Savior in Shadow Slave

This story was… different.

Normally, Murphy would simply hear the murmurs—fragments of memory, stray whispers passed down through one's being. Fleeting, disconnected things.

But this time…he was watching it. Like a dream woven into reality. Vivid. Present. Impossible to look away from.

Suspicion flared. Murphy frowned and tried to suppress the unfolding vision, using his will to shut it down—But nothing happened.

Again, he focused. Forced his mind into discipline. Still nothing.

The story continued, undeterred. Unfolding before his eyes like it had always been there—waiting.

After several more failed attempts to stop it, Murphy finally relented, lips tightening in resignation.

"This… doesn't seem dangerous. Not yet."

So instead of fighting it—He watched. Trying to understand why this time was different.

The streets were gloomy and happy.

Alive and dead. Singular and plural.

As if the very concept of "boundary" had been invented after witnessing this place.

And why wouldn't it be?

This was the threshold—The border between the Realm of Death and the Realm of the Living.

In this forlorn no-man's-land, life still endured. Twisted, weathered, fragmented—But alive.

Three kinds of beings made this strange liminal world their home.

The first were amalgamations—strange fusions of races and forms. Humans. Beasts. And countless others that defied naming. Some were too harrowing to look at; others, too beautiful to be real. These beings did not gather for peace. They gathered for one purpose:

Doom War.

The remanent of the army that Nether used to wage war against Storm God.

The second kind belonged to the Stone Saints. Pitiful, unyielding warriors.

Created to bring peace—Condemned to eternal battle. They never stopped fighting because they were never told how.

And then there were the outcasts. The discarded.

The forgotten remnants of Nether's ambition.

Failed copies of the Stone Saints—Flawed, malformed iterations, prototypes thrown away on the long, cruel path to perfection.

They lived in the Abyss. Between the broken streets and fractured skies.

Still breathing, still aware—Still dreaming of a purpose they never received.

That place…was the Underworld.

And in the Underworld, there stood a palace—No, more a workshop than a royal seat.

A sanctum of creation and defiance. The lair of the greatest builder in the history of existence.

The youngest of the Seven Siblings.

Prince of the Underworld.

A Daemon.

Nether.

A being consumed—by rage and vengeance—by obsession. The obsession to create life from nothing. An act reserved for the Seven Gods themselves.

But Nether did it. He defied the gods in the most natural, unassuming way. Not through blasphemy. But through craft.

He wasn't the first to raise his sword against the divine. But he was the first to make them bleed. The first to unravel their secrets. And the first to question the very fabric of his own existence.

In his palace, Nether sat upon his throne, smiling—A seat carved not from stone or bone, but from possibility. A throne that shifted with every breath of the Underworld.

And yet—Murphy could not see his face.

No matter how hard he tried, no matter how many times he looked—It wouldn't resolve.

Not a man. Not a monster. Not even a god.

Just a presence. A boundless darkness.

An infinite number of choices given form.

Then, a voice—Smooth as shadow.

"Welcome… His Epignoe."

Hearing the voice, Murphy froze—confusion tightening around his thoughts like a vice. He glanced around, half-expecting someone to step into the vision. But… nothing. Just the unfolding memory. Just the empty palace.

"Don't look around like an idiot. I'm talking to you."

The voice cut clean through him—ancient, amused, and impossible to ignore.

Murphy's breath caught. He slowly raised a shaky finger, pointing at himself.

"Me…?"

"Yes, you," the voice replied smoothly.

"The Star that Turned Back."

The title struck him like thunder. His mouth opened—but no words came.

"Before you ask," the voice continued, tone growing sharper,

"How do I know? Why do I know? What am I going to do?—I'll answer."

"My Domain is Choice. I peer into the decisions of every child I've created. And everything—every branch—was visible."

"Except one."

"A path hidden. Not by accident. But by intent. Shrouded. Hated. Feared... by Fate itself."

Murphy's heartbeat thundered in his ears.

"So, I left behind a will. A sliver of myself. A seed of awareness—"

"To see who this wrongness was."

And now, that gaze was resting squarely on him.

"Now that I've looked at you…"

Nether's voice trailed off, laced with both amusement and irritation.

"I still can't see anything."

He leaned forward on his throne—or rather, the shape of him seemed to lean, like shadow thickening.

"As if you're wrapped in something. Completely sealed off. Even from me."

His tone held a note of mock frustration.

"That's rare. Annoying, but rare."

Murphy lowered his gaze slightly, tension prickling down his spine.

"Then… what do you want, my grace?"

Nether scoffed.

"There you go again with the silly questions."

His grin was audible in his voice.

"I don't want anything. I just wanted to talk."

He said it so plainly it somehow unsettled Murphy more than if he'd demanded his soul.

"I can't even see you now," Nether added, eyes glinting like twin dying stars.

"That alone is worth a conversation."

"So, what's your name?"

"Murphy, sir."

"Don't call me sir," Nether said, waving his hand dismissively. "Just the fact that you are his epignoe is enough."

Murphy's brow furrowed. "Who is he, Mr. Nether? The one who even nudged Spell into sending me into that Nightmare... so precisely."

Nether smiled. "You really don't know?"

He leaned forward. "It's obviously □□□ □□ □□□□□□□□□."

The moment the word reached Murphy's ears, pain surged through his skull like a blade of raw lightning. He dropped to his knees, gasping, vision fracturing. Compared to this, the agony of his Rebirth had been a tickle.

Clenching his teeth, voice shaking, he rasped, "What… did you say?"

Nether tilted his head. "□□□, □□□□□□□□, □□□ □ r□□□□□□□□. Are you deaf?"

"I—I can't hear it. Whatever you're saying, I can't hear it."

Nether's smile faded slightly, replaced with mild grimness. "Hmm. Are you bound by the Weaver's little spell?"

"Yes." Murphy's voice was low now, wary. "Is that what's stopping me?"

"Yes. Most likely." Nether's eyes narrowed, flickering with thought. "Not out of protection, mind you. Out of fear. That you'll learn the truth."

Murphy slowly stood up, shoulders tight. "Then… what can I do?"

"Go to her tomb," Nether said simply. "The tomb built by my brother. Arial."

Murphy's heart skipped. "And once I'm there… what must I do?"

And Nether started describing his plan.

"…Forgive me," Murphy said carefully. "But are you insane?"

Nether chuckled, shadows curling around him. "It's the only way. And I suggest you do it… while you're a Transcendent."

"Why?"

"You will know."

"Thank you, Mr. Nether."

The Daemon leaned back into his jagged, obsidian throne. The darkness behind him pulsed like a living heart.

"Now you should go. The story is collapsing around us." He smiled faintly. "I quite liked you, you know. If not for that damned fate, I would've given you the Mantle of the Underworld."

Murphy blinked, surprised. "That's supposed to go to Weaver's pawn… right?"

Nether nodded. "Unfortunately. So, I can't give it to you, even if I want to. I can give you something else, though."

"You've given me enough," Murphy said sincerely. "I don't require anything else."

Nether chuckled, a sound like distant earthquakes. "Don't be like that. Come on—ask me. I'm still a Daemon. I have my pride."

Murphy hesitated for only a moment. "Then… I want to record your ability."

Nether's eyes narrowed with curiosity. "Record?"

Murphy nodded. "I possess an attribute—[Kalpata]. It allows me to record the abilities of others… though the success rate is painfully low."

The Daemon's smile widened, impressed. "Did you create that yourself?"

"Yes. Shaped it from fragments I stole from the Dream."

"…Clever child," Nether mused. "Fine. Go ahead. I'll allow it."

Murphy clenched his fists and breathed deeply.

This was no ordinary being—this was a Daemon, one of the Seven. His ability will be powerful.

And for once, the gate to an impossible power stood ajar.

Murphy took a breath, steadying the pounding in his chest.

To record even a fragment of his power was near-impossible… and yet, Murphy was going to try.

He placed his hand over his heart and activated [Kalpata]. A quiet thrum pulsed through his soul, like a drumbeat only he could hear. Threads of golden light began to pour from his body—streams of will, of memory, of time—reaching toward Nether.

The light touched the Daemon.

And recoiled.

Like ants crawling over a bonfire, the threads withered. One by one, they burned away, disintegrating before they could bind to anything.

Murphy fell to one knee. Blood leaked from his nose. His fingertips went numb.

It wasn't working.

His soul was trembling under the strain. His gift was failing.

"No..." he whispered, trembling. "Not now. Not here..."

And then—he reached deeper.

Into the place inside him where his time was stored.

And sacrificed two full years.

And used [Kalpata]'s radiance to amplify it.

Suddenly, the golden light flared brighter, fiercer. The threads reformed, wild and uncontrolled, then surged forward again—this time forcing their way into Nether's form.

The Daemon tilted his head, amused.

"You're more stubborn than I expected," Nether said, his voice low and almost fond.

Murphy didn't respond. He was too focused, pouring everything he had into the connection. His body was breaking. His lungs burned. His heartbeat stuttered—but still, he didn't let go.

And then—something shifted.

The resistance vanished.

The threads didn't just touch Nether now.

They sank in.

Murphy collapsed to his hands, gasping, as something vast and impossible settled inside him. A quiet, cold weight—a power that didn't shine, didn't burn—it simply waited, timeless and quiet like the silence before a storm.

Nether let out a small laugh. "You actually did it."

Murphy looked up, blood drying on his face. "What… was that?"

"The ability I forged to bolt the light," Nether said softly. "It draws upon your own elements to manifest—so its form will differ with each bearer. For you, it should be… most useful, right now."

Murphy's fingers curled around the dirt, grounding himself as the sensation of something ancient took root in his soul.

"What does it do?" he asked, voice rough.

Nether smiled.

"You'll have to experiment. That's part of the fun, isn't it?" He leaned back on his collapsing throne. "Also, as a bonus… I made it permanent."

The palace around them began to unravel.

Not even giving time to register the last part into Murphy's mind.

Walls of bone and obsidian shattered like glass. The swirling edge of the Underworld peeled away into nothing, like a painting scorched by flame.

Nether's voice echoed one last time, distant yet resounding:

"Go, his Epignoe. Go rewrite the predetermined story."

Murphy woke with a sharp breath.

The world was quiet.

[You have gained an Attribute.]

His fingertips tingled faintly. 

'He really made it permanent.'