I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Chapter 498: Gladiator Tournament: Second Round: Giant Fire Wolf!

Nathan lifted his gaze slowly, his breath catching in his throat.

Towering before him was a monstrous wolf, its entire body engulfed in crimson flames that danced and twisted like a living inferno. Each flicker of fire illuminated its massive frame, casting warped shadows across the arena walls. The creature’s pelt glowed as though it had been forged from molten steel, and its very presence radiated heat so intense that the sand beneath its paws sizzled and blackened.

Nathan’s eyes narrowed into sharp slits. This was no ordinary beast. Even the most hardened gladiators would consider such a monster an impossible challenge.

Was this Caesar’s doing? A deliberate twist, an escalation after witnessing warriors like Spartacus and himself dominate the pit? Perhaps the Emperor had grown dissatisfied with mere bloodshed and now sought spectacle of a far crueler scale. Whatever the reason, this was no test of skill—it was a deliberate execution wrapped in the guise of entertainment.

Around him, the other gladiators faltered. Their weapons rattled in trembling hands, the metal clanging softly in the oppressive silence. Faces once hardened by battle now paled at the sight of the flaming predator.

“Are you kidding us…?” someone whispered hoarsely.

“Hah… there’s no way we can beat that…” another muttered, despair heavy in his tone.

The sense of defeat was spreading like poison before the battle had even begun.

The wolf lowered its head, fiery eyes gleaming with ravenous hunger. It regarded them not as opponents, but as prey to be devoured. Drool spilled from its jaws only to ignite the instant it touched the air, turning into sizzling sparks that hissed before vanishing into smoke. Its fangs, jagged and gleaming like enormous blades, seemed fit to rip through stone or steel as though they were parchment. When it exhaled, a deep guttural growl rolled forth—each breath carrying embers and licks of flame that scorched the ground in front of it.

“This is cruel, Caesar,” the Pope finally spoke, his voice edged with disapproval. His brows furrowed deeply as he glanced at the Emperor seated with calm authority. “Athena entrusted you with her demand—to find worthy gladiators for her tournament. But what use will it be if they are all slain here before her eyes?”

Caesar only reclined against his seat, a faint smile tugging at his lips. His expression was unreadable, yet his words dripped with cold conviction. “If the Goddess truly desires the best,” he said, “then surely the gladiator who survives this trial is worthy. Would she be pleased with less?”

The Pope had no answer, though his frown lingered. His gaze flickered upward, to Athena herself seated above. Even the Goddess seemed unsettled—her posture stiff, her eyes betraying a rare trace of concern.

Behind Caesar, Julia sat frozen, her face pale as marble. Her eyes fixed on the monstrous wolf, but her heart was tied to Nathan standing below. Fear clawed at her throat, yet she dared not speak. She knew her father would never listen, never halt his designs for the sake of compassion.

She was not alone in her worry. Licinia and Fulvia both stared with wide, tense eyes, their worry for Nathan plain. Their hands tightened against their seats, powerless to intervene.

All attention had shifted to Nathan, who stood firm under the beast’s gaze.

Among the gladiators, reactions varied. Spartacus alone mirrored Nathan’s resolve, his stance heavy with grim determination. His jaw tightened, readying for the impossible.

Benjamin, silent and unnerving, simply stared at the wolf with an unreadable expression, though his stillness carried its own menace.

Ethan, by contrast, smiled faintly as though the sight thrilled him rather than struck fear.

And then there was Isak. His face glistened with sweat, his breathing shallow and rapid. He had fought beasts before, savage creatures in the arena, but nothing like this towering inferno. The wolf’s sheer size and unholy aura seemed to strip away his courage layer by layer. His body betrayed him—knees trembling, hands clammy, heart thundering in his chest.

“There is no way I can be scared of this—or anything!” Isak roared in his mind, forcing his trembling hands to still. His fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles whitened, as though he could crush the fear clawing at his chest through sheer defiance.

Across the sand, Spartacus adjusted his grip on his weapon. His face was carved in stone, unflinching before the infernal beast. Where others faltered, he remained steady, a pillar of resolve in the chaos. He stepped forward, every motion deliberate. Yet suddenly, his stride faltered. His eyes widened—not at the wolf, but at the man standing beside him.

Nathan.

One by one, the other gladiators turned as well. Their gazes snapped toward him, not out of choice, but compulsion. Something heavy pressed against their souls, an invisible force that made the air feel thick and suffocating. It was Nathan. He was radiating a pressure unlike anything they had ever felt before, a presence so commanding that none dared move.

The silence was absolute.

With calm precision, Nathan lifted his hand and summoned once more the golden blade—the Sword of Alexander the Great. Its brilliance shimmered like the sun breaking through storm clouds, casting rays of divine light over the darkened arena. The weapon alone carried a majesty that silenced doubt.

He stepped forward. One step. Two. Each echo rang louder than a hundred cheers. His gaze never wavered as he stared up coldly at the fiery monstrosity before him.

The crowd held its breath. The wolf’s molten eyes glared back, its lips curling into a snarl that revealed rows of blade-like fangs. Then it struck.

With a deafening roar, the beast lunged forward, its massive paw crashing down like a falling mountain.

BADOOOM!

The earth shattered. Stone and sand erupted in an explosion of fire, a towering pillar of flame rising toward the sky. The shockwave rippled through the arena, rattling the very stands. Heat washed over the spectators, and many shielded their faces from the blast.

Julia shot to her feet, her heart slamming against her ribs. “Septimius!” she gasped, panic tightening her throat. Beside her, Licinia stood as well, her trembling hand covering her mouth. The look in her eyes, raw with terror, did not escape Crassus. His gaze lingered on his daughter, and for the first time, he saw a fear in her he had never witnessed before.

The crowd’s murmurs rose in waves. Had Nathan been crushed? Burned alive?

Then—movement.

From within the storm of fire, a figure burst forth at blinding speed.

BADAAAM!

The wolf howled in agony, its head whipping back violently as something slammed into its muzzle with enough force to send the massive creature stumbling. Its body crashed against the arena walls, flames scattering like broken stars. Blood, dark and sizzling, sprayed into the air.

Gasps erupted all around as the dust cleared. Nathan landed gracefully upon the scorched earth, unscathed, his figure outlined in the lingering glow of the beast’s flames.

For a heartbeat, silence reigned.

And then the arena erupted.

Cheers thundered like a storm, echoing off every stone. Voices roared his name—Septimius!—until it became a chant that shook the very colosseum.

Julia collapsed back into her seat, breathless with relief. Beside her, Licinia and Fulvia both let out shaky sighs, their shoulders sagging as the weight of dread lifted. Nathan was alive. Not merely alive—he was untouchable.

Nathan lifted his sword, pointing it directly at the beast that now glared at him with blazing hatred. His eyes locked with the wolf’s, unwavering, sharp as steel. A smirk curved his lips.

He should thank Caesar, he thought, for presenting him with such a perfect opportunity. An arena full of witnesses, the gaze of gods, the attention of Rome itself. Here, he could etch his name into legend—without revealing the depths of his true self. This wolf was powerful, yes, but it was not enough to force him into exposing his true identity. He could handle it.

Nathan tightened his grip on the hilt. His veins thrummed with anticipation as he summoned the weapon’s hidden might.

The sword of Alexander the Great. The divine blade bestowed upon him by Ra himself.

BADOOOOM!

The weapon erupted. A surge of red light burst forth, engulfing Nathan in a blazing pillar of flame that stretched toward the heavens. Fire spiraled skyward, staining the night sky in shades of crimson and gold, as though a second sun had ignited above the colosseum. The crowd fell silent once more, not in fear this time, but in awe.

Nathan stood at the heart of it all, his figure wreathed in divine radiance. In that moment, he did not seem mortal. He seemed chosen.

And indeed, he was chosen.

The mortals in the arena could not grasp the truth of what they were witnessing. To them, it was a spectacle of fire and radiance, a dazzling display that stole their breath and bent their knees. They saw only glory—an otherworldly light that made Nathan seem more than human, a warrior kissed by destiny.

But the gods knew better.

From their lofty thrones, they fell into stunned silence, their immortal hearts trembling. The radiance pouring from the golden blade was no mere trick of steel or flame. It was unmistakable—the true power of the Sword.

Athena, Goddess of Wisdom and War, who so rarely allowed surprise to touch her face, now sat frozen. Her blue eyes widened in disbelief, reflecting the crimson light that stained the heavens. The mask of composure she wore so easily had shattered.

Yet it was Isis, radiant Goddess of Magic, whose shock eclipsed all others. She rose from her seat, her breath catching as her lips parted in a whisper that carried both reverence and dread.

“This… impossible…”

The other deities stirred restlessly, exchanging uneasy glances. For centuries they had spoken of that light, a memory etched in divine history. They had seen it once—only once—when Alexander the Great himself wielded the sword. In that age, he had commanded armies and empires, but even greater than his dominion over men was his awe-inspiring authority over the gods themselves. His blade had sung with power so absolute that even divinity had paused to marvel.

And now, after long decades, after generations had risen and fallen, that light blazed again before their immortal eyes.

The successor had come.

A mortal—yet not merely mortal. A chosen bearer of the sword’s true essence.

Their voices, usually commanding and eternal, faltered into silence. The flames roared, the pillar of light stretched higher, and all Rome drowned in the sight of Nathan standing at its core.