducked low and retaliated with a fast upward slice across the exposed thigh. It bled thick, black ichor—but not deep enough.

The creature roared and lunged. Akame blocked, the impact snapping her arms backward—she skidded on her heels, boots scraping blood-streaked stone. But not before giving back twice as damage as the attack.

Murphy watched from above, eyes like razors, his fingers hovering near Rengoku's hilt.

'Not yet.'

Akame was panting now, blood dribbling from a gash across her temple. The monster swung again, and she barely dodged, its claws raking across her shoulder. Flesh tore open. Pain lanced through her.

She didn't scream.

Endure.

That's what she said. That's what she believed.

She circled, eyes locked on the beast. She moved faster now, ducking low, slashing for joints and soft tissue. She struck its wrist—part of the malformed shield-arm—and sliced deep enough to expose wet bone.

The creature shrieked and backhanded her into a wall.

Crack.

She fell. But got up. Sword still in hand.

Blood dripping freely down her face and chest, pooling at her boots.

Then the moment came.

The monster's leg faltered—one foot dragged too wide. An opening.

She lunged.

One step. Two.

And drove her sword deep into the monster's inner thigh, right beneath the carapace. The blade pierced flesh and ripped upward—a geyser of black blood sprayed into her face. The beast bellowed, its eye wide with mindless agony.

Murphy stood.

Still didn't move.

Akame climbed up its back as it buckled, pulling her sword free with a wet shhhck! and slamming it down again—this time across the neck.

Once. Twice.

Crack.

Split.

The monster fell, twitching violently, then slumped into a steaming, leaking pile of twisted limbs and gore.

For a moment, the alley was silent again.

Only the sound of Akame's ragged breathing filled the void.

Murphy dropped down behind her, boots crunching on bone fragments and cracked tile.

She was shaking, dripping with black-red blood, both her own and the monster's.

"You survived," he said flatly, though something flickered in his voice.

Akame coughed, wiped her face with the back of her arm, smearing gore.

"Barely."

Murphy stepped past the corpse, placed Rengoku against its chest, and extracted the pulsing Soul Core. The flesh around it hissed and shriveled.

He tossed the Core to her while using his time to heal her wounds.

"Your first Awakened kill. Keep it. You earned it."

Then, grinning faintly:

"Ah… they grow up so fast. I'm getting emotional."

Akame let out a breathless laugh and caught the Core in her trembling hands.

It was warm. Beating faintly. Heavy with essence.

And for the first time… she felt it.

Not like prey. Not a victim.

She was a hunter now—blood-soaked, battered, but unbroken.

"But don't get too comfortable," Murphy said, his voice low. "Your little warm-up attracted attention. An Awakened Demon's closing in—fast. Probably caught wind of the blood."

Akame's breath hitched, but she didn't panic. Instead, she looked at him with a tired grin, streaks of blood still smeared across her cheek.

"Please deal with it, oh ever-handsome and ever-elegant Murphy."

Murphy gave her a long, unreadable stare.

Then sighed.

"Fine."

Two weeks.

[Rengoku] stirred in his hand, its blade glowing with a pale golden radiance.

A sound tore through the alley—a shriek like rusted steel grinding through wet flesh.

And then it appeared.

The Crimson Ghost—a half-formed blur of twitching limbs, its skin stretched tight over unnatural bone, its face a mass of writhing crimson veins. Its presence bled pressure, and the very stones beneath it began to hum with residual essence.

Murphy didn't wait.

He rushed forward, boots hammering stone, sword low. A single fluid strike.

The demon tried to block, raising an armored limb—but too slow.

Rengoku sang.

And in a blink, the Crimson Ghost was split in two.

Its body fell apart like wet paper—sizzling and collapsing into a heap of gore.

[You have slain an Awakened Demon, Crimson Ghost.]

[You have gained 3 Souls.]

[Total Souls: 99]

Murphy exhaled slowly.

No flourish. No theatrics.

He could have toyed with it. Drawn it out. But time was precious—and noise invited death.

Definitely not because he had to maintain the image of an untouchable war god in front of a certain student.

Definitely not.

He turned back to Akame and flicked the blood off Rengoku with a lazy motion.

"Let's move before something worse shows up."

Akame smiled faintly, not quite hiding her awe.

Murphy, of course, pretended not to notice.