The night wrapped the camp in its usual blanket of cold silence, only broken by the occasional shuffle of feet or the murmur of a distant guard. Leon moved swiftly, his senses alert as he made his way back to the barracks. His talk with Jerik had gone as expected—no immediate answer, but seeds were planted, and that was enough for now. He could wait. He'd waited this long, after all.
Slipping into the barracks, Leon's gaze swept across the room. The dim glow from a dying fire barely illuminated the huddled figures of slaves lying on filthy straw beds, their bodies broken by the day's labor. Coughs echoed through the room, the stench of sickness and infection thick in the air. It was a place of decay, where hope had long been buried under the weight of chains and cruelty.
Leon crouched in the corner where he had hidden his scraps of metal and bits of old cloth. His eyes focused on the makeshift contraption he had been piecing together over the past few days—a crude boiler. It wasn't much, just some bent metal he had scavenged from the refuse pile, but it would do. It had to. Water was scarce, and what little they had was contaminated, filled with filth. But water was all he needed to start cleaning the wounds properly.
Leon knew he couldn't wait for medicine forever. His military training kicked in. If he didn't act soon, some of these men would die from infection, and their deaths would be slow and painful. Even without proper supplies, he could still do something. He could still fight this battle, just in a different way.
He quietly stoked the fire, adding just enough wood to create a steady heat. His hands, calloused and sore from the labor, worked swiftly, setting the scraps of metal into place over the flames. The water they'd been given for the day was barely drinkable, but with some heat, he could at least make it usable. It wouldn't be pure, but it would be better than nothing.
The first bubbles began to rise, and Leon leaned back, listening to the soft murmur of the water boiling. He wiped his hands on his already-dirty pants, mentally preparing himself for the work ahead.
He wasn't just doing this for himself. His ration of food had never been for him—not really. The water he would use to clean wounds and his hands, trying to bring some level of sterility into this forsaken place. The food, he would give away if needed, or trade for something more useful. His own survival had always been secondary to the plan.
Tonight, he would begin to treat them. Not as a slave, but as the doctor he was in his previous life.
Leon grabbed the rags he had scavenged earlier, dipping them into the now-boiling water, watching the dirt and grime seep into the liquid as he wrung them out. It wasn't much, but it was the best he could manage. Quietly, he moved to the first man who lay shivering on his straw mat, his leg swollen and festering from a poorly treated injury. The smell hit Leon first—rotten flesh, infected and crawling with disease.
"Shit," Leon muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowing. He knelt by the man's side, his movements quiet and methodical. The others in the barracks noticed, but none said a word. It was safer to keep to themselves, especially at night.
The man stirred, his eyes opening slightly as Leon pressed the hot, wet cloth to his wound.
"What are you—?" the man groaned, his voice weak from pain.
"Shut up and let me work," Leon snapped softly, his tone harsh but not unkind. He had no time for pleasantries. The man didn't argue, too tired and broken to resist.
Leon worked quickly, cleaning the wound as best as he could, wiping away the filth and trying to clear out the infection. There was no anesthesia, no real bandages, just scraps and water. But it was better than nothing. And here, nothing was all they had.
The man groaned, his fists clenching as Leon pressed deeper, cleaning out the worst of the infection. "Hurts..."
"Of course, it hurts," Leon muttered, his voice low, but there was no malice in it. Only a grim determination. "If it didn't hurt, you'd already be dead."
The man said nothing more, biting down on a piece of cloth to muffle his cries. Leon finished cleaning the wound and wrapped it with what little cloth he had, securing it as best as he could. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do.
He moved on to the next slave, a younger boy with a gash on his arm, raw and festering. Leon repeated the process, cleaning the wound in silence. The boy winced but stayed quiet, his eyes wide as he watched Leon work.
"You're not from here, are you?" the boy whispered, his voice trembling. "You don't act like the others."
Leon paused for a moment, his eyes flicking up to meet the boy's. He didn't answer, just continued working. It wasn't something he could explain. Not now.
By the time he finished with the boy, the others in the barracks had started to take notice. Some whispered among themselves, others watched in silence. They had seen many die in these barracks, their wounds left untreated until infection claimed them. But now, for the first time, someone was doing something about it.
Leon wiped his hands on the rags, his eyes scanning the room. There were still many more to treat, but he was running low on supplies. He'd need more cloth, more water, and more heat if he was going to keep this up. But for tonight, it was enough. He had done what he could.
As he moved back to his corner, the murmurs in the barracks grew louder. Some of the slaves were already whispering his name, asking each other who he was, where he came from. But Leon kept to himself, his mind focused on the bigger picture.
The tournament was coming. And the only way to survive this world was to play the game. The slaves feared the overseers, but soon they would look to Leon for something else—hope.
He couldn't give them freedom yet. But he could give them a chance to live another day. And sometimes, that was all anyone needed.