I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC266 Paris's challenge!
A week had passed since the golden dragon descended from the heavens, leaving behind a trail of carnage and despair. The beast's fury had consumed a dozen of Agamemnon's prized ships, their charred remains now littering the once-proud waters of his fleet. The incident was etched into memory as the day Agamemnon's wrath reached its zenith, his seething rage becoming the stuff of whispers among the Greeks. The war between the Greeks and Trojans, already a blazing inferno, now raged with an even more furious intensity.
Agamemnon's fury was unmatched, a terrifying storm of rage that none dared to weather. His brother Menelaus, usually bold enough to counsel him, kept his distance, his lips pressed into a thin line as he observed the king's volcanic temper from the shadows. Only the aged and wise Nestor, with his measured words, and the cunning Odysseus, ever the master of persuasion, could manage to approach him. Even so, their words fell on ears deafened by fury. Everyone else ensured they remained well out of the king's reach, lest they bear the brunt of his ire.
The disappearance of Briseis was the breaking point, the final insult that shattered what little restraint Agamemnon had left. She was the jewel he had coveted, the woman he had intended to humiliate and ravage in front of Achilles to savor the warrior's anguish. Her presence had been a source of his twisted fantasies, a symbol of his dominance. And now, she was gone, whisked away before his very eyes. The image of her retreating form, carried off by a dragon, burned itself into his mind, a fresh wound to his pride.
The sight was a humiliation too public to ignore. First Astynome, now Briseis—both stolen from him as if he were nothing more than a hapless child robbed of his toys. His ships, once symbols of his unassailable might, were reduced to smoldering wreckage. The Greeks whispered among themselves, some openly pitying their king despite his power. This, they said, was no longer warfare; it was mockery. Agamemnon, the king of kings, was being bullied.
Discover hidden stories at empire
Yet pity only fueled his resolve. Agamemnon's fury hardened into an unrelenting determination, a fire that consumed reason and stoked vengeance. He channeled his wrath into rallying his men, transforming his humiliation into a rallying cry for destruction. The Trojans would pay with their blood. He would not rest until the mighty walls of Troy lay in ruins, its people slaughtered or enslaved, and its name reduced to ash in the annals of history.
He was convinced—utterly convinced—that the man responsible for his humiliation was among the Trojans. His rage, blinding and all-encompassing, demanded retribution. Yet even in his fury, Agamemnon remained a seasoned ruler. Thetis's warnings about his calculated restraint were not unfounded. His wrath did not dull his instincts. He knew that his death would spell disaster for the Greek forces. Despite his wild proclamations and battle cries, he maintained a strategic distance from the front lines, barking orders with a ferocity that left no room for dissent.
Nathan, watching from the shadows, saw precisely what he had anticipated. The king's anger, while potent, was not enough. As Thetis had predicted, Agamemnon's fury, though a powerful weapon, lacked the recklessness needed to topple him entirely. The man was a beast driven by rage, but he was still a king—a ruler who understood that survival was the key to victory.
For now, Nathan waited, the gears of his plan turning silently. Agamemnon's blind fury might not have been enough yet, but it was a start. The king's wrath was a fire, and all Nathan needed was to find the right moment to fan it into an inferno.
"How are you holding up, brother?!" Castor called out, his voice ringing over the chaos of battle, a wicked grin plastered across his face. He swung his sword in a deadly arc, cutting down another Greek soldier as though it were a casual chore. "I'm on my hundredth kill already!" He laughed, his tone tinged with savage delight.
"You're a bit late, brother," Pollux replied coolly, his blade dripping with fresh blood as he dispatched yet another foe. "I'm on my hundred and fifteenth." His voice carried a hint of impatience, as though his brother's pace were an annoyance rather than a source of camaraderie.
"Come on, Pollux! Live a little! Enjoy it to the fullest!" Castor bellowed, reveling in the carnage.
Despite their banter, the two brothers were not to be taken lightly. Their strength was nothing short of terrifying, surpassing even that of Sarpedon and Aeneas, two of Troy's mightiest warriors. But among the twins, Pollux was undeniably the stronger—a gift of his divine lineage as the son of Zeus himself.
"Look! It's Castor and Pollux!" one of the Greek soldiers shouted, his voice trembling with disbelief.
"Traitors!" another bellowed, his words a mix of outrage and betrayal. "How dare they side with the Trojans against their own people!"
The Greeks were incensed. Castor and Pollux, renowned for their valor and heritage, had chosen to fight for Troy. To the Greeks, this was a betrayal of the highest order, a stain upon their honor.
"You can scream all you like, you filthy rats!" Castor jeered, his laughter ringing out even as he plunged his blade into another soldier. "We will never ally ourselves with that bastard king who murdered our niece, discarded our sister, and now seeks to kill the other!" His voice was as sharp as his sword, cutting through the Greeks' morale as effectively as their bodies.
For the twins, their sisters were everything. Family was their only creed. With Clytemnestra and Helen both under the protection of Troy, their allegiance was clear. The Greeks, who threatened to destroy everyone within the city's walls, had become their sworn enemies.
"You've fallen low, Castor! Pollux!" a booming voice rang out, heavy with fury.
The twins turned to see Menelaus, King of Sparta, standing before them. His face was a mask of rage, his eyes burning with betrayal and indignation.
"Oh?" Castor smirked, his tone dripping with mockery. "Isn't this a pleasant surprise? Our sister's ex-husband has decided to join us on the battlefield."
"I am still her husband," Menelaus snarled, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "And I will take her back. She'll regret leaving me for the rest of her miserable life!"
"You think we'll let you walk away alive after saying that?" Pollux growled, his voice cold and menacing.
Menelaus, unfazed, threw back his head and laughed, the sound laced with scorn. "Two brats trying to intimidate me? The King of Sparta?!"
"King?" Castor's grin widened into a feral smile. "The only reason you wear that crown is because our father handed it to you when you married Helen. If not for that, the Spartans would be bowing to me or Pollux instead."
"You?! Ruling Sparta?!" Menelaus snorted, his disdain palpable. "You couldn't rule a flock of sheep, let alone warriors!"
With a roar, Menelaus lunged at Castor, his blade aimed to strike, but before he could close the distance, a whistling sound tore through the air.
An arrow, swift and precise, hurtled toward him. Menelaus reacted instinctively, throwing himself backward to avoid the projectile. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the battlefield, searching for the archer.
"They are not your opponents, Menelaus," a calm, taunting voice declared.
Menelaus's gaze snapped upward, and his expression twisted into one of unbridled fury as he spotted the source.
"PARIS!" he roared, his voice shaking with anger. His hands trembled as he gripped his sword tighter. "You cowardly bastard! Finally, you've crawled out from your hole!"
Paris's expression was unusually serious as he stepped forward, his bow gripped tightly in his hand. The chaos of the battlefield seemed to dim around him, the clamor of swords and shields fading into the background. His voice rang out with determination.
"I am here to propose an end to this war, Menelaus," he declared, his tone resolute.
"An end to the war, you say?" Menelaus repeated, a cold, bitter laugh escaping his lips. "The very war that began because you couldn't keep your dick in check?" His gaze sharpened, his voice dripping with venom. "You stole my wife, you bastard, and now you think you can prance in here and talk about peace? No! I'll end this war, Paris, but not through words. I'll end it by taking your life in front of everyone! Including Helen!"
His eyes darted to the tall walls of Troy, where the figures of royals and other key Trojan figures stood watching. Among them, Helen's silhouette was faintly visible.
"You see her, don't you?" Menelaus sneered, his voice rising. "She's watching, Paris! She'll see me cut you down and know what happens to traitors and thieves!"
Paris ignored the mockery and venom, his gaze unflinching. "I propose a one-on-one fight," he stated, his voice calm yet unyielding.
"What?" Menelaus growled, caught off guard.
"If I win," Paris continued, his tone unwavering, "you will abandon Helen to me and leave Troy with all your Greeks."
Menelaus's laughter erupted once again, harsh and guttural. "And if I win?" he demanded, mockery lacing his words.
"If you win," Paris said, locking eyes with him, "you may take Helen and my life. But in return, you will leave Troy untouched. You will take your armies and never return."
The proposal sent a ripple of shock through the Trojan ranks. Hector, standing not far from Paris, stepped forward, his face contorted with fury.
"Paris! What are you saying?!" Hector barked. "You dare to plan such things without consulting us? Without even asking Helen what she wants?!"
Paris turned to his elder brother, his gaze filled with disdain. "You all treat me as useless, a burden," he said bitterly. "Now that I'm taking action to end this war, you want me to stop? No, Hector. I will do this my way. I'll defeat Menelaus and prove my worth."
"You can't beat him," Aeneas said gravely, his tone laced with frustration and concern. "Menelaus is seasoned in battle, Paris. This isn't the time for bravado."
"Don't speak to me like I'm a child!" Paris snapped, his pride stinging at the reprimand. "I am the Prince of Troy! I'll show you all my strength!"
Casting aside his bow, Paris picked up a sword and shield from a fallen soldier. The weight of the weapons seemed unfamiliar in his hands, but his resolve was firm. He faced Menelaus, his posture rigid with defiance.
Menelaus's lips curled into a wide, wolfish grin. This was better than he had hoped. A fight against the man who had humiliated him, here on the battlefield, in front of Troy's walls. It was perfect. He would finally exact his vengeance, and there was no doubt in his mind that he would emerge victorious.
He turned to his brother, Agamemnon, seeking confirmation. Agamemnon met his gaze, his expression cold and calculating. With a small nod, he gave his approval.
But in Agamemnon's heart, there was no intention of honoring the terms Paris had laid out. Whether Menelaus won or lost, Troy would burn. Its people would be slaughtered, and its riches plundered. The war was not about reclaiming Helen anymore—it was about domination, power, and revenge.
Menelaus stepped forward, his sword gleaming in the sunlight. "Very well, Paris. Let's see if you're worth anything more than the words you spew."
The battlefield grew silent as the warriors formed a rough circle, all eyes fixed on the two men who now stood as symbols of the war's stakes. Above, the figures on Troy's walls watched with bated breath, the tension so thick it seemed to halt time itself.
This was no longer just a fight. It was a reckoning.
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS
I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC267 Paris vs Menelaus!
Menelaus stepped forward, his sword gleaming in the sunlight. "Very well, Paris. Let's see if you're worth anything more than the words you spew."
The battlefield grew silent as the warriors formed a rough circle, all eyes fixed on the two men who now stood as symbols of the war's stakes. Above, the figures on Troy's walls watched with bated breath, the tension so thick it seemed to halt time itself.
This was no longer just a fight. It was a reckoning.
At the same time, two radiant figures descended from the heavens, their divine presence visible only to a select few. The air grew heavy with the weight of their power, the faint shimmer of their ethereal forms captivating all who could behold them.
Nathan, standing amidst the unfolding chaos, could see both deities with startling clarity. Atalanta, however, could only perceive one—Artemis, her graceful form glowing softly with an otherworldly aura. Nathan's gaze shifted between Artemis and Athena, who each seemed to embody the fierce and unyielding will of their divine domains.
Athena descended with a fluid, almost effortless motion, her presence commanding and dignified. She landed beside Menelaus, her hand resting gently yet purposefully on his shoulder.
BADAM!
A shockwave of mana erupted from Menelaus's body, the sheer force of Athena's blessing radiating outward like a storm unleashed. His figure surged with newfound strength, his eyes glowing faintly with an empowered determination.
Across the battlefield, Artemis bestowed her favor upon Paris, her delicate touch brimming with lethal intent. A similar surge of divine energy engulfed him, lifting his confidence to soaring heights. Her intentions were clear—she wanted Paris to triumph, to claim his prize.
Paris, gripping his sword with a renewed sense of purpose, grinned wildly. A rush of adrenaline coursed through him, making him feel invincible, unstoppable. He roared with unrestrained conviction, "I will kill you, Menelaus! Helen will be mine—forever!" Your next chapter awaits on empire
With that declaration, Paris lunged forward, his movements swift and fierce, his blade flashing in the light of the divine.
Menelaus, unshaken, scoffed at the challenge. He raised his lance with calculated precision, meeting Paris's blade in midair.
BADAM!
The collision of their weapons unleashed a thunderous explosion, sending gusts of wind tearing across the battlefield. Dust and debris scattered as the two warriors slid back, their eyes locking in a deadly dance of strategy and resolve.
This was no ordinary battle—it was a clash between two mortals imbued with the blessings of goddesses. Each step, each strike, carried the weight of divine will and mortal ambition.
They began circling one another, the tension between them thick as a drawn bowstring. Neither dared to make a reckless move, for a single mistake could mean death.
Menelaus observed Paris's stance with a disdainful smirk curling his lips. The Trojan prince's form was stiff, his grip on the sword betraying inexperience. Menelaus nearly laughed aloud—Paris was no swordsman. He was an archer, out of his element.
Paris, noticing the mocking glint in Menelaus's eyes, scowled deeply. That momentary distraction was all Menelaus needed. Seizing the opportunity, he closed the distance with a burst of speed, thrusting his lance directly toward Paris's head.
The sharp point whistled through the air, but Paris's reflexes, sharpened by Artemis's blessing, saved him. He dodged at the last moment, twisting away and retaliating with a swift swing of his sword aimed at Menelaus's chest.
Menelaus parried the strike effortlessly, the shaft of his lance deflecting the blow with a resounding clang. He countered with a powerful kick that sent Paris staggering backward.
Paris groaned as the impact numbed his arm, the force of the kick leaving it throbbing and red. He tightened his grip on his weapon, his resolve hardening despite the pain.
"Without the goddess's blessing, you're nothing but a pathetic fool, Paris!" Menelaus jeered, his laughter echoing cruelly across the battlefield.
Fury burned in Paris's eyes. "Shut up! You're not worthy of Helen!" he shouted, his voice shaking with rage.
In a blur of motion, Paris rolled to the side, evading Menelaus's downward strike. He grabbed a nearby shield, bracing himself for the next exchange. Using the momentum of his movements, Paris surged forward, slamming the shield into Menelaus with surprising force.
Menelaus grunted in pain, sliding back several paces. He pressed a hand to his side, acknowledging the sting of the blow.
"Worthy?" Menelaus growled, his tone venomous. "I won her in a competition that all the kings of Greece took part in! I claimed her fairly, in front of the gods themselves! And you—miserable Trojan that you are—stole her away like a thief in the night. I welcomed you into my home, and you spat in my face. Your death will be anything but painless, boy!"
Menelaus's rage boiled over, and he surged forward with relentless aggression. His lance became a blur, thrusting at Paris with blinding speed and precision, each strike aiming for a fatal blow.
Paris struggled under the relentless assault. His shield trembled with each strike, cracks spreading like spiderwebs across its surface. Menelaus's attacks grew more ferocious, each blow heavier than the last. Paris's arm ached from the force, and he knew it was only a matter of moments before the shield shattered entirely.
Sweat dripped down his brow as he clenched his teeth, desperation clawing at his mind. But in the chaos, a glimmer of cunning surfaced. Paris stepped back, feigning weakness, allowing himself to be driven further by Menelaus's relentless strikes.
Menelaus, sensing victory within his grasp, pressed forward, his lance poised to deliver a decisive blow. He lunged with brutal strength, aiming to smash the shield once and for all.
But Paris was ready. At the last moment, he rolled to the ground, the gritty soil clinging to his sweat-drenched form. His hand darted out, grasping a fistful of sand. In one swift motion, he hurled it toward Menelaus's face.
"What?!"
Menelaus staggered back, his eyes snapping shut as the sand invaded them. Blind and momentarily disoriented, he stumbled.
Paris's lips curled into a wide, triumphant smirk. His muscles coiled like a spring as he leapt toward Menelaus, his sword arcing through the air with deadly intent.
BADAM!
The blade struck true, crashing against Menelaus's armor with a force that echoed across the battlefield. The impact reverberated through Menelaus's body, snapping his arm with an audible crack and sending him sprawling to the ground. He rolled away, groaning in pain, his lance momentarily forgotten.
Seizing the opportunity, Paris rushed forward, his face twisted into a near-mad grin. His sword gleamed under the harsh sun as he prepared to finish the job. Victory was so close he could taste it.
"You bastard!!" Menelaus roared, his voice a thunderclap of rage and defiance.
Though wounded, Menelaus's instincts as a seasoned warrior took over. In the split second before Paris's blade could land, he twisted his body, narrowly avoiding the killing blow. Blind yet unyielding, Menelaus swung his own weapon in a desperate arc toward where he sensed Paris stood.
"GARRH!"
Paris's scream pierced the air as Menelaus's blade tore into his thigh, leaving a deep, gaping wound. Blood gushed from the injury, staining the ground crimson. Paris crumpled to his knees, clutching his leg as pain wracked his body.
Menelaus rose, his broken arm hanging limp at his side, his rage burning brighter than his pain. Though his vision was still obscured, he didn't need his eyes to sense the wounded Paris nearby.
"I am going to kill you now, PARIS!" Menelaus bellowed, his voice booming like a war drum.
Terror seized Paris. His eyes widened as he realized the hopelessness of his situation. He could barely lift his sword, let alone block another strike from the enraged Spartan king. His breath came in ragged gasps as he glanced around, searching for any means of escape.
Without hesitation, he made his decision. Survival over pride.
With a guttural cry, Paris turned and ran, staggering at first but quickly gaining momentum. Pushing past stunned Trojans in his path, he fled—not toward the safety of Troy's walls but into the wilderness beyond. His only thought was to escape the wrath of Menelaus and live another day.
"Move!" Paris shouted, shoving anyone in his way as he bolted.
The battlefield fell silent, soldiers on both sides staring in disbelief.
"Where? Where has he gone?!" Menelaus demanded, rubbing furiously at his stinging eyes. When he finally opened them, Paris was nowhere to be seen.
Understanding dawned on Menelaus like a thunderclap. His expression darkened, his lips curling into a snarl.
"That COWARD!!!!" he roared, his voice so fierce that even his own soldiers recoiled in fear.
Before Menelaus could act on his fury, a calm yet commanding voice cut through the tension.
"Enough," said Odysseus, stepping forward with an air of authority. His calculating gaze shifted to Hector, who stood grim-faced amidst the chaos.
"Paris's flight from the battlefield is a clear sign of his defeat," Odysseus declared, his tone measured but firm. "Menelaus has won. It is now your duty to honor the promises made. Return Helen of Sparta to her rightful husband. And when you find Paris—" his voice hardened, "—you will deliver his head to us. The war is over."
Odysseus inwardly sighed in relief. Finally, this senseless war over a woman and wealth seemed poised to end. The promise of peace stirred hope within him—a hope to return to Ithaca, to embrace his beloved wife, Penelope, and to see his young son, Telemachus, once more.
But peace, it seemed, was not to be so easily won.
Agamemnon stood nearby, his face twisted in barely concealed frustration. The High King of Mycenae burned with ambition, and though he loathed the thought of abandoning his grand campaign, he knew he couldn't openly defy Odysseus's logic. So, he gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he swallowed his objections.
Far above the battlefield, two divine figures watched the unfolding events with different expressions.
Hera's gaze was ice, her wrath simmering beneath the surface. This resolution was not what she wanted. Her hatred for Troy and its people demanded utter annihilation, not a truce. With a subtle glance, she conveyed her displeasure to Athena, her silent command unmistakable.
Athena, though reluctant, gave a nod of understanding. She disappeared from Hera's side, stepping unseen into the mortal fray.
Nathan, standing among the onlookers, felt a shiver run down his spine as he caught sight of Athena materializing, her divine form visible only to a few. His white hair fluttered in the wind as his keen eyes tracked her movements.
Athena glided silently to a certain Trojan archer, one of the many stationed at the edges of the battlefield. Her presence was overwhelming, and the man froze as her voice, melodic and commanding, whispered in his ear.
"Now is your moment," she urged, her words laced with divine compulsion. "Take your bow. Strike down Menelaus. Avenge Troy's honor."
The archer, trembling yet emboldened by the goddess's influence, obeyed without hesitation. His hands moved swiftly, nocking an arrow to his bowstring. He raised his weapon, his target clear—the Spartan king, Menelaus.
Nathan's eyes widened as he realized what was about to happen. The spark of Athena's interference ignited his fury.
"NO!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the tense silence. He surged forward, desperate to stop the archer before chaos could reignite.
But he was too late.
The bowstring sang as the arrow was loosed. It soared through the air, glinting in the sunlight before finding its mark.
"ARGH!"
Menelaus let out a guttural cry as the arrow pierced his shoulder with brutal force. Blood spilled from the wound as he fell to his knees, clutching at the shaft embedded in his flesh.
The Greeks erupted in outrage. Cries of betrayal and fury echoed across the battlefield, drowning out any hope of reason.
Agamemnon, who had observed the scene unfold, allowed a dark smile to creep across his face. This was the excuse he had been waiting for—a pretext to unleash his full fury upon Troy.
"KILL THEM ALL!!"
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS
I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC268 Heiron's rampaging!
"KILL THEM ALL!!"
The Greek soldiers, already inflamed with anger, charged forward with renewed ferocity, their weapons raised and their cries echoing their leader's command.
The fragile peace shattered in an instant, replaced by the deafening roar of war.
Nathan stood frozen, his fists clenched as the chaos unfolded before him. His heart sank, knowing the bloodshed that was to come. Athena's gaze flickered toward him briefly, her expression unreadable, before she vanished into the ether.
Above it all, Hera smirked in satisfaction. The war would continue, and Troy's fate was sealed.
"The war won't stop until Troy is reduced to ashes," Hera declared, her voice cutting through the heavens like a blade. Her words were loud enough for the gods protecting Troy to hear—and pointedly aimed at the mortal who dared see her.
Nathan's gaze turned sharp as ice. He no longer cared to hide his abnormal ability to perceive the divine. Not now. His white hair swayed in the breeze as his cold, piercing eyes locked onto Hera.
Clenching his fists tightly, he silently vowed, Not now, but soon. He would deal with her—and not just Hera. His eyes flicked to Athena, who stood nearby with her usual cool, calculating expression.
"Athena," Nathan muttered.
He would definitely take care of both of them later.
"Enough of this," Artemis snarled, her teeth gritted in righteous fury. Unlike Hera and Athena, her loyalty to Troy made her bristle at the Greeks' dominance on the battlefield.
"Calm yourself, Artemis," Aphrodite murmured, her expression a mix of worry and disdain. She watched the slaughter below as Greeks and Trojans clashed with renewed violence. The once-fragile truce was now a distant memory, replaced by the bloodthirsty cries of war.
It was as if the hatred and anger of both sides had reached their peak. Swords clashed, spears thrust, and arrows rained down as the battlefield devolved into chaos.
It looked like the war could go on for hundreds of years without any sides getting tired at all.
Amid the madness, Hector barked orders to his soldiers. "Get back! Form up! Quickly, before they overwhelm us!" His voice carried over the battlefield, urging the Trojans to regroup. Yet even Hector struggled to rally his forces; the Greeks, fueled by divine intervention and bloodlust, were relentless.
But then, something changed.
A sudden, chilling wave of frost erupted across the battlefield, radiating outward like a winter storm. Hundreds of Greek soldiers froze in place, their bodies encased in ice, their war cries silenced mid-scream. The Trojans stopped in their tracks, stunned, before turning to see the source of the frigid power.
There stood Nathan, his hand outstretched, his eyes blazing with an otherworldly light.
"It's HEIRON!!" the Trojans shouted, their voices filled with hope and renewed vigor.
The Greeks, however, were paralyzed with fear.
"Kill him! Kill that monster!" one Greek soldier yelled, though his voice trembled.
Nathan moved like a force of nature, leaping toward the icy wave. With a single, powerful swing of his leg, he shattered the frozen figures.
BADAM! Find your next read on empire
The force was so immense that the icy statues of Greek soldiers crumbled into shards, their shattered remains littering the battlefield. The sound was deafening, and the Greeks fell silent, their confidence replaced by sheer terror.
Nathan paid no mind to their fear. His focus was singular. He surged forward, weaving through the chaos with ruthless precision. His target was clear: Menelaus, King of Sparta.
Hector, standing at the rear to reorganize the Trojan forces, watched Nathan in alarm. The young warrior's fury was palpable, and Hector knew he couldn't stop him. Yet he wasn't about to let Nathan face the Greeks alone.
"Atalanta!" Hector called out, his voice firm. "Cover Heiron! I can't leave my position."
Atalanta nodded without hesitation. "I'm on it!" she replied, drawing her bow and falling in step behind Nathan.
Nathan charged, his eyes locked onto Menelaus, who was retreating amidst a cluster of Greek soldiers. Beside him, Odysseus struggled to shield the Spartan king, his clever mind already working on a way to turn the tides.
It was perilous for Nathan to reveal his Demonic Sword under the watchful eyes of the Goddesses who loomed overhead like silent judges. They were even more wary than him than the he faced Ajax. He knew their interference could spell disaster, so he opted for a less conspicuous weapon—a lance scavenged from the battlefield. With a feral resolve, he charged into the fray, his movements a whirlwind of calculated fury.
The lance became an extension of his will, slicing through the air with such ferocity that it left a trail of crimson in its wake. Greek soldiers fell one after another, their cries of pain swallowed by the chaos of battle. Nathan's strikes were relentless, cutting down anyone who dared to block his path toward his target: Menelaus.
"MENELAUS!" Nathan's voice thundered above the cacophony, laced with both disdain and challenge. "Face me! Are you like Paris? A COWARD?!"
The insult hit its mark. Menelaus, clutching his weapon with trembling hands, visibly bristled. The king's face contorted in anger, and he barked back, "WHAT?!" His glare was venomous, his pride wounded.
But before Menelaus could act, a steadying voice broke through. "Don't listen to him! In your condition, you can't do much. Rest, and fight another day!" Odysseus's sharp tone carried both authority and reason. His eyes flickered to Nathan, assessing the situation with the cunning of a seasoned tactician.
Menelaus hesitated, his grip faltering.
"ODYSSEUS! WHAT ABOUT YOU?!" Nathan roared, his words dripping with venom and contempt. His fury surged, and with a wave of his hand, an eruption of ice surged forward. The frozen shockwave tore through another group of Greeks, freezing their bodies mid-scream. The battlefield grew eerily silent as the frost settled, a stark reminder of Nathan's overwhelming power.
Odysseus's gaze remained unflinching, though a flicker of admiration broke through his otherwise calm demeanor. "You never die, do you?" he said, almost chuckling despite the grim circumstances.
Nathan's eyes darkened as an ominous energy coiled around him, his mana radiating like a storm barely held in check. "Celestial Rank Magic," he muttered, his voice a chilling whisper. The mana condensed around his lance, transforming it. The weapon elongated, its shaft turning a pale frosty blue, and it hovered just above the ground, vibrating with deadly intent.
The soldiers who had dared to advance now stumbled back, fear writ large on their faces. The air grew frigid, and frost began to creep across the battlefield, consuming the earth itself.
Odysseus's expression hardened, his calm resolve unwavering. Menelaus, however, began to panic, his eyes darting between Nathan and the growing power in his lance. "Odysseus! Do something! In my state, I can't stop this!" Menelaus's voice cracked with desperation.
"Stay calm," Odysseus replied tersely, raising a hand to signal restraint. His eyes locked with Nathan's.
Nathan's gaze turned colder still. "I will blow you both away," he snarled. With a flick of his wrist, the massive frosty lance launched forward, tearing through the air with an ear-splitting shriek.
The attack barreled toward its target, promising nothing short of annihilation. But as it neared Odysseus, a radiant barrier shimmered into existence. The divine shield materialized with a golden glow, halting the lance in its tracks. The impact sent shockwaves rippling outward, but the barrier held firm.
Nathan's eyes narrowed as he spotted the source. Athena floated above the battlefield, her divine presence undeniable. Her gaze met Nathan's, cool and unyielding, a silent declaration of her intent to protect the Greek leaders.
"Again and fucking again," Nathan muttered, his frustration mounting. "These Goddesses won't let me finish this."
Odysseus lowered his hand, his expression unreadable but tinged with relief. He stepped forward, his voice calm but carrying an edge of genuine curiosity. "Abandon this, Heiron. You're just a mercenary. Why give so much for a country that doesn't care about you?"
"They are far more honorable than pathetic men like you all," Nathan spat, his tone carrying a weight that seemed to still the chaos around him. He gestured to the bodies littering the ground, his expression a mask of righteous fury. "You didn't spare the innocent. You enslaved innocent women and children—people who asked for nothing, did nothing to deserve this cruelty. You destroyed their lives without hesitation. Tell me, Odysseus, how many have died because of you? How many have suffered because of your trash king's ambitions?"
Odysseus stood silent, though his clenched fists betrayed the turmoil within him. Nathan pressed on, his voice growing colder. "You're a father, aren't you? A husband to a beautiful wife. A king to your people. You, of all men, should understand the weight of those roles. And yet, you've abandoned that understanding. Deep down, I know you see it too. The Greeks—your people—are the ones who deserve to lose this war."
Odysseus's composure faltered, but he remained silent. The tension in the air was palpable as Nathan's accusations struck home.
Nathan turned his fiery gaze to the gathering crowd of Greeks, his voice rising with righteous indignation. "Your so-called King of Kings, Agamemnon, is the worst of you all. The man sacrificed his own daughter for a war—for his own glory! Tell me, how old was she? Six years old, wasn't she?" His words dripped with contempt as he recalled Clytemnestra's heart-wrenching cries for vengeance. "Is that normal for you Greeks?! Is that the kind of man you follow into battle?!"
A ripple of unease spread through the Greek ranks. Soldiers shifted uncomfortably, their expressions ranging from shame to anger. Even Agamemnon, standing amidst the crowd, glared furiously at Nathan, but the latter was undeterred. His words carried the weight of truth, and he refused to falter.
As Nathan's words carried across the battlefield, amplified by the DEEP VOICE SKILL, they reached not only the soldiers but even the walls of Troy.
On the walls, Clytemnestra stood, her hands covering her mouth as tears streamed down her face. Nathan's words had pierced her heart, as he shared her grief and her anger. She sobbed openly, her shoulders shaking as she felt, for the first time in years, doing something for her.
"That is your king?!" Nathan continued, his voice unyielding. "No wonder you're all trash!"
Menelaus, his pride stung, couldn't hold back. "What could a brat like you possibly understand?!" he shouted, his face red with fury.
Nathan laughed, a sound filled with contempt and pity. "What I understand?" he echoed, his tone dripping with derision. "I've known King Priam for only a few months, but in that short time, he has proven himself a better king than any of your so-called rulers. He is willing to risk his entire city to protect an innocent woman. That speaks volumes about his character. He may not be remembered for grand conquests or endless wars, but he will be remembered fondly by the people of this era."
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS
I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC269 Nathan's rage
Nathan laughed, a sound filled with contempt and pity. "What I understand?" he echoed, his tone dripping with derision. "I've known King Priam for only a few months, but in that short time, he has proven himself a better king than any of your so-called rulers. He is willing to risk his entire city to protect an innocent woman. That speaks volumes about his character. He may not be remembered for grand conquests or endless wars, but he will be remembered fondly by the people of this era."
"Heiron…" Priam's voice quivered with emotion as he listened to Nathan's impassioned words, deeply moved by the young man's fierce determination.
For Priam, the truth was undeniable—he had no intention of surrendering Helen to the Greeks, even if it meant incurring the wrath of every king in their alliance. He had come to know Helen well enough to see her as an innocent soul, unfairly caught in the web of this relentless war. His resolve was mirrored in the soft yet determined smiles of Hecuba and Andromache, who stood by his side.
Nathan's voice thundered across the battlefield, cutting through the clamor of war like a blade through flesh. "You Spartans claim to pride yourselves on honor, but what honor is there in taking revenge on an innocent woman? A woman who doesn't even love you! If you were truly a man, you would let her go—to live her life on her own terms, freely! Did she ever harm you? Did she ever deserve to be treated like a trophy to flaunt before your enemies?"
Menelaus, who had been ready to retort, found his words strangled in his throat as Nathan continued, his words relentless and piercing. "Her father entrusted her to you—not as a prize, but as a charge to protect her from the lecherous monsters who masquerade as kings and gods alike. And what did you do? You turned his trust into betrayal! You ignored her suffering and used her as an excuse to stoke your pathetic pride! You called upon your trash brother to wage war, not for justice or love, but for your own fragile ego!"
Helen, watching from the high walls of Troy, trembled as she heard these words. Her hands instinctively covered her lips, stifling a sob as her eyes filled with tears. Only her family knew the truth of her father's decision—the desperate measures he took to shield her from the lust of gods like Poseidon, who would have violated her had it not been for her father's swift intervention. For years, she bore the weight of being misunderstood, as just a whore seducing all kings.
Tears spilled over as Kassandra stepped forward to support Helen. The seeress gently placed a hand on her shoulder while her gaze lingered on Nathan who took everyone's attention including the Gods.
Nathan's voice rose again. "And I dare to say this: all Trojans here—men who fight not for glory but to protect their families, their wives, their children, even a stranger woman they've taken under their care—each of them deserves to reach the so-called Islands of Heroes in the afterlife! If the gods above have even a sliver of intelligence or decency, they will see the righteousness of these people and honor their sacrifices."
"Heiron…" The words struck Hector and Aeneas.
The Trojans around them stood in silence, every word etched into their souls. Even in the face of death, they felt emboldened, their cause vindicated by Nathan's eloquence. At this point, Heiron entered until the end inside their hearts, he won all of them.
Meanwhile, Astynome's cheeks flushed a deep crimson, her heart pounding in admiration and love for the man who had captivated her. She couldn't help but marvel at his strength, both in body and conviction.
Elsewhere on the battlefield, Penthesilea, Queen of the Amazons, was locked in fierce combat with a group of Greek soldiers. Yet, even in the midst of her relentless strikes, a wide grin spread across her face. Her sharp eyes had caught glimpses of Nathan's commanding presence and his bold words echoing across the battlefield. "I have chosen well," she thought with satisfaction. This man, a warrior who fought with both his heart and his sword, was exactly the ally—and perhaps more—she had hoped for.
Nathan's classmates, in the battlefield also understood him. From the beginning, they had harbored a deep disdain for the Greeks, repulsed by their arrogance and cruelty. The women in the group had felt it even more acutely, their skin crawling under the Greeks' lascivious stares and disrespectful murmurs.
Courtney and Gwen had different faces, their expressions a mix of bitterness and reluctant understanding. They couldn't deny it any longer—Heiron, the man who had once defeated them, was undeniably a good man. His words resonated deeply, not only condemning the Greeks but also uplifting the Trojans in their noble cause.
Siara, too, was lost in thought. Her mind lingered on the day she had fought against Heiron. His strength, his precision—it had been overwhelming. He could have killed both Gwen and her that day, easily, yet he chose not to. Why? She was certain now that the answer lay in the very core of his character.
But among them, Sienna stood in silence, her usually composed demeanor betraying a flicker of emotion. Her blue eyes rippled with recognition, a memory surfacing in her mind like a fleeting shadow.
His voice... his way of speaking... she thought, her heart skipping a beat. It wasn't just the conviction or the fire in his tone. It was something far more personal, something that struck a chord deep within her. It reminded her of a moment long ago—a conversation she had shared with her dead step brother, Nathan.
Not aware of the reactions, Nathan's gaze darkened, his tone shifting from fervent hope to icy menace. Turning his lance toward the Greeks, he spoke with a voice colder than the grave. "And you Greeks… You are nothing but scum." His words lashed across them like a whip. "I swear, on this battlefield and before all the gods, I will send every last one of you to Hades. You will not find rest, nor will there be honor in your deaths. Like Ajax, I will ensure that none of you are given the dignity of a proper burial."
The Greeks froze, their faces pale with fear as the sheer weight of Nathan's words bore down upon them. His Skill DEEP VOICE reached another level of mastery inducing fear even to his enemy no matter how numerous they were.
"I see," Odysseus said softly, closing his eyes.
Nathan's words hung heavy in the air, cutting deeper than any blade. Each accusation, every scathing truth, had struck Odysseus like an unrelenting storm, battering his heart with a mix of guilt and helplessness. He could deny none of it.
He had always felt the pang of sorrow over Iphigenia's death. He had never approved of Agamemnon's methods, nor had he wanted to be part of this senseless war. For years, he had tried to resist, seeking ways to avoid the bloodshed. But in the end, he was dragged into the conflict, bound by the oaths he had sworn to Agamemnon—oaths that, as a Greek king, he could not break without dishonoring himself and his people.
Most Greeks had grown up idolizing gods like Zeus and Poseidon, emulating their treatment of women as mere objects of possession. But Odysseus had never been like them. He had always cherished Penelope, treating her as his equal, his partner in life. Yet, in this sea of greed and arrogance, his ideals felt like a foreign tongue.
As Nathan's words echoed in his mind, Odysseus realized how closely they mirrored his own unspoken thoughts. A bittersweet smile crossed his face.
"I am… a bit jealous of the Trojans," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper as his gaze met Nathan's.
If only Nathan had been born a Greek king. Could he have been the one to change their path, to pull them away from this pit of selfishness and cruelty? Odysseus could only wonder.
"I understand, Heiron," he said, his voice firmer now. "But as a Greek king, it is my duty to ensure our victory."
Nathan's eyes narrowed, his voice turning icy. "Odysseus, I want Agamemnon's head. Are you going to stand in my way?" His lance pointed directly at the older man, its tip gleaming with deadly intent.
Odysseus held Nathan's gaze, his expression a mix of regret and resolve. He had seen a kindred spirit in Nathan, someone who shared his disdain for the darkness that plagued their world. But he was bound by duty, no matter how much it pained him.
"I will," he said, his voice steady.
Nathan's eyes flashed with fury, his grip on the lance tightening. "Then you will never see Penelope or your son again." His words were sharp.
Read new chapters at empire
Odysseus met his gaze. "We will see about that." With that, he turned, his steps heavy yet resolute.
Nathan surged forward, his lance poised to strike, but a towering figure stepped between them, blocking his path. The sheer presence of the man was overwhelming, his form a mountain of muscle and power. Nathan immediately sensed danger and leaped back, his eyes narrowing as he sized up the new challenger.
It was none other than Heracles.
The demigod, a son of Zeus and one of Greece's strongest warriors, stood before Nathan like a fortress. His gaze was steady, his demeanor calm yet commanding.
"I will have to stop you with all my strength this time, Black Commander," Heracles said, his voice deep and resolute.
Nathan's grip tightened around his lance, his icy gaze meeting the demigod's stare.
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS
I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC270: Heiron vs Heracles! (1)
It was none other than Heracles.
The demigod, a son of Zeus and one of Greece's strongest warriors, stood before Nathan like a fortress. His gaze was steady, his demeanor calm yet commanding.
"I will have to stop you with all my strength this time, Black Commander," Heracles said, his voice deep and resolute.
Nathan's grip tightened around his lance, his icy gaze meeting the demigod's stare.
Nathan stood silently as the imposing figure of Heracles loomed before him, his muscles taut and his presence commanding. The flicker of distant torches danced on Heracles' bronzed skin, casting shifting shadows that only enhanced his legendary aura. But Nathan's expression remained unchanged—a frigid, unyielding stare that seemed capable of freezing the very air between them.
"You… You're the one who attacked and saved Briseis that day, aren't you?" Heracles' deep voice rumbled, each word laced with certainty. His lips curled into a half-smirk. "You must also be the one who took Apollo's priestess. That's your handiwork, isn't it?"
Nathan offered no response. His silence was colder than any words could have been, his icy demeanor sharp enough to cut through Heracles' feigned nonchalance.
Heracles chuckled softly, the sound reverberating like a roll of distant thunder. "I recognized the dragon you stole to whisk Medea away and claim the Golden Fleece. Rescuing women with dragons… seems to have become a habit of yours, hasn't it?"
But Nathan's icy stare did not waver. His body remained tense, his every muscle coiled like a viper ready to strike. He was in no mood for games or idle banter. His silence was an answer in itself—one of disdain and absolute resolve.
Heracles tilted his head, studying him. "I'll be honest with you," he said, his tone softening slightly. "I don't want to fight you."
Nathan's voice was like a winter wind, biting and unforgiving. "Move, then."
Heracles' expression hardened. "I can't do that. Odysseus is one of my dearest friends. I can't let you kill him."
Nathan's eyes narrowed, his words cutting like shards of ice. "He's courting death himself. It's not him I want; it's Agamemnon's head I seek."
Heracles shook his head slowly, a trace of regret in his gaze. "You know that won't happen. Hera and Athena will never let you kill either of them—Odysseus or Agamemnon."
Nathan's lips curled into a faint, chilling smile. "We'll see about that." And with that, he vanished.
BADAM!
The ground trembled as Nathan reappeared in a blur of motion, his lance descending in a deadly arc toward Heracles. But Heracles, ever the warrior, raised his bare arm to block the blow. The force of the strike sent shockwaves rippling through the ground, scattering dust and debris into the air.
Heracles' eyes widened in shock, the faintest flicker of disbelief breaking through his stoic façade. "You've grown even stronger since back then," he murmured, his voice tinged with a mix of awe and respect. This wasn't growth—it was something far beyond that, something unnatural.
Nathan's snort was derisive, his lips curling in disdain. "Like you," he spat, before delivering a swift kick to Heracles' midsection. The force of the blow sent the legendary hero skidding backward, his feet gouging deep furrows into the earth.
Nathan's gaze sharpened as he assessed his opponent. Heracles was unlike anyone he had faced before. His sheer strength was reminiscent of Ajax, but there was something more—an indomitable presence that marked him as a true legend. Nathan knew he couldn't afford to underestimate him.
He twirled his lance with practiced ease, the weapon's blade glinting ominously in the firelight. With a flick of his wrist, he unleashed a torrent of frost, the ice exploding outward in a dazzling display of power. The ground beneath him froze instantly, a glacial path forming in his wake as he charged toward Heracles.
But Heracles was ready. His hands came together in a deliberate motion, his fingers forming the shape of a lion's maw. A golden aura began to radiate from his body, the air around him crackling with divine energy.
"Celestial Magic," Heracles intoned.
Nathan's eyes narrowed, his expression growing even colder. He could feel the oppressive force of the magic, its power seeping into the air like an unseen predator. Instinctively, he summoned a barrier of ice around him, the crystalline shield shimmering with an ethereal light.
"LION'S ROAR!" Heracles bellowed. A massive, spectral lion materialized behind him, its golden mane blazing like the sun. The beast let out a deafening roar that shook the very earth, before leaping toward Nathan with predatory ferocity.
BADOOOOOM!!!
The impact was catastrophic. The spectral lion collided with Nathan's icy barrier, the resulting explosion of energy sending shockwaves rippling outward. The ground splintered and cracked, the force of the blast tearing through the frozen terrain and scattering shards of ice.
Nathan's icy barrier held for a moment, shimmering defiantly against the celestial onslaught. But as expected from the overwhelming power of celestial magic, his ice couldn't withstand for long. The spectral lion tore through the barrier with a deafening roar, and Nathan was sent hurtling hundreds of meters through the air. He crashed into the frozen ground, the impact carving a deep trench into the icy terrain.
Blood erupted from Nathan's mouth as he coughed violently, his body wracked with pain. Yet, even as the world spun around him, his left eye snapped open, its iris glowing with a demonic golden light. Gritting his teeth, he drove his lance into the ground to steady himself, forcing his battered body upright. His armor was cracked and broken, shards of metal falling away with every movement, but his gaze remained as cold and unyielding as ever.
Heracles, standing amidst the settling dust, watched with a mixture of awe and amusement. His chest heaved as he caught his breath. "What a monster," he muttered with a laugh, shaking his head at the resilience of his opponent.
Without warning, Heracles launched another surge of celestial magic, a blinding wave of energy that rushed toward Nathan. Bracing himself, Nathan summoned a fresh surge of ice, reinforcing his defenses. The ground beneath him froze solid as the two powers clashed, the impact sending shards of frost and divine light scattering in all directions. Nathan gritted his teeth, his icy shield barely holding against the onslaught. It was Khione's ice he had called upon, though none would ever suspect the truth. Even the goddesses, with all their wisdom, would find it difficult to discern the origin of such divine frost. For now, the secret remained his alone.
Heracles tensed, sensing a divine presence drawing near. Hera's aura washed over the battlefield like an oppressive tide, her power unmistakable. She approached with an air of regal determination, her gaze fixed on Nathan. To her, this was the perfect opportunity to rid herself of the pest Heiron, who had been a thorn in her side for far too long.
Nathan's expression darkened further as his eyes locked onto the goddess. Cold disdain radiated from him, but Hera remained unfazed. Her focus shifted to Heracles, ready to bestow her blessing upon her champion.
But Heracles raised a hand, shaking his head. "Adopted mother, please," he said, his voice steady despite the exhaustion in his body. "I want to fight him without any blessings. He's fighting without divine aid, and I want to face him fairly."
Hera's brows knit in frustration, her tone sharp. "Your sense of fairness and righteousness will be the death of you, Heracles," she said, her words heavy with disapproval. She knew that with her blessing, victory against Nathan would be assured. Without it, she couldn't be certain.
Heracles, however, stood firm. "Perhaps, but his resolve… his words… they've touched me. I want to fight him for the man he is. Please, let me do this."
Hera's frown deepened, her lips pressed into a thin line. "As you wish," she said finally, abandoning any further attempts to sway him. She turned away with a wave of her hand, her disappointment evident.
Though Heracles was not her true son, merely another of Zeus's illegitimate offspring, he was among the few she held in higher regard than her own biological child, Ares. Despite her misgivings, she respected his decision, even if she believed it to be foolish.
Nathan stood still, unsure of what to make of Heracles's decision. The hero had refused a blessing that would have guaranteed his victory. In Nathan's current state, he wasn't confident he could defeat Heracles, even without Hera's divine aid. It seemed Heracles was among the rare Greeks who might deserve respect, alongside Patroclus, Achilles, and perhaps even Odysseus.
Your adventure continues at empire
Heracles's voice broke through Nathan's thoughts. "Are you ready?" he asked, fists raised and poised for battle.
Nathan gripped his lance tightly and nodded. This time, there would be no holding back. Both warriors prepared to unleash their full strength.
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS
I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC271: Heiron vs Heracles! (2)
Heracles's voice broke through Nathan's thoughts. "Are you ready?" he asked, fists raised and poised for battle.
Nathan gripped his lance tightly and nodded. This time, there would be no holding back. Both warriors prepared to unleash their full strength.
Heracles moved first, vanishing from sight in a blur of motion. Before Nathan could react, the demigod reappeared directly in front of him, his speed startlingly faster than before. Nathan barely managed to raise his arm in defense before a powerful fist collided with it. The force of the blow sent shockwaves through his body, and he heard the ominous sound of his bones creaking under the impact. The force hurled him backward, crashing him into the frozen ground.
Heracles was relentless. He appeared above Nathan in a flash, descending rapidly with a raised leg, ready to deliver a crushing kick. But Nathan rolled aside at the last second, swinging his lance in a wide arc. Frost erupted from the weapon, instantly freezing the ground where Heracles landed. Ice crawled up Heracles's legs, immobilizing him momentarily.
Seizing the opportunity, Nathan channeled immense power into his fist. He lunged forward and delivered a punch to Heracles's cheek. Though his fist was much smaller than the demigod's, the impact was monumental. The deafening crack of the blow echoed through the battlefield, shaking the air itself. Heracles groaned as the force sent him flying across the frozen terrain.
Nathan didn't waste a moment. He closed the distance with blinding speed, raising his lance high before driving it down toward Heracles. The ground trembled as the lance struck, creating a massive crater. But Heracles was no longer there.
Before Nathan could process what had happened, Heracles reappeared, his massive hand clamping onto Nathan's arm. With a mighty swing, he hurled Nathan through the air like a ragdoll. The world blurred around Nathan as he flew at an incredible speed. Desperately, he tried to regain his balance, but Heracles was already upon him again, his fist glowing with a fierce energy.
"Iron Fist!" Heracles roared, bringing his glowing hand down in a devastating strike.
Nathan crossed his arms in front of his chest, bracing himself for the impact. The blow connected with a thunderous explosion, the force reverberating through the battlefield.
BADAAAM!
Nathan gritted his teeth, his arms throbbing with pain as he absorbed the full brunt of Heracles's devastating "Iron Fist." The sheer force of the blow left the ground beneath him fractured, deep fissures spreading out like veins across the battlefield. He skidded backward, his boots digging trenches in the frozen earth. The air was thick with tension, every breath Nathan took feeling like a struggle against an invisible weight.
Heracles stood tall, his glowing fist still radiating heat. He cracked his knuckles, his expression a mixture of admiration and determination. "You're tougher than I thought," he said, his voice carrying a grudging respect. "Most would've been crushed by that."
Nathan's golden eye glinted ominously as he steadied himself, his lance glowing faintly with frost. "I've faced worse," he replied, his voice cold. He didn't mention the searing pain coursing through his arms or the creeping fatigue in his muscles. There was no room for weakness here.
Without warning, Heracles charged again, his movements a blur. Nathan barely had time to react as the demigod's massive fist came hurtling toward him. He twisted his body, narrowly avoiding the blow, and retaliated with a quick thrust of his lance. Frost exploded outward, but Heracles swatted the attack aside with his forearm, the ice shattering harmlessly.
"You're going to need more than that," Heracles taunted, throwing a series of rapid punches. Each one carried enough force to level a building, but Nathan's agility kept him just out of reach. He ducked, weaved, and countered when he could, his lance leaving trails of frost in the air.
But Heracles was relentless. He closed the distance, his massive frame towering over Nathan as he swung a powerful backhand. This time, Nathan wasn't quick enough. The blow connected, sending him sprawling across the battlefield. He tumbled through the icy terrain, his armor scraping against the ground before he managed to dig his lance into the earth and halt his momentum.
Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth as he rose, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. Heracles was already on him, his fists glowing with celestial energy. Nathan knew he couldn't afford another direct hit. Summoning his strength, he slammed the butt of his lance into the ground, creating a dome of ice around him.
Heracles's fists collided with the barrier, the impact sending cracks spidering through the ice. The demigod didn't relent, each punch more ferocious than the last. Nathan concentrated, pouring his energy into reinforcing the barrier. The temperature around them plummeted, frost creeping up Heracles's arms as the icy dome absorbed the force of his blows.
Finally, with a deafening crack, the barrier shattered, shards of ice exploding outward. Heracles shielded his face with his arm, but the brief distraction was all Nathan needed. He surged forward, his lance coated in a shimmering layer of frost. With a powerful thrust, he aimed for Heracles's chest.
The lance struck true, the icy blade piercing Heracles's flesh. Frost spread rapidly from the wound, but Heracles gritted his teeth and grabbed the lance's shaft. "Not bad," he admitted, his voice strained. Then, with a tremendous roar, he snapped the lance in two, the shards of ice scattering across the battlefield.
Nathan stumbled back, the broken weapon still clutched in his hands. Heracles pressed a hand to his chest, steam rising as his mana began to heal the wound. "You've got skill, I'll give you that," he said, his tone almost conversational. "But you're not the only one who's been holding back."
Nathan's golden eye narrowed. "What are you talking about?"
Heracles grinned, his muscles tensing as he raised his arms. "Time to show you why they call me a legend." Golden light enveloped him, his body glowing with divine power. The air around him crackled with energy, the sheer intensity of it forcing Nathan to take a step back.
Before Nathan could react, Heracles vanished. He reappeared an instant later, his fist crashing into Nathan's torso with the force of a meteor. The impact sent Nathan hurtling into a nearby cliff, the rock face crumbling under the force of his landing. Dust and debris filled the air as Nathan struggled to rise, his vision swimming.
Heracles didn't give him a moment to recover. He leaped into the air, his glowing fist poised to deliver a finishing blow. But Nathan wasn't done yet. Summoning the last reserves of his strength, he unleashed a surge of icy energy. A massive pillar of frost erupted from the ground, meeting Heracles midair and engulfing him in a freezing torrent.
For a moment, everything was silent. Then, with a deafening roar, Heracles broke free, shards of ice flying in all directions. He landed with a thunderous crash, his body steaming from the cold. "Impressive," he admitted, shaking the frost from his shoulders. "But it'll take more than that to bring me down."
Nathan staggered to his feet, his body battered and bruised. His armor was in tatters, and blood stained the icy ground beneath him.
"Then I'll just have to try harder," Nathan declared, his voice low but resolute, resonating like a bell tolling in the silence before a storm.
The atmosphere around him shifted dramatically, an invisible current rippling outward as if the very air itself acknowledged his determination. His status screen materialized before him, glowing faintly with an ethereal light.
Luck: 12,677
Transfer Initiating...
Strength: 928
Discover stories with empire
Stamina: 885
Agility: 1,012
TEMPORARY TRANSFER COMPLETE!
STRENGTH: 4,928 (+4,000)
STAMINA: 4,885 (+4,000)
AGILITY: 5,012 (+4,000)
The numbers burned in his vision, a stark reminder of the risk he was taking. Nathan ended the transfer, feeling his entire body tremble under the strain of the sudden surge of power. He clenched his fists, breathing heavily as his muscles swelled with newfound strength. He couldn't afford to focus everything on a single attribute—his body wasn't a vessel that could bear unchecked power without consequence. Instead, he carefully distributed the surge to maintain equilibrium, balancing strength, stamina, and agility to avoid tearing himself apart from within.
And now, it was enough.
A sharp crack reverberated through his frame as his body adjusted to the strain. His resolve hardened, and with a single step, he vanished into the air, leaving nothing but a faint ripple of displaced energy in his wake.
Heracles's eyes widened in disbelief. "What!"
Before he could react, a devastating blow struck him square in the chest.
"GAARGHH!!"
Blood erupted from Heracles's mouth as his massive chest caved inward from the sheer force. The sound of his ribs breaking echoed like brittle wood snapping under pressure. The once-mighty warrior was sent hurtling backward, his colossal form carving through the battlefield like a meteor crashing to earth. Thousands of meters passed before he finally came to a halt, the ground torn apart in his wake.
Nathan didn't wait. The moment Heracles was airborne, he surged forward again, moving at a speed so blinding that it left afterimages in his wake.
Heracles, dazed and struggling to remain conscious, bit down on his tongue until blood filled his mouth. The searing pain jolted him back to awareness. His eyes snapped open, burning with an intensity that defied his injuries.
He roared, his voice reverberating through the battlefield. "COME, SAMAEL!!!"
A cataclysmic BADOOOM!! accompanied his shout as he unleashed the full brunt of his power, his muscles bulging unnaturally as he burned through every ounce of mana left in his body.
Nathan's kick landed on Heracles's side like a battering ram. The demigod raised his arm to block, muscles straining to hold firm against the assault. For a fleeting moment, Heracles seemed immovable, an unyielding fortress. But the sound of cracking bones soon betrayed him. His arm gave way, and the force of the kick sent him flying once again, his battered form carving another scar into the earth.
Despite his unleashed power, Heracles was no match for Nathan in his current state. The difference in strength was insurmountable.
Heracles coughed up blood as he stumbled to his feet, his body trembling. But his eyes blazed with unwavering determination.
"This... will be my final ONE," he muttered through clenched teeth.
Nathan stopped in his tracks, narrowing his eyes.
Heracles raised his arms, veins bulging and bursting under the strain as golden light coalesced between his hands. The battlefield grew silent, the winds stilled, and all combat ceased as every warrior turned their gaze to the unfolding spectacle.
From the swirling light emerged a massive, burning lion. Its form towered above the battlefield, its mane a blazing inferno that scorched the ground beneath it. The air vibrated with its guttural roar, a sound that resonated with primal power.
Heracles's voice thundered across the field. "DIVINE RANK MAGIC—ZEUS'S LION'S ROAR!"
The lion charged, its fiery form tearing through the battlefield with apocalyptic force, annihilating everything in its path.
Nathan stood firm, his body weary but his resolve unbroken. He whispered under his breath, "Divine Rank Magic..."
To beat someone of Heracles's caliber he had no choices.
His Divine MAGIC was incomplete and not a true one compared to Heracles but Nathan counted on his stats to get the win.
Khione's icy magic enveloped him, a cold mist veiling his form. He raised his hand, and the ice surged outward, shaping itself into a sleek, divine lance. The weapon shimmered with an unearthly beauty, its surface etched with intricate patterns that seemed to pulse with ancient power.
Heracles unleashed his attack with a ferocious roar, the lion's fiery body racing toward Nathan with unstoppable momentum.
Nathan remained calm. He swept his lance forward, its tip pointed toward the oncoming destruction.
"LANCE OF THE FROZEN DEATH," he declared, his voice carrying a chilling finality.
The lance shot forward, a blur of freezing energy that seemed to freeze the very air in its path.
The two forces collided in a cataclysmic explosion.
BADOOOOOOOOOM!!!
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS
I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC272 : Heracles's End
BADOOOOOOOOOM!!!
A blinding light consumed the battlefield as fire and ice clashed, their opposing energies tearing at each other in a devastating storm. The ground quaked, and shockwaves rippled outward, forcing even the farthest observers to shield themselves from the sheer force of the impact.
The sheer force of the clash rippled across the battlefield, knocking even the strongest warriors off their feet. Those who believed themselves safe at a distance found no sanctuary, as the shockwave swept through the field like a tempest, leaving none untouched.
When the ground finally ceased its trembling, an oppressive silence descended. Everyone held their breath, their hearts pounding as they fixed their gaze on the billowing curtains of dust. Time seemed to stretch endlessly as anticipation thickened the air. Who had emerged victorious?
Was it Heracles, the mighty demigod revered across lands for his unparalleled feats? Or was it Heiron, the mercenary whose presence carried a weight few could comprehend?
As the dust began to settle, revealing the aftermath of the epic confrontation, a collective gasp arose. One figure stood tall, battered but resolute, while the other knelt, the strength drained from their very being.
It was Heracles who remained standing, his powerful frame still imposing despite the toll of the battle. Before him, Heiron knelt, his shoulders slumped, his face pale and etched with exhaustion.
Heracles gazed down at Heiron, his expression a complex of feelings. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came immediately. His mind swirled with memories—of victories past and the weight of his long, storied life.
Continue reading on empire
This was Heracles, the hero who had wrestled a giant lion, subdued a raging bull, and faced Cerberus, the hound of Hades, without faltering. He had accomplished the legendary Twelve Labors, enduring trials that even the gods themselves deemed nearly impossible. Monsters, tyrants, and challenges of divine origin had all fallen before his strength and perseverance.
Recently, he had been bestowed the status of a god in name—a recognition of his unmatched deeds. Though mortal in essence, Heracles had felt pride in such acknowledgment. But even a life so decorated had its moments of failure and loss.
The quest for the Golden Fleece had been a bitter disappointment, a rare blemish on his otherwise illustrious record. It was during that failed endeavor that he had first encountered Samael.
From the moment Heracles laid eyes on the man, he knew Samael was no ordinary individual. There was something otherworldly about him, a sense of greatness that surpassed even Heracles' own legendary stature. Samael's presence had left an indelible mark on Heracles, a mixture of awe and unease.
Fate, however, was not yet finished weaving their destinies together. Months later, the Trojan War brought them face to face once more. Yet, this time, Samael wore a different guise: Heiron, the warrior whose strength and bravery had captivated Heracles throughout the campaign.
Heracles had watched Heiron fight with courage, defending Hector and his cause with an intensity that inspired even his enemies. Over months of war, Heracles had grown to admire the man who now knelt before him.
But the cost of this final battle was steep. Blood trickled from Heracles' lips, staining his chin and chest. He struggled to remain upright, even as he stared at Heiron's mismatched eyes—one an icy blue, the other a demonic gold, radiating a power Heracles could scarcely fathom.
"I am glad," Heracles finally said, his voice heavy with emotion, "that it was you I lost against."
With those words, the great Heracles allowed himself to succumb to his injuries. His eyelids grew heavy, and his towering frame crumpled forward. He collapsed to the ground with a resounding thud.
A gaping hole marred Heracles' mighty chest, and from it, an unnatural frost began to spread, encasing his body in an icy shell. The frost crept with deliberate finality, transforming the hero's once-proud form into a frozen monument of his end.
A deafening silence fell over the battlefield, its weight heavier than any battle cry. Every soul present, whether Greek or Trojan, stood immobilized, their gazes locked on the scene before them. Words failed them; there were no explanations, no rationalizations that could convey the gravity of what they had just witnessed.
"Im... possible..." a Greek soldier muttered, his voice trembling as though uttering the thought made it more real.
Others echoed his disbelief, their faces pale and stricken with shock. Heracles—son of Zeus, the god of thunder, and adopted son of Hera, the queen of Olympus—was defeated. Not merely wounded, not merely bested, but utterly defeated.
And by a man.
For many Greeks, Heracles was more than a hero; he was a symbol of their divine favor, the unshakable proof of their might. His death shattered their spirits, and tears began to flow freely among the ranks of the soldiers. He had been loved, revered, and idolized. The loss of Heracles was not just the loss of a warrior but the loss of hope itself.
Even the Trojans, enemies of Greece, stood silent. There were no cheers of victory, no triumphant cries to mark the death of their foe. Instead, they remained motionless, heads bowed in respect for the man who had been Heracles.
Nathan rose slowly from where he had fallen, his breath labored and his body heavy with exhaustion. Each step he took toward Heracles felt like crossing a great chasm, his own limbs aching with the weight of what had just transpired. When he reached the frozen figure, he extended a hand, and with a subtle gesture, the ice receded, melting into nothingness.
Heracles' face was visible once more, his lips curled into a serene, contented smile. Even in death, there was no anger or regret—only peace.
Nathan knelt beside him, lowering his voice to a reverent tone. "I was glad as well to have met you, Heracles," he said, his words carrying the weight of sincerity. "If any Greek deserves the title of the strongest and most extraordinary warrior, it is you. I will not forget this fight."
Suddenly, a radiant light descended upon them, illuminating Heracles' lifeless body. Nathan stood and stepped back instinctively, shielding his eyes from the brilliance. When he looked up, he saw Hera, the Queen of the Gods, descending from the heavens.
Her expression, usually one of haughty arrogance, bore something rare—sadness. Genuine, unmasked sorrow flickered across her face, though she concealed it as best she could. Without a word, Hera lifted Heracles' body, cradling it as though he were a child. The light around them intensified, and in a flash, she vanished, taking Heracles with her.
For the first time, Nathan had seen a hint of humanity in the goddess who so often seemed devoid of it.
But he had little time to reflect. His body swayed, his vision dimming as exhaustion finally overtook him. He felt himself falling backward, bracing for the cold ground—only to collide with something solid.
A strong hand steadied him, and Nathan turned his head slightly to see Hector's reassuring smile.
"You've done enough," Hector said, his voice gentle yet firm. "You should rest now. Today's fight is over."
Nathan looked at the Greeks, their spirits crushed and their leaders already signaling a retreat. Even Odysseus, so often a figure of cunning and resolve, wore a grim expression as he called for his troops to withdraw.
"Yeah," Nathan accepted, nodding faintly. "I'll rest now."
°°°°°°°
In Olympus, a heavy silence enveloped the great halls, a silence so profound that it seemed even the wind dared not disturb it. The death of Heracles, the mightiest of heroes and a beloved son of Zeus, weighed heavily on the gods.
Among them, Heracles had been cherished for his feats and endurance, his victories celebrated across Olympus as proof of the gods' favor. His passing struck a chord in every divine heart, though the responses varied.
Most gods did not harbor anger toward Heiron, the mortal who had slain him. They knew Heracles well—he was a man who lived and died on his own terms. His life was a tapestry of struggles and triumphs, woven with both mortal and divine threads. To die in battle, facing a worthy opponent, was a fitting end for the son of Zeus.
Zeus himself sat upon his grand throne, his face a mask of grief tempered by acceptance. Heracles had been one of his most cherished sons, a symbol of strength and resilience. While sadness tugged at his heart, there was solace in knowing that Heracles would now rest on the Isle of Heroes, a place reserved for the greatest of mortals. After a lifetime of trials and suffering, Heracles deserved peace.
But not all shared his calm. Hera stood nearby, her features twisted in fury. Her eyes burned as she directed her anger toward her husband.
"Are you truly going to let that Heiron live?" she demanded, her voice sharp and accusatory.
Zeus's eyes narrowed slightly, his tone measured but cold. "I do not understand your meaning, Hera."
"You know exactly what I mean!" Hera snapped. "That mortal—he killed your son! And don't tell me his strength is natural. A mortal appearing out of nowhere, wielding power like that? It's clear he's a threat! You must strike him down before he becomes dangerous!"
Before Zeus could respond, Artemis, seated calmly among the gods, spoke with a sardonic edge. "How convenient it would be for you if Heiron were to die now, wouldn't it, Hera?"
Hera turned her glare on Artemis, her anger simmering, but she quickly returned her focus to Zeus.
The King of the Gods suddenly rose, his towering form casting a shadow over the assembly. His eyes, once filled with grief, now burned with the fierce intensity of a storm. The gods in attendance felt an undeniable shift in the air—a reminder of the Zeus of millennia past, the ruler who had once led them to victory against the Titans.
When he spoke, his voice rumbled like thunder, resonating throughout Olympus. "From this moment forward, I forbid any god from interfering in the war. None shall take part in the battles, influence the mortals, or intervene in their fate. No aid. No meddling. No exceptions. Is that understood?"
A wave of unease rippled through the gods. Many averted their gazes, shivers running down their spines at the sheer authority in his words. This was not the Zeus they had come to know in recent years—this was Zeus in his prime, the king whose will was law and whose wrath was feared.
Zeus's gaze swept over the assembly, lingering pointedly on Hera and Poseidon. Hera's fists clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as she trembled with suppressed rage. She did not dare voice her defiance, though her silence was filled with venom.
Poseidon, seated with his trident resting beside him, scowled but held his tongue. The God of the Seas was clearly displeased but unwilling to challenge Zeus's decree outright.
Satisfied that his command had been understood, Zeus turned his piercing gaze toward the mortal realm. The battlefield below stretched before him, a tapestry of chaos and destiny. He could feel the tides of fate shifting, the echoes of war reaching their crescendo.
"The final act of this war begins now and we have no rights to intervene or influence it," Zeus murmured, his voice softer but no less commanding. "And it will be theirs to shape."
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS
I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC273 Aphrodite's Tongue Work *
"It seems Zeus has forbidden all of us from intervening in the war any further," Aphrodite revealed, her voice laced with a mix of amusement and mild frustration.
The news wasn't surprising, though it was irritating. It appeared the gods had convened right after Heracles' death—a loss that must have sent tremors through Olympus. As expected, Hera, with her ceaseless disdain for me, seized the opportunity to demand my execution. This time, she hadn't cloaked her intentions in flowery language or subtle manipulations; she had outright asked Zeus to kill me.
That goddess... I swear she will pay for her insolence.
No mercy will be shown. Not this time.
I've learned my lesson well from past mistakes. Khione had faced punishment for daring to cast me aside, for even considering the idea of ridding herself of me. The repercussions for her treachery were swift and merciless. So imagine what I will do to Hera, the goddess who has plotted my death at every turn.
She must think I'm blind. Does she truly believe I haven't noticed the countless times she's taken control of a Greek soldier, nudging him to aim an arrow or swing a sword at my back? I've seen it all. I'm not foolish, nor am I oblivious. Athena has dabbled in such schemes as well, though far less frequently than Hera.
Just a little more patience, I told myself. Their time will come.
"Really?" I said mockingly, my tone dripping with sarcasm. "Here I thought he was dead."
Zeus. That so-called King of the Gods. Where had he been during the chaos of this war? I hadn't seen him lift a finger to bring order. Shouldn't he, of all beings, be trying to put an end to this madness? And if he absolutely had to choose a side, shouldn't it have been the Trojans? They were the obvious underdogs, struggling against the overwhelming might of the Greeks and their divine patrons. But no. Zeus had done nothing. He had allowed Hera, Athena, and even Poseidon to run rampant, blessing their chosen mortals and meddling in every significant battle.
And now, after four long months, he finally decided to grow a spine? Pathetic.
I was lounging in the warm, soothing waters of my bath, the heat easing the tension from my weary muscles. The faint scent of lavender and sandalwood lingered in the steam, creating a serene ambiance that contrasted sharply with my simmering anger. Today had been exhausting, but here, in this moment, I allowed myself a brief reprieve.
Aphrodite stood nearby, her laughter ringing like a melody, light and carefree as if she had no stakes in the gods' squabbles. Her presence was both a distraction and a reminder of the absurdity of Olympus.
"Zeus has changed a great deal from the days of old," she said, her lips curling into a soft smile. "Now, he seeks peace. He doesn't want his children or family fighting one another anymore."
"Peace?" I scoffed, my voice cutting through the tranquility of the room. "He's a coward."
At least Zeus wasn't actively trying to kill me like his wife and daughter so dearly wished. That was the one thing I could grudgingly grant him. But cowardice wasn't a virtue, and it certainly wasn't worthy of the title "King of the Gods."
Aphrodite leaned closer, her breath warm against my cheek, a wicked smile playing at her lips as she gazed into my eyes, unblinking and intense. "You're lucky," she purred, her voice dripping with a mix of honey and venom. "Lucky I protect you during the Olympus meetings. The gods… they're voting to kill you. Every day, your name dances on their lips like a whispered curse." Her smile didn't falter, but her eyes burned with an enigmatic light, half-amusement, half-danger.
I matched her gaze, smirking faintly. "Are you alone in your defense?" I asked. "I'd bet Artemis has been doing her share, keeping Hera at bay. She's good at that." My tone carried the weight of certainty, my grin teasing as I leaned back against the warm marble of the bath.
The mention of Artemis made Aphrodite's composure falter. Her smile wavered, her brows drawing together just slightly. She stepped closer, her bare feet whispering against the stone floor. "Do you love her too?" she asked, her voice quiet, almost vulnerable, but laced with something deeper—jealousy, intrigue, a challenge.
I tilted my head, my smirk darkening into something almost cruel. "Love her? She's beautiful, sure. Fierce too. But let's not sugarcoat it—I'd love to see if that fierceness holds with my dick inside her. Would she still threaten to kill me, or would she just… moan? Break apart under me, just like all that fire promises she could."
Aphrodite's pink eyes gleamed, her pupils narrowing like a cat's as she stepped even closer. The air between us felt charged, thick with unspoken tension. Without a word, her delicate fingers dipped below the water. Her touch was sudden, firm, and unrelenting as her hand closed around my cock, stroking with deliberate precision.
A low groan rumbled from my throat, my body responding instinctively to the goddess's masterful touch. "Ungh… And you?" I managed, the words coming out rough as her movements quickened. "Hiding your jealousy in a handjob, Aphrodite? How very noble of you."
She tilted her head, her pink hair cascading over one shoulder, catching the light like molten silk. "Jealousy?" she mused, her voice a playful lilt. "You think this is jealousy? No, my dear. This is indulgence. You've changed, Nate. War has carved something new into you—something darker, more primal. That fire... you'll need it for what lies ahead."
Her hand worked me relentlessly, the slickness of the water adding to the sensation as I let my head fall back, my breath hitching. But I wasn't about to let her control the moment entirely. My hand darted out, gripping her wrist, halting her movements as I rose from the bath. Water cascaded from my body in rivulets, glistening in the firelight as I towered over her.
"You're quite sure of yourself," I murmured, stroking a hand through her impossibly soft, pink-tinted hair. "But let's not pretend you don't want more." I traced a line along her cheek with my thumb before letting my fingers curl into her hair, tilting her head up to meet my gaze. "Let me give you something Artemis will not have today or before you."
Her smile turned wicked, her lips parting in anticipation as she sank gracefully to her knees. The goddess of love and beauty, kneeling before me, her eyes alive with mischief and hunger. My dick stood proudly before her face, hard and aching, the heat of her breath teasing against me.
"Do you want it?" I asked, my voice low, taunting, as I ran my fingers through her hair.
Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips. "Give it to me," she whispered, her voice husky, brimming with need.
I chuckled, my grip tightening slightly in her hair as I guided her closer. "Take it yourself," I commanded, watching her eyes flash with delight at the challenge.
Without hesitation, Aphrodite wrapped her delicate fingers around me, stroking with a practiced, deliberate rhythm before her tongue flicked out, tracing a torturous line along my length.
Aphrodite's first lick sent a jolt of pleasure through me that made my body shudder involuntarily. Her tongue glided over the sensitive head, swirling and teasing as she let out a teasing, deliberate sound.
"Sluuuuurp~"
Her enthusiasm was intoxicating, the way her pink tongue worked every inch of my length. She wasn't just taking her time—she was savoring it, her lips curling into a playful smile as she licked up the underside, dragging her tongue in a slow, maddening trail.
"Sluuuuurp! Sluuuurp! Sluuuuuurp~~sluuurp!"
Her mouth was a masterpiece of sensation, warm and wet, her saliva slicking my cock as she worshiped it with every movement. She spared no part of me, her tongue tracing over the sensitive ridge, then down to the base, her lips brushing my skin as she covered every inch of me with her attention.
"Haa… Keep going," I groaned, my voice strained as I slid my fingers through her silky pink hair, guiding her gently.
Aphrodite didn't need much encouragement. With one last wet, lewd slurp, her lips parted wide, and she took me into her mouth. My cock slid past her lips, disappearing into her warmth inch by inch. Her throat tightened briefly, but she didn't stop. Instead, she moaned around me—a soft, vibrating sound that sent shivers racing up my spine.
"Ungh… fuck," I hissed, gripping her hair as her head began to move, the suction of her lips so intense I could feel every drag and pull.
"GLUUURP~~~gluuuuurp~~~sluuuuurp!"
The room was filled with the symphony of her efforts, her muffled moans mixing with the wet, obscene sounds of her sucking. Each time she took me deeper, her tongue worked miracles, tracing my length even as her cheeks hollowed with effort. Her pink eyes fluttered shut briefly, lost in her work, but she opened them again to lock onto mine—taunting, gleaming with a goddess's delight.
Then she upped the ante. Her free hand drifted down, her soft fingers curling around my balls. She massaged them gently at first, then with more deliberate strokes, rolling and teasing them as her mouth continued to milk my cock.
"Grhnnn!" I groaned, my hips jerking involuntarily as she pushed me deeper. She didn't falter, though her throat tightened slightly as I filled it.
"Hnmfffffhh!!" she moaned, her eyes half-closing again, but her determination never wavered. Her fingers continued their playful torment of my balls, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through me.
Then, with a sudden, deliberate movement, she pulled her mouth free from my cock. Her lips were glistening, a trail of spit connecting them to me. Before I could process the loss of her mouth, she lowered her head, her tongue flicking out to trace over my balls. Her touch was both playful and devastatingly precise, her lips closing around one as she began to suck.
"Guhh!" The suction was so intense, so perfectly controlled, that my knees nearly buckled. My hand tightened in her hair, holding her in place as she lavished her attention on me. Her tongue swirled around each orb, licking and sucking as if claiming every part of me as hers.
Her hand hadn't abandoned my cock, though. She pumped me with wild, fervent strokes, her movements faster, more desperate, as she sensed how close I was. Her strokes matched the rhythm of her mouth, her moans vibrating through me as she worked.
"Aphro… Aphrodite…" I groaned, my voice raw, shaky.
At the sound of her name, she looked up at me, her pink hair sticking to her cum-streaked face, her lips parted in anticipation. She positioned herself perfectly, her mouth open, waiting for the inevitable.
SPUUUUURT! SPUUUUURT!!
I erupted with force, my cum spurting into her open mouth. Her tongue darted out to catch every drop, her eyes lighting up as she swallowed, but I couldn't control the sheer volume. White ropes splashed across her face, painting her cheeks and tangling in her pink locks. She didn't flinch. Instead, she moaned softly, her lips curling into a satisfied smile as her fingers continued to milk me dry.
Aphrodite tilted her head, licking the last stray drop from her lips as she gazed up at me, her face a perfect blend of divinity and depravity.
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS