Prolog(god of war)

Sparta the birthplace of warriors. No fear, no pain only a glorious death on the battlefield. Such is the order, as old as the gods themselves. The art of war is the very essence of every Spartan's life.

Greece was always renowned for its culture and diversity. Athens revered science and philosophy, viewing the world through the lens of reason. Corinth prided itself on trade and connections with other states. Delos stood as the religious heart of Hellas, their faith and spirit earning them the gods' blessings. Each city differed from its neighbor, defined by its own ideals and path.

But Sparta stood apart from them all. They despised luxury and knew only one purpose battle. To spill the blood of their enemies, to return victorious or carried upon a shield. From childhood, Spartan children were forged through brutal trials. Their lives were filled with pain and deprivation, shaping them into unfeeling machines of war.

"His name is Damocles. Let him grow to be a strong warrior and an honorable man," declared Geron, one of the city's elders, gazing at the infant.

"Elder Timarch, is this wise?" another elder questioned, eyeing the frail child with doubt. "He has a clear defect..."

"I see strength in his eyes. He will become a true Spartan," Timarch answered firmly.

"I will trust your word," the other elder replied, though doubt lingered in his voice.

"Do not disappoint me, little Damocles," Timarch said, handing the child to his father.

"Thank you, Elder," the man responded with a bow, holding the infant close as he left.

A Spartan child's childhood was never easy. From birth, they were shown no tenderness or warmth. In their first days, infants were bathed in wine to test their resilience. They were left on cold stone floors without blankets. If a child cried, no comfort came for comfort bred weakness.

Damocles barely survived these trials. His health was frail, his growth stunted, his body thin and weak. The harsh rhythm of Spartan life gave him no time to recover.

Yet in his eyes burned a stubborn spark. With each passing day, it grew brighter. He began to notice the world felt strange, as though he had seen it before. All this brutal valor, the worship of war and sacrifice something deep within his mind stirred in response.

His gaze lingered longest on the Spartan warriors in their armor, and a single phrase echoed endlessly in his thoughts:

"Three hundred Spartans."

******

POV: Damocles

When I first became aware of myself, I couldn't understand where I was. My memories were blurred, but fragments of stories and names began to surface in my mind. I was in Greece. In Sparta. A place where it was hard to imagine anything worse.

Life for children wasn't a game it was survival. Half of the newborns didn't live to see adulthood. If I was lucky, I'd survive. But what could I even hope for?

Only one thing gave me hope the thing that appeared before my eyes.

*

Stats

Name: DamoclesAge: 3 years (6 months, 27 days)

Strength (Physical Power): 2

Agility (Speed, Reflexes, Evasion): 2

Endurance (Resistance to Disease, Fatigue, Vitality): 2

Intellect (Understanding, Learning, Languages): 2

Charisma (Leadership, Inspiration, Persuasion): 2

Talents:

Son of Sparta — +1 to starting stats.

Abilities:

Disease Resistance (Passive) — When the body is attacked by a virus or illness, temporarily increases Endurance by +2.

Debuffs:

Weak Body — You were born at an unfortunate time. Your body remained underdeveloped. All stat gains are reduced by 60%. Duration: 4 years, 6 months, 3 days.

*

It appeared before me as if by itself, whenever I wished it. The only reason I believed I even had a chance.

The debuff was disappointing, a heavy burden.

I saw the other children they were taller and stronger than me. I remained scrawny, skin and bones, as people would say if they saw me.

If I remembered history correctly, around the age of seven or eight, Spartan boys were sent to training camps. There, among other children, they would have to survive under the open sky, sleep on cold stone, and fight for every scrap of food. No one cared about their wounds, hunger, or conflicts. The only thing the elders ensured was that the children didn't kill each other and they punished any misconduct.

The first to die were always the weak in both body and spirit.

I needed to strengthen my body. But I was limited. Too weak. Even a few steps drained me of all my strength, and I had to sit down, gasping for air, waiting for my body to recover.

Being a child was unpleasant enough. But being a weak child in Sparta? That was even worse.

All I could do was endure and move forward.

My father was a Spartan. He came home only once a month when his endless service which ended only in death allowed it.

Every Spartan had their own land and helots practically slaves who worked the fields, gathered food, and maintained the home. The wife managed everything in his absence. Though, truthfully, it was more like renting the land, because by law, all Spartan land belonged to the state.

Once, in another life, I read about this and was surprised. Spartan warriors weren't allowed to trade, do business, or engage in anything unrelated to war. All of that fell on the shoulders of free citizens, called Perioikoi.

It made no sense, but those were the laws of Sparta and those who dared break them faced death.

If I wasn't mistaken, Sparta didn't fall because of economic collapse or military defeat, but because it simply withered away. Their own subjugated people essentially owned everything, while the Spartans themselves were left with nothing. And the warriors themselves numbered only in the thousands. In the end, with no other choice, Sparta changed.

All history led to that outcome: a warlike state dies from endless war. Because if you fight without end, sooner or later, no one will be left. If I said that out loud, I'd be whipped for insolence.

The only thing I could do now was try to become stronger as fast as possible to avoid dying in the training camp.