Savior in Shadow Slave

Murphy glanced around the room.

Furniture overturned, floor smeared with blood, crimson streaks still drying on his skin.

He felt a headache bloom at the mere thought of trying to explain it all.

Then it struck him.

A runic sorcery the First Head Elder often used—typically to erase the mess left behind after his men's nightly indulgences on him.

Murphy had seen it in his last death.

There was also a healing spell, commonly used by Awakened sorcerers to accelerate the mending of flesh. Neither of them seemed to require any essence.

If they could use it… so could he.

Just then, Shen Xi's voice resounded again.

"Young Master, why aren't you answering? Are you still asleep? I am opening the door."

"Wait a moment. Let me clean up the mess," he said, deliberately phrasing it to steer her thoughts elsewhere.

"I suppose the young master's a healthy young man, after all," she murmured, half amused, half embarrassed.

Honestly speaking, he would have been embarrassed—if she were real.

Not just a trial crafted by the Spell to challenge him.

After recalling and inscribing the True Names of Cleanliness and Vitality, something shifted.

A subtle, mystical hum filled the air as every bloodstain, fleck of snot, and stray splinter vanished without a trace.

At the same time, the wounds across his body began to close—slowly, silently—like time itself was reversing their damage.

Murphy glanced around one last time. Everything was clean. Tidy. Presentable.

Satisfied, he allowed Shen Xi to enter.

Although she tried to hide her curiosity, amusement, and embarrassment behind a mask of subtle, fake fear, she couldn't fool the power of his Aspect.

"Your clothes, young master."

After brushing his teeth, soaking in a hot bath, and changing into clean clothes, Murphy finally felt somewhat human again.

He glanced at Shen Xi.

"So, what's on today's schedule?"

She thought for a bit, then shrugged.

"Nothing, really. Just training with the Head Elder," she said.

"In fact… that's the only thing you're allowed to do for the next month.

After what happened yesterday, he is thinking of disciplining you properly."

Just hearing about his grandfather sent a cold shiver down Murphy's spine.

He had fought beside him… and against him… through numerous deaths.

But what haunted him most wasn't even his third death, but the 1,072nd one.

At that time, his grandfather was still young—not even Murphy's father had been born.

That time, he hadn't died in battle.

He had been restrained—trapped in a chamber that reeked of old blood and damp stone.

Strange instruments shoved into every hole of his body. Some cold. Some hot.

Substances had been shoved into him—foreign and burning.

Some substances went in him. Some substances came out of him. Slimy substances.

It wasn't the pain that made it unforgettable.

It was the pleasure he had felt.

And the way his grandfather watched—smiling… and faintly amused—

as if Murphy were nothing more than a creature meant to satisfy some hidden, monstrous craving.

That memory never faded.

It didn't even dull.

Taking deep breaths to calm his mind, Murphy asked a question that had lingered after his countless deaths.

"Say, Shen Xi… can you use sorcery?"

She blinked, puzzled for a moment, then gave a small laugh.

"What a strange question, young master. It seems like you haven't fully woken up yet.

Everyone in the village can use sorcery."

Murphy narrowed his eyes slightly.

That answer doesn't make sense.

Sorcery wasn't something just anyone could use.

In the Age of Heroes, it was wielded often, yes—but never casually.

It wasn't something every Tom, Dick, and Harry could pick up.

And yet… here, in this village, it was treated as a given.

Everyone could use sorcery?

Something felt off.

Very off.

"Do you know why?"

"No one knows about that," she said softly. "Maybe… the Head Elder. If anyone."

Though he had asked the question, Murphy wasn't clueless about the source of this so-called talent.

In the First Head Elder's time, none could wield sorcery—no one but him.

But there was always an origin.

An Adam and Eve.

This village had one too.

They all shared a single lineage—

Descendants of the Witch.

Once his thoughts had settled, he made his way to the family dojo.

He stepped into the Family Dojo, the air thick with the scent of polished wood and ancient steel. In one corner of the room, the weapons lay arranged with care, yet emanating a quiet, reverent menace—swords, spears, shields, hammers, and axes, each one a testament to a different era of mastery and might.

Each of these weapons had once belonged to the former Head Elders.

With the insight granted by the [Perfect Sorcerer], he could discern the enchantments etched into these weapons.

"Interesting..." he murmured, stepping closer.

"This sword," he observed, running a hand just above the blade, "stores energy everytime it parries or deliver an attack —until it releases them all in a single, devastating strike."

He turned to a bow resting lightly on its rack, its string vibrating faintly. "And this one… it summons lightning itself."

His eyes moved to the shield, broad and unmarred despite its age. "This grants immunity—not just to the elements, but to attacks that damage the soul or mind."

The axe, resting beside it, was dull in appearance, yet shimmered with a strange inner tension. "This one seems to shift its weight at the wielder's whim. Light as a feather, heavy as guilt."

Lastly, his gaze settled on the hammer—short-handled, unassuming. He furrowed his brow. "This... it doesn't just strike. It Weakens. Makes even the strongest object brittle and ready to fall apart."

Just then, the faint sound of footsteps echoed through the dojo—slow, deliberate, each one heavier than the last.

And a soft and raspy voice rang out.

"What are you looking so intently at?"

He turned.

His grandfather stood at the entrance, framed by the fading light of dusk. A gentle smile curved the old man's lips, warm and familiar, like the kind that should've brought comfort.

But it didn't.

Instead, a chill surged through him, unbidden and sharp. It began at the base of his spine and spread outward like ice in cracked glass. His breath hitched. Muscles tensed. The weight of a hundred phantom memories pressed down on his chest.

That smile made him recall every memory in which he died by Alex's hands—every time his head was severed, his body broken, his soul torn apart.

He had died many times fighting head elder. And that smile had been there for every one of them.

There was a reason they called his grandfather the Smiling Butcherer—and it had nothing to do with kindness.

He struggled to maintain his composure, forcing a smile to his lips.

"Nothing, Grandpa. I was just waiting for you. I always heard old people wake early—but it seems I was mistaken."

His grandfather chuckled, a heartly sound escaping from his lips.

"You and that insolent tongue of yours. Come now—let us begin."

Murphy stepped into the storeroom, his fingers brushing past weapons before settling on a sword. He lifted it, the weight familiar, the metal cold.

"Now tell me, child," his grandfather said, eyes narrowing with intent,

"what is the essence of combat?"