Endless falling.
He plunged—no end, no light. Cold gripped him first. Then pain. Then nothing.
Allen cracked.
Bitter coffee. Unpaid bills. A blinking screen—barely any subscribers.Forty-five years. All chopped up, stitched together like someone edited his life drunk and blind.
Then came the pain. First came the headache—sharp, splitting.
Then sound: birds somewhere far off, and… snoring?
Smoke and herbs followed, thick enough to sting.
His body? Felt like it had been used for target practice.
He breathed in, shaky.
The bed scratched at his back—definitely not Egyptian cotton.
Herbs. Bandages. So… someone patched him up?
His eyes opened—slow, unsure. A few blinks. The blur faded, shapes began to settle. Then he froze.
Wooden beams stretched above him, etched with plain little patterns—triangles, squares, that sort of thing. Sunlight leaked through the cracks in lazy golden streaks.
The room itself was all stone and space, neat in a way that screamed old money, Greek edition.
The furniture caught the light—quiet, confident, too refined to show off.
The blanket was unfairly soft. The curtain moved a little, lazy in the breeze.
Shields on the wall, swords beside them.
In the corner, a torn banner and a map, quietly collecting dust.
Allen just stared, mouth hanging open.
"...WTF? Where am I? Some kind of Greek-themed B&B?" he muttered under his breath. "No light switches, no antiseptic smell... not even a power outlet."
A memory flashed—the soft slope beneath his feet, a slip, a fall—
"Wait… did I die?"
His eyes moved to the corner. On a wooden chair sat a small figure, curled up fast asleep.
A girl—small, brown-haired, completely at peace. She looked like some forest critter that'd curled up for a nap after a good meal, a little drool giving her away. The linen dress she wore? Definitely not from this century.
A name surfaced from nowhere—Terani.
"...How the hell do I even know her name?"
He tried to move. Agony lanced through him, white-hot, almost knocking him out. He bit down a groan.
"Alright, Allen, chill. You're a writer, remember?" he muttered—though even he didn't buy it.
He glanced down at his arms. Muscular. Smooth. Young. Calloused palms.
This was definitely not a forty-five-year-old's body. Taller too—easily six feet or more.
Terani shivered in her sleep, curling in tighter. Allen felt something inside him relax—years of taught manners pushing panic aside. Allen hobbled over. Blanket in hand. Took a breath.
Slow. Careful. Like handling glass.
"Okay… don't wake her."
He muttered it to himself.
Because yeah, this was already weird enough.
She kept sleeping, breath soft, steady, like a tiny kitten, curled up for a nap.
Allen found himself smiling.
"You're welcome," he smiled, almost to himself, then started wandering around the room.
Clay jars. Wooden chests overflowing with linen. An oil lamp sitting there, unlit.
"No phone. No bulbs. Even no plastic…" He muttered, pacing back and forth.
He was meant to be in Turkey, poking around the ruins of Troy for his next novel. How had that turned into... what? Some full-immersion time-travel experience?
"Brilliant. Welcome to ancient history, Allen. Please let this not be some sick reality show prank."
The bandages were rough linen, but when he touched the dressing on his head, he paused—it was smooth, far too fine for ordinary cloth.
Then it hit. Like two doors slamming open in his skull.
From one side poured alien memories: sword practice, forest trails, the roar of wild boars.
From the other, his own: Allen Buffett, forty-five, unemployed writer, caffeine addict, slave to the rise and fall of web novel analytics.
The two collided violently.
Brain… fried.
Like lightning just hit.
He breathe deeply.
Stumbled.
Hands shaking, fumbled the latch.
Shutters—thrown open.
Golden light slanted in, hitting the stone floor and warming it.
The courtyard was still. Pomegranate trees moved lazily. Chickens clucked somewhere.
Walls. Ramparts. Past them, the sea sparkled.
The wind carried salt.
The scents of smoke and herbs drifted together—strangely soothing, like some calming potion.
"I'm Allen Buffett. Forty-five years old. Laid-off middle manager turned web novelist… wait, no—"
Another name hit him, stuck in his throat—Aeneas.
A sudden jolt of horror ran through him.
"Bloody hell… this is Troy."
Troy!
The Iliad's Troy—of blood and fire and the wooden horse; of burning towers and slaughter.
He knew it all too well.
"Calm down, think— I'm Aeneas, son of Anchises, lord of the Dardan Valley, and the priestess Aresya. Half divine, child of Aphrodite herself—"
The realisation hit like ice water.
"Troy. The Greek coalition. The sack of the city. I need to get out! Now!"
His breath came quick. Fingers shaking. Every instinct screaming: run.
Then—the door swung open.
A woman entered, flanked by two attendants. Mid-thirties. Elegant. Poised. That rare mix of grace and quiet strength. Golden curls catching the late sunlight. Eyes—blue as the Aegean—full of worry.
She glanced at the empty bed. Color drained from her face.
Then she saw him by the window—and everything shifted.
Aeneas froze.
Her expression was chaos: shock, fear, joy, relief, all tangled together.
She dropped what she held. Ran. Arms wide.
"Mother?" The word slipped out before he could stop it.
Allen's mind was screaming in protest. Mother?! She looked younger than me! Or at least younger than the forty-five-year-old in my head!
"Aeneas! My child! You've woken at last! Praise be to Aphrodite!"
Her voice broke. Hands trembling, warm, carrying a faint scent of olive oil and fresh grass.
She drew him close. Held him like he might disappear if she let go.
The force of her care hit him harder than anything he could think through.
"I… I'm fine… Mom…" His voice cracked.
She held on tighter. Refused to let go. Tighter.
"Thank the gods… you're safe," she whispered, breaths shaking.
Couldn't let go. Afraid he'd vanish if she did.
Finally… she stepped back.
Palms still on his face.
Tears. Shimmering.
Smile. Bright.
"Always reckless, my little hero," she murmured.
"Better safe than brave."
A calm voice. Low. From the doorway.
"Let him sit, Aresya." He should eat first. I'll check his wounds."
Aeneas turned—and for a moment, he half-expected he'd walked onto the set of *The Trojan Beauties: Live Edition*.
The first woman stepped forward.
About twenty-five. Calm, soft-spoken. She radiated a quiet, soothing presence.
Her gaze… it could see right through you, without ever making you feel exposed.
Average height. Light brown hair. Braided tight.
Silver emblem on her forehead—catching the sunlight. A mark. Of the god she served.
Robe simple. Practical. Leather belt. Small herb pouch swinging.
Basket in hand. Rosemary. Lavender. A dozen other plants. Dew still clinging. Sharp. Minty. Earthy.
A healer, clearly. Her eyes held the calm authority of someone who could diagnose your health with a single look.
Beside her, another girl. Barely twenty. Same features, but a whole different energy.
Eyes dancing with mischief. Trying to look serious.
Smaller, quick, all catlike in her movements.
Roll of bandages clutched to her chest.
More to hide that grin than help anyone.
Her bright eyes flicking to Aeneas again and again.
Curious.
Waiting.
Waiting for him to say something ridiculous.
Aeneas silent.
Yep. This one's not here to heal me—she's here for the entertainment.
He stared for a moment at the two sisters, then at his young and lovely mother, and finally at the nurse dozing off by the wall.
It felt less like a sickroom and more like he'd wandered into the judging panel of a "Greek Goddess Beauty Pageant."
Inside, the forty-five-year-old soul of Allen Buffett was taking mental notes at lightning speed—
this would absolutely blow up as a web novel.
To avoid betraying that thought on his face, he whipped around to the sunset.
In his head… running the "cost-performance ratio" on this whole time-travel mess.
"Hmm… so, the local specialty of Troy is beautiful women?"
Muttered it.
Then realized he'd said it out loud.
He scrambled for a save. "I mean—uh—thank the gods for sending so many… impressively competent healers."
The younger girl let out a muffled giggle, she picked the bandage up to hide her face even her eyes.
Aresya laughed as well, the sound crisp as wind chimes.
"Looks like your sense of humor's survived the injury, my dear," she said warmly.
Then she turned, graceful as ever.
"This is Oenone, priestess of the Temple of the Scamander River—an accomplished healer. And this is her sister, Hesperia, who's assisting her."
Oenone stepped forward with the calm poise of someone used to quiet miracles.
"Aeneas, sit, let me see your wound."
She checked the bandages across his chest and stomach.
Calm, professional.
Meanwhile, Hesperia peeked around the room.
Bright eyes darting, sneaking little glances at Aeneas.
When Oenone untied the bandage around his head, her brows drew together."This… isn't linen or wool. I don't recognize this material. It's too fine, too smooth. And this ointment—its scent isn't from any recipe I know."
She turned to Aresya, mildly astonished.
"Aresya, these dressings and salves are remarkably effective—the wound's healing at an incredible rate. Such refined medicine! Who was the healer?"
Aresya's gaze shifted, then softened.
"Perhaps…" she murmured, "it really was a gift from the goddess."
Aeneas stared at the bandage in Oenone's hands, disbelief written across his face.
Not much of a herb expert, but he knew that fabric—silk.
Silk?
In this era, that should only exist far to the East.
What in the world was it doing here, in the middle of the Mediterranean?
"You vanished while training in the forests of Mount Ida," Aresya said with a faint, worried smile. "We were frantic—boiling over like a pot on the fire."
Her smile trembled at the edges.
"It was that magnificent golden eagle—circling above, crying out, guiding your father's servants to find you and carry you back from the ravine."
Hesperia's eyes went wide, sparkling, like she'd just witnessed a miracle descend from the heavens.
"The golden eagle! Zeus's sacred bird, right?" she gasped, delicate fingers tracing the air, trying to catch its image.
Aeneas blinked. Inside, his voice went:
My goddess mom sent a holy bird to rescue me? That's… actually kind of awesome. And ridiculous.
Aresya continued, her tone reverent now.
"When they found you, you were wounded, but your head was wrapped in that strange cloth, and this—"
She bent to lift the fallen garment, holding it like it was sacred.
A crimson cloak. Exquisite yet practical. Inside—soft rabbit fur.
Collar—ring of white swan feathers.
A faint rose scent clung. Delicate. Unmistakable.
Touch it… and you felt the care, the endless work woven into every stitch.
"They found you lying there in the valley, covered by this cloak," she murmured.
Aresya's eyes—glowing, quiet devotion.
"It… must have been your mother. Divine. Aphrodite. Goddess of love, of beauty. Shielding her mortal son… in danger."
Aeneas. Standing. Frozen.
Eyes flickering—disbelief. Confusion. Too much to take in.
"Goddess mom? Wait—there are actually gods in this world?"
Hesperia leaned forward, eyes sparkling as she jabbed a finger at the edge of the cloak.
"Swan feathers… rabbit fur… and that faint scent of roses—could this really be Aphrodite's doing?"
Aresya's smile was soft, warm, almost luminous.
"Give thanks to the gods for watching over you," she said. "Zeus's sacred eagle guided us to you, and this cloak—maybe a gift from the heavens—shielded you, together with that curious fabric and ointment."
Aeneas let his fingers brush lightly over the feathers, the textures teasing his skin. It could have been exquisite craftsmanship, sure—but having it draped over him right when he needed it? That felt… miraculous.
"Wow… divine couture," he muttered. "Probably the fanciest cloak in all of Troy."
Hesperia puffed out her cheeks, muttering loud enough to be heard.
"I've been a river priestess since I was a kid. Not once! Not once has any god given me a single thing!! So unfair!"
Still, she reached out, fingers brushing the cloak's edge like maybe, just maybe, something sacred had stuck to it.
Aresya just shook her head, that quiet, mother-smile tugging at her mouth.
Then Hesperia crept closer to Aeneas, eyes wide with curiosity.
"Aeneas… do you remember what happened? "How'd you get hurt that bad?"
Her voice tiptoed around concern, but the gleam underneath—like a cat batting at a half-open box—was impossible to miss.
A rustle. Terani jolted upright, blanket flying off with a thud.
Her eyes sparkled—bright, sharp, alive.
"The boar! It was the boar, right? Master killed the giant boar!"
Sleep vanished in an instant as she nearly toppled from the bed.
Everyone laughed, the tension breaking.
Aresya sighed, the fondness in her voice softening her scolding.
"Little imp—mind yourself, or you'll make Aeneas's wounds worse."
Aeneas cleared his throat. Black-and-gold hair fell over his brow. He drew a slow breath—like a bard about to spin a tale.
Memory slammed back.
Trees swayed. Light stabbed through leaves. The forest shivered.
Then—crashing brush, tusks gleaming. A boar. Massive. Fierce.
Each step shook the earth beneath him.
"It just… came at me," he muttered. "Eyes wild. Like I'd insulted its ancestors just by breathing."
He grinned—lopsided, incredulous. It was too absurd not to.
Hesperia gasped. Eyes wide—twin moons.
"So… what did you do?"
Fear and excitement danced in her voice.
He scratched his neck.
"So yeah, I grabbed the training sword—the fancy wooden one. Looks cool, fights like a broomstick."
He pantomimed a swing, then the boar charging—arms wide, full drama.
"And just as it lunged—bam! I jammed the tip right between its eyes. Used everything I had left. Almost passed out."
"Whoa!" Hesperia slapped the table, nearly toppling a water jug.
"Between the eyes? That's insane!"
"With a wooden sword? You killed a full-grown boar?" she gasped, clutching her chest. "That's… like a Heracles legend! I can't even—"
Her cheeks flamed, excitement bubbling in every word.
Terani practically bounced in place.
"Master, you're amazing! You really did it?" she squealed, hands clapping like silver bells. "A true hero! I'll tell everyone at the temple—soon all of Troy will be singing about your bravery!"
Aeneas shrugged, a crooked grin tugging at his face.
"So… good news: boar's dead. Bad news: before it kicked the bucket, it rammed me into a ravine. Guess bravery can be a hazardous profession."
He winked, self-deprecating, proud of his near-death comedy.
Oenone inclined her head, her calm, measured voice carrying the authority of a healer.
"Brave… but reckless," she said softly.
Aresya, however, couldn't contain herself. She seized his hand, knuckles whitening, voice trembling between scolding and relief.
"Aeneas! That was beyond foolish!" Her gaze locked onto his, fierce with love and fear. "How could you face such a beast alone? What if—" Her words faltered.
Guilt and warmth tangled inside him. Even if his soul wasn't hers—if he truly was Allen Buffett from another world—her love felt heartbreakingly real.
"Yeah… I know, Mum." He forced a lopsided smile. "Alright, promise—I'll remember the armor next time."
Terani folded her arms, huffing stubbornly.
"Bravery means taking risks! I'm not scared of some oversized pig—next time, I'm coming with you!"
She jabbed her pendant with a tiny fist. Not just a vow. Not just a pep talk. Something in between.
Aeneas chuckled, glancing at Aresya.
"You hear that, Mum? Your maid's braver than your son. Looks like my adventures are only just beginning."
Laughter rippled through the room, softening the edges of fear and pain.
When the check-up ended, Aresya patted his shoulder with tender care.
"Rest well, Aeneas," she murmured. "No training until fully healed."
She turned, skirts brushing the floor in a hush of fabric and scent.
The others drifted off. Oenone stayed. Tilted her head. That smile—half tease, half sister.
She tapped his side, feather-light. He flinched shyly.
"Next time, don't use these fine muscles to block a boar's tusks, handsome hero."
Her warmth softened the playful rebuke.
Hesperia stifled a giggle behind her hand, eyes curling like crescent moons. Terani went on tiptoe to peek at his reaction, pendant glinting under the lamplight.
Aresya shook her head indulgently.
Aeneas's cheeks burned pink. "Right… noted," he said, pretending composure.
Inside, Allen Buffett's modern mind was racing. Hold on—did I just get flirted with by a beautiful ancient healer? Are Greek girls always this… bold? His heart kicked.
Brain off the rails, conjuring scenes straight out of a bad sitcom.
On the outside? Just a shy seventeen-year-old, blinking too much.
Oenone's mouth twitched—she knew!
She always knew!!
Then she turned, laughter flickering in her eyes.
Hesperia zipped past, giggling like she'd stolen something.
Terani lingered, unabashedly staring at Aeneas's abdomen, eyes saying plainly:
"I should've touched it too…"
Aeneas felt a warmth spreading inside.
Their teasing, their laughter.
It chipped away at the strangeness, made this place feel… not quite home, but close.
He rubbed his arm, fingers brushing the bandage, a smile tugging at his mouth.
"Well… welcome to Troy!!" he murmured to himself.