I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Chapter 495: Gladiator Tournament! Second Round: Wolves Pack!

The tunnel stretched endlessly before them, its damp walls swallowing the echoes of their footsteps. The stench of blood lingered heavy in the air, metallic and suffocating, mingling with the musk of sweat and burnt torches. Dead gladiators lay sprawled across the uneven ground, their lifeless eyes staring blankly into the oppressive dark. Yet neither Nathan nor Spartacus spared them a glance. They walked with deliberate calm, as though the corpses were nothing more than discarded obstacles on a forgotten battlefield.

“You say you want to kill Octavius,” Nathan’s voice broke the silence, low but cutting. His pale eyes gleamed faintly in the dim light as he turned his head toward Spartacus. “But tell me… don’t you feel anything against me?”

Spartacus’s brow furrowed. His broad shoulders shifted uneasily as he cast Nathan a sidelong glance. “What do you mean?”

Nathan let the faintest smile tug at the corner of his lips. “You should know who I am. I work for Caesar. I’ve stood close to Octavius more times than I can count.” His tone was casual, almost taunting, as if daring Spartacus to draw his blade. “So tell me, why don’t you hate me for it? Why don’t you despise me for being part of their game?”

“You’re a mercenary,” Spartacus replied flatly, his deep voice echoing against the stone walls. “You fight for coin. That’s all. You are neither Caesar’s man nor Octavius’s dog. You sell your sword, nothing more.”

The words cut clean, without hesitation, and yet Nathan chuckled softly in response. He tilted his head, white hair brushing lightly against his cheek as his smile deepened.

“And if,” he said suddenly, “I could offer you the life of Octavius… what then?”

Spartacus stopped in his tracks. His eyes widened for the briefest heartbeat, betraying his shock before he quickly narrowed them, his face hardening like stone. His gaze bore into Nathan, searching for deceit, for the trick behind the words.

“You don’t believe me,” Nathan continued, walking a few steps ahead with unhurried ease. His voice was smooth, almost playful, but beneath it ran a dangerous current. “But you were right about one thing. I am a mercenary. My loyalty is thin as smoke in the wind. Proximity to Caesar grants me many opportunities—and I can do… anything.”

Spartacus’s jaw tightened. “Why would you betray Caesar? You stand to gain nothing from me. I have no wealth, no kingdom. Nothing you could want.”

Nathan stopped and turned toward him fully. His eyes gleamed with something sharp, something unreadable. “On the contrary,” he said softly, every syllable deliberate. “You have far more to offer than you realize.”

In truth, Spartacus had not figured in Nathan’s schemes. He was a wild card, an unplanned piece of the board. And yet, staring at the famed rebel now, Nathan saw opportunity where none had been before. Octavius was a persistent thorn in his side, a reminder of Caesar’s unyielding reach. If Caesar had lost his arms through Marcus Antonius’s death, then how nice would it be for Caesar to lose his eyes to Octavius’s death as well? Every fracture in Caesar’s world brought Nathan closer to his goal.

Spartacus studied him in silence, suspicion flickering in his gaze. It was the look of a man weighing a snake in his palm, uncertain if its bite would kill his enemies—or himself.

“Now,” Nathan said abruptly, his tone hardening. “Punch me.”

Spartacus blinked. “…What?”

“I said punch me,” Nathan repeated, his eyes steady, his voice as sharp as steel drawn in the night. “Don’t hold back.”

The silence stretched between them, heavy and tense. Spartacus hesitated, then clenched his fists. His body coiled like a predator ready to strike, muscles tightening as a faint, almost palpable aura rippled around him. For a moment Nathan’s mind flickered with recognition—there was something in Spartacus’s raw presence, his sheer strength, that reminded him of Heracles himself.

Then the blow came.

The tunnel shook as Spartacus’s fist tore through the air and collided with Nathan’s guard. Pain erupted up Nathan’s arm, but he did not resist. He let the force hurl him backward, his body a ragdoll cast violently down the passage. He crashed against the hard stone, the impact rattling through his bones. He did not slow himself—he had wanted it this way.

Caesar’s unseen eyes were always watching. Better to feed suspicion with an illusion than to invite true doubt.

Groaning softly, Nathan rose and patted the dust from his arm, his lips twitching faintly. But before he could say another word, a guttural growl rolled through the tunnel behind him.

His head snapped toward the sound. From the shadows emerged a beast—massive, its fur black as the void, its eyes glinting with predatory hunger. A wolf, three meters tall, its body rippling with sinew and raw menace. And it was not alone.

The darkness stirred. More shapes crawled forward, their claws scraping against the stone. A dozen wolves at least, each one as monstrous as the first, their snarls weaving into a dreadful chorus.

All around, the tunnel came alive with chaos. Screams of gladiators echoed, high and desperate, as men were dragged into the shadows, their cries cut short by tearing flesh. Others fought with savage determination, steel clashing against beastly jaws, the clash of survival against inevitable death.

Nathan stayed calm as the wolves encircled them.

“After spiders… now wolves. They really do underestimate us, don’t you think, Septimius?”

The voice was smooth, almost amused. Nathan’s ear caught the familiar tone even before the footsteps reached him. Out of the drifting haze of battle, Ethan emerged with the casual air of someone walking through a garden rather than a blood-soaked tunnel.

His body was untouched—unmarred by a single scar. Not a tear in his garments, not a wound upon his skin, though blood stained his hands and cloak. For any other man, this contradiction would have been impossible. But Ethan was no ordinary man. Like Nathan, he was both Hero and Demigod, one of the few who could tread through carnage and emerge pristine.

Nathan turned, his pale features hardening into ice. His crimson gaze lingered on Ethan, calculating, appraising.

“Why are you still in this tournament?” he asked coldly.

Ethan’s lips curved into a half-smile. “What do you think?”

Nathan’s expression did not change, but his words cut sharp and direct. “Pandora.”

A flicker of acknowledgment crossed Ethan’s face. He chuckled lightly, tilting his head as though impressed. “As expected. You are quick to grasp it. Yes, Pandora is the key. I cannot—will not—let her fall into Aaron’s hands. That’s why I entered. To reach her before he does.”

“Forget that idea,” Nathan said, voice flat, as if delivering a death sentence. “I will be the one taking hold of her.”

For Nathan, Pandora was too dangerous, too unpredictable. Trusting anyone else to handle her would be foolishness. He had seen enough to know that only he could bear the weight of such a risk. He would trust himself—and no one else. Mercy was a luxury he had no intention of showing to those who barred his path.

“You’d better stay away if you want to live,” he added, his voice low and frigid.

Even as the words left his mouth, a wolf lunged from the shadows, jaws snapping toward him. Nathan shifted with inhuman grace, leaping aside, his golden sword flashing like sunlight in the darkness. In one fluid motion, he brought the blade down. Steel met flesh, and the wolf’s massive body split open with a wet spray, its lifeless bulk collapsing to the ground.

Ethan only chuckled again, stepping lightly backward as if the chaos amused him. With a casual swing, he unsheathed his own sword and decapitated another wolf in a single strike, its head rolling across the dirt floor.

“Is that a threat, Nathan?” Ethan’s smile widened. “You and I both know we’ll survive this round. But eventually…” His voice grew quieter, more deliberate, as another wolf snapped toward him. He skewered it mid-air, its yelp dying on his blade. “…eventually we’ll face each other. One on one. And when that happens, every eye will be upon us. A fight like that will draw suspicion. Attention neither of us can afford. Both our plans, our goals… they’ll crumble.”

Nathan’s eyes narrowed. Without a word, he vanished—blurring into nothingness—and reappeared in front of Ethan in less than a heartbeat. His golden sword was poised, its cold edge pressed against the hollow of Ethan’s throat.

But Ethan had not been caught unprepared. His own blade was already thrust forward, the tip hovering against Nathan’s chest, so close the fabric strained against its sharpness.

The air between them thickened. Both knew the truth: if Nathan pressed forward, Ethan would die. But if Ethan’s blade slid deeper, Nathan’s heart would be pierced. It was a perfect stalemate, a tableau of mutual destruction.

A long silence stretched. Ethan broke it with his ever-present smirk. “We’ve put ourselves in quite the situation, haven’t we?”

Neither of them moved, though both understood: neither intended to kill the other.

“I will take care of Pandora,” Nathan said, his voice ironclad. His crimson eyes darkened, a flicker of gold searing through them, the faint glow of his true demonic gaze surfacing for just a moment. The cold light made Ethan’s smile falter, though only slightly.

Ethan stared back at him, searching, weighing. Then, slowly, he lifted his free hand in mock surrender. “Very well.”

Nathan eased his blade back, but only just. With a sharp twist of his heel, he spun and let his sword sing through the air. In one seamless motion, he cleaved through the massive jaw of a wolf that had crept upon him, its fangs snapping inches from his throat. The beast’s lower jaw flew loose, its body collapsing in a pool of blackened blood.

The clash rang out like thunder, and in its wake came the gasps.

Gladiators still locked in desperate struggle froze for a moment to stare. Eyes wide, mouths agape, their disbelief was palpable.

“N–no way…” one whispered, barely able to breathe.

“Is that… the power of Septimius?” another muttered, awe-stricken, his weapon trembling in his hands.

Around them, the wolves howled, the gladiators fought, and the tunnel drowned in chaos. Yet amidst it all, Nathan stood like an unshakable pillar, his golden blade dripping with death, his crimson gaze burning through the storm.