Savior in Shadow Slave

The essence of combat.

A phrase that echoed time and again within the world of Shadow Slave—asked, pondered, and pursued by all who wished to master combat.

Sunny, the story's hero, and his sister Rain, answered simply—"Survival."

The blind oracle whispered—"Victory."

The current champion of humanity said—"Murder."

The ruler of Ravenheart offered a cold, paradoxical truth—"Failure."

And finally, the ruler of Bastion declared with unwavering conviction:

"Combat is a confrontation between warriors. The one who wields the superior weapon and masters its use shall triumph. Combat is the purest expression of valor and will. Its essence is, therefore, glory."

Though the last answer reeked of hollow idealism, the others held weight—each shaped by their bloody experiences.

But now, the question had turned to Murphy. And as silence fell, he drifted into thought—a rare stillness that, to anyone watching, was a quiet balm to weary eyes.

At last, he spoke.

"The essence of combat… is cherishment."

Alex's brow rose, a slow, deliberate arch. His eyes glinted—not just with curiosity, but also with Dark amusement.

"Care to explain?"

"Why does anyone fight, Grandpa?

To protect what they cherish—be it a child waiting quietly at home, a maiden who's stolen their heart, the wealth they've struggled to build, a sacred ideal, a distant goal, or even just their own life. Isn't that why we fight?

To protect what matters? Tell me, Grandpa…Am I wrong?"

Alex erupted into laughter, the sound echoing through the dojo like a crack of thunder.

"No, child—you're not wrong. But your path is quite different from mine."

Murphy tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his gaze.

"So then... what's yours?"

Alex's smile deepened, and something ancient and unsettling stirred in his eyes.

"Rather than speak of essence of combat, let me share my lifelong goal with you, child—

To sin."

"Sin?" Murphy asked, confusion plain in his voice. "Why would that be anyone's goal?"

"Yes, child. I don't expect you to understand—not yet. You're still too young, too untouched by the world's deeper rot.

You see, sin is branded as evil—condemned as something deserving of death.

But that's only the gospel of the weak.

They craft these moral walls, these flimsy ideals, hoping the strong will honour them... hoping to be protected in the shadows of rules they cannot enforce.

But me?"

His voice dropped, rich and slow like poison in wine.

"I want to be the one who sins—and still roams freely. A god draped in blood, who takes what he desires, who laughs at judgment.

Look at the Lord of Light—he burned an entire kingdom to ash simply because another being, a Daemon, drew worship. And what was the price he paid?

Nothing.

That, child...

That is the kind of existence I seek to become."

For a long moment, Murphy said nothing.

A strange stillness fell over him—as if the very air had grown heavier, saturated with something old and terrible.

He wanted to dismiss it as mere rhetoric, the dramatic musings of a man too steeped in delusions.

But he couldn't.

Because when he met those eyes—sharp, ageless, and dark with certainty—he saw no exaggeration.

No jest.

Only belief.

It wasn't a speech.

It was belief.

A chill traced the curve of Murphy's spine. He forced himself to remain composed, to breathe evenly, to show nothing. But beneath the surface, the foundation of his trust cracked, ever so slightly.

The same man whose smile haunted his deaths?

Or had he been standing in the presence of a monster all along?

'So, that's why he smiled—every time he killed, every time he tortured.

Not out of cruelty alone, but out of enjoyment. Out of way of living.'

"We have seemed to be sidetracked a bit. Let's start the training."

Alex thought for a while and then said:

"Mastery of combat can be divided into two aspects. One is body, and the other one is mind. Training the body is not easy, but it is rather simple. All you need is repetition and experience. In a fight, things happen too fast to consider every detail in the moment. That's why your technique must exist in your muscles and bones, so much so that it almost becomes an instinct."

He paused.

"You can achieve initial results through repetition. Then, it must be cemented through experience. The more battle experience you have, the deeper a technique will be assimilated into your body. There is no other way. A thousand hours of training won't be as impactful as one real fight. Only those who survive countless battles can be truly in command of the body."

Alex continued:

"Training the mind, however, is not simple at all. That is because, once you reach a certain level of skill, the mind is where the true combat takes place. The outcome is often decided before your body begins to move. And to master the mind, the first step is to understand the essence of combat. However, very few people truly do. Thankfully, you seem to have an idea at least."

Alex lowered his eyes.

"If you can fully understand that, you will have enough clarity to master the mind. Show me your weapon"

After carefully inspecting and swinging the sword, Alex spoke:

"This weapon is average. The balance is decent, the edge is sharp enough, and it responds well to movement. But a sword is only as dangerous as the one who wields it. I suggest you swing and thrust the sword repeatedly for muscle memory to develop."

Murphy nodded slowly, his grip tightening around the hilt.

For some reason, the blade in his hand didn't feel unfamiliar.

The moment he gripped the sword, a strange instinct took over—as if his muscles already knew how to move.

Finding it odd, he brought the sword down in a clean arc, followed by a practiced stab, then finished with a swift horizontal slash.

From the shadowed corner of the room, his grandfather watched in silence—eyes wide, utterly astounded.

'How could this unruly, mischievous brat wield a sword with such finesse? Could it be… he's a genius? No. I refuse to believe that.'

"Did I do it right, Grandpa?" he asked with a smile.

"What? Ptui! That was such pathetic swordsmanship, your ancestors would rise from their graves just to curse you! Do it 10,000 more times!"

But even after swinging the sword 10,000 times, Murphy showed no signs of fatigue. His movements held no hesitation, no wasted motion—as though the sword was an extension of his body. It was the kind of precision one would expect from a seasoned warrior, not a boy holding a blade for the first time in his life.

Reluctantly, his grandfather had to accept the truth: The boy knew how to wield a sword.

"Well then," the old man said, scratching his beard, "now that you've done your swings and have some sense of the blade, we begin real combat training tomorrow."

"Whaaat? But today was literally the first day of my training! Have you gone senile!?"

"Watch your tongue, boy. I am a Transcended, and you are a mere mundane human. Whose words do you think carry more weight, hmm? Hahahahaha!"

Murphy gritted his teeth, barely holding back the urge to punch the smug old man.

"What's that? You want to punch me in the face? But how could a mere mundane human strike a Transcended, hmm? Hohohohoho!"

And so, a new kind of hell began for Murphy.

What Alex didn't understand, however, was that he had been right all along—Murphy wasn't some monstrous sword prodigy.