The sun rose slowly from the edge of the Aegean Sea. Like a patient goldsmith. Applying the first gold leaf to the horizon.
Mount Ida's ridge woke in the warm morning light. The estate in the Dardan valley woke slow, like an old man stretching.
The pond in the courtyard came alive first—angry quacks from ducks and geese. Pigeons shot out from under the eaves. They wheeled in the low air for a moment before flying to the fields. The distant corral echoed with the low calls of cattle and sheep. A shepherd dog barked excitedly. It seemed to announce the morning's arrival.
The servants began their daily work. Women carried baskets toward the clay ovens. The smell of flatbread drifted on the air. An old servant stacked freshly cut olive wood. The light smoke from the embers mingled with the morning mist. Near the storeroom, a young man pushed a cart loaded with olives. Another carried pottery jars of grain. The clear sound of sickles hitting wooden handles came from the fields. In the vegetable garden, servant girls whispered about the strange tales they'd heard last night. The vintner checked his fermentation vats.
An old goose, convinced he was the head guard, honked officiously at passing servants. A puppy sneaked into a pile of flour. It emerged with its nose coated white. It wagged its tail triumphantly. These small incidents dotted the morning life like raisins. The Dardan estate was fully awake.
Aeneas stumbled out of the stone privy. Sunlight fell on his shoulders. It outlined his tall frame. But his face said too much.
Pain. Disgust. And that faint look—like he'd already given up.
He stood in the yard, hands on hips. Took a breath.
The air hit weird, like it ran through some old lab.
Olive smoke. Flour. And something else. Better not name it.
"Ugh… goddamn," he muttered. "I never knew ancient toilet civilization was this bad! It totally sucked!"
An old servant mopping nearby nearly laughed. He quickly bowed his head to hide it.
"The 'aftercare' is pure torture!" He walked away stiffly. "Broken pottery shards?! You actually use these to wipe? No wonder ancient people died young! A major cause of death, I'm sure. Cause of death: Anal hemorrhage and ulceration.... Gag...."
He lifted his hand and sniffed it. He made a face of exaggerated disgust.
His eyes wandered over the simple water basin and clay pots in the yard. His mind was already listing solutions. As a writer from the future—the soul of Allen Buffett awakening in this young body—he made a decision.
"Paper! I must make paper! Top priority! Manure fertilizer, water filters—they can all wait! For the sake of my butt and the tender little bottoms of all Trojans, the paper industry must start now!"
His expression shifted from collapse to solemn resolve.
This was no longer a complaint. It was a general declaring war on a logistics problem.
He straightened his back. He shed his embarrassment. He adopted the calm dignity of a nobleman and walked toward the washing area. He muttered about materials and processes under his breath. Like a half-awake factory designer.
At the water basin, cold water washed away the grime and his displeasure. As he dried himself, he mumbled, "Alright, Aeneas. Handle today's business first. Then go invent paper. Farewell, sleeping in—the schedule is packed."
He took a deep breath of the fresh air, scented with olive wood smoke. His resolve was firmer than ever.
He walked to the stone table under the old olive tree. He lifted the clay jar and splashed water on his face. Droplets trailed from his temples. They washed away the weariness. They made his dark gold curls even more unruly—that just-woke-up-trying-to-look-cool kind of messy.
He blinked. He stared at the "ancient skincare regimen" on the table. A few jars of olive oil. A small bundle of herbs. Fine sand. A clay pot holding plant ash.
"This is the ancient face wash and scrub?" he muttered. "Oh right, the plant ash... Don't scoff. Nobleman's luxury, my foot. I miss my foaming cleanser and electric toothbrush..."
Resigned, he poured olive oil into his palm. He mixed in the herbs and fine sand. He gently massaged his face like a science experiment. The grains scraped against his skin. A faint, gritty sound.
A grain pricked the corner of his eye. It itched. He shook his head sharply to dislodge it. His hair became even messier. "Whatever. When in Rome... Better than nothing. At least it's antiseptic... right?"
He rinsed with cold water. The clean, olive scent chased away the shadow of his "privy troubles." He took a deep breath. His nostrils filled with the smell of fields and olive groves.
He dried his face with his cloak. The daylight and water reflected a handsome face marked by life. He brushed off his shoulders. The morning ritual was complete.
His gaze swept over the weapon rack by the wall. Practice oak sword, spear, bronze shield. All neatly arranged. Awaiting orders.
"Alright, the butt plan is on hold—" he murmured. "Sword practice first. Then workshop planning. Morning drill starts now."
Each step toward the weapon rack felt like stepping from modern comfort into ancient duty.
He took off his tunic. His bronze shoulders looked stronger in the morning light. He grabbed the wooden sword and small bronze shield. He walked to the open stone ground. He began to warm up.
Arms stretched, waist twisted, legs kicked. Each movement a small lesson in ritual.
"Gotta work twice as hard," he grunted, stretching. "So I don't get instantly wrecked by that guy with the massive bone spur in his ankle!"
He settled into a stance. His eyes sharpened instantly. He visualized his opponent in his mind. A young, handsome, Hollywood version of Achilles. Eyes like a hawk. Footwork light as a butterfly.
"Come on," he thought.
The phantom closed in fast. A direct thrust to the chest. He raised his shield to block. A Smack! sent a numbing shock up his arm.
"No! Tilt the shield to deflect!" He pivoted, redirecting the force. Dropped low. Lunged forward. His wooden sword thrust back.
The phantom spun gracefully. Moved behind him. Its sword stabbed backward. Its shield swept sideways like a giant axe—fast as lightning.
"Too slow! Have to rely on prediction and strength!" He protected his back. Sank his center. Wrenched his body around for a sweeping strike.
The imaginary Achilles let out a mocking laugh—Aeneas gawked. Seriously? Even my imaginary enemy trash-talks?
A spinning kick slammed into his shield. It numbed both his arms. Worse, the phantom threw its sword like a javelin!
The situation became both ridiculous and dangerous. He scrambled, rolling to dodge. His soles slipped, kicking up dirt. He surged forward. "He's unarmed now! My chance!"
Just as he thought he had him, his opponent trapped the wooden sword with its shield. A twisting lock forced him to let go. About to lose his weapon, he dropped his shoulder and slammed forward. He used his own shield to bash an opening.
Crack! The stone stool was sent flying. It skidded and scraped across the stone pavement.
The phantom vanished. Only his heavy panting filled the yard. He straightened up, hands on his knees. He shook out his arms. A wry, but satisfied smile touched his lips.
"Lost... Yeah, no surprise. That guy's basically a walking cheat code. Whew... Decent workout, though. Feeling better!"
He raised his arms high in a stretch. Let out a gratified groan. He was loosening his muscles. Proving to himself that no matter the opponent, he'd keep fighting.
Sweat dripped down his collarbone. It glittered in the morning light. He picked up his wooden sword. He was about to wipe his brow. Two servants approached. Like well-trained pigeons.
The male slave stared wide-eyed. His jaw slightly slack. His mind reeled. "The Young Master was near death yesterday. Now he trains like this? Is he truly the son of a goddess? A demigod?"
The female slave bowed her head. She held a linen towel. Her cheeks were as red as pomegranates. She gazed at Aeneas's glistening torso. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird.
"The Young Master is especially handsome today..." she thought, her breath quickening.
She gathered her courage and offered the towel. Aeneas gave her a gentle smile. "Thank you. I've got it."
Simple words, but they warmed her heart. Her face flushed deeper. She retreated two steps. The water basin in her hands wobbled slightly. Her eyes unconsciously followed his wiping motions. In this moment, he was both a battlefield hero and a gentle lover.
The male slave remained stunned. "The Young Master definitely has divine favor. Maybe from more than one god..."
Terani burst into the courtyard like a whirlwind. Her skirts carried the warmth of the kitchens. Her cheeks were flushed. "Young Master Aeneas! Breakfast is ready!"
Seeing he'd finished training, she darted inside. She fetched his tunic. She helped him into it with efficient movements. Her words tumbled out. "Hurry, hurry! We have something super yummy today! More special than pomegranates, rarer than honey cakes—you have to try it!"
Aeneas smiled and held out his arms. He let her adjust his clothes. He thought to himself, "This girl's energy is boundless."
As Terani straightened his peplos, she couldn't help sneaking glances toward the dining area. The star-shaped pendant on her chest swayed. Her fingertips tightened with excitement. Her herb satchel sat crooked, revealing a corner of bandage. She sniffed the air, clearly distracted and tempted by the "special something."
Once he was dressed, she placed a hand on the small of his back. She gave him a light push. "Come on, don't just stand there! Breakfast will get cold!" Her eyes shone like stars.
Aeneas was amused by her impatience. "Alright, alright, Miss Terani. No need to push me all the way to the table."
His tone was fond. He let her steer him toward the dining hall.
The two of them moved, one behind the other, through the olive shade. The courtyard echoed with Terani's bright laughter and replies.