I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

When the Roman soldier acting as arbiter slammed his spear into the ground and announced the start, he didn’t hesitate for even a heartbeat.He turned on his heel and practically sprinted away from the arena floor, boots kicking up sand behind him.He had witnessed enough battles to know that when two monsters were about to collide… even a bystander could be turned into a corpse.

Thankfully for him—Nathan and Spartacus did not begin by clashing blades.

They simply stood there.

A moment of pure, suffocating stillness settled over the arena. The roaring crowd faded into background noise as the two warriors stared each other down, neither blinking, neither lowering their guard.

Then—without a word—Nathan lifted his hand and dispelled his weapon.The golden sword of Alexander the Great dissolved into glittering motes of light before vanishing completely into his spatial storage.

Across from him, Spartacus mirrored the gesture in his own brutal way.Two gladius swords were driven downwards, buried halfway into the earth with enough force to make the ground tremble. The handles quivered from impact, vibrating like beasts thrumming with restrained violence.

Silence, thick as blood.

Then—

As if breathing the same thought at the same time, they exploded forward.

BADAM!

Their first collision detonated like thunder splitting the sky. A hurricane of dust and sand erupted outward in a violent halo, forcing spectators in the closest seats to shield their eyes.

At the center of the storm, their bodies were locked in a deadlock—raw muscle meeting raw muscle.

Spartacus’s left fist drove against Nathan’s forearm like a battering ram, while his other hand gripped Nathan’s fist mid-strike, preventing it from moving even a centimeter further.

Their strength alone distorted the air around them.

“You seem even stronger,” Nathan remarked, voice calm but edged like a blade. “Much stronger. Did Octavius remove whatever limiter he chained you with? Congratulations, then. You’ve officially become his perfect dog.”

Spartacus’s eyes twitched—not in hurt, but irritation.

With a low grunt, aura surged through him like a volcano cracking open. Power bled from his body in visible ripples.

Before Nathan could react, Spartacus crushed the ground beneath his heel and launched himself forward like a cannonball, fist drawn back.

When he punched, the air screamed.

A concussive boom followed, as if the very sky protested the force of his strike.

Nathan simply raised a hand.

And caught it.

BADOOM!!

Another shockwave, larger and fiercer than the first, rolled outward. The Arena tremored from the impact. People gasped. Some were even blown backwards by the pressure.

It was one punch.

One punch that sounded like the roar of a war drum.

And yet—

Nathan held it with one hand. Effortlessly.

Dust spiraled around his feet as he grinned, teeth glinting like a wolf staring down its prey.

“My turn,” he said softly.

His fist withdrew slowly at first—then vanished forward like a bolt of white lightning.

Spartacus’s instincts screamed at him.

He didn’t try to evade. He didn’t dare. The only decision his warrior senses allowed him—defend, or break.

He crossed his arms, bracing.

BADAAAAM!!

CRAAAAACK!

“Nn—GUU!” Spartacus grunted, teeth clenching so hard a vein bulged at his temple.

Pain exploded through his left arm.

Not surface pain—bone-deep agony.

He felt it clearly.

His reinforced bones… had cracked.

For the first time, disbelief flickered in his eyes.

Nathan’s punch hadn’t only struck him.

It had broken through a body forged in endless war and blood.

Understanding immediately that resisting further would shatter his arm completely, Spartacus released the struggle and let the force carry him. His body shot backward, boots digging twin trenches into the sand as he skidded tens of meters before slowing to a stop.

Silence, once again.

Spartacus lifted his head—dust on his face, hair wild, breath steaming from his lips. And then, inexplicably…

He smirked.

That single, devastating exchange had told him everything.

This man was strong.Frighteningly, monstrously strong.

And instead of fear—Spartacus felt exhilaration.

The kind that made his blood feel molten.

The kind that warriors dreamed of feeling.

After years of slaughter, after an eternity of fighting beneath cheering crowds but never finding an equal…

Perhaps—just perhaps—he had finally found someone worth dying against.

The clash resumed without countdown, without announcement—pure instinct dragging them back into violence.

This time, their fists met before their feet even settled.

BADOOM!

Air detonated between their knuckles, not merely pushed—compressed, bursting outward in rippling pressure waves that rolled across the arena like the beating of a colossal drum.

The crowd exploded with it.

Screams, cheers, and chants merged into a single overwhelming roar that shook stone foundations.

Spartacus struck again.

Nathan met the blow.

Another detonation.

BADOOM! BADOOM! BOOM!

Their fists collided like battering rams forged from iron and thunder. Each strike sent tremors through the sand, cracking web-like fractures across the arena floor. The air itself quivered violently, warping with each exchange as if reality around them was struggling to contain the force of their duel.

Yet the two men could not have been more different.

Spartacus fought like a storm—wild, fierce, with fury tightening every muscle of his body. He never wasted movement, but none of his attacks were gentle. Every punch was thrown with the intent to crush bone. His breathing was sharp, controlled. His expression grim. Battle was not a thrill for him—it was serious. It was duty, survival, war.

Nathan, on the other hand…

Nathan smiled.

Casual. Unbothered. Almost amused.

He tilted his head to dodge a hook that ripped the air just beside his ear. The force behind the missed punch carved a visible gust-trail through the dust cloud.

Spartacus followed with a crushing elbow—

Nathan swayed sideways, letting it slide past, before redirecting it with a light tap of his palm.

A parry. Easy. Insultingly easy.

He retaliated with a jab—not even fully committing—yet it punched through the air with enough force to roar like thunder.

BADOOM!

Spartacus crossed his arms and slid meters back from the impact, boots carving again into the arena dirt.

“Is that all?” Nathan asked with a lopsided grin, cracking his neck. “I thought the Ghost of the Colosseum would hit harder.”

The crowd went hysterical.

Spartacus didn’t answer.

He exploded forward.

Blow after blow after blow—no pause, no mercy, no hesitation.

A right hook. Nathan ducked, sand scattering behind him.

A knee strike. Nathan stepped aside, brushing it away with a palm.

A downward hammer fist. Nathan caught the wrist and twisted, redirecting the force into the ground—splintering stone in a crater beneath them.

BOOOM—!!!

Chunks of rock launched into the air.

Even then, Nathan was still smiling.

It wasn’t arrogance. It wasn’t mockery.

It was the pure, maddening confidence of someone who already knew the difference between them.

The arena saw it too.

Gasps rippled through the masses.

Some cheered because of the spectacle.

Others cheered because they realized—they were witnessing a man overpowering a legend.

But Spartacus…

Spartacus was grinning now too.

Small. Sharp. Dangerous.

Not because he was winning—but because he had stopped being sure he could lose.

“You’re enjoying this,” Spartacus said for the first time, voice low, breath steaming.

“What gave it away?” Nathan replied lightly, dodging another swing without even looking fully at the fist.

The clash resumed.

BOOM!

BADAAM!

BOOM!

Each strike louder than the last. The air trembled continuously now, humming like a live current around them. Their movements were so ferocious that wind currents spiraled around their battlefield, tugging at banners, snapping flags, even forcing spectators to brace themselves.

Nathan’s strength showed in how wasteful he wasn’t.

He moved like water—no stiffness, no strain, no visible exertion. Perfect economy of motion. Power delivered with ease, recalled with ease, stored and released like breathing.

Spartacus moved like a war machine operating at full output.

Heavy. Unyielding. Fearless.

But heavier every passing second.

They didn’t speak again. They didn’t need to.

Their fists spoke louder than words ever could.

Then, in the middle of the chaos—

Spartacus’s eyes flicked, just once, past Nathan’s shoulder.

There.

Behind him.

Driven into the earth, waiting.

His swords.

Decision made in a single heartbeat.

He shot backward, dragging distance between them for the first time, propelling himself with enough force to birth a shockwave behind his heels.

The crowd gasped—the type of gasp that told a story was about to change.

He ran.

Fast.

Faster than before.

A blur of dust and muscle and intent, barreling toward the weapons embedded in the arena floor.

Nathan didn’t chase.

He simply waited, smile never fading.

“Finally,” he murmured. “There he is.”

With a hand outstretched, Spartacus seized both gladius hilts, ripping them free in a violent roar of grinding steel and torn stone.

The crowd ERUPTED.

And with the weight of steel back in his grasp, Spartacus vanished—

No.

Not vanished.

He accelerated beyond visibility.

A trailing blur, distorted air, a shock cone screaming behind him as he crossed the arena in a fraction of a breath.

Nathan exhaled through a smirk.

A flick of his wrist.

Golden light blazed.

The sword of Alexander the Great materialized in his hand not like a weapon being drawn…but like a king reclaiming his crown.

Spartacus arrived like death in motion.

Twin gladius blades came down in a perfected cross-strike, fast enough to split light, heavy enough to split mountains.

Nathan met them.

One swing. One unstoppable arc of gold.

Steel met legend.

KRAAAAAA—DOOOOOOM!!!

The explosion of sparks swallowed the arena in white fire.

Not sparks like metal meeting metal—sparks like stars being born and dying in a single heartbeat.

Golden light and red steel clashed in a bloom of power so colossal that the shockwave became visible—an expanding ring of devastation tearing outward, flattening dust, cracking stone, screaming through the air like a warhorn drawn from the lungs of gods.

Crowds screamed.

Some in terror.

Most in exhilaration.

All in awe.

The ground thundered. The sky seemed to pause.

And within the center of that radiant, cataclysmic collision…

Two warriors smiled.

One because he had finally found a challenge.

The other… because he already knew who would win.

The arena had stopped being a battleground.

It had become a stage.

And history was watching.

Rome was watching this historical fight.