I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

The Colosseum of Rome, once the heart of an empire built upon blood, glory, and spectacle, stood hauntingly majestic beneath the dying light of evening. Its ancient stone—cracked by time, scarred by war, and stained by a thousand battles—seemed to breathe with a life of its own, as though remembering every cry, every victory, every death that had ever echoed inside its walls.

Tonight, the great arena quivered with anticipation.

It was the night of the final battle of the grand gladiatorial tournament—an event whispered about for years, a clash prophesied by the masses, destined to carve itself into legend.

A storm of sand drifted lazily across the blood-worn ground. The coliseum’s torches flared violently, their flames dancing like restless spirits witnessing history unfold. The stands were deafening, a tidal wave of roars and chants cascading down like a physical force.

And at the heart of it all stood the two calamities of the age.

Septimius.

Spartacus.

Neither man was merely a warrior—both were mythology reborn in flesh and blood. Their bodies were forged in battle, their wills sharpened by war, their very presence bending the air with a pressure that lesser fighters would crumble beneath.

Only moments ago, they had fought with bare fists alone, a brutal and balletic exchange of raw overwhelming power. Their blows had torn craters into stone, cracked the arena floor, and sent detonations of force rippling through the stadium like thunder. When fists collided, the impact behaved like siege weaponry—shockwaves splitting dust skies, destroying rock, deafening the audience.

But the warm-up had ended.

Now—the real fight began.

Steel was drawn.

Spartacus exhaled a breath heavy with thrill and carnage, raising dual gladius swords, their edges glinting like streaks of silver lightning. Across from him, Nathan stood calm, silent, a statue carved from snowfall and resolve. In his hands burned the Golden Sword of Alexander, radiant and regal, a blade of kings and conquerors, shimmering with ancient dominance.

One swing from any of these weapons meant death.

No second chances. No tolerance for mistakes.

Spartacus launched first.

His gladii descended like twin meteors.

WHAAAAM—!

Nathan intercepted. The golden blade clashed against silver in a burst of sparks that erupted like a newborn star. The force of the deflected impact alone carved jagged scars deep into the sandy ground, sending grains erupting in violent plumes like a desert storm.

Spartacus’ grin widened—feral, exhilarated, alive.

He lunged again, unleashing a storm—no, a tempest—of sword strikes.

“HAGH! HAAAAH!!” he roared, each swing another explosion of martial supremacy.

Shockwaves rolled outward with every attack. The air screamed. The ground trembled. The audience could feel the vibration in their bones. Yet Nathan moved with an unreadable calm—parrying, sidestepping, retreating only where absolutely necessary—each motion economical, deliberate, almost artistic.

“Aren’t you going to fight back?!” Spartacus bellowed between strikes.

Nathan’s lips curled—not a smile, not a smirk, but the ghost of both.

He inhaled once.

Then he struck.

A single parry.

A single redirection of force.

But his strength… was not human.

KRAK—!

Spartacus’ arm jolted violently. His fingers almost betrayed him. His sword nearly fell. Only instinct—raw, honed, brutal instinct—saved him as Nathan’s blade blurred toward him.

At the final instant, Spartacus twisted, raising his second sword defensively.

BA—DOOOOOOM!!!

The collision detonated like a battering ram forged by gods.

The arena exploded in dust and scattered rock. Spartacus was blasted backward, boots carving twin trenches into the ground as he slid meters upon meters before managing to stop himself.

“Ughh—!” he growled, chest vibrating from the recoil.

His sword arm shook uncontrollably.

His fingers twitched.

His breath swirled in uneven puffs.

It wasn’t fear.

It was unfiltered awe.

Slowly, Spartacus lowered his gaze to his hand, still tingling as if lightning had kissed his bones. His eyes widened—not in terror, but revelation.

And then…

He laughed.

A real, genuine, warrior’s laugh.

A grin split across his face so wide it seemed carved by madness and exhilaration alike.

Perfect.

This was perfect.

He tightened his grip again.

Suddenly—

A golden aura exploded around his body like a second sun igniting. His hair defied gravity, lifting violently as invisible force spiraled around him. The very earth beneath his boots began to quake, fractures spreading outward like spiderwebs beneath an awakening colossus.

This was no longer a man.

This was a war myth resurrected.

Then he stepped forward.

And vanished.

Not in illusion—

but speed exceeding perception.

B A D O O O M!!!

The instant he moved, a shockwave erupted behind him like the ignition of a meteor. The audience couldn’t track him. The dust itself lagged behind him.

But Nathan did not move.

He did not retreat.

He did not dodge.

He swung.

Their blades met in the center of a world that felt frozen in time.

Nathan’s white hair blasted backward violently, whipped by the collision of titanic force. Behind him, an explosive wake of destruction rippled outward, carving the world behind like a tidal wave of annihilation.

Golden sword met twin blazing blades.

King against legend.

Silence hung for a breath.

Then—

“I have a request,” Spartacus said.

Nathan’s crimson eyes thinned, sharp and unreadable—like twin blades catching the last glow of dying sunlight. There was no mercy in them, only the stillness of someone who had weighed the world on a scale and already found it wanting.

Spartacus, breathing heavily, voice rough like scraped iron, asked the question that betrayed more desperation than any wound ever could.

“Curia… can you save her?”

Nathan blinked once, the name hanging in the heated air between them like foreign currency he could not yet place.

“Curia…” he repeated, mirroring Spartacus’s strike with a swing of his own, “I wonder who she is.”

Their swords met.

B A D O O O M—!!

The sound was cataclysmic. Stone cracked. Dust burst skyward. The arena seemed to flinch under the force.

Spartacus staggered. A choked growl forced past clenched teeth.

Nathan had shifted—quietly, invisibly—raising his output. No longer just technique. Now, raw magical reinforcementburned behind every blow.

“A slave girl…” Spartacus gasped, veins bulging along his arms, fury and anguish coiling in his voice. “Octavius took her. If I don’t kill you, he kills her. I already told you.”

Nathan vanished.

No wind-up. No warning. No wasted motion.

The sand beneath Spartacus exploded upward a heartbeat later.

When he registered movement again, Nathan was already beside him, foot coiled and driven like a battering ram.

B A D A M—!!

“N—NGH!!”

Spartacus was launched across the width of the coliseum, skipping violently across the arena floor like a broken boulder hurled by gods, carving a trench of destruction until his back slammed into the far wall with a detonation of cracked stone.

Nathan was already there.

Before Spartacus could even inhale, a fist tore toward him—

—but Spartacus caught it.

The shockwave alone buckled the ground beneath their feet.

Sand spiraled outward in a concussive ring.

Nathan leaned into the collision, eyes burning brighter.

“I already offered you a deal, Spartacus.” His voice was low. Firm. Absolute. “If you had accepted, none of this would be happening. I would have ensured that your precious Curia lived in safety. Untouched. Unharmed.”

Spartacus’s boots slid across stone as he forced himself upright, trembling arm against Nathan’s unmoving fist, teeth grinding like millstones.

“…I know.”

Nathan’s gaze sharpened.

“Then you understand your mistake?”

Spartacus snapped.

“I KNOW!!”

The words exploded from him with another surge of force—raw, uncontrolled, almost anguished power. The air distorted around him. His aura flared brighter, unstable, nearing combustion.

Nathan hopped back several meters, landing gracefully, watching the rising storm with quiet analytical eyes.

“You already sound defeated,” Nathan said coolly. “If you’ve been reduced to pleading, then you’ve already abandoned this battle.”

Spartacus exhaled, rising taller despite the tremor in his limbs.

“I know my limits.”

He stomped the earth—

The arena ruptured outward.

Then he launched himself like a siege projectile—no finesse, no restraint, pure unstoppable momentum—like a raging war bull with a man’s fury and a god’s wrath behind it.

Nathan inhaled softly, blade glowing with celestial red.

The Light of Amun-Ra.

The sword came down.

B A D O O O O M—!!

A tidal wave of heat, light, and devastation surged outward—blinding, dictatorial in power.

And yet—

Spartacus ignored it.

He roared through the inferno, pushing forward through force that would have atomized lesser warriors, barreling forward like fate itself refused to stop him.

His hand shot toward Nathan’s face—

—but Nathan caught it mid-air.

Their locked hands trembled in place. Sparks of aura flickered like caged lightning between their palms.

Spartacus snarled, forcing more power, pouring everything, body and soul, into a push that would not budge a single finger.

He was immovable force.

Nathan was immovable reality.

“Curia is safe.”

The words landed sharper than any blade.

Spartacus froze.

His pupils dilated, breath halting as if seized by invisible hands.

Nathan continued, calm, definite, almost gentle in contrast to the brutality seconds before.

“She is under my protection. Being treated. Sheltered. Octavius cannot reach her anymore.”

Spartacus’s lips parted, voice fracturing.

“W… what…?”

Nathan released him—with a smile.

Then planted a clean punch directly across Spartacus’s jaw.

It sent him skidding once more, though this time, Spartacus twisted mid-slide, boots grinding the stone until he stopped himself—less broken, more bewildered.

He looked up, eyes stormy but shaken, searching for dishonesty.

“You… you’re telling the truth…?”

Nathan sheathed nothing—not emotion, not intent.

“I have no reason to lie about this.”

He lifted one hand, palm open, the battlefield suddenly feeling far smaller than their conversation.

“So now you are free. No threats. No leverage. No invisible chains.” His tone dropped, iron-clad and absolute.

“What will you do now, Spartacus?”

Spartacus faltered.

For the first time in this coliseum soaked with blood and legend…

he looked lost.

“I… I…”

Nathan’s voice slipped low, silken, dangerous—like a serpent offering revelation in darkness.

He leaned in, close enough that Spartacus felt his breath like winter on his skin.

“Octavius… is right up there.”

His gaze flicked upward.

To the highest balcony.

To velvet, power, and entitlement.

Where Octavius sat beside Julius Caesar, wine in hand, garlands on head, utterly entertained.

Completely unaware that the animal he thought collared had just been given freedom.

“You have the power and freedom to kill him now, Spartacus.” Nathan’s voice was smooth, low, dangerous in the way calm waters hid sinking depths. “He murdered your wife in the cruelest way imaginable… didn’t he?”

Something snapped.

A vein trembled at Spartacus’s temple.

His pupils shrank, drowning in crimson.

Nathan did not stop.

“And how many of your people died under his orders? How many lives crushed beneath his amusement?”

The air itself changed.

It grew heavier.

Darker.

Angrier.

Magic flared around Spartacus like a wildfire finally given permission to spread. The ground beneath him splintered in jagged cracks, dust trembling before rising off the earth entirely. Every breath he exhaled shimmered like smoke off molten steel.

Curia was safe.

Curia was alive.

Then what was left to fear?

Not pain.

Not consequence.

Not death.

Not anymore.

A thunderous silence fell over the arena—as if the entire empire collectively held its breath—when Spartacus turned.

He crouched.

Muscles expanded. Tendons hardened like siege cables, coiled to breaking point. The ground beneath him cratered inward.

Then—

BADAM!

The detonation hurled sand outward like a desert storm. Spartacus launched himself skyward, ascending like a burning comet, a blood-thirsted embodiment of divine vengeance rocketing straight toward the Imperial VIP balcony.

Gasps exploded throughout the coliseum.

Caesar dropped his goblet.

Wine splashed like spilled blood across marble.

Octavius staggered back, face drained of all color.

“PROTECT THE EMPEROR!” soldiers screamed, but their bodies moved in slow motion compared to the falling titan above.

It would have been a slaughter.

But then—

Nathan appeared.

Not moving.

Not running.

Not traveling.

He was simply there.

One moment Spartacus’ fist was inches from turning emperors into ruin.

The next—Nathan caught it in his palm.

No explosion.

No shockwave.

No recoil.

Total negation.

The collision of humanity’s greatest fury and an immovable god ended in absolute silence.

Spartacus blinked.

Caesar blinked.

Octavius blinked.

…Why did he stop him?

Nathan turned slightly—just enough for the shadows to shape his smirk—and met Caesar’s stunned gaze.

“It seems…” he said softly, sweet as poison, “your time has finally come.”

Caesar’s face darkened violently, veins bulging along his neck, fists clenching tight enough to bruise his own palms.

Without ceremony, Nathan dropped back toward the arena floor, dragging Spartacus with him like a falling star in reverse.

B A D O O O M!!!

They hit the ground, sand and stone erupting in all directions.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” Spartacus barked, whipping toward him, baffled and enraged. “You pushed me toward this! You told me to strike! And now you stop me?!”

Nathan exhaled slowly.

“Patience.”

He marched past him with maddening calm.

“A leap like that… you would have killed every innocent inside that balcony as well.”

A truth.

Not the full truth.

After all, there was only one soul in that privileged nest of vipers that mattered enough for Nathan to preserve.

Julia.

Untainted by her father’s rot.

Ignorant of the empire’s sins.

A flame he refused to let be snuffed out by someone else’s vengeance.

And besides—

A martyr was loud.

But a monster unleashed was louder.

Above them, the very air changed again.

Marble groaned.

Threads of power converged like currents gathering around a storm.

On the imperial balcony, Caesar rose.

Slowly.

Regally.

Terrifyingly still.

His white-and-gold toga fluttered behind him like war banners in silent wind. In his hands, he held three ornate keys—ancient, golden, engraved with forgotten Roman scripture. The moment they left their hidden holster, they began to glow with a blinding, sacred radiance.

Octavius stepped beside him, breath unsteady—not from fear, but awe.

“Emperor…” he whispered. “So… we do it now?”

Caesar did not hesitate.

“Yes.”

No theatrics.

No doubt.

No hesitation.

Septimius had pushed him too far already.

The three keys ignited like newborn suns in his grasp.

“Summoning of the Beasts of Rome.”

The coliseum walls began to vibrate. Ancient runes hidden in stone awakened one by one like eyes opening in the dark. Winds howled upward, spiraling toward the balcony like invisible serpents bowing to royalty.

Caesar raised the keys high.

His voice rang like decree, prophecy, and verdict all in one.

“Come forth…”

The ground answered.

“Romulus.”

“Remus.”