The world was black.
A dense, suffocating blackness wrapped around Leon as he drifted somewhere between life and death. The faint, distant memories of his past life—a life of war, of blood, of saving lives with trembling hands—flickered like dying embers. He could still hear the screeching tires, the sharp crunch of metal against bone, the searing pain that flared through his body as the car flipped over. That was how it ended. His life, his story—abrupt, violent.
And yet, here he was.
His body was the first thing to betray him. The moment sensation returned, agony lanced through his limbs like white-hot needles. His muscles cramped, twisted, as if they had forgotten how to exist. He tried to move, but his arms were bound, his wrists rubbed raw by something coarse and unforgiving. A thick iron collar weighed heavily around his neck, pressing into his skin, cold and unyielding. The smell hit him next—damp, fetid air laced with the unmistakable stench of human waste and rot.
Leon gasped for breath, choking on the oppressive, sour atmosphere. His eyes fluttered open, and the darkness parted to reveal something far worse.
The light was dim—barely more than the flicker of a dying flame—but it was enough to reveal the cramped cell he was trapped in. The walls were made of stone, slick with moisture, and the ground beneath him was nothing but packed dirt and straw. His body, thin and emaciated, was stretched on the cold ground, wearing nothing but rags that clung to his skin like a second layer of grime.
He wasn't alone.
Around him, other bodies lay in heaps—some unmoving, others trembling in their sleep. The soft, pained whimpers of the half-dead echoed off the stone walls, a chorus of suffering. The sight of them—sunken cheeks, bones pressing against tight, pallid skin—turned his stomach. They looked like walking corpses.
*Slaves.*
The word surfaced in his mind, cold and clear. He wasn't sure how he knew, but there was no mistaking it. He was one of them now.
Leon tried to rise, his muscles protesting with every movement, but his chains pulled taut, the metal biting into his skin. His wrists and ankles were shackled, giving him just enough room to crawl, to survive—but not to escape. His throat felt raw, parched, as though he hadn't had a sip of water in days. He licked his cracked lips, tasting blood, bile rising in his throat.
Then, a door creaked open at the far end of the room.
Torchlight spilled into the cell, casting long, twisted shadows across the prisoners. The heavy, uneven footsteps that followed were accompanied by the jangle of metal keys. A figure appeared in the doorway—tall, broad-shouldered, his silhouette broken by the whip coiled at his hip. The guard's face was hidden in shadow, but his eyes gleamed with cold, cruel amusement as he surveyed the pathetic souls before him.
"Up," the guard snarled, his voice sharp and guttural. "Time to earn your keep."
The crack of the whip echoed through the cell, and the prisoners scrambled to their feet. The weakest ones, those too far gone, didn't move fast enough. The guard didn't care. He stepped into the room, dragging the whip behind him, and without warning, brought it down on a frail woman near the front.
The sound of the whip connecting with flesh was wet and sickening. The woman let out a guttural scream, collapsing onto the floor, her body shaking in spasms. The guard only laughed, moving on to the next.
Leon forced himself up, biting back the pain that wracked his body. His hands trembled as he gripped the cold stone wall for support, his legs threatening to give out beneath him. He knew what came next—more beatings, more suffering, perhaps even death. He had seen this before, back in war-torn fields, but this was worse. This wasn't just war—it was systematic, controlled cruelty. A deliberate stripping of humanity.
As the guard approached, Leon's mind raced. He had no idea where he was, or even how he got here, but there was one thing he knew with absolute certainty: He wouldn't die like this. Not in a dark, filthy cell. Not beaten to death by some cruel warden.
The guard reached him, his whip dragging along the ground, stained with old blood. Leon's eyes flicked to it, then back to the guard's sneering face. He was just about to brace himself for the blow when a shout came from behind.
"Leave him! He's one of the new ones."
Leon barely had time to register the new voice before another figure appeared in the doorway—an overseer, dressed in more formal, if equally grim, attire. His eyes, sharp and calculating, flicked over Leon with dispassionate interest.
"This one's got potential. He's not like the others," the overseer muttered, waving the guard off. "He might be useful."
The guard grunted, stepping back with a reluctant glare. The overseer's gaze lingered on Leon for a moment longer, as if sizing him up, before he turned on his heel and disappeared through the door.
The guard lingered, casting one last glance at Leon. "Lucky bastard," he spat, before trailing after the overseer, the door slamming shut behind them.
Silence returned, but it wasn't the same. The air felt heavier, filled with the unspoken dread of those who had witnessed too much suffering. Leon leaned against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his mind racing.
He was a slave. He was alone. And there was no way out.
But he was still alive.
For now, that was enough.
In the dim light of the cell, Leon's thoughts sharpened. He had no magic, no power, no allies—but he had his mind, his knowledge, and a lifetime of training in survival. He would find a way. He had to. His body may be broken, his spirit crushed, but as long as he breathed, he would fight. He would live.
And one day, he would make them all pay.