1

Time passed too quickly or maybe it only seemed that way to me.

Though I spent most of it asleep, training was unavoidable. Most often, I trained with an Ilot someone who was more like a guard within the estate. He was far weaker than the men of Sparta, yet even so, his results were beyond my reach.

My father appeared rarely, but his training sessions were the harshest. On those days, it was less training and more of a beating. The Ilot, even when striking me, tried to leave as few marks as possible. My father, however, showed no such mercy. According to him, pain brought wisdom faster. I certainly remembered the pain that, I mastered perfectly. He felt more like a stranger to me, and I saw him as such.

Over the years, I began noticing strange things. Yes, everyone worshipped the gods and believed in them, but the stories about Artemis or Ares fighting alongside mortals wouldn't leave my mind. At first, I thought people simply believed in such tales, but their passion when recounting the battles was too great. I listened patiently to the elders retelling myths passed down for generations. Even we had mandatory lessons where we were taught stories of Sparta's glory legends of its founding, its laws, and its way of life.

Ah yes, speaking of the gods. During one of the festivals the Hunt Day in honor of Artemis I overheard people whispering. They said the goddess herself visited the King of Sparta during the feast. That didn't sound like an ordinary tale. It was the first time I wondered... what if I hadn't traveled to the past? What if I ended up in an entirely different world where the gods were real? The thought unsettled me.

It's one thing to live in a world of endless wars, where any disease could claim your life because medicine is primitive. But it's another thing entirely to realize that gods walk among mortals, and their whims decide the fates of men. Even the mere thought of it could drive someone mad. They did things so outrageous it was hard to believe. Gods loved to weave intrigues and wipe out thousands of people in their constant conflicts. To them, we were nothing more than a lesser race, something to take their gifts from.

Until I see a god with my own eyes, I won't believe they exist.

Returning to my thoughts, I glanced at my stats. I prepared as best I could before heading to the training camp. There wasn't anything more I could do anyway.

*

Stats

Name: DamoclesAge: 6 years

Strength (Physical power): 4

Agility (Speed, reaction, evasion): 3

Endurance (Resistance to illness, fatigue, vitality): 3

Intellect (Understanding, learning, languages): 3

Charisma (Leadership, inspiration, eloquence): 3

Talents:

Son of Sparta – +1 to base stats.

Evasion (2%) – You have a small chance to avoid a fatal blow. Your body has endured many wounds that could have been deadly. It has adapted to react to danger.

Resilience – If an enemy's strength exceeds yours, blocking their attacks becomes easier. You've faced many strikes, and your body has begun adapting to them.

Abilities:

Disease Immunity (Passive) – When infected with a virus or disease, temporarily increases Endurance by +2.

Combat Proficiency, Level 1 (Passive) – Increases Agility and Endurance by 5% during battle. Enhances attacks, helps notice enemy weak points, defend, and counterattack.

Swordsmanship, Level 2 – You're only at the beginning of your warrior's path, but you can handle a sword decently.

Debuffs:

Weak Body – You were born at an unfortunate time. Your body remains underdeveloped. All stat growth is reduced by 60%. Duration: 1 day.

*

The stats hadn't improved as much as I'd hoped, but at least it was something. At least some benefit from all the beatings from my father.

From my observations, the average strength of my peers was around five, and their agility was about four. I had fought them a couple of times and could feel the difference. The gap in attributes was obvious. And it seemed to me that the people of this world were far stronger than an ordinary human. I once saw a Spartan lift a stone over his head that, judging by its size, must have weighed around two hundred kilograms.

Another form of entertainment in Sparta was the games. That's what I called them, but they had their own name.

To get to the point: in the strength competition, one had to lift a stone above their head and throw it as far as possible. One of the Spartans easily lifted a boulder and hurled it several meters forward. My eyes nearly popped out of my head when I saw it. Yet, they didn't even consider it a feat. I was sure it wasn't a fake prop for spectators lying was considered an unforgivable act among Spartans, punishable by death.

Hoping that not all was lost, I closed my eyes.

Sleep, though short, was surprisingly pleasant. It had been a long time since I had slept in such a comfortable place. Even simple wooden planks felt like a luxury compared to the bare earth and stones that awaited me in the training camp.

*

The debuff "Weak Body" has ended.

*

A small wave of warmth spread through my arms, and I felt lightness throughout my body. Finally, now I could grow stronger.

"Get up, Damocles. Your time has come. It's time to become a real man," came my mother's strict voice.

I rarely heard her speak. She only visited me occasionally; the rest of the time, my care was left to the helots. After me, she had given birth to another son, and I could see that all her hopes were tied to him. I understood the cult of strength, but I did not accept it.

"Yes, mother," I replied, rising to my feet.

I threw on a simple cloak such was the law for Spartan children. Nothing more than a light fabric. Our bodies had to harden on their own, getting used to any conditions. Even underwear was not allowed, but I had no choice. Any violation was punished.

"Soon, the Lochagos will come and take you to the camp," my mother said.

I nodded and left the house without a word. I sat nearby, watching the street.

My mentality was gradually changing. Over time, I began to accept this world as it was, less and less surprised by its cruelty and order. A child's psyche adapts over time.

Lost in thought, I barely noticed as a man in his forties approached the house.

He had a predatory gaze, as if his pupils reflected the blood and faces of those he had slain with his spear. His body was covered in scars and muscles, carved as if from stone. A chiseled physique, characteristic of seasoned warriors, yet without the artificial bulk of bodybuilders.

The only armor he wore was a helmet and a short Spartan skirt, leaving his torso exposed. In one hand, he held a spear; in the other, a shield.

A Spartan without his spear and shield is no true Spartan. We even sleep holding them in our hands.

"Boy, I am Creon, your Lochagos. Follow me," he said, turning and walking forward.