I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Chapter 494: Gladiator Tournament! Second Round: Spider Monsters!

The tunnel dipped lower. The further they descended, the more corpses they found. Broken bodies, mauled limbs scattered, faces shredded beyond recognition. Each corpse was fresh, blood still steaming faintly in the cool subterranean air. The walls, slick with moisture, carried the faint echo of skittering.

Behind them, another scream cut short with a wet snap. Spartacus slowed, shield angled toward the sound. Nathan merely listened, head tilted. “They die quickly,” he murmured. “Whatever stalks these halls is efficient.”

The tunnel widened abruptly. Ahead stretched an opening into a vast cavern. The smell hit them first—thick, cloying rot mixed with iron tang of spilled blood. Torches embedded in the rock walls gave faint light, flickering over the scene before them.

Ten corpses. Maybe more. Gladiators sprawled across the stone, bodies split open, entrails spilled like offerings. Blood pooled across the uneven floor, turning the rock into a glistening red mosaic. Weapons lay abandoned, shields shattered, helmets caved in.

Yet… there was no beast.

The cavern was circular, walls lost in darkness above. Torches sputtered as though the air itself trembled. Nathan’s crimson eyes swept the room, noting each detail with unnerving serenity. Spartacus raised his shield higher, gladius ready. His nostrils flared, breathing deep like a hound catching scent.

Then came the sound.

A faint groan—wet, gurgling—drifted from above. A single droplet fell, striking the ground near Spartacus’s foot. It was viscous, shimmering faintly in the torchlight. Drool.

Spartacus lifted his gaze. Nathan had already looked upward.

From the cavern ceiling, something vast shifted. Eight legs unfurled, jointed and black, glistening with a sheen of slime. The creature descended slowly, chitin scraping against stone. Its bloated body filled the shadows, but its face—its face was human.

A grotesque parody of woman’s beauty, stretched and distorted. Pale skin pulled taut over the spider’s monstrous bulk. Lips parted, strings of saliva dripping down. Eyes—too many, too wide, too hungry—blinked in erratic patterns.

The creature drooled, a long string falling and splattering on a corpse below. Then, with a shriek that shook the cavern walls, it lunged.

Nathan moved before Spartacus. He stepped aside with the grace of a dancer, golden sword flashing from its sheath. The blade—Alexander the Great’s legacy—gleamed with ethereal radiance as it cut through the dark.

Personal weapons were allowed from here on after the first round.

Spartacus roared, shield raised. The beast slammed against him, the force rattling the cavern. His gladius struck upward, slicing into one of the legs. Black ichor sprayed. The beast shrieked, rearing back.

Nathan’s movements were fluid, detached. His golden blade arced, severing two of the monstrous legs cleanly. The spider stumbled, screeching, but Nathan’s expression never shifted. His strikes were precise, almost surgical, as though he were dissecting rather than battling.

Spartacus fought with fury, shield intercepting strands of sticky web that shot from the creature’s maw. The silk sizzled against bronze, but he pushed forward, muscles bulging as he swung in brutal arcs. His blade hacked deep, another leg severed, ichor splattering across his chest.

The cavern rang with clashing steel, shrieks, and the hiss of webbing.

Then Spartacus grunted—a sharp sound of pain. He staggered, hand flying to his neck. Behind him, another figure loomed.

A second spider. Smaller, but no less grotesque. Its torso, however, was distinctly feminine—half-woman, half-spider. Pale skin, flowing black hair, yet lower body twisted into arachnid form. Her fangs sank into Spartacus’s neck, venom pulsing.

Spartacus roared in fury, trying to swing, but the venom spread quickly. His legs buckled. The spider-woman hissed, beginning to wrap him in silk.

Nathan moved like lightning. His sword swept in a gleam of gold, severing the silk before it bound. He wrenched Spartacus free, pushing him back against the cavern wall.

Spartacus growled, eyes bloodshot. “I can fight. I’m not down yet!” His voice was strained, venom already searing his veins.

Nathan smirked. “Stay down. This fight requires style. I’ve a woman to impress.” His gaze flicked mockingly to the spiders, who hissed furiously.

Spartacus snarled but sank to one knee, gripping his sword stubbornly. He actually wanted to see what Nathan was capable of just in case in the next rounds he had to fight him.

Nathan stepped forward, alone now, blade in hand. His movements were effortless, weaving between strikes of the monstrous mother and her spider-daughter. The golden sword flashed, each swing precise, cutting through webs and claws alike. He ducked under fangs, twisted aside from pouncing strikes, his face calm as though he were sparring rather than surviving.

The spiders shrieked in fury. Together they lunged, one from above, the other from the side. Nathan’s sword ignited—first with ordinary flame, crackling along the edge. Then deeper fire surged, golden-red, carrying the divine sear of Amaterasu herself.

The cavern lit in searing brilliance. The spiders recoiled, shrieking at the unbearable heat. Nathan’s eyes gleamed crimson as he spun, blade trailing fire in a blazing arc.

The first swing cut deep, severing limbs. Black ichor hissed as it struck the burning steel. The second swing pierced straight through the smaller one’s thorax, flames bursting from the wound. The spider-woman screamed, convulsed, then collapsed into a smoldering heap.

The larger beast reeled, legs thrashing, body aflame where Nathan’s strike had landed. It screeched, body twisting in agony, but Nathan pressed forward mercilessly. His blade sliced through limb after limb, each stroke carving burning flesh until the monster collapsed to the ground, writhing.

With a final thrust, Nathan drove the flaming sword straight through its grotesque human face. The fire consumed it from within, bursting its body into a pyre of ichor and smoke.

The cavern fell silent, save for the crackle of fire.

Nathan exhaled softly, lowering the sword. The golden flame died, leaving only steel gleaming faintly in the torchlight.

Behind him, Spartacus pushed himself upright, staggering but still gripping his shield. His skin was pale, veins darkened by venom, but his eyes burned with unyielding will.

Nathan turned to him, lips curving faintly. “You owe me.”

Spartacus snorted, defiance undimmed. “I fight my own battles.” Yet despite the words, there was the faintest smile tugging at his mouth.

Nathan’s gaze lingered, impressed. Even poisoned, even nearly wrapped in silk, Spartacus stood tall, refusing to bend. That stubborn fire, that refusal to yield—it was something Nathan could respect.

The cavern stank of blood and smoke. The corpses of the spiders twitched faintly as the last of their nerves died. Around them, the walls dripped ichor. But Nathan only sheathed his blade, white hair falling across his crimson eyes.

“Shall we continue?” he asked lightly, as if they had merely swatted away insects.

Spartacus growled, shouldered his shield, and stepped forward. “Lead the way.”

And deeper into the tunnels they went.

°°°°°

The atmosphere within the colossal arena was nothing short of electrifying. The vast colosseum trembled under the roar of the countless spectators who stamped their feet, clapped their hands, and shouted until their voices cracked. It was not merely a fight they were witnessing—it was the clash of legends, a moment destined to be carved into the memory of history itself.

What unfolded before their eyes seemed almost impossible, a dreamlike collision of two worlds, two kingdoms whose stories had been passed down through generations. Septimius and Spartacus—warriors whose very names carried weight and awe—were not locked in combat against one another as the crowd had first expected. No, against all expectations, they had forged an alliance. The sight of these two titans standing shoulder to shoulder sent waves of excitement through the stands.

The audience erupted, half in shock, half in rapture. Many had anticipated blood to be spilled between them, a duel that would echo for centuries. Instead, the union of these men promised something even greater—chaos, glory, and a fight that transcended imagination.

But not all were pleased. Some faces among the elite watching the projection darkened with disbelief.

Crassus clenched his jaw, his brows furrowed. “Why in the world are they fighting together?” he demanded, his voice sharp with both frustration and confusion.

Caesar, standing beside him with arms folded, gave no immediate answer. His tone, when he finally spoke, was calm and edged with irony. “That is indeed… curious.” His sharp gaze never left the glowing projection that displayed the battlefield. He suspected Nathan’s hand in this—suspected some grand strategy unfolding quietly in the shadows. To Caesar, it was clear: Septimius and Spartacus joining forces was not mere chance. Nathan was moving pieces across the board, and that might be for him maybe he thought otherwise he couldn’t understand why he was teaming up with Spartacus unless it was to better backstab him later?

Behind, Julia pressed a hand against her chest, relief softening her face. She had been terrified earlier when Septimius fought the monstrous twin spiders, her heart hammering with fear that he would not survive. Now, seeing him alive, breathing, and even united with Spartacus, her lips curved into a gentle smile. “I think it’s wonderful,” she murmured, her eyes bright with admiration. “Septimius finally has someone to fight beside him…”

Octavius, however, remained cold and silent. His sharp eyes studied the projection, watching every movement of Spartacus and Septimius as they strode together. His heart seethed with hatred, though he kept it buried beneath a mask of calm. He longed for their downfall, imagined countless ways to see them broken, crushed, and erased. He despised Spartacus with every fiber of his being. As for Septimius—truthfully, the man had done him no direct harm. Yet Octavius’s mistrust ran deep, fueled by envy and instinctive dislike. In his mind, both men were enemies, and both deserved death.

Far above the mortal plane, in the heavens where the divine gathered, the gods themselves were transfixed. Their gazes fell upon Nathan, and even among immortals, silence reigned for a moment. His movements on the battlefield were flawless, every strike and motion flowing like water, graceful yet devastating. He fought with an ease that belied the ferocity of the battle, his expression composed, his body seemingly untaxed. But what stirred them even more was the aura that radiated from him—an inexplicable force, magnetic and alluring, that drew their eyes and stirred something deep within them.

None of them realized the truth: that this charm from Nathan was thanks to Aphrodite’s passive Divine Skill, seeping into the air and weaving havoc among even the gods, though Nathan himself had tried to suppress its potency.

Ishtar, unable to contain herself, clapped her hands together and cried out, “He is magnificent!” Her voice rang like a bell across the assembly of deities.

Sif, standing nearby, let out a weary sigh. “That’s the fifth time you’ve said it, Ishtar.”

“I know, I know!” Ishtar’s pink eyes glittered with hunger and excitement. “But how can I help myself? I cannot resist! After this tournament, I will take him with me—to Babylonia! I’ll give him everything, everything his heart desires!” Her lips parted into a dangerous smile as she licked them, her voice dropping into a sultry murmur.

She was clearly thinking the possibility of kidnapping him.

But her giddy ambition froze the moment a cold shiver ran down her spine. Ishtar turned her head and met the icy glare of Athena, whose steely gaze carried a silent warning. Athena’s displeasure was palpable, a blade of frost cutting through the goddess’s reckless lust.

Sif chuckled softly, amused. “It seems Athena has taken a liking to him. Not surprising, really. Nathan may very well be the only hope left for Pandora.”

Ishtar pouted like a scolded child. “I don’t care. I still want a taste of him…”

“You are hopeless,” Sif muttered, shaking her head.

While they bantered, Isis sat quietly, her eyes narrowed in contemplation. She had observed Nathan wielding Alexander the Great’s sword with remarkable proficiency, a feat impressive enough on its own. But what unsettled her most was the fire he had conjured earlier. Its brilliance was unlike any flame she had seen—it did not resemble mortal fire, nor any divine flame she recognized. It carried a weight, a presence that made her uneasy.

Beside her, Amaterasu wore a composed smile, but beneath her serene mask, her palms grew damp with sweat. She alone realized the danger Nathan was courting. The gods could only view the battles through the colossal projection, unable to sense directly the true essence of the powers being unleashed. Nathan had cleverly exploited this limitation, drawing upon divine magics in ways that disguised their origin. But Amaterasu knew that if he grew reckless—if he dared to manifest her sacred fire openly—Isis and the others would recognize it in an instant.

And if that happened, no veil of deception could protect him…