I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

“He did that… with a simple swing of his sword?” Dionysus asked, leaning forward, his lips curling into an intrigued smile.

HIs eyes narrowed. As a god, his sight was sharper than any mortal’s—keen enough to trace even the quickest flickers of movement. And yet, even with his divine perception, Nathan’s sudden step seemed almost to vanish from existence. One moment he was there, sword in hand, and in the next, he had already moved—far too fast for the gathered humans, let alone the gladiators, to comprehend.

The blade never truly struck flesh. It was merely a wave, a motion so deceptively casual it seemed dismissive, but the result was anything but. Dozens of gladiators were sent hurtling backward, their armored bodies crashing into one another and slamming against the dirt and stone with bone-jarring force.

Gasps rippled across the stands.

But as Dionysus watched, his expression turned from intrigue to puzzlement. Something about the scene didn’t fit.

“Hmm?” he hummed softly, his eyes reflecting a quiet suspicion.

It was Ishtar who voiced what everyone else had been silently wondering. “Why… why has no one died?” Her voice was laced with disbelief.

Indeed—broken limbs, groans of pain, men sprawled across the arena floor… but not a single fatal strike. Not a drop of blood spilled.

He had only sent them flying. Not killed them.

Coincidence? A restraint born of hesitation? The possibility gnawed at the spectators, divine and mortal alike.

But Nathan’s expression betrayed nothing.

What gladiator doesn’t kill? The question lingered heavy in the air.

Unbeknownst to them, Nathan was no gladiator nor mercenary looking for glory. His presence in the arena was never about sport, or honor, or survival. Killing was not foreign to him, nor did he carry any qualms about cutting down those who aimed for his life. Under normal circumstances, any hand raised against him would have already been severed.

But this—this was different.

First, those surrounding him were mere mongrels, fodder thrown together for the amusement of the crowd. The tournament itself was built on the premise of death; gladiators entered knowing the price and the risks. He had no real hatred toward them, no reason to cut them down when they were, in truth, just pawns on the board he had chosen to step into. To kill them here would feel less like strength and more like cruelty. Nathan was no hypocrite—he would not blame them for doing what they had been ordered to do.

He was the one who entered the tournament willingly knowing the rules after all. It would be stupid to feel any kind of emotions toward them.

But more importantly, his restraint served a greater purpose.

Athena.

Every step, every motion, every calculated strike… all of it was meant to draw her gaze. To make her watch him. To make her see.

“Wh…What just happened?!” a voice from the arena cried out, the panic palpable.

“He did something! I didn’t even see it!”

“What the hell is he?!”

Those few who had managed to avoid the brunt of Nathan’s strike staggered back onto their feet, their weapons trembling in their hands. Meanwhile, those who had suffered directly from the blow were sprawled across the ground, unconscious or writhing in pain, limbs bent at wrong angles. They were done—incapable of lifting their weapons again unless they wished to drag themselves toward a pointless death at another’s hand.

“Be careful! He’s dangerous!”

“That bastard—Septimius!” another spat, though his voice quivered.

“So the rumors weren’t just rumors… he’s strong as hell!”

Nathan’s gaze swept across the arena. His crimson eyes, cold and sharp, measured every heartbeat, every flinch, every trembling hand. This was no team battle—it was a battle royale, a bloodbath where only one could stand. Yet, instead of fighting one another, the remaining gladiators had all turned their blades toward him, uniting against the single man who had shaken their confidence with nothing more than a single swing.

Pathetic.

Their motive was obvious enough. But Nathan knew, with a bitter taste in his mouth, that their reasons were not his own. While he fought to carve his name into Athena’s attention, theirs was nothing more than desperation.

“Attack him together!” one of them roared, trying to rally courage that didn’t exist.

Nathan exhaled slowly, annoyance flickering across his face as he saw them advancing.

The simplest solution was obvious. He could end it all here with a single spell. A wave of his hand, a whisper of his power, and the cold kiss of Khione’s ice would devour them whole, freezing flesh and spirit alike. The group battle would be over in an instant, the arena transformed into a frozen grave.

But he couldn’t.

Not here. Not now.

Athena would recognize it immediately. The ice was too distinct, too familiar, too closely tied to Heiron—the figure who had stood against her will during the Trojan War. If she pieced it together, his carefully crafted mask would shatter. His true identity, his defiance, how he had single handedly destroyed her dream of seeing the Greeks Victorious.

No. That was a risk he could not take. Not yet.

So, he tightened his grip on his sword.

The old way it would be.

With a sharp breath, Nathan bent his knees and leapt, his form blurring once again into motion too swift for mortal eyes. His blade arced in a wide swing—not with its edge, but with the blunt force of its back.

The sound was thunder.

BADOOOOOM!

The very air seemed to split apart as the shockwave erupted outward. Ten men were swept from their feet, flung through the air like ragdolls. They collided with one another mid-flight, their bodies smashing together with sickening cracks before slamming against the arena walls. The impact echoed like thunder rolling through the coliseum.

Cries of agony followed, mingling with the groans of those who tried and failed to rise. The sand was stained not with blood, but with the dust of shattered pride and broken bodies.

Despite Nathan’s refusal to kill, the effect on the crowd was the opposite of what any seasoned gladiator would have expected. Instead of disappointment, instead of cries for blood, the Roman public adored him all the more. His restraint only made him seem larger than life.

His face, pale and striking beneath the arena’s light, was magnified across the shimmering expanse of the enchanted projection screens hovering above the coliseum. Every movement, every glance, every flicker of expression was displayed to tens of thousands of eyes at once.

“Kyaaaaa! Septimius!!”

“I’m in love!”

“He’s amazing!”

“What a wonderful man! Truly, the Kingslayer!”

And then it began, as if sparked by a single word.

“Kingslayer!”

“Kingslayer!!”

“Kingslayer!!!”

The chant spread like wildfire, rising from the lowest seats of the plebeians to the gilded balconies of the patricians, until the entire coliseum thundered with a single name, a single title.

It was an old name, already whispered in the shadows of taverns and courts alike. But now, under the sunlight of the arena, it was reborn—sharper, brighter, unshakable. He was the Kingslayer. The man who had slain Ptolemy, Pharaoh of Egypt, a crowned king brought low by Nathan’s blade. A feat so bold, so impossible, that it alone was enough to etch his name into eternity.

The Romans adored such symbols. And Nathan had just become one.

Yet he himself paid it little mind. Nicknames, titles, chants of the mob—none of it mattered to him. His focus was fixed solely on the fight.

With a fluid motion, he stepped aside from a cowardly strike aimed at his back. The would-be attacker swung at nothing but air, his blade carving an empty arc. Nathan vanished, only to reappear in another spot of the arena, as if mocking the man’s desperation. In the same breath, his sword swept through the air—not with deadly steel, but with force enough to launch two, three gladiators backward, their bodies colliding midair before crashing heavily to the ground.

It was breathtaking.

The way he moved—nimble, elusive, precise—seemed out of place in the bloodstained dirt of the coliseum. While the gladiators fought like beasts, all brute strength and snarling fury, Nathan looked like something else entirely. Not a man. Not a gladiator. But a god walking among mortals.

“W…Why isn’t he killing anyone?” Crassus muttered from the VIP balcony, suspicion sharpening his words.

Julia answered before anyone else could. Her voice was soft, yet resolute, her hands clasped tightly against her chest as she gazed at Nathan’s image with wide, sparkling eyes.

“Because that is Septimius,” she said, almost reverently.

Her father, Caesar, turned his head in surprise at the tone in her voice.

“Septimius will never kill without reason,” Julia continued, her lips curving into a bright, innocent smile. Her cheeks flushed pink as she spoke, her eyes never leaving Nathan’s reflection on the magical screen. It was the gaze of a maiden in love, pure and unrestrained.

Caesar was caught off guard. He had seen his daughter blush before—around Marcus Antonius, around young Octavius—but never like this. Never with such open admiration, never with such sincerity in her tone. Around them, even the slowest of minds could see it: Julia was enamored. This was no fleeting fancy, no girlish crush. It was her first true love, sweet and unmistakable.

Yet not everyone looked upon her devotion kindly.

Licinia, standing close by, felt irritation gnaw at her chest. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her teeth biting down in frustration as Julia’s voice rang with adoration. Why does everyone think he’s a saint now? she thought bitterly. He’s not… he’s just—

But her anger betrayed her. A familiar heat stirred low in her body, spreading insidiously between her thighs. Licinia blushed fiercely, mortified by her own reaction. She turned her head away quickly, trying to chase away thoughts of Nathan. But it was difficult—impossible, even—with his face dominating the massive screen, his figure moving with impossible grace as he fought. The more she tried to suppress the image of him, the deeper it etched itself into her mind.

On the other hand, Fulvia and Servilia were less shaken. Fulvia, perhaps, looked a little surprised at the extent of his power—stronger, far stronger than she had anticipated. But Servilia? She watched calmly, lips pressed into a thin smile that betrayed no astonishment.

For she had seen him once before, revealed in truth to Auria. In that moment she had glimpsed a power that terrified her, a presence that dwarfed Marcus Antonius himself. What they saw now was but a fraction. Five percent of his strength, perhaps less. The thought itself was horrifying.

“He is much stronger than Marcus,” Caesar remarked suddenly, his voice carrying a smug satisfaction as he leaned back against his chair.

The words made Crassus stiffen. He did not show it outwardly, his face carefully neutral, but deep inside a knot of unease coiled tighter. Caesar—already victor upon victor, already consolidating power with unmatched cunning—now had Septimius. An ally, a weapon, a symbol.

And with an asset like that…

Crassus could almost feel the rope tightening around his neck. He remembered Pompey’s warning, the shadow of it lingering now like a whisper in the back of his mind.

Caesar was not merely rising—he was ascending. And Septimius could be his ladder.

Unfortunately or maybe fortunately Crassus wasn’t aware of how wrong exactly he was…