I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

The battlefield was a cacophony of chaos—clanging steel, the cries of dying men, and the dull roar of fires consuming the remnants of siege engines. Paris, Prince of Troy, strode through the carnage like a specter of death, his blade slicing through the Myrmidons with frightening precision. His lips curled into a cruel smile as he revelled in the bloodshed, his every movement graceful yet deadly.

“Paris!!”

The sharp, commanding voice cut through the din. Paris paused mid-swing, his sword dripping crimson, and turned toward the source. His golden armor gleamed under the sun as he laid eyes on the man who had called him out.

“Ah,” Paris said, his voice laced with mockery. “If it isn’t Patroclus. Tell me, where is Achilles? Has he finally realized that his so-called invincibility is no match for me? Or is he cowering somewhere, too frightened to face the inevitable?”

Patroclus sneered, stepping forward with measured purpose. His bronze-plated armor bore the scratches of countless battles, yet his posture remained unwavering, his blue eyes fierce with determination. “Achilles does not concern himself with the likes of you, Paris. You are unworthy of his blade. But me? I’ll be more than enough to end your delusions of grandeur.”

Paris threw his head back and laughed, a guttural sound that echoed across the battlefield. “You? Kill me? The strongest man on this battlefield? Gahahaha! Even Achilles, your so-called demigod, would fall before my might! And yet you think you stand a chance?”

“Yes,” Patroclus replied calmly, his voice steady. He raised his sword, its polished surface reflecting the sun’s glare. “Achilles wouldn’t waste his time on a coward who hides behind boasts. Now face me, Paris. Prove yourself, if you dare!”

Paris’s amusement faded, replaced by a sudden, seething anger. His eyes burned with hatred as he snarled, “Do not underestimate me, you filthy Greek! I’ll carve you apart!”

With a roar, Paris launched himself at Patroclus, his speed almost inhuman. He closed the distance in an instant, his blade slicing through the air with deadly intent.

Patroclus’s eyes widened at the sheer velocity of the attack, but his battle-hardened instincts took over. He sidestepped at the last moment, narrowly avoiding the strike. Behind him, ten Myrmidons fell in a single sweep of Paris’s sword, their bodies cleaved as though their armor were parchment.

Seeing his comrades fall, Patroclus’s fury ignited. He raised his sword high, its edge flickering with flames as he invoked his power. “Answer me, Fire!” he bellowed, the blaze roaring to life along the blade. He charged at Paris and swung with all his might.

But Paris, ever mocking, met the attack head-on. His own blade intercepted Patroclus’s fiery strike, extinguishing the flames in a clash of sparks. “Is this all the famed Myrmidons have to offer?” he sneered.

Before Patroclus could respond, the remaining Myrmidons rallied, charging at Paris with a ferocious cry. The battlefield became a whirlwind of chaos as they surrounded the Trojan prince, striking from every angle.

“Come at me a hundred at a time if you wish!” Paris roared, his voice brimming with arrogance. He spun in a deadly arc, his sword carving through the Myrmidons’ thick armor as if it were butter. Their weapons bounced harmlessly off his golden plate, their efforts to find a blind spot futile. Yet, despite their hopeless odds, the Myrmidons pressed on, their resolve unbroken.

Patroclus watched the massacre with gritted teeth. He gripped his sword tightly, his mind racing. He could feel the weight of his comrades’ sacrifice, their bravery fueling his determination. “Thetis, lend me your strength!” he prayed aloud, invoking the divine favor bestowed upon Achilles.

Golden light erupted from his blade, radiant and searing. The air crackled with energy as he raised the sword high above his head. “Celestial Magic!” he roared, bringing the blade down in a blinding arc aimed directly at Paris.

The brilliance of the attack forced Paris to act on instinct. His mocking expression twisted into panic as he brought his sword up in a desperate attempt to block the strike.

BADDDOOOOOOM!

The force of the impact shook the ground, scattering dust and debris in all directions. Paris was hurled backward, his body skidding across the blood-soaked earth. He tumbled to a stop, coughing and gasping for air, but quickly scrambled to his feet. His grip tightened on his sword as he glared at Patroclus with venom in his eyes.

“You’ll regret that, Greek,” Paris spat, his voice low and dangerous.

Patroclus leveled his glowing blade at Paris, his expression fierce. “Then come and make me.”

Paris’s face twisted with fury, his eyes blazing with malice as Patroclus’s words echoed in his mind like a taunt that refused to fade. His hands trembled, not from fear, but from the sheer rage coursing through his veins.

“I SAID, DON’T UNDERESTIMATE ME!!!” he roared, his voice reverberating across the battlefield like thunder.

A black light exploded from Paris, enveloping his figure in a sinister aura. The air around him seemed to ripple and darken, as if the battlefield itself recoiled in fear of his transformation. His golden hair turned pitch black, and dark streaks snaked across his skin, marking him like a harbinger of doom. His eyes, once sharp and calculating, now glowed with an unnatural crimson light, devoid of humanity.

Patroclus faltered, his grip tightening around his sword. The Myrmidons nearest to Paris hesitated, their instincts screaming at them to retreat, but their loyalty to their leader overrode their fear.

“You will regret those words, Patroclus,” Paris growled, his voice deepened by the dark power surging through him. “I will make you kneel in your last moments and beg for the mercy I will not grant!”

Without another word, Paris surged forward, moving faster than ever before. His speed was terrifying, almost supernatural, as he closed the distance between them in the blink of an eye.

Patroclus barely had time to react, raising his flaming blade to intercept the incoming strike. Their swords clashed with an earsplitting clang, sending shockwaves through the battlefield. The force of Paris’s attack pushed Patroclus back several steps, his feet digging into the ground to steady himself.

“Is that fear I see in your eyes, Myrmidon?” Paris sneered, pressing forward with relentless strikes. Each blow was more powerful than the last, forcing Patroclus into a desperate defense. Sparks flew with every clash of their blades, illuminating the grim determination etched on Patroclus’s face.

“I fear nothing!” Patroclus spat, countering with a quick upward slash. Fire erupted from his blade, a desperate attempt to break Paris’s momentum.

But Paris merely laughed, his darkened blade cutting through the flames as if they were nothing. “Your tricks are meaningless! Your strength is nothing compared to mine!”

The Myrmidons, witnessing their leader’s struggle, charged at Paris in a desperate attempt to turn the tide. They hurled themselves at the Trojan prince with cries of defiance, their swords raised high.

“Pathetic,” Paris hissed. With a single wide swing, he cut through the first wave of attackers, their bodies crumpling to the ground in a spray of blood. The second wave came, undeterred by the fate of their comrades, and Paris met them with equal savagery.

One by one, they fell, their armor offering no protection against Paris’s darkened blade. Yet, they did not stop. Myrmidon after Myrmidon threw themselves into the fray, their only goal to shield Patroclus from Paris’s wrath.

“Stand down!” Patroclus shouted, his voice hoarse with desperation. “Do not waste your lives!”

But his men ignored his command, their loyalty unshakable. They placed themselves in Paris’s path, using their bodies as shields to absorb his relentless attacks.

“You think your soldiers can save you?” Paris roared, his blade carving through another line of Myrmidons. “All they’re doing is delaying the inevitable!”

Patroclus watched in horror as his comrades fell one by one, their blood staining the earth. Anger and grief welled up inside him, threatening to consume him. He clenched his jaw, his knuckles white as he gripped his sword.

“I won’t let you do this, Paris,” he muttered under his breath. “I won’t let their sacrifice be in vain!”

Summoning every ounce of his strength, Patroclus lunged at Paris with a battle cry. His blade, once again wreathed in flames, slashed toward the Trojan prince with deadly precision.

Paris blocked the attack with ease, their swords locking together in a fierce struggle. “You’re stubborn, I’ll give you that,” he said, his lips curling into a sadistic grin. “But stubbornness won’t save you.”

He twisted his blade, forcing Patroclus to stumble back. Without missing a beat, Paris unleashed a flurry of strikes, each one faster and more ferocious than the last. Patroclus struggled to keep up, his arms aching from the strain of parrying each blow.

“Is this all you’ve got?” Paris taunted, his strikes growing more erratic, more savage. “Where’s that fire you showed earlier? Where’s that arrogance?!”

Patroclus gritted his teeth, his body screaming in protest as he blocked another powerful swing. “I’ll never yield to the likes of you!” he shouted, his voice raw with determination.

But Paris’s strength was overwhelming. With one final, devastating strike, he shattered Patroclus’s sword, the blade splintering into pieces.

Patroclus staggered back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He stared at the broken hilt in his hand, disbelief flickering across his face.

“It’s over, Patroclus,” Paris said, his voice cold and unfeeling. He stepped forward, his darkened blade gleaming ominously.

Patroclus refused to back down. He clenched his fists, his eyes blazing with defiance. “Even without a weapon, I’ll fight you to my last breath!”

Paris smirked, raising his sword. “Then die with your foolish pride.”

With a swift, brutal motion, Paris drove his blade into Patroclus’s chest, piercing his heart.

Patroclus gasped, blood bubbling from his lips as the life drained from his eyes. He collapsed to his knees, his hand clutching weakly at the sword embedded in his chest.

Paris leaned in close, his voice a venomous whisper. “You should have stayed in Achilles’s shadow where you belonged.”

Patroclus’s gaze flickered toward the distant horizon, where the faint sound of battle still raged. His lips moved, forming words too faint to hear, before his body went limp and he crumpled to the ground.

Paris pulled his blade free, wiping the blood from its surface with an air of indifference. He looked down at Patroclus’s lifeless form and laughed. “Gahahaah!! I AM THE STRONGEST!!”