Lucas remembered the darkness that had rushed up to his vision, and the grim consequence of speaking forbidden truths in a modern world that heavily guarded its systemic secrets.
Yet, instead of the eternal void he had braced his consciousness for, his senses were suddenly assaulted by a barrage of overwhelming life.
Blinking away the shadowy haze of death, he found himself seated on a marble bench.
Standing mere paces before him was an elder. He possessed an immaculate white beard, his calloused hands gesturing as he spoke to the wind.
"Since the soul is divided into two distinct parts, my prince," the old man droned, "one part possessing reason in itself, the other not possessing it but inherently capable of obeying reason... we must ask ourselves which part holds true dominion over the ideal ruler, and by extension, his sprawling kingdom."
Lucas stared in stunned silence, his mind struggling to bridge the impossible gap between a modern-day execution and an ancient, sunlit philosophy lecture.
Shifting his weight cautiously on the seat, he cast his gaze downward to examine his own body.
Instead of the scarred, weary, ink-stained hands of an outspoken man in his late thirties, he discovered the undeniably youthful fingers of a teenager.
He wore a finely woven linen tunic. Despite this startling physical transformation, his mind remained sharp, racing to process the impossible variables of his new existence.
He was young again, utterly healthy, and breathing air that tasted entirely untouched by industrial smog or the rot of the twenty-first century.
"You are not paying attention, Alexander."
The name struck him with the blunt force of a physical blow, freezing the breath in his expanding lungs and sending an icy shockwave down his spine. Alexander?
At the moment, a torrent of latent, deeply buried memories flooded his conscious mind, colliding spectacularly with his modern intellect.
He saw the scarred, one-eyed visage of King Philip of Macedon roaring in drunken victory; he felt the terrifying embrace of Queen Olympias surrounded by her sacred, slithering serpents; and he knew, with chilling certainty, the exact architectural layout of the Royal Palace of Pella.
Lucas looked up, truly seeing the bearded elder for the first time.
Taking in the prominent, deeply furrowed brow and the piercing eyes he realized the undeniable weight the man carried upon his aging shoulders.
He was sitting in the legendary Garden of Midas at Mieza. The man standing before him, awaiting a response was none other than Aristotle, the greatest mind of antiquity.
Which meant he, Lucas, the man murdered in the shadows of the future for knowing too much about how the world truly operated, had somehow been reincarnated into the body of history's greatest conqueror.
"Forgive my distraction, Teacher," Lucas finally replied. "Though my eyes wandered to the beauty of the gardens, my mind was firmly anchored to the profound, heavy weight of your words."
Aristotle stopped his measured pacing, turning slowly to raise a single, wildly bushy eyebrow at his royal pupil. "Is that so? Then perhaps you can illuminate this peaceful garden with your own thoughts on the matter. If the rational part of the soul is meant to rule supreme, how does a true king prevent the irrational desires from steering the fragile chariot of his empire straight off the jagged cliff of hubris?"
Lucas realized he stood at a highly dangerous precipice. He could easily feign ignorance, playing the established role of a restless, easily distracted princeling eager to return to the bloody sparring ring, or he could engage the titan of philosophy using the historical, economic, and geopolitical knowledge of two millennia.
After all, if he was destined to conquer the known world and permanently change the course of human history, he couldn't afford to play the fool, not even for a single day in the shade of a fig tree.
Leaning forward, resting his forearms on his bare knees, Lucas met Aristotle's piercing gaze with an intensity that made the older philosopher slightly widen his eyes in surprise.
"The premise itself heavily assumes that the passions are inherently destructive, Teacher. Nevertheless, what if they are not the mortal enemy of reason, but rather its most potent, indispensable engine?"
Aristotle's eyes narrowed, a sudden spark of genuine curiosity igniting within their dark depths.
"Explain yourself, boy. Passion without the strict, unyielding guidance of reason is a wild, untamed stallion, trampling everything and everyone in its destructive, bloody path."
"Exactly," Lucas countered smoothly. "Thus, the ultimate goal of a true ruler is not to needlessly slaughter the stallion, but to masterfully harness it. Reason alone is fundamentally cold; it calculates intricate logistics, it plans drawn-out sieges, it builds magnificent aqueducts and impenetrable, towering walls. Yet, reason alone does not inspire common, fearful men to march across burning, waterless deserts, nor does it ever compel them to charge headlong into bristling, terrifying walls of Persian spears."
Rising gracefully from the marble bench, feeling the surprising latent strength coiled within his new legs, he confidently closed the short distance between them.
"If a king relies solely on the rational soul, he becomes a mere tyrant of logic, respected perhaps for his sheer efficiency, but never truly loved or passionately followed into the gaping jaws of death. Conversely, if he surrenders entirely to the irrational, he quickly devolves into a rabid beast. The ideal ruler, the one who will forge an empire to span the entire earth, binds the two together in perfect harmony. He uses his razor-sharp reason to forge the strongest reins and map the safest, most lucrative course, but he utterly relies on the burning, infinite passion of his irrational soul to pull the heavy chariot across the jagged edges of the world."
"And what of the diverse peoples you inevitably trample beneath this chariot, Alexander?" Aristotle challenged, stepping closer.
"Passion violently conquers, but can it effectively govern? The vast, fractured tribes to the north, the sprawling, decadent mass of the Persian Empire to the east. Standard reason dictates they must be thoroughly subjugated, ruled with an iron fist by a superior intellect as natural, subservient slaves."
Lucas inwardly scoffed at the famous, deeply flawed Aristotelian view of natural slavery, recognizing this as his perfect chance to lay the philosophical groundwork for his future, unified empire.
"That is a shockingly narrow view of reason, Teacher. If we merely subjugate by the sword, we spend the rest of our miserable lives holding a starving wolf by the ears... exhausting our armies and bleeding our treasuries dry just to prevent a bloody rebellion. True, enlightened reason dictates assimilation and cultural integration. Why burn their ancient temples when we can strategically place our own gods beside theirs? Why arrogantly discard their experienced administrators when we can effectively utilize their deep local knowledge to enrich our own Macedonian treasury? An empire built on pure, brutal subjugation is horribly brittle, constantly waiting to shatter under pressure. Conversely, an empire meticulously built on shared prosperity, religious tolerance, and integrated cultures becomes an unbreakable, world-spanning titan."
A profound, heavy silence descended upon the lush garden, pregnant with unsaid geopolitical implications, broken only by the distant, soothing rustle of green leaves dancing in the wind.
Aristotle stared at his young, ostensibly familiar pupil, the deep, weathered lines around his eyes crinkling as he critically evaluated the sheer audacity and profound, unprecedented depth of the radical argument he had just heard.
This was absolutely not the typical bloodthirsty response of a restless youth dreaming merely of battle glory.
"A remarkably dangerous, wholly unprecedented philosophy, Alexander," Aristotle murmured finally, reaching up to slowly stroke his magnificent beard while never breaking eye contact.
"Harnessing such a wild, ambitious stallion requires a rider of unparalleled strength and absolute, unwavering conviction. If the rider falters for even a single, fleeting moment, the colossal beast he has created will undoubtedly drag him down to his absolute, bloody ruin."
"Then I must ensure I never falter," Lucas replied, his voice dropping an octave, laced with a chilling, steely resolve that belonged neither to the murdered, cynical whistle-blower of the future nor the spoiled, arrogant prince of Macedonia, but entirely to the terrifying, brilliant hybrid entity they had just seamlessly become.
Turning his back on the legendary philosopher, the newly reborn Alexander gazed out past the terraced, blooming gardens.