If we turn our backs of the Scythians who have provoked us, how

Host: The wind howled through the shattered windows of an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. The night was thick with fog, swallowing the distant hum of traffic, leaving only the echo of dripping water from a broken pipe. A single lightbulb swung from the ceiling, casting a trembling circle of light over two figures — Jack, his coat torn and soaked with rain, and Jeeny, her hair clinging to her cheeks, her eyes burning with quiet fire.

Host: It was the kind of night when the past pressed in like a storm — when the words of dead kings could feel alive again, whispering through the cracks of the modern world. On the rusted table between them lay a book, its pages curled from moisture. A single line glimmered under the trembling light:

“If we turn our backs of the Scythians who have provoked us, how shamefully shall we march against the revolted Bactrians; but if we pass Tanais and make the Scythians feel, by dear experience, that we are invincible, not in Asia only, it is not to be doubted but that Europe itself, as well as Asia, will come within the bounds of our conquests.” — Alexander the Great

Host: Jack stared at the words for a long moment before he finally spoke, his voice low and rough, like gravel under a boot.

Jack: “You see, Jeeny, that’s the voice of real vision. Alexander understood something everyone’s forgotten — that power isn’t maintained by retreat. It’s built by momentum. You lose once, you lose forever. If we stop at comfort, we decay.”

Jeeny: (folds her arms) “You call it vision, I call it madness. He wasn’t building an empire; he was building his own obsession. He conquered everything — except himself.”

Host: Her voice cut through the cold air like a shard of glass. The lightbulb swung harder now, the shadows on their faces shifting like restless ghosts.

Jack: “He had to keep moving. Look at history — hesitation kills. When nations stop expanding, they rot. Rome fell because it turned inward. The same applies to people, Jeeny. If we turn our backs on the Scythians in our own lives — the obstacles that provoke us — we lose the right to conquer anything else.”

Jeeny: “You think life’s about conquest? That we need to cross every border, crush every challenge, just to prove we’re alive? That’s not strength, Jack — that’s fear in armor. Alexander didn’t need another empire; he needed peace.”

Host: Thunder rolled somewhere far beyond the city skyline. A piece of metal clanged loose from the ceiling. The warehouse trembled slightly, as though even the walls remembered battles of their own.

Jack: “Peace? That’s just what people say when they’ve lost their fire. Alexander was twenty when he started reshaping the world. He didn’t sit waiting for peace — he created it through dominion. The Scythians tested his resolve, and he showed them what happens when you challenge destiny.”

Jeeny: “And what destiny did it bring him, Jack? He died at thirty-two, alone, poisoned or fevered — it doesn’t matter which. He conquered everything and ended up with no one. His soldiers turned on him, his empire shattered before the ashes of his funeral pyre cooled. What kind of victory is that?”

Host: Her words struck like arrows, quiet but deadly. Jack’s jaw tightened. He turned away, the rain streaking down the cracked windowpane, reflecting the flicker of the lone light.

Jack: “He may have died young, but he lived as a legend. His name still commands respect two thousand years later. Tell me, who remembers those who played it safe?”

Jeeny: “Maybe they weren’t remembered because they didn’t need monuments. Maybe their legacy was kindness, not conquest. You think history belongs to those who win wars, but history also belongs to those who rebuild after them — the nameless ones, the caretakers of peace.”

Host: The wind screamed through the cracks again, tossing a few loose pages from the table. One fluttered to Jeeny’s feet. She bent, picked it up, and looked at the ink-stained lines — a map of the ancient world.

Jeeny: (softly) “Look at this map, Jack. All this territory, all this ambition — and yet, the same rivers still run, the same mountains still stand. Empires crumble, but the earth stays. Maybe the lesson isn’t to conquer it, but to understand it.”

Jack: (gritting his teeth) “Understanding doesn’t stop wars. Force does. When you face provocation — the Scythians, the Bactrians, whoever they are in your life — you don’t walk away. You strike. Otherwise, you teach the world that you can be pushed.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You teach the world that not every provocation deserves blood. The real strength isn’t to cross the Tanais — it’s to know when not to. That’s what separates a leader from a tyrant.”

Host: The light flickered again. Shadows pulsed across their faces like alternating truths. The storm outside began to calm, but the one between them swelled with intensity.

Jack: “And yet, without men like Alexander, the world would still be divided by fear and ignorance. He spread Greek thought, culture, trade — civilization itself.”

Jeeny: “Civilization? You mean when he burned Persepolis to the ground? When he slaughtered those who wouldn’t bow? You can dress it up as enlightenment, but it was still domination. He spread culture, yes — by fire and sword.”

Jack: (leans closer) “And yet, those flames forged something new. Out of conquest came fusion — east and west, art and war, philosophy and empire. Progress is born from friction.”

Jeeny: (eyes glistening) “But at what cost, Jack? How many had to die for that ‘fusion’? How many lives does ‘progress’ justify? You sound like every ruler who’s ever mistaken destruction for destiny.”

Host: The room grew still. Even the rain seemed to pause, listening. The tension between them was no longer just an argument — it was a mirror reflecting the eternal conflict between ambition and conscience.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe it’s both. Maybe we need destruction sometimes — to burn the old world so something stronger can grow.”

Jeeny: (whispers) “And maybe the real conquest is learning to live without the need to conquer.”

Host: A long silence followed. The lightbulb steadied, no longer swinging. Outside, the fog began to lift, revealing faint streaks of pale dawn creeping over the ruined skyline.

Jack: (after a while) “You know... maybe Alexander wasn’t fighting the Scythians. Maybe he was fighting his own fear of fading. Maybe that’s why I understand him.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s why he lost. Because he thought eternity could be won with a sword, when it only ever lives in the heart.”

Host: The sunlight pierced through the cracks, striking the map on the table — its faded ink glowing briefly, like the veins of something ancient, still pulsing beneath the dust. Jack looked at it, then at Jeeny, and for the first time that night, his eyes softened.

Jack: (softly) “So you think peace is the greater conquest?”

Jeeny: “No. I think peace is the only one that lasts.”

Host: The lightbulb flickered once, then died. In the sudden quiet, the warehouse filled with the faint hum of the waking city — cars, birds, the first breath of morning.

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — two figures standing in the debris of an empire that never existed, bathed in the first fragile light of day. Between them, a map of the world — torn, stained, but still there.

Host: And on its edge, beneath the fading ink of Alexander’s words, lay the truth they had both come to understand: that every conquest, whether of land or heart, demands a choice — between power and peace, between fear and understanding.

Host: And that sometimes, the greatest victory... is to finally stop marching.