I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

As they made their way through the ornately adorned marble corridors toward the grand feast hall, Nathan found himself walking just a little behind the others. His ears remained sharp, however, tuned into the lively conversation among Caesar’s group, hoping to catch something of importance—or perhaps, something dangerous.

“The gladiator tournament preparations are nearly complete,” Crassus announced with pride, his booming voice echoing slightly against the towering walls. “This one shall be the grandest spectacle Rome has ever witnessed. Julius, you’re in for a treat.”

“I’m already looking forward to it,” Caesar replied with a hearty laugh, his polished armor catching the ambient torchlight as he walked.

Beside them, Licinia, Crassus’s daughter clasped her hands together with excitement. “I’ve heard that warriors from the farthest reaches of the world are traveling to Rome just to take part in the tournament.”

“They are indeed,” Crassus confirmed with a chuckle, then paused to grin knowingly. “Once word of the rewards spread, it would take a madman to ignore the opportunity.”

“The Gods themselves have blessed this tournament,” Caesar added, his eyes gleaming with a strange light. “They’re said to be watching as spectators—and even descending in person to bless the victors. That alone will make it a historic moment.”

“The Gods mingling with mortals… what an age we live in,” Crassus said with mock reverence, though there was an undertone in his voice—something halfway between awe and calculation. “That’s precisely why I’ve invited only the finest warriors, the deadliest mortals the world has to offer. This won’t be a mere bloodsport. It will be a dance for divine favor.”

Caesar’s gaze drifted forward, to the foreign guests walking several steps ahead. “Will our newly arrived ‘Heroes’ be participating, I wonder?”

“That depends,” Crassus replied, thoughtfully. “They were meant to depart soon after this meeting. A formal greeting to the new Pharaoh and Queen awaits them. I don’t think Queen Cleopatra is a patient woman.”

“I’ll make them stay,” Julius said smoothly, his tone one of certainty rather than suggestion. His eyes slid toward Johanna, the tall and composed instructor of the visiting class, who was walking with quiet grace. “I’ll speak with their guide. I doubt she’d let them miss what might be the greatest tournament of our era.”

Nathan’s brow furrowed as he silently absorbed every word.

A tournament… blessed by the Gods? And watched by them? That wasn’t mere rhetoric—no one here would dare use the names of Gods so flippantly, especially not with that tone of certainty.

Why would divine beings lower themselves to observe mortal combat?

The Trojan war was another matter considering it was literally a battle between Demigods and of another dimension in the realm of the Greek Gods.

But what about Rome?

What were they truly hoping to witness—or perhaps, to manipulate?

The thought coiled uneasily in his stomach. Something was off. The idea of a simple tournament being so lavishly blessed felt like a façade, a stage dressed in blood and gold hiding something deeper beneath.

Before he could ponder further, the group reached the entrance to the grand feast hall.

What unfolded before them could only be described as overwhelming splendor.

The feast hall stood in stark contrast to the palatial chambers of the Trojan Empire, which Nathan had grown somewhat familiar with. Here, the architecture was distinct—stately Roman pillars carved with intricate reliefs of mythological conquests lined the perimeter. The ceiling was domed and painted with celestial murals that shimmered under the light of countless floating lanterns. The ground was made of polished white marble, veined with gold, and warm to the touch despite its stone nature.

Dozens of grand tables extended across the chamber, each draped in crimson cloth embroidered with gold thread. Upon them were dishes beyond count—succulent roasted meats dripping with glaze, platters of exotic fruits from across the Empire, fine wines poured into crystal goblets, and fresh bread still steaming from the oven. The air was rich with the aroma of spices, smoke, and the faint scent of flowers from decorative wreaths.

The room was already alive with chatter, filled with Rome’s elite—senators in regal purple togas, noblewomen draped in silk and jewels, and military commanders with scarred faces and steel in their eyes. Laughter mingled with the clinking of goblets and the rustle of gossip.

A herald standing near the head of the hall suddenly raised his staff and struck it against the ground three times.

“The Emperors have arrived!” he cried out in a resounding voice that silenced the crowd like a command.

“Hail Crassus! Hail Caesar!” the crowd chanted in unison, rising from their seats as the two powerful men stepped forward.

Crassus and Caesar both nodded in regal acknowledgment, stepping toward the raised dais at the end of the room, where their thrones awaited.

Nathan, meanwhile, remained near the rear of the group, eyes scanning the room as he pushed his unease deeper into the corners of his mind.

Crassus turned then, a proud gleam in his eyes as he looked toward the group of summoned Heroes. Many of them, still in awe of Rome’s grandeur, were already wide-eyed and salivating from the rich aroma wafting from the endless banquet tables—roasted meats basted in honey and herbs, steaming stews thick with spices, and warm breads piled high beside golden platters of rare fruits.

“Please, Heroes,” Crassus declared, extending his arms as if presenting the entire hall to them. “Tonight belongs to you. Feast. Drink. Rejoice in the glory of Rome. Enjoy all your hearts desire.”

The words were met with resounding cheers. Like excited children released from a lecture, the Heroes scattered with laughter and eagerness, splitting apart and rushing to the tables, already filling their plates and goblets.

Only one among them did not move.

Johanna, ever dutiful, remained by Crassus and Caesar’s side. As the representative of the Heroes, she was expected to engage with Rome’s political elite—an unenviable task, but one she bore with silent grace. Together with the Emperors, she moved across the room toward a cluster of noble figures in ceremonial dress, exchanging pleasantries and shallow courtesies.

Among the group stood a pair Nathan would have preferred to avoid for now—Servilia, her calculating gaze scanning the room like a hawk’s, and her son, Brutus, who kept a mask of calm dignity over the obvious weight of expectation on his shoulders.

Nathan’s chance to speak with Brutus would have to wait.

Shrugging inwardly, Nathan turned toward the tables and decided to taste what this so-called Roman splendor had to offer.

The flavors hit him instantly—bold, unfamiliar, yet oddly pleasing. Roman cuisine, it turned out, was nothing like the austere delicacies of Tenebria or the rich, spice-heavy dishes of Troy. It was heartier, earthier—dripping with olive oil, rich with herbs, and steeped in centuries of tradition. He took another bite, silently savoring the unexpected delight.

“Umm! Lord Septimius!”

A high-pitched voice squealed from behind him, followed by a chorus of girlish giggles that made Nathan freeze mid-bite.

He turned slowly, his crimson eyes settling on a small group of young women standing a few feet away. They weren’t Roman—that was immediately clear. Their mannerisms, their posture, even their clothing styles had a familiar air of Earth about them.

He recognized them.

They were Heroes too—but not from his faction. These girls had been summoned by the Amun-Ra Empire, one of the other great powers that had plucked Earthlings into their service.

Four girls, flushed and giggling like schoolgirls at a concert, stood bunched together, eyes locked on him with a mixture of admiration and nervous awe.

“YYes?” Nathan asked, lifting a brow.

One of them, clearly braver than the rest, stepped forward. Her cheeks were flushed a bright pink, and her voice trembled with barely restrained excitement.

“Um, we—we wanted to know more about you!” she said quickly, smiling too brightly. The others giggled again behind her, whispering to each other as if they had just witnessed a miracle.

Nathan stared down at them silently for a few moments.

He was used to receiving attention—more than his fair share, especially from women. But this level of enthusiasm from Earth girls? He hadn’t expected it. He had imagined that the shared trauma of their summoning would have sobered many of them, made them more guarded, more mature.

But perhaps that was naive.

After all, it had been more than two years since they were taken from Earth. Time changed people—sometimes in ways they didn’t even notice themselves.

As his eyes—deep crimson and cold—fell upon them, the girls only blushed harder, visibly wilting under the intensity of his gaze.

Then, as if emboldened by a moment of foolish courage, the same girl who had spoken took a step closer—too close. Her lips parted slightly, and for one absurd second, Nathan thought she might try to kiss him right there.

But before she could embarrass herself further, a sharp, elegant voice cut through the moment.

“Girls, what are you doing?”

All heads turned.

Nathan’s eyes met a new presence.

She walked toward them with grace and purpose, her expression poised yet commanding. Her beauty was immediate and undeniable—neck length light brown hair framed a flawless face, her figure curving in all the right places, and her eyes were a cool, piercing bright brown gold that held no fear of judgment. She didn’t need to beg for attention. She commanded it.

Freja Lind.

She was one of the standouts among the Amun-Ra Heroes—a woman whose name was whispered with admiration and jealousy in equal measure. Nobles and generals alike had tried to court her, but few could claim to have even held a full conversation with her.

The moment she appeared, the giggling girls shrank back like frightened kittens caught misbehaving.

“W-we were just talking with Septimius…” one of them muttered sheepishly.

“You can talk later,” Freja said, not unkindly but with enough finality to make the girls bow their heads. “I need to speak with him.”

The girls hesitated, then, still flustered, turned and left—heads bowed, steps quick.

Now only Freja and Nathan remained.

She approached slowly, her confident steps making no sound on the marble floor. Her gaze remained fixed on his, testing him, trying to read the mind behind those crimson eyes.

“I’m Freja Lind,” she said simply, her tone formal yet not stiff.

“Septimius,” he replied curly. He gave her the barest of nods, then turned his head away, clearly disinterested, and took another bite of food without waiting for her response.

Freja blinked, momentarily caught off guard.

She was used to admiration. She was used to hungry stares and desperate attempts at flattery. Her conversations—especially with men—usually followed a predictable pattern of stammering awe, forced confidence, or sycophantic charm.

But this?

Cold indifference.

She’d been dismissed like a gust of wind brushing past a closed window.

For a moment, she simply stood there, her perfectly composed mask cracking ever so slightly at the edges. She didn’t know whether to be insulted or intrigued.

Nathan, however, had already lost interest. He had seen all the Heroes upon arrival, and none of them had caught his eye. None, save for Elin Berg—the girl wielding an SSS-rank magic skill. But even she, though impressive on paper, didn’t stir any sense of danger in him. Not the kind that made his instincts scream.

And so, he had deemed them irrelevant.

Freja included.

But she, it seemed, wasn’t the kind to be brushed aside so easily.

“Excuse me,” Freja spoke again, this time with a sharper edge to her voice. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Nathan didn’t turn. He remained still, watching the flames of a nearby brazier flicker in the polished bronze of a wall sconce. His tone, cool and disinterested, cut through the air like a knife.

“About?”

Freja’s brows twitched, a flicker of annoyance flashing in her eyes. “You could at least face me as a sign of respect,” she said, her voice tight with restrained irritation.

She hadn’t come with hostility. In truth, she only wanted to thank him—for what he had done for Elin, for the way he had risked himself. But now, standing there and being ignored so blatantly, a part of her pride bristled. She was Freja Lind. Men didn’t ignore her. They didn’t act cold. They didn’t—

Nathan turned around, finally. A silver platter was balanced casually in one hand, laden with cuts of roasted lamb and thick slices of dark bread, his other hand occupied with a small fork, which he used to take a bite without a word.

He chewed slowly, then met her gaze.

“Well? What do you want, Freja Lind?”

Freja faltered.

He was taller than she’d realized. He had always carried himself with such calm detachment that his presence rarely seemed overpowering—until now. Now that he was standing before her, unmoving, those crimson eyes focused on her with unsettling intensity, she understood why so many of her girl classmates had giggled and flushed in his presence.

He wasn’t traditionally bulky or muscular like most men she had seen in this world but he exuded something else—a quiet, smoldering confidence, like a blade that never needed to be drawn to command fear.

The silence lingered, stretching uncomfortably long.

“I…” she began, faltering. Her voice, for once, had lost its usual polish. “I heard from Elin what you did…”