The next morning came with the soft light of dawn spilling through the window shutters. Eiranaios had risen early, his body still adjusting to this new life, his mind carrying both the weight of his father's death and the strange truth of his own transmigration. Lycenia, faithful as ever, served him breakfast—wheat bread, still warm from the oven, a bowl of meat porridge stewed with tomato and spice, and watered wine to wash it down. He ate slowly, chewing as he thought through numbers and debts, his eyes drifting once or twice toward the wooden chest where the ledger lay.
By the time he finished, Lycenia had already cleared the table. He was just standing near the window when he heard his uncle's deep voice from the courtyard.
"Eiranaios! Are you awake?"
The door opened and in stepped Thersandros, broad-shouldered, his dark hair showing threads of grey at the temples. Behind him came a man with brown, shoulder-length hair and a carefully trimmed beard that framed his narrow face. He had the air of a man used to haggling but also careful with appearances.
"Here he is," Thersandros said warmly, clapping his nephew on the shoulder. "Eiranaios, this is Antigonus, a reputable broker of property. The best in Athens."
Antigonus bowed slightly, polite but professional. "My condolences on your loss, young man. Your father was well regarded."
Eiranaios inclined his head quietly. Words of grief did not come easily to him, but his silence carried its own weight.
Lycenia entered with a tray, setting cups before them. "Tea," she said simply, pouring the steaming brew into small clay cups.
The three of them sat and discussed. Antigonus spoke in careful terms about land, about the market, about the appetite of wealthier Athenians for property outside the city walls. Eiranaios listened more than he spoke, asking only what was necessary, his tone even and calm.
After some time, he summoned Lycenia again and instructed her to ready the horses. Within the hour, they were riding out toward the outskirts of Athens. Ten mercenary soldiers, led by Damos and Stellos, flanked them, their presence a shield against trouble.
The road was dusty, the sun growing hotter as they moved along. Antigonus assessed each property with a sharp eye, walking the boundaries, tapping the walls, inspecting the soil. His interest was clear enough. By the time the day leaned toward afternoon, he had made his offer.
"Fifteen hundred drachma," he said, after a long back-and-forth of haggling. "It is a fair sum for both properties, considering the debts attached."
Eiranaios considered, then nodded. "Agreed."
They rode back to the house, tired but settled. From his father's study, Eiranaios fetched the deeds. In the presence of Thersandros, Lycenia, five mercenary soldiers, and two of Antigonus' men, they sealed the bargain. Their thumbs pressed in ink left dark marks on yellow parchment. Wax was dripped and pressed. The deal was done.
Antigonus departed with polite farewells. Thersandros, however, stayed.
"I'll sleep here tonight," he said, firm but kindly. "No telling if anyone might try something, now that word of the sale will spread. Better to be cautious."
Eiranaios accepted the decision. He ordered Lycenia to prepare a room next to his own for his uncle, and another for the ten soldiers who had accompanied them.
Dinner that night was lively. Though they had skipped lunch, the evening meal was hearty—roasted lamb, barley bread, and wine. The mercenaries laughed, telling stories of past contracts, teasing one another about scars and foolish mistakes. Eiranaios sat among them, reserved, but a faint smile touched his lips at their banter. They welcomed him quietly, understanding the weight of his grief.
When the house had quieted, he retired to his room. Lying on the hard bed, his thoughts spun for a while—his father, debts, this strange second life—before sleep finally pulled him under.
The next morning came quickly. Eiranaios rose before dawn, dressed, and had a simple breakfast of roasted ham and baked potatoes. Thersandros was already awake, speaking with Damos and Stellos in the courtyard.
"I'll settle the debts today," Eiranaios said, stepping out. His uncle nodded approvingly.
By mid-morning, Eiranaios was on his way to the east quarters of Athens, within the inner walls where wealth and power clustered. The sun beat down as the hours passed, and by the time he reached the loan house, the midday heat pressed on him like a heavy cloak. He wiped his face with a clean rag, straightened his tunic, and stepped inside.
The loan house was cool, its stone walls thick. Behind a counter sat a man in fine robes, his fingers ink-stained. Eiranaios handed him the debt deeds and opened the leather bag at his side. Gold coins gleamed as he counted them out—seven hundred drachma, the sum required with accumulated interest.
The man nodded approvingly. "You are free of your debt, young master. It is rare to see such honesty these days. If you ever wish to take another loan—"
"No," Eiranaios cut him off quietly but firmly. "No more loans."
The keeper of coins looked disappointed but said no more.
Eiranaios turned to leave, but as he stepped toward the door, whispers drew his ear. He glanced back.
A young man had entered—handsome, with light golden hair that caught the lamplight. His skin was smooth, his hands soft, free from the marks of work or sword. His tunic was finely woven, his cloak pinned with silver. Around him clustered other youths, finely dressed, and women of rare beauty. Guards in polished armor followed, grey cloaks draped over their shoulders, the bold sigil of their house displayed—a black eagle clutching coins in its beak.
"That is Agisilaos," someone whispered near the counter. "Son of the Minister himself."
Eiranaios studied him for only a moment. The gulf between them was clear. Men like Agisilaos lived in another world. Merchants, even wealthy ones like Menandros had been, were still commoners. The gap could not be crossed.
The old Eiranaios might have lingered, tried to mingle, sought a word or glance. The new one did not. Lou Chen's memories of class and hierarchy in his own world made the truth plain—futility.
He turned and walked out, the sunlight blinding for a moment after the cool interior.
Back at home, he and Thersandros shared a simple lunch—bread, cheese, a little fish, and grape wine. The soldiers ate nearby, their laughter spilling into the courtyard.
Eiranaios set down his cup. His heart had been weighing this decision since the day before. He cleared his throat.
"Uncle," he said, his tone steady. "I want to join you. I want to become a mercenary soldier."
Thersandros looked at him for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. Then he leaned back, exhaling slowly.
"You?" he said at last. "The boy who never lifted a sword unless I pushed it into his hand? The one who spent more time with artists than with men of iron?"
Eiranaios did not flinch. "That was before."
Silence stretched for a breath. Then Thersandros chuckled, a low sound that grew into laughter.
"Well, the gods must be laughing too," he said. "But perhaps it is not such a bad thing. You've got your father's stubbornness. And you'll need it. Mercenary work is not poetry. It's dirt, blood, and poor pay."
"I know," Eiranaios replied simply.
Stellos, overhearing, leaned in with a grin. "Careful, boy. First time you see your own blood on the ground, you might run back to your books."
"Don't scare him yet," Damos said, shaking his head. "At least let him hold a spear first."
The men laughed, and Thersandros finally clapped his nephew's shoulder.
"Very well," he said. "If you're serious, then you'll march with us. Not tomorrow, not yet—you'll need training. But you'll earn your place among us, just as any man must."
Eiranaios nodded.