I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

The sun rose over Troy, painting the sky with hues of gold and crimson, its brilliance unmatched as it cast long shadows over the battlefield. It was another day of relentless war, another day where the clash of steel and the cries of the fallen would echo across the blood-soaked plains. Yet, despite the routine brutality of the conflict, something about today felt different—an unseen force lingered in the air, thick with an indescribable tension.

A chilling unease settled over both the Greeks and the Trojans, an unshakable premonition whispering in their minds. It was a feeling of dread, as if the gods themselves had descended to observe the carnage about to unfold. Every warrior, hardened by years of battle, could sense it—a day that would be remembered for centuries, a day that would decide the course of history. Their hands trembled not from fear of death but from the weight of what was to come.

It was as if destiny itself had drawn them to this moment, and so, on this fateful day, both sides resolved to fight with everything they had.

For the Greeks, hope burned bright in their hearts, rekindled by the arrival of a legend. Khillea, the warrior whose name now resounded through their ranks, stood at the forefront, her golden armor gleaming under the morning sun. The Myrmidons, her loyal warriors, no longer questioned the truth they once struggled to accept—Khillea was Achilles, the strongest warrior in this accursed war. They no longer cared that she was a woman, for to them, she was Achilles, their invincible leader, their harbinger of victory. With her at the helm, their spirits soared, and their blades thirsted for battle.

Meanwhile, across the battlefield, the Trojans, who had been gripped by despair since the loss of their great warrior, now found themselves standing taller, their morale surging like a tide.

Heiron had returned.

They had seen him die—his body turning to ashes, disappearing entirely. And yet, there he was, standing among them once more, his presence igniting a renewed fervor in their hearts. It was impossible, yet undeniable. His resurrection could only be the work of the gods, a divine sign that they had not abandoned their city. Heiron was not merely a man who had defied death—he was a symbol, the chosen champion who would lead them to triumph.

For the Greeks, however, his return was nothing short of a nightmare.

“It cannot be him!”

“No… Look at them! They are calling his name!”

“I saw him die! His corpse lay on this very ground!”

“Hades has returned him to the living! He is an omen of our doom!”

Fear spread through their ranks like wildfire, the unshakable belief that Heiron had been sent by the gods to smite them down. If the heavens had granted him life once more, then what hope did they have?

And indeed, Heiron was changed. He no longer bore the weariness of mortality; instead, he radiated an otherworldly presence, his once-battle-worn features now sharpened with an almost divine perfection. But they did recognise his demonic gold eyes.

The ones most shocked by Heiron’s literal resurrection were none other than Agamemnon and Odysseus.

Agamemnon was beyond stunned. It was him—he felt it in his very bones. That hateful man, the one he thought had been erased from existence, had returned, and the mere presence of Heiron sent an unnatural chill running down the spine of the King of the Greeks. He refused to accept the feeling of dread creeping through his veins, yet there it was, undeniable and suffocating.

“How is this possible…” he muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Odysseus, standing a short distance away, could only stare in utter disbelief. His sharp eyes locked onto Nathan, watching as he moved across the battlefield with near-divine speed, slaughtering Greek soldiers by the hundreds. At this moment, Nathan resembled a true Demigod, a force of destruction unleashed upon them.

If the gods had brought him back, what could it mean? Odysseus pondered, his mind racing. It could only be a bad omen for the Greeks.

Yet, despite the overwhelming dread creeping into his heart, Odysseus held onto two slivers of hope: the assurance that Hera and Athena were still on their side and the knowledge that Khillea stood with them, fighting in their ranks.

With that in mind, Odysseus turned his gaze to Khillea, who was already watching Heiron intently. Standing atop her war chariot, she urged her horses forward, rushing past the soldiers at full speed toward her foe. Her golden divine shield was braced firmly on her left arm, while in her right hand, she gripped her golden divine sword, its radiant blade gleaming in the sunlight.

Nathan, sensing the approaching warrior, turned his attention toward Khillea, his gaze dark and unreadable. Reaching for his weapon, he grasped the Black Demon King’s blade—a demonic sword, not a divine one, but one of the few weapons capable of standing against the might of Khillea’s divine arms.

As if moved by an unspoken agreement, both Greeks and Trojans instinctively parted ways, clearing the battlefield for the imminent clash.

Nathan locked eyes with Khillea, but the woman he saw was no longer the mischievous and playful warrior he had once fallen for. She was different now—cold, unyielding, a true warrior forged in war’s cruel embrace.

Tightening his grip on his sword, Nathan kicked off the ground, launching himself forward at blinding speed.

Khillea, with unwavering resolve, propelled herself from her chariot, soaring through the air to meet him head-on.

Their distance vanished in an instant. Both warriors raised their swords, their blades singing as they sliced through the air, poised to strike.

—BADOOOOOOOOOM!!!

The moment Nathan’s demonic sword clashed against Khillea’s golden blade, an immense shockwave of mana erupted from the point of impact. The collision was so fierce that a violent cyclone of raw energy swirled around them, howling like a raging storm. The sheer force sent debris flying, uprooted chunks of the battlefield, and hurled nearby warriors into the air like leaves caught in a tempest. But amidst the chaos, Nathan and Khillea stood their ground, unmoving, unwavering.

Khillea narrowed her eyes as she studied the man before her, her expression laced with genuine curiosity.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice steady despite her growing wariness. She had, of course, heard rumors—whispers of a certain Heiron, the one who had slain both Ajax and Heracles. Yet, no rumor had prepared her for the sheer magnitude of his strength. This man—whoever he truly was—stood before her like an unshakable mountain.

Nathan did not respond. Instead, his figure flickered, vanishing into thin air like a ghost. In an instant, ice surged forth, swirling around him in a dance of glacial power. He made no effort to conceal it anymore—Khione’s ice, the chilling essence of an ancient force, now cloaked him entirely. His demonic sword pulsed with darkness, its entire length encased in a sheath of crystalline frost as he swung it in a wide arc.

BADOOOOM!

Khillea reacted swiftly, bringing up her shield just in time. The thick layer of ice crashed against her defenses, spreading like creeping vines, attempting to entomb her. For a brief moment, she was taken aback by the resilience of the frost, its presence unnatural, as though it carried the will of something far beyond mere magic.

With no other choice, she summoned a surge of golden light, igniting flames of divine radiance that crackled to life around her. The ice sizzled and evaporated in an instant, but even as she freed herself, Nathan was already upon her.

His sword descended like a judge’s final verdict.

Khillea barely managed to intercept the blow, her golden sword meeting his in a furious clash. The collision sent another massive shockwave rippling through the battlefield, cutting through the very wind itself. The ground beneath them trembled, cracks spiderwebbing outward from the sheer force of their exchange.

They remained locked in place, staring into each other’s eyes, neither willing to yield an inch.

Then, without warning, Khillea’s magic flared to its peak. A blinding surge of fire and light erupted around her, engulfing Nathan in a radiant inferno. The flames raged, swallowing everything in their path, their golden brilliance searing through the battlefield.

She leaped back, watching intently, expecting him to struggle against the purifying flames.

But then—

A chilling presence seeped through the light, snuffing out the flames like a winter storm quenching a candle. The fire dissipated as frost consumed the air, revealing Nathan once more, standing unscathed within a protective barrier of ice. His cold, calculating gaze locked onto hers as he slowly raised his hand.

From his palm, an enormous lance of ice materialized, its edges sharp enough to slice through steel with ease. With a mere flick of his wrist, the frozen projectile shot forward at blinding speed.

Khillea barely had time to react. She braced herself, raising her shield once more.

BADAAAAAM!

The lance shattered against her defenses upon impact, but the force behind it sent her skidding several meters backward. Her boots dug into the ground as she struggled to regain her footing, her heart pounding. As she lifted her gaze, her breath caught in her throat.

Nathan was already there.

His leg shot forward in a brutal kick, striking her shield with monstrous force.

BADOOOOM!

The impact was devastating. The sheer power behind the blow forced her back once more, her arms numb from the reverberation. Yet, even as she staggered, she recovered quickly, her instincts sharpened by years of battle.

With a burst of light, she propelled herself forward, her golden sword gleaming as she swung at him with divine fury.

Nathan met her charge head-on, his ice-cloaked sword flashing in response.

Fire and ice collided, clashing in a dazzling explosion of light and frost, the battlefield trembling beneath the sheer magnitude of their battle.