I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

BADOOOOOOOOOM!!!

A blinding light consumed the battlefield as fire and ice clashed, their opposing energies tearing at each other in a devastating storm. The ground quaked, and shockwaves rippled outward, forcing even the farthest observers to shield themselves from the sheer force of the impact.

The sheer force of the clash rippled across the battlefield, knocking even the strongest warriors off their feet. Those who believed themselves safe at a distance found no sanctuary, as the shockwave swept through the field like a tempest, leaving none untouched.

When the ground finally ceased its trembling, an oppressive silence descended. Everyone held their breath, their hearts pounding as they fixed their gaze on the billowing curtains of dust. Time seemed to stretch endlessly as anticipation thickened the air. Who had emerged victorious?

Was it Heracles, the mighty demigod revered across lands for his unparalleled feats? Or was it Heiron, the mercenary whose presence carried a weight few could comprehend?

As the dust began to settle, revealing the aftermath of the epic confrontation, a collective gasp arose. One figure stood tall, battered but resolute, while the other knelt, the strength drained from their very being.

It was Heracles who remained standing, his powerful frame still imposing despite the toll of the battle. Before him, Heiron knelt, his shoulders slumped, his face pale and etched with exhaustion.

Heracles gazed down at Heiron, his expression a complex of feelings. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came immediately. His mind swirled with memories—of victories past and the weight of his long, storied life.

This was Heracles, the hero who had wrestled a giant lion, subdued a raging bull, and faced Cerberus, the hound of Hades, without faltering. He had accomplished the legendary Twelve Labors, enduring trials that even the gods themselves deemed nearly impossible. Monsters, tyrants, and challenges of divine origin had all fallen before his strength and perseverance.

Recently, he had been bestowed the status of a god in name—a recognition of his unmatched deeds. Though mortal in essence, Heracles had felt pride in such acknowledgment. But even a life so decorated had its moments of failure and loss.

The quest for the Golden Fleece had been a bitter disappointment, a rare blemish on his otherwise illustrious record. It was during that failed endeavor that he had first encountered Samael.

From the moment Heracles laid eyes on the man, he knew Samael was no ordinary individual. There was something otherworldly about him, a sense of greatness that surpassed even Heracles’ own legendary stature. Samael’s presence had left an indelible mark on Heracles, a mixture of awe and unease.

Fate, however, was not yet finished weaving their destinies together. Months later, the Trojan War brought them face to face once more. Yet, this time, Samael wore a different guise: Heiron, the warrior whose strength and bravery had captivated Heracles throughout the campaign.

Heracles had watched Heiron fight with courage, defending Hector and his cause with an intensity that inspired even his enemies. Over months of war, Heracles had grown to admire the man who now knelt before him.

But the cost of this final battle was steep. Blood trickled from Heracles’ lips, staining his chin and chest. He struggled to remain upright, even as he stared at Heiron’s mismatched eyes—one an icy blue, the other a demonic gold, radiating a power Heracles could scarcely fathom.

“I am glad,” Heracles finally said, his voice heavy with emotion, “that it was you I lost against.”

With those words, the great Heracles allowed himself to succumb to his injuries. His eyelids grew heavy, and his towering frame crumpled forward. He collapsed to the ground with a resounding thud.

A gaping hole marred Heracles’ mighty chest, and from it, an unnatural frost began to spread, encasing his body in an icy shell. The frost crept with deliberate finality, transforming the hero’s once-proud form into a frozen monument of his end.

A deafening silence fell over the battlefield, its weight heavier than any battle cry. Every soul present, whether Greek or Trojan, stood immobilized, their gazes locked on the scene before them. Words failed them; there were no explanations, no rationalizations that could convey the gravity of what they had just witnessed.

“Im… possible…” a Greek soldier muttered, his voice trembling as though uttering the thought made it more real.

Others echoed his disbelief, their faces pale and stricken with shock. Heracles—son of Zeus, the god of thunder, and adopted son of Hera, the queen of Olympus—was defeated. Not merely wounded, not merely bested, but utterly defeated.

And by a man.

For many Greeks, Heracles was more than a hero; he was a symbol of their divine favor, the unshakable proof of their might. His death shattered their spirits, and tears began to flow freely among the ranks of the soldiers. He had been loved, revered, and idolized. The loss of Heracles was not just the loss of a warrior but the loss of hope itself.

Even the Trojans, enemies of Greece, stood silent. There were no cheers of victory, no triumphant cries to mark the death of their foe. Instead, they remained motionless, heads bowed in respect for the man who had been Heracles.

Nathan rose slowly from where he had fallen, his breath labored and his body heavy with exhaustion. Each step he took toward Heracles felt like crossing a great chasm, his own limbs aching with the weight of what had just transpired. When he reached the frozen figure, he extended a hand, and with a subtle gesture, the ice receded, melting into nothingness.

Heracles’ face was visible once more, his lips curled into a serene, contented smile. Even in death, there was no anger or regret—only peace.

Nathan knelt beside him, lowering his voice to a reverent tone. “I was glad as well to have met you, Heracles,” he said, his words carrying the weight of sincerity. “If any Greek deserves the title of the strongest and most extraordinary warrior, it is you. I will not forget this fight.”

Suddenly, a radiant light descended upon them, illuminating Heracles’ lifeless body. Nathan stood and stepped back instinctively, shielding his eyes from the brilliance. When he looked up, he saw Hera, the Queen of the Gods, descending from the heavens.

Her expression, usually one of haughty arrogance, bore something rare—sadness. Genuine, unmasked sorrow flickered across her face, though she concealed it as best she could. Without a word, Hera lifted Heracles’ body, cradling it as though he were a child. The light around them intensified, and in a flash, she vanished, taking Heracles with her.

For the first time, Nathan had seen a hint of humanity in the goddess who so often seemed devoid of it.

But he had little time to reflect. His body swayed, his vision dimming as exhaustion finally overtook him. He felt himself falling backward, bracing for the cold ground—only to collide with something solid.

A strong hand steadied him, and Nathan turned his head slightly to see Hector’s reassuring smile.

“You’ve done enough,” Hector said, his voice gentle yet firm. “You should rest now. Today’s fight is over.”

Nathan looked at the Greeks, their spirits crushed and their leaders already signaling a retreat. Even Odysseus, so often a figure of cunning and resolve, wore a grim expression as he called for his troops to withdraw.

“Yeah,” Nathan accepted, nodding faintly. “I’ll rest now.”

°°°°°°°

In Olympus, a heavy silence enveloped the great halls, a silence so profound that it seemed even the wind dared not disturb it. The death of Heracles, the mightiest of heroes and a beloved son of Zeus, weighed heavily on the gods.

Among them, Heracles had been cherished for his feats and endurance, his victories celebrated across Olympus as proof of the gods’ favor. His passing struck a chord in every divine heart, though the responses varied.

Most gods did not harbor anger toward Heiron, the mortal who had slain him. They knew Heracles well—he was a man who lived and died on his own terms. His life was a tapestry of struggles and triumphs, woven with both mortal and divine threads. To die in battle, facing a worthy opponent, was a fitting end for the son of Zeus.

Zeus himself sat upon his grand throne, his face a mask of grief tempered by acceptance. Heracles had been one of his most cherished sons, a symbol of strength and resilience. While sadness tugged at his heart, there was solace in knowing that Heracles would now rest on the Isle of Heroes, a place reserved for the greatest of mortals. After a lifetime of trials and suffering, Heracles deserved peace.

But not all shared his calm. Hera stood nearby, her features twisted in fury. Her eyes burned as she directed her anger toward her husband.

“Are you truly going to let that Heiron live?” she demanded, her voice sharp and accusatory.

Zeus’s eyes narrowed slightly, his tone measured but cold. “I do not understand your meaning, Hera.”

“You know exactly what I mean!” Hera snapped. “That mortal—he killed your son! And don’t tell me his strength is natural. A mortal appearing out of nowhere, wielding power like that? It’s clear he’s a threat! You must strike him down before he becomes dangerous!”

Before Zeus could respond, Artemis, seated calmly among the gods, spoke with a sardonic edge. “How convenient it would be for you if Heiron were to die now, wouldn’t it, Hera?”

Hera turned her glare on Artemis, her anger simmering, but she quickly returned her focus to Zeus.

The King of the Gods suddenly rose, his towering form casting a shadow over the assembly. His eyes, once filled with grief, now burned with the fierce intensity of a storm. The gods in attendance felt an undeniable shift in the air—a reminder of the Zeus of millennia past, the ruler who had once led them to victory against the Titans.

When he spoke, his voice rumbled like thunder, resonating throughout Olympus. “From this moment forward, I forbid any god from interfering in the war. None shall take part in the battles, influence the mortals, or intervene in their fate. No aid. No meddling. No exceptions. Is that understood?”

A wave of unease rippled through the gods. Many averted their gazes, shivers running down their spines at the sheer authority in his words. This was not the Zeus they had come to know in recent years—this was Zeus in his prime, the king whose will was law and whose wrath was feared.

Zeus’s gaze swept over the assembly, lingering pointedly on Hera and Poseidon. Hera’s fists clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as she trembled with suppressed rage. She did not dare voice her defiance, though her silence was filled with venom.

Poseidon, seated with his trident resting beside him, scowled but held his tongue. The God of the Seas was clearly displeased but unwilling to challenge Zeus’s decree outright.

Satisfied that his command had been understood, Zeus turned his piercing gaze toward the mortal realm. The battlefield below stretched before him, a tapestry of chaos and destiny. He could feel the tides of fate shifting, the echoes of war reaching their crescendo.

“The final act of this war begins now and we have no rights to intervene or influence it,” Zeus murmured, his voice softer but no less commanding. “And it will be theirs to shape.”