Savior in Shadow Slave

[THIS CHAPTER POSSESSES SOME SCENES THAT MAY BE UNSETTLING TO SOME READERS. SO READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.]

Murphy stepped out of his dream—and what he saw made his blood run cold.

A gigantic monster towered before him, burning everything in sight. Its mane was made of scorching flames that seemed to warp and sear space itself.

A Great Abomination.

Scared shitless by the monstrous horror, Murphy ran without looking back. But what he forgot was this: in this world, some creatures could sense a gaze. And nothing was more enticing to a Great Abomination than a soul burning with the Ember of Divinity.

And so, Murphy died for the first time—devoured by the Great Abomination.

***

Murphy opened his eyes in the darkness and sat up, throwing the blanket aside.

He gasped and stared at his chest, then touched it with a trembling hand—surprised.

Wasn't he eaten by a Great Abomination?

How was he still alive?

And why did his hand feel so frail, his body so drained of strength?

It was as if he had become old...

But hadn't he already been over a hundred years old?

He struggled to rise, joints stiff with time. Slowly, patiently, he massaged them until a bit of flexibility returned. Then he stood, closed his eyes, and listened to the soft chaos of the garden—wild and untended, left behind by his dead wife.

Wait... when did I get married?

"Ah... being old is no fun," he muttered.

Even his memory was rusting. According to an Awakened doctor, he could live at least ten more years. But how much would he forget by then?

One thing he never forgot—visiting his wife's grave. She died while giving birth to their twin son and daughter. He'd sit there and talk for hours, telling her stories from his long life. Some exaggerated, some toned down. It was a ritual. A comfort.

How could he forget that?

Today, for some reason, he decided to visit his remaining acquaintances. Not many were left. After all, he had lived more than a century. But at least he could see his grandchildren—they were already over fifty now.

After visiting everyone, he returned to her grave. He sat beside it, speaking softly—recounting another chapter of his life. Some stories she knew. Others she didn't. But today was different.

Today, he had nothing left to tell her.

This was the last story.

As the sky dimmed and night embraced the world, he remained there—unable to pull himself away. Afraid she might feel lonely, he lay down beside her, a soft smile on his face.

When the gravekeeper came for her usual round the next morning, she found Murphy seated peacefully beside his wife's grave.

Worried he might catch cold, she approached and gently nudged him.

But his body was already cold.

He was gone.

And so, Murphy died a second time—longing for and missing his dead wife.

It was a sweet and pleasant death.

***

Pain. Pain. Pain...

Unrelenting, suffocating pain.

His—no, her?—entire being was immersed in agony.

Wait... was Murphy a he or a she? The memory slipped away like mist. But considering the weight pressing on her chest and the emptiness below, it seemed... she was a woman now.

Murphy couldn't open her eyes—they were sewn shut with something sharp and cruel. But even if she could, all she'd see would be the stone walls of a dark dungeon, and the vague red glow of a torture device. Her body was bound to something hard and jagged, pain shooting through her limbs with every shallow breath.

Her nails were gone.

Her bones—shattered and twisted into unnatural shapes.

Her legs—pinned to the floor by something she couldn't name.

While she was feeling something between the legs not externally but internally something was squirming inside her both in her sexual area and her excretion area, this feeling was giving her unimaginable pleasure and she was sincerely wishing her god that this moment never stopped. Just then, something coming out of her sexual area, something wet and slimy. She didn't know how many times it had happened already, she had already stopped counting after hundred. Now that she noticed something was sucking and fondling her on the tip of her chest. Honestly speaking, this feeling was euphoric and extremely pleasurable.

Then it stopped.

"You seem to be enjoying this... witch," came a raspy voice from the shadows.

Murphy's heart froze.

That voice—familiar, cruel.

It was her grandfather. Head Elder Alex.

"If you don't want the pleasure to stop," he said coldly, "tell me why a cursed priest of Weaver like you is here. And what that book was—the one filled with impossible lines drawn in three dimensions."

"I-I don't know…" she whispered, voice trembling.

"Liar. Speak, or I end this now."

"No! Please… don't!"

"Then talk."

"...umm"

"So I should end this, huh."

"It—it was a weave!! A weave!! For an enchanted weapon. One that can wield knowledge…"

"What kind of knowledge?"

"I don't know! It was something our god asked us to do saying it would reach the one it was supposed to reach. If we understood the will of the gods, we'd be gods!"

Alex's face darkened. In a rage, he struck her with his staff—but instead of pain, her broken body shuddered with something else. Pleasure. Frustrated, he struck again. And again. But the reaction never changed. Only more pleasure.

Disgusted and defeated, he turned away and spoke to the senior torturer nearby.

"How much stimulant did you use?"

"Enough to overwhelm a beast for over a year," the torturer replied calmly. "With added sorcery that inverts sensation."

Alex stared for a long moment, then sighed. "Of course."

The torturer stepped forward asked.

"Can me and my lackeys proceed with the next phase?"

His voice filled with lecherousness.

Alex didn't respond. He simply walked away.

After that Murphy was ravaged and stimulated by torturer and his lackeys again and again. This continued for more than a week. Finally on the 9th day, Murphy's mind faded again.

And so, Murphy died for the seventh time—her identity fractured, her body lost, her spirit broken by something that blurred the line between pain and pleasure.

It was a humiliating and confusing end... unworthy of a priestess of Weaver.

***

Pain. Sharp. Deep. Again. And again.

Murphy's body convulsed with every stab, but he didn't scream anymore. His voice had long since abandoned him. What remained was breathless sobbing—dry and hollow, like wind scraping through an abandoned ruin.

He didn't remember how he got here. Only that he had awoken in a cave, hands and feet bound, chest bleeding, mind unraveling.

He didn't even know who he was anymore.

Was he Murphy?

Was he a he?

Or was he a she?

His body now said "man"—the softness of his chest was gone, his limbs hardened. But his memories whispered otherwise. Faint echoes of cathedral halls, of being trapped in a dungeon with pleasure coursing through his body, and a puddle formed from piss and other unspeakable fluids reflecting a girl's face. And yet, here he was—male, broken, and bleeding.

"Exhausted, aren't we?" came a voice from the dark.

Murphy jerked his head weakly toward it. The torches didn't illuminate the speaker, but the voice... the voice was unmistakable. His archnemesis. The 32nd Head Elder of the village—Maxwell. His brother.

Or... was he?

"Tell me how life is treating you, traitor," the voice sneered. "I'm very interested. You know how benevolent I am."

"Wonderful," Murphy muttered. "I got plenty of exercise running for my life."

Maxwell stepped forward at last, his face veiled in shadows, but his hands gleaming—metal in one, blood in the other. In his grip was a ritual blade, thin and curved like a crescent moon, its color the deep crimson of dried blood.

He raised it slowly.

"Don't be cocky, bastard," he growled. "Tell me what you hid in the basement of the temple, mongrel. And where the key is."

"Promise me, brother— you won't let this information leak, and you'll never open the gate. Only then will I tell you. What I have buried is most dreadful and gut wrenching history of the village before 2nd Elder's time."

"Hmm. Okay, I won't."

He smiled faintly, mentally sneering at Murphy's foolishness.

"Take two steps back."

Maxwell obeyed, retreating roughly two meters.

Murphy, bloodied but steady, began inscribing a sorcerous glyph with his fingertip in the air. A ripple spread through space—and a book appeared from thin air.

He grasped it, scanned the contents quickly, and nodded to himself.

Then he looked at his brother—

STAB.

The blade plunged into Murphy's side.

Then his chest.

Then his stomach.

And finally—his skull.

Murphy didn't flinch. Not out of courage, but because his body had already accepted the end.

Each stab brought not just pain, but clarity. A flash of something—runes, a name not meant for mortal tongues. With every wound, more of it poured into his mind like boiling ink.

His breath hitched.

The world tilted.

And just before everything went dark, he saw his own hands—not bound, not bloody, but glowing. Ancient symbols swirled at the tips of his fingers like threads of fate.

And so, Murphy died a 113th time—stabbed by his own brother.

But not before giving him the key.

To himself.

And to the village's doom.