I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

The brilliance lingered for several heartbeats before it began to fade, revealing a stunning sight that left everyone speechless. In the midst of the battlefield stood a golden carriage, its horses as majestic and radiant as celestial beings. But it was not the carriage itself that captured their attention—it was the figure standing upon it.

Paris’s breath caught in his throat. She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, her presence as otherworldly as the light that had announced her arrival.

Her long, fiery-red hair cascaded down her back, tied neatly into a ponytail that swayed gently with each step her horses took. It framed her face like a banner of war, a striking contrast to the sharp, golden eyes that burned with an icy, unrelenting intensity. Those eyes alone were enough to quiet the battlefield, commanding the attention of every soldier present. She was a woman, yet her presence exuded such raw, unyielding power that even the mightiest warriors, including Agamemnon, felt dwarfed by her aura.

Agamemnon, his brows furrowing in confusion and disbelief, turned to Odysseus, who stood frozen, his face a mask of shock. “Who is she?” Agamemnon demanded, his voice cutting through the uneasy silence like a blade.

Odysseus, unable to tear his gaze away from the figure before them, muttered under his breath, “Achilles…”

“W…what?” Agamemnon snapped, certain he had misheard. He turned to Odysseus, whose mouth hung slightly open, his expression betraying an incredulity that mirrored the murmur now spreading among the soldiers.

“It’s Achilles. She is Achilleus,” Odysseus repeated, his voice trembling with a mixture of awe and bewilderment.

The words rippled outward, carried from one stunned soldier to the next. Gasps and whispers filled the air as disbelief took hold of the Greek ranks. Every pair of eyes locked onto the figure standing at the heart of the chaos.

“Is this some kind of sick joke?” Agamemnon growled, his voice tinged with both disbelief and fury.

But Odysseus shook his head, his tone resolute despite the madness of his claim. “It’s no joke. You feel it, don’t you? You’ve seen Achilles fight countless times. You know his strength, his presence. Look at her! You can’t deny it.”

Agamemnon turned his gaze back to the woman now identified as Achilles. Her presence was undeniable, as was the weight of her identity. The truth clawed its way into his mind, an unrelenting beast he could not banish. “Achilles… is a woman,” he muttered under his breath, his words bitter and heavy with humiliation.

Memories surged forth unbidden. The insults, the scorn, the endless comparisons to Achilles—always Achilles. The unyielding shadow of a warrior whose prowess had made Agamemnon’s own leadership feel hollow. And now this? The revelation that the thorn in his pride was no man but a woman?

A fresh wave of anger surged through him, tinged with a humiliation so sharp it was almost unbearable. His teeth clenched, his jaw tightening painfully as his hatred for Khillea, for Achilles, burned brighter. A woman had mocked him, belittled him, eclipsed him. The thought alone was a dagger to his pride.

But Agamemnon swallowed his fury for the moment, his gaze never leaving Khillea. She would pay for this insult, but not now. For now, the battlefield belonged to her.

Khillea stood at the center of it all, her silence a thunderclap that echoed louder than any war cry. Her divine golden armor caught the sun’s rays, gleaming brilliantly as if forged by the gods themselves.

This was no ordinary armor. It was a masterpiece, crafted by the hands of Hephaestus at the behest of Thetis herself. Her previous armor, which had been worn by Patroclus, was now discarded, unable to serve its purpose after his death. Thetis had begged the forge god to create something stronger, something that could match Khillea’s indomitable spirit. And Hephaestus had delivered.

The result was breathtaking. The armor was as beautiful as it was functional, shaped to fit the lithe yet powerful frame of a warrior woman. Intricate designs of vines and waves flowed across the surface, as though the armor itself celebrated the divine heritage of its wearer. It was not merely protection—it was a declaration of her unmatched strength.

In addition to the armor, Hephaestus had crafted a new weapon for her: a spear that seemed to hum with restrained power, as though eager to taste battle. The golden shield at her side bore the visage of a lion, its roar frozen in time.

Khillea paid no mind to the multitude of shocked gazes fixed upon her, her golden eyes unyielding as she turned toward the Myrmidons. Among the assembled warriors, they seemed the most visibly shaken. The realization was dawning upon them—Achilles, the mighty king they had followed with unwavering loyalty, was, in truth, a queen.

Confusion flickered across their faces, their tightly-knit ranks briefly disturbed by the revelation. Yet as Khillea’s gaze swept over them, sharp and commanding, their doubts melted away like snow under the sun. One by one, they straightened their backs, standing tall under the weight of her piercing stare. Her very presence was magnetic, exuding authority, power, and an almost ethereal beauty.

She was no less their leader now than before. No, she was more. She was Achilles. She was Khillea.

“Follow me,” she commanded simply, her voice cutting through the din like a blade.

The familiar phrase sent shivers down the spines of the Myrmidons. It was the same resolute tone Achilles had always used, the same calm assurance that demanded obedience without question. Goosebumps rippled across their skin.

It didn’t matter if she was a man or a woman. No, she was their commander. And they would follow her to the ends of the earth—or to the depths of Hades itself.

The Myrmidons roared as one, their powerful voices rising in unison. The sound echoed across the battlefield like a thunderclap, startling even the Spartans, who prided themselves on their discipline. The cry was a promise, a declaration of loyalty that transcended blood, gender, or reason.

Without hesitation, they surged forward, their weapons raised high, trailing behind Khillea as she advanced. Her carriage shot ahead, a golden streak amidst the chaos, and the Myrmidons followed like wolves chasing their alpha.

“Stop the carriage!”

“Kill her!”

The cries of the Trojans rang out as they broke free from their stupor, rushing toward the carriage in a desperate bid to halt her advance. But their efforts were in vain. The Myrmidons fell upon them with the ferocity of wild beasts, cutting them down mercilessly.

The Trojans who managed to slip past the Myrmidons’ unrelenting defense found themselves facing Khillea herself. Their fates were sealed.

With a single, fluid swing of her lance, Khillea cleaved through dozens of men in an instant, their bodies crumpling to the blood-soaked ground. The lance moved as though it were an extension of her will, cutting through flesh and armor effortlessly. Blood erupted in crimson arcs, painting the battlefield with a grotesque artistry. Wherever she went, a trail of death followed, an unholy testament to her overwhelming power.

To the Trojans, she was no longer human. She was a monster, a force of nature sent to annihilate them.

The realization spread like wildfire through their ranks. The Achilles they had fought in the early days of the war—the one who had toyed with them, relishing the thrill of battle—had not been using even half his strength. That Achilles had been merely playing. But now? Now, Khillea was fighting in earnest, and the difference was staggering.

This was the Achilles whispered about in fearful reverence. The strongest of the Greeks. The one favored by both Hera and Athena, goddesses who rarely agreed on anything. The stories had not exaggerated—they had fallen short.

As Khillea moved through the battlefield, she suddenly felt the sharp hum of an arrow cutting through the air, its speed and precision a testament to its archer’s skill. A normal warrior might have struggled to avoid such a shot, but Khillea raised her golden shield without effort, deflecting the arrow with a metallic clang.

Her golden eyes locked onto the source of the attack—Atalanta. The famed huntress stood atop a rise, her bow still raised, her expression one of disbelief. Her lips parted slightly as though she couldn’t comprehend what she had just seen.

On the other side of the battlefield, Hector watched the carnage unfold, his people being slaughtered like lambs before a lioness. His fists clenched tightly, his knuckles white. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to charge into the fray, to challenge Khillea and put an end to the slaughter.

But as he took a step forward, a hand gripped his arm, halting him. It was Aeneas, his expression grim.

“You can’t, Hector,” Aeneas said, his voice steady but urgent. “She’s too strong. Even for you.”

Hector’s jaw tightened, his body trembling with the effort of restraining himself. He could see the truth in Aeneas’s eyes, but it did little to quell the fire of his anger.

“She’s slaughtering them,” Hector growled through gritted teeth.

“And she’ll slaughter you too,” Aeneas replied, his grip unyielding. “You’re not just a warrior, Hector. You’re the future of Troy. Don’t throw that away.”

“Still!”

“You aren’t alone!” Aeneas shouted shifting his gaze toward Castor and Pollux rushing toward Khillea.