I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Chapter 459: Spartacus vs Benjamin!

”Spartacus!!”

”OHHH!!”

”It’s him—it’s really Spartacus!”

The roar of the crowd shook the very foundations of the coliseum as the name echoed through marble columns and blood-soaked sands alike. The moment the towering figure stepped onto the field, a wave of energy coursed through the arena. Spectators from all levels—nobles, soldiers, commoners, even priests—rose in unison, erupting into thunderous applause. The very air seemed to vibrate with reverence.

To the uninitiated, it might have seemed like overkill. But to those who knew—especially those from Rome—this was no ordinary warrior. This was Spartacus. The name alone was legend. The man? Even more so.

Nathan remained seated, his gaze fixed with narrowed focus as he watched the figure approach. His body tensed, not out of fear, but anticipation.

There he stood, the living myth—Spartacus—clad in minimal garb befitting a gladiator of his stature. His chest was bare, revealing a hardened torso sculpted by years of brutal combat. A thick leather belt crossed his waist, with minimal armor covering his shoulders and forearms. Dust clung to his skin, glinting in the sunlight. He held in his calloused hands two gladius swords, their blades nicked and scarred from countless battles.

His hair—shoulder-length and sun-kissed light brown—danced faintly in the breeze. His eyes were piercing: cool, focused, with a fierce glint, as though forged by hardship and sharpened by rage. He radiated presence, not from vanity or theatrics, but from pure, undiluted strength.

Nathan’s gaze lingered longer than most.

Yes—he could feel it.

Spartacus was powerful.

More than the others watching him, Nathan knew what that meant. He had met warriors. Fought beside gods. Faced monsters. But this... this was different.

There was a gravity around him. A weight to his soul.

Nathan recalled the stories he’d heard his time at Rome of a might gladiator.

On Earth, Spartacus was a symbol of resistance, of defiance against overwhelming power.

A slave who led a rebellion that shook the foundations of Roman pride.

Was this truly the same man?

Regardless of his origin, one thing was clear—Spartacus was no ordinary man.

He was the face of the tournament’s grand opening, chosen not by chance but by destiny. Some claimed he had the blood of the gods coursing through his veins—some said even that of Jupiter himself. Though there was no confirmation, Nathan wouldn’t be surprised. In fact, if Spartacus turned out to be a Demigod, it would only explain the chilling pressure he exuded.

He hadn’t sensed such raw, primal energy since the Trojan War. The only ones who came close were Heracles and Hector—true warriors whose every step commanded the battlefield. That same fire danced now within Spartacus.

Nathan smiled faintly.

A true warrior.

Across the battlefield, Spartacus and Benjamin locked eyes.

This wouldn’t be a duel to the death—at least not yet. The opening match was meant to excite the crowd, a show of strength rather than slaughter. But the tension in the air suggested otherwise.

There would be blood.

Suddenly, the silence was broken. A Roman soldier in ornate armor stepped forward near the edge of the field, raising a massive bronze horn to his lips. He blew with force, unleashing a deep, resounding blast that signaled the start of the match.

Without hesitation, Benjamin vanished from sight in a blur of speed.

Nathan’s eyes sharpened as he followed the motion. In Benjamin’s hand gleamed a lance—but not just any spear. The dark metallic shaft pulsed with unnatural energy. Shadows clung to it, and a blackish-purple glow danced along its edge like smoke from a cursed forge.

A weapon of a corrupted god.

Much like Paris’s sword.

As Benjamin closed the distance, he swung the lance downward with murderous intent.

Spartacus reacted instantly.

With the practiced precision of a warrior born from war itself, he crossed his twin blades, catching the lance between them. A massive shockwave erupted from the impact, sending a cloud of dust outward in all directions.

The force of the blow pushed Spartacus backward, his feet carving twin trails through the sand as he skidded several meters. But he didn’t stumble.

He didn’t fall.

His knees bent. His muscles tensed. His eyes never wavered.

He stopped.

Then slowly... he stood tall once more.

Still gripping both swords.

Still burning with the fury of a man who would not kneel.

Nathan’s lips parted slightly.

Now it begins.

The crowd, stunned for a moment by the explosion of force, suddenly burst into cheers once more. The gods above watched with sharpened eyes.

Spartacus stood his ground, blades steady, breath even despite the impact. Dust swirled around him, curling in serpentine spirals before falling back to the bloodstained arena floor. The clash had shaken the spectators, but for the two warriors facing each other, it had only marked the beginning.

Benjamin, eyes glowing faintly with that ominous hue, rushed forward again—silent, swift, unrelenting.

The arena trembled under the violence that followed.

Their weapons became blurs of motion. Steel shrieked against steel as they clashed with inhuman ferocity. Spartacus moved with the grace and experience of a veteran—each strike purposeful, each block efficient, forged in countless battles. But Benjamin was something else. Faster. Wilder. As though possessed. His strikes weren’t guided by technique, but by sheer instinct and raw power.

The corrupted lance howled through the air like a beast hungry for blood, leaving streaks of dark light in its wake. Every time it connected with Spartacus’s blades, sparks flew like stars being born in the forge of war.

The audience, once wild with excitement, grew tense. Chants faltered. Murmurs filled the air as they watched Spartacus—the undefeated legend—being driven to his limits by a warrior none truly knew.

Finally, with a roar, Spartacus kicked Benjamin back and pointed one of his swords at him. His chest rose and fell, not from exhaustion, but from contained fury.

”You wield a strange weapon... and an even stranger power,” Spartacus said, his voice suddenly booming across the arena like thunder from the gods. It carried weight—like a command, like a judgment.

But Benjamin didn’t respond.

His glowing eyes flickered. His lips didn’t move. His chest rose with breath, but not recognition. He tilted his head slightly—like a dog hearing a language it couldn’t understand.

Nathan’s eyes narrowed.

He doesn’t even understand him.

Something was wrong—deeply wrong.

Nathan had fought men corrupted before. He had seen Paris wield his twisted sword with pride, and even Agamemnon, for all his bloodlust, had managed to hold onto a semblance of reason. Their minds had been touched by divine madness, yes, but not wholly consumed.

But Benjamin...

There was nothing left behind those glowing eyes.

It wasn’t a man standing before Spartacus anymore.

It was a weapon.

A shell moved by hatred and the whisper of something ancient and cruel.

Spartacus lowered his sword slightly, almost hesitantly. Perhaps he, too, sensed it. That this was no opponent who could hear words or grasp honor.

Benjamin surged forward again, lance glowing darker than ever—like a shard of night itself. Spartacus’s expression hardened as he crossed his blades, parrying again with a grunt. Their weapons slammed together, and this time the resulting shockwave sent a crack through the very ground beneath them.

The arena began to rumble.

Debris fell from the upper levels. The sky above, once clear, seemed to darken slightly—as though the gods themselves watched with unease.

”ENOUGH!”

All heads turned.

It was Caesar.

He raised a hand.

Soldiers moved instantly, horns blowing sharp, precise notes.

A dozen guards surged forward into the arena, weapons drawn—not toward Spartacus, but toward Benjamin.

”Stand down!” one barked.

Benjamin did not flinch. He prepared to lunge again.

But Spartacus moved faster—driving a knee into Benjamin’s gut and knocking him back several paces. The corrupted warrior staggered but he raised again his face as if nothing had happened.

”Do not let him lose himself further,” Caesar commanded, his voice calm but laced with an authority that brooked no argument. ”This match is over.”

His tone carried across the arena like the final toll of a bell, silencing the tension that buzzed through the air.

Spartacus stood motionless, his broad shoulders heaving gently as he slowly lowered his sword. The steel glinted dully in the fading remnants of the conjured darkness, and for a moment, the crowd could see the internal war raging within the gladiator. He wanted more. His body craved the thrill of continued battle, of clashing steel and testing strength. His blood still roared like a tempest in his ears. But he obeyed. He had to. Not out of fear, but discipline.

Before him, Benjamin did not move. The young warrior stood still as a statue, but his eyes—those eyes—burned with pure, seething killing intent. They locked onto Spartacus with unspoken fury, the kind that promised this was far from over. His dark lance, black as a starless void, pulsed faintly in his grip, resonating with his rage. It trembled, not from fear, but from the barely contained desire to plunge itself once more into combat.

Nathan watched from the sidelines, lips slightly parted as he took in the scene. For a fleeting moment, he wondered—Would Benjamin disobey? Would he defy Caesar’s command and strike regardless?

That would have been interesting.

But no. The warrior remained still. Tense, coiled like a predator forced into patience, but still.

Then, like the shattering of an illusion, Athena raised her hand and snapped her fingers. A sharp crack echoed through the air.

Instantly, the darkened sky—brought forth by divine intervention or perhaps some ancient enchantment—rippled and then vanished like smoke. In its place, the bright blue heavens of midday poured down upon the arena, bathing the bloodied sand in golden light. The shift was almost surreal, as if waking from a shared dream.

A murmur ran through the gathered audience, swelling into a cacophony of voices. Roars of excitement. Shouts of protest. Cries for more blood. The crowd had been riveted, caught in the spell of the duel that had just been abruptly ended. They wanted more—they demanded it. But they would have to wait.

And perhaps, Nathan thought, that was the wisest choice.

If Spartacus and Benjamin clashed again later—on a grander stage, with higher stakes—it would be an encounter that shook the very foundations of the tournament. Why waste such a spectacle now, in an early round, when destiny might pit them against one another once more in a final, decisive clash?

A Roman soldier, clad in polished crimson armor, stepped forward, his voice booming over the arena with the practiced power of a trained orator. ”Warriors! Citizens of Rome and beyond! The next phase of the tournament begins now!”

The crowd quieted.

”This stage shall be a trial of survival!” the soldier continued, eyes sweeping across the ranks of participants, who waited in anticipation. ”Only the strongest shall rise. Only those who endure shall advance to the next rounds. Let the arena choose its champions!”

The gates at the far end of the coliseum began to creak open, heavy with rust and age. Dust billowed out from the darkened corridor beyond, and shadows began to stir.

”The first group,” the soldier bellowed, ”step forward! Your trial awaits!”

And with that, the tournament truly began.