I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC220 Charybdis
220 Charybdis
As I sensed Charybdis's discomfort ripple through the room, I moved toward her. She was never at ease in gatherings, especially with strangers. People made her uneasy; only a few exceptions—Scylla, Medea, and I—had ever managed to gain her trust, after a long time of fight and blood shedding....
Even though she'd spent time with the Trojans, she couldn't seem to find a natural ease with them, nothing like the familiarity she shared with us.
"Let's talk," I murmured softly as I neared her.
My presence alone was enough to scatter the nearby Trojans, who parted and left us in an instant. Charybdis looked up at me, her usual stoic expression easing ever so slightly, relief flickering in her gaze as if I had pulled her from a raging sea. Without a word, she fell into step beside me, and we slipped away to a secluded corner of the hall, a place quiet enough for us to speak without interruption. I could feel a lingering gaze on us, one that felt like Atalanta's—and perhaps another's—but I pushed the thought aside.
Once we were alone, I offered a reassuring smile. "You did well today, Charybdis. Keep up the good work and stay close to Aeneas."
Charybdis nodded in acknowledgment, but there was a faint frown that creased her brow, subtle yet unmistakable.
"What's wrong?" I asked, sensing her hesitation.
"I... should be protecting you, Samael," she replied, her voice quiet but laced with a stubborn resolve.
"Do you think I need protecting?" I countered, a hint of amusement in my voice.
Without a moment's hesitation, she answered, "No. But I made a promise to Medea and Scylla that I would protect you."
The corners of my mouth lifted in a half-smile. Those three had formed a bond stronger than I had anticipated—perhaps united by their fierce, almost obsessive loyalty toward me.
After the intense battle with Kastoria and her so-called Heroes, I came to a sobering realization: I needed more allies by my side, ones with the strength and resilience to stand against the Divine Knights. Medea was invaluable, her magic beyond compare, but she was a sorceress—her power wielded through spells and intricate incantations, not the brutal force needed to clash blade-to-blade with the Divine Knights. I needed fighters, protectors, warriors capable of not only holding their own in combat but also standing as unbreakable shields alongside me.
It wasn't easy to find people of such rare caliber. Medea herself was an exceptional individual, a treasure in every sense. I felt fortunate to have won her loyalty, knowing that her skill and intelligence were irreplaceable. Yet, as I pondered who else might possess the power to meet my needs, Aphrodite approached me with a suggestion that was as intriguing as it was daunting.
"Have you considered Charybdis and Scylla?" she proposed.
Charybdis and Scylla—the very names stirred memories of dark legends and violent seas. They weren't mere mortals or warriors but legendary monsters of the ocean. Their names alone inspired fear, and for a moment, I hesitated. Monsters they might be, but they could assume human forms, and perhaps, with the right persuasion, they could become powerful allies.
Of course, my first encounter with them had been anything but friendly. When I found them, still bound to the ocean and cursed to terrorize passing ships, they were in their true forms—fierce, monstrous beings of legend. Battling them had pushed me to the brink, and I came close to losing my life in the struggle. But somehow, through sheer determination, I managed not only to survive but to subdue them, to show them that I could offer a life beyond their prison of endless violence and isolation.
I shattered the chains that bound them to the ocean depths, freeing them from their roles as mere nightmares to sailors. And when I showed them what I could provide—freedom, purpose, and respect—they pledged their loyalty to me without hesitation. Now, Charybdis and Scylla were not just monstrous forces of nature; they were allies, fiercely loyal and bound to me through more than mere words or promises.
"If I truly find myself in danger, I will call on you," I assured her. "But until then, your duty is to protect Aeneas. And be cautious—don't let your strength draw unnecessary attention. You're known even among the gods, and Atalanta, Jason, and Heracles have all crossed paths with you before, even if it was only in your monstrous form."
The mention of her past encounters seemed to sink in. During their adventures as Argonauts, the heroes had briefly encountered both Charybdis and Scylla in their terrifying states. I didn't want that recognition to threaten the delicate balance of things now, especially with Atalanta so close. Charybdis's steady nod told me she understood the gravity of the request.
"Understood," she murmured, her loyalty unquestionable.
I took a moment to observe her, appreciating how the Trojan tunic she wore fit her frame, the blue fabric a stark but pleasing contrast to her powerful presence. She looked every bit the part of a Trojan warrior, though I knew her true strength far surpassed what any of them could imagine. No wonder the Trojans seemed eager to catch her attention. She was captivating—her beauty was raw, intense, and slightly intimidating.
"Don't you look good, Charybdis?" I remarked with a smile. The blue tunic suited her well, accentuating her form in a way that would make any man turn his head. She might be reluctant around others, but there was no denying the allure she carried.
A visible shiver ran through her body at the compliment, her control momentarily faltering. She had already been on edge, but this slight praise seemed to undo her further. I could see it—the strain of holding herself together, the careful mask beginning to slip as her emotions churned beneath the surface. It seemed she had reached her limit, and it was time to help her regain her balance.
I leaned in, my breath warm against her ear, my voice a murmur that barely carried over the hum of the crowded hall. "Let's take care of that tension," I whispered, the words laced with promises that sparked something deep within her. "I'll help you take back control." Her reaction was immediate, almost visceral—a shiver traveled up her spine, delicate yet undeniable, as her gaze met mine, flickering with a blend of anticipation and need.
The hall was crowded, but we found a pocket of privacy, tucked away in a secluded alcove. I drew a curtain across, leaving us in a quiet, shadowed space, half-hidden from the bustling world outside. The faint sounds of laughter and clinking glasses faded, leaving only the charged silence between us. We blended into the stillness, our presence muted, slipping into a space where only she and I existed.
With a firm touch, I grasped her chin, tilting her face up to meet mine, and pressed my lips to hers. Her lips were cold, soft as velvet under mine, sending a jolt through me.
"Hmmn~~~" She let out a soft, involuntary moan as I lingered, savoring the taste, tracing the line of her jaw, letting my tongue glide over the delicate curve of her chin before capturing her mouth again. Her reaction was immediate, each quiet gasp and shiver drawing us closer to the edge.
"Get down." My voice was barely above a whisper, but it held a command that she didn't hesitate to follow. She sank to her knees, her eyes steady on mine as she settled herself before me, her breath coming in soft, eager puffs. With a slow, practiced motion, I eased down my pants, revealing myself to her, thick and heavy, still soft but throbbing with anticipation.
Her gaze lingered, her lips parting just slightly as she took me in, her fingers already moving to wrap around me, gentle but insistent. Her touch was soft, her hands cool and deft, each stroke awakening a deeper need within me. She was focused, attentive, her grip firm as she began to move, each stroke a careful, deliberate caress, guided by instinct and an undeniable eagerness.
I reached out, threading my fingers through her midnight-blue hair, relishing the feel of the silken strands against my hand. My touch seemed to ignite something in her, and her pace quickened, her strokes coming faster, each one pulling me closer to that edge of raw, unrestrained need.
With my cock swelling in her hand, the warmth of her breath washed over me as she leaned forward, her lips parting just slightly before her tongue darted out to graze my sensitive tip. Her tongue moved slowly, deliberately, as if savoring each inch, and I couldn't help but shudder, a low, quiet groan slipping from my lips. The sheer indulgence of her mouth against me—soft, warm, and wet—sent a shiver down my spine, heightening every nerve.
She let out a satisfied murmur, a sound that seemed to roll straight through me, amplifying the pleasure with each gentle lap. Her gaze flicked up to mine as she worked, her eyes half-lidded, filled with a desire that matched my own. There was something intensely satisfying about the way she approached me, as if she were tasting something precious, something she'd waited for, her tongue swirling over the head of my cock before dipping down again to trace the sensitive slit, where my precum was already starting to bead.
"Sluuurp!"
The sight of her leaning in again, her mouth moving over my length, licking away every drop of my precum as if it were the sweetest nectar, made my cock twitch in response, a fresh surge of arousal pumping through me. Her cheeks flushed a faint pink as she tasted it, her lashes fluttering for just a moment, but her hunger was unmistakable. The desire to drink in every part of me was written on her face.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC224 Agamemnon's angry
224 Agamemnon's angry
The atmosphere in the Greek camp was tense, a far cry from the elation they'd felt after the fall of Lyrnessus. Despite their recent conquest, the Greeks were now faced with a challenge far greater than any they had anticipated—Troy. This was no ordinary city; it was a formidable stronghold, a fortress whose walls and defenses seemed almost invincible. The Greeks hadn't even managed to reach the outer walls, repelled time and again by Troy's powerful army, whose discipline and resilience had surprised even the most seasoned Greek commanders.
The Greeks had gravely underestimated the Trojans—not just their physical strength, but also their unwavering spirit and resilience. Even as the Greeks cut off neighboring Trojan towns, isolating Troy, the city stood defiant, its high walls casting long shadows over the Greek encampments below. Each passing day tested the Greeks' resolve, and as the siege dragged into its third month, their initial fervor began to wane. Victories came only in minor skirmishes, while the main siege saw little to no progress.
To make matters worse, the Greeks were demoralized by the exploits of Hector, Troy's greatest champion. In every clash, Hector seemed unstoppable, cutting through the Greek lines with a terrifying ferocity that sent chills through even the bravest warriors. His strength and tactical prowess made him a force on the battlefield, and his presence alone left the Greeks wary of engaging too closely. Whispers spread among the soldiers; some even admitted to fearing Hector more than the walls of Troy itself. Each defeat at his hands cast a growing shadow over the camp, and slowly, despair crept in.
Meanwhile, Agamemnon, their leader and King of Kings, had sunk into a dark and brooding mood, clouded by a string of recent losses that felt as personal as they were strategic. It had all begun with the dreadful sacrifice of his daughter, Iphigenia, to appease the gods for a favorable journey to Troy. While the decision had left him tormented, he'd tried to focus on the war, finding a temporary distraction in the beauty of Astynome, a priestess of Apollo and a prize he had seized with triumph. She was stunning, a symbol of his conquest, and he had relished the thought of claiming her fully.
But just as he was on the verge of enjoying his reward, Astynome was snatched from under his nose by a brazen intruder, an audacious act that left him seething. The insult was worsened by a calamity that struck the very same day—a prized ship, loaded with weapons meant to reinforce his troops, was set ablaze and sunk to the ocean's depths. The fire lit up the night sky, and Agamemnon could do nothing but watch as flames consumed the vessel and its precious cargo.
It was the worst night Agamemnon had ever known. It had started with the humiliation of being cursed publicly by Astynome's father, who had vowed that Agamemnon would meet a vile and bitter humiliating end. Then came Astynome's disappearance, and finally, the devastating destruction of his ship.
19:56
It was the worst night Agamemnon had ever known. It had started with the humiliation of being cursed publicly by Astynome's father, who had vowed that Agamemnon would meet a vile and bitter humiliating end. Then came Astynome's disappearance, and finally, the devastating destruction of his ship.
Agamemnon's gloom was contagious, casting a shadow over the Greek camp that only deepened with each passing day. His soldiers, once fiercely determined, now sensed their king's lack of enthusiasm, and it was wearing on them. Though Agamemnon was far from depressed, the loss of his prize had dimmed his spirits. Everyone else seemed to revel in small victories or moments of joy, but he, the King of Kings, felt only bitterness. How could his soldiers celebrate while he, the leader of all Greece, sat in this quiet misery?
"Agamemnon," came a familiar voice, heavy with concern. Nestor, the wise and seasoned advisor, regarded him with a sigh as he found the king seated, motionless, his gaze lost in the distance. The camp was quiet today, a rare pause in the relentless struggle. The Greeks and Trojans alike needed moments of reprieve, for neither side could fight without rest. But it wasn't the first time Agamemnon had chosen to sit idle, retreating from the duties that once energized him. He had even missed several battles, an absence felt keenly by his men, who looked to him for guidance and strength.
"I had a vision, Nestor," Agamemnon said abruptly, his voice tense. "Athena herself appeared to me, proclaiming that Hera stands behind me, that this war is my path to glory. She said this siege of Troy was my destiny, my moment to carve my name into history." His eyes gleamed with a flicker of hope, but it quickly faded. The vision of Athena had initially rekindled his resolve when he'd hesitated to join the war for the sake of his brother's stolen honor. Yet now, that promise of glory felt distant, obscured by frustration and insult. "But what glory do I see now? Only shame and dishonor," he muttered, his fists clenching in quiet fury.
At that moment, Odysseus entered the tent with his characteristic calm, his expression a mixture of empathy and determination. The other Greek leaders—Menelaus, Ajax, Diomedes—had noticed Agamemnon's brooding, and they knew his despair threatened to unravel the unity of their forces. They sent Odysseus, the king of Ithaca and master of diplomacy, knowing his words carried weight even with Agamemnon.
"King Agamemnon, you're too hard on yourself," Odysseus began with a reassuring smile. "Your men look to you; they need your strength and guidance. This war—this is your war," he said firmly, locking eyes with Agamemnon.
Agamemnon laughed bitterly. "My war? My men have reaped their rewards, found joy in the spoils of battle, while I am left with nothing but emptiness. I was robbed of my prize, my share of glory."
Odysseus chuckled, shaking his head. "If rewards are the issue, I'll give you all that I have—every piece of wealth, every treasure I've claimed in battle. And I'll speak to the other kings; they would surely share as well." Odysseus leaned closer, his voice softening. "I want to end this war, King Agamemnon, and return to Ithaca. My wife and son wait for me there. None of us need these treasures as much as we need victory, as much as we need you to lead us."
"I don't want money!" Agamemnon's voice thundered through the tent as he stomped his foot, his eyes flaring with frustration. "I want Apollo's priestess back. I want Astynome." Odysseus faltered, glancing at Nestor for guidance. The old man gave a slow, weary shake of his head, unable to comprehend the depth of Agamemnon's obsession with this woman. But he understood one thing: perhaps Agamemnon was using Astynome as an anchor, a desperate way to channel the anguish he'd been harboring since he'd sacrificed his daughter, Iphigenia, for the sake of this war. Losing Astynome now had opened a wound he couldn't ignore.
"Why her?" Odysseus ventured, his tone gentle. "You're a king; you can have any woman you desire. True, there may not be another quite as beautiful, but there are others…"
But Agamemnon's gaze sharpened, silencing Odysseus mid-sentence. There was no substitute for a woman like Astynome. She had Apollo's blood, a beauty that seemed almost ethereal, and an unblemished purity as a priestess. She was a symbol, not just a prize, and she was irreplaceable.
Then, another name came to mind—another woman who held the same qualities, but one who belonged to a man Agamemnon detested among all the Greeks: Achilles. Agamemnon's lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes calculating. He turned back to Odysseus, his resolve hardening.
"I want Briseis."
Odysseus and Nestor stared at him in stunned silence, both their mouths slightly agape.
"Briseis? Surely, you don't mean the queen of—"
"The woman who was meant to be Queen of Lyrnessus, yes," Agamemnon replied, his tone unyielding. "I want her to replace what was stolen from me. Bring her to me." He nodded at Nestor, then leaned back in his chair, the flicker of power back in his gaze as he settled into his role as king, unshakable and imperious.
But Odysseus's face paled. "King Agamemnon… Briseis is with Achilles. She is his reward," he reminded gently, hoping Agamemnon had merely overlooked this. But Agamemnon's face remained resolute, unyielding in the face of his advisor's concern.
"Bring her to me, and I will march with my armies against Troy with every ounce of strength I possess. You have my word," Agamemnon said, each syllable ringing with finality. His gaze bore into Odysseus, making it clear that further objections would be futile.
Odysseus struggled to hide his dread. The request would undoubtedly provoke Achilles, a man known for his fiery temper and fierce pride. Achilles would not take such a demand lightly. If Agamemnon persisted, he might ignite a conflict more dangerous than any they faced outside Troy's walls.
But Agamemnon's mind was set.
Odysseus looked at Nestor for help but the latter shook his head again. He had tried to convince all this time Agamemnon but for the first time he reacted and asked for something which was a good sign but also the only solution to their predicament.
Of course if a choice had to be made between Achilles or Agamemnon the answer would be obviously the one leading all the armies, Agamemnon…
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC225 Thetis
225 Thetis
In Achilles's tent, the atmosphere was starkly different from the tense and brooding mood in Agamemnon's quarters. Here, a peculiar sense of calm prevailed, even an air of contentment, as if the weight of the ongoing Trojan War had no place within these canvas walls. It wasn't just peaceful—it was almost too good, a haven insulated from the struggles that gripped the battlefield.
Though the Greeks faltered in their campaign against the Trojans, Khillea seemed utterly indifferent. Her strikingly confident demeanor reflected someone who knew her own worth. If she truly desired, she could shift the tide of battle with ease. Hector of Troy, revered as the mightiest defender of the city, might prove a challenge for others, but Khillea believed herself capable of defeating him. Yet, she chose to remain in the shadows for now, leaving the glory and struggles to the kings and generals clamoring for recognition. She was waiting, not out of fear or doubt, but with purpose.
Her mother, Thetis, had foreseen her fate. If Khillea claimed the spotlight and led the Greeks to victory, she would become a living legend—admired, immortalized in stories, and forever etched in history. But such glory came at a steep cost: her life would be forfeit shortly after. To die young and legendary, or to live longer in obscurity—this was the choice Thetis had laid bare. Khillea, ever proud and calculating, was patient. She would seize the perfect moment to emerge, ensuring her name echoed through eternity. But until that moment arrived, she intended to savor what time she had left, enjoying life on her terms.
At the moment, this enjoyment took the form of music. Khillea sat on the edge of her simple bed, a lyre resting in her lap. Her crimson hair, tied back in a loose ponytail, glinted like fire in the soft light of the tent. Dressed in masculine garb—practical yet stylish—she cut a figure of relaxed confidence. As her fingers danced across the strings of the lyre, a melody resonated through the air, clear and beautiful. The music didn't just stay confined to the tent; it spilled outside, a serene contrast to the clamor of war preparations.
Briseis, her only companion in the tent, had grown accustomed to this sight. Over the past two months, she had transitioned from captive to servant, but Khillea's treatment of her was anything but harsh. In fact, Briseis had begun to feel at ease in her presence, a rare comfort amidst the chaos of war. Khillea never belittled or mistreated her; instead, she seemed to relish their conversations, as if Briseis provided something unique: the chance to speak with another woman freely, without pretenses or barriers.
Briseis sat nearby, her own lyre in hand, though her attempts to play it were clumsy at best. She watched Khillea's fluid movements with a mixture of awe and resignation, smiling softly.
"You're incredible at this," Briseis said, her tone warm but tinged with a hint of envy.
Khillea's lips curled into a smirk, her gold eyes sparkling with quiet pride. "It's just practice," she replied lightly, her fingers never pausing on the strings.
But Briseis knew better. It wasn't just practice; it was Khillea herself—a woman of boundless talent and charisma, whose every action seemed to embody effortless mastery. As the music continued to flow, Briseis found herself relaxing, momentarily forgetting the war outside and the precariousness of their situation.
At that moment, the tent's entrance flung open, letting in a gust of warm air and a figure Khillea and Briseis both recognized instantly. It was Patroclus. His casual stride reflected his comfort in the space, his familiarity with its occupants evident in the easy smile tugging at his lips. He had grown accustomed to seeing Khillea and Briseis together—two unlikely companions finding solace in each other's company. Truthfully, he was glad for it.
For the longest time, Patroclus had been the sole confidant in his cousin's life, the one she turned to when loneliness pressed too hard on her. He had witnessed the rare cracks in her otherwise invincible façade, the moments when even someone as resilient as Khillea longed for meaningful companionship.
"My dear cousin!" Khillea's grin was as bright as the sun, her voice brimming with cheer as she set her lyre aside.
Patroclus chuckled but raised an eyebrow at her nonchalance. "You're far too relaxed for someone in the middle of a war. Agamemnon is still fuming in his tent, you know."
At this, Khillea threw her head back and laughed—a boisterous, unrestrained sound that echoed through the tent. "Ahaha! Let him stew! The old man got humiliated by an elder, robbed his woman by a Trojan, and had his precious ships set ablaze! Truly, it breaks my heart that I didn't get to witness the look on his face!" Her sarcasm dripped like venom, and the sheer glee in her voice was impossible to miss.
Her disdain for Agamemnon was well known, and this turn of events delighted her beyond measure. She hated him for countless reasons, not the least of which was his monstrous decision to sacrifice his own daughter for the sake of fleeting glory. Khillea, too, desired glory—it was in her nature, her destiny—but never would she pay such a price. The thought of sacrificing someone like Patroclus, her beloved cousin and closest friend, was unthinkable.
Patroclus sighed, shaking his head in mock exasperation. "You're incorrigible," he said, though the faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth betrayed his amusement. While he shared her disdain for Agamemnon, his feelings were more complicated. Agamemnon's despair might have been satisfying to witness, but it weighed heavily on the Greek forces, threatening to drag them all into deeper turmoil.
Before Patroclus could linger on those thoughts, he took a step to the side and gestured toward the entrance. "Anyway, I've brought a guest for you, Khillea." His smile widened, and there was a hint of mischief in his eyes.
Khillea's own smile faltered slightly, her curiosity piqued. But the moment she laid eyes on the figure stepping into the tent, her expression shifted entirely. Her breath hitched, and for a brief moment, she seemed utterly still.
The woman who entered was nothing short of extraordinary. Her presence commanded attention, her ethereal beauty radiating an aura of otherworldly grace. Long waves of red hair cascaded down her back, glinting like molten gold in the dim light, and her ocean-blue eyes sparkled with wisdom and warmth. Despite her regal bearing, there was something familial about her—she looked more like Khillea's elder sister than her mother.
It was Thetis, Achilles/ Khillea's mother.
"Mother!" Khillea's reaction was instant and unrestrained. She vanished from where she stood, closing the distance between them in the blink of an eye. Throwing her arms around Thetis, she embraced her tightly, her usual bravado melting into a rare display of vulnerability.
"My dear daughter," Thetis murmured, her voice a soothing melody as she wrapped her arms around Khillea. The affection in her tone was unmistakable, and for a moment, the chaos of the war seemed to fade away.
With a graceful motion, Thetis raised a hand, and a shimmering barrier enveloped the tent. The divine energy it radiated was palpable, creating a sanctuary where no prying eyes or ears could intrude.
Briseis, who had been watching silently, felt her knees give way beneath her. She dropped to the ground, bowing low in awe and reverence. She could feel the goddess's power, a presence so overwhelming it left no doubt in her mind. This was no mere mortal before her—this was truly a goddess.
Khillea, still holding onto her mother, seemed to pay no mind to Briseis's reaction. For her, this moment was deeply personal, a reunion she had longed for. Thetis stroked her daughter's hair gently, her expression a mixture of pride and sorrow, as though she knew this embrace was both a comfort and a reminder of the fate that loomed over them.
"Come, my child," Thetis said softly, her gaze flickering to Patroclus and Briseis briefly before returning to Khillea. "We have much to discuss."
Khillea nodded and reluctantly pulled back, though her hand lingered on her mother's arm for a moment longer. The warmth and comfort of Thetis's presence felt too fleeting, and she was reluctant to let go entirely.
Thetis's attention turned toward Briseis, her gaze softening. "Oh, you must be Briseis," she said with a gentle smile that seemed to light up the entire tent. "Patroclus has told me so much about you. I must thank you for being here for my daughter. She's always longed for a girlfriend she could truly speak to, someone who understands her."
Briseis flushed, her face turning a deep shade of red. The glow of Thetis's divine presence made the compliment feel even more overwhelming. She bowed her head slightly, her voice trembling with humility. "I… I didn't do anything, really. It's Khillea who's helped me more than I can ever repay."
Khillea waved off the praise with a huff, clearly embarrassed. "Don't say nonsense, Mother!" she grumbled, crossing her arms. Despite her tone, a small smile tugged at her lips, betraying how much the sentiment meant to her. "But… yeah, I guess I've always wanted a girl I could actually talk to."
Thetis laughed softly, a melodic sound that seemed to momentarily banish all worries from the tent. Seeing her daughter in such high spirits brought a warmth to her heart. For a brief moment, it was easy to imagine that everything was as it should be, that there was no war raging outside, and that Khillea's fate wasn't etched in stone.
But the illusion didn't last long. Thetis's smile faltered, her eyes clouding with sorrow as an unspoken thought took root in her mind. If only her daughter could always be this happy. If only she didn't have to die in the end…
Her gaze darkened, the weight of inevitability pressing heavily upon her. She clenched her hands slightly, her nails digging into her palms as the bitterness of prophecy reared its head.
Then, suddenly, her focus shifted. Thetis's divine senses sharpened, her attention drawn inexplicably to Khillea. More specifically, her gaze fell upon her daughter's abdomen, as if something there demanded her immediate attention.
Her eyes widened in shock, and she took an involuntary step closer, her hand flying to her mouth. "I… Impossible!!"
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC226 Khillea is pregnant!
226 Khillea is pregnant!
Then, suddenly, her focus shifted. Thetis's divine senses sharpened, her attention drawn inexplicably to Khillea. More specifically, her gaze fell upon her daughter's abdomen, as if something there demanded her immediate attention.
Her eyes widened in shock, and she took an involuntary step closer, her hand flying to her mouth. "I… Impossible!!"
Khillea's brows furrowed as she observed the unusual expression on her mother's face. It was a rare sight—Thetis, the steadfast, unshakable sea goddess, looking truly unsettled.
"Mother, what is it?" Khillea asked, her voice steady but tinged with concern.
Thetis stepped closer without answering, her gaze softening as she raised a hand to her daughter's stomach. The cool touch of her palm rested there briefly before her eyes fluttered shut. A serene silence fell between them, broken only by the faint whisper of the wind outside. Seconds passed, each feeling stretched and heavy with unspoken anticipation.
When Thetis opened her eyes, they were wide with disbelief.
"Khillea..." her voice quivered, laden with an emotion she rarely allowed herself to show.
Khillea tilted her head, confusion deepening. "Yes, Mother?"
Thetis hesitated, her lips parting as though the words themselves were too impossible to utter. Finally, she said, "You are... pregnant."
The revelation struck Khillea like lightning. Her body stiffened as her mind faltered, grasping for comprehension.
"What?" she whispered, her voice nearly inaudible as the world seemed to tilt around her.
Patroclus, standing nearby, froze mid-step. His expression mirrored hers—stunned, disbelieving, and overwhelmed. "How... how can that be, Mother?" he asked, his voice low yet urgent.
To Thetis, Patroclus was like a son. She had raised him alongside Khillea, binding their fates so closely that they often felt more like siblings than cousins. His distress mirrored her own.
"I don't know," Thetis admitted, shaking her head as if trying to dispel the impossibility of it all. "It shouldn't be possible." She paused, her gaze distant as she delved into memories. "Gaia herself foretold it. The best seers have always agreed—if Khillea were to set foot on Trojan soil, she would achieve great glory. But she would die there... and without bearing children. It was inevitable, or so I thought."
Her voice grew softer, almost a whisper. "Every vision confirmed it. Even the gods I consulted were certain." Her hand slipped away from Khillea's stomach as she took a step back, grappling with a truth that defied divine foresight.
"I am... pregnant," Khillea murmured, her words unsteady as she tried to process them. Her hand slowly rose to her abdomen, her fingers trembling as they brushed against the fabric of her tunic. She felt no difference, yet her heart knew the truth.
Tears began to pool in her eyes, spilling over before she could fully understand why. Confusion flickered across her face, a contradiction of emotions—shock, disbelief, and something deeper, something warm and achingly fragile.
Her lips quivered as they curved into a smile. It was small at first, hesitant, but it grew, radiant and genuine, illuminating her features with a rare softness. She glanced at her mother, her tears glistening like dew in the morning sun.
"I... I'm going to have a baby. Is that true, Mother?"
Thetis's breath hitched. For a moment, she saw not the hardened warrior her daughter had become, but the girl she had raised, the one who had always dreamed of a future she believed was forever out of reach.
"Yes," Thetis whispered, her own eyes glistening. She reached out to cradle Khillea's face, her thumb brushing away a stray tear. "Yes, my child. You are going to have a baby."
Khillea let out a shaky laugh, her hand never leaving her stomach. A tender joy began to unfurl within her, soft and unfamiliar.
Thetis watched her daughter, her heart swelling with affection and bittersweet pride. She had always known what Khillea had sacrificed to come to Troy. To see her now, with tears of joy streaming down her face, was nothing short of a miracle.
She didn't understand how this had come to pass. Perhaps it was the work of the Fates, weaving a thread of kindness into Khillea's tragic destiny. Perhaps the gods, moved by her daughter's courage and suffering, had granted her this gift.
Whatever the reason, Thetis didn't care.
It was a miracle—a fleeting, precious blessing in the shadow of inevitable loss. She would cherish it for as long as the gods allowed.
Thetis enveloped her daughter in a warm embrace, her arms trembling with both joy and relief. "It's wonderful news, Khillea," a gentle voice broke the tender silence. Briseis stepped forward, her expression radiant with genuine happiness. "I give you my congratulations."
Khillea turned toward her cousin, her grin widening. Two months ago, when she had spoken so persistently about her dream of bearing a child, Briseis had doubted her, thinking it a futile hope amidst the chaos of war. And yet, here they were.
"I told you it could happen," Khillea said, her voice filled with a mixture of triumph and uncontainable joy.
Briseis returned the grin, shaking her head in disbelief but sharing in her cousin's happiness.
Khillea's thoughts drifted for a moment, her hand resting protectively on her stomach. The life growing within her was more than a miracle—it was a legacy. After death, she would leave behind more than just glory. She would leave a part of herself, her blood, someone who would carry her story into the future.
But Thetis's voice shattered the moment of celebration with a seriousness that froze the air.
"Khillea," she said, stepping forward and gripping her daughter by the shoulders. Her sea-blue eyes, fierce and unyielding, locked onto Khillea's with a depth of urgency. "Do you understand what this means? You're pregnant. If you truly want this child—if you truly want to protect it—then you must stop this madness. Leave Troy. Forget this war. Leave now."
Thetis's words were a plea wrapped in the command of a goddess. She had spent years trying to dissuade Khillea from her fate, from the path that would lead to her glory and death. But now, at last, she had found the leverage she needed. If not for herself, then surely Khillea would fight to live for the child growing within her.
Thetis's gaze softened momentarily, her hands trembling as she held her daughter. "I don't want to lose you, Khillea. Please."
Khillea's heart was torn. Her mother's words struck deeply, and the weight of her responsibility settled over her like a shroud. She wanted to fight, to prove herself, to etch her name into the annals of history alongside the greatest heroes. And yet, the thought of abandoning her child, of leaving nothing behind but a hollow memory...
Her internal battle raged, her decision hanging in the balance, until a voice abruptly cut through her thoughts.
Khillea blinked, her internal turmoil momentarily shelved. She took a deep breath, straightening her posture and donning the mantle of Achilles once more.
"I see," she said, her voice cool and composed.
Thetis sighed heavily, recognizing the shift in her daughter. Reluctantly, she raised a hand, dispelling the barrier that cloaked them from view. Her divine presence receded like a tide retreating from the shore, vanishing into the shadows. She stepped back, knowing that her appearance would only draw unwanted attention among mortals.
Khillea strode confidently out of the tent, her golden armor catching the sun's light as she emerged. Her piercing gaze swept over the scene before her. The Greek kings had gathered, their faces tense with unspoken purpose. Around them, her loyal Myrmidons stood guard, their stances wary and prepared.
Agamemnon's cold stare bored into her, his face unreadable but his intentions clear. Khillea's lips twitched into a smile, her mood seemingly unshaken by the growing tension. It was almost as though she relished the scene, her radiant confidence a pointed contrast to Agamemnon's simmering resentment.
Behind her, Briseis lingered at the edge of the tent's shadow. When she felt Agamemnon's piercing gaze sweep toward her, she shrank instinctively, taking refuge behind Patroclus.
Odysseus, standing at the forefront, hesitated as his gaze met Khillea's. Her expression was uncharacteristically light, almost jubilant, as though she had already won some secret victory. He swallowed hard, his throat dry. He truly admired Khillea—Achilles, as he knew her. To him, she was like the younger sibling he had never had, and the thought of disappointing or angering her was something he wanted to avoid at all costs.
But duty weighed heavily on his shoulders.
"Odysseus," Khillea asked again feeling something bad. "What do you want?"
Before he could answer, Menelaus, standing just behind him, stepped forward.
"Odysseus, are you going to say it, or shall I?" Menelaus growled.
For Menelaus, the war was simple: reclaim Helen at all costs. She was his wife, his possession, and her abduction by Paris had been the spark to ignite this brutal conflict. To achieve victory over the Trojans, the Greeks needed unity, and that required Agamemnon, his elder brother, to be in peak form. But Agamemnon's current state was anything but stable.
When Odysseus approached Menelaus and the other Greek kings for support in convincing Achilles, Menelaus had not hesitated. Whatever was needed to restore Agamemnon's pride and ensure their campaign continued was worth it.
Odysseus, however, stood conflicted. His fists clenched at his sides, his gaze dropping momentarily to the ground. Among all the Greek leaders, he was the closest to Achilles, the one who might temper the warrior's infamous temper. He bore this responsibility with the weight of a thousand shields.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low but clear.
"Agamemnon wants Briseis."
The moment the words left Odysseus's mouth, the air itself seemed to shift. Khillea—Achilles—narrowed her eyes, and a palpable wave of murderous intent exploded from her.
It was as if a storm had descended upon the Greek encampment. The soldiers standing behind the assembled kings recoiled, many gripping their weapons tightly or falling to their knees, unable to withstand the suffocating aura of rage. Even the Greek leaders themselves—Odysseus, Menelaus, Ajax, Diomedes, and Heracles—felt the oppressive weight, though they managed to remain standing.
Odysseus pressed on, his voice strained under the pressure.
"It's Agamemnon's condition to continue the war," he explained, forcing the words out. "He claims he deserves a new prize after his own was taken—"
"I don't care what he deserves," Khillea spat, her voice sharp as a blade. Her eyes burned with fury as she stepped forward, her hand dangerously close to the hilt of her sword. "I've done a hundred times more for this army than he has, and I haven't even given my all. Briseis is mine."
"Achilles," Odysseus implored, his tone softer now, almost pleading. "If you don't give Briseis to him, Agamemnon will refuse to lead the army. Without him, we'll lose the Greeks' morale. We'll have no choice but to retreat, and we both know the seas are unforgiving. To return as failures... the gods will never forgive us."
Khillea's expression darkened further. "The gods?" she echoed, her voice dripping with disdain. "This war was Agamemnon's doing. His arrogance lit the spark. And now he dares to demand more from me?"
Ajax stepped forward, his massive frame radiating authority. "It's just a woman, Achilles," he said bluntly. "You'll have your pick of the finest once we breach Troy."
Khillea's lip curled in disgust. "I said no."
Diomedes frowned, his brow furrowing as he addressed her. "Are you truly willing to sacrifice the entire Greek campaign for a single Trojan woman? We've all agreed. This is bigger than you."
Khillea clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. She could scarcely believe they had stooped to this—manipulating her with the fate of the Greeks.
Then, Agamemnon himself stepped forward, his gaze cold and unfeeling. His voice cut through the tense air like a knife.
"You should listen to them, Achilles. Give her up."
That was the breaking point.
"You!" Khillea roared, her hand darting to her sword, her intent unmistakable—to end this insult of a king once and for all.
But before her blade could leave its sheath, she felt an invisible force grasp her hand. Her entire body tensed, and her eyes darted to the side. No one else could see her, but Khillea knew exactly who it was.
Athena.
Her voice didn't come in words but in an overwhelming sense of presence, a calming weight against Khillea's fury. The goddess who had silently supported her through countless battles now demanded restraint.
Khillea's hand trembled as her mind waged war against itself. Her lips tightened until she could taste blood, but slowly, she released the hilt of her sword.
She turned her gaze back to Agamemnon, her eyes blazing with unspoken defiance.
"If you take Briseis," she said, her voice unwavering and cold, "I will leave this war. I swear it on Zeus himself."
Her declaration rippled through the camp like a thunderclap. The assembled Greeks froze, their faces etched with disbelief. Without Achilles, they would lose the Myrmidons—the most fearsome soldiers in the war.
Agamemnon, however, remained unmoved. He met her gaze with icy arrogance and spoke a single word.
"Take her."
A soldier stepped forward, striding toward Briseis. She recoiled in fear, her eyes darting desperately to Khillea and Patroclus. But neither moved. Patroclus stood rigid, his face a mask of anguish, while Khillea glared daggers at Agamemnon, her body trembling with barely restrained rage.
The soldier grasped Briseis's arm, pulling her roughly away. She thrashed, her voice trembling as she cried, "Leave me! Let me go!" But her struggles were futile.
Khillea stood motionless, her fists clenched, her heart pounding with the fury she could no longer unleash. As Briseis's cries faded into the distance, she turned on her heel and stalked back into her tent. Patroclus followed silently, his face pale.
That day, Khillea—Achilles—abandoned the Trojan War.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC227 Seeing Courtney after a year....
227 Seeing Courtney after a year....
The absence of Achilles and his Myrmidons from the battlefield had initially gone unnoticed by both sides. For the first few days, the Trojans assumed the formidable warriors were taking a much-deserved respite. After all, even though Achilles himself rarely engaged directly in the fray, his army—led by the stalwart Patroclus—had been wreaking havoc upon Trojan forces. Their relentless precision and sheer brutality had set them apart, tallying more kills than any other Greek contingent.
But as a week passed and the battlefield remained devoid of the Myrmidons' presence, rumors began to swirl. Whispers reached Trojan ears: Achilles had withdrawn entirely from the war. It seemed the storied Trojan War, the clash that had drawn armies and heroes from across the Aegean, had lost its most formidable warrior.
The reason was clear: the feud between Achilles and Agamemnon had spilled beyond the Greek camp. Agamemnon, still seething over his loss of Astynome—whom he'd been forced to return—had demanded Briseis, Achilles' prize of war, as recompense. Furious at the insult, Achilles had grudgingly complied but cursed Agamemnon in his rage. As punishment, he had withdrawn his forces from the conflict entirely, leaving the Greeks to fend for themselves.
For the Trojans, this was the best news they'd received since the war began. The morale boost was palpable. Having suffered the ferocity of the Myrmidons firsthand, the Trojans now found their Greek adversaries lacking by comparison. Emboldened, they pressed the attack harder than ever before, their confidence swelling with each skirmish.
Yet even without Achilles, the Greeks were far from toothless. The other kings—Odysseus, Menelaus, Diomedes, and Agamemnon himself—remained steadfast. Recognizing their precarious position, they resolved to take the offensive, aiming to cripple the Trojans before their newfound momentum became unstoppable. Agamemnon, in particular, burned with fury. His anger at the loss of Astynome and his quarrel with Achilles now fueled an insatiable desire for vengeance. He longed to face the Trojan warrior who had dared to challenge him.
In the Myrmidons' absence, another force began to rise from obscurity: the Heroes of the Empire of Light. Initially dismissed by the Greeks as mere children, they were quickly proving their worth. Their skill and power on the battlefield were undeniable, and their presence reinvigorated the flagging Greek morale. Even the Trojans, who had grown bolder, found themselves facing a new challenge.
Among these heroes, one stood out, Aidan and eventually, his path brought him to the most feared of Trojan champions: Hector, Prince of Troy. Aidan approached with a swagger, his massive sword resting on his shoulder, a devilish grin curling his lips.
"Today," he announced, pointing his blade toward Hector, "I'm taking that head of yours. They talk far too much about you, and I'll prove you're nothing but a myth."
Nathan stood silently beside Hector, his gaze devoid of emotion as he stared at Aidan. There was no mistaking the disdain simmering beneath his calm exterior. He hated Aidan—not just for the bullying he had endured at the hands of the so-called Hero of Light, but for the sheer audacity of Aidan's arrogance now that he'd risen to prominence.
Yet, for all his hatred, Nathan felt nothing stirring within him at the sight of Aidan. No anger, no rush of vengeance—only a cold indifference. If Aidan sought death, Nathan wouldn't refuse to grant it. But for now, he let the moment play out. After all, Aidan had no chance of defeating Hector. There was no need to intervene.
Hector, however, seemed hesitant as he studied Aidan. The boy didn't look like a seasoned warrior. He had a youthful, almost naive air about him, as if he were a child playing at war. Hector's lips tightened, and his voice carried the weight of patience, tinged with a hint of pity.
16:19
"You should retreat while you can," Hector advised, his tone measured but firm. There was something peculiar about Aidan, that much Hector could sense. Perhaps it was the aura of a Hero, faint but discernible. Yet, even with such power, Hector knew this boy was no match for him.
"SHUT UP AND FIGHT!" Aidan snapped, his annoyance erupting like a firestorm. Without waiting for a reply, he swung his massive sword toward Hector, its blade gleaming ominously.
The Trojans nearby instinctively retreated, giving the two combatants space. The clash was ferocious, Aidan attacking with reckless abandon while Hector countered with precision and calm. But the sound of clashing metal was soon drowned out by panicked cries.
"Aidan! What are you doing?!" Jason's voice cut through the battlefield as he rushed forward, Siara close behind. Their faces betrayed a mix of frustration and dread. Aidan had recklessly ignored their warnings about facing Hector, and now they were forced to intervene.
Nathan's gaze turned colder at the sight of Jason. He doubted Hector needed any help to handle these two, but Jason's presence was troubling nonetheless. Nathan's eyes lingered on him, sharp and calculating. Khione's warning about the Hero of Light's SSS skill echoed in his mind. Whatever that power entailed, it was dangerous, and Nathan had no intention of underestimating it.
Though he wasn't planning to kill Jason—not yet—he had no desire to see him meddling here. The time would come for Nathan to deal with him, but for now, caution ruled his actions.
Jason, meanwhile, scowled as he neared Aidan. His frustration with the situation was palpable, his voice laced with irritation.
"This stupid guy!" he muttered under his breath. Babysitting Aidan was the last thing he wanted to do. If it were up to him, he'd gladly let Hector kill the boy and be done with it. But Liphiel had burdened him with responsibility, pestering him about his role and the need to keep Aidan alive. Jason clenched his glowing sword, its light pulsating with power. If he could kill Hector in the process, it would be all the better.
But just as he raised his sword, preparing to strike, a figure appeared before him in an instant, a blur of movement too fast to track.
"What?!"
BADAAAM!
The sound was thunderous, like a clap of thunder splitting the heavens. Nathan's fist connected with Jason's face with bone-crushing force, breaking his nose instantly and sending him hurtling through the air. Jason's body crashed to the ground over a hundred meters away, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake.
"Jason!" Siara screamed, her voice trembling with worry. She turned her gaze toward Nathan, who now stood before her, his expression as cold and unyielding as ever. Her breath hitched as recognition dawned on her.
"You are…" she whispered, her eyes widening in realization. The image of Nathan from Lyrnessus flashed in her mind—a man shrouded in death, the one who had nearly killed Gwen or she thought. The memory sent a shiver down her spine.
Siara's gaze hardened, her eyes turning icy. She clenched her fists, but the futility of the situation was clear. She was no match for Nathan.
Siara hesitated, torn between fleeing and staying to watch Aidan's impending doom. Hector was a force unlike any other; there was no way Aidan could survive against him. But did she even care? Aidan's arrogance was bound to lead him to an early grave, and she felt no obligation to save him.
Just as she wavered, a sudden roar of flame erupted across the battlefield, slicing toward Nathan. He leaped back, narrowly avoiding the searing heat, but the fire's impact left scorched earth and several charred Trojan soldiers in its wake. This was no ordinary fire—it was intense, almost vicious, with a ferocity that was all too familiar to Nathan. Yet something had changed. This fire carried a deadly resolve, unlike anything he'd sensed before.
As the flames receded, they revealed a stunning figure—a woman of striking beauty, her chestnut hair streaked with vibrant shades of red, flickering like embers. She wore an intricate dress of red armor that fit her like a second skin, amplifying her regal yet fierce presence. Her once-naive eyes were now sharp and unyielding, glinting like the heart of a raging fire.
Nathan masked his surprise. Courtney. She was ten times more beautiful than he remembered from a year ago, her aura transformed, hardened, and undeniably dangerous.
"Get back, Siara," Courtney commanded, her tone like steel as she fixed her gaze on Nathan, who she didn't seem to recognize. "Courtney! No, he's dangerous! He beat Gwen!" Siara's voice trembled as she frantically tried to warn her.
"I know," Courtney replied, her tone as icy as her glare. She'd seen Nathan's strength with her own eyes—she'd witnessed how he'd sent Jason flying with a single blow. Yet she wouldn't let Siara, someone she now considered dear to her, be harmed. She knew Nathan cared for Siara, and in that bond, Courtney had grown close to her as well.
With a fluid, decisive motion, Courtney raised her arm, summoning flames that crackled with a fearsome energy. "Seventh-rank fire magic!" she intoned, releasing a fierce beam of fire that blazed toward Nathan, intent on consuming him in its fiery path.
Nathan reacted swiftly, swinging his sword with precision, conjuring an immense wall of ice to intercept the flames. The heat clashed against the barrier with an explosive hiss, but his ice held firm, repelling the flames with an unexpected strength. Courtney's eyes widened slightly; she'd faced ice-wielders before, but none of their defenses had withstood her fire like this. Her magic was powerful, yet his ice seemed almost… unbreakable.
Nathan raised his left hand, conjuring several razor-sharp swords of ice, sending them hurtling toward her. Courtney twisted mid-air, narrowly dodging the projectiles. The cold clash of ice against her flames had left the ground steaming, yet she remained poised. In a flash, Nathan vanished, only to reappear directly in front of her, his hand reaching out with deadly intent.
Courtney reacted instantly, sweeping her arm in a wide arc and engulfing Nathan in a gust of fire. She clenched her fist, intensifying the flames, aiming to reduce him to ashes. But to her shock, Nathan emerged unscathed, cutting through the inferno with an icy calm, his hand reaching for her once more. She sprang back, her reflexes razor-sharp, evading his grasp by a hair's breadth.
The distance between them felt electric, tense. Courtney steadied her breath, her gaze more serious, more resolute. She knew she was up against a strong adversary—one whose power seemed to be much stronger than hers.
As she landed, her gaze met Nathan's, and a strange feeling churned in her chest. There was something about the way he reached out to her… something that made her feel uneasy, a faint, unshakable discomfort that lingered like a ghostly whisper in the back of her mind.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC228 Finally facing Ajax!
228 Finally facing Ajax!
The distance between them felt electric, tense. Courtney steadied her breath, her gaze more serious, more resolute. She knew she was up against a strong adversary—one whose power seemed to be much stronger than hers.
As she landed, her gaze met Nathan's, and a strange feeling churned in her chest. There was something about the way he reached out to her… something that made her feel uneasy, a faint, unshakable discomfort that lingered like a ghostly whisper in the back of her mind.
"Courtney! You can't beat him! Let's retreat!" Siara's voice rang out, laced with desperation and worry. Her trembling hands clenched tightly around the weapon she held, her wide eyes darting between the battlefield and Courtney's figure. The memory of Gwen's defeat was still fresh.
But Courtney didn't acknowledge her. Her gaze remained fixed ahead, resolute and unshaken, as if Siara's pleas were mere whispers carried off by the wind.
"Eighth Rank Fire Magic," Courtney muttered, her tone low but steady, filled with an unrelenting determination. She raised her hand, and a searing wave of mana exploded outward like an unleashed storm.
The earth beneath them trembled, cracks spider-webbing across the scorched ground as flames erupted from the fissures. The air grew stifling, the weight of her power suffocating to those nearby. Every fight around her ceased as heads turned toward the source of the overwhelming pressure. Warriors and enemies alike froze, their faces a mixture of awe and dread.
Nathan, standing on the opposite side of the battlefield, felt a flicker of surprise ripple through him. His pale eyes narrowed as he watched her, feeling the heat of her magic even from this distance.
"Eighth Rank magic…" he mused, a rare smile touching his lips. "You've really come a long way, Courtney."
A flood of memories washed over him—memories of the timid, cheerful girl he once knew. Aisha had told him about Courtney's transformation after his disappearance. He understood that her change was born from pain, from the aftermath of his own suffering.
Though he didn't want to see her push herself to the brink, there was a bittersweet pride in seeing how strong, how fiercely independent she had become.
In this world, naivety was a weakness—a poison that could be fatal. Nathan knew that better than anyone. Even without being naive, he had barely clung to life in his most desperate moments.
The air around Courtney shimmered as a colossal figure of flames roared into existence behind her. The creature, a towering fire elemental, radiated an intense heat that made the battlefield feel like an inferno. Its fiery gaze locked onto Nathan, its presence a declaration of Courtney's resolve.
Nathan watched, his expression unreadable, though there was a glimmer of admiration in his pale eyes. He had never seen her like this before, her features sharpened with an intensity he never imagined. She was beautiful in her defiance, her strength illuminating her like the flames she commanded.
But it still wasn't enough.
Nathan raised his hand, his movements calm and measured, and the world seemed to shift. A chill unlike anything felt before descended upon the battlefield, spreading out in waves. The fiery glow of Courtney's magic dimmed slightly as frost began to creep across the ground.
Even Courtney shivered, her breath hitching as an icy sensation prickled her skin. Her lips parted in shock—she hadn't expected to feel cold, not within the heart of her own flames.
"Celestial Magic," Nathan intoned, his voice cutting through the chaos like the edge of a blade.
Sensing the threat, Courtney didn't hesitate. She thrust her hand forward, commanding her monstrous elemental to lunge at Nathan, its fiery form blazing with ferocious energy. But Nathan was faster.
He lowered his hand.
A deafening crack echoed across the battlefield as a wave of frost surged outward, meeting the fire elemental head-on. The clash sent a shockwave rippling through the air, but the outcome was clear within moments.
The fire creature let out an otherworldly roar as its body froze, flames extinguished and encased in thick, crystalline ice. The frost spread rapidly, consuming everything in its path until it reached Courtney herself.
"Courtney!!!" Siara's scream pierced the silence as she watched her friend become engulfed by the freezing wave.
Courtney acted quickly, summoning a protective barrier of flames around her, but the cold was relentless. Ice crawled over her defenses, and despite her efforts, frost reached her skin. She gritted her teeth as the biting cold seeped into her very core, slowing her movements and stealing her breath.
The battlefield fell silent, save for the faint crackling of ice and the distant rustle of wind.
Then, slowly, heat began to radiate from Courtney's frozen form. The ice around her started to melt, water trickling down in small rivulets as her flames reignited. The air grew hot again, her fiery aura pushing back against the oppressive cold.
Nathan didn't move to stop her. He had already held back from delivering a fatal blow, his intent clear but restrained.
Courtney dropped to one knee, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath. Her hands trembled, her body wracked with the aftereffects of the cold that still clung to her like a ghost.
"Courtney…" Siara whispered, her voice trembling with concern as she rushed toward her.
Courtney staggered, her legs trembling as she tried to push herself back to her feet. Her fiery resolve flickered like a dying ember, but she wasn't ready to back down yet. Gritting her teeth, she clenched her fists, preparing to summon another burst of magic.
Before she could, Siara darted to her side, grabbing her arm with both hands. Her grip was firm, almost desperate.
"Enough! You're going to die!" Siara shouted, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and fear.
Courtney froze, startled by the uncharacteristic outburst. Siara rarely raised her voice, let alone with such intensity. Her sharp gaze softened as she took in Siara's pleading expression, her wide eyes filled with unshed tears.
"Please…" Siara whispered, her voice breaking.
Courtney hesitated, her fiery determination wavering. Slowly, she bit her lip, her gaze dropping to the ground. Her body sagged as the tension drained from her shoulders. Without another word, she nodded and began to retreat, leaning slightly on Siara for support.
From a distance, Nathan exhaled a sigh of relief. The cold edge of worry that had crept into his chest began to ease as he watched Courtney step back.
"She's strong now," he thought, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "But too reckless for her own good."
However, the reprieve was short-lived.
In the blink of an eye, a massive figure materialized in front of him. Nathan barely had time to register the movement before he was staring down the barrel of a giant fist, its size enough to eclipse his vision.
BADAAM!
"Gurgh!" A sharp cry escaped his lips as he felt the bones in his arm crack under the tremendous pressure. The sheer force of the punch sent him hurtling backward like a ragdoll, smashing into the chaotic fray of fighters behind him. The unlucky combatants caught in his path were thrown aside like leaves in a storm, collapsing to the ground as the shockwave rippled through them.
When he finally skidded to a stop, Nathan winced, cradling his arm as pain radiated through it. His usually composed expression darkened, his icy gaze turning colder than ever.
It had been a long time since he'd felt pain like this—a sharp, bone-deep ache that reminded him he was still human.
Slowly, Nathan pushed himself to his feet, his movements deliberate and measured. His fingers flexed experimentally, testing the damage to his arm. It was numb, but functional.
He looked up to see his attacker step forward, the ground trembling under the weight of his heavy stride.
"You're the one who killed my stupid brother?" the towering figure growled, his voice a low rumble that seemed to shake the air itself.
The man—no, the beast—was unmistakable.
Ajax the Great.
Nathan tilted his head, taking in the sight of the man who loomed over him like a mountain. Ajax was massive, his muscular frame towering several heads above Nathan. His broad shoulders and bulging arms made Nathan look almost childlike in comparison.
But size didn't intimidate Nathan. Instead of answering Ajax's question, Nathan's lips curved into a slow, taunting smirk. His pale eyes gleamed with a cold fury, a deep hatred that had been festering for far too long.
This was the moment he'd been waiting for. Since that cursed day when Ajax's brother had dared to lay a hand on Aisha.
No one touches his women. No one.
Nathan's fists clenched as the memory burned in his mind. Aisha's expression when she was being forced. His hatred boiled over, his restrained anger finally spilling out.
Today he will finally make him pay.
Before he could make his move, a shout rang out from the chaos.
"Heiron!"
Nathan turned slightly to see Hector rushing toward him, his face pale with worry. The knight had clearly just finished his fight, his armor scuffed and dented, but his focus was entirely on Nathan.
Trailing behind him, Nathan caught a glimpse of Aidan lying slumped on the ground, blood pooling beneath him. The fight between Aidan and Hector had been brutal, but it seemed Hector had come out on top which was obvious.
Despite his injuries, Aidan was still breathing. Nathan noticed that some of his classmates were already dragging the unconscious boy away to safety.
But Hector's concern wasn't for Aidan. It was for Nathan.
"It's Ajax the Great," Hector said, his voice low but urgent as he reached Nathan's side.
Hector's brows knitted together, his usual calm demeanor overshadowed by a rare flicker of genuine concern. He had seen what Heiron was capable of over the past few months—his strength, his strategy, and abilities in the face of danger. But Ajax was a different beast altogether.
The man wasn't just a fighter; he was a legend on the battlefield, a mountain of brute force and unrelenting power. Hector couldn't help but doubt whether even Heiron, formidable as he was, stood a chance against such an opponent.
"I know what you're thinking," Nathan said, his voice breaking through Hector's thoughts. He took a step forward, his pale eyes meeting Hector's gaze. His expression was serious—more serious than Hector had ever seen before.
"Leave him to me. I'm asking you," Nathan continued, his tone steady and resolute. There was no hesitation in his voice, no trace of the casual confidence he often displayed. This was different. This was personal.
Hector blinked, momentarily taken aback. Nathan rarely made requests, and when he did, they carried a weight that was impossible to ignore.
As if sensing the lingering doubt in Hector's mind, Nathan's lips curled into a confident smirk, his icy demeanor softening just enough to show a flicker of assurance. "I'll definitely win. Don't worry."
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC229 Nathan vs Ajax the Great! (1)
229 Nathan vs Ajax the Great! (1)
As if sensing the lingering doubt in Hector's mind, Nathan's lips curled into a confident smirk, his icy demeanor softening just enough to show a flicker of assurance. "I'll definitely win. Don't worry."
There was something in that smirk—a spark of unshakable belief that seemed to cut through the tension in the air. For a moment, Hector found himself caught between worry and trust, unsure which emotion to hold onto.
Then, he sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he allowed a small smile to cross his face.
"Alright," Hector said, his voice steady now. "Beat him up."
Nathan's smirk widened, his icy aura intensifying as the mana around him began to stir.
"Oh, I will," Nathan replied, his gaze shifting back to Ajax. The air between them seemed to crackle with anticipation, the battlefield growing silent as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Ajax, still towering like a mountain, let out a low chuckle as he watched the exchange. "You've got guts, kid," he said, his voice a rumble of amusement mixed with menace. "But guts won't be enough to save you."
"This will be your last day, so try to enjoy it to the fullest," Nathan said with a snort, his words laced with mockery.
Ajax's expression darkened instantly, his narrowed eyes glinting with a deadly promise. His entire body erupted with an overwhelming surge of mana, its sheer force rippling through the air like a thunderstorm given form.
The battlefield, once a chaotic symphony of clashing weapons and roars, fell eerily silent. Warriors from both sides instinctively retreated several meters, their gazes drawn to the confrontation like moths to a flame. This was no ordinary duel—they were about to witness a clash between titans.
On one side stood Ajax, the towering warrior celebrated as the strongest Greek king next to Achilles and Agamemnon. His exploits were legendary, his strength feared by both ally and foe alike. On the other side was Nathan, Hector's enigmatic bodyguard, whose calm demeanor and provoking words had ignited the fury of one of Greece's greatest champions.
Despite their loyalty to Hector, even the Trojans watching couldn't help but feel trepidation. They knew the odds. Ajax's victory seemed inevitable, a foregone conclusion written in the annals of their war. And yet, somewhere in the recesses of their minds, a flicker of hope lingered—hope that Nathan could somehow defy reason and emerge victorious.
Ajax wasted no time. Fueled by Nathan's provocation, he moved like a tempest, his massive frame defying logic with its speed. His fist hurtled toward Nathan, a blur of raw power and precision.
Nathan's eyes sharpened, his body tensing as he prepared to react. He knew that one misstep could mean his death. Ajax wasn't merely a warrior; he carried the blood of Zeus himself, a demigod whose strength bordered on the divine.
BADAM!
Nathan leaped high into the air, narrowly evading Ajax's earth-shattering punch. Dust and debris erupted from the ground where Ajax's fist had struck, the impact leaving a small crater in its wake. Using the momentum of his jump, Nathan twisted his body mid-air and delivered a swift, high kick aimed at Ajax's temple.
The attack connected, but it was met with the impenetrable defense of Ajax's thick, muscular arm. The Greek king grinned fiercely, his teeth glinting like the edge of a blade.
"Not bad!" Ajax roared, his voice booming across the battlefield like rolling thunder. Before Nathan could retract his leg, Ajax's iron grip closed around it.
A chilling sense of danger coursed through Nathan's veins. He acted on instinct, summoning a surge of ice magic with a sharp gesture of his hand.
A massive pillar of jagged ice erupted from the ground, shooting upward with incredible force and slamming into Ajax. The icy structure was a masterpiece of lethal beauty, its sharp edges glinting under the sunlight.
For a brief moment, the spectators dared to hope that the attack had subdued Ajax.
CRACK!
The pillar shattered into a cascade of glittering shards as Ajax tore through it with his free hand, unscathed and unfazed. His other hand swung downward, slamming Nathan into the ground with bone-crushing force.
BADAM!
The ground buckled and split beneath them, forming a deep crater. Nathan's body was thrown against the unforgiving earth, a groan of pain escaping his lips as shockwaves rippled outward.
"You're not bad, I'll give you that," Ajax said, his voice dripping with amusement as he loomed over Nathan.
Nathan gritted his teeth, pushing through the pain. He raised his hand, summoning dozens of icy lances in the blink of an eye.
"Ice Lances!" he shouted.
The crystalline spears shot toward Ajax with terrifying speed, their sharp tips aimed to pierce his body. But Ajax was a force of nature. With blinding speed and sheer brute strength, he punched through the lances, shattering them into harmless fragments.
From nowhere, a voice like honeyed silk rang in Nathan's mind, serene yet urgent.
Nathan's eyes widened briefly before narrowing in understanding. His breathing steadied as he processed her words.
"I see," he muttered under his breath.
The revelation was both enlightening and unsettling. Ajax's immunity to magic explained much—how he had rendered Aisha powerless, how he had become an unstoppable force on the battlefield. Not only was he impervious to magical attacks, but his physical strength far surpassed anything Nathan had encountered.
The odds were stacked against him, but Nathan wasn't one to back down. He pushed himself to his feet, his icy aura intensifying as he stared down the formidable Greek king.
"What are you thinking about?!" Ajax's thunderous voice roared, shattering Nathan's fleeting moment of concentration.
BADAM!
Before Nathan could fully register the words, Ajax appeared before him with terrifying speed. His fist came crashing down, and Nathan barely managed to dodge. The force of the punch was so immense that it caused a deafening explosion, the sound reverberating across the battlefield and making Nathan's ears ring painfully.
Nathan stumbled backward, the world spinning momentarily as he struggled to regain his footing. Ajax wasted no time, lunging at him with his massive hand, intent on seizing him. Nathan, however, twisted his body with agility honed through countless battles, narrowly evading the grasp.
Without missing a beat, Nathan focused his mana, channeling it into his leg. Frost bloomed across his limb, forming a dense layer of ice that shimmered like crystal. With a powerful swing, he aimed his kick at Ajax's side.
Badam!
The impact sent a shockwave of icy energy rippling outward, the ground beneath them trembling from the force. Ajax let out a groan, his body visibly jolting. For the first time in their fight, he had shown a crack in his seemingly impenetrable armor of confidence.
Nathan's cold laugh cut through the air, sharp and mocking. "What's this? Did you just cry out in pain?"
Ajax's expression darkened, his features hardening into a mask of pure rage. His eyes glinted dangerously, and his body began to radiate an intense, almost suffocating heat. It wasn't ordinary mana—it was something primal, something raw. His sheer physical prowess seemed to generate an aura so overwhelming it distorted the air around him.
Nathan's instincts screamed at him to retreat. Without hesitation, he leaped backward, widening the distance between them.
"I'll tear you apart!" Ajax growled, his voice dripping with murderous intent.
Before Nathan could react, Ajax disappeared again, moving at a speed that seemed impossible for his massive frame. The Greek king was faster now, even swifter than before.
Nathan's ordinary vision couldn't keep up. His heart raced as he realized he needed to change tactics. With a deep breath, he activated his Demonic Eye.
Nathan's left eye glowed, transforming into a menacing gold with a vertical slit in its center. The world seemed to slow down as his enhanced vision locked onto Ajax's form.
For a brief moment, Ajax faltered, his momentum slightly disrupted as he caught sight of the frightening transformation. But his hesitation was fleeting. In the next instant, Ajax resumed his assault, his speed still terrifyingly fast.
Nathan crossed his arms in a defensive stance, channeling his mana to form a thick layer of icy armor over them.
BADAM!
Ajax's punch collided with Nathan's guard, the force so overwhelming that the icy armor shattered instantly, shards of frost scattering like glass. The impact sent Nathan hurtling through the air, his body spinning uncontrollably as pain seared through his arms.
"Damn it!" Nathan cursed under his breath, his vision filled with the expanse of the sky as he flew. His body ached from the blow, but his mind screamed at him to stay alert.
Suddenly, the bright sky darkened ominously, a massive shadow descending upon him. His blood ran cold as he looked up to see Ajax diving toward him like a meteor, his foot raised and poised to deliver a crushing blow.
"Celestial Ice Magic: Barrier!" Nathan shouted, desperation fueling his magic.
A shimmering barrier of ice materialized in front of him, glowing faintly with divine energy.
BADAM!
Ajax's kick slammed into the barrier, and for a moment, it held. But the barrier cracked under the immense force, and in the next heartbeat, it shattered completely. Ajax's foot struck Nathan's waist, the residual force propelling him downward like a comet.
CRASH!
Nathan's body smashed into the ground, creating a massive crater upon impact. Dust and debris billowed into the air, obscuring the battlefield for a moment.
Groaning, Nathan forced himself to stand, his legs trembling under the weight of his injuries. Blood dripped from his mouth, and he raised a hand to wipe it away, only to cough violently, more blood splattering onto his palm.
The pain was excruciating, but he steadied himself, glaring up at Ajax, who stood at the crater's edge.
Despite Apollo's intervention, granting him more time to fight, it was evident that Nathan's body was nearing its limit. Every muscle screamed in agony, his bones felt as if they might shatter with his next movement, and his breaths came in ragged, uneven gasps. Yet, even as his body teetered on the edge of collapse, Nathan's eyes didn't lose their shine.
This pain? It was nothing.
Not compared to the torment he had endured in the past, the trials that had molded him into the warrior he was now. To Nathan, this agony was merely a whisper, a faint echo of the suffering he had weathered countless times before.
"Do you want me to bless you?"
Aphrodite asked again. Her tone carried a rare note of concern, a vulnerability that was almost disarming coming from the Goddess of Love. But his answer came swiftly, laced with defiance.
"No."
There wasn't a shred of doubt in his tone.
"I'll kill this bastard without any blessing," he declared, his lips curling into a bloody smirk. His pale face, smeared with dirt and blood, exuded a twisted sort of confidence, a raw determination that sent chills down the spine of anyone who dared look into his eyes.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC230 Nathan vs Ajax the Great! (2)
230 Nathan vs Ajax the Great! (2)
"No."
There wasn't a shred of doubt in his tone.
"I'll kill this bastard without any blessing," he declared, his lips curling into a bloody smirk. His pale face, smeared with dirt and blood, exuded a twisted sort of confidence, a raw determination that sent chills down the spine of anyone who dared look into his eyes.
It would mean nothing to defeat Ajax with the blessings of the gods. That hollow victory held no value for Nathan—not when this fight was deeply personal. Aisha's memory burned in his chest, fueling his resolve. This wasn't just about vengeance; it was about his pride as a man, as Aisha's man.
Nathan wiped the blood trickling from the corner of his lips, a small smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. "Magic and mana don't work on you, I see," he murmured, his voice calm yet edged with an icy determination.
Ajax loomed over him, grinning with cruel amusement. "Good, good! But what are you going to do now that you know? It doesn't change anything!"
With a flicker of movement, Ajax disappeared from sight, reappearing in an instant above Nathan. His massive fists clenched tight, muscles bulging as he prepared to bring them crashing down like a wrecking ball. From his vantage point, Ajax could already taste victory, a twisted smirk curling his lips. This was it—the blow that would end it.
Nathan's golden, slit-pupiled eye glowed ominously as he tracked Ajax's movements with supernatural precision. A second before Ajax's fists descended, certain of their devastating impact, Nathan vanished.
BADAAAAAAAM!
The ground beneath exploded in a deafening burst of power. Shards of debris flew like deadly projectiles, and a shockwave rippled outward, claiming the lives of the unlucky souls who had been caught behind Nathan's previous position. Their bodies were torn apart, reduced to grisly fragments in the chaotic aftermath.
Amidst the settling dust and carnage, Ajax's victorious smirk faltered, then disappeared entirely. He scanned the destruction, his instincts screaming that something was wrong. His gaze snapped around—and froze.
There stood Nathan, unharmed and utterly calm, a ghostly silhouette in the swirling smoke. His lips curled into a smirk of his own, a mocking expression that sent a chill down Ajax's spine.
"Impossible…" Ajax muttered under his breath. He replayed the moment in his head—Nathan had been there, in the strike zone. He shouldn't have been able to escape, not with that speed.
Nathan's eyes were different now. His ice-blue iris glinted like frost under the sun, while the other eye glowed gold, its slit pupil pulsing with a feral, demonic light. His entire presence was altered, his body taut and trembling with restrained power. He exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the cold, charged air.
"If magic won't work," Nathan said, his voice low but cutting, "then I'll just beat you down with my fists."
"What!?" Ajax's face twisted in shock, but before he could react, Nathan was already upon him, his movements impossibly fast.
BADAM!
Nathan's fist slammed into Ajax's abdomen like a cannonball, the force driving deep into the massive warrior's midsection. The sound of impact reverberated through the air like thunder.
"GARH!" Ajax's eyes widened as blood erupted from his mouth. His towering form was hurled backward with staggering speed, crashing to the ground and rolling violently across the shattered battlefield.
For a moment, all was still. Ajax groaned as he pushed himself back to his feet, his massive hands trembling. When he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his fingers came away stained with crimson.
Nathan, still standing where he had struck, tilted his head slightly, his smirk insolent. "What's wrong? Did you drink too much wine, or is it the taste of your own blood?"
Ajax froze, staring at his bloodied hand. His mind raced. He wasn't this fast before… That means… He wasn't fighting seriously until now.
Nathan's golden and blue eyes glimmered with unrelenting intensity as he took a step forward, his knuckles cracking ominously. "Get up, Ajax," he said, his voice carrying a deadly calm. "I'm far from done with you."
Ajax glared at Nathan, his eyes blazing with a mixture of fury and begrudging respect. The strength behind Nathan's punch was undeniable—Ajax could still feel the residual ache radiating from his abdomen. It wasn't often that someone landed a blow like that, and even rarer for anyone to force him to acknowledge their strength.
Nathan had been right. Magic, unless wielded at an extraordinary level, was useless against Ajax. His body, tempered through years of relentless training, had surpassed mortal limits. He had risen to become one of the strongest men in the world, his physical might a testament to his dedication and the bloodline of Zeus that coursed through his veins. But Nathan… Nathan was different. That man—Heiron, as they called him—had a strength that Ajax couldn't dismiss. A strength capable of wounding him.
Though anger surged within him, fanning the flames of his desire to rip Nathan's head clean off his shoulders, Ajax couldn't suppress the grin tugging at his lips. At last, an opponent worthy of his strength. Finally, a battle that promised exhilaration rather than tedium.
20:40
Without warning, he launched himself off the ground, his massive frame disappearing in an instant. Nathan, ever watchful, leapt to meet him, their trajectories intersecting in midair. Both warriors raised their fists, prepared to collide in a raw contest of power.
BADAM!
The sound of their clash reverberated like a crack of thunder. Nathan's fist fell short of its target as Ajax, with his superior reach, swung his long, muscular arm in a wide arc, intercepting Nathan's strike. The impact jarred Nathan's arm, drawing a low groan from him as the force rippled through his bones.
But Ajax's triumphant grin vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. His sharp eyes caught Nathan's counter in the split second before it struck—Nathan's leg, already in motion, was aimed at his flank.
The blow connected with explosive force, sending Ajax hurtling sideways while Nathan was flung in the opposite direction. Ajax crashed violently into the ground, a plume of dust and debris erupting from the impact.
"GUUURGH!" Ajax coughed, the wind momentarily knocked out of him. He groaned as he pushed himself upright, brushing away the dirt clinging to his skin. His chest rose and fell heavily, but his thoughts were cut short when he looked up and met Nathan's gaze.
Nathan's eyes bore into him like twin daggers, the pulsating gold eye with its demonic slit was the scariest one. The murderous intent within them was palpable, radiating like a storm of pure malice.
Those were the eyes of a predator. Eyes filled with hatred so raw and visceral that even Ajax, hardened as he was, felt a chill crawl up his spine. He couldn't fathom why such an overwhelming desire to kill was directed at him, but he had no time to dwell on it.
Nathan charged, his form a blur of motion. Ajax raised his massive arm to block, but Nathan showed no hesitation.
CRAAAK!
Ajax's arm trembled under the impact of Nathan's punch. Pain shot through the limb as the unthinkable happened—his bones, infused with the blood of Zeus himself, cracked under the blow.
"Ughn!" Ajax groaned, his voice strained as he stared in disbelief at his own arm. Blood trickled from the cracks, staining his skin.
"Did you hurt yourself?" Nathan mocked, his voice cold and unrelenting. He grabbed Ajax's damaged arm, wrenching it with enough force to elicit a guttural cry of pain. Without missing a beat, Nathan's other fist drove forward, smashing into Ajax's face with unrelenting precision.
BADAM!
The sickening crunch of bone echoed as Ajax's nose shattered under the blow. Blood gushed freely, staining his once-pristine features as he was sent hurtling across the battlefield. His massive frame skidded to a halt several meters away, the ground cracking beneath him.
For a moment, a heavy silence fell over the battlefield. Both Trojans and Greeks, who had been witnesses to countless battles and bloodshed, found themselves spellbound by the brutal exchange. This was no ordinary fight.
This was a clash worthy of the legends they had grown up hearing—a battle that would be sung about for generations to come.
It wasn't just the raw power on display; it was the primal force of the combatants. A pure, unrestrained contest of manly strength.
But one thing became abundantly clear to everyone present.
Heiron, the mercenary recruited for a few silver coins was a monster in his own right. To go toe-to-toe with Ajax the Great in sheer strength was unthinkable.
Nathan stood amidst the chaos, his chest heaving with labored breaths, the sound of his ragged inhalations drowned out by the roaring tension in the battlefield. His fists trembled, not with fear, but with the sheer strain of his efforts. Each swing, every punch, had pushed him to the edge of his limits. His body screamed for rest, for reprieve, but Nathan's mind silenced those pleas.
He glanced down at his bloodied hands, his knuckles split open and raw, the bones beneath fractured and fragile. Yet, he clenched his fists tighter, ignoring the searing pain that shot through his arms like wildfire. Pain was irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was the figure before him—the man who had to die.
His thoughts burned with a singular focus: Aisha.
Each time Nathan looked at Ajax, rage overtook him, consuming every corner of his mind. He didn't see the battlefield, the soldiers, or the shocked faces of the onlookers. He saw only him. Across the field, Ajax staggered to his feet, his massive frame looming like a shadow of death. Blood streaked his face, dripping from his nose and lips, but he seemed unfazed by the injuries. With a casual swipe of his arm, he wiped the crimson stains from his skin, revealing his cold, hardened expression beneath.
The playful smirk that had danced on Ajax's face earlier was gone. In its place was a grim visage of pure, murderous intent. His icy glare locked onto Nathan, promising retribution.
The air grew heavy as Ajax tilted his head back and let out a thunderous roar, a sound so deafening it seemed to shake the heavens themselves.
"GAAAAARGHHHHHH!"
The earth beneath them trembled as his guttural cry echoed across the battlefield, reaching even the distant walls of Troy. Soldiers on both sides froze in place, their weapons slack in their hands as they turned to witness the terrifying transformation unfolding before their eyes.
Ajax's body began to glow, a blinding white aura enveloping him like a shroud of divine power. The light was fierce and searing, illuminating the battlefield and casting long, jagged shadows. It was the radiance of a man unrestrained—a man who had cast aside all pretense of holding back.
Every muscle on Ajax's massive frame seemed to ripple with unnatural strength, his veins glowing faintly as if liquid fire coursed through them. His very presence was suffocating, the raw power radiating from him pressing down on Nathan like a mountain.
He was going to go all out.
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