The barracks were darker than usual that night. The dim light of the few torches cast long shadows, flickering across the dirt-stained walls as the slaves whispered among themselves. The cold air hung thick with the scent of sweat and desperation, and the sounds of coughing and groaning filled the silence.
In the far corner of the room, Leon crouched over a thin, sickly figure, his hands deftly moving with the precision of someone who had done this countless times. His makeshift tools—nothing more than sharp pieces of metal, boiled water, and dirty rags—were all he had, but they were enough. He wiped the blood and pus from a festering wound, the slave barely stifling a scream as the pain hit.
"Hold still," Leon muttered, his voice low but steady. "If you move, this will only get worse."
The slave nodded, biting down on a piece of wood another had handed him, his body trembling. Around them, a few others watched in silence, their eyes wide with a mix of awe and fear. They had all heard the rumors by now—the Healer Ghost, they called him. A man who moved like a shadow in the night, tending to wounds no one else cared to heal.
Leon's reputation had spread quickly, much faster than he had anticipated. At first, it had been just one or two slaves who had approached him, desperate for any help they could get. But now? Now they came in groups, waiting for their turn, offering what little they had in return. Food, water, scraps of metal or wood—anything that might be of use to him.
He didn't ask for payment, but they gave it to him anyway, knowing that without his help, they'd be left to rot in the dirt. The overseers didn't care if they lived or died. They were expendable. But to Leon, each one was a potential ally, a small piece of the larger puzzle he was slowly assembling.
The slave beneath him whimpered as Leon applied pressure to the wound, squeezing out more of the infection. "You'll live," Leon said, his tone matter-of-fact. "But you'll need to stop picking at this, or it'll come back worse."
"Thank you," the man croaked, his voice barely a whisper.
Leon gave a small nod, not saying anything else as he stood up, wiping his hands on a scrap of cloth. As he moved to the next patient, he noticed the others watching him with a mixture of gratitude and apprehension. They were starting to see him as something more than just another slave. He could feel the shift in the air. They needed him, relied on him. And that was power.
One of the older slaves shuffled forward, holding out a small bundle wrapped in dirty cloth. "For you," the man said, his voice rough and worn. "Some bread... and water. Not much, but it's all I could spare."
Leon took it without a word, nodding his thanks. The old man's hands shook as he backed away, his eyes filled with a strange kind of reverence.
The others watched this exchange with silent understanding. Word had spread fast—if you needed healing, you found the ghost. And if you wanted his help, you brought something to offer. It wasn't much, but in a place like this, even scraps of food and water meant the difference between life and death.
Leon moved through the small crowd, tending to cuts, bruises, and festering wounds, offering what little relief he could. The conditions were brutal, and without proper medicine, there was only so much he could do. But he did enough to keep them alive, and that was all that mattered. For now.
As he worked, the whispered conversations around him grew louder, slaves murmuring about the healer who had appeared out of nowhere. The name "ghost" passed between their lips like a secret, something shared only among those who had seen him in action.
"He moves like a shadow," one whispered. "I saw him slip past the guards last night. Didn't even make a sound."
"He's different," another muttered. "Not like the rest of us. He knows things... things we don't."
Leon ignored the whispers, focusing on his task. He didn't care what they called him, as long as they listened. His influence was growing, and with each passing night, more slaves came to him. They brought him food, water, tools—whatever they could spare. And with each transaction, they unknowingly gave him something far more valuable: loyalty.
As he finished treating another wound, a young boy came up to him, holding out a small, jagged piece of metal. "For you, Ghost," the boy said, his voice trembling. "I found it in the scrap pile."
Leon glanced down at the metal, turning it over in his hands. It was sharp, sturdy. Could be useful. He tucked it into his belt and nodded to the boy. "Keep your head down," he said quietly. "And don't let anyone see you bringing me this stuff."
The boy nodded eagerly before scurrying away, disappearing into the darkness of the barracks.
Leon leaned against the wall, exhaustion creeping up on him. His body ached from the long days of labor, and his mind was constantly racing, always thinking of the next move. But this? This was progress. Every scrap, every whispered word of loyalty—it was all part of the plan.
The guards didn't know it yet, but the slaves were starting to unite. Slowly, quietly. And Leon was at the center of it all.
As he prepared to leave for the night, one of the slaves—a burly man with a scar running down his face—approached him. "You've been good to us, Ghost," the man said, his voice low. "If you ever need anything... you just say the word."
Leon met the man's gaze, nodding slowly. "I'll keep that in mind."
The man gave a curt nod before turning back into the crowd, disappearing into the sea of battered bodies and broken souls.
Leon watched him go, a cold smile curling at the corner of his lips. The plan was working. Slowly, surely, he was building his army. One wound, one favor, one whispered promise at a time.