I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

“Haha! So this is where the rats gather. And what’s this?” The voice rang with cruel delight. “Plotting together against me, in the dark?”

Crassus’s blood froze. He turned, his face draining of color, and there—illuminated by torchlight—stood Julius Caesar himself. Cloaked in imperial confidence, flanked by a dozen armored soldiers, his lips curved into a victorious smile.

Pompey’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening as if he had just seen a ghost step out of the shadows. For a heartbeat he couldn’t move, frozen in disbelief. There, before him, stood Caesar—calm, collected, and smiling with that insufferable smugness that had haunted Pompey’s mind ever since their paths diverged.

His gaze dropped instinctively to the object that lay glinting faintly on the ground. The Key of Rome.

Almost in a panic, Pompey stooped and snatched it up, clutching it tight in his fist as though his very life depended on it. When he looked back at Caesar, his voice quivered despite all his effort to steel himself.

“H… How…?” His throat was dry, the words trembling out of him in fragments.

It was impossible. The meeting was meant to be secret, secure. Fulvius had brought him here—because Septimius had arranged it. Yes, Septimius had laid the plan, every step carefully prepared. Then why? Why was Caesar here, staring at him with that cruel delight? Had Fulvius betrayed him after all? Or had Caesar somehow slithered his way into the web Septimius had spun?

“My dear friend,” Caesar’s voice cut through the turmoil, smooth and mocking, “your face has turned pale. Are you unwell?” He chuckled, savoring the sight of Pompey’s shock. “I had thought you enjoyed my cell far too much to leave it, and yet… here you are, running.”

“You bastard…” Pompey spat, his glare burning with rage.

But Caesar only smiled wider, his eyes gleaming as they fell upon the Key clutched in Pompey’s hand. He tilted his head slightly, stretching out his palm as if in casual invitation.

“Give me the Key, Pompey,” he said, his tone light but carrying the weight of command. “Do that, and I swear upon the gods I will not kill you. I’ll even let you slip away from Rome itself.” His gaze shifted then, coldly, toward Crassus. “You too, Crassus. Leave me your entire wealth, all of it, and I will grant you the same mercy. Take your family and flee, and live out your days in exile. Surely that’s fair enough—a chest of gold in exchange for your lives?”

“Don’t listen to him, Crassus!” Pompey barked, his voice hoarse with urgency. “He’ll gut us the moment he gets what he wants. That’s always been his way.”

“You wound me, Pompey,” Caesar sighed with mock disappointment, though his smile never faltered. “I only ask for what is already mine. Just give me the Key, and everything will be… peaceful.”

“Go to Hades.” Pompey’s words dripped with venom as he spat on the floor between them.

Caesar’s hand lowered, his expression shifting from feigned gentleness to the sharp edge of cruelty. His eyes darkened as he flicked his gaze toward his men and gave the smallest of gestures.

“Kill Crassus,” he ordered softly, as though it were no more than dismissing a servant. “And bring me Pompey’s Key. But leave Pompey alive. I want the pleasure of breaking him myself.”

“You would really do this, Caesar?” Crassus’s voice was strained, his fists trembling as he glared at the man he had once considered an ally. “After everything I gave you?”

Caesar’s expression softened, mockingly tender. “And I thank you for all of it,” he said with false warmth, “but lately… you’ve become something of a nuisance.”

“You won’t kill me so easily,” Crassus growled, trying to mask the fear tightening his chest.

“I already have,” Caesar replied with a smirk that made Pompey’s blood run cold. “Even as we speak, my men are on their way to your little castle. Your precious family won’t be there when you crawl back home.”

Crassus’s eyes widened, his face draining of color. His heart lurched with horror.

“You… YOU BASTARD!” His roar echoed off around as he lunged, desperate to escape and reach his family.

Two soldiers seized him before he could even take a step, iron grips clamping around his arms. Steel glinted as blades rose, ready to plunge—

BADAAAM!

A thunderous shockwave cracked through the chamber. Both soldiers were flung back violently, their bodies bursting apart in grotesque sprays of flesh and blood. Limbs shattered, torsos twisted—the very air seemed to ripple with an unseen force that had crushed them in an instant.

The stench of iron filled the air.

Caesar’s eyes went wide, his composure fracturing for the first time. He staggered back half a step, staring into the mist of blood and smoke.

Crassus, still frozen where he stood, turned his head slowly. His breath hitched, then came out in relief as his gaze settled on the figure materializing from the shadows behind him.

A woman.

Her presence bled into the chamber like a nightmare taking form. She stepped into reality itself as though peeling back a curtain no one else could see. Long, flowing hair as dark as midnight cascaded down her back. A dress, woven of black silk, clung to her figure and trailed along the ground like a shadow that had grown flesh. Her face was concealed beneath a mask of deepest onyx, featureless save for the faint glint of her eyes behind it.

Medea.

Crassus’s chest tightened as he turned to the cloaked figure. His voice, hoarse with both relief and dread, burst forth almost involuntarily.

“Medea! My family!”

The woman in black regarded him with eyes colder than winter steel. For a moment, there was nothing—no flicker of pity, no acknowledgment of his desperation. He could see it in her stance, in the chill that radiated from her presence: her duty was not to him, not to his family, but to something—or someone—else.

And then, as though a memory stirred in her, she tilted her head slightly. Nathan’s instructions echoed in her mind, firm and absolute.

“I killed all his men,” she said at last, her voice low, measured, unfeeling. “Your family is safe.”

Crassus’s knees nearly buckled in relief. A shudder escaped his lips, his fists unclenching as tension bled away.

Across the chamber, Caesar’s eyes widened, fury and disbelief colliding in his expression.

Medea’s gaze shifted, locking onto him with lethal intent. Her hand rose, pale and elegant, fingers curling as though plucking at invisible strings. Her voice cut the silence like a blade:

“Die.”

The air trembled. Darkness coiled and spun into existence, twisting itself into a violent spiral of black energy. The vortex roared forward, streaking toward Caesar with the speed of a thunderbolt, promising annihilation.

But just before it struck, the impossible happened.

A figure dropped between Caesar and the oncoming death, one hand outstretched, steady, commanding. With a surge of counter-force, the black swirl was shattered, dissipating into harmless wisps of smoke and shadow.

The field fell into silence once more—silence broken only by the stunned gasp that left Pompey’s throat. His eyes grew as wide as coins, his body trembling.

White hair fluttered in the turbulent air. Crimson eyes glowed like coals in the gloom.

“…S–Septimius…” Pompey whispered, unable to believe what his own eyes showed him.

Crassus’s face twisted in shock. Disbelief warred with understanding, and in that instant, the truth struck him like a hammer.

This wasn’t betrayal. Not in the simple sense. This—this had been orchestrated from the beginning. Septimius had pulled the strings, weaving every strand of the trap, bringing Caesar here, informing him of everything.

But why?

And then the answer came to him, bitter and merciless.

Septimius sought Caesar’s trust. Absolute trust.

Crassus’s lips parted in silent horror. He could scarcely accept it, but the pieces aligned with cruel perfection.

“You crafty bastard…” Caesar chuckled, his composure slowly returning as he studied the dark figure of Medea. “Where in the hells did you find someone like her?”

Medea did not answer. Instead, she stepped forward, her movements calm and deliberate, and in her hand appeared a gleaming golden blade. She plunged it into the stone floor, the clang reverberating through the chamber like the tolling of a bell.

Caesar’s eyes went wide. His breath caught in his throat. “This… this is…!”

The sword shimmered in the dim light, unmistakable.

Marcus Antonius’s sword.

Medea’s voice, laced with venom, slithered through the chamber. “Your loyal dog in golden armor begged for death until the very end. I granted it.”

Caesar staggered back, his lips trembling. “It… it was you…” His gaze snapped to Crassus, realization dawning, and suddenly the threads all tied together.

Crassus kept his face impassive, though his heart thundered in his chest. He recognized the sword instantly, and with it, the unspoken accusation. He knew the truth—that Septimius had orchestrated Antonius’s end. Yet why reveal it now? Why thrust this blade into the ground before Caesar, here, of all times?

And then the truth hit him, cruel and inevitable.

Medea wasn’t just revealing Antonius’s death. She was pinning it on him.

His lips parted as if to protest, but no words came. He turned his gaze slowly toward Septimius, who stood as still as a statue, his face unreadable, his crimson eyes betraying nothing.

Had this been his plan all along? Every step, every thread?

Crassus felt his stomach twist. He could not believe the scale of it… and yet he could not deny it.

It was then that another voice broke the tension. A voice he knew too well.

“Emperor Caesar,” Nathan said calmly, his figure shifting slightly in the shadows. “You should withdraw to safety.”

“No!” Caesar barked, fury blazing anew in his eyes. He pointed a trembling hand toward Pompey. “Not without the Key! I need his KEY!”

Nathan moved like lightning. In the blink of an eye, he vanished from where he stood. A heartbeat later, Pompey’s scream ripped through the air.

“GAARGHH!”

Blood sprayed in a violent arc as Pompey’s right arm was severed cleanly from his body. The golden Key, wrenched from his grasp, spun through the air before being caught effortlessly in Nathan’s hand.

Pompey collapsed, writhing in agony, clutching the bloody stump where his arm had been. His screams echoed off the chamber walls like the cries of a dying animal.

Nathan regarded the severed arm with indifference before hurling the Key through the air. It landed perfectly in Caesar’s waiting palm.

“Done,” Nathan said, his voice flat, efficient, merciless.

Caesar caught it and, for the first time in the night, his composure cracked into triumph. His grin stretched wide, almost manic. “Well done, Septimius!” he exclaimed.

But his victory lasted only a breath.

Medea was already in motion. She lunged, her black dress rippling like living shadow, her golden sword arcing toward Nathan with deadly precision. Steel clashed as Nathan raised his arm to block, the impact sending him sliding back across the stone floor, sparks flying at his feet as he planted himself firmly between Caesar and Medea.