Darius hadn't said a word since the tree fell.
He didn't need to.
The impact still echoed in his chest—not from the sound, but from what it meant.
The old man had destroyed an oak tree with a single strike. Not chipped it. Not cracked it. Split it. And he made it look effortless.
Darius had seen tanks hit walls with less force.
He sat up straighter, arms crossed over his ribs, eyes narrow.
"How did you do that?"
Arkantos leaned against a rock, chewing on another strip of dried meat like nothing unusual had happened.
"With time."
Darius frowned. "That's not an answer."
"No," Arkantos said, calmly. "But it's the truth."
Darius didn't look away.
Eventually, the old man sighed, brushed his hands against his cloak, and met his gaze.
"You want to know how strong I am?"
"I want to know if that's something I can do one day."
Arkantos studied him for a moment—really studied him. His eyes moved over the bruises, the bandaged ribs, the way Darius held himself despite the pain.
"Not like you are now," he said finally. "You're far from it."
Darius didn't react. He waited.
Arkantos tilted his head slightly.
"Your body is tough. That's clear. But it's not synced. You move like someone who expects more from himself than his frame can deliver."
That hit deeper than Darius expected.
"You're saying I look stupid when I fight?"
"I'm saying you fight like a man in the body of a boy," Arkantos said without malice. "Your instincts are sharper than your strength. That's dangerous. And painful."
Darius looked down at his hand—scraped, bruised, wrapped in cloth.
"How far am I?"
Arkantos paused, then nodded slowly.
"Alright. I'll explain."
Arkantos: The First Steps
"There are six stages in the path of a warrior. Each one has three steps. No shortcuts. No exceptions."
"Stage Zero," he began, holding up a finger, "is where most people stay their whole lives. Farmers. Traders. Even some soldiers. They're soft. They don't know their limits, and they don't want to."
"Stage One is the awakening. When the body starts to change. When training becomes real. The muscles strengthen. The bones harden. You learn to endure hunger, cold, pain. You train your will more than your arms."
He pointed at Darius.
"You're in Stage One. Second step, maybe close to the third. Your body's taking shape. Your discipline's sharp. But you're still not complete."
Darius didn't argue.
"And Stage Two?"
"That's when the instincts come alive. When your body reacts faster than your mind. You stop thinking in battle. You feel. You respond. You read your opponent's movements, and you move before they do."
Arkantos gave a faint smirk.
"That's when you stop surviving… and start dominating."
Darius looked intrigued now. Hungry.
"And after that?"
The old man's face hardened.
"That's not for you to worry about. Not yet."
Darius narrowed his eyes, noticing the shift in his tone.
"You've passed Stage Two, haven't you?"
Arkantos didn't answer.
He just looked at the broken tree.
Then back at Darius.
And smiled.
Was this really ancient Sparta?
Everything Darius had learned growing up—textbooks, simulations, documentaries—painted the warriors of this time as brutal, disciplined, yes… but human. Strong for their era, but limited.
This? This was something else.
Arkantos didn't move like a relic.He moved like a force of nature.
What if this isn't the past?What if this world isn't the one I came from?What if we lost this power somewhere along the way… and never got it back?
The thought lodged deep in his mind.
He flexed his fingers unconsciously, remembering the lion. The blood. The weight of survival. The pain. The rage.
He'd won. But barely.
He was trained. Smart. Resilient.
But he wasn't there yet.
And the hunger returned.
Not for food. For growth.
To see how far he could go.What he could become.What it would feel like to strike the world and feel it shake in return.
Not to prove something. Not for revenge.
Just to know that he was no longer weak.
He looked at Arkantos again.
"I want to get stronger. Fast. Tell me what I need to do."
Arkantos didn't even blink.
"There is no fast."
Darius frowned, but didn't interrupt.
"No technique. No special trick. No shortcut. Just time, experience, and consistency."
He tossed a twig into the fire.
"This path doesn't reward talent. It rewards obsession. You grow because you must, not because you want to."
He pointed at him.
"You want to reach Stage Three? You'll have to take your body to its very edge. Again and again. And you're not even fully grown yet."
He paused.
"No one has ever reached that stage in a child's body. Not one."
Darius swallowed dryly.
And nodded.
"You make it sound like all I can do is wait," he muttered.
Arkantos chuckled.
"No. You can work. You just won't see the change every day. That's the point."
Darius tilted his head. "So what then? Run? Lift rocks?"
"If that's what you think training is, then you haven't trained at all."
He gestured toward the woods.
"You know how to fight. But your body and mind still move in different directions. Until they speak the same language, you're only half a warrior."
He stood slowly.
"I don't train men to become strong. I train them to become whole."
He stepped forward.
"You'll run. Lift. Hunt. Bleed. But that's not the hard part."
"What is?"
"Learning who you are when no one's watching. Who you are when you fail. When you break."
He tapped two fingers to his chest.
"I don't want to see your power. I want to see your limits. And I want to see you break them—again and again—until pain stops being your enemy and becomes your mirror."
The next thirty days passed in silence, sweat, and fire.
Technically, Darius had only twenty left in his punishment—but he stayed ten more by choice. He didn't explain why. Arkantos didn't ask. But both of them understood.
He wasn't finished.
Darius didn't say it out loud, but deep down he knew.
He didn't want to return just yet.
He wasn't ready to walk among the others pretending to be like them. Not after this. Not after what he'd seen—and what he'd become. He wanted more. More time. More sweat. More clarity.
The fire had only started to burn.
Every morning began before the sun rose. Arkantos would wake him with a kick to the heel or a grunt from across the fire. No words. Just movement.
Pushes. Pulls. Holds. Crawls. Tree climbing. Dead hangs. Lifting stones until his fingers cramped.
Arkantos didn't count reps. He watched form.
"Slower," he'd say."Breathe through your stomach.""Again."
Afternoons were for the hunt. Darius and Red moved like mirrored beasts—flanking, stalking, pausing in sync without speaking. Sometimes they didn't kill. Sometimes they just followed for hours, learning patterns, learning patience.
And every evening, when the light faded, Arkantos would correct everything.
Posture.Footing.Weight shifts.Timing.
"You fight like you're remembering," he'd say. "I want you to fight like you're becoming."
Every evening, Arkantos corrected his posture, his stance, his breathing.
"Stop fighting like you used to. Start moving like you are."
The old man's voice never rose. His instructions were clear, simple, repetitive. Always focused on the same thing:
Synchronize.
Red remained close. He no longer lived at Darius's side, but he never disappeared. Some nights he returned with the scent of wolves on his fur. Darius never asked where he'd been.
He already knew.
The pack hadn't followed him after the lion. Maybe out of fear. Maybe out of instinct. Maybe out of respect. But Red came and went as he pleased. And that was enough.
Some nights, Darius would find Red curled up near the fire, quiet and calm. Other times, he'd return just before dawn, coat damp, ears alert—never wounded, never followed.
Whatever happened out there in the woods with the pack, Red never brought it back. He never needed to explain.
And Darius never asked.
They were past that.
On the thirty-first morning, Darius stood at the edge of the camp with his cloak wrapped tight and his eyes fixed north.
Back toward Limnai.Back toward the Agōgē.
It was time.
Arkantos didn't say anything right away. Just sat by the fire, watching the boy check his gear—bow, knife, canteen, spare cloth, a pouch of dried meat.
Finally, the old man spoke.
"You know where to find me."
Darius nodded.
He adjusted the strap across his chest.
"I'll be back," he said.
"Not unless you want to."
Darius smirked. "I do."
There was more he could have said.
Thank you.I won't forget this.You changed something in me.
But none of it made it past his throat.
He just gave a slow nod and turned to go.
They looked at each other for a moment longer.
Then Darius turned and started walking.
He'd only gone ten, maybe fifteen meters when he stopped.
Didn't turn.
Just raised his voice enough for it to carry.
"You never said where you're from."
Behind him, Arkantos didn't move.
He didn't need to.
"Atlantis," he answered.
The fire cracked behind him.
Darius turned his head slightly.
Raised an eyebrow.
Nodded once.
"Yeah… why not?"
And kept walking.
The road ahead was quiet.
Birdsong. Wind in the grass. No signs of anyone.
But Darius didn't walk like a child anymore.
He walked like someone who had seen the edge of something ancient—and survived.
If Atlantis was real… so be it.
This world had rules.
He could learn them.