I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Menelaus stepped forward, his sword gleaming in the sunlight. “Very well, Paris. Let’s see if you’re worth anything more than the words you spew.”

The battlefield grew silent as the warriors formed a rough circle, all eyes fixed on the two men who now stood as symbols of the war’s stakes. Above, the figures on Troy’s walls watched with bated breath, the tension so thick it seemed to halt time itself.

This was no longer just a fight. It was a reckoning.

At the same time, two radiant figures descended from the heavens, their divine presence visible only to a select few. The air grew heavy with the weight of their power, the faint shimmer of their ethereal forms captivating all who could behold them.

Nathan, standing amidst the unfolding chaos, could see both deities with startling clarity. Atalanta, however, could only perceive one—Artemis, her graceful form glowing softly with an otherworldly aura. Nathan’s gaze shifted between Artemis and Athena, who each seemed to embody the fierce and unyielding will of their divine domains.

Athena descended with a fluid, almost effortless motion, her presence commanding and dignified. She landed beside Menelaus, her hand resting gently yet purposefully on his shoulder.

BADAM!

A shockwave of mana erupted from Menelaus’s body, the sheer force of Athena’s blessing radiating outward like a storm unleashed. His figure surged with newfound strength, his eyes glowing faintly with an empowered determination.

Across the battlefield, Artemis bestowed her favor upon Paris, her delicate touch brimming with lethal intent. A similar surge of divine energy engulfed him, lifting his confidence to soaring heights. Her intentions were clear—she wanted Paris to triumph, to claim his prize.

Paris, gripping his sword with a renewed sense of purpose, grinned wildly. A rush of adrenaline coursed through him, making him feel invincible, unstoppable. He roared with unrestrained conviction, “I will kill you, Menelaus! Helen will be mine—forever!”

With that declaration, Paris lunged forward, his movements swift and fierce, his blade flashing in the light of the divine.

Menelaus, unshaken, scoffed at the challenge. He raised his lance with calculated precision, meeting Paris’s blade in midair.

BADAM!

The collision of their weapons unleashed a thunderous explosion, sending gusts of wind tearing across the battlefield. Dust and debris scattered as the two warriors slid back, their eyes locking in a deadly dance of strategy and resolve.

This was no ordinary battle—it was a clash between two mortals imbued with the blessings of goddesses. Each step, each strike, carried the weight of divine will and mortal ambition.

They began circling one another, the tension between them thick as a drawn bowstring. Neither dared to make a reckless move, for a single mistake could mean death.

Menelaus observed Paris’s stance with a disdainful smirk curling his lips. The Trojan prince’s form was stiff, his grip on the sword betraying inexperience. Menelaus nearly laughed aloud—Paris was no swordsman. He was an archer, out of his element.

Paris, noticing the mocking glint in Menelaus’s eyes, scowled deeply. That momentary distraction was all Menelaus needed. Seizing the opportunity, he closed the distance with a burst of speed, thrusting his lance directly toward Paris’s head.

The sharp point whistled through the air, but Paris’s reflexes, sharpened by Artemis’s blessing, saved him. He dodged at the last moment, twisting away and retaliating with a swift swing of his sword aimed at Menelaus’s chest.

Menelaus parried the strike effortlessly, the shaft of his lance deflecting the blow with a resounding clang. He countered with a powerful kick that sent Paris staggering backward.

Paris groaned as the impact numbed his arm, the force of the kick leaving it throbbing and red. He tightened his grip on his weapon, his resolve hardening despite the pain.

“Without the goddess’s blessing, you’re nothing but a pathetic fool, Paris!” Menelaus jeered, his laughter echoing cruelly across the battlefield.

Fury burned in Paris’s eyes. “Shut up! You’re not worthy of Helen!” he shouted, his voice shaking with rage.

In a blur of motion, Paris rolled to the side, evading Menelaus’s downward strike. He grabbed a nearby shield, bracing himself for the next exchange. Using the momentum of his movements, Paris surged forward, slamming the shield into Menelaus with surprising force.

Menelaus grunted in pain, sliding back several paces. He pressed a hand to his side, acknowledging the sting of the blow.

“Worthy?” Menelaus growled, his tone venomous. “I won her in a competition that all the kings of Greece took part in! I claimed her fairly, in front of the gods themselves! And you—miserable Trojan that you are—stole her away like a thief in the night. I welcomed you into my home, and you spat in my face. Your death will be anything but painless, boy!”

Menelaus’s rage boiled over, and he surged forward with relentless aggression. His lance became a blur, thrusting at Paris with blinding speed and precision, each strike aiming for a fatal blow.

Paris struggled under the relentless assault. His shield trembled with each strike, cracks spreading like spiderwebs across its surface. Menelaus’s attacks grew more ferocious, each blow heavier than the last. Paris’s arm ached from the force, and he knew it was only a matter of moments before the shield shattered entirely.

Sweat dripped down his brow as he clenched his teeth, desperation clawing at his mind. But in the chaos, a glimmer of cunning surfaced. Paris stepped back, feigning weakness, allowing himself to be driven further by Menelaus’s relentless strikes.

Menelaus, sensing victory within his grasp, pressed forward, his lance poised to deliver a decisive blow. He lunged with brutal strength, aiming to smash the shield once and for all.

But Paris was ready. At the last moment, he rolled to the ground, the gritty soil clinging to his sweat-drenched form. His hand darted out, grasping a fistful of sand. In one swift motion, he hurled it toward Menelaus’s face.

“What?!”

Menelaus staggered back, his eyes snapping shut as the sand invaded them. Blind and momentarily disoriented, he stumbled.

Paris’s lips curled into a wide, triumphant smirk. His muscles coiled like a spring as he leapt toward Menelaus, his sword arcing through the air with deadly intent.

BADAM!

The blade struck true, crashing against Menelaus’s armor with a force that echoed across the battlefield. The impact reverberated through Menelaus’s body, snapping his arm with an audible crack and sending him sprawling to the ground. He rolled away, groaning in pain, his lance momentarily forgotten.

Seizing the opportunity, Paris rushed forward, his face twisted into a near-mad grin. His sword gleamed under the harsh sun as he prepared to finish the job. Victory was so close he could taste it.

“You bastard!!” Menelaus roared, his voice a thunderclap of rage and defiance.

Though wounded, Menelaus’s instincts as a seasoned warrior took over. In the split second before Paris’s blade could land, he twisted his body, narrowly avoiding the killing blow. Blind yet unyielding, Menelaus swung his own weapon in a desperate arc toward where he sensed Paris stood.

“GARRH!”

Paris’s scream pierced the air as Menelaus’s blade tore into his thigh, leaving a deep, gaping wound. Blood gushed from the injury, staining the ground crimson. Paris crumpled to his knees, clutching his leg as pain wracked his body.

Menelaus rose, his broken arm hanging limp at his side, his rage burning brighter than his pain. Though his vision was still obscured, he didn’t need his eyes to sense the wounded Paris nearby.

“I am going to kill you now, PARIS!” Menelaus bellowed, his voice booming like a war drum.

Terror seized Paris. His eyes widened as he realized the hopelessness of his situation. He could barely lift his sword, let alone block another strike from the enraged Spartan king. His breath came in ragged gasps as he glanced around, searching for any means of escape.

Without hesitation, he made his decision. Survival over pride.

With a guttural cry, Paris turned and ran, staggering at first but quickly gaining momentum. Pushing past stunned Trojans in his path, he fled—not toward the safety of Troy’s walls but into the wilderness beyond. His only thought was to escape the wrath of Menelaus and live another day.

“Move!” Paris shouted, shoving anyone in his way as he bolted.

The battlefield fell silent, soldiers on both sides staring in disbelief.

“Where? Where has he gone?!” Menelaus demanded, rubbing furiously at his stinging eyes. When he finally opened them, Paris was nowhere to be seen.

Understanding dawned on Menelaus like a thunderclap. His expression darkened, his lips curling into a snarl.

“That COWARD!!!!” he roared, his voice so fierce that even his own soldiers recoiled in fear.

Before Menelaus could act on his fury, a calm yet commanding voice cut through the tension.

“Enough,” said Odysseus, stepping forward with an air of authority. His calculating gaze shifted to Hector, who stood grim-faced amidst the chaos.

“Paris’s flight from the battlefield is a clear sign of his defeat,” Odysseus declared, his tone measured but firm. “Menelaus has won. It is now your duty to honor the promises made. Return Helen of Sparta to her rightful husband. And when you find Paris—” his voice hardened, “—you will deliver his head to us. The war is over.”

Odysseus inwardly sighed in relief. Finally, this senseless war over a woman and wealth seemed poised to end. The promise of peace stirred hope within him—a hope to return to Ithaca, to embrace his beloved wife, Penelope, and to see his young son, Telemachus, once more.

But peace, it seemed, was not to be so easily won.

Agamemnon stood nearby, his face twisted in barely concealed frustration. The High King of Mycenae burned with ambition, and though he loathed the thought of abandoning his grand campaign, he knew he couldn’t openly defy Odysseus’s logic. So, he gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he swallowed his objections.

Far above the battlefield, two divine figures watched the unfolding events with different expressions.

Hera’s gaze was ice, her wrath simmering beneath the surface. This resolution was not what she wanted. Her hatred for Troy and its people demanded utter annihilation, not a truce. With a subtle glance, she conveyed her displeasure to Athena, her silent command unmistakable.

Athena, though reluctant, gave a nod of understanding. She disappeared from Hera’s side, stepping unseen into the mortal fray.

Nathan, standing among the onlookers, felt a shiver run down his spine as he caught sight of Athena materializing, her divine form visible only to a few. His white hair fluttered in the wind as his keen eyes tracked her movements.

Athena glided silently to a certain Trojan archer, one of the many stationed at the edges of the battlefield. Her presence was overwhelming, and the man froze as her voice, melodic and commanding, whispered in his ear.

“Now is your moment,” she urged, her words laced with divine compulsion. “Take your bow. Strike down Menelaus. Avenge Troy’s honor.”

The archer, trembling yet emboldened by the goddess’s influence, obeyed without hesitation. His hands moved swiftly, nocking an arrow to his bowstring. He raised his weapon, his target clear—the Spartan king, Menelaus.

Nathan’s eyes widened as he realized what was about to happen. The spark of Athena’s interference ignited his fury.

“NO!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the tense silence. He surged forward, desperate to stop the archer before chaos could reignite.

But he was too late.

The bowstring sang as the arrow was loosed. It soared through the air, glinting in the sunlight before finding its mark.

“ARGH!”

Menelaus let out a guttural cry as the arrow pierced his shoulder with brutal force. Blood spilled from the wound as he fell to his knees, clutching at the shaft embedded in his flesh.

The Greeks erupted in outrage. Cries of betrayal and fury echoed across the battlefield, drowning out any hope of reason.

Agamemnon, who had observed the scene unfold, allowed a dark smile to creep across his face. This was the excuse he had been waiting for—a pretext to unleash his full fury upon Troy.

“KILL THEM ALL!!”