I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

The first phase of the legendary gladiator tournament was about to commence—a brutal and merciless battle royale.

Hundreds of seasoned gladiators from every corner of the known world were summoned to the colossal coliseum, a sea of warriors each prepared to stake their lives for glory, survival, and spectacle. The air itself trembled with anticipation, thick with the scent of sand, sweat, and blood yet to be spilled.

This event, in particular, was one of Rome’s most cherished traditions. The battle royale was synonymous with unrestrained carnage—a chaotic bloodbath where anything could happen. For the citizens of Rome, it was not just a fight; it was entertainment in its purest, most savage form. It was during this stage that surprise upsets, brutal duels, and the deaths of dozens—if not more—kept hearts racing and the amphitheater trembling with cheers.

A Roman herald, draped in crimson and bronze, stepped forward, his booming voice echoing through the marble walls.

“Let the gates open—let the warriors enter the arena of destiny!”

One by one, the massive iron gates surrounding the arena groaned open, and warriors began to step forth into the open sands, their shadows stretching beneath the high noon sun.

They came in all shapes and sizes—from wiry, agile fighters to hulking brutes, from those clad head-to-toe in gleaming armor to others nearly naked, relying solely on speed and ferocity. Some bore swords long enough to cleave men in half, others carried lances, flails, twin daggers, or strange weapons from faraway lands. A few even bore enchanted tools whose aura shimmered subtly beneath the sunlight.

Yet for all their differences, they shared one unshakable trait: none of them feared death.

These were men—and a few fierce women—who had stared death in the eyes countless times and returned from its grasp. They were killers, survivors, warriors honed by blood and fire. Each had been carefully selected from among thousands of applicants who sought the honor of competing. This wasn’t a place for the weak or the untested. This was the Coliseum of Kings, where only the best were permitted to die.

And Caesar wanted a show. A great show. Nothing less than a blood-drenched spectacle worthy of legend.

Nathan stood among his peers, quietly observing as the contestants gathered on the sand below. His eyes narrowed as they landed on one figure who stood out immediately—a man radiating arrogance, his chin raised and expression smug.

He recognized the man vaguely. A Hero from the Empire of Amun-Ra. He couldn’t recall the name at first… but then it clicked.

Isak.

The Hero of Amun-Ra. Tall, broad-shouldered, and well-built, Isak exuded confidence, the kind that bordered dangerously on hubris. He strutted forward through the other gladiators as though he owned the arena.

Then, with theatrical flair, he turned his head upward—toward the sky.

High above the arena, the divine trio watched: Athena, ever composed; Dionysus, with a goblet in hand and amusement in his eyes; and Pandora.

Isak raised his sword—gleaming and ornate—and pointed it directly at them

More precisely, at Pandora.

“You there!” he bellowed, his voice loud and clear across the coliseum. “Brace yourself! Soon, you will share my bed. I’ll show you what it means to lie with a real man!”

A stunned silence fell across the arena.

Even Nathan blinked in disbelief. His classmates were undoubtedly recoiling in shared secondhand embarrassment, some even wishing they could vanish on the spot. On the very first day of the tournament, this was how Isak chose to introduce himself?

Yes, he was a Hero. Yes, his body had been sculpted like a statue, his aura imbued with power. But how could someone be this outrageously arrogant?

Seated in the stands, Crassus let out a hearty chuckle. “Well, this one’s got fire.”

Caesar, leaning his cheek against his clenched fist, gave a slight hum of interest. “Yes… but I wonder how far his Heroic power will take him in this tournament.”

There was a reason Isak strutted so confidently. As a Hero, he was protected by divine favor. Should death truly threaten him, his soul would be snatched from the jaws of the underworld. That was the agreement Caesar had made with Johanna, Isak’s teacher. She allowed her prized student to participate under the condition that he could not truly die. Caesar had agreed readily—it was a small price to pay for such guaranteed entertainment.

In essence, Isak had everything to gain, and nothing to lose. And he had clearly set his sights on the tournament’s most dazzling prize: Pandora herself.

As for the woman in question, Pandora didn’t respond with anger or shame. She tilted her head ever so slightly, her eyes curious—not flustered, not pleased, merely… intrigued. As if studying an insect that had dared to make itself known.

The horn blared.

A deep, guttural sound that echoed through the heavens and sent shivers down spines. It was the signal—the beginning.

And with it, chaos erupted.

Without hesitation, hundreds of gladiators lunged into the fray, no alliances, no camaraderie—only bloodlust and the instinct to survive. The center of the colossal arena became a whirlwind of violence, a frenzy of motion where steel clashed, bones shattered, and death reigned supreme.

There were no friends here—only enemies.

Screams filled the air—some of agony, others of triumph—as the sand quickly transformed into a sea of crimson. Severed limbs flew like broken puppets. Entrails spilled. Arrows zipped across the sky. Bodies collapsed like rag dolls, trampled by the feet of those too crazed to notice. It was a macabre dance, a grotesque ballet of blood and butchery.

And yet—the crowd was ecstatic.

The spectators cheered wildly, their eyes gleaming, their mouths open in glee. They howled like animals at the carnage unfolding before them, drunk on the spectacle. Their expressions twisted with anticipation—not horror, but delight.They wanted more. More death. More suffering. More spectacle.

Nathan sat silently, his sharp gaze drifting across the chaos—not at the fighters, but toward Caesar, who was watching with calm, measured satisfaction. The Emperor’s smirk was one of a man who had orchestrated perfection—bloodshed wrapped in ceremony, brutality disguised as culture.

In stark contrast, his daughter Julia, sitting behind—her face buried in her hands, occasionally daring to peek between her fingers before quickly squeezing her eyes shut again.

Fulvia looked bored, disinterested, her fingers playing absently with a loose strand of hair. Servilia watched the bloodbath passively, as if watching cattle being slaughtered—not cruelly, but with a certain emotional vacancy. And then there was Licinia—her eyes were trained on the battlefield, but her mind… clearly wasn’t.

Her brows were furrowed slightly, her lips pressed tight, as though she were wrestling with something unsaid. A private conflict.

She glanced, almost shyly, toward Nathan.

But he wasn’t looking at her. He didn’t notice her lingering stare. Instead, his eyes were turned upward—to the sky above the arena—where the divine sat watching.

More precisely, he was looking at Athena. Or rather, Pandora.

There was something about her that unsettled him—not because of her beauty, though she was otherworldly in appearance. Even with her face partly hidden behind her veil, she radiated mystery. No, Nathan wasn’t staring in awe, but with calculation. He was trying to understand her. To discern what about her felt off.

Still, his gaze did not linger.

His eyes moved past her, beyond the balcony of gods, toward another corner of the sky—where few others could see.

And there, hovering above mortal eyes, were two divine figures. Nathan could see them as clearly as if they stood beside him. Only he could.

“Humans,” came a voice like silk dipped in venom, “are truly stupid creatures.”

The words came from a woman who radiated both divinity and disdain. Her beauty was breathtaking—long cascades of golden hair, flawless ivory skin, and piercing emerald eyes that shimmered like the forests of old. Her fingers ran idly through her shimmering hair, which spilled like liquid sunlight over her shoulders and down her back.

She was not merely beautiful—she was goddess-made-flesh.

Sif.

A northern deity of legend. Regal. Warlike. Impossibly distant.

“Why did you bring me here already, Ishtar?” Sif asked, her tone detached as she glanced sideways at the woman beside her.

The other goddess—Ishtar, the radiant and ever-playful deity of love and war—smiled, her pale pink eyes twinkling with mischief. Her revealing gown fluttered with an unseen wind, exposing smooth, sun-kissed skin and the curves of a temptress. Her silver-white hair fell around her like moonlight.

“Don’t be so grim, dear Sif,” Ishtar giggled. “They’re all down there fighting for her, after all.”

She pointed a delicate finger toward Pandora.

“Aren’t you curious to see who wins the hand of that cursed woman the Olympians have been trying to dispose of for thousands of years?”

Sif followed her gaze. Her eyes narrowed slightly. Athena sat poised in divine silence, but beside her—Pandora, the enigma, sat still and unreadable. A being shrouded in mystery and wrapped in fate.

Sif couldn’t deny it—her curiosity was piqued. There was something… unsettling about Pandora. A timeless weight hung around her. Something ancient. Something dangerous.

But even still, the battle below bored her.

“We’ll have to wait until the final rounds to see anything worth watching,” she said with a sigh, her soft pink lips curling downward. “The northern continent seems far more interesting.”

“Oh, I won’t argue that,” Ishtar replied, smirking. “Up north, your worshippers are busy burning the world to ash, fighting for blood, honor, and gold. The Vikings dance with death like it’s their lover. Meanwhile, the Saxons—those noble fools—worship peace and sanctity, clinging to their Gods and Angels like they’ll save them from the inevitable slaughter.”

She giggled again. “Now that is a divine drama.”

Indeed, she referred to the endless war between the Norse clans and the sacred Kingdoms of the north. A war of ideology. Blood against belief. Two pantheons—Norse gods and angelic host—locked in an eternal, spite-fueled battle across scorched earth.

And yet, they hovered here—watching a southern tournament unfold in relative calm, waiting for the spark that would ignite the deeper layers of conflict.

As the two goddesses conversed above, invisible to most—

Nathan was there below, watching. Hearing. Listening.

He was the only one aware of them. The only mortal with eyes and ears pierced deep enough to witness their divine forms and petty conversations.

And he couldn’t help but wonder—

Don’t they have anything better to do?