His body hurt all over, but he could move—albeit with pain. Slowly standing to his feet, he looked around.
He was in some kind of forest. Birds sang above, high in the trees. If it weren't for the strangeness of the situation, this place would've been perfect for a picnic.
The sound of running water caught his attention. The river… Maybe following it would lead him to people.
He leaned over the water and saw his reflection. A child stared back—black hair, thin but not fragile. What surprised him most was how mild his injuries looked. The pain was real, but with rest, he'd recover.
I don't know where I am… or who I am. This is insane.
It felt like he had taken possession of a child's body. But why?
As he walked, the pain dulled. Slowly, his mind cleared. The air was pure. No pollution, no noise. Too clean to be Earth. Strangely, he liked it. The silence, the freedom. If he was a child again, what responsibilities could they throw at him?
Maybe he fell from a tree. Maybe this pain had a simple cause.
Let's just go with the flow.
Then—voices. He heard people talking and moved toward the sound. What he saw made his mind short-circuit.
Three men walked in formation, a child leading them. The boy wore sandals and rags—just like him. But the men wore armor, short swords on their belts, spears in hand.
Did I travel to the past?
"Hey! Over there!" The child pointed toward him.
The man in the middle fixed cold eyes on Darius. "Come here, boy. You were supposed to return to camp by noon. Even if you had an accident, disobedience must be punished."
The guide explained that Darius had fallen from a tree while they were out fishing—a training task. The others left him unconscious and returned to report.
"Restrain him. Take him back. Let the Marshall decide his punishment."
Darius didn't resist. These men were out of his league, especially in this body. Escape was suicide.
Let's see what this 'camp' is all about.
They tied his hands and marched him through the woods. The walk took no more than twenty minutes.
The camp was silent—too silent.
Dozens of boys stood in perfect rows, eyes forward. No sound. No movement.
Darius stepped between them. His legs trembled. The sandals dug into his heels.
A tall man approached—hard eyes, stone face, body carved by war.
"Name," he barked.
Darius stayed silent. Lie? Improvise? What's the protocol here?
"Late. Undisciplined. Weak." He turned to the group. "What do we do with weakness?"
In unison, the boys answered: "We cut it out!"
Two older boys seized his arms. The Marshall pulled a thin wooden rod from his belt.
This isn't punishment. This is theater, Darius thought. A show of control.
The first strike came without warning.
He gritted his teeth.
The second tore skin.
He held his breath.
The third made him bleed.
He didn't scream.
I've been through worse. I've buried friends. This isn't pain.
The Marshall paused.
"Return to your line, boy."
Darius didn't move. He met the man's eyes.
"What? Do you have something to say?"
"No, sir." Speaking now would gain him nothing. Defiance was just arrogance here.
"We begin hand-to-hand combat. Circle up—NOW!"
"Darius. Step forward."
He hesitated. The man stared him down.
"Want another punishment?"
I still have my name? Funny how some things survive time.
"No, sir. I was just slow. It won't happen again."
The others giggled. They knew about his accident. But the flogging wasn't enough. Now he had to fight, injured.
"Good. Thalon. Step forward."
The boy was tall, not much older—but strong. Everyone here was between seven and nine. Brutal age for fist-fighting.
They entered the circle.
"No surrender. No mercy. The loser is punished. Begin."
The blood on Darius's back was still warm.
Thalon grinned, confident. He charged, head low, fists ready.
Too fast for a punch. Too wild to block.
Darius shifted. No thought—just instinct.
He sidestepped, hooked Thalon's ankle, locked under his arm.
Twist. Weight shift.
Thalon hit the ground hard.
Gasps.
Darius didn't press. He waited.
Thalon got up, slower. Angry.
Good. Anger makes mistakes.
Another charge.
Darius ducked, locked around the waist, lifted—
Slammed him down, shoulder-first.
Thalon gasped. Darius twisted his arm behind his back.
One more push, and it would snap.
Tears streamed down Thalon's face. He screamed.
He's just a kid. This is enough.
Darius let go.
Too slow.
The boy struck back with an elbow. Darius fell, dizzy.
Before he could react, Thalon shouted:
"There's no mercy here—THIS IS SPARTA!"
He kicked Darius in the face.
Darkness swallowed him.
The Marshall spoke coldly from the side. "Mercy for the enemy is mercy for yourself. Remember that."
"Throw him aside. No food for two days. The rest—continue."
Darkness swallowed him.
He couldn't move. Couldn't speak. The taste of blood filled his mouth.
I spared him... and he showed me what mercy earns here.
His mind slipped into unconsciousness.
When he woke up, he was lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling. It looked like the sleeping quarters for children—or better said, the barracks. This was the army, after all.
So I actually came to the past. And to Sparta, on top of that. I can't think of a more brutal place to be reborn—slaves aside, of course. He smirked bitterly.
I studied this period a lot back then. Spartan warriors were the role models for modern elite soldiers. I can already figure some things out... I'm between seven and nine, probably a spartiátēs in training. This has to be the Agōgē—the place where Sparta forged children into mass-produced killers. No equal in their time. That kid taught me that the hard way. Haha.
There was a lot to find out. What year is this? Before the Persian invasion… or after? If he was lucky, maybe he'd even meet that legendary warrior—Leonidas.
"Haa…" He sighed, holding his ribs.
There's too much to consider. First, I need to survive these injuries. Then get food, water, and train this body. I'll need muscle, yes, but more importantly—stamina. Lots of it. He already knew how to use knives. But swords, spears, shields? That was going to take time.
Just then, a kid walked into the barracks.
It was the same one who guided the soldiers—the boy who had gone fishing with him.
"Hey, Darius. How are you feeling?"
"Like shit," Darius replied with a grin. "It'll take a few days to recover from this. Is there any food here? Or water?"
"You've got it rough. The instructor gave you another punishment for losing the fight."
"Now what?"
"You won't get food from the camp for two days. You'll have to steal or hunt. But be careful—if they catch you, they'll punish you again."
"They sure are brutal… Thanks, by the way. Uh, sorry, I forgot your name after all the beatings." He extended his hand.
"Haha, yeah, it's been a hard day for you. I'm Cleon, of House Eurypontid," the boy said as he reached out to shake Darius's hand.
Maybe not all of them are cold-hearted after all.
"Thanks for the heads up. I'll just sleep now. Tomorrow's going to be a hell of a day."
"No problem," Cleon said with a smirk. "Let's talk again—if you survive, that is."