I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

After thoroughly teasing Freja, Nathan finally left her alone—at least for the moment—so she could, perhaps, finish her bath in peace. Not that he believed she would. In all likelihood, she was frantically drying herself, rushing to throw clothes onto the bare skin he had already come to memorize in far too much detail.

And that, in and of itself, was no small accomplishment.

Nathan was no stranger to beauty. He had stood beside Goddesses, beheld their unearthly forms unclothed, and had long grown numb to the allure of mere physical charm. For him to actually pay attention—to be captivated by someone’s body—meant that person had managed to stir something within him. Something rare. Something unexpected.

He waited calmly outside the bathhouse, the ancient stone walls of the Roman castle looming around him like a silent maze. Truth be told, this entire place was a labyrinth, confusing in both structure and purpose. He had no idea where to begin searching for Elin, let alone how to navigate the complex network of halls and chambers.

It wasn’t long—perhaps five or six minutes—before Freja reemerged. She stepped out into the corridor, her figure partially obscured by the rising steam that trailed from the bathhouse. She had thrown on a pair of pants and a simple blouse in haste, her damp hair clinging to her neck and shoulders. Water still glistened against her flushed skin, though it was clear that the redness on her cheeks had little to do with the heat of the bath.

Without saying a word, she approached Nathan and thrust the towel she had borrowed earlier into his hands. ”Take it back,” she said flatly, not quite meeting his gaze.

Nathan raised an eyebrow as he glanced down at the towel. His lips curled into a subtle smirk. ”You really want me to take it back?”

Freja paused. The implication hit her almost immediately, and her cheeks flared an even deeper shade of crimson.

”Y...You degenerate pervert!” she stammered, snatching the towel back and hurriedly stuffing it into her spatial storage.

”You’re the one who tried to return it,” Nathan replied dryly, the amusement in his tone only barely restrained. He decided not to press the matter further. Instead, he steered the conversation to the subject that mattered. ”Now, tell me—where’s Elin?”

Freja crossed her arms, clearly still flustered, but not entirely willing to ignore his question. ”What do you want with her?”

It seemed she wasn’t going to cooperate unless she knew the reason behind his request. Nathan sighed and gave her a bit more information, hoping it would be enough to ease her suspicion. ”One of my friends is injured. I want Elin to heal them. She has an SSS-Rank Healing Skill, doesn’t she?”

Freja blinked in surprise. ”H-How do you know about Elin’s skill...?”

There was genuine shock in her voice. For a moment, she looked like a child caught with a secret exposed. Then, realization dawned. Of course—Elin must have used her skill again, recklessly and without discretion. Freja had warned her numerous times to keep it hidden. A skill like that was too rare, too valuable, and would attract far too much attention. But Elin, ever the idealist, had refused to listen.

Freja sighed, the fight going out of her shoulders. ”Fine,” she muttered, turning on her heel and walking ahead. Nathan followed.

For a while, they walked in silence, the muffled sounds of distant footsteps and voices echoing through the stone corridors of the castle. Then, Freja spoke again, her voice softer this time, laced with suspicion.

”Did Julius Caesar send you?”

It was a fair question—and a sharp one.

Nathan had mentioned previously that he was working under Julius Caesar. It wasn’t a stretch to think she suspected he was acting under direct orders now.

Before he could respond, she asked another, more pointed question.

”What is he planning with us?”

Nathan glanced sideways at her. Her brows were furrowed, her gaze distant but focused. She wasn’t just making conversation—she was genuinely concerned. Suspicious, even.

It made sense. Caesar had forced all of them—Freja, Elin, the other heroes—to remain longer in Rome than they had planned. The upcoming gladiator tournaments were the perfect excuse, but Freja wasn’t the kind of woman to accept surface-level explanations. She wanted the truth.

The truth was... Nathan didn’t know what Caesar was planning for the Heroes.

And honestly? He didn’t much care.

At least, not in the way someone else might. He wasn’t particularly invested in their fates—neither did he feel any sense of camaraderie with them. But if understanding Caesar’s intentions could provide him with a thread, a leverage point, or a potential weakness to exploit—then maybe it was worth paying attention.

Because if he intended to bring Caesar down, he’d need every possible advantage. Every sliver of knowledge.

And perhaps, allies.

But that was the real problem. If he truly intended to go after Caesar, he would need support—and the idea of joining forces with the Heroes made Nathan scoff internally. He didn’t trust a single one of them. Not a soul.

If he were to suggest forming an alliance to overthrow Caesar, most of them would laugh in his face. Worse, they’d likely run straight to Caesar and tattle like obedient dogs, hoping to gain his favor. And those who might hesitate—those who had potential, like Freja—wouldn’t risk the safety of their classmates for something so dangerous. Not for a gamble.

Especially not when their class teacher, Johanna, had already fallen under Caesar’s thumb.

Nathan’s gaze narrowed at the thought.

”Wait... don’t tell me that’s the reason he’s been screwing her?” The idea slid into his mind like a knife. ”Is that how he got to her?”

If so, it meant Caesar had already poisoned the roots. Johanna was respected by her students from what he briefly understood. Her words carried weight with the Heroes. If she was compromised, then so were they. Her influence would steer them exactly where Caesar wanted.

Nathan’s thoughts were broken by the irritated voice of the woman walking ahead of him.

”I’m bringing you to Elin—you can at least answer me!” Freja huffed, glancing back at him, cheeks still flushed but her voice firm.

Nathan turned his attention to her, offering a dry, unreadable look. On the surface, he seemed indifferent. But internally, his senses were buzzing.

He felt them.

The eyes.

They’d been on him ever since he stepped into the Hero’s quarters. He didn’t need to see them to know—they were there, lingering, watching. Tracking his every movement.

Caesar’s men.

Nathan’s senses had been honed through countless battles, forged in blood and sharpened by instinct. He knew what it felt like to be followed. Back when he’d been with Fulvia—when they’d shared a bed—he hadn’t been watched. But now? The change was clear. The moment he moved near the Heroes, the surveillance had begun.

It wasn’t surprising. Caesar didn’t trust him.

And in a way, Nathan couldn’t blame him.

Still, it complicated things. If he was going to carve a path through this empire, if he was going to strike Caesar down, he needed room to breathe. But how could he form a plan if every word he uttered might be overheard? Every step shadowed?

Caesar’s grip was tight. His paranoia, justified.

That’s what it took to rule Rome, after all—ruthlessness and eyes in every shadow.

”Tell me—” Freja began again, her voice rising with exasperation.

But Nathan cut her off before she could finish.

”Sleep with me,” he said casually, ”and I might tell you.”

Silence.

Freja stopped walking. Her lips parted, but no words came out. For a brief second, she looked like she’d been slapped across the face. Then her expression twisted with fury, her hands clenched tightly at her sides.

”Y...You’re just like a beast! Just like all the other men in this place!” she spat, her voice trembling not with fear—but with rage.

Nathan didn’t flinch. He just tilted his head and gave her a look that was neither denial nor agreement.

But before Freja could launch into another tirade, a soft, startled voice called out from down the hall.

”Freja? What are you doing here?”

Both of them turned.

A figure approached, graceful and hesitant. Elin.

Her presence seemed to dim the tension in the air for just a moment. Her pale blonde hair framed a gentle face, and her steps faltered when her eyes landed on Nathan.

”...L-Lord Septimius...” she stammered, her voice small, cautious.

She knew who he was. He had helped her once, and yet she’d heard the rumors. Whispers about what kind of man Septimius truly was—whispers that chilled her blood. Now, standing before him, Elin looked unsure whether she should bow or run.

Nathan, however, had no time to waste.

In an instant, he vanished from Freja’s side. A gust of wind swept through the hall like a whisper.

By the time Elin realized what had happened, it was too late.

”Hyaaah!” she yelped, lifted clean off the ground as Nathan’s arm wrapped around her waist and hoisted her effortlessly over his shoulder. She gasped, kicking reflexively, eyes wide with shock.

Freja stood frozen. She hadn’t even seen him move. It had happened in the blink of an eye.

”R-Release her—!” she tried to shout, reaching for her weapon—

But he was already gone.

Just like that.

A flash of movement. A breath of wind.

And then—nothing.

The corridor stood empty, save for the echoes and the wide-eyed spies hidden in the shadows, stunned by what they had just witnessed.

Nathan moved like a shadow through the winding corridors of the Roman stronghold—swift, silent, and utterly invisible to the untrained eye. His speed alone would have made him a blur, but when combined with his finely-honed Stealth Skill, the result was near-supernatural.

Years of relentless refinement had turned his stealth into something that bordered on divine—a skill honed in countless battlefields and darkened alleys, forged by necessity and perfected under the most grueling circumstances. And then there was the god level technique Amaterasu had taught him—an ability to suppress his very presence, to become a whisper in the world’s senses. With that sacred art layered into his movements, Nathan could pass through a crowded throne room and leave no more trace than a gust of wind.

He wasn’t perfect—not yet. He was still not at level of Gods after all. But against ordinary humans, and even powerful ones, among seasoned spies from Rome, he might as well have been a ghost. Not even the added burden of carrying Elin over his shoulder broke his concealment.

Elin, meanwhile, clung tightly to the fabric of his cloak, her breath short and panicked, her heart pounding like a war drum against his back. The sheer speed at which he moved left her disoriented, the marble and torchlit stone around them turning into a blur of lights and shadows.

Within a minute, maybe two at most, Nathan’s steps finally slowed. He had retraced the path with surgical precision, trusting the map etched in his mind. Without hesitation, he slipped into a quiet chamber and closed the door behind him.

He didn’t even realize where he had arrived until he looked around—Fulvia’s room.

”P-Please... leave me... I’m sorry!” Elin suddenly cried out, her voice cracking with panic as she squirmed in his hold.

Nathan blinked and looked down at her.

Her words weren’t a response to him exactly. No, this was something deeper. A reflex born of fear. A defense, shaped by something from her past. He could feel her trembling, hear the quiet sob buried beneath her voice.

But he didn’t acknowledge the plea. Not with words. Instead, he lowered her to the ground.

”You have a Healing Skill, right?” he asked, voice flat but not unkind.

Elin barely managed a nod, her lip quivering as she clutched the hem of her dress like it was the only thing anchoring her to the moment. Her large, tear-brimmed eyes shimmered in the low light as she struggled to compose herself.

”Then heal her,” Nathan said, stepping aside so she could see.

Elin slowly turned her gaze—and froze.

There, lying atop the sheets, was Fulvia.