I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Chapter 675: Ryo

The river moved without urgency past the mossy stones, carrying the cold of somewhere higher up in the mountains — clean, indifferent, the kind of water that had been running this particular course for centuries and would continue long after everyone standing beside it was gone.

Nathan stood at its edge and let Aphrodite work.

She had been at it for a while — her fingers moving through his hair, across his face, her power operating with the precise, intimate attention of a goddess whose domain included physical form in every dimension. Not painful. Not dramatic. Simply a gradual, careful revision, the way a sculptor removes material until the shape underneath is revealed.

She stepped back.

”There,” she said, her pink eyes moving across her work with the satisfaction of someone who had genuinely enjoyed the process. ”You look very good.”

Nathan turned toward the river.

His reflection looked back at him from the current’s surface — pitch-dark hair, black eyes, the sharp and delicate features of someone who existed at the intersection of two bloodlines. Almost Kastorian. Not quite. The half-blood read immediately — someone would look at him and see a man born between two worlds, which made him simultaneously familiar and foreign. Neither fully placeable nor fully suspicious.

Useful.

”I asked for an appearance that wouldn’t draw attention,” Nathan said, glancing at her.

”And I delivered it,” Aphrodite said, raising one finger with the air of someone identifying the important nuance. ”Nobody will feel Amaterasu’s fire or Khione’s ice inside you. No divine signature, no blessed warmth, nothing that a god’s senses would catch. They will look at you and see an extremely handsome ronin.” She paused. ”The handsome part I couldn’t help. That is simply the baseline.”

”Ronin,” Nathan repeated, letting the shape of the identity settle.

It was right. A masterless swordsman working for himself , answering to no clan, no lord, no political faction. Present in the capital for his own reasons, or for money, or for nothing in particular. Invisible in the particular way that men without allegiances were invisible in a city full of people performing theirs.

He would move through Kastoria’s political architecture like a stone through water — present, observable, but leaving no wake that led back to anything that mattered.

Aphrodite moved behind him. Her hands found his hair again, gathering it efficiently, and tied it back in a short ponytail at the base of his neck. She stepped back and examined the result with the critical attention of someone who had strong opinions about this.

”Better,” she decided, her cheeks carrying a faint flush she was making no particular effort to conceal. ”Much better.”

”You’re enjoying this considerably more than the task requires,” Nathan said.

”You always suppress my charm blessing,” she said, her voice carrying the mild grievance of someone who had raised this complaint before and expected it to remain unresolved. ”If I didn’t have to work around your constant interference—”

”If I didn’t suppress it I’d have twice the women I currently have and four times the complications,” Nathan replied.

He pulled the Tenebrian coat from his shoulders and set it aside, followed by his shirt and pants — shedding Samael the Lord Commander piece by piece until the man was gone and just a body remained, ready to become someone else.

He reached into his spatial storage and took what he’d prepared.

The black hakama went on first — the wide, structured pants that moved like cloth but held like armor when you needed them to, the Kastorian cut perfectly weighted for someone who spent his time moving rather than standing in ceremony. He tightened them at the waist with practiced efficiency.

The black kimono top followed — V-neckline, clean lines, fitted through the shoulders and loose at the arms in the way that allowed a full draw without restriction. He tucked it into the hakama and ran his hands down the front once.

The black cord last, wrapped twice around his waist and tied at the side.

He looked like someone who had been wearing this his entire life.

”Do you have it?” he asked.

Aphrodite smiled.

She reached out her hand and the air in front of her palm shimmered — and then the katana was there, resting across her fingers, its black scabbard catching the river’s reflected light in a way that seemed to absorb rather than reflect it.

Even from across the distance Nathan felt it.

Not power exactly. Something older and less directed than power — a dense, inward gravity, the sensation of standing near something that had been used for purposes that had soaked permanently into the metal.

”That’s what Amaterasu sent?” he asked.

”She spoils you quite impressively,” Aphrodite said, extending it toward him.

Nathan reached out and closed his hand around the black scabbard.

A shiver ran through him immediately — not the shiver of cold or fear but the specific physical response of his nervous system registering something it recognized as significant. The katana radiated darkness the way a coal radiated heat — quietly, continuously, from the inside out.

He examined it.

”What is this blade,” he said. Not entirely a question.

”A Murasama,” Aphrodite said, her tone carrying the particular quality of someone delivering information they find genuinely interesting. ”There was a swordsmith — five centuries ago, in Kastoria’s earlier history. Extraordinarily talented. His ordinary blades were already considered masterworks.” She paused. ”Then he began making a different kind. He had theorized that truly superior weapons required a price beyond craft — that the blade had to be fed, during its forging, with blood and flesh and suffering. He performed those sacrifices. The blades he made during that period were...” She considered the word. ”Remarkable. And deeply wrong so he had been...”

”He was executed,” Nathan said.

”By the King at the time, yes. Most of his cursed blades were destroyed immediately.” She looked at the katana in Nathan’s hand. ”Most.”

Nathan looked at it.

”The blades are strong but the wielder had to accept to suffer to wield them,” Aphrodite said.

”The wielder suffers,” Nathan said, reading it from the blade’s presence against his palm, the edge of something that pressed inward as much as outward, that asked something of the hand holding it.

”Pain,” Aphrodite nodded. ”Constant, while drawn. Some who’ve held it describe it as the blade feeding — drawing from the wielder the same price it demanded during its making.” She tilted her head. ”Most people who’ve attempted to use it have put it down within minutes. A few have been destroyed by it entirely.” She looked at him. ”But pain is a fairly specific problem for a fairly specific kind of person. And I think we both know what your relationship with pain looks like.”

Nathan’s lips curved slightly.

The Pandora curses had been burning through him since before he arrived in Kastoria — that constant, deep, structural suffering that his body had learned to carry the way other people carried breathing. Omnipresent. Unrelenting. Already occupying the space where the blade’s cost would try to land.

There was no room left in him for the katana to hurt more than he could handle.

He turned it once in his hand, feeling the weight distribute across his palm — perfectly balanced, the scabbard’s black lacquer warm against his skin despite the morning’s chill.

Nathan’s fingers closed around the black hilt.

He drew slowly — not a combat draw, a slow one, giving the blade time to announce itself.

It did.

Darkness seeped from the gap between blade and scabbard before the steel was even visible — not smoke, not shadow exactly, but the specific visual distortion of something that had been sealed for a very long time and remembered what it was the moment air touched it again. A century of containment releasing in a slow, patient exhale.

The blade emerged black.

Not darkened metal, not a surface treatment — fundamentally, completely black, the color of something that absorbed light rather than reflected it. Nathan’s sharp eyes caught the curse living inside the steel immediately — not metaphorically, not as an impression, but as a visible structure, a dense weaving of something old and deliberate running through the blade’s grain like a second edge.

He pulled it halfway out.

The pain arrived immediately.

Specific, inward, pressing through the palm and up the forearm with the precise quality of something feeding — not the blunt impact of a wound but the considered, continuous draw of something that knew what it wanted and was taking it steadily. Under normal circumstances, Nathan could see why it had broken every wielder who’d attempted it.

Under his circumstances, it found a space already entirely occupied.

The Pandora curses had been burning through him without pause for longer than he could clearly remember. Every joint, every breath, the constant deep structural suffering that his body had learned to carry as its baseline state. The Kyōmei pressed its cost against that baseline and found no room to expand into.

Nathan looked at the blade for a moment.

Then he slid it back into the scabbard and heard the seal click shut.

”Amaterasu gave me a cursed blade,” he said, and the smile arrived small and genuine.

”She knows what fits you perfectly,” Aphrodite said, her giggle carrying the warmth of someone genuinely delighted by the match.

”She does,” Nathan confirmed.

He turned the scabbard in his hand once more. Whatever its history, whatever blood and suffering had gone into its making five centuries ago — the craft underneath all of that was extraordinary. The weight distribution, the balance point, the way it settled into his grip as though it had been made for a specific hand and had been waiting for that hand to find it.

Sharp. That was all he needed from it.

”Does it have a name?” he asked.

Aphrodite’s smile widened. ”Murasama Kyōmei. Kyōmei, for short. Means resonance or something?”

”Kyōmei,” Nathan repeated.

The name carried its own particular weight — a blade that resonated with its wielder’s suffering, that drew from the same source it filled. He could see why the smith had chosen it.

He slid Kyōmei through the black cord at his waist and felt it settle there — natural, immediate, already belonging in that position as though it had always occupied it.

He shed his boots last, trading them for sandals, his feet finding the road’s texture differently through the thinner sole. He adjusted his stance once — feeling the hakama move, the kimono’s fit across his shoulders, Kyōmei’s weight at his hip — and went still.

The wind moved through the cedar trees above the river. The water continued past without comment.

”I think I’m fine now,” Nathan said.

Aphrodite was quiet for a moment.

When she spoke, the lightness in her voice had shifted slightly — still present, but underneath it something more careful.

”Sekhmet at Alexandria,” she said. ”Isis then. Athena at Rome.” She looked at him. ”And now Susanoo. I genuinely don’t know how you’re still alive, Nate.”

”I have beautiful capable goddesses at my side,” Nathan replied. ”It makes dying considerably more inconvenient.”

Aphrodite laughed — brief, genuine. ”That is not the only reason and you know it.”

He did know it. He didn’t argue the point.

”Kastoria is under threat,” he said. ”Amaterasu is under threat. Those are reasons enough.”

”I know,” Aphrodite said. Her usual performance was almost entirely absent now — what remained was simply her, looking at him the way she looked at him when she had stopped managing the impression and was just seeing him. ”Amaterasu is — she’s beyond grateful that you’re doing this. Beyond. But she didn’t want it, Nathan. Not like this. Because she knows what it costs.”

”It doesn’t matter,” Nathan said. ”You, Amaterasu — any of you. If facing a god is what’s necessary, I’ll face one. But I’m not stupid enough to do it straight on.”

”I know,” she said again. Softer. ”That’s part of why.” She stopped herself there — whatever she’d been going to say, folded back.

She stepped forward and reached up, her hand against his cheek.

”Be careful,” she said simply.

Nathan held her gaze for a moment.

”Keep an eye on Tenebria while I’m here,” he said. ”Just in case.”

”I will.”

”And Hera — how close?”

Aphrodite’s expression shifted back toward its usual territory — the knowing curve at the corner of her mouth, the specific smile of someone conducting a negotiation that was going exactly as planned. ”She’s breaking. Considerably. I’m getting somewhere real.”

”I need her before the Light Empire campaign begins,” Nathan said. ”Not after.”

”It will happen,” Aphrodite said, the certainty in her voice carrying the weight of someone who had been doing this for a very long time and knew exactly which thread to pull. ”Keep your focus on Kastoria. Leave Hera to me.”

Nathan nodded.

Aphrodite looked at him for one more moment — the pink eyes holding something that didn’t need to be named and wasn’t going to be — and kissed him.

Soft. Brief. The kind of kiss that was entirely about what it was and nothing else.

Then she was gone.

Not gradually — simply gone, the space she’d occupied returning to ordinary morning air, the cedar smell and the river sound filling back in without ceremony.

Nathan stood alone beside the water.

He looked south along the road — the direction away from the capital, away from Kastoria’s political center, toward the quieter territories where a woman who had left everything behind had been living for however many years it had been since her sister died.

Princess Ayame.

He didn’t know her face. He knew her reputation — beloved in the capital, smart, capable, the kind of person whose absence had been felt without anyone quite being able to articulate why until everything started going wrong. Kaguya had said she would come back if asked correctly.

Nathan intended to ask correctly.

He adjusted Kyōmei at his hip one final time, felt the blade’s dark pulse against his palm through the scabbard, and started walking.

A ronin called Ryo heading south on a dusty road, looking for a princess who didn’t want to be found.