143 Sparks

I held Silv at gunpoint, making sure she kept opening every door. The prisoners — starved, broken, and barely standing — continued to thank me in reverence as each gate swung open.

To them, I was a savior.

And I made no effort to correct them.

Once the last door creaked open and the final cell fell silent, I turned to the weakened crowd.

"Gather," I said firmly. "We need a plan."

Without a single complaint, they gathered — forming a shuffling, ragged mass in the center of the prison block.

"Stand in rows," I commanded, my voice crisp, cutting through the stale air like a blade.

They moved immediately. Hesitant at first, then with growing urgency.

Bare feet scraped against the stone. Some limped, others leaned on shoulders for balance. A few had to be helped upright just to remain standing.

The formation was rough — crooked lines, bodies unevenly spaced, heads swaying from exhaustion. But it didn't matter.

It wasn't perfect.

It was obedience.

And that was enough.

"Those with strength enough to fight," I shouted, my voice cutting through the damp air, "form a horizontal line at the front."

A ripple of motion swept the block.

Men and a handful of sturdy-looking women shuffled forward. Some clenched trembling fists, others straightened their backs as best they could, trying to look taller, stronger, worthier. They spread out shoulder to shoulder across the width of the corridor—uneven gaps here and there, but it was a line.

"Those who are weak—sit, rest. Children, stay where you are."

A collective exhale followed. Mothers eased their little ones to the floor. The frail and feverish sank back against the walls, grateful for permission to stop pretending they could stand. A few elderly prisoners simply slid down where they stood, backs hitting stone with soft groans.

Up front, about two dozen stood ready—gaunt bodies, hollow eyes, but a stubborn fire still flickering behind the exhaustion. One man, taller than the rest, used his sleeve to wipe dried blood from his cheek and tried to square his shoulders. A woman with cropped hair leaned on a makeshift crutch—a snapped broom-handle—yet planted herself in the line without wavering.

Behind them, the seated and prone filled the corridor in ragged clusters, whispering prayers or staring at me with a mixture of awe and fear. The smell of rot and sweat lingered, but now it carried an undercurrent of anticipation.

I let my gaze travel slowly along the front rank—measuring resolve, weighing potential—before I spoke again.

"I need one person to step forward to count how many we have who are weak" I said calmly. Voice echoing.

A single figure moved before the rest could decide.

She was young—perhaps mid-twenties—her frame gaunt but upright, brown hair hacked short as if lice had forced the issue. Dark circles ringed her eyes, yet there was focus there, not fear.

She stepped clear of the front rank, head bowed ever so slightly—not in submission, but in acknowledgment.

"You," I said, locking eyes with her. "Name?"

"Anya," she answered, voice hoarse but steady.

"Anya, you will count every man, woman, and child who cannot stand. Move quickly—note those on the verge of collapse. When you finish, report the number to me." I paused, letting the words settle. "If anyone tries to hide their strength or inflate their weakness, you will correct them. Understood?"

"Yes," she said, and there was no tremor now.

She turned at once, limping slightly, and began weaving through the clusters of the infirm—touching shoulders, murmuring questions, raising a finger each time she tallied another soul too frail to rise.

Behind her, two other volunteers—late to step forward—looked to me for permission. I gave a curt nod.

"You two: follow her lead. Verify her count. No mistakes."

They hurried after Anya.

The corridor filled with soft counting, the rustle of rags, and the faint sobs of those finally allowed to rest. Meanwhile, the fighters in the front line stood silent, watching me, awaiting the next command.

I holstered the Walther for the moment—still within easy reach—then folded my arms, evaluating both groups. Discipline was already forming out of chaos; fear had become obedience, and obedience would soon become purpose.

After about two minutes of silence, broken only by the soft echoes of whispers and shuffled footsteps, the three counters returned. Their clothes clung to their frail forms, soaked with sweat and damp air, but they moved with urgency—converging in front of me.

They leaned in close to one another, whispering—confirming the number among themselves before facing me.

The woman, Anya, stepped forward.

"Sir," she said — her voice steadier now, no longer weighed by fear — "we counted 104 who are too weak to stand. Some are unconscious… a few may not survive the night.

As for the able-bodied — thirty-seven in total. Twenty-three of them are already in the front line."

I gave a slow nod, eyes sweeping over the mass of bodies—some lying curled together for warmth, others slumped against the walls, blinking up at the torchlight like creatures pulled from graves.

"One hundred and four…" I repeated, almost to myself.

Then louder: "Good. You've done your part."

I looked to the front line—those still standing, shoulders squared, fists clenched not out of defiance, but willpower.

"These are the ones who can march," I muttered, then turned back to Anya.

"Your job's not done yet." I pointed toward the weakest huddled in the far corner. "Organize them. Make sure that every group have ten weak and 2 strong. If their are leftovers add them to a group as evenly as possible. We move soon—and no one gets left behind."

She nodded once, then hurried back into the sea of the broken.

Behind me, the firelight flickered on iron bars, bloodstains, and hungry eyes. But now, those eyes looked different.

They weren't just waiting to die.

They were waiting… for orders.

Before I gave the masses a plan, I turned to Silv.

"Ninety-one?"

She flinched — a twitch in her shoulders betraying the fear she tried to hide.

"That's what you said, wasn't it?" My tone was low, cold.

She swallowed hard, eyes darting to the crowd behind me.

"I-It was an honest mistake," she stammered. "I must've miscounted… some looked dead, I—I didn't know—"

Her voice cracked under the weight of urgency, trembling with panic as if she already knew the next bullet had her name on it.

"Hand me your arm," I said, voice calm but with an edge.

She froze.

Trembled.

Her eyes dropped to the ground, feet shifting like they wanted to root in place.

She didn't move.

"You disobey?" I asked again — not loud, but sharper this time. The kind of tone that cuts deeper than a shout.

Her ears flattened. Her breath hitched.

And slowly, with shaking hands, she extended her arm toward me — as if offering it to fate.

"I don't want dead weight holding me down," I said mockingly, watching her tremble, "so I'll spare your leg."

I leaned in slightly, letting the words hang.

"But your arm…" I raised an eyebrow. "That's not needed."

Her eyes went wide — real wide — terror blooming in her face like a crack through glass.

Before she could even gasp, I drew the pistol from my coat and fired.

BANG.

The shot cracked like thunder in the hollow block. It echoed off the stone, louder than any voice had dared to be down here.

The crowd jolted — all eyes snapping to the stage. Gasps, flinches, the sound of shuffling feet. Every starving soul now stared, frozen in place, fixated on the smoke curling from my barrel and the blood trailing down her arm.

Silv crumpled to her knees, clutching her forearm, teeth gritted against the pain. She didn't scream — not this time — just let out a strangled hiss, trying to hold it together.

I knew it wouldn't kill her.

I had made sure of that — the bullet tore through the muscle, clean, low, away from any artery. A wound to humble her, not silence her.

She winced, tears welling, but stayed conscious.

Good.

The crowd said nothing.

And I had their full attention.

Without wasting their attention, I seized Silv's wounded arm and yanked it upward — blood dripping down her sleeve as she let out a muffled cry.

I raised it high, holding it there for all to see — trembling, bloodied, and broken.

"This," I shouted, my voice cutting through the air like a blade, "is the power I hold!"

The echo bounced off the walls, swallowing any stray murmurs.

All eyes were on me — no one dared look away. Not the children, not the dying, not even the men still standing in line.

I let the silence stretch — let the weight of that statement sink deep into their bones.

They needed to see it.

To feel it.

Not just the violence…

…but the control.

"Not even the strongest lizard, minotaur, or any demi-human is safe when confronted by me!" I shouted, voice thundering across the chamber.

I waved my little tool — the Walther — through the air like a conductor's baton, commanding not music, but fear.

"This weapon does not discriminate. It does not hesitate. And neither do I."

Eyes widened. Some gasped.

Letting go of Silv, her body crumpled to the ground, unable to stand any longer — her injured leg trembling, useless beneath her.

I pointed to it — to the wound still bleeding, raw and exposed — making sure every eye was on it.

"That," I said coldly, "is the power I command."

My voice echoed through the chamber, rising above the quiet groans and muffled sobs.

"It tears through flesh. Through fur. Through scale."

I held the Walther high now — not as a weapon, but as a symbol.

"And with this power… we will make it out of here alive."

The crowd watched me — silent, still, hanging on every word.

"There will be loss," I said, pacing now, gaze sweeping across the worn faces before me. "But it will not be in vain."

"It will be for something greater."

"It will be for a cause."

With those words, the crowd no longer wore the same hollow expressions of despair.

Their eyes — once sunken and dull — now flickered with something new.

Not fear.Not desperation.

Hope.

It spread like a quiet fire, slow but steady — warming the frozen hearts of the broken.

Backs straightened. Heads lifted.

Some clenched their fists. Others looked to one another as if seeing their fellow prisoners for the first time.

For the first time in what may have been years… they believed.

I raised my fist high into the air.

"Follow me. Stay close. We're leaving—now."

The crowd stirred, whispers rippling like wind through tall grass. No one questioned. No one stayed behind.

I turned to Silv.

"How many guards are upstairs? No mistakes this time."

She didn't hesitate.

"Around four."

My eyes narrowed. "How many demi-humans live in the village?"

She paused, ears twitching slightly. "I believe… thirty to seventy. Somewhere in that range."

"And the human population?"

She hesitated.

"We don't count the humans."

I stepped closer, voice sharp. "Estimate."

She stiffened, then answered quickly, "Maybe three hundred. Or more. There's… a lot."

Three hundred. And yet we were the ones caged? Shackled and starved by a fraction of our number?

The thought simmered.

"Lead us to the stairs," I said.

She nodded silently and turned, limping forward, glancing back to ensure I was close.

I followed — but not empty-handed.

Reaching into my coat, I retrieved my Walther.

One magazine slid in with a snap.

I racked the slide — click.

Then, without breaking stride, I reloaded the remaining three magazines tucked into my coat.

Each round slid into place with a metallic whisper.

Thirty-two bullets.

And 42 bullets left free.

Four guards.

One revolution about to begin.