Savior in Shadow Slave

Atop the statue of a headless knight sat a lone figure.

A man.

Tall and lean, clad in battered armor that looked like it had weathered a hundred wars. Every plate was bruised, cracked, or darkened with dried blood. He looked no older than seventeen.

Yet his eyes—those tired, hollow eyes—held the weight of sins too old for his face. Like he had seen every cruelty the world could offer and carried them in silence.

But he wasn't idle.

Perched high above the broken statue, he scanned the horizon. Watching. Waiting.

The wind tugged at his cloak, but he remained unmoved, a solemn sentinel on the crumbling monument.

The world below had not yet noticed him. But he saw everything.

That man—was Lucas.

Murphy's old academy buddy.

The only friend he'd had, besides Akame.

He was supposed to have been thrown into the Labyrinth below—left to die. But Lucas survived. Not through brute strength, but through precision, patience, and terrifyingly sharp instincts. His scouting skills were exceptional—rivaling even Awakened humans.

In the shadows of the Labyrinth, he learned fast.

Any time he spotted an injured or isolated Carapace Scavenger, he struck with ruthless efficiency. But if there were two? He vanished without a trace.

On his first day here, though… he nearly died. Not by claw or fang—but by drowning.

He hadn't known the Labyrinth would be filled with the Dark Sea. There were no warnings. Just water. Endless, rising black water.

He would've drowned, too—if not for them.

He remembered the moment clearly. Every Carapace Scavenger he saw—dozens of them—had started scurrying in every direction, frenzied. Even the larger ones, the ones as big as house, ran as if something monstrous was coming.

And so Lucas ran too.

Desperation led him to the statue. A massive, forgotten monument. A headless knight carved in obsidian stone. Something about it made the monsters veer away, never climbing it, never even looking up.

At first, Lucas thought it must be cursed. Maybe some profane lord slept here. But when he climbed to the top—panting, soaked, barely alive—he found no curse. No monsters. No trap.

Just stillness. And a view.

From that moment on, it became his haven. His tower. His perch above the madness.

And now, seated atop the headless knight, he kept watch—silent and sharp-eyed—scanning the labyrinth for any sign of human life. Or danger.

"I could keep living here," Lucas murmured to himself. "There's food. There's water. There's a safe haven to return to."

It wasn't a lie. He had shelter atop the headless knight, scavenged supplies, and learned the patterns of the monsters below. It was survival—clean, efficient, and quiet.

But who would choose to stay in a place like this?

Only two kinds of people would—Those who've lost all hope. Or those with a screw loose.

Lucas was neither. Not yet, anyway.

He stood, his eyes scanning the horizon once more. He knew these paths now—he'd mapped nearly 10 Km in every direction from the statue. Every ambush zone. Every carcass. Every creaking stone.

And he knew the location of the next high ground.

That's where he would go tomorrow.

Because if he stayed still too long, he knew—he might start calling this place home. And that was something far worse than death.

***

The next morning, Lucas adjusted the straps of his battered armour and descended from the statue of the headless knight. The early light filtering down and gave the wet stone floor a sickly grey hue.

His goal was clear: reach the next vantage point, a sharp outcrop of rock protruding from the ground nearly 6 Km away. It would give him a clear look at the deeper parts of the Labyrinth, and more importantly, a better route forward.

He moved with careful steps, silent as shadow. Every movement was calculated. He stopped often, crouching, listening—not for silence, but for breaks in it.

About two hours into the journey, Lucas spotted the ridge ahead. It was about as high as the headless knight statue and was quite steep.

'Thank god, I learned wilderness survival due to Murphy. I wonder where he is. I just hope he is not in a hellhole like this.'

He reached the ridge.

And there it was. A cave.

And inside the cave something he didn't wish to meet.

A towering silhouette—standing at least four meters tall, plated in crimson and blackened chitin, its back lined with crooked, serrated blades. It stood still, like a statue carved from rot. A Carapace Centurion.

"Of course you'd be here," he whispered to himself. "What's a climb without a goddamn dragon at the top?"

Unlike its scavenger cousins, this one bore a sense of brutal hierarchy. Most likely a monster. It held a massive carapace shield fused into one arm, and a jagged, spear-like limb for the other. Its head twitched ever so slightly, scanning.

Lucas froze.

One wrong step, and it would be over. This wasn't a creature he could take down without a proper plan. Not with just a spear and a few poisons.

His breathing slowed. His fingers tightened on the hilt of his blade. After a long second, he decided to go back.

But just then, The Carapace Centurion tilted its head.

Lucas didn't move.

Its hollow gaze fixed on the outcrop. A moment later, it shifted—not walked, not charged, but moved with a predatory snap of its limbs, crossing half the distance in seconds.

"Shit."

Lucas dove.

The spear-arm slammed into the ridge just where he'd stood, shattering the stone. Pebbles and dust rained down as he tumbled into a lower slope, rolling hard but catching himself mid-fall. He darted behind a crooked wall of bone-like rock, his breath sharp in his throat.

The Centurion let out a low, grinding hiss that reverberated. It was hunting now.

Lucas gritted his teeth. He didn't have time for fear. But strategy? That was fading fast.

'Damn it, I was thinking of using these on Awakened Demon that stays in the labyrinth and set it aflame for Dark Sea to finish out.'

He lit and threw a vial—contained the oil from centipede monsters—and darted left, hoping to slip through a narrow crack between two broken walls.

When the Centurion got hit by the vial, it was set aflame. The voice that sounded similar to wail rather than roar filled the cave.

The fire clung to the Centurion's chitinous armor, casting bright light across the dark cave. It thrashed—spear-arm striking blindly, carving trenches in stone and bone alike—each motion echoing through the endless halls like a war drum.

Lucas didn't just run.

He watched.

The flames danced, but not hot enough to kill. Just enough to blind. To disorient.

'Burning its scent receptors… it can't track me for now.'

He darted across the cave, keeping low, hugging the shadowed edges of pillars, each movement calculated. There was a crack above the creature—an unstable ceiling of fossilized roots, hollow stone, and the occasional twitching fungus. One good hit would bring it all down.

'But if I do that I could end up being buried too.'

Lucas moved quickly, pulling out a set of hooked daggers and a single iron spike from his scavenged pouch. He jammed the spike into a low stone, coiled a line of rope around it, and began to ascend the side wall—up to a thin ledge directly above the Centurion.

He crouched there in silence, letting his heart calm.

'Four meters tall. Spear-arm's right dominant. Weak spot's probably in the neck crevice when it raises that arm.'

Below, the Centurion shrieked again, the flames flickering lower now. It had started to calm. Search again. Hunt again.

Lucas waited for it to step forward.

Then he threw a single pebble into the opposite corner.

Clack.

The Centurion twisted violently toward the sound, raising its arm to strike.

'Now.'

Lucas launched himself down like a falling star.

Mid-air, he jammed one dagger between two plates at the creature's shoulder. The Centurion roared and spun, but Lucas used its own momentum—twisting with the motion—and flung himself onto its back.

The rope he'd tied was still looped around his wrist.

He pulled it tight—right across its neck seam.

The Centurion thrashed, but Lucas hung on, twisting the rope and sinking his other dagger into its spine.

And then he pulled.

Snap.

A burst of black blood sprayed. The Centurion gave one final lurch, shrieked—and collapsed, smashing into the ground.

Lucas landed beside it, panting.

"Gods damn it," he muttered, chest heaving.

He waited a few seconds. The twitching stopped. The body stopped steaming.

Dead.

[You have slain an Awakened Monster, Carapace Centurion]

[You have received a memory.]

He leaned against the wall, sliding down slowly, bloody and exhausted, but alive.

"…Told you I don't die easy."

And in the eerie quiet of the Labyrinth, Lucas smiled faintly—then passed out.