Savior in Shadow Slave

She walked down from the altar like a bride descending into madness, her chains nowhere to be seen, only the faint shimmer of broken runes dissolving behind her. Her presence shifted the very air—too light to be threatening, too heavy to be ignored.

Murphy tensed. Every nerve in his body told him to strike. To lash out. But she didn't move with hostility—only grace. No killing intent. Just silence, and her knowing smile.

She began to circle him slowly, each step echoing with a whisper of bloodied skin against cold stone. Her bare, delicate feet painted soft crimson half-moons where they touched the floor—like a ballerina who had danced through carnage.

"You, my sweet boy," she murmured, eyes glowing with affection that made his skin crawl, "were so hollow when I found you. So lost. But you found purpose again, didn't you? I watched you stretch those little wings of yours. Seeking strength like a newborn dragon learning to breathe fire."

Murphy didn't answer. His fists trembled at his sides, veins pulsing from strain.

She smiled wider. "You trained so hard. Swung your sword like you believed it could cut fate itself. So cute. So hopeful."

He flinched slightly as she stopped in front of him.

"And when you weren't pretending to be a hero, you whispered clever ideas to dear Alex. At that time, you used to think it was your own brilliance guiding them."

Her voice turned syrupy—mock praise dipped in venom. "But no, my lovely. That was me. I fed you slivers of myself. Tiny drops of my soul. Like warm milk to a hungry child."

Murphy's jaw clenched.

"That's how your little [Sorcerer] Attribute blossomed into [Perfect Sorcerer]. Oh, Murphy, you were magnificent. A star among mud."

Murphy's lip twitched, voice brittle. "You gave me that? Why would you…?"

She pressed a cool finger to his lips.

"Shh," she cooed. "Don't spoil the mood."

He shoved her hand away.

Then came her sigh—long and pleased, as if recalling a beloved lullaby. "Once you were ripe, I slipped into your mind like silk sliding into warm water. No resistance. No struggle. You didn't even know."

"And then?" Murphy demanded, though the dread in his chest already whispered the answer.

"I gave the village a gift," she said, stepping back. Her tone turned reverent. "Visions. Their deepest fears. Their past traumas. The guilt they buried, the monsters they hid from even themselves... I set it all free."

She twirled, a soft pirouette of blood and elegance.

"They tore each other apart, Murphy. Fathers killed sons. Lovers gutted each other. Children tried to claw out their own eyes. And I…"

She stopped, lowering her voice until it was a breath of silk.

"I danced through the madness until my feet bled. A ballet of agony and song."

"You're insane," he hissed.

She turned her head and looked at him with a fond smile. "No. Not insane. Just… devoted."

Murphy staggered back a step. "What about me? While you made them butcher each other—what was I doing?"

"You?" She giggled. "My sweetest helper? You were so busy. Going around, picking up heads like apples from a tree."

His breath caught in his throat. "No…"

"You brought them to me," she said softly, "like sacred offerings. Alex, the brave hunter. Shen Xi, the beauty you never touched. The village whore—so full of hunger. One long dead. And the newborn, so full of promise."

He shook his head slowly, violently. "I didn't… I couldn't have…"

"You did," she whispered. "For me."

His body trembled. "Why? What purpose would that serve?!"

"To open this door," she said, spreading her arms to the runic chamber. "To release me. To fulfill your role."

Murphy nearly fell to his knees. "No…"

"But then," she said, her smile faltering for the first time, "something went wrong. When I reached for your spell… your destiny… something inside you screamed. A backlash. Violent. Furious."

"Broken Being," Murphy muttered, barely audible.

She nodded, eyes twinkling. "It protected you. Like a wolf protecting a wounded cub. And when I tried to force it—your body started shattering due to fragility."

He clenched his teeth. "So you found another way. The body from the Goddess…"

"Yes," she purred. "Handcrafted for desire, passion, rebirth. I couldn't leave the village, but I read your fate. That same cold, monotone voice that gave me the Memory told me where to look."

She trailed her hand down his chest. "But you had to go to the Red Sea yourself. So I did what any good mother would."

"You reset me," he whispered. "Again and again."

Her voice turned almost childish. "Like tucking you in after a bad dream. Every week. Every month. And when you woke up—new again—you trained. You fought. You smiled. You tried to save people."

"Sixty-six times…" he said, voice hollow.

Her eyes softened. "And I loved you more every time."

She leaned close again, nose brushing his. "And when you were strong enough, I gave you one last gift—resentment. Griesha's beautiful arrangement. All their sorrow. All their rage. You ate it all."

He stared at her, the weight of it all pressing down. "You were the one who made me live and die millions of times?"

"Yes, I did it for us to be united again." she whispered.

There was silence. Long. Dreadful.

Murphy's voice cracked. "You're a monster."

She cupped his cheek with both hands, blood smudging his skin.

"No, my darling," she said, smiling with the tenderness of madness. "I'm your mother."

Murphy didn't slap her hands away this time.

He couldn't.

Not because he had accepted it. Not because he believed her. But because every nerve inside his body was frozen — not by fear, but by the grotesque warmth of her touch. The paradox of comfort laced with corruption. Her blood, still fresh and warm, smeared across his skin like a benediction from a Devi long since forsaken.

Her thumbs caressed his cheeks as if trying to memorize the curves of his pain.

"You should rest," she cooed, voice lowering to a lullaby tone. "You've done so much. Bled so much. Suffered so beautifully for me."

He clenched his jaw, hard. His arms hung heavy at his sides, fists curling and uncurling like a pendulum swaying on the edge of wrath.

"I don't need rest," he muttered, barely above a whisper. "I need truth."

"Oh, but I've already given you all the truth that matters," she said, purring as if this were the closing act of a bedtime story. "And you wore it well, little one. You were always such a lovely liar when you didn't know you were lying."

Murphy's breath hitched.

"You think it was all fake, don't you? But tell me—" she leaned in, her lips ghosting just beside his ear—"was the warmth you felt in those memories any less real because I made it happen?"

He didn't answer.

She giggled, pulling back to look into his eyes. "No. It wasn't. Because your heart was real. And so was your joy. And your rage. And your tears."

"Stop," Murphy said.

"You cherished Shen Xi," she continued, ignoring him. "You admired Alex. You pitied the whore. You cried for the newborn. You felt so deeply, even though I gave you that stage."

"I said stop!" Murphy shouted, voice cracking like lightning.

Her eyes flickered with delight, as if pain was her preferred music.

"You're trembling," she whispered, sliding a hand down to his chest, palm resting over his heart. "Still trying to deny it? Still trying to fight what's already been written in your bones?"

"Nothing is written," he growled, grabbing her wrist. "Not anymore."

She smiled.

"You say that… but your time, your fate, your very soul—they're mine, Murphy. I shaped them, molded them like clay on a wheel. Each memory I erased… each life you lived… became a layer in the masterpiece that you are now."

She leaned forward again, lips hovering above his like a dangerous promise.

"I don't need your consent, my love. I already have you."

His grip on her wrist tightened until her bones creaked—but she didn't pull away. Her smile only widened.

"I've waited centuries for this. For you. For my freedom."

Then, slowly, Murphy raised his hand.

The very air twisted around him. Light bent unnaturally.

Cracks spiderwebbed across the floor beneath his feet as a golden brilliance surged through his body, radiant and dreadful. And then—his voice rang out, deep and resonant, more command than plea:

"I sacrifice my adulthood, my midlife… and ½ of my old age—for five minutes of strength."

A gale erupted outward from his chest, a golden storm of years, moments, and choices ripped from his future. Threads of time spiraled out of him like sunlit strands, vanishing into the void—his destiny unraveling willingly to fuel the now.

The Terror blinked, the first flicker of uncertainty ghosting her expression. "Oh…" she breathed. "Oh."

She smiled again, but there was something forced in it now. "My little boy just became a man."

And so the chamber collapsed.

Runes screamed as they shattered. Pillars snapped like twigs. The altar was the last to fall—cracking in two like a broken spine.

A violent surge of light and flame erupted outward, and in a flash of golden fire and ink-black shadows—They rose.

Murphy and the Terror.

Bursting skyward like comets through a tunnel of ruin, they broke through the crumbling temple and soared above the village. Dust and stones followed, caught in their wake like the remnants of a forgotten world.

The air above the village twisted with pressure—clouds spiraling into a black and gold cyclone as if the heavens themselves had recognized the battle to come.

They hovered there, suspended in stormlight.

Beneath them, the once peaceful village stood still—silent ruins drenched in fading moonlight. No living soul, only the bones of memory. The corpses he'd revived. The streets he had once laughed on. The homes he had rebuilt with broken time.

And now, above it all—

A god and a devil in mortal form.