When the others had gone, the room was finally quiet, leaving only Aeneas. His body still ached with half-healed pain, but he forced himself upright and rubbed his stiff shoulders.
Outside, the sunlight blazed, sharp and unrelenting—as if reminding him, rather smugly, that ancient life came without air-conditioning.
He drew in a breath and decided not to lie back down. Curiosity, that stubborn itch, pushed him toward the door instead. Fingers brushing the rough wooden handle, he eased it open.
The courtyard was small but orderly. Irregular slabs of stone paved the ground, and a handful of Mediterranean shrubs glistened green in the sun, releasing a faint fragrance when the wind stirred. In one corner stood a crude rack of weapons—wooden swords, spears—and beside it, a straw target scarred from practice shots. A towering olive tree spread its branches wide, shading a few flat stones that doubled as table and stools.
Another corner of the yard was occupied by a low stone structure. Aeneas wrinkled his nose. Primitive sanitation—of course.
The evening light still burned bright. The air was crisp, yes, but it carried with it a jumble of scents: livestock, fermenting olive oil, the musk of sweat after training, and—well—whatever passed for a sewerless system.
He muttered inwardly:
"Pure, all-natural air… a little too natural, maybe."
Leaning in the shade, he watched a slave sweeping with a rough broom, shovel at hand, silent and practiced in his motions. Aeneas arched a brow and let his gaze wander past the walls.
The valley view stole his breath. Mount Ida stretched across the horizon, thick with green forest that swayed and shimmered. Farther off, the silhouette of Troy appeared, its walls gleaming golden in the sun; beyond that, the Aegean flashed like scattered silver coins. Below, the Scamander River coiled wide and fast, feeding fields and hamlets alive with activity.
Aeneas inhaled deeply, trying to soak in the beauty—only for his modern instincts to protest at once. This was no tourist resort; this was survival without any modern comforts.
"Scenery's unbeatable… but the living standards? Guess I'll have to learn the fine art of enduring."
He drew a few more breaths, attempting to convince himself, and ended up smiling wryly.
"Come on, Uncle Allen, hang in there. No heating, no coffee, no corner shops… but at least the view's doing its best to make up for it."
Sunlight, shadows, sea breeze, and that unmistakable ancient tang braided together into an odd atmosphere. Aeneas wandered across the stone slabs toward the straw target, letting his fingers trail along the shaft of a wooden spear. Strange, yes, but inviting too. Life, however imperfect, still begged to be explored.
He circled the courtyard and stopped at a stone table. A clay basin sat there, half-filled with clear water, no towel in sight. He hesitated, then plunged his hands in. Cool relief rushed over him, and he shivered with pleasure.
Blinking, he shook his hands dry. They were instantly parched again, as though nothing had happened.
So that was it—hand-washing, ancient-style. No soap, no sanitizer, just the breeze for disinfection.
Grumbling, he glanced toward the corner, where that squat stone hut loomed.
Yes, the toilet.
From the outside, it looked uncannily like a squatting tortoise, the sort that gave off a silent warning: Keep away.
Aeneas froze where he stood, his face knotting into a complicated grimace.
Flush toilet, you were one of humanity's greatest inventions. I miss you already.
He jerked his head aside, pretending he hadn't seen the thing. But his brain, traitorous as ever, immediately served up another problem—bathing.
He pictured it: someone dumping a bucket of icy water over him, his body shaking like a leaf, and then waiting ages while a servant coaxed a fire to heat more.
Hot-water heater! You're not here. Only cold water and heartbreak to keep me company.
Just then a fly buzzed past his ear, looping in tight, arrogant circles.
Aeneas flinched so hard he nearly sneezed.
"Shoo—shoo off!" He swatted at it, but the creature seemed determined to taunt him.
"This isn't just a fly," he muttered darkly. "This is cholera and typhoid with wings. I need bug spray—no, at least insect repellent!"
He couldn't stand it any longer. He threw back his head and let out a heroic wail, the sound bouncing off the courtyard walls:
"No Wi-Fi, no coffee, no toilet! Is this even a life?!"
Somewhere in the next yard a young slave peeked out, curious.
Aeneas coughed twice, instantly switching postures, hands clasped behind his back as if nothing had happened. He ignored the puzzled looks of his own servants and arranged his face into a nobleman's Just warming up expression.
Keep calm. Don't spook the locals.
He drew a slow breath. He had to adapt, he told himself. No losing face as the so-called modern man in the ancient world.
Leaning against the wall, he heard the bleating of sheep in the distance. The sound should have been innocent enough, but to his ears it carried only one grim message: dinner.
"…Lamb again?" he muttered, his voice heavy with modern despair.
In his mind's eye appeared the inevitable—roast leg of lamb, a pinch of salt, a drizzle of olive oil.
His lips twitched. Really? That's the entire spice rack? No chili, no pepper, no sauces of any kind. How am I supposed to live like this?
A servant passed just then, balancing a fat leg of lamb, and grinned politely.
Aeneas forced a patrician smile in return, though inwardly he groaned:
Fine, enjoy yourselves. My taste buds just handed in their resignation.
Thinking of dinner triggered an even darker realization. Potatoes—gone. Tomatoes—gone. Corn—also nonexistent.
All New World crops. None of them had even been discovered yet.
Asian staples like rice and sugarcane hadn't made it here either. Which meant… barley and wheat. With no sugar, no sweets worth mentioning.
Half the food world—vanished in an instant! French fries, pasta, popcorn, sushi, fizzy drinks bursting with sugar… gone, all gone.
He grabbed a clay cup from the table and gave it a shake. A trace of wine sloshed weakly at the bottom—thin, cloudy. He sniffed it and winced.
"This… did they water it down? Or just forget to strain it? Am I drinking wine or chewing grit?"
Still, his parched throat forced him to gulp a mouthful. He coughed at once, face twisting as though he'd swallowed sand.
A servant shot him a curious glance. Aeneas waved it off with a show of nonchalance, though his inner voice was screaming:
Well done, Uncle Allen. Time travel means the purest, most unprocessed diet you'll ever know.
But the fatal blow came from his sweet tooth. His mind flickered with torturous visions:
A scoop of vanilla ice cream melting under the sun, sponge cake piled with clouds of cream, chocolate dissolving rich and smooth on the tongue—each vision crueler than the last, more brutal than any battlefield.
No, no, no… my blood sugar's sinking to the earth's core… He grabbed the edge of the table for support, looking ready to collapse.
At last, he tilted his head back, eyes on the sky, and let out a sigh that was equal parts despair and self-mockery:
"This… this isn't a foodie's paradise. It's a foodie's purgatory!"
Aeneas dragged his still-stiff body over to a rough stone bench and dropped onto it.
The sunlight was warm, almost soothing—until it flickered sharp across his eyes. He blew out a long breath, pressing down the chaos swirling in his head, and called an emergency meeting with himself.
"Alright, calm down. Breathe." That was Allen, the forty-five-year-old voice in his soul, murmuring in his ear. Grumbling was fine, but he had to think of a way forward.
Option One: Run. Away. From. Troy.
The image sprang to life at once—him, stumbling alone through the hills, wild beasts prowling, bands of robbers waiting round every corner.
Brilliant. Bronze Age edition of a survival game. No cheats, no map, and the language barrier's bound to get me killed. Forget lasting three seasons—I wouldn't even last three episodes.
He shuddered hard enough to snap that path clean off the list.
Option Two: Surrender to the Greeks.
And instantly his mind coughed up a gallery of murderous faces—Achilles, Ajax the Great, Ajax the Lesser. Each one a human slaughterhouse.
Their idea of fun is sacking cities. Surrender? That's me carrying my own head on a platter. And don't even mention conscience—teaming up with a bunch of marauders? I'd rather they cut me down than join the anti-human league.
That option went out with an emphatic X.
Option Three: Stay. Strengthen Troy. Change the ending.
His fingers tapped the stone table without thinking, but his heartbeat began to steady.
I am a Trojan prince—well, a side-branch one—but the title's mine, the status is mine, and I've got a divine-tier mother… probably. Sure, this path looks bloody hard, but it's the only one that makes sense.
As Allen's memories fused with Aeneas's body, information unfolded like pages in a book—military balances, political intrigues, and the cold, merciless rules of survival in this world. Every line whispered the same warning: this road is rock hard, the falls will hurt, but there is no other choice.
He lowered his gaze to his palm—broad, strong, the hand of a young noble.
A crooked smile tugged at his lips.
Reality bites. Life difficulty: set straight to hell mode.
The words slipped out under his breath, half a groan, half a joke.
Then he lifted his eyes to the Aegean glittering in the distance. A spark of resolve lit there.
If he couldn't escape the script, then he'd just have to rewrite it.
Aeneas sat quietly in the courtyard, the sunlight spilling down from Mount Ida, catching in his black-and-gold curls until they shimmered like fine threads. He closed his eyes. Two utterly different sets of memories crashed through his mind, as if someone had stapled together two books written in opposite styles.
The "Aeneas" side was sharp, almost too sharp: the weight of a sword in his hand, the smell of sweat dripping on the training ground, his father Anchises's grave counsel, and the yearning for Troy's golden walls.
The "Allen" side was messier: war timelines, spoilers from millennia later, scraps of knowledge about military tactics and farming techniques. Plus an armful of modern baggage—coffee addiction, Wi-Fi withdrawal, and an instinctive longing for take-out food that had no place in this world.
Well then. Forty-five-year-old, unemployed web novelist—your one golden finger? Farming. Tech trees. Unlock skills with brainpower. Hey, Lady Fate, you owe me a system interface.
He opened his eyes, let out a slow breath, and faced the crude but solid world before him.
From outside drifted his mother Aresya's gentle voice, and further off, the laughter of young Terani.
These were his family now, bound to him by blood and destiny both.
The thought tightened something in his chest.
"If I walk away now… what kind of future would they even have?"
He muttered the words under his breath, his tone carrying both Aeneas's gravity and Allen's restless edge.
The wind swept in from the coastal plain, tasting of salt and wild herbs. He rose to his feet, his movements suddenly sharp, decisive.
Sunlight spilled across his bronzed skin, and in that glow his gaze cleared, hardening with resolve.
"All right then, Troy! If I'm Aeneas now, let's see if I can't rewrite your tragic little script—and while I'm at it, raise the standard of living a notch. Life's miserable enough as it is."
A servant in the courtyard shot him a curious glance, as if sensing some invisible battle had just been fought inside his young master's mind.
Aeneas only grinned and waved lightly, as though to say, Don't worry, just held a board meeting with my soul.
In that moment, a new Aeneas was born—one stitched together from a modern soul and an ancient burden.
He was no longer merely someone's son, someone's heir. He was himself, and he could choose.
Looking toward Troy's distant walls, he chuckled softly.
"Well then. Let's do this. Aeneas 2.0, now online."
Creaaak. A young man shoved open the wooden gate and strode into the courtyard.
The sun carved a golden outline across his broad shoulders, making him look like the sort who could sling a wild beast over his back and march up a mountain without breaking stride.
His face carried a complicated look—half worry, half the exasperation of someone thinking, What foolish thing have you gone and done this time?
"Aeneas!" His deep voice filled the yard, threaded with the sharpness of an older brother's scolding. "You're finally awake! You reckless fool, you never stop giving people heart attacks!"
Aeneas sat on a stone bench in the sun, half-healing, half-pondering his place in the world. At the sound of that voice, he lifted his head; his black-gold curls flashed in the light, and a wry smile tugged at his lips.
"Well, if it isn't my walking bodyguard. Relax, I'm still breathing."
He flicked a hand in a lazy salute, his grin laced with mischief. This was Achates—brother in all but blood, companion since boyhood.
As Achates came closer, his eyes swept over Aeneas, as if checking whether every scar and bruise was still within survivable limits. Then he raised an eyebrow and muttered under his breath, "I heard you took down a wild boar. Honestly… reckless. And impressive."
When he said reckless, his eyes carried reproach; but when he said impressive, admiration slipped through despite himself.
Aeneas burst out laughing, his easy, aristocratic charm in full display.
"Next time I'll bring you along. That way it won't count as reckless. Besides, if I stumble across another pig-king, I'll need you there to keep me alive."
"You…" Achates shook his head, though a reluctant smile curled his lips.
After a moment's pause, his expression turned solemn, as if binding himself to a vow.
"Whatever you decide to do—adventure, battle, doesn't matter—I'll be there with you."
It wasn't a throwaway reassurance. It was a promise, weighty and unshakable.
For a moment the courtyard fell quiet, broken only by the Scamander River's low murmur in the distance, and the occasional birdcall drifting down from the hills.
The unease lodged deep in Aeneas's chest eased, as though that single pledge had scattered it like smoke in the wind.
He looked at the boyhood companion standing before him, and gratitude flickered, unspoken, in his eyes.
"Then it's a deal," he said, forcing the lump in his throat back down and keeping his tone light.
"But don't you dare back out when the time comes. Otherwise, I'll write you in the epics as the traitor."
Achates blinked, clearly lost on the joke about "being written up as the traitor in an epic." Still, he gave a low laugh and clapped Aeneas on the shoulder. The blow was heavy, yes, but it carried more protection than reprimand.
"Relax. I'd never disgrace myself like that."
Their eyes met, and the mood lightened at once.
In the courtyard, under the golden sun, a young prince and his steadfast guard stood side by side, as if together they could withstand any storm the future might send their way.
Aeneas leaned against the stone bench, hands clasped behind his back, pulling an expression of grave importance while staring dramatically toward the Aegean.
"Achates," he said, his tone positively solemn, as though about to announce a mission that would shake the heavens.
Achates straightened at once, wary now. He knew too well—his young master's imagination could outpace a sword stroke, and someone always had to clean up the mess afterward.
Aeneas cleared his throat.
"I've decided. If Heracles could complete so many labors, then I'll follow in his footsteps. The wild boar was only the beginning. Next, well…"
He paused deliberately, as though weighing whether tomorrow's lunch should be roast lamb or beef stew.
Finally, with perfect seriousness, he declared, "I'll just pop over to Nemea and kill a lion."
The words dropped like stones. The air itself seemed to freeze.
Achates's eyes went round as bronze shields. His mouth opened, shut, opened again—and not a sound came out. A flurry of thoughts raced through his head: Has the boar knocked his brain loose? Or was the medicine a bit too strong?
Aeneas watched the frozen look on his friend's face, held it for a few seconds—and then couldn't hold back. His lips twitched into a crooked grin, that particular smile of someone who'd just pulled off a perfect prank.
It took Achates two whole beats to realize he'd been had. He exhaled long and hard, his shoulders sagging.
"Good gods, my lord!" he burst out, smacking Aeneas's arm. "You nearly gave me a heart attack!"
"That means it worked, doesn't it?" Aeneas laughed, eyes gleaming with boyish mischief, the very picture of a prankster in triumph.
Achates couldn't help it—he laughed too, shaking his head. Their gazes locked, and then both erupted into a roar of laughter that shook the little courtyard as if the stones themselves were in on the joke.
In the sunlight, their laughter rang out—pure, unguarded, like two children who'd known each other all their lives.
And they both knew, without needing oaths or promises, that this bond between them was sturdier than any so-called "glorious labor."
Just then, Terani burst into the courtyard like a deer off its tether, her steps drumming bright and quick against the flagstones.
Her round face was flushed, her nose dusted with flour, as though she'd just crawled out of a pile of dough.
"My lord! Achates!"
She flung both arms into the air, voice pitched to carry.
"Lady says to come to the dining hall! Supper's ready! Fresh bread and stew tonight!"
The flour flecks shook loose with every bounce, sprinkling her tunic and making her look all the more like a guilty apprentice caught red-handed.
Achates had been ready to lecture Aeneas about that lion nonsense, but her appearance melted the sternness clean off his face. His mouth twitched, then he settled for a nod and a steady reply:
"We'll be right there."
Aeneas, still lounging by the bench, caught the sparkle in her eyes.
At least in this age, smiles are the real thing—no filters, no edits. One hundred percent organic, he thought.
Mission accomplished, Terani flitted off like a sparrow heading home. At the gate, she glanced back to shout, "Hurry up! Bread won't wait!"
The courtyard fell quiet again, save for the evening wind tumbling down from Mount Ida, carrying with it the smell of supper mingled with sea salt.
Aeneas and Achates traded a glance—and laughed again.
"She's got more energy than you," Achates teased.
"Rubbish," Aeneas shot back, chin tilted, eyes glinting slyly. "If fresh bread and stew were on the line, I'd out-bounce her any day."
Achates laughed under his breath, gave him a mock curse, and slung an arm across his master's shoulder.
Together, they headed for the hall. The sky flared with crimson, as though hinting that livelier scenes were just around the corner.