Savior in Shadow Slave

Murphy opened his eyes.

Darkness blanketed the room like a forgotten shroud. To any ordinary soul, it would have been pitch-black—enough to stir panic or disorientation.

But Murphy was no ordinary soul.

Not anymore.

He saw everything.

The peeling paint on the ceiling. The fine threads of dust dancing in the air.

The subtle, quiet breath of life that marked a place lived in.

Yes—he was home.

The scent of turmeric and garlic simmering in oil drifted into his room, warm and nostalgic.

His mother was cooking.

From the other side of the wall, the sound of the news played—his father, watching the morning broadcast as he always did.

"Today marks four years since the world lost its noble defenders: The Immortal Flame, The Smile of Heaven, The Nightwalker, and others whose names time dares not forget…"

Murphy listened quietly.

So… I've returned to the right time.

His gaze turned toward the dim glow seeping under the door. His senses extended beyond sight and smell, brushing the textures of soul and sorrow.

Arie and Paul.

His mother and father.

They had aged—marked not by wrinkles or grey hairs, but by grief pressed deep into the skin, by longing too quiet for tears.

They laughed, they cooked, they moved like any couple on a quiet Sunday morning.

But Murphy's Aspect did not allow him to be fooled.

The calm they wore was a veil, carefully stitched together to endure the waiting.

To endure his absence.

Three years…

They kept me here. They waited.

How could I look into the depths of the world and ignore those who stood at my surface, holding me here with their love?

A flicker of something deep stirred in his chest—not power, not wrath, not divinity.

Just something terribly human.

I'll learn the truth of my Aspect. My Flaw. Kalpata. All of it.

But first… them. They come first.

He rose.

Not as the boy who had left, nor as the superhuman who had returned—

—but as a son.

The floor creaked under his bare feet as he stepped into the hallway, but no one noticed.

The house hadn't changed—The photos still hung slightly crooked on the wall, the paint near the light switches still wore the touch of a child's hand.

Everything remained the same.

Everything… except time.

In the kitchen, sunlight spilled like soft gold through the window, but it failed to warm the two figures standing in it.

His mother, Arie, stood by the stove, humming a lullaby she hadn't sung in years.

A pot simmered slowly, the steam rising like ghosts.

And beside her, Paul, the once-laughing man, sat hunched over the table, news buzzing in the background.

His eyes were open, but not seeing—as if they had stared too long at an empty room, hoping.

Murphy stood at the doorway.

He didn't speak. He couldn't.

His throat ached with unshed storms.

His hands trembled—hands that had once held divinity, now powerless before the fragility of home.

His mother turned first.

Her eyes fell on him.

And in the space of a heartbeat—the spoon slipped from her hand.

It hit the ground with a soft clatter, like a memory shattering.

"...Murphy?"

She whispered it like a prayer she didn't dare believe.

Like a name spoken at a grave too many times.

Paul rose slowly.

He looked at the boy—this child wrapped in silence, with eyes too deep for his age, and hair the color of flame and ash.

He blinked once.

Twice.

"Murph…"

His voice cracked, a broken bridge to a past long buried.

And then—Arie ran to him.

Not gracefully.

Not like a mother in a dream.

She stumbled. Her knees buckled. She crawled the last few steps, tears already spilling from her eyes as if her soul had bled through them.

She held him.

Crushed him to her chest like she could press the lost years back into his bones.

"My baby—my baby—my baby…"

Paul joined her. Slowly, wordlessly.

He knelt and wrapped his arms around them both.

And the three of them wept.

For what was lost.

For what was broken.

For the miracle they dared not pray for—but had been given anyway.

Murphy didn't say anything.

He just clung to them, letting their shaking bodies remind him he was real. That this was real.

Not a dream.

Not fate.

Just this—The arms of two people who had waited with empty rooms and breaking hearts.

And in that moment, no prophecy mattered.

No sword.

No divine fragment.

No Name.

Just Murphy.

The boy who had died a million deaths—And returned home.

The kettle whistled softly.

Not like it used to.

The sound felt almost embarrassed, unsure how to exist in a moment so delicate.

Arie turned off the flame, her hands still trembling.

She poured tea into three mismatched cups—the way she always had, even when there had only been two.

Murphy sat at the table, small fingers curled around the ceramic warmth.

He didn't drink.

He simply watched the steam rise, swirling like thoughts he couldn't shape into words.

Paul sat across from him.

His eyes never left the boy's face.

It was as if every line of Murphy's expression—every flicker of his blood-red hair, every subtle change in his breath—needed to be memorized before it could disappear again.

No one spoke.

What could they say?

"You were gone."

"We buried your shoes."

"Your room still smells like you."

Words could not carry the weight of three missing years.

Arie broke the silence first. She placed a plate of toast and fruit before Murphy.

A quiet offering.

Like a shrine to normalcy.

Murphy looked at it, then at her. His eyes shimmered with warmth—but also distance.

"…You look older, like the old lady who used to give me chocolates" he said gently.

It wasn't a complaint. Just a truth.

Arie smiled, and for a second, it broke her.

A choked laugh escaped her lips—half joy, half grief.

"So do you," she whispered, brushing his cheek with a feather-light hand.

"You speak like someone far older than you should."

"I've… seen things," Murphy replied, his voice barely above breath.

Paul reached across the table and placed his hand on Murphy's.

It was rough, calloused, strong—But it trembled just as much.

"You don't need to tell us, son," Paul said.

His voice cracked, then steadied. "Not now. Not ever, if you don't want to."

Murphy looked down.

"…I do. Just… not yet."

They nodded.

The tea cooled. The toast went uneaten.

But still, they sat there.

No gods. No schemes. No fate.

Just a boy, and the parents who waited long enough to see him come home.

A Sunday morning, fragile and sacred.

Outside, the world moved on—birds chirped, clouds drifted, leaves rustled against the window.

Inside, three people sat around a table, learning how to be whole again.

Slowly. Gently. Together.

***

After a hearty and awkward breakfast with his parent, Murphy went to his room and neither his mother nor his father stopped him giving him some time alone he deserved.

Meanwhile, Murphy was checking his reward.

[You have received a memory, Kalpata.]

Memory Name: Kalpata

Memory Rank: Ascended.

Memory Tier: III

Memory Type: Charm.

Memory Description: [A lonely boy, hollowed by despair, once stumbled upon warmth in the unlikeliest place—in the arms of a Devil, draped in shadow but aching for light. He lived beside her, not in fear, but in quiet joy. And she, once chained helpless for centuries, found a flicker of humanity in his laughter.

One day, the boy asked her gently, "Mother, what is it that you desire?"

Half-joking, half-dreaming, she whispered, "To be free… of resentment."

And the boy—naïve, determined, luminous—took her words to heart.

He ran through the ruined village, combed through ancient books once meant to birth weapons, and began forging something new.

He labored in silence. And when her day of birth came, he placed it in her hands—eyes bright, smile wide.

For the first time in countless lifetimes… the Devil wept.

Not in pain. But in warmth.

The memory of that moment now clings to the soul of the wearer, a charm born not of power—but of love.]

Memory Enchantments: [Truth], [Doubtless], [Radiance], [Record] [Soulbound Relic]

[Truth]

Enchantment Description: This charm can let you see the truth.

[Doubtless]

Enchantment Description: This charm provides strong immunity towards Soul and Elemental attacks.

[Radiance]

Enchantment Description: This charm enhances the effect of wearer abilities.

[Record]

Enchantment Description: This charm allows you to record others abilities at an extremely low chance.

[Soulbound Relic]

Enchantment Description: This charm can be bounded to one's soul.

Setting aside the boons, just reading the memory left Murphy's eyes hollow—numb, as if the weight of it pressed against something he hadn't yet healed. And he wished from the bottom of his heart that it doesn't.

[Bound the relic: Yes/ No?]

"Not now. First let me check my other rewards."

[You have received a memory, Rengoku.]

[You have received a memory, Kaenaria's box]

[You have received an Echo, The One who Knows Eternity.]

Memory Name: Rengoku

Memory Rank: Supreme.

Memory Tier: III

Memory Type: Weapon.

Memory Description: There was once a merciful being—a Star that Turned Back—who, in his final hour, sought to give one last gift to the village that raised him. He took the strongest blade the village had ever known and ran.

Ran through fields of silence and into the mountain of corpses.

There, with a heart soaked in sorrow and hands trembling with tenderness, he lifted each fallen soul. One by one, he stitched them together—not with thread, but with time. And he carried them home.

Forged in radiant love and baptized in his blood, this blade is no longer just steel.

It is a Judge of Evil, bound to the hand that dares to hope in the face of despair.

[Unyielding Inferno]

Enchantment Description: The more you suffer, the stronger you become.

[Dragon's Maw]

Enchantment Description: An ever burning fire of Purgatory rests in this blade. Whoever is wounded by it, will burn forever.

[Judge]

Enchantment Description: The blade grows stronger the less one doubts themselves—its edge honed not by steel, but by conviction. The blade would burn the user themselves if in the hands of someone who doubts.

They really should write an epic about him.

But even if they did, it would never be enough.

How could mere words ever hold the weight of a boy who died to save a monster, then lived again to carry her soul?

Murphy had only asked for Rengoku for one reason—because he understood something brutal and quiet:

The Spell would never grant him memories for the ones he killed.

It never had.

Thirty souls—each taken by his hand. Each silenced forever in the folds of his soul. And yet... not a single memory had been granted.

That was what it meant to be Hated by the Spell.

He didn't wanted to take a look at the echo watching someone like her like that was honestly a way too much even for him.

Memory Name: Kaenaria's Box.

Memory Rank: Transcendent

Memory Tier: VII

Memory Type: Charm

Memory Description: Once, there was a merciful being—The Star That Turned Back, raised not by saints or sages, but by a Devil veiled in sorrow.

And this Devil, though maternal in form, was greedy in spirit.

She longed for something no curse-born creature should: freedom.

So she took it the only way she knew—through ruin.

An entire village perished, their lives consumed by her desire.

And yet, the boy—her son by soul, if not by blood—did not kill her.

He faced her wrath.

Endured her chains.

And when the time came to end her, he looked beyond vengeance... and chose mercy.

He bargained with an Absolute Law, paying a price written in time itself.

And in return, he reclaimed what even gods said could not be reclaimed:

Her shadow,

Her memories,

Her consciousness.

This wondrous, impossible box holds those very pieces.

Not as trophies.

But as gifts.

As a promise that even Devils may one day be forgiven.

And that mercy, too, has weight.

"Spell really does see me as a merciful being, huh?"

Murphy let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. There was no pride in his voice—only weary amusement. Mercy wasn't a choice, not really. It had become his path because no one else had dared walk it.

Resurrecting her…or Reincarnating her, should be correct term.

That had always been the true challenge.

Not the rituals.

Not the spells.

Not even the cosmic cost.

It was the soul—that singular, radiant essence which once lost, became a prayer even gods couldn't answer. That's why he had asked for her shadow, her memories, and her echo. Pieces of a puzzle he wasn't sure could be completed. Not without the soul.

But now—He looked inward, past the quiet constellation of fallen lives.

And there it was.

Hers.

Burning. Waiting. Whole.

Cradled in the sea of his soul like a secret flame.

'Now I just have to hunt down beings with mind-related powers,' he thought. 'And…Concept Seed or at least a Fragment of Domain.'

His expression steadied.

Determination flickered in the depths of his gaze like an ember refusing to go out.

"It's time," he whispered to no one.

"To see what my flaw can really do."

His eyes wandered to an ant that was moving by—small, insignificant, yet relentless.It carried a crumb twice its size, its tiny legs trembling beneath the weight, but it did not stop. It did not question its burden. It simply walked.

Murphy watched it in silence, didn't having a heart to do what he was about to do.

In that moment, the weight of divinity, flame, death, and resurrection slipped from his shoulders… if only for a breath.

He was not unlike the ant.Burdened by something far larger than himself.Carrying the remains of a world that once bled, and might bleed again.

But still… he moved.

Still… he walked.

"Even ants don't escape fate," he murmured.

Then, gently, he bent down—Not to crush, not to pity, but to clear its path.

Sometimes, it was about choosing not to break what was already broken.

"Bound it."

[Your memory has been destroyed.]

[You have gained an Attribute.]