I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

The duel between Septimius and Isak concluded in the most predictable way imaginable — an overwhelming, almost effortless victory for Septimius.

Few among the audience had ever doubted the outcome. Only a handful of Septimius’s rare detractors, driven more by envy than reason, had clung to the desperate hope that the foreign Hero, Isak, might somehow prevail.

After all, Isak was no ordinary man. He was one of the Heroes summoned by the Gods themselves, a being whispered to possess divine blessings and power that transcended mortal limits. His name — and that of his fellow summoned — had spread far and wide, carried on the tongues of bards and travelers across continents. Tales of their extraordinary feats had stirred the imagination of even the Romans, who prided themselves on their might and discipline.

So naturally, when the time came for Isak to stand against Septimius, anticipation filled every corner of the Colosseum. The people of Rome had expected a spectacle — a clash of titans that would shake the very ground beneath their feet. Perhaps, they thought, it would be the first true challenge for their beloved champion.

But what followed was not a contest.It was a humiliation.

From the very first exchange, Isak was outmatched. His strikes lacked rhythm, his defenses collapsed under the sheer weight of Septimius’s blows. Each move from Septimius was calm, calculated, and devastating. It was not the fight of equals — it was a demonstration, a statement of absolute dominance.

At times, it almost seemed as though Septimius was toying with him — moving just enough to parry, just enough to counter, showing restraint so deliberate that it bordered on mockery.

And yet, the crowd loved it.

Ordinarily, the Romans thrived on the chaos of uncertainty — they desired fierce battles, blood, and the raw tension of near defeat. But Septimius was the exception. He could crush his opponent without resistance, and they would still cheer. His elegance, his sheer authority in combat, mesmerized them. To watch him fight was to witness perfection given form.

To the people of Rome, he was not merely a warrior. He was their pride, their living symbol of supremacy. A man from their world had just annihilated a Hero from another.

Of course, none of them knew the truth — that Septimius, or rather Nathan, was also a Hero summoned from another world. The difference was that he had forged his strength here, through battle, blood, and relentless will. Isak, on the other hand, had been spoon-fed power, his strength inflated from the moment of his summoning, his resolve untested.

As Nathan left the arena, his steps calm and unhurried, Caesar’s expression darkened. The ruler of Rome sat unmoving, his gaze fixed on the victorious figure below.

Ahead of him, his daughter Julia clapped fervently, her face flushed red as she gazed at Nathan with unhidden admiration. Caesar barely noticed her.

“How foolish I’ve been,” he muttered under his breath, voice low enough that none around him could hear. “To believe that this weakling Hero ever had a chance…”

He exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples, before turning his eyes upward. High above, Athena sat upon her radiant throne, a divine silhouette against the heavens.

Something was wrong.

Even after Johanna had revealed the truth — that Septimius was, in fact, Heiron, the very same figure responsible for the Greek’s devastating loss in the Trojan War, the deceiver who had once attempted to trick her upon arriving in Rome — Athena had done nothing.

By all logic, by all divine law, she should have struck him down on the spot. And yet… she hadn’t.

If anything, it seemed as though the goddess had shown approval — as if she were cheering for him.

Caesar’s mind raced. Had Athena… forgiven him? No. Impossible. A goddess’s pride was absolute.

Then a more sinister thought crept into his mind.

Perhaps Nathan had already revealed everything to her — his schemes, his ambitions, even his intention to enslave her through Pandora’s power. And perhaps, in the eyes of the goddess, he had simply proven to be the superior being, the one more worthy of her favor.

If that were true… then Caesar’s position was dire.

He clenched his fists beneath his robe, jaw tightening. “It doesn’t matter,” he whispered to himself. “Tomorrow… everything will end.”

That thought was his only comfort.

Sighing, Caesar forced his focus back to the arena as the next match was announced — the other semifinal. The mighty Spartacus strode forward, greeted by roaring cheers that shook the amphitheater. Though his welcome was thunderous, it still could not match the frenzy that had accompanied Septimius.

And this time, it was Octavius’s face that darkened, his sharp eyes following Spartacus’s movements with a blend of anticipation and cold malice.

Then, slowly, a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He thought of the little “gift” he had prepared for the famed gladiator.

Meanwhile, in another of the marble balconies overlooking the grand arena, a young man sat trembling — his knuckles white against the golden railing, his jaw locked tight to suppress the visible shiver running through him.

Axel.

He was doing everything he could to mask his fear, to keep his voice steady, to appear in control before the few classmates who still followed him out of habit rather than loyalty. The thin thread of credibility he still possessed was fraying fast — one sign of weakness, one quiver in his voice, and even that would snap.

He had come to this match expecting triumph.

From the balcony reserved for the other Heroes, Axel had watched with keen interest, surrounded by his companions. They were meant to witness glory — the victory of Isak, his trusted friend and comrade from Earth, one of the few who had chosen to stand by his side since their arrival in this world.

But nothing had gone as expected.

What they witnessed instead was nothing short of a massacre.

From the opening moment of the duel, Isak had been completely overpowered. Septimius — that mercenary, that so-called Roman champion — had dominated him without mercy, without even the faintest effort. Each of Isak’s desperate strikes had been met with mockery in the form of effortless counters. The man they thought unbeatable, the Hero chosen by the gods themselves, had been toyed with like a child.

Even from where Axel sat, the humiliation was painful to watch. His classmates beside him exchanged uneasy glances, their pride as Heroes shrinking with each passing second.

But then came the moment none of them had expected.

Septimius killed him.

Not defeated — not knocked unconscious — killed.

The impossible had happened: a mere mercenary — had slain a Hero chosen by the gods.

What chilled Axel’s blood even more was that Athena did nothing.

She sat upon her heavenly throne, silent and composed, as though the death of one of her own new Heroes meant nothing. No wrath, no punishment, not even the faintest flicker of disappointment. If anything, it seemed as though she approved.

Axel swallowed hard, his throat dry. “What… what is going on?” he whispered under his breath.

That wasn’t the worst part.

One of his classmates, a nervous boy sitting two seats away, had gone pale as chalk. His lips trembled as he whispered, “I… I heard something…”

The boy possessed a B-Rank Skill — Enhanced Hearing — and though his voice shook, Axel leaned forward sharply.

“What did you hear?”

The boy hesitated, eyes darting to the arena where Nathan’s figure was disappearing into the corridors below. “I’m not sure… but I heard them… I heard them say something about… about Hugo’s death…”

The name struck Axel like a blade to the gut.

Hugo. His old friend. The classmate who had vanished without a trace days ago — only for a threatening message to later surface, hinting that his death was no accident.

“What about him?” Axel demanded, voice barely above a whisper.

The boy’s teeth chattered. “It… it was him. Septimius. He was the one who killed Hugo… and buried him.”

The world tilted. Axel’s breath caught in his throat. His mind replayed that day, every night he’d spent wondering who had killed Hugo…

It had been Septimius.

That mercenary — that monster — was the one who had done it.

The boy’s voice faltered. “I… I couldn’t hear everything. I was too scared. But I’m sure of that part. He said it himself…”

Silence hung over the balcony. The five boys surrounding Axel — his remaining allies — all turned to him with pale faces and trembling hands. Their confidence, their arrogance as summoned Heroes, had shattered completely.

“Axel… what do we do?” one of them whispered. “If Septimius really killed Hugo… and now he’s fighting Caesar himself… what if we’re next?”

Their fear was contagious. The thought that Septimius might come for them — the thought that they were on the wrong side of the monster’s wrath — gnawed at their courage like rot.

Axel clenched his fists, slamming them against the railing with a metallic clang. “Shut up!” he barked, though the tremor in his voice betrayed him. “Let me think.”

He forced himself to breathe, to think rationally through the haze of dread clouding his mind.

Caesar. Septimius’s prime target was Caesar. And yet the man himself didn’t seem afraid — even after everything that had happened. That could only mean one thing.

“He has a plan,” Axel muttered. “Caesar must have something prepared… he wouldn’t just sit there otherwise.”

He looked at his companions, their frightened eyes glistening in the torchlight. “We’ll speak to him,” Axel decided at last. “We’ll warn him, and if we need to use force, then we will. Whatever happens, we can’t just sit here and wait to die.”

He said it firmly — but inside, his heart was hammering like a war drum.

Because deep down, Axel knew one thing for certain.

Whatever plans Caesar had… whatever alliances he’d made… none of them would save him if Septimius decided to strike.