Savior in Shadow Slave

He had a name once.

A name sung in hymns, carved in marble, whispered in the prayers of kingdoms that no longer exist.

Now, the wind carries only silence.

In the age when stars had swallowed and the moon had been brought down, he was called a Pillar of Dawn—one of the first Starlight Legion, those who were born when the world had been swallowed by endless night.

He fought not for glory. Not for reward. But for light. For the laughter of children. For fields that could bloom without fear.

When the sky fell and only shadows remained across the world, not even knowing what even was the world with light, he was there—armor gleaming, spear like a shard of morning. They said no darkness could break them. No whisper could reach them.

And for a time… they were right.

When the Dark Sea surged, the Legion marched into eternity. They fought until the rivers boiled with blood and the darkness roared in protest.

The Starlight Legion did not falter. Even as their brothers fell, even as hope rotted into myth, they held the line.

But victory never came. Only the slow, choking crawl of corruption.

It began as an exhaustion, then fear, the despair and lastly no hope.

The Starlight Legion kept on killing their foes but then their own brothers of blood succumbed to corruption and turned their blades against them.

Their morale and talks of valor cracked. Leaving only resolve and faith.

They tore it out again and again—burned it with resolve, crushed it with faith.

Until even faith ran dry.

Until his own spear snapped in his hands. Until he stood knee-deep in the corpses of friends and found no light left to guide him.

And when the whisper came, soft as the breath of dawn, promising strength, promising survival—

He listened.

Not for himself. But because something in him still clung to the vow:

'If the world must live, I will endure whatever I must.'

And so, another champion fell.

He awoke in chitin and steel.

His flesh carved into armor that no longer felt like his own. His voice was gone—replaced by the grinding rasp of mandibles. His soul burned black, yet the ember of will endured, twisted into something monstrous:

Protect. Destroy. Rule.

And rule he did.

The Scavengers bowed to him—their spined king, their silent tyrant. The Centurions followed him into battle, their blades glistening with the blood of ages. For thousands of years, he reigned as a nightmare emperor in the labyrinth beneath crimson skies.

No one sang for him now.

But his name—whatever it had been—echoed in the clash of chitin, in the thunder of war across the Forgotten Shore.

Until the Tree came.

It did not challenge him with blade or fang.

It whispered.

And when whispers failed, it chained. It coiled roots through his mind like worms through marrow. Showed him dreams—not of victory, but of the moment he broke. The faces of those he swore to protect. Their screams replayed like a curse that would never end.

The champion fought. By all that remained of his pride, he fought. His roar cracked the earth. His claws raked bark from the Tree's trunk. For a heartbeat, he believed—believed he could tear free, reclaim even a fragment of himself.

But the Tree was patient.

And so the roots pierced his skull, bleeding into thought, weaving chains tighter than steel. His war cry died in silence. When his limbs moved again, they were not his own.

The last ember went out. And what remained became a weapon for another.

The Carapace Demon knelt beneath the Tree's shadow, its mandibles slick with sap, its eyes hollow but burning red. From then on, it served—not as a king, not as a hero—but as the Tree's champion, the warden of its labyrinth, the breaker of all who dared dream of defiance.

For thousands of years, it waited. Not because it wanted to. But because it could not stop.

A god of chains had claimed the last knight of the stars.

And in the silence between its thoughts—buried deep, where even the Tree could not fully reach—A whisper lingered.

Not in words. Just a feeling.

'If the world must live, I will endure… whatever I must.'

But there was no world left to save.

Only roots. Only chains. Only fruit dripping with the sweetest of nectar and worship.

Then, one day, a human appeared.

Hair like flowing blood, crimson as a battlefield at dusk, cascading to his waist. Eyes as deep and clear as the stillest lake, reflecting nothing yet seeing everything.

The Demon looked upon him—and knew.

This human was dangerous. Not just to him, but to the god he served. And yet… there was no fear. No dread. Only a strange, aching sense of solace.

"I have no doubt I can kill you, Demon."

The human's voice was calm, almost mocking—yet his eyes held no cruelty. No arrogance.

Only pity.

And that pity burned more than any blade.

The Carapace Demon roared, a sound that cracked the ground, and lunged. His scythe-like arms descended like twin guillotines, each strike a storm meant to shatter the earth.

The human moved. Effortless, unhurried. A scratch bloomed on his shoulder.

A deliberate wound.

Why?

The human's sword glinted like a shard of the dawn. His form—perfect, fluid—could have parried every blow, ended this fight in a breath. But he didn't.

Why?

Slash after slash, clash after clash, the Demon realized: the human was holding back. Bleeding by choice. Refusing the kill when it stood wide open.

And then, at last, the human struck—one swing, and the Demon's arm fell, severed at the joint. It could have happened in the first heartbeat of battle. But it didn't.

Why?

The human stepped in, his blade a whisper of doubtless flame, and drove it through the Demon's chin, cleaving upward.

The Tree panicked. Its chains wrenched tight, its will surging like a black tide. Roots tore through the Demon's skull, thrashing, enslaving, forcing him to rise and fight again. He resisted—every nerve screaming, every scrap of his will clawing against the dark flood— And in that desperate, breaking moment, the Demon prayed:

'Finish it. Please…'

The human heard. His blade wrenched sideways.

Crack.

The Demon's skull split like shattered iron. A geyser of black blood burst skyward.

His body convulsed once—then sagged. On his knees. Then, upon the blood-soaked roots, he fell.

And for the first time in an eternity—Peace.

A whisper bled from the last ember of his soul, soft as wind through broken armor:

'I… Igor… thank you… for freeing me, human. If only… I could repay you… somehow.'

Then the silence took him.

***

Murphy's eyes fluttered open.

The first thing he saw was her—Akame's sleeping face resting lightly on his bare chest, her breaths slow and uneven, as if still chasing fragments of some distant nightmare. Her arm draped across him, her legs tangled with his in a grip that felt almost desperate—like a child afraid of losing something precious. A thin line of drool glistened at the corner of her lips, softening the sharpness that defined her when awake.

They were wrapped in a single blanket. No—his coat, pulled over them in a clumsy attempt at warmth. The fabric smelled faintly of blood and ash, yet under the soft whisper of the wind, it carried a strange comfort.

That wind—cool and gentle—brushed across his skin like a balm, carrying the faint scent of the Ashen Barrow's distant crimson trees. For the first time in what felt like days, the air didn't taste like iron and death. It tasted… clean.

Murphy tilted his head slightly. In the stillness, a faint rhythm broke through—the muted clash of steel, the grunt of exertion. At first, his instincts coiled tight, warning of an enemy. But as he listened closer, the sound held no malice—only the raw, stubborn cadence of effort.

'Elizabeth. Lucas. Training.'

He exhaled, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. Everything was fine. For now.

A yawn escaped him, unbidden and deep, dragging the weight of exhaustion from his bones. He shifted slightly, feeling the warmth of Akame's body against his. Without thinking, his arm moved—curving around her slender frame with practiced care, pulling her closer, his fingers brushing strands of crimson hair from her cheek.

The coat slipped down her shoulder. He adjusted it gently, tucking the edge around them both, as if shielding her from even the gentlest wind.

For a long breath, he simply lay there—listening to her heartbeat, steady against his ribs, letting the world fall silent. The battles, the chains, the blood—they all felt distant now. Just this. Just her. Just a fleeting illusion of peace.

There were so many threads pulling at him. Too many.

Clearing this cursed land and sending his friends home alive.

Bringing back the Druid. Reviving Kaenaria.

Hunting the Lords who held the keys.

Unraveling the 'True Secret' whispered by the Spell.

Watching the Dark Sea swell higher each day, ready to swallow the Forgotten Shore whole.

The Rays of the Sun.

Unmasking the shadowed figure everyone called simply—'him.'

And then there was Nether's plan…

A plan that stank of inevitability.

Each name. Each task. Each burden pressed like chains against his bones. And yet—Murphy exhaled softly, eyes heavy, his arm tightening protectively around Akame's sleeping form.

For now… none of it mattered. The storms would come. The world would demand its weight again.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he allowed himself one fragile truth—To sleep in silence. To rest by those he loved, even if just for a little while.

And with that, the last ember of wakefulness faded. The weight of all worlds slipped away.

And Murphy slept.