Lou Chen was thirty-two years old the day he died. Or perhaps it was not death, but something stranger.
He had lived his life quietly in modern China, born under the red flag, raised in the ordinary hum of the city. He was a programmer, overworked and underpaid, one of thousands bent over computers in airless rooms. His days blurred into long hours of code, his nights into empty meals and short, restless sleep.
The night before had been especially harsh. His boss had handed him a mountain of tasks with no mercy. By the time Lou Chen returned to his small apartment, his body was a bundle of exhaustion. He fell on the bed without dinner, the light still on, his shoes still half-tied.
When he opened his eyes again, it was not to the ceiling he knew.
The world had shifted. The ceiling above him was rough stone, faintly lit by the yellow glow of oil lamps. The smell of smoke and tallow filled his nose. Beneath him, the bed was hard, stuffed with straw, not the mattress of his apartment. The air was heavy, old, strange.
He sat up, and pain cracked through his skull.
Memories not his own came rushing in—floods of names, faces, places. His breath caught as the story unfolded in his mind.
He was no longer Lou Chen.
He was Eiranaios, son of Menandros, a youth of Athens.
His father had been a merchant, cautious but ambitious. Menandros had borrowed heavily to fund a caravan to Thebes, a gamble meant to raise his family higher. But the gamble had failed. Raiders struck, or fate itself turned, and Menandros had died on the road.
The boy, Eiranaios, was eighteen. Ordinary. Handsome enough, though not remarkable. Fond of gatherings, music, and idle talk, but without the talent or drive for trade. His father had worried about him even in life. When the news came that Menandros was dead, the grief had broken him. His heart had failed in this very bed.
And that was when Lou Chen had come.
He sat in the half-dark, breathing hard, gripping his new hands. Slowly, the pounding in his head eased. The memories settled, and the man who had once been Lou Chen understood that he would never return.
He was Eiranaios now.
He clapped softly, and a woman entered.
Her name was Lycenia, in her fifties, the maid who had raised him since his mother died at childbirth. She was more nanny than servant, the one constant of his life. Her back was bent, her hands rough, but her eyes were sharp with worry.
"Young master," she said softly, her voice unsteady. "You should rest. The grief is heavy enough—"
"I have rested enough," Eiranaios interrupted gently. His voice sounded calmer than the boy's had ever been, more steady, as though the grief had burned away weakness. "Call for a page. Send him north, to the Athenian gate. Tell him to summon my uncle Thersandros."
Lycenia blinked, surprised. This composure was not what she expected from the boy she had nursed. But she bowed her head. "At once."
Eiranaios rose and walked into his father's study. The air was thick with dust and the faint smell of ink. Scrolls and ledgers were stacked across the table. He pulled one close, and the numbers stared back at him.
For hours, he read. His mind, trained in a different world, worked slowly but steadily through the records.
Yes, the debts were heavy, but his father had not been reckless in whom he borrowed from. There were no thugs, no shadow lenders. Only merchants, established and honorable, men who would honor their contracts.
If he sold the two properties on the outskirts of Athens, gathered the goods still in the warehouses, and collected the debts owed to his father, he could pay everything. Even have some left over. Enough to begin again.
A chance to rise.
But Eiranaios closed the ledger with a sigh. He was no trader. He was no merchant. Lou Chen had been nothing more than an overworked office man. And the boy whose body he now lived in had been no better—kind, yes, dutiful, perhaps—but talentless when it came to the ways of coin. Neither of them had the spirit of Menandros.
The thought was bitter, but clear.
He called Lycenia again. "Gather the servants."
They came, a line of faces pale with fear. They had heard the news. They knew the weight of debts. Some clutched their aprons, some kept their heads bowed. They were waiting to be dismissed without pay, or worse.
Eiranaios stood before them, tall though lean, his hands steady.
"My father is gone," he said quietly. "This house cannot keep you. But you will not go with empty hands."
A murmur swept through them. Then tears. Then protests. "We cannot leave you—" "Young master, don't send us—"
But he pressed payment into their palms, more than they had ever dreamed. Enough to live well for years, even lifetimes.
Some fell to their knees in gratitude. Some wept openly. Some kissed his hand. One old man muttered, "Your father raised you well, boy."
By the time the last of them left, the halls were quiet. Only Lycenia remained.
She set down her bundle and looked at him with firm eyes. "I will not go. I raised you in this house, I will not leave you to grieve alone."
Eiranaios' lips curved faintly. " But my father is dead, and his estate left unguarded, you have dedicated an entire lifetime towards my family, isn't it high time you make your own family".
Lycennia replied "I made a promise to your mother on her deathbirth I will look after you, now that your father is dead, now is the time to fulfil those promises, and when I die, I will die with respect for having fulfilled my own end, over the past years, I have come to love you like a son and view you as my own son, I cannot be more proud of what i see and I am sure your mother will be proud also"
Eiranaios answered " It seems that I can't convince you, do as you want then"
***
Three hours later, the sound of boots echoed at the gate.
Thersandros arrived with two soldiers at his back—Damos and Stellos, men hardened by years of war. Lycenia led them into the study. The two soldiers waited outside, their hands never far from their spears.
Thersandros filled the room with his presence. He was broad-shouldered, his beard streaked with gray, his eyes sharp. Yet when they fell on Eiranaios, the steel melted.
"My brother," he muttered, shaking his head. "Menandros should not have died like this."
He placed a heavy hand on his nephew's shoulder. "You have my sympathy, boy. And my help, if you'll take it."
Eiranaios bowed his head slightly. "Father left debts. I will need your aid to sell the properties."
Thersandros frowned. "Debts? There is no rush. The contracts run six months yet. I can pay them, if needed. My company is flush from last season."
Eiranaios shook his head. "No. This is my burden. Father left it to me. I will clear it."
Thersandros studied him a long moment. His nephew's eyes were different. Firmer, steadier. No longer the boy who wasted hours with idle chatter. There was steel there now, though faint.
At last, the mercenary captain nodded. "Very well. I will respect it. I know a man, Antigonus. A broker, honest, shrewd. He will sell your father's lands for fair coin. I'll speak with him tomorrow."
"Thank you, uncle."
Thersandros grunted. He rose and turned to leave. Damos and Stellos straightened at the door. One of them, the younger, whispered as they left, "The boy looks different."
The older one chuckled. "Grief makes men, or it breaks them."
Their voices faded with the sound of boots.
Eiranaios sat in silence again. He stared at the ledgers though he no longer needed to. The numbers were etched in his mind.
His father had dreamed of wealth, of trade, of rising higher. But Eiranaios knew himself now. He was no merchant. He was no heir of coin.
His uncle's company came to mind—rough men, but disciplined. Fighters, not heroes. They took contracts carefully, not foolishly. There was danger, but also life, and coin.
Slowly, Eiranaios leaned back. Tomorrow, when Thersandros returned, he would speak plainly.
He would join the company.