I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Chapter 493: Gladiator Tournament! Second Round: The shadows Pit

The Colosseum roared. Rome itself seemed alive, its heartbeat the chanting of tens of thousands who cried for blood and glory. The air above the arena was fevered, electric, thick with the sweat of the crowd and the burning scent of incense poured from braziers along the terraces. Yet below the grandeur of marble and sunlight, eight figures stood silently upon the sands, the chosen gladiators of this second round.

The announcer’s voice boomed, magnified by magic and by the architecture itself:

“Today, brave Rome, your champions will descend! They will not clash against one another in this round, but against the darkness itself! Beasts, traps, and terrors await them in the bowels of the Colosseum!”

The people cheered until the earth trembled.

Nathan—though here, they only knew him as Septimius—stood calm amidst the thunder of mortal voices. White hair ruffled faintly in the wind, crimson eyes half-lidded, as though the cries of adoration reached him from some distant world. To his right, Isak spat on the ground, smirking in arrogant anticipation. To his left, Spartacus stood with a quiet stillness that mirrored Nathan’s own. Their silence seemed to draw them together, an unspoken kinship among men who did not seek fame, but something deeper.

The sand beneath their feet began to tremble. A deep groan echoed through the arena as mechanisms older than memory stirred awake. With a grinding roar, the center of the Colosseum split apart. Sand poured into a vast opening as stone slabs slid away to reveal a yawning pit beneath. Darkness stretched downward, swallowing the light of day.

A cold wind wafted from the chasm, carrying the scent of damp earth, rust, and something faintly metallic—blood, old and dried, soaked into the labyrinth’s walls.

“Into the underworld they go!” Caesar declared from his gilded seat. His voice rolled like thunder. “Let the trial begin!”

Before the eight gladiators could react, the platform beneath their feet shuddered violently. Chains rattled, gears screeched, and the floor dropped. The sand vanished from under them, and gravity seized their bodies.

They fell.

For several heartbeats, there was only the rush of air and the void of darkness. Nathan’s cloak snapped around him, his white hair trailing in the plunge. He landed lightly, absorbing the fall with the grace of someone untroubled, while others staggered or slammed heavily onto the stone floor. The impact shook the pit, scattering dust into the air.

Darkness pressed in, suffocating and thick. Only the sound of ragged breaths and shuffling feet broke the silence. Then—one by one—torches flared to life along the rough walls, ignited by some unseen mechanism. The labyrinth revealed itself.

The chamber stretched wide, its ceilings arched like the inside of a great cavern. The walls bore the marks of chisel and claw alike—half man-made, half gnawed by something far older. Narrow tunnels branched out into a web of passageways, each torch casting trembling shadows that seemed almost alive.

Above, the crowd could not be silenced. Though the gladiators were deep underground, their every move was broadcast by invisible recording devices—arcane constructs that shimmered faintly in the air. The Roman masses, starved for spectacle, watched through illusions projected on grand panels across the Colosseum’s walls.

“Move forward!” One of them barked, his nerves already fraying. He shoved past Spartacus, charging toward one of the tunnels. Ethan followed with a chuckle without forgetting to smile at Nathan.

“You should hurry up.”

But Nathan did not rush. His crimson gaze swept the chamber, noting details the others ignored: the faint scrape marks near the floor where something large had been dragged; the rusted chains bolted to stone; the way one tunnel carried the faint stench of decay while another smelled faintly of damp moss.

Beside him, Spartacus stood tall and silent. The man’s presence was like a mountain—immovable, unshaken. His eyes, however, carried storms, memories of rebellion and blood, of countless brothers lost to Rome’s cruelty.

“You don’t seem in a hurry either,” Nathan remarked softly, his voice barely above the echo of dripping water.

Spartacus glanced at him, brow furrowed, but said nothing at first. Only after the others disappeared into the tunnels did he respond. His voice was low, gravelly, weathered by years of war. “The fool who runs blindly into the dark finds his grave quickest.”

Nathan’s lips curved faintly. “Wise words. You’ve seen enough battles to know.”

“I’ve seen enough cages,” Spartacus muttered, his fists tightening. “Rome built this labyrinth to entertain itself. They expect us to dance for their pleasure, to bleed for their cheers.” His gaze flickered upward, as if he could pierce the tons of stone and see the roaring crowd above. “I’ve spilled blood in these sands before. Too much of it. I’ll not give them more than I must.”

Nathan studied him for a moment. There was weight in his words, the kind of weight only a man forged in chains could carry. He recognized that burden; it mirrored his own in ways Spartacus could never know.

The faintest sound echoed from one of the tunnels—low, guttural, like the growl of something inhuman. The torches along the passage guttered, their flames trembling.

Spartacus turned toward it, shoulders squared. “Beasts.”

Nathan’s crimson eyes glinted. “Of course.”

From deeper within, chains rattled. The growl rose into a roar, reverberating through the chamber until the very walls seemed to shake. Something massive scraped against stone, claws clicking, jaws snapping.

The crowd above screamed with delight, though the gladiators could not hear their words. All they heard was the darkness breathing, shifting, waiting.

Isak smirked, drawing his blade. “Finally, some fun,” he hissed, stalking toward the sound like a wolf scenting prey.

Spartacus shook his head. “Arrogant fool.”

Nathan tilted his head slightly, observing Isak vanish into the tunnel. Then, calmly, he adjusted the gauntlet on his wrist and stepped forward. “Come,” he said to Spartacus. “Let’s see what games Rome has prepared for us.”

Spartacus surprisingly followed Nathan?

Together, the two men entered the nearest tunnel, the torchlight swallowing them whole.

The passage was narrow, its walls slick with dampness, the air thick with the stink of mildew and blood. Every few steps, the ground crunched under bone fragments half-buried in the dirt. Iron spikes jutted from hidden alcoves, rusted but still sharp enough to pierce flesh. Symbols of old gods and beasts were carved into the walls, their meanings lost, their eyes seeming to watch the intruders.

Spartacus’s breathing was steady, his stride unhurried but vigilant. Nathan’s was quieter still, almost absent, like a shadow moving beside him.

“Do you believe in freedom, Septimius?” Spartacus asked suddenly, his voice a rumble in the dark.

Nathan glanced at him, amused by the unexpected question. “Freedom is… relative. To one man, it is escape from chains. To another, it is the power to bind.”

Spartacus frowned. “A strange answer.”

“Reality is strange,” Nathan replied. “But tell me—would you not seize even a fleeting freedom, if only to taste it once?”

Spartacus’s jaw tightened. “I would. And I would burn Rome to ash to give it to others.”

Nathan’s crimson eyes glimmered. He saw truth in those words, a fire not unlike his own. A dangerous ally, this man could be.

A sudden screech ripped through the tunnel, shattering their conversation. From ahead, torchlight wavered violently as something massive charged forward. A hulking shape emerged, low to the ground, its fur matted with filth, its eyes glowing faintly red in the dark. A beast bred for war and slaughter—a dire wolf, starved and enraged.

Its roar shook the passage as it lunged.

Spartacus reacted instantly, raising his shield. The impact rattled his bones, claws scraping sparks against metal. Nathan moved with cold precision, sidestepping the beast’s flank, his crimson eyes locked on the creature’s throat.

But he did not strike yet. Not immediately.

Instead, he studied its movements, its slavering jaws, the way its paws dug trenches in the dirt. Calm amidst chaos, his expression unchanging, as though the beast were no more than a puzzle to be solved.

Spartacus grunted, straining against the wolf’s strength. “Any time now!”

Nathan’s lips curved faintly. “Patience.”

Then, with a flash of steel, he struck—swift, precise. His blade slashed across the wolf’s exposed side, blood spraying across the tunnel walls. The beast howled, recoiling, but Nathan was already moving, following its retreat with unrelenting efficiency.

Spartacus surged forward, slamming his shield into its skull with bone-cracking force. The dire wolf staggered, disoriented. Nathan seized the moment, driving his weapon clean into its heart.

The beast convulsed, its growl dying into a whimper, before collapsing with a thunderous crash that shook dust from the ceiling.

Silence followed, broken only by the dripping of blood onto stone.

Spartacus smiled a little, lowering his shield. He glanced at Nathan, eyes narrowing. “You fight like a man who’s done this a thousand times.”

Nathan wiped his blade clean with a strip of cloth, his expression unreadable. “Perhaps I have.”

Spartacus studied him for a long moment, then gave a faint nod. Respect—not easily won, but given all the same.

Somewhere deeper in the labyrinth, another roar echoed. This one louder. Angrier. The ground beneath their feet trembled.

“Is this truly Rome’s second round?” he asked quietly, his tone almost mocking. “Throwing beasts at us like scraps of meat? A simple culling to reduce our numbers?”

Spartacus wiped his blade on the ragged fur of the slain wolf, his expression grim. The torchlight glinted off the sweat on his brow, but his voice was steady, certain.”A crude method, yes. But effective. The Romans understand one thing above all else—spectacle. They want blood, and this is the easiest way to spill it. Most of these creatures aren’t foes ordinary men could face. They were never meant to be.”

Nathan’s lips curved faintly. He studied Spartacus, noting the immense frame, the scars that carved his skin like a map of endless battles. He was not surprised by the man’s composure in the face of death, but it stirred something almost like admiration.

“But you…” Nathan said softly, tilting his head. “You are not a normal man, are you? Spartacus, the rebel who defied an empire. You commanded an army of slaves during the reign of Crassus, Pompey, and even Caesar himself. You must have carried a great deal of courage—or madness—to ignite such a fire.”

Spartacus’s eyes glinted in the dim light. He stepped past the dead gladiator’s body without a second glance, his boots grinding into the bloodstained sand. His voice was low, steady, but every word carried the weight of conviction.”One had to raise his hands against these people. Rome thrived on chains, and I could not stand idle. So I raised mine.”

Nathan followed, his crimson gaze sharp, yet his tone remained measured, almost contemplative.

“Slavery is indeed… reprehensible. But in a land where crime festers like rot, slaves are Rome’s answer to their own corruption. Punishment and labor keep the city moving.”

Spartacus halted for a heartbeat. His hand clenched tighter around the hilt of his sword, veins bulging against the strain of suppressed rage. His massive chest rose and fell with the rhythm of a man containing storms inside.

“Maybe,” he said at last, his voice deep and dark. “Maybe some deserved it. Criminals. Murderers. Traitors. But not all. Not me. I had committed no crime worthy of chains.”

The hatred in his words was palpable, thick as smoke, filling the tunnel as if it too pressed against the walls. He spoke again, quieter, but with such venom that it resonated through the stone.

“I did not deserve anything of that.”

Nathan observed him with quiet interest, his head tilting ever so slightly. There was something raw in Spartacus’s voice, a scarred wound that even centuries of rebellion could not close. He decided to press.

“You carry much hatred. But tell me—against whom is it truly directed? Against Rome itself? Against Crassus, the one who crushed your rebellion?”

Spartacus exhaled sharply, a bitter, humorless sound that was almost a laugh but carried only contempt. His eyes gleamed with fury, with memory.

“Crassus was a sword, nothing more. Rome was the forge that made it. But no…” His lip curled, and he spat the name like poison. “My hatred belongs not to them. None of it would have begun, had I not been betrayed. None of it, if not for the man who ordered my wife’s death. That dishonorable, treacherous bastard.”

Nathan’s crimson eyes sharpened. His voice, calm as still water, prodded softly.”And who was that?”

Spartacus’s jaw tightened, his massive frame trembling not with fear, but with fury barely restrained. His voice came out like a growl, heavy and final.”Octavius.”

For a heartbeat, silence stretched in the tunnel. The torches flickered, shadows crawling across the walls like phantoms.

Nathan’s lips pressed into a faint smile, though the true amusement danced only in his eyes. He lowered his gaze slightly, hiding the smirk that threatened to reveal itself.

How interesting.