I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC282 Heiron's death
Nathan's grip tightened mercilessly around her throat, cutting off her air entirely. "I told you, Liphiel," he said, his voice as cold as death itself. "Killing me would come with consequences."
Liphiel clawed at his hand, her struggles futile against his overwhelming strength.
Without waiting for her to respond, Nathan summoned his magic. Darkness coiled around his form, and with a flick of his hand, flames erupted. The fire, born of his wrath and enhanced by his dark magic, ignited Liphiel's body.
"GAAAHYAAAAA!!!"
Liphiel's scream tore through the battlefield, a sound so visceral and harrowing that it silenced everything else. Both Greeks and Trojans flinched, their weapons faltering mid-swing as the piercing cry reverberated across the blood-soaked plains. Even the Olympian gods, seated high on their celestial thrones, turned their attention to the mortal plane. They watched, their divine faces etched with shock and disbelief, as Nathan exacted his ruthless vengeance upon Liphiel.
The flames devouring her body burned with a cruel slowness, fueled by Nathan's dark magic and his unrelenting fury. He stood over her, motionless but seething, his golden demonic eyes glowing with satisfaction. He seemed to savor her agony, each anguished cry a testament to his triumph.
One by one, those who surrounded him—the soldiers, the warriors, the so-called gods—took hesitant steps backward. Fear gripped their hearts like a vice. Even in the face of death, Nathan was terrifying. His very presence exuded an aura that made even gods reconsider their strength.
The screams continued until, finally, Liphiel's body gave in. The flames consumed her entirely, reducing her to nothing but a pile of ash. Silence fell over the battlefield, broken only by the faint crackle of lingering embers.
Nathan stood still, his body rigid as if carved from stone. He watched the ash scatter into the wind, but there was no triumph in his expression now. A strange stillness overtook him.
Then, without warning, cracks began to appear across his own body. Small at first, they spread like spiderwebs, fragments of ash breaking off and drifting into the darkened air.
This was it.
The end.
He knew it wasn't yet five months since the seal had begun taking its toll, but Nathan had pushed far beyond the limits of his mortal frame. He had wrung every ounce of strength from his body, his soul, just to make it this far. After all he had endured—the wars, the betrayals, the pain—it was a miracle he had survived as long as he had. But miracles had their price.
The deal he made to enslave Khione had shortened his lifespan irreparably. That sacrifice, though, was one he would never regret.
Not for a moment.
Khione would always be his. That truth was enough for him to meet his fate without bitterness. Yet, a pang of sorrow twisted in his chest. She would die with him. The seal made certain of that. When the slaver perished, the slaves followed.
This, perhaps, was his greatest failure.
He wanted to release her. He had wished to set her free before his time ran out, but now his body betrayed him. Everything within him felt paralyzed, locked away by the encroaching darkness.
And yet, even in this state, there was a final desire clawing at his heart. He wanted to see Khione one last time.
His plans to save her—by killing Poseidon—had ended here. Poseidon remained alive, a loathsome stain upon the world. But at least, Nathan thought grimly, that wretched god would never lay a hand on Khione. He had ensured that much.
Still, Nathan's list of unfinished business weighed heavily on him.
Poseidon.
Agamemnon.
Those two names burned in his mind like. He had wanted to end them both, to rid the world of their cruelty and arrogance. Now, that task would fall to others. For Agamemnon, he could only hope Hector would carry the burden.
And then there were Medea, Scylla, and Charybdis.
Charybdis wasn't here today. He had sent her back to keep an eye on Medea and Scylla, ensuring they behaved in his absence. It was a decision he didn't regret. If Charybdis had witnessed this scene, there was no telling the destruction she might have unleashed. She was a tempest waiting to break free, and her rage would have known no bounds.
But was it too late already?
Nathan's heart sank as the truth dawned on him. Without him, Medea, Scylla, and Charybdis would descend into chaos. He had been their anchor, the only force restraining their fury. Without that, the world would see their true devastation.
He could only hope that the inevitable rampage of Medea, Scylla, and Charybdis would spare the women he cared about. Normally, it shouldn't. Nathan had been meticulous in instructing the trio on who was untouchable, and they had always adhered to his directives.
His children, he thought with a flicker of solace.
Amelia's daughter, Sara. Khillea's daughter. Aisha's child.
Since each bore his bloodline, they would be safe from harm. Of that, Nathan was certain. His bond with those three monstrous forces had always revolved around loyalty and his ability to command their unyielding respect. They would never defy him, even in his absence.
But for others, his assurance faltered.
Atalanta. Penthesilea. Astynome.
He couldn't take responsibility for their safety. Their fates were now beyond his reach.
And Thetis.
He had promised her he would save Khillea, to repay the debt owed for her unwavering support. Yet that promise, like so many others, was one he could no longer keep.
His mind shifted to Kassandra.
He had vowed to free her from her torment, to deliver her from the cruel fate that bound her. He had wanted to take her away, to give her the happiness she had been denied. But that dream was slipping from his grasp, like sand through his fingers.
Then, there was her.
Aphrodite.
"No... no... no... No... No... Noo..."
Nathan's voice cracked as he looked toward the goddess, her divine beauty marred by the pale mask of despair that now adorned her face. Aphrodite stood frozen, tears streaming down her cheeks, unable to move as she watched him crumble.
He had wanted to repay her for everything she had done.
Nathan knew Aphrodite had hidden things from him, refraining from making requests despite her clear desire for his aid. He had been prepared to give her anything, to fulfill whatever she wished of him. But now, it was too late.
Oh, right. Tenebria.
How could he forget?
Azariah, the princess who had risen to be its queen, a symbol of resilience and determination. Nathan had made a vow to her—a promise to stand by her side until Tenebria was strong enough to face any adversary. He had envisioned a future where their shared efforts fortified the kingdom into a bastion of strength and independence.
But that future would never come to pass.
And Ameriah…
The younger sister, so full of potential and yet burdened by fragility. Nathan had wanted to heal her, to give her the chance to thrive in a world that had often been unkind. That, too, was a promise unfulfilled.
His thoughts turned to Semiramis.
She had always been by his side, loyal and unyielding. And yet, he hadn't even had the chance to say a proper goodbye to her. The weight of that failure pressed against his chest, compounding the ache of his regrets.
And then there were his stepsisters.
Sienna. Siara.
Nathan felt a faint sense of relief that they didn't know he was alive. Dying a second time would have shattered them beyond repair. Much the same for Courtney and Amelia.
Aisha, though…
His heart twisted painfully.
Aisha would break. She would grieve for him, he knew. But at least she would have her child—a fragment of him—to hold onto.
Sienna, fortunately, would heal. Athena would see to that, he was certain.
His thoughts drifted next to Ayaka and Akane.
He had promised to visit them after the war. He had envisioned the smiles they would exchange, the warmth of their company. But now that promise, too, was dust.
And Rena.
Nathan's chest tightened.
He had wanted to see her again, just as she had made it clear she wished to see him. But that reunion would never happen.
Then there was Phoebe.
A whisper of her name stirred a flurry of emotions. If she was in this world as well, Nathan wished he could understand why she had left him.
Her parting words still echoed in his memory, cold and unfeeling. Yet he had seen her tears. She had cried, even as her voice carried the weight of rejection.
He would never know the truth now.
Nathan's body continued to disintegrate, pieces of ash carried away on the wind. Each name, each face he remembered, was another thread in the tapestry of regret that bound his soul.
But even as the darkness consumed him, one thought lingered:
He had loved them all. And in the end, that love would have to be enough.
At last, his gaze shifted, almost involuntarily, toward Hera.
The goddess had wanted this—his death. She had made her disdain for him clear from the very beginning, her divine wrath simmering beneath a veneer of indifference.
But now…
Nathan's eyes locked onto hers, his expression a mixture of resignation and defiance. The question lingered in his golden gaze, unspoken but piercing.
"Are you happy right now?"
It was a silent accusation, a final inquiry into whether her orchestrations had brought her the satisfaction she sought.
Yet, Hera's face betrayed her.
For the first time, her divine composure faltered. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze flickering with a discomfort she couldn't quite suppress. It was as if she was wrestling with something—a burgeoning regret, an unsettling realization that this victory might taste bitter after all.
Nathan let out a soft, mirthless chuckle, though no sound escaped his lips.
How ironic.
Finally, his gaze turned upward, toward the heavens. The once-vivid gold of his demonic eyes began to fade, consumed by the encroaching ash.
The sky stretched out above him, vast and indifferent. As his face began to dissolve into nothingness, a faint smile curled at the corners of his lips.
In the end, Nathan thought, he had no regrets for what he had loved, for what he had fought for. If the gods wished to write their stories on the canvas of his life, let them. He had lived his truth, and that was enough.
And then, he was gone.
Heiron was dead.
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS
I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC283 Nathan's memories (1)
A woman was there.
A strikingly beautiful young woman, lying on a bed, her frail body leaning against the headboard for support. Her pallor betrayed a sickened countenance, her breath labored and shallow. Each cough wracked her fragile frame, a fresh crimson stain blooming on the handkerchief she clutched. Yet, through the pain, she managed to keep a soft, loving smile as she extended a trembling hand toward a boy standing hesitantly at the entrance of the room.
Her voice, though weak, carried warmth.
"Who is this?"
Nathan, who had been silently observing the tender yet sorrowful scene, turned at the sound of the voice. His gaze shifted to another figure standing behind him.
She was unlike anyone he had ever seen.
This woman, who had appeared out of nowhere, was breathtaking in a way that defied mortal comprehension. Her beauty surpassed that of every goddess, even Aphrodite herself. Her long, silken black hair cascaded down her back like an endless river of shadow. Her eyes, deep pools of midnight, bore no emotion—neither sorrow nor joy—only an unnerving stillness as they locked onto Nathan.
Her presence demanded attention, yet she exuded an air of otherworldly detachment, as if she were both part of the world and entirely removed from it.
Nathan tore his eyes away from her, his heart heavy, and turned back toward the boy who had rushed into the room.
The boy had flung himself into the arms of the sick woman, tears streaming freely down his cheeks. Her fragile arms encircled him in a weak but loving embrace. She held him as though he were her entire world, her reason to endure.
"It's me," Nathan whispered softly, his voice trembling with emotion. He watched the scene unfold, his heart twisting painfully. The boy crying in his mother's embrace was him—a memory etched deeply into his soul.
Nathan would never forget those last, precious days he had spent with his mother before her untimely death.
"Why did she die?" the mysterious woman asked, her voice calm and unyielding, as if the answer were merely a piece of a puzzle she sought to understand.
"I don't know," Nathan replied, his eyes fixated on his mother's gentle smile in the memory. But as he spoke, his fists clenched tightly at his sides.
No, that wasn't true. Deep down, he might have known why.
He had always suspected. And he knew his father had never forgiven him for it.
"After I was born, her health only worsened," Nathan admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. The words carried a heavy weight, like a confession he had long buried within himself. "I've always blamed myself for that… more than my father ever did."
"Was it truly your fault?" the woman asked, her tone devoid of judgment, yet piercing.
Nathan let out a bitter laugh, though there was no humor in it.
"If I hadn't been born, she would still be alive… healthy, happy," he replied. "It was my birth that condemned her."
The woman's gaze remained fixed on him for a long moment before she turned her attention back to the memory, which shifted like a reflection in rippling water.
The room faded, replaced by another scene.
It was brighter now, warmer—a memory from months before Nathan's birth.
"You're pregnant?" a tall, handsome man asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.
Nathan recognized him instantly. It was his father, though much younger, his features softer, less hardened by time and grief. Yet, despite his youth, the man's expression was far from joyful. His brows knit together in a mixture of worry and conflict, his voice trembling with unspoken fears.
"I'm going to keep it," Nathan's mother said firmly, her tone resolute despite her frailty.
"No, you can't," his father replied, shaking his head vehemently. "It's too dangerous. Not with your health."
Nathan could see the desperation in his father's eyes, the fear of losing the woman he loved. But his mother stood unwavering, her hand resting gently on her stomach, a small smile gracing her lips.
"I've already made my decision," she said softly. "This child… our child… is a miracle. I'll do whatever it takes to protect him."
Nathan gazed at his mother's face, her gentle smile etched with a quiet strength, his own expression hardening as he took in the moment.
"Just promise me," his mother said, her voice steady but urgent, "if you ever have to choose between us… you will choose my baby."
Her eyes, unwavering yet filled with both love and desperation, bore into his father's. Her tone left no room for misinterpretation; this was not a mere request—it was a plea born of a mother's love.
His father stood silent, his jaw tightening as he stared at her, conflicted.
"Promise me, my dear, please," she asked again, her voice trembling slightly but no less resolute.
Nathan could see the weight of the decision pressing on his father's shoulders. Finally, with a sigh heavy enough to fill the room, his father relented.
"I promise," he murmured, his tone reluctant, almost hollow.
The scene blurred, dissolving into shadows before reforming into something colder, darker.
A burial.
Nathan found himself standing at the edge of a gravesite, staring at the coffin that now held his mother in her eternal rest. The wooden box was adorned with simple yet elegant carvings, the only adornments to a woman who had sacrificed so much.
His younger self stood there, his small body trembling with grief as tears streamed unchecked down his cheeks. He wiped at them in vain, only for fresh ones to take their place. His sobs echoed in the somber air, raw and unrelenting.
His father stood motionless before the grave, his face devoid of any visible emotion. Not a word escaped his lips, not a tear left his eyes. He was a statue, cold and unyielding in his mourning.
Nathan's gaze shifted, and he saw her—a little girl standing beside him.
Phoebe.
He recognized her immediately. Even as a child, she radiated a quiet warmth, her hand reaching out to grasp his. She pulled him into a hug, her small arms wrapping tightly around him as if shielding him from the world's cruelty.
"It's okay, Nate," Phoebe whispered softly, her voice trembling but resolute. "I'll be here for you. Always. I will never leave you."
Nathan, broken by grief, collapsed into her embrace, clutching her as though she were his lifeline.
"I will never leave you," she had said.
"She must have been your first love," came the calm, measured voice of the dark-haired woman who had been silently observing with him.
"She was," Nathan replied, his tone bittersweet, the past tense deliberate and weighted.
Phoebe had been his first love, a beacon of hope in the darkness that followed his mother's death. He had loved her fiercely, with every fiber of his being, second only to his mother. But she had left him, just as his mother had. The difference was that Phoebe had chosen to leave.
Her absence had marked the beginning of something else. Something darker.
The scene shifted once more, now to a memory that Nathan wished he could forget.
BADAM!
The sound of a fist striking flesh reverberated through the air.
Nathan, barely five years old, was sent sprawling to the ground, his small frame crumpling under the force of the blow. He gasped for breath, clutching his cheek as tears welled in his eyes.
"Stand."
His father's voice cut through the air like a blade. It was sharp, commanding, and devoid of compassion.
Nathan struggled to push himself up, his tiny arms trembling under the effort. His legs wobbled as he tried to rise, but they buckled beneath him, and he collapsed back onto the ground.
"I said stand!" his father barked, his tone growing colder, harsher. "Are you going to shame the life your mother gave you?"
The words struck Nathan harder than any blow could. Gritting his teeth, he forced his battered body to rise, swaying on unsteady legs but refusing to fall again.
"Attack me now," his father commanded.
Nathan clenched his fists, his small fingers curling into trembling balls. With a cry of determination, he rushed forward, aiming for his father with all the strength his tiny body could muster.
BADAAAAM!
This time, a powerful kick landed squarely in Nathan's stomach, sending him flying backward. He crashed into the wall with a sickening thud, the impact knocking the wind out of him. He collapsed to the ground, clutching his stomach, gasping in pain.
Discover exclusive tales on My Virtual Library Empire
"Pathetic," his father growled, his voice filled with disdain. "Your mother didn't sacrifice her life for such a weak, useless boy."
Those words might have been the spark—the trigger that ignited something deep within Nathan.
"Your mother didn't sacrifice her life for such a weak, useless boy."
Since then, Nathan had trained relentlessly, pouring every ounce of his being into meeting his father's expectations. It wasn't just about intelligence or strategy; his father's focus was strength—both physical and mental.
"Only the strong survive," his father would often say, his voice devoid of warmth. "And the only thing that weakens a man is a woman."
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS
I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC284 Nathan's memories (2)
"Only the strong survive," his father would often say, his voice devoid of warmth. "And the only thing that weakens a man is a woman."
It became a mantra that Nathan absorbed without question. Over time, he hardened his heart, suppressing his feelings and viewing women not as individuals but as trophies—ornaments to enhance his life, objects to make it more enjoyable. This belief became a cornerstone of his identity, shielding him from emotional vulnerability.
It might have stayed that way if he hadn't met Ayaka, Akane, and their mother.
Their mother was unlike anyone Nathan had known. She was a kind, compassionate woman whose warmth seemed to seep into even the coldest corners of his heart. For a time, she brought a flicker of light into his otherwise dark and rigid world.
But that light was fleeting.
When she died suddenly, Nathan was only ten. The loss shattered Ayaka and Akane, leaving them broken and inconsolable. For Nathan, however, loss had begun to lose its meaning. It wasn't that he didn't feel; it was that he couldn't allow himself to feel. The pain was too familiar, too expected. His stoic reaction to her death had a chilling effect on Ayaka and Akane, driving an emotional wedge between them.
Eventually, the twins returned to Japan, leaving Nathan alone once more.
The scene shifted again. This time, an eleven-year-old Nathan appeared, his expression colder, his presence heavier. He stood inside a training room, the walls adorned with weapons, equipment, and the faint echoes of countless hours spent honing his skills.
Across the room, his father sat at a large oak desk, pen in hand, working through a stack of papers. Nathan's small frame was battered—bruises darkened his cheeks, and dried blood clung stubbornly to his chin. Find your next read at My Virtual Library Empire
"You fought again," his father said, his voice even but laced with disapproval.
Nathan remained silent, his gaze fixed ahead.
"Answer me," his father demanded, the coldness in his tone sharpening.
"I did," Nathan eventually admitted, his voice calm and controlled.
"Why?"
"They insulted me," Nathan replied, his voice steady, though his fists clenched slightly at his sides.
His father paused, setting down his pen and lifting his gaze to meet Nathan's. The weight of his father's disappointment was palpable, but Nathan didn't flinch.
"The strength I am teaching you," his father began, his voice cutting through the tension, "is not for petty vengeance over mere insults. Those brats shouldn't even be worthy of your breath."
Nathan's jaw tightened, but his expression remained neutral. "Maybe," he said after a moment.
"Maybe?" His father's eyes narrowed, his tone darkening with irritation.
"They insulted Mother," Nathan retorted, his voice firm yet emotionless.
For a moment, silence filled the room. His father studied him, his expression unreadable, his piercing gaze searching Nathan's face.
"And?" his father finally said, his tone so cold it was almost a challenge.
Nathan's heart burned with anger, but he suppressed it, keeping his face impassive. "And they shouldn't have," he replied quietly.
His father leaned back in his chair, his hands folding neatly on the desk. "Do you think fighting them changes that? Do you think lowering yourself to their level honors her memory?"
Nathan didn't answer. He simply stood there, his battered form as unyielding as stone.
"You have so much to learn," his father said at last, his voice heavy with disdain. "If you continue to let your emotions control you, you'll never be the man she would have been proud of. You'll be nothing more than a disappointment."
Nathan observed the scene before him, his gaze steady yet cold. His younger self stood beside a man he once idolized—his father, a figure of strength and ambition that had since withered in his memory. The youthful father, still exuding the vigor of his earlier years, spoke with passion, his words ringing clear in the quiet void of the memory.
Nathan scoffed under his breath, his lips curling into a bitter smirk.
"What's so amusing?" a voice asked, soft and dark, laced with an unsettling charm.
Nathan glanced sideways at the woman beside him, her raven-black hair cascading like silk down her shoulders. Her piercing eyes seemed to peer straight into his soul, an unsettling mix of curiosity and knowing.
"It's his words," Nathan replied, his voice carrying a weight of disdain. "He always told me it was his wish for me to become a man even greater than him. But in truth, he feared I'd turn out like the man he became after meeting my mother—a shadow of himself, weak and broken."
The woman tilted her head slightly, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Emotions may weaken a man, but your father wasn't entirely wrong. Strength without restraint is—"
"I don't care," Nathan interrupted sharply, his voice hard as steel. "Say what you want, but I won't forgive anyone who dares insult my mother. She sacrificed everything for me—her happiness, her future, even her life—knowing full well what awaited her."
"I see." The woman's smile deepened, a strange warmth mingling with something far darker. Without warning, she slipped her arms around him, pulling him into an embrace.
Nathan stiffened as he felt her body press against his back, the softness of her figure betraying no comfort. Instead, it felt like death itself was wrapping him in its cold, unyielding grip.
He didn't flinch. He didn't react. He wasn't in the mood to care.
The memory shifted, dissolving like smoke caught in the wind. In its place, a new scene took shape—a moment from years ago, etched in sharp detail against the backdrop of Nathan's mind.
Two teenagers stood before him, their features striking and unmistakably similar. A boy and a girl, twins, both with tan skin, caramel-brown hair, and bright green eyes that seemed to glimmer with youthful energy. Their beauty was undeniable, a gift from their lineage.
Cristina and Pablo.
Nathan's step-siblings—acquired before Sienna and Siara, but after Ayaka and Akane. His father, in his endless pursuit of something that even Nathan couldn't understand, had married a renowned Spanish actress, a woman whose previous marriage to an American actor had produced these perfect, golden children.
Cristina's laughter rang out, light and carefree, as she turned to Nathan, her emerald eyes sparkling . Pablo stood beside her, grinning just as brightly. Despite their cheerful demeanor, everything about them screamed wealth and privilege. Their pristine private school uniforms and polished manners were worlds apart from Nathan, who stood beside them in casual clothes.
Nathan's mind flashed back to that day.
The three of them had finished school, but instead of heading home, Pablo had suggested they visit the mall. Nathan had reluctantly agreed, watching as the twins, perfect in every way, led the way with their effortless charisma.
He could see it clearly now: Cristina's radiant smile as she glanced at him over her shoulder, Pablo's easy confidence as he teased his sister. Yet beneath their charm, Nathan felt only a cold, hollow sense of betrayal.
It was because of them—Cristina and Pablo—that he had become the person he was. By the time Sienna and Siara entered his life, he was already hollow inside, smiling on the outside while harboring a festering mass of malice within.
His hatred for women, his inability to trust, and the malice he carried like a weapon—he traced it all back to them. To the twins who had once been his family, but who had left scars that cut deeper than any blade ever could.
Nathan stood in silence, watching the fragmented memory unfold before him like an old film reel, grainy yet vivid. His younger self was there, smaller and less hardened, yet his eyes already carried a weight that no child should bear.
"My father…" Nathan began, his voice low and edged with bitterness, "…despite being wealthy—wealthy enough to send me to the best private schools in the country—he deliberately enrolled me in one of the worst high schools in America. He never explained why, and I never asked. But I knew. Deep down, I understood."
He paused, his gaze fixed on the ghostly figures of his younger self and Cristina, her teasing smile cutting through the haze of memory like a blade.
"He wanted to train me," Nathan continued, his tone colder now. "To teach me how to bury every emotion, every weakness, and gain control over myself. It wasn't about education or opportunity—it was about survival. After that, he'd place me beside my so-called genius step-siblings. Ayaka and Akane. Cristina and Pablo. Sienna and Siara. All perfect in their own way. All a stark reminder of what I wasn't."
Nathan's expression hardened, yet a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips as his gaze lingered on Cristina's radiant face in the memory.
"Why did he do this to you?" the dark-haired woman beside him asked, her voice soft yet laced with a sinister curiosity.
Nathan didn't turn to her. His focus remained locked on the scene before him, his eyes shadowed with something unreadable.
"Who knows," he said with a hollow chuckle. "Maybe he wanted to humiliate me. Maybe he wanted to drive home how different I was from them. Or maybe it was all some experiment—to see how I'd react to being thrust into a family of prodigies."
The words spilled out with an air of indifference, but even Nathan wasn't convinced. He didn't truly know his father. Not the man behind the mask of wealth and authority.
"And what happened with them?" the woman asked, her voice a whisper that slid into his ear like the hiss of a serpent. Her dark, twisted expression betrayed her true intent—she already knew the answer. She simply wanted to hear it from him.
Nathan's eyes lingered on Cristina as she laughed, her voice carrying the carefree charm of someone untouched by the harshness of reality. He could see her in the memory, smiling at him, teasing him as she often did.
"It doesn't matter," Nathan finally said, his voice clipped and guarded.
But it did matter. Phoebe, Ayaka, Akane... and finally, Cristina. With each step-sibling, the betrayal he felt had grown, festering inside him like a wound that refused to heal. By the time it came to Cristina, it was the last straw—the betrayal that shattered him completely.
"Really?" the woman pressed, her voice dropping to a low, chilling whisper that seemed to coil around him.
Nathan's frown deepened. He turned to face her for the first time, his eyes narrowing as suspicion flickered across his features.
"Who are you?"
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS
I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC285: Zeus's anger!
Zeus stirred from his slumber, his eyes slowly opening to the faint glimmer of dawn streaking across the heavens. For a moment, he remained still, his senses overwhelmed by the weight of his rest. It felt as though he had been asleep for a millennium, his body heavy with an exhaustion that ran deeper than mere physical fatigue.
Was it because he had pushed himself too far?
The last few months had drained him, more than he cared to admit. Supporting the Trojan army—even with a mere fraction of his divine blessing—had taken a toll. Thetis's plea had been heartfelt, and Zeus, though reluctant, had granted her request. It wasn't a direct intervention; he hadn't granted the Trojans his full favor. Instead, he had provided subtle strength, a whispered boon to the hearts of thousands of soldiers. Yet even for him, the King of the Gods, such an effort over the months had proven straining.
Without his quiet support, bolstered by Apollo's more overt blessings, the Trojans would likely have been crushed long ago. The relentless assault of the Greeks, fueled by the backing of Hera and Athena, had pushed the Trojans to the brink. But Zeus's intervention, subtle as it was, had been the hidden thread keeping the army from unraveling completely. Even so, he couldn't deny the toll it had taken—physically, yes, but also mentally. The endless prayers, the ceaseless cries of mortals for salvation, and the constant maneuvering among the gods had left him weary.
And now it was over.
As Zeus rose from his divine couch, the weight of the past week pressed against him. A full seven days had passed since he had closed his eyes, and in that brief span, the battlefield below had transformed into a vision of carnage and madness.
The once-proud plains of Troy were now a blood-soaked wasteland. Crimson rivers carved paths through the earth, and the air reeked of iron and death. The anguished cries of the dying and the vengeful howls of the living mingled into a ceaseless dirge.
But what truly turned his divine blood to ice was not the sight of mortal destruction—it was the chaos above.
The heavens themselves were at war.
Hera, Athena, and Poseidon had abandoned all pretense of neutrality, standing boldly in the midst of the fray. With unabashed fury, they rained destruction upon the Trojans, each strike resonating with their divine hatred. To counter them, Artemis stood tall, her bow string snapping with relentless precision as she unleashed volley after volley of silver-tipped arrows. Athena clashed fiercely with Ares, the battlefield trembling with each brutal exchange. The goddess of wisdom showed no hesitation, her strikes fueled by raw determination as the god of war laughed in bloodthirsty delight.
Elsewhere, Apollo had returned, his radiant form alight with fury. Alongside Aphrodite, he desperately tried to fend off the overwhelming onslaught of Hera and Poseidon. The earth shuddered beneath their titanic blows, fissures splitting the ground as mortal soldiers scattered in terror.
Zeus's gaze hardened as he took in the horrifying spectacle. This was no longer a mortal conflict. What he beheld was a slaughter on two fronts—mortals tearing each other apart below while gods descended into petty, vengeful chaos above. The sky, once a symbol of Olympus's grandeur, had become a war zone of divine hatred and madness. Even the lesser gods, those who had no direct stake in the war, had joined the fray. None had respected his decree. His word, the law of the heavens, had been cast aside like dust on the wind.
"Hermes."
Zeus's voice cut through the tumult, sharp and glacial. The air itself seemed to still, trembling under the weight of his tone. It was a voice that carried the authority of the cosmos, one that left no room for jest or defiance.
Within an instant, Hermes appeared before him. The messenger god, known for his mischievous smile and carefree demeanor, now bore a somber expression. His bright eyes betrayed no hint of levity. Even Hermes, who always dared to lighten the mood, knew better than to crack a joke at this moment.
"You summoned me, Father," Hermes said, his voice steady but subdued. He stood straight, his usual relaxed posture replaced by a soldier-like rigidity.
"What happened?" Zeus's voice was as sharp as winter's chill, each word carrying the weight of a storm.
Hermes straightened, his usual playful demeanor replaced by a rare solemnity. The messenger god hesitated for a moment, weighing how best to deliver the grim news. Even he had not expected Hera to be so audacious as to deceive the King of Olympus himself. But when he saw Zeus succumbing to sleep weeks ago, he had realized the truth.
"Father," Hermes began carefully, his tone steady, "it was Hera. She tricked you."
Zeus's eyes narrowed, the air around him growing heavy with the promise of fury. "Explain," he demanded, his voice colder than a mountain's peak.
Hermes nodded, swallowing hard before recounting the events. "She used Hypnos, the god of sleep, to cast you into slumber. While you slept, Hera, Athena, and Poseidon launched a full-scale attack against the Trojans, throwing their power behind the Greeks."
Zeus's brows furrowed as Hermes continued.
"Heiron—one of the Trojans' greatest warriors and Hector's stalwart ally—was slain. Agamemnon himself struck him down, but only with Poseidon's direct intervention. After Heiron's death, everything began to crumble for the Trojans. The loss shattered their spirits, leaving them on the brink of despair. They've been pushed back relentlessly, retreating closer and closer to the walls of their city."
Hermes paused, glancing at Zeus's unreadable expression before pressing on. "If not for Apollo's return, Troy would already have fallen. He alone has been their salvation, holding back the combined onslaught of Hera and Poseidon. But even Apollo's strength has limits."
The messenger god's words grew heavier as he described the grim state of the battlefield. "This past week has been nothing short of a massacre for the Trojans. Their blood stains the earth, and their cries echo through the heavens. Hector—Troy's final bastion—has fought tirelessly to protect his people. He has not fought alone. Aeneas, Atalanta, and the Amazon queen Penthesilea have stood by his side, but they are faltering. Penthesilea, in particular, was grievously wounded and can no longer fight. Without her, their line grows weaker by the hour."
Zeus's fists clenched as Hermes continued. "And now... Patroclus has entered the fray. The Myrmidons march under his command. Though he had no desire to fight at first, the sight of the Greeks' rising dominance swayed him. He seeks to end this bloody war swiftly, to spare further lives from being lost."
Hermes's voice dropped to a grim conclusion. "The Greeks now hold a decisive advantage, Father. If this continues, Troy will fall within a week."
Silence followed Hermes's words, a silence so profound that it seemed even the winds dared not stir. Then, slowly, a palpable aura of wrath began to emanate from Zeus. It was a cold, unrelenting rage, the kind that chilled the very marrow of one's bones. His eyes glowed like lightning, and his towering form crackled with suppressed power.
Without a word, Zeus vanished in a blinding flash of lightning, leaving only the faint scent of ozone behind.
In an instant, he reappeared on Olympus, his arrival marked by a thunderclap that shook the very foundations of the divine realm. He extended a mighty hand toward the heavens, summoning a storm that dwarfed any mortal tempest. Clouds darkened the skies, swirling violently as arcs of lightning danced within them, each bolt brimming with lethal force capable of striking down even gods.
"ENOUGH!" Zeus's voice thundered, a command that reverberated through both earth and sky.
With a crack of thunder, a bolt of lightning descended, splitting the battlefield asunder.
BADOOOOM!
The heavens trembled, and the gods below scattered like leaves before a hurricane.
Poseidon, locked in combat mere moments ago, barely managed to evade the devastating strike. His trident gleamed as he leapt back, the ground beneath him scorched black where the bolt had landed. Annoyance flickered across his sea-blue eyes, but he knew better than to challenge Zeus directly. Without a word, he retreated, his form dissolving into the ocean mist as he abandoned the Trojan grounds.
Athena, ever cautious, had seen the lightning's descent and fled before it could reach her. Her armor gleamed as she disappeared into the distance, her calculated mind already plotting her next move.
And then there was Hera.
She did not run.
The Queen of the Gods appeared in Olympus, her face a mask of fury and defiance. Her piercing gaze met Zeus's, and for a moment, the air between them crackled with unspoken tension. Hera's lips curled into a sneer, but her fiery eyes betrayed the slightest flicker of unease.
In an instant, Zeus materialized before Hera, his movements swifter than the eye could follow. The air crackled with power as his hand shot forward, clamping around her throat with a grip like iron. His fingers tightened, and the wrath that radiated from him was palpable—a storm of divine fury barely contained within mortal form.
For the first time in tens of thousands of years, Zeus's rage boiled over, eclipsing his usual restraint. His expression, once regal and composed, was now twisted in unbridled anger, his eyes blazing with light as though he were the storm itself.
Hera's hands flew to his arm, her nails digging into his flesh as she struggled in vain to loosen his grip. But her efforts were futile. Zeus was immovable, an unyielding force that even she, the Queen of Olympus, could not match.
"How dare you, Hera," Zeus growled, his voice low and venomous, each word a thunderclap. "After everything I have forgiven you for, after all your treacheries... this?"
His glare was colder than the peaks of Mount Olympus, yet Hera did not cower. Despite the crushing weight of his grasp, her fiery defiance remained. Her emerald eyes locked onto his, her own fury burning just as brightly.
"I don't care about your forgiveness!" she spat, her voice hoarse but resolute. "I want them dead, Zeus. All of them! The Trojans, every last one of them, wiped from existence!"
Her declaration echoed through the halls of Olympus, defiant and unrepentant.
Zeus's grip tightened further, his massive hand trembling with the effort to hold back his rage. It would be so easy—so simple—to end this. One twist of his hand, and her life would be extinguished. What she had done was unforgivable. Her betrayal had pushed the world into chaos, her defiance undermining his authority as King of the Gods.
And yet...
For all his fury, Zeus hesitated.
Hera was not merely his wife but also his sister, bound to him by blood and history. Their mother, Rhea, seemed to whisper to him from the shadows of his mind, her voice a faint plea carried on the winds of memory. "She is still my daughter."
Zeus growled, the sound deep and guttural, his wrath warring with the remnants of his restraint. Finally, with a forceful growl, he released her, flinging her to the marble floor with a thunderous crash. Hera landed hard, her breath rasping as she scrambled to her knees, her pride more wounded than her body.
"This is over," Zeus declared, his voice cold and final. His towering figure loomed over her, his shadow cast long and foreboding across the golden hall. "No more trust. No more forgiveness. Nothing."
Hera glared up at him, her expression hard despite the palpable weight of his fury. But for the first time, there was a flicker of something in her eyes—was it regret? Or simply the realization that this time she had gone too far and Zeus had abandoned all trust toward her?
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS
I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC286 Hector vs Chiron
"Spartans!! Kill them all!!!"
Menelaus's thunderous roar pierced the chaos of the battlefield, reverberating across the blood-soaked plains. His voice carried the weight of his fury, igniting the spirits of his men like a torch in the darkness. His eyes, blazing with an unrelenting fire, locked onto his enemies with murderous intent.
With every swing of his mighty sword, he cleaved through the ranks of the Trojans as if they were nothing but leaves caught in a storm. Five men fell in an instant, their lifeless bodies crumpling to the ground as crimson arcs of blood painted Menelaus's face, armor, and the earth beneath his feet. He was a vision of war incarnate—untouchable, unstoppable.
The Spartans roared in response to their king, their cries merging into a deafening chorus of resolve and bloodlust. They surged forward like an unyielding tide, their shields locked and spears poised, driving fear into the hearts of their adversaries.
Facing Menelaus on the battlefield stood Aeneas, flanked by the battered yet determined Trojans. The once-proud son of Aphrodite had transformed over the months into a formidable warrior and a resolute leader. The weight of Sarpedon's demise and the recent, devastating loss of Heiron had forged within him a newfound sense of responsibility.
Aeneas knew he could never replace Heiron, a warrior of unparalleled strength and wisdom, but he could shoulder the burden of leadership and strive to fill the void his friend had left behind. Yet, even with his growing strength and tactical prowess, Aeneas found himself struggling against the might of the Spartan king. Menelaus's ferocity and the unshakable morale of his army proved a daunting challenge.
Not far from this clash, another critical battlefield unfolded. Patroclus stood tall among the Myrmidons, leading them with a determination born of love and loyalty. His bronze armor gleamed in the sunlight, and his presence inspired confidence among his warriors. He gripped his spear tightly, knowing the stakes of this battle.
Khillea, his beloved, had pleaded with him to stay off the battlefield, to avoid the bloodshed. But Patroclus had resolved that this would be his final fight—a necessary sacrifice to bring the war to a swift conclusion. If they could achieve victory before Khillea returned, he could save her from a fate sealed in blood and ensure that her daughter would grow up with her mother by her side.
Opposing Patroclus was Penthesilea, Queen of the Amazons, leading her warriors with unyielding ferocity. Though her injuries from previous battles had barely healed, she had disregarded all pleas to rest. Nothing mattered to her now—not the pain, not her wounds. Heiron's death had extinguished the fragile ember of hope that had recently flickered within her—a hope for a life beyond war, a life of love and peace with Nathan.
That hope was gone.
Penthesilea had returned fully to the mantle of the Amazon Queen, embracing the battlefield as her ultimate destiny. She wielded her spear with precision and purpose, her movements graceful yet deadly, as if choreographed by the gods themselves. Her mind was clear—she would fight to the very end, earning her death with honor if that was to be her fate.
On the far side of the battlefield, Agamemnon directed his forces from a safe distance behind the front lines. His face, stern and unreadable, betrayed none of the unease stirring within him. For the past week, a troubling absence had weighed heavily on his mind—the protective presence of their gods had vanished.
It wasn't just an absence; it felt as though the gods had turned their backs entirely. Though no divine wrath had yet descended upon them, Agamemnon remained wary. The heavens had become unpredictable since Heiron's death. The moment the mighty warrior fell, it was as if the skies themselves had split open, the cosmic order fracturing under the strain of his loss. For days, the heavens raged, torn by storms and unrelenting winds, before finally settling into an eerie calm. Your next journey awaits at My Virtual Library Empire
This newfound silence from the gods made Agamemnon cautious. He had no intention of tempting fate. Yet, his mind clung to a single comforting truth—they were close. Victory was within reach. The gates of Troy stood as a testament to their perseverance, and now it was only a matter of time before they would fall. Still, despite his imminent triumph, there was a lingering annoyance.
Heiron was dead. The thought filled Agamemnon with a rare, unrestrained sense of joy. The man had been a thorn in his side for far too long. Yet, one obstacle remained: Hector. Hector, the prince defender of Troy, stood like an indestructible wall before him. If only Hector were to fall, Agamemnon mused, this war would end swiftly, and with it, his ascension to glory.
But Hector had not fallen.
Odysseus, ever the tactician, understood that Hector was indeed the final bastion of Trojan resistance. However, Hector could not be defeated alone. The Trojan leaders surrounding him—Aeneas, Penthesilea, Castor, Pollux, and Atalanta—were formidable. They needed to be eliminated one by one, like the stones of a fortress dismantled before the gates could be breached.
From afar, Atalanta loosed a volley of arrows with deadly precision, her bow a silent instrument of destruction. Her movements were fluid and purposeful, her golden hair a streak of light as she struck from the shadows. Odysseus watched her closely, his mind calculating every possible approach. If even one of these key leaders fell, Hector might falter. A single mistake would be all the Greeks needed to seize victory.
But Hector was no fool. He understood the gravity of his role.
BADAAAM!
The sound of a violent collision thundered across the battlefield. Hector, the stalwart defender of Troy, had engaged Chiron. The two clashed with such force that the earth trembled beneath their feet.
Hector leapt back, his breathing steady despite the intensity of their duel. His gaze was sharp, unyielding, as he addressed his former teacher. "Why did you choose to fight for the Greeks, teacher?" he asked, his voice calm yet weighted with a seriousness unlike ever before. The recent days, marked by Heiron's death, had transformed Hector into a man who carried the weight of Troy on his shoulders.
Chiron stood tall, his centaur form radiating a noble authority. His ancient eyes met Hector's without wavering. "I am Greek as well," Chiron replied simply. "I must defend them. The Greeks must survive to face the threats of the future."
"And what of us?" Hector demanded, his fists tightening at his sides. "What of the Trojans?"
Chiron's expression softened, yet it was tinged with sorrow. "This is war," he said, his voice tinged with finality.
Hector nodded slowly, his jaw clenched. "I agree."
BADAAAM!
Without hesitation, Hector's fist struck with devastating power, catching Chiron off guard. The centaur was hurled backward with incredible force, crashing into a cluster of Greek soldiers. The impact was catastrophic, killing several instantly and scattering the rest like leaves in a storm.
Even Chiron's normally steadfast legs, the firm musculature of his equine half, couldn't withstand the sheer force of Hector's blows. A month ago, such an attack would have been little more than a nuisance to the mighty centaur. But now, Chiron found himself struggling to hold his ground.
Staggering back, Chiron spat blood, the metallic taste filling his mouth as he widened his eyes in both shock and disbelief. Before him stood Hector, bathed in a radiant golden glow. But this wasn't the divine blessing of Apollo coursing through him—it was something else entirely. It was Hector's own raw, untamed power.
The change was undeniable. In the short span of a month, Hector had ascended to a level of strength that now rivaled his former teacher. The golden light surrounding him was a testament to his growth—a warrior forged by grief, duty, and an unyielding will to protect his city.
Hector wasted no time. With resolute determination etched across his face, he seized a sword and charged forward.
"I'm sorry, teacher," Hector said, his voice steady yet heavy with resolve. "I never wanted this. But I won't hesitate anymore."
BADOOOM!
The sound of steel meeting steel echoed across the battlefield as Chiron parried Hector's strike with his lance. The sheer force of the blow, however, drove the centaur back once more, his hooves scraping against the bloodied ground as he struggled to regain his footing.
"I have no choice!" Hector shouted, his voice carrying over the cacophony of the battle. Swinging his sword with devastating might, he unleashed a relentless flurry of attacks.
The two clashed again and again, their weapons moving with blinding speed, each strike sending ripples of force across the battlefield. They were titans among men, locked in a duel that none dared interrupt. Soldiers on both sides instinctively backed away, keeping their distance from the two combatants who seemed more like demigods than mere mortals.
Each collision of their weapons sent shockwaves through the air, the ground trembling beneath their feet. Onlookers watched in awe and terror as the battle unfolded, the sheer intensity of their fight commanding absolute attention.
Despite being pushed to his limits, Chiron couldn't help but feel a flicker of pride. His student, the boy he had trained and mentored, had grown into a warrior of unparalleled strength. Even as an enemy, Hector's progress filled Chiron with a sense of accomplishment.
A faint smile tugged at the centaur's lips, even as he fended off Hector's relentless assault. "You've come far, Hector," he muttered under his breath. "Farther than I could have ever imagined."
But pride wasn't enough to win this fight. Chiron was a teacher, and to let himself be defeated without giving his all would betray his very principles.
Hector, too, was unwavering. The time for restraint had passed. Heiron's death had shattered the illusions of glory and revelry that had once accompanied the war. This was no longer a game of feasts and rivalries; it was a brutal, unforgiving conflict. And in this battle, only one of them would walk away.
The clang of weapons and the cries of soldiers formed a chaotic symphony as Hector and Chiron fought with everything they had. Each strike was a declaration, each block a defiance.
Amid the chaos, a lone figure observed the fierce battle from a distance. Dressed in Spartan armor, the man stood silently, his face obscured by a helmet. Yet, upon closer inspection, the resemblance was unmistakable. His features bore a striking similarity to Hector's.
It was Paris.
He stood motionless for a moment, his gaze fixed on the duel between his brother and Chiron. Then, his eyes shifted toward another part of the battlefield. There, amidst the carnage, was Menelaus, leading his Spartans with relentless fury.
Paris's lips curled into a twisted smirk, a dark glint in his eyes. The prince of Troy, often underestimated, had plans of his own.
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS
I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC287 Chiron's death
The battlefield was alive with chaos. The deafening roar of clashing armies echoed in the distance, but within the eye of this storm stood two titans: Hector, the Prince of Troy, and Chiron, his former teacher and mentor. Their duel had captured the attention of all around them. Even the most battle-hardened warriors hesitated to approach, the sheer force of their strikes creating ripples in the air and quakes in the earth.
Chiron, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, shifted his weight. His lance trembled slightly in his grasp, a testament to both his age and the ferocity of Hector's attacks. Across from him, Hector stood tall, his golden aura shimmering like sunlight caught in motion. His breaths came heavy but steady, his grip on his sword unyielding.
"You've grown strong, Hector," Chiron said, his voice steady despite the exertion. "Stronger than I had imagined. But strength alone does not make a warrior."
"A lesson I learned from you," Hector replied, his tone laced with both respect and determination. "But today, I fight not as your student, but as the defender of Troy."
Without another word, Hector surged forward. His sword gleamed in the golden light as he brought it down in a powerful arc. Chiron met the strike with his lance, the two weapons colliding with a deafening clang. Sparks flew, and the ground beneath them cracked from the force.
Chiron countered with a swift thrust of his lance, aiming for Hector's chest. Hector twisted his body, narrowly avoiding the attack, and retaliated with a horizontal slash. Chiron reared back on his hind legs, the blade missing him by inches. The centaur's movements were fluid despite his injuries, a testament to his centuries of experience.
But Hector was relentless. He pressed the attack, his strikes faster and more precise. Each swing of his sword carried the weight of his resolve, the pain of loss, and the hope of his people. Chiron parried and dodged, his every movement calculated, but he could feel his strength waning. Hector was no longer the eager student he had trained; he was a warrior in his prime.
The two clashed again, their weapons locking. For a moment, they were face to face, the tension palpable.
"Do you really think you can win, Hector? It's impossible. You should look at the reality."
Hector's eyes hardened. "I will kill you, Chiron and then make sure Troy will come out as victory."
With a surge of strength, Hector pushed Chiron back. The centaur stumbled, his hooves skidding against the dirt. Hector seized the moment, lunging forward with a powerful thrust. Chiron barely managed to deflect the blade, but the force sent him reeling.
The others watched in awe as the duel unfolded. Each exchange was a testament to their skill and determination. Hector's raw power and speed were matched by Chiron's experience and precision, creating a balance that seemed impossible to break.
But the balance began to shift. Hector's strikes grew more forceful, his movements more aggressive. The golden aura around him intensified, a manifestation of his inner strength. Chiron, on the other hand, was visibly tiring. His breaths were labored, and his movements lacked their usual fluidity.
Hector's sword came down in a powerful overhead strike. Chiron raised his lance to block, but the impact was too much. The lance snapped in two, the shards scattering across the ground. Chiron staggered, his eyes wide with shock.
"It's over, teacher," Hector said, his voice resolute.
Chiron's gaze hardened. "Not yet."
Despite his injuries, Chiron charged forward, using his hooves to kick up a cloud of dust. Hector shielded his eyes, momentarily blinded. Chiron used the opportunity to grab one of the broken halves of his lance and swung it with all his might. The makeshift weapon struck Hector's shoulder, drawing blood and forcing him back.
Hector gritted his teeth, the pain fueling his determination. He swung his sword in a wide arc, dispersing the dust and forcing Chiron to retreat. The centaur's movements were slower now, his strength nearly spent. Hector advanced, his strikes relentless. Each swing of his sword chipped away at Chiron's defenses, leaving the centaur with fewer and fewer options.
"This ends now!" Hector roared, his voice echoing across the battlefield.
With a final, powerful strike, Hector's sword pierced through Chiron's remaining weapon and into his side. Chiron gasped, the pain overwhelming. He dropped the broken lance and fell to his knees, blood pooling beneath him.
Hector stepped back, his chest heaving. He looked down at his former teacher, his expression a mixture of sorrow and resolve.
Chiron raised his head, his eyes meeting Hector's. "You've become a great warrior, Hector. I'm proud of you."
Hector's grip on his sword tightened. "And I'll carry the lessons you've taught me for the rest of my life. Rest now, teacher. Your fight is over."
With a swift motion, Hector delivered the final blow, his sword piercing Chiron's heart. The centaur's body went limp, his eyes closing for the last time. The golden glow around Hector began to fade as he stood over his fallen mentor, his sword dripping with blood.
The battlefield fell silent for a moment, the weight of the duel sinking in. Hector turned to face the soldiers who had been watching.
"Fight on," he said at the end a smile appeared on his lips. "For Troy."
"Yes."
The Trojans let out a resounding cheer, their spirits reignited by Hector's victory. But Hector himself felt no triumph. As the battle raged on around him, he knelt beside Chiron's body, placing a hand on his teacher's shoulder.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For everything."
Rising to his feet, Hector turned and rejoined the fray. The war was far from over, but the memory of Chiron's lessons and sacrifice would guide him in the battles to come. Explore more at My Virtual Library Empire
The death of Chiron, the revered centaur and one of the most formidable warriors in the Greek army, sent shockwaves through the battlefield. Whispers of his demise rippled among the ranks, leaving soldiers stricken with disbelief. How could someone as powerful and revered as Chiron fall? And yet, it was Hector—unrelenting, indomitable Hector—who had struck him down. Over the months, Hector had grown even stronger, his prowess on the battlefield unmatched, his name whispered with a mix of awe and dread.
In Agamemnon's side, the air was thick with tension. The king, was standing as he received the grim news with an unreadable expression.
"Chiron is dead, my king," a soldier reported hesitantly, his voice trembling.
Agamemnon's lips curled in a disdainful sneer. "Chiron died in the end, did he?" he muttered, almost dismissively, as if the centaur's death was inconsequential. His sharp eyes narrowed. "And Hector? What of him? Did he die as well?"
The soldier shifted uncomfortably, casting his gaze to the ground. "No, my king. Hector still lives, but he is weakened from the battle."
"Weakened?" Agamemnon's voice turned icy, his words cutting like a blade. "Then kill him."
The soldier hesitated, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Even exhausted, Hector is too strong. None of us stand a chance against him." His words carried a tone of resignation, and a faint tremor betrayed the fear coursing through him.
Agamemnon's face darkened with fury, his disdainful glare searing into the soldier's soul. "Cowards, all of you," he spat, his voice rising with disgust. "And you call yourselves Greeks?" He shook his head, his contempt palpable.
His gaze swept the battlefield beyond the tent's entrance, and there, amidst the chaos of clashing swords and falling bodies, his eyes settled on another figure—a young warrior, golden-haired and radiant, moving with an uncanny grace.
"Patroclus," Agamemnon said, his tone shifting to one of cold calculation. "Send Patroclus to face Hector. He will kill him."
The soldier nodded, relieved to escape the king's wrath, and hurried off to deliver the order.
Meanwhile, Odysseus stood at the edge of the battlefield, his cloak billowing in the dry wind. The sight before him—a sea of corpses and rivers of blood—sank heavily into his heart. News of Chiron's death had reached him too, and he closed his eyes, as though hoping to block out the grim reality.
"How many more lives will be lost before this war ends?" he murmured to himself, his voice tinged with despair.
The gods had abandoned them, their absence stretching into days now. Where were they? Had they grown tired of this senseless carnage, or were they merely watching from the heavens, indifferent to the suffering below? Did they have a plan for this war, for these mortals? If so, what was it? And if the gods had already chosen the victors and the dead, why let the rest of them fight at all?
Odysseus's thoughts were interrupted by a sudden commotion nearby. Turning his head, his eyes fell on Menelaus. The Spartan king stood amidst his warriors, his face twisted with fury.
Just moments earlier, Menelaus had erupted upon hearing the news of Chiron's death. "Chiron is dead? That useless horse!" he bellowed, his voice echoing like thunder across the camp.
The typically composed king had lost his temper, his frustration boiling over. He had grown increasingly impatient with the war, desperate to reclaim Helen and restore his honor. But Helen—his wife, the spark of this bloody conflict—had not appeared on the walls of Troy for days. Her absence gnawed at him like a festering wound.
Even others who usually graced the walls with their presence had vanished. Astynome, Kassandra, and Helen, the woman who had drawn armies to war. None of them had been seen since Heiron's death.
As Menelaus brooded in his fury, a soldier approached him cautiously, his armor glinting faintly in the light of the setting sun. The battlefield around them still echoed with the clash of swords and the cries of the wounded, but here, near the Spartan king, there was an unsettling stillness.
"My king," the soldier began, his voice low but firm, "I think it would be wise to retreat."
Menelaus froze, his eyes narrowing dangerously. He turned his head slowly toward the man, disbelief etched on his face. "What did you say?" he hissed, his tone dripping with venom.
The soldier swallowed hard but stood his ground. "We are losing ground. If we stay—"
"You dare!" Menelaus's roar cut through the soldier's words like a blade. His face twisted with rage as he closed the distance between them, grabbing the man by the collar of his crimson Spartan cloak. "Do you know who you speak to? Do you want to die for your insolence?"
The soldier remained silent, his expression unreadable, but his hand shifted subtly toward his side.
Menelaus's fury blinded him to the danger until it was too late. A searing, blinding pain erupted in his stomach, stealing the breath from his lungs. His grip on the man faltered, and he staggered back, his expression contorting into one of shock and disbelief.
Lowering his gaze, Menelaus saw the glint of steel protruding from his abdomen. A sword. The soldier had thrust his blade deep into his stomach. Blood poured from the wound, staining his armor and pooling at his feet.
"Gaaaarghhh!" Menelaus groaned in agony, clutching at the wound as he stumbled backward. His legs buckled beneath him, and he collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath.
The soldier stepped forward, his movements calm and deliberate. With a single motion, he removed his helmet, revealing a face that sent a jolt of recognition and fury through Menelaus's fading senses.
"You!" Menelaus choked out, his voice trembling with rage and hatred. His vision blurred, but there was no mistaking the man before him—Paris, the prince of Troy, the man who had stolen Helen, the man who had sparked this endless war.
Paris's lips curled into a twisted smirk, his eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. "Helen is mine," he said, his voice filled with venom and triumph.
Menelaus clenched his fists, his hatred burning brighter than the pain in his body. He tried to rise, his legs trembling with the effort, but his strength failed him. He collapsed again, blood pouring from his wound, staining the ground beneath him.
Around them, the battlefield seemed to fall into an eerie silence. Soldiers froze in place, as if bound by some unseen force. None moved to intervene. None dared.
"I will... kill you!" Menelaus rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper, but his glare was filled with unyielding hatred.
Paris's smirk widened as he raised his sword high, the blade catching the last light of the dying sun. "Not today, king," he said coldly.
With a swift and merciless strike, the blade sliced through the air—and then through Menelaus's neck.
SPATTER!
Blood sprayed across the ground as Menelaus's head fell from his shoulders, his lifeless body crumpling to the dirt.
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS
I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC288 Paris's return
A deafening silence enveloped the battlefield as Menelaus's severed head soared through the air, its trajectory a macabre arc against the pale sky. A torrent of crimson erupted from his neck, gushing violently and splattering onto the ground like a grisly fountain. The sticky warmth of the blood painted not only the soil but also drenched Paris's bronze armor, staining it in stark red. The metallic tang of blood hung heavy in the air, mingling with the acrid scent of death.
Paris stood amidst the chaos, his smirk twisting grotesquely as he gazed at the headless body of the Spartan king crumpling to the ground. The gleam in his eyes was unhinged, the triumph on his face a mask of madness. And then, a sound erupted from his throat—a wild, maniacal laughter that tore through the eerie quiet like a blade through flesh.
"GAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"
The battlefield trembled with his voice, a booming echo that carried across the plains. The Spartans, hardened warriors who had witnessed countless deaths, felt an unfamiliar chill creep up their spines. Their resolve faltered as they tightened their grips on their weapons, their knuckles white with fear. For the first time, they hesitated—not because of what Paris had done, but because of what he had become.
He radiated something unnatural, something far beyond the Paris they had known. This was not the prince who had fled humiliated weeks ago, broken and defeated after his disastrous duel with Menelaus. That Paris had disappeared, vanished like a shadow retreating from the light. Whispers had circulated: some claimed he had fled Troy itself, too ashamed to return. Others believed he had perished in the wilderness, his story a cautionary tale of arrogance undone. But no one—no one—had imagined this: Paris returning to the battlefield, not just alive but transformed into a harbinger of death.
"I am the strongest among you miserable Greeks!" Paris roared, his voice dripping with contempt. He raised his blade high, the polished steel glinting malevolently in the sunlight. With a single, deliberate motion, he swung it behind him.
The air itself seemed to scream in protest as the force of the swing unleashed a piercing, unnatural sound, slicing through the atmosphere with a deadly hum. And then, silence—before the unimaginable happened.
Fifty of Spartan soldiers fell at once, their heads and limbs severed in a grotesque display of precision and power. Blood rained down in thick, warm torrents, pooling around the lifeless bodies as if the earth itself was drinking its fill. Fifty men lay dead in an instant, their lives extinguished with a single swing.
"What is this madness?!" one Spartan cried, his voice trembling with disbelief. Find more chapters on My Virtual Library Empire
"I don't know!" another replied, his face pale with terror.
"Kill him!" a captain roared, though his voice betrayed his own fear.
The Spartans charged, their disciplined formation crumbling in the face of their desperation. But every soldier who dared to approach Paris met the same fate—instant death. His sword moved with a speed and precision that defied comprehension, each strike a symphony of carnage. Heads rolled, limbs flew, and screams of agony filled the air, mingling with Paris's deranged laughter.
Despair took hold of the Spartan ranks. Those who had survived the initial massacre began to retreat, keeping their distance and opting for ranged attacks. Fireballs, jagged spikes of earth, and razor-sharp gusts of wind hurtled toward Paris. But each assault struck an invisible barrier, dissipating harmlessly as though the gods themselves had intervened to shield him.
"What sorcery is this?" a soldier whispered, his voice cracking.
Paris's smirk deepened as he raised his sword once more, unleashing another arc of death. The battlefield became a slaughterhouse, the prince moving with an inhuman grace that bordered on divine. Blood soaked the ground, and the once-proud Spartan warriors were reduced to scattered remnants, paralyzed by fear and helpless against his onslaught.
Above the battlefield, the gods watched from Mount Olympus. Hera's face twisted with rage as she turned to Zeus, her voice rising in accusation. "This is treachery! It must be Apollo's or Aphrodite's doing! They're cheating, and you must intervene!"
Zeus's expression remained stoic, but a shadow of unease flickered in his eyes. He glanced at Apollo, Artemis, Aphrodite, and Ares, all of whom seemed as stunned as the mortals below. The surprise etched on their faces was genuine; none of them appeared to be the source of Paris's newfound power.
"No," Zeus said gravely, his deep voice silencing the others. "This is not their doing."
The king of the gods narrowed his eyes, his gaze fixed on the blood-soaked battlefield below. Though he did not voice it, he could feel it.
But then, who was responsible for what had happened to Paris? The question lingered unspoken, an ominous cloud over the battlefield. Paris continued his frenzied slaughter, his mad laughter ringing out like the tolling of a death knell. His movements were a blur, faster and more precise than any mortal could follow. He cut through the ranks of Spartan soldiers with an effortless cruelty, their screams silenced before they could fully escape their lips. Even from the far edges of the battlefield, his rampage was unmistakable—a hurricane of blood and chaos visible to all.
"King Menelaus is dead!" one of Agamemnon's soldiers cried out, his voice trembling with disbelief as he relayed the grim news.
The proclamation sent ripples through the ranks, but Agamemnon's expression betrayed little grief. His jaw tightened, but not from sorrow; his eyes narrowed in contemplation rather than rage. In truth, he hardly cared for his brother. Menelaus had always been a fool in Agamemnon's eyes—an inept man who couldn't even keep his wife in check for a week, let alone protect her from the cunning charms of a Trojan prince. No, Menelaus's death did not wound Agamemnon's heart. It was a distraction at best, a minor inconvenience. What truly troubled him now was Paris—his sudden, unholy resurgence and the implications it carried for the war.
The Greeks had been on the cusp of victory. Troy's walls were battered, its defenders faltering. And now, as if the fates had decided to mock them, Paris had returned, wielding power far beyond his previous limits. Agamemnon clenched his fists as he observed the carnage from his vantage point. This was not a moment to mourn. This was a moment to calculate.
Nearby, Odysseus stood with a grim expression, his sharp mind racing to piece together the implications of what was unfolding. Chiron had been slain; now Menelaus had fallen. The Greeks were losing pillars of strength, one after another. Paris had to be stopped, and yet... how?
Odysseus's thoughts were interrupted by a thunderous cry from across the field. He turned to see an army charging toward Paris, their spears and shields gleaming in the sun. Unlike the Spartans, these soldiers showed no hesitation, no fear. They moved with the precision and ferocity of wolves closing in on their prey.
It was the Myrmidons—Achilles's elite warriors. At their head rode Patroclus, his face fierce with determination, his armor catching the light like a beacon of hope amidst the chaos.
"With me, Myrmidons!" Patroclus roared, his voice carrying over the din of the battlefield. "Let's show him the strength of the strongest army—the army of Achilles!"
The Myrmidons answered with a battle cry that shook the ground itself, their voices unified in purpose. They surged forward with unrelenting speed, their spears glinting like deadly stars.
Odysseus's eyes widened, a cold dread gripping his chest. A terrible premonition clawed at the edges of his mind. No—Patroclus must not fight Paris. This was wrong. He could feel it in his bones.
"Patroclus!" Odysseus called out, his voice urgent, but it was already too late. Patroclus and the Myrmidons were locked onto their path, their charge unstoppable.
Before Odysseus could act, Agamemnon's voice cut through the tension. "Odysseus," he called, his tone calm yet laced with a dangerous undercurrent.
Odysseus turned sharply to face the king. "Agamemnon! We can't let him fight Paris! This is madness! He's running to his death!" His words were desperate, laced with anger and frustration.
But Agamemnon's expression was cold, calculating. A smirk spread across his face, one that sent a chill down Odysseus's spine. "Let him fight," Agamemnon said dismissively, his voice dripping with indifference. "If Paris is killed, it's good. If Patroclus is killed..." He paused, his smirk widening. "...it's very good."
Odysseus froze, his mouth agape in shock. "What?" he demanded, his voice barely a whisper. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. How could the death of Patroclus—a hero in his own right—be considered a boon?
Agamemnon's smirk turned into a cruel grin. "Think, Odysseus," he said, his tone condescending. "If Patroclus is killed, he will come, won't he?"
The realization hit Odysseus like a thunderclap. He staggered back, his mind reeling. He didn't need to ask who Agamemnon meant. The answer was clear—terrifyingly clear.
Achilles.
The wrathful demigod. The greatest warrior the world had ever known. If Patroclus fell, Achilles's fury would burn brighter than the sun. And when Achilles unleashed his rage, not even the gods themselves would escape unscathed.
Odysseus's heart sank as he turned his gaze back to the battlefield, where Patroclus was charging toward Paris with fearless resolve.
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS
I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC289: Patroclus vs Paris!
The battlefield was a cacophony of chaos—clanging steel, the cries of dying men, and the dull roar of fires consuming the remnants of siege engines. Paris, Prince of Troy, strode through the carnage like a specter of death, his blade slicing through the Myrmidons with frightening precision. His lips curled into a cruel smile as he revelled in the bloodshed, his every movement graceful yet deadly.
"Paris!!" Stay tuned to Freewebnovel
The sharp, commanding voice cut through the din. Paris paused mid-swing, his sword dripping crimson, and turned toward the source. His golden armor gleamed under the sun as he laid eyes on the man who had called him out.
"Ah," Paris said, his voice laced with mockery. "If it isn't Patroclus. Tell me, where is Achilles? Has he finally realized that his so-called invincibility is no match for me? Or is he cowering somewhere, too frightened to face the inevitable?"
Patroclus sneered, stepping forward with measured purpose. His bronze-plated armor bore the scratches of countless battles, yet his posture remained unwavering, his blue eyes fierce with determination. "Achilles does not concern himself with the likes of you, Paris. You are unworthy of his blade. But me? I'll be more than enough to end your delusions of grandeur."
Paris threw his head back and laughed, a guttural sound that echoed across the battlefield. "You? Kill me? The strongest man on this battlefield? Gahahaha! Even Achilles, your so-called demigod, would fall before my might! And yet you think you stand a chance?"
"Yes," Patroclus replied calmly, his voice steady. He raised his sword, its polished surface reflecting the sun's glare. "Achilles wouldn't waste his time on a coward who hides behind boasts. Now face me, Paris. Prove yourself, if you dare!"
Paris's amusement faded, replaced by a sudden, seething anger. His eyes burned with hatred as he snarled, "Do not underestimate me, you filthy Greek! I'll carve you apart!"
With a roar, Paris launched himself at Patroclus, his speed almost inhuman. He closed the distance in an instant, his blade slicing through the air with deadly intent.
Patroclus's eyes widened at the sheer velocity of the attack, but his battle-hardened instincts took over. He sidestepped at the last moment, narrowly avoiding the strike. Behind him, ten Myrmidons fell in a single sweep of Paris's sword, their bodies cleaved as though their armor were parchment.
Seeing his comrades fall, Patroclus's fury ignited. He raised his sword high, its edge flickering with flames as he invoked his power. "Answer me, Fire!" he bellowed, the blaze roaring to life along the blade. He charged at Paris and swung with all his might.
But Paris, ever mocking, met the attack head-on. His own blade intercepted Patroclus's fiery strike, extinguishing the flames in a clash of sparks. "Is this all the famed Myrmidons have to offer?" he sneered.
Before Patroclus could respond, the remaining Myrmidons rallied, charging at Paris with a ferocious cry. The battlefield became a whirlwind of chaos as they surrounded the Trojan prince, striking from every angle.
"Come at me a hundred at a time if you wish!" Paris roared, his voice brimming with arrogance. He spun in a deadly arc, his sword carving through the Myrmidons' thick armor as if it were butter. Their weapons bounced harmlessly off his golden plate, their efforts to find a blind spot futile. Yet, despite their hopeless odds, the Myrmidons pressed on, their resolve unbroken.
Patroclus watched the massacre with gritted teeth. He gripped his sword tightly, his mind racing. He could feel the weight of his comrades' sacrifice, their bravery fueling his determination. "Thetis, lend me your strength!" he prayed aloud, invoking the divine favor bestowed upon Achilles.
Golden light erupted from his blade, radiant and searing. The air crackled with energy as he raised the sword high above his head. "Celestial Magic!" he roared, bringing the blade down in a blinding arc aimed directly at Paris.
The brilliance of the attack forced Paris to act on instinct. His mocking expression twisted into panic as he brought his sword up in a desperate attempt to block the strike.
BADDDOOOOOOM!
The force of the impact shook the ground, scattering dust and debris in all directions. Paris was hurled backward, his body skidding across the blood-soaked earth. He tumbled to a stop, coughing and gasping for air, but quickly scrambled to his feet. His grip tightened on his sword as he glared at Patroclus with venom in his eyes.
"You'll regret that, Greek," Paris spat, his voice low and dangerous.
Patroclus leveled his glowing blade at Paris, his expression fierce. "Then come and make me."
Paris's face twisted with fury, his eyes blazing with malice as Patroclus's words echoed in his mind like a taunt that refused to fade. His hands trembled, not from fear, but from the sheer rage coursing through his veins.
"I SAID, DON'T UNDERESTIMATE ME!!!" he roared, his voice reverberating across the battlefield like thunder.
A black light exploded from Paris, enveloping his figure in a sinister aura. The air around him seemed to ripple and darken, as if the battlefield itself recoiled in fear of his transformation. His golden hair turned pitch black, and dark streaks snaked across his skin, marking him like a harbinger of doom. His eyes, once sharp and calculating, now glowed with an unnatural crimson light, devoid of humanity.
Patroclus faltered, his grip tightening around his sword. The Myrmidons nearest to Paris hesitated, their instincts screaming at them to retreat, but their loyalty to their leader overrode their fear.
"You will regret those words, Patroclus," Paris growled, his voice deepened by the dark power surging through him. "I will make you kneel in your last moments and beg for the mercy I will not grant!"
Without another word, Paris surged forward, moving faster than ever before. His speed was terrifying, almost supernatural, as he closed the distance between them in the blink of an eye.
Patroclus barely had time to react, raising his flaming blade to intercept the incoming strike. Their swords clashed with an earsplitting clang, sending shockwaves through the battlefield. The force of Paris's attack pushed Patroclus back several steps, his feet digging into the ground to steady himself.
"Is that fear I see in your eyes, Myrmidon?" Paris sneered, pressing forward with relentless strikes. Each blow was more powerful than the last, forcing Patroclus into a desperate defense. Sparks flew with every clash of their blades, illuminating the grim determination etched on Patroclus's face.
"I fear nothing!" Patroclus spat, countering with a quick upward slash. Fire erupted from his blade, a desperate attempt to break Paris's momentum.
But Paris merely laughed, his darkened blade cutting through the flames as if they were nothing. "Your tricks are meaningless! Your strength is nothing compared to mine!"
The Myrmidons, witnessing their leader's struggle, charged at Paris in a desperate attempt to turn the tide. They hurled themselves at the Trojan prince with cries of defiance, their swords raised high.
"Pathetic," Paris hissed. With a single wide swing, he cut through the first wave of attackers, their bodies crumpling to the ground in a spray of blood. The second wave came, undeterred by the fate of their comrades, and Paris met them with equal savagery.
One by one, they fell, their armor offering no protection against Paris's darkened blade. Yet, they did not stop. Myrmidon after Myrmidon threw themselves into the fray, their only goal to shield Patroclus from Paris's wrath.
"Stand down!" Patroclus shouted, his voice hoarse with desperation. "Do not waste your lives!"
But his men ignored his command, their loyalty unshakable. They placed themselves in Paris's path, using their bodies as shields to absorb his relentless attacks.
"You think your soldiers can save you?" Paris roared, his blade carving through another line of Myrmidons. "All they're doing is delaying the inevitable!"
Patroclus watched in horror as his comrades fell one by one, their blood staining the earth. Anger and grief welled up inside him, threatening to consume him. He clenched his jaw, his knuckles white as he gripped his sword.
"I won't let you do this, Paris," he muttered under his breath. "I won't let their sacrifice be in vain!"
Summoning every ounce of his strength, Patroclus lunged at Paris with a battle cry. His blade, once again wreathed in flames, slashed toward the Trojan prince with deadly precision.
Paris blocked the attack with ease, their swords locking together in a fierce struggle. "You're stubborn, I'll give you that," he said, his lips curling into a sadistic grin. "But stubbornness won't save you."
He twisted his blade, forcing Patroclus to stumble back. Without missing a beat, Paris unleashed a flurry of strikes, each one faster and more ferocious than the last. Patroclus struggled to keep up, his arms aching from the strain of parrying each blow.
"Is this all you've got?" Paris taunted, his strikes growing more erratic, more savage. "Where's that fire you showed earlier? Where's that arrogance?!"
Patroclus gritted his teeth, his body screaming in protest as he blocked another powerful swing. "I'll never yield to the likes of you!" he shouted, his voice raw with determination.
But Paris's strength was overwhelming. With one final, devastating strike, he shattered Patroclus's sword, the blade splintering into pieces.
Patroclus staggered back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He stared at the broken hilt in his hand, disbelief flickering across his face.
"It's over, Patroclus," Paris said, his voice cold and unfeeling. He stepped forward, his darkened blade gleaming ominously.
Patroclus refused to back down. He clenched his fists, his eyes blazing with defiance. "Even without a weapon, I'll fight you to my last breath!"
Paris smirked, raising his sword. "Then die with your foolish pride."
With a swift, brutal motion, Paris drove his blade into Patroclus's chest, piercing his heart.
Patroclus gasped, blood bubbling from his lips as the life drained from his eyes. He collapsed to his knees, his hand clutching weakly at the sword embedded in his chest.
Paris leaned in close, his voice a venomous whisper. "You should have stayed in Achilles's shadow where you belonged."
Patroclus's gaze flickered toward the distant horizon, where the faint sound of battle still raged. His lips moved, forming words too faint to hear, before his body went limp and he crumpled to the ground.
Paris pulled his blade free, wiping the blood from its surface with an air of indifference. He looked down at Patroclus's lifeless form and laughed. "Gahahaah!! I AM THE STRONGEST!!"
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS