I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

“Move! Move! Clear the way! The Emperor is passing!”

The frantic shouts bounced through the narrow stone tunnels beneath the coliseum like trapped thunder. Torches flickered wildly as soldiers pushed through the passageways, shields raised, forming a living wall around Caesar and Octavius. The air reeked of dust, sweat, and the metallic tang of fear — fear that spread like a plague with every roar from the arena behind them.

Caesar marched quickly, almost breaking into a run. His imperial robes, usually symbols of absolute authority, now tangled around his legs as if protesting the retreat. He didn’t care. Dignity could be reclaimed — life could not.

He had summoned the two ancient Beasts of Rome with calculated precision, believing he could control the spectacle, believing he could control everything. But even he hadn’t expected one of them — Romulus himself — to be hurled straight into the arena like a meteor of claws and teeth.

It was too soon… far too soon. But soon or not, he had no intention of staying to watch the massacre unfold at arm’s length.

Even without seeing it, he could already imagine the carnage erupting behind him. One hundred thousand Romans packed into the coliseum, screaming, shoving, scrambling over one another as the Beast rampaged through them. Romulus… the legendary wolf. A creature of myth, hunger, and divine wrath.

He’ll be having a feast, Caesar thought. A feast he himself had indirectly prepared.

And honestly? If Romulus tore Septimius’s treacherous head off in the chaos, that would at least be some consolation.

A pity he wouldn’t witness it. The delicious sight of Septimius begging for his life — that would’ve made Caesar’s week. But no spectacle was worth risking being torn apart by a god-beast. There were limits even for emperors.

Regardless, one thing was certain to him.Nathan — that monstrous anomaly in his plans — would die in there. He had to.

And with Nathan gone, the rest of the scheme could unfold smoothly. Pandora, Athena… Aaron could handle the last. Caesar didn’t need to get his hands dirty.

“You better not mess this up,” Caesar muttered under his breath, a crooked smirk forming as he jogged toward the exit. “I’ve already done my part.”

“Emperor Caesar!” a soldier suddenly yelled, breathless and panicked.

Caesar spun around. “What is it?”

“It’s Princess Julia! She’s still inside!”

“What?” The word escaped him before he could stop it. His entire body froze, twisting backward instinctively to search for her among his escort — but her familiar figure wasn’t there. She wasn’t running beside him.

Why? Why didn’t she follow?

“Caesar, she’ll be fine,” Octavius said quickly, trying to keep him moving. “Our soldiers are still inside. They’ll help her. She isn’t the one in danger—”

“Fool, she is my daughter!” Caesar snapped, voice sharp enough to slice through armor.

“If we stop now, we die. And everything ends here,” Octavius replied, eyes hardening. He wasn’t pleading — he was stating a fact.

Caesar’s jaw clenched. His fists tightened until his knuckles turned white.Damn it. Damn Octavius for being right.

He pointed to the nearest trio of soldiers. “You three! Go back — find her and escort her out safely! Or don’t bother coming back at all!”

“Yes, Emperor!” They sprinted back toward the thunderous chaos of the arena.

“We have to move!” Octavius urged, pulling Caesar forward toward the waiting carriages outside.

But then—

“OCTAVIUS!!!”

The voice boomed through the tunnel like a war drum.

Octavius froze mid-step. His eyes widened, pupils shrinking as he slowly turned around.

There, standing several dozen meters behind them in the middle of the rushing crowd, was a familiar figure — broad, scarred, and burning with fury.

Spartacus.

He shouldn’t have been there. He couldn’t have been there. By now, the wolf should’ve crushed him, torn him apart, snapped him like a twig.

So why…?Why was he standing, alive, staring directly at Octavius?

What is he doing here? Octavius thought, cold dread sliding down his spine.

Spartacus’s glare was pure murder — a promise carved in blood and fire.

“I told you,” he growled. “I told you I would kill you one day.”

“Kill him!” Octavius barked immediately, shoving Caesar forward and sprinting away.

The soldiers rushed to intercept, but Caesar was already running, breath ragged, eyes wide with a mixture of rage and terror.

“Did that bastard Septimius send him after us?!” Caesar shouted, voice cracking as they fled.

At this point, everything concerning Nathan — his actions, his failures, his unpredictability — had twisted itself into a trauma that gnawed constantly at Caesar’s sanity.

“Prepare the carriage! Get it moving — now!” Octavius barked the order the moment they burst into the open courtyard. His face was pale, his breaths sharp and shallow. Soldiers scrambled in every direction, hitching the horses, climbing onto the coach, forming a protective ring around the Emperor and his right-hand man.

Caesar practically threw himself into the carriage. Octavius followed, slamming the door behind him just as the horses began stamping restlessly, sensing danger.

But Spartacus was already there.

He surged out from the tunnel like a beast finally unleashed, swords flashing in both hands. His roar shook the air.

“Out of my way!!”

One swing — a headless soldier collapsed.

Another — blood sprayed across the dust.

A third — armor split like paper.

He carved through Caesar’s guards as if they were reeds. Each movement was fueled by years of rage, betrayal, and the promise he made long ago. His eyes never left Octavius inside the carriage.

“YOU WILL NOT ESCAPE ME, OCTAVIUS!!!”

More soldiers threw themselves between him and the carriage, but he tore through them, step by furious step, forcing his way closer.

And then — from behind the Imperial soldiers — came screams. Bodies toppled. Blades pierced through their ranks from within.

Spartacus halted mid-stride, momentarily stunned.

From the dust, from the chaos… they emerged.

“Getting tired already, Spartacus?!” one gladiator shouted, blood staining his grin.

“Go kill that bastard! Leave these dogs to us!” another yelled, blocking a spear thrust before cutting down its wielder.

“For the Curia!”

“For freedom!”

“For all of us!”

Octavius’s dominion — the gladiators he had owned, tormented, and profited from — were now charging forward as free men. Their chains were broken, their eyes blazing with vengeance. Someone had released them… and they needed no explanation.

Spartacus felt something tighten in his throat. A weight. A promise.

If they were willing to buy him a path with their own lives, then he could not — would not — fail.

“Move! Faster!” Octavius shouted desperately inside the carriage, pounding on the wall separating him from the coachman.

The soldier on the reins snapped the whip across the horses. They bolted forward, hooves pounding violently against the earth as Spartacus resumed his charge.

He smirked — a cold, knowing smirk — and then suddenly stomped the ground.

In an instant he vanished.

A blur.

A shockwave.

A breath.

And then—

The world tilted.

The carriage jerked violently sideways as a sword flashed across the coachman’s neck, slicing it open. Blood sprayed as the man toppled off, lifeless. The horses panicked, veering sharply until the entire carriage flipped with a bone-rattling crash.

Caesar and Octavius were thrown inside like dice in a cup, groaning as the world spun around them.

Then — CRACK.

The carriage door didn’t open.

It was ripped off entirely.

Spartacus’s face appeared in the frame — blood-splattered, bruised, but terrifyingly alive. His expression was pure wrath, sharpened and refined through years of suffering.

Octavius’s heart seized.

“W…wait…”

Spartacus didn’t wait.

He grabbed Octavius by the pristine white robe — the robe of a Roman noble, a robe bought with blood — and yanked him out of the overturned carriage as easily as pulling a weed from soil.

He leapt back, dragging him, then flung him onto the ground like trash.

Octavius scrambled backward like a terrified animal, palms slipping against dirt and blood, but Spartacus was already upon him.

A sword plunged downward.

Octavius screamed as the blade pierced his leg, pinning it — and him — to the earth.

“GAAARGHHH!!!”

His scream echoed across the chaos of the courtyard, raw and pathetic.

Spartacus leaned over him, voice thunderous with hatred.

“Such a pathetic sound… over a single stab in the leg. How rich, coming from the man who did worse to true warriors — and even worse to innocent women!”

He punctuated the sentence with a brutal kick to Octavius’s mouth.

Teeth cracked. Several flew loose. Octavius spat blood, coughing, eyes filled with horror and humiliation as he looked up at the man who had finally come to collect the debt he owed.

Spartacus stood over Octavius, chest rising and falling, blood dripping from his knuckles and the edge of his sword. The field felt strangely quiet for a moment, as if the world itself held its breath.

“I told you,” Spartacus said, his voice low, steady, deadly. “I told you that you would regret everything… and that I would kill you, Octavius.”

On the ground, Octavius trembled, his leg still skewered to the earth. His lips quivered as he tried to form words.

“L… leav… me…” he stammered, barely intelligible through broken teeth and blood.

“Leave you?” Spartacus repeated, his tone dropping to a chilling whisper. “When my wife begged you… when the others begged you… did you

leave them?”

Octavius didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Shame and terror sealed his throat.

Spartacus’s expression hardened further.

“And Curia,” he added, voice cracking like frozen steel. “You even dared to touch Curia.”

A tremor ran through Octavius; he clawed uselessly at the dirt, trying to drag himself away, but his pinned leg kept him trapped like a skewered animal.

Spartacus looked at him not with anger — but with something colder.

Disgust.

“I’ve felt hatred toward you for years,” he said quietly. “Hatred… grief… rage. I blamed you for everything since the day you stole my wife, since the day you broke us.” He paused, shaking his head slowly. “But now, seeing you like this… crawling, whining… I feel nothing but pity.”

Octavius’s face twisted. Tears mixed with blood as he looked up, rage and humiliation burning behind his eyes. It was the final scrap of pride he had left.

Spartacus gave him no more time.

“Now,” he said, lifting his sword, “Curia… this is for you.”

For a heartbeat, his wife’s face flickered in his mind — the smile she used to wear before Octavius stole everything from them. Spartacus felt his own lips lift, not in hatred, but in something softer.

Then—

SPATTER.

The blade came down.

Octavius’s head separated cleanly from his body, rolling a short distance across the dirt before stopping against a shattered wheel of the overturned carriage.

Silence fell.

Spartacus exhaled slowly, letting years of torment leave his chest all at once.

Revenge — long, impossible, burning revenge — had finally been achieved.

He waited for emptiness. For the hollow pit vengeance usually leaves behind.

But instead…

He felt light.

Free.

Open to the future in a way he hadn’t been since the day his chains were first fastened.

A small smile touched his face.

But then it faded.

Something moved from the corner of his eye — someone crawling out of the wrecked carriage, shaking, covered in dust and panic.

Julius Caesar.

The Emperor dragged himself across the dirt, glaring up at Spartacus with a mixture of fury and fear.

“What a coward,” Spartacus said under his breath.

Caesar’s face twisted with indignation. “Are you going to kill me as well?!”

Spartacus studied him, then slowly shook his head.

“No.”

Caesar blinked, confused — almost insulted.

“I won’t kill you,” Spartacus continued. “Your fate isn’t mine to decide. It’s reserved for Septimius.”

Those words struck Caesar harder than any blade. His face turned crimson with rage.

“THAT piece of filth is going to die in the coliseum!” he shouted. “The Beast of Rome will tear him apart — tear all of them apart!”

Spartacus laughed — a low, mocking, bitter laugh.

“You think so?” he replied. “Right now… you should be worried about your Beast of Rome facing a monster.”

Caesar froze.

Spartacus pointed his bloodied sword directly at him.

“A monster you created, Caesar. The monster of Rome.”