I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

“Let’s end this, Agamemnon.”

Nathan kicked off the ground, his movements swift and precise, as he drew his black demonic sword. A chilling aura trailed behind him, an ominous mist of icy energy that crackled in the air. His target was clear—Agamemnon, the towering warrior who stood defiantly, exuding a newfound and unsettling strength.

Agamemnon raised his sword, a weapon he had stolen from Paris, though it no longer resembled its former self. The blade was now darker, broader, pulsating with a malevolent energy that twisted the air around it. A sinister black aura emanated from its edge, almost alive, as if whispering promises of destruction. Despite his massive frame, Agamemnon moved with shocking speed, closing the distance between them in the blink of an eye.

Nathan reacted instantly, bringing up his sword to block the incoming strike. The clash sent a deafening shockwave rippling through the battlefield, forcing him to skid backward, his feet carving deep grooves into the earth. The force behind Agamemnon’s attack was monstrous—far beyond what a mere mortal should possess.

He wasn’t a Demigod, yet he had reached their strength, all thanks to Paris’s corrupted sword.

Nathan wasted no time. He tightened his grip on his weapon and slashed through the air. “Celestial Ice Magic.”

A massive lance of ice materialized before him, thick, jagged, and gleaming with divine frost. Its sheer presence caused the surrounding temperature to plummet, and a mist of frozen vapor spiraled outward. With a mere flick of his blade, Nathan sent the icy projectile hurtling toward Agamemnon at breakneck speed.

The gods watched in stunned silence.

Celestial Magic—used with such ease, such mastery. It was as if Nathan had become one with it, his control absolute. There was no hesitation, no delay. He wielded the celestial magic power as naturally as breathing, a feat that even the greatest warriors of legend had struggled to achieve.

Agamemnon barely had time to react. The lance struck his chest with devastating force, piercing through his form and leaving a gaping hole where his heart should have been. Yet, no blood spilled from the wound. Instead, the darkness that cloaked his body writhed and shifted, as if it were a living entity. The wound did not remain—it healed within moments, the black substance pulling itself back together, reforming as if nothing had happened.

“Kahaha!!” Agamemnon burst into laughter, his voice twisted with manic delight. He spread his arms wide, reveling in his own invulnerability. “Look! You cannot defeat me! Heiron!!”

His grip tightened around his corrupted blade, and with a feral roar, he swung it at Nathan. The sheer force of the strike split the air itself, a wave of dark energy carving a devastating path through the battlefield. Soldiers in the distance, caught in the blade’s arc, were instantly cleaved apart, their bodies vanishing as the corrupt power erased their existence.

“This… This is my power!!”

Nathan, unfazed by Agamemnon’s deranged exultation, remained silent. His expression was calm, calculating. Without a word, he raised his sword, the air around him turning frigid.

A breath. A moment.

Then, with a single downward slash, Agamemnon’s entire form froze over in an instant. A towering sculpture of ice now stood where the warrior had been, his face forever captured in a twisted grin. Silence stretched over the battlefield as frost glistened in the sunlight.

Crack.

A fissure ran down the frozen Agamemnon, followed by another. Black mana seeped from the cracks, pulsating like a living heart. Then, with a final surge of power, the ice shattered apart. Fragments of frozen debris scattered across the ground as Agamemnon emerged, hunched over, gasping for breath.

His confidence was gone, replaced by something far more raw—rage.

With ragged breaths, he lifted his gaze to Nathan, his eyes burning with hatred. The battle was far from over or at least he thought.

Nathan smirked, the expression barely noticeable but filled with confidence.

Agamemnon’s eyes burned red with fury, his bloodshot gaze locked onto Nathan as he raised his sword.

BADOOOOM!

The ground beneath him shattered as he charged forward, moving even faster than before. The sheer force of his advance tore apart the battlefield, deep fissures splitting the earth in his wake.

BADAM!!

With a monstrous roar, Agamemnon threw a massive punch toward Nathan. Reacting instantly, Nathan met the strike with his sword, the impact sending tremors through his arms. Once again, the force drove him back, but he refused to yield. Twisting his body, he delivered a powerful counter-kick, striking Agamemnon in the chest and sending him tumbling across the ground.

Agamemnon, undeterred, roared in frustration and hurled himself forward once more. His movements were frenzied, fueled by unrelenting wrath.

“You call yourself the King of Kings, yet you fight with stolen power,” Nathan taunted, his voice laced with contempt.

“DON’T YOU DARE!!!” Agamemnon bellowed, his swings becoming erratic yet deadly. His massive hands carved through the air with terrifying speed, each slash leaving trails of destructive energy behind Nathan. But despite the ferocity of his attacks, not a single blow reached its mark.

“You claim to be the ruler of all Greeks, yet you wield a sword stolen from a Trojan prince,” Nathan sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. He turned his gaze toward the gathered Greek warriors, their expressions uncertain, their voices silent. “Is this your king?” he questioned, his words cutting deeper than any blade.

Agamemnon’s rage reached a breaking point. “I WILL KILL YOU! KILL YOU!!!” he roared, his body swelling with raw, unchecked power. His sword, too, grew even larger, pulsating with the same ominous darkness that consumed him.

With a sudden burst of speed, he caught Nathan by the leg. Before Nathan could react, Agamemnon slammed him violently into the ground, the impact shaking the battlefield. Without pause, he hurled Nathan through the air, sending him crashing into the dirt.

Yet, as the dust settled, Nathan rose to his feet with ease, as if nothing had happened. A thin trickle of blood ran down his forehead, but he paid it no mind. His eyes, sharp and unwavering, remained fixed on Agamemnon.

“Your king has lost control,” Nathan stated, his voice carrying across the battlefield. “He has killed his own men, his own people. Look at him! He’s lost everything!” He let out a mocking laugh, each word a dagger in Agamemnon’s pride.

Agamemnon’s breathing turned ragged, his fury reaching a fever pitch. Nathan’s words weren’t just insults—they were truth, a truth he could not bear to hear. The Trojan War no longer mattered. The destruction of Troy was irrelevant. The vengeance for his daughter, forgotten.

None of it meant anything anymore.

All that mattered was killing the man who dared to mock him.

The real issue was that the man standing before him wasn’t even taking him seriously. In fact, it was painfully obvious—almost as if he were toying with him, mocking his every move with effortless ease.

Nathan was toying with the King of the Greeks, Agamemnon. And it wasn’t just an illusion or some trick of the mind—every single Greek and Trojan present could see it.

He was humiliating the great King of the Achaeans, reducing him to a mere spectacle before his own soldiers.

Agamemnon’s expression darkened, his grip tightening around his weapon. Yet, no matter how fiercely he tried to fight, no matter how much power he poured into each strike, it was all meaningless. Nathan evaded his attacks with ease, as if they were nothing more than the clumsy flailing of a child.

The gods themselves watched in stunned silence.

“What… what is happening…?” Hera’s voice wavered, her disbelief evident.

She struggled to comprehend what had just unfolded before her.

They were losing the war.

No.

They were going to lose the war.

Her mind raced, searching for some explanation, some logical reasoning behind this absurdity. But the sight before her shattered all expectations.

“Why… why would Khillea do such a thing…?” she murmured, utterly speechless.

Khillea—her greatest hope, the strongest warrior in this war, the woman she had placed all her faith in—had just turned her back on everything. Without hesitation, without a second thought, she had kissed Nathan, and in that moment, the entire battlefield had shifted.

To make matters worse, it wasn’t just that.

The kiss carried meaning—deep, undeniable meaning. It was not one of fleeting passion, but of something far greater. Nathan had swallowed entirely Khillea’s rage.

The fiery warrior, once consumed by the flames of vengeance, had become utterly pacified by Nathan’s words.

Now, she was commanding all the Myrmidons to retreat.

And the most terrifying thing?

Not a single one of them questioned her decision.

Because the Myrmidons had never truly considered themselves part of the Greek forces. They had always stood apart, their loyalty belonging solely to their leader—first to Achilles, and now, to Khillea. They despised Agamemnon with every fiber of their being, but they had chosen to fight only because their Queen had chosen to.

With her stepping away from the war, they followed without hesitation.

Their vendetta against Troy had already been reduced to embers. The only thing that had fueled their rage was the murder of Patroclus at Paris’s hands. But even that no longer mattered.

Because all eyes were now on another battle.

The battle between Hector and Paris.

Anyone watching could already see the outcome.

Hector’s strikes were precise, unwavering, relentless. His eyes burned with determination, filled with unshakable resolve.

He was going to kill his brother.

And Paris, weak and desperate, could do nothing to stop it.

Hera’s fingers trembled as she clutched the edge of her throne, her breath shallow.

“Is this… a dream…?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

She didn’t even have the strength to be angry anymore.