The sky was still a deep, sleepy blue — like a canvas yet to be painted — except for a faint streak of pale light spilling over the eastern horizon.
The whole Dardan Valley estate slumbered on, silent and still, save for one small courtyard where torchlight crackled and danced.
Under an old olive tree, a tall, bronze-clad figure moved — Aeneas, his armor glinting coldly in the firelight and dawn.
He looked less like a boy of seventeen than a statue come alive.
He began by rolling his ankles and wrists, movements clean and precise; then lifted his knees high, stretched his arms and back.
The greaves and bracers scraped with a dull, rhythmic grind. His breath came out in white puffs, misting briefly before vanishing into the chill.
All right, Allen Buffett — you're a seventeen-year-old Trojan prince now.
He muttered inwardly with that self-mocking tone only modern people seemed capable of.
The goal's clear enough: I don't need to beat demi-gods like Heracles, or that cheat code called Achilles… but at least — at least I should be aiming for Leonidas!
Three hundred against tens of thousands — that's the peak of human willpower and muscle, man!
With that, he bent down and started squatting, slow and steady.
The armor made his movements sluggish, but his form stayed textbook-perfect — back straight, heels firm on the ground.
Sweat broke across his forehead, glittering like tiny pearls under the firelight.
Then, suddenly, he dropped to the ground — hands apart, back straight, legs stretched — and began doing push-ups.
A very un-Bronze-Age thing to do. His armor thudded with every motion, thump, thump, echoing against the courtyard walls. After a few breaths he exhaled sharply, a grin breaking across his face.
"Ha! Troy's very first fitness influencer — streaming live, starting today!"
Warm-up done, he grabbed his spear and swung it a few times through the air. The weapon cut the dawn silence with a sharp whoosh, startling a half-asleep bird into flight.
Aeneas's mouth curved upward — part satisfaction, part challenge to himself.
Just then, hurried footsteps approached.
Old Demos, the night watchman, came running with a trembling oil lamp. Its light flickered wildly, threatening to go out at any second.
When he caught sight of the fully armored figure under the torch, he froze — eyes wide, mouth open, as though he'd just stumbled upon a god of war.
"Y-young master!" he stammered, nearly dropping the lamp. "Are you… are you heading off to battle at this hour? Has something happened?"
Aeneas lowered his spear, breathing hard. Sweat traced its way down his black-and-gold curls. He wiped his face and gave a sly little grin.
"Battle?" he laughed between breaths. "No, old man Demos — this is called fitness! Safer than a battlefield, and twice as effective!"
Demos just stood there, lamp shaking, the flame quivering like it wanted to laugh.
He looked at the young heir — part noble, part madman — and honestly couldn't tell whether to panic or burst out chuckling.
In the courtyard, torchlight, armor, and sweat intertwined beneath the paling sky.
Aeneas wiped his brow again, eyes narrowing toward the largest stone beneath the olive tree — his makeshift "jump box."
He picked up his shield, slid his sword into the slot behind it, gripped his spear tight, and drew a deep breath. His legs tensed — then leaped.
The armor clanged like an upturned cauldron. But with thirty kilos of bronze strapped to him, his body barely lifted halfway before crashing back down onto a lower stone with a heavy thud.
"Bloody hell!" he almost swore, his grin twisting into a grimace.
Terrible miscalculation! This thing weighs more than I thought! Compared to this, a modern weighted vest is basically lingerie!
But the boy wasn't one to give up. He steadied himself, braced again, and this time — success. He landed on top of the big stone, chest heaving.
Before his breath evened out, he hopped down, then jumped again — and again.
Seat-stones, table-stones, then back to seat-stones—the ground switching beneath his feet, mixed with rolls and short sprints.
"Huuh—ha!" The armor and spear rattled so loudly it sounded like a blacksmith's shop. Sweat streamed down his temples, down his neck, dripping into the dust where it hissed faintly on the warm stones.
In barely three minutes, Aeneas was drained dry. His legs trembled violently, his hands clutched the spear like a crutch, and his chest heaved in desperate rhythm. Sweat poured down in rivulets, thick enough to snuff out a torch if he breathed too hard.
Three minutes?! Are you kidding me? How in Hades did the Spartans train for that long? Three hundred men against a hundred thousand… unbelievable.
No—no, come on, this body belongs to Aeneas the Hero! I can't give up here. Forget Achilles, I won't even be worthy of Leonidas at this rate!
He raged inwardly, eyes burning with stubborn fire.
After a brief rest, he gritted his teeth and plunged back into it—two more rounds of pure torment.
When his limbs finally turned to stone and refused to obey, he staggered to a stop, waved weakly at the stunned old servant watching from afar.
"Bring it here!" he rasped, voice cracked and dry.
Demos hurried over with a clay bowl. Aeneas took it with shaking hands and downed the warm, salty water in one go.
The briny liquid, faintly bitter and grainy, burned its way down his throat and lit a strange warmth in his chest, as though something deep in his muscles had just been reignited.
Ugh—this salt hasn't been refined. No wonder it's bitter… ancient electrolyte drinks are not it.
"M–my lord… what sort of… water is this?" Demos stammered, wide-eyed and suspicious.
Aeneas wiped his mouth, still panting but grinning through his exhaustion. "Lost too much salt. Gotta replace it, or your muscles cramp up, see?"
The old man blinked, baffled, then nodded as if trying to look wise about something utterly incomprehensible.
Aeneas chuckled, breathless. "Don't worry, old friend. It's called science! …Er, never mind—just think of it as a divine remedy."
Demos's mouth opened and closed twice before he gave up and bobbed his head like a pecking bird, clutching the flickering oil lamp as though afraid to anger the gods of logic.
***
Dawn crept slowly into the valley. The path leading downhill gleamed with dew, every pebble and patch of mud catching the pale light like cold glass. Rows of olive trees stood still, their leaves dripping, holding their breath for whatever madness the young lord had planned next.
Then came the sound — the steady clank, clank of metal striking metal.
Aeneas appeared, armored from head to toe, the weight of bronze pressing against his chest with every labored breath. Yet instead of slowing, he pushed harder, feet pounding the wet earth, his body cutting through the mist like a bronze shadow.
Come on then, ambush me! he snarled inwardly — and dove to the side.
He hit the mud hard, rolling through slick leaves. His shoulder guard struck a rock with a dull thud, but he barely noticed.
He twisted up, back to a tree trunk, breath rough and low, scanning the silent valley as though enemies might burst from the fog.
Then, without warning, he sprang forward again — sprinting, ducking behind stones, spinning mid-run to strike at invisible foes.
His shield swung like a hammer; his spear flashed like lightning.
Each roll, each dodge, each burst of speed had a desperate, feral energy, the kind born only in real combat — or a convincing simulation of it.
"Huuh—haah!" His lungs burned, screaming for air.
Lungs on fire… but gods, this adrenaline! Ha! So much better than running on a treadmill—this is how you simulate battle!
Mud clung to his greaves; his armor turned half brown, half shining gold. Yet he didn't stop.
He moved like a soldier possessed — accelerating, lunging, rolling, striking, retreating again.
Somewhere in the blur between exhaustion and obsession, Aeneas began to grin.
Then—footsteps.
Three patrol guards emerged from the mist, yawning and barely awake—until they saw him.
The sight froze them in place: the young master of Dardan, drenched in sweat and mud, eyes blazing, fully armed, and charging down the hill like a phantom of war.
"Enemy attack?!" shouted the lead guard, his voice cracking as he shoved his companions back and leveled his spear.
Aeneas skidded to a stop, bent double with his hands on his knees, chest rising and falling like a bellows. After a moment, he looked up and managed a grin between gasps.
"Morning! Don't—don't panic," he wheezed, his tone light and teasing. "Just training, that's all. Carry on with your patrol. Excellent vigilance, by the way!"
The soldiers blinked, dumbfounded. The tension bled from their shoulders as realization dawned. A mixture of relief and admiration spread among them.
"Master Aeneas, you're… truly dedicated," the lead one said, voice trembling with respect.
The others nodded, eyes wide with awe.
Aeneas straightened up, still dripping with sweat, and waved a dismissive hand with a crooked grin. "Dedicated? Nah. The word you're looking for is masochistic. Don't try this yourselves — it's addictive."
They didn't quite understand, but they laughed anyway, exchanging looks of genuine admiration.
Refusing their offer to escort him, Aeneas simply lifted his spear again and jogged down the misty path alone — breath ragged, grin unshaken.