I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC290: Achilles is back...
The battlefield, once alive with the cacophony of war, now lay silent, shrouded in a thick veil of loss. The death of Patroclus had struck a blow so devastating that even the air seemed to carry the weight of despair. Odysseus, ever the pragmatic strategist, had immediately ordered the retreat of the Greek forces for the day, disregarding Agamemnon's vehement protests. To continue fighting after such a catastrophic loss would be reckless, a folly driven by the hubris of one man's unyielding desire to raze Troy to the ground.
Agamemnon's obsession with victory had become a reckless flame, consuming logic and reason. His unrelenting push for battle had reached an absurd extreme, but Odysseus was not one to be swayed by arrogance. He recognized the need to preserve what little morale the Greeks had left. Today had been disastrous—a day of unparalleled tragedy. Chiron, the wise and noble centaur; Menelaus, King of Sparta; and Patroclus, beloved companion of Achilles—all had fallen. Their deaths, cruel and senseless, had occurred within mere hours of each other.
The losses were too great to bear. To push forward now would be suicide, an act of madness born of desperation. Odysseus's command to retreat was not just a tactical decision but a necessary one. The Greek army, battered and broken, withdrew from the field under the shadow of grief. Their spirits had been shattered; their courage drained to the dregs. Yet, for the first time in the long years of this brutal war, Odysseus's thoughts were not consumed by the plight of the Greek forces.
No, his mind was elsewhere—on something far more urgent.
Patroclus was dead.
And Achilles didn't know yet.
When Patroclus had announced his decision to take part in the battle, leading the Myrmidons into the fray, Odysseus had suspected that Achilles was unaware of the plan—or, at the very least, did not approve of it. Achilles, fiercely protective of Patroclus, would never have allowed his dearest companion to enter the battlefield alone. Yet Odysseus had not stopped him. He had welcomed the help, eager for the strength and valor of the Myrmidons to bolster their dwindling ranks. Now, that decision weighed heavily on him.
Grief churned in his chest, a bitter storm of guilt and sorrow. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had sent Patroclus to his death. The memory of the young warrior's kindness, his unwavering sense of justice, lingered painfully in Odysseus's mind. In many ways, Patroclus had reminded him of Heracles—a rare soul who carried both strength and compassion in equal measure. And now he was gone.
As if that wasn't enough, Chiron—the wise and noble mentor who had guided so many of Greece's greatest heroes—had also perished. It was almost too much to bear.
The Greek encampment, once a hive of activity, now felt like a mausoleum. Inside Agamemnon's grand tent, the once-crowded war council sat nearly empty. The heavy air was suffused with silence, broken only by the faint crackling of torches. Agamemnon slouched on his gilded throne, his face a mask of fury and denial, while Nestor stood somberly behind him, his age-worn face etched with sorrow. Odysseus was the only other figure present. The absence of the other leaders was a grim testament to the day's bloodshed.
The Heroes of the Empire of Light, who had once stood as allies in this war, were no longer present either. Their leader, Liphiel, had been slain by Heiron, and with her death, their resolve had crumbled. They had slowly begun to distance themselves from the conflict, their loyalty to the cause waning with each passing hour. Odysseus had noticed their quiet retreat—the subtle packing of belongings, the whispered conversations by the harbor. They were waiting, it seemed, for a ship to carry them back to their distant homeland the LIGHT EMPIRE, far from the cursed plains of Troy.
In the end, they stood alone, their hopes for reinforcements dwindling into distant fantasies. The weight of their isolation pressed down like a leaden sky, but despite this grim reality, Agamemnon exuded an unshakable confidence. Odysseus could see it in the king's narrowed gaze and the faint smirk tugging at his lips. And Odysseus knew why.
Patroclus was dead.
That fact carried more weight than any battalion of warriors. It was not just a loss but a summons, a harbinger of something fierce and unstoppable.
"Lord Odysseus!"
The cry interrupted his thoughts. A soldier burst into the tent, his face alight with a grin so wide it seemed to banish the tension in the air.
"Achilles has returned!"
Odysseus froze, his eyes widening as the words sank in. Without hesitation, he pushed past the soldier and rushed out of the tent, his heart pounding in his chest. The dry, dust-filled air outside hit his face, but he barely noticed it. His mind raced faster than his legs as he made his way toward the Myrmidon encampment.
But beneath his hurried stride, Odysseus's face was grave. His thoughts churned, grappling for the right words. What could he possibly say? How could he explain what had happened in Achilles's absence? Every sentence he constructed crumbled under the weight of what it had to carry.
The walk to the Myrmidons' camp felt both too long and too short. Before he knew it, he stood before them. The sight was somber—an air of mourning hung over the gathered warriors. The Myrmidons, proud and fierce as they were, avoided meeting his gaze. Their heads were bowed, their bodies tense with unspoken grief.
And there she stood.
Khillea clad in a simple armor, her arms cradling a small bundle. Odysseus's heart clenched at the sight. Khillea, who had always been larger than life, seemed almost... human now.
"Odysseus," she greeted, a small smile breaking the tension. "It's good to see you." She shifted the bundle in her arms, revealing the face of a tiny infant wrapped in soft linens. "Look at her. Now I finally understand what you must've felt the first time you became a parent." She laughed, a light, carefree sound that felt painfully out of place.
Odysseus tried to smile back but could only manage a strained, awkward expression. Khillea didn't seem to notice—yet.
"I came back as soon as I could," Khillea continued, her voice brimming with excitement. "I wanted to show Patroclus his niece. I haven't seen him yet—where is he? He must be sulking because I was gone too long, isn't he?" She laughed again, but this time, her voice faltered when no one responded.
The Myrmidons remained silent. Their heads dipped even lower, their shoulders trembling.
Khillea's smile faded. Her brows furrowed as she turned her sharp gaze toward them. "What's going on?" she asked, her tone losing its warmth. Her grip on the baby tightened protectively.
She turned back to Odysseus, her eyes narrowing. "Odysseus," she said, her voice like a blade. "Where is Patroclus?"
Odysseus opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. He felt his tongue falter, searching for a way to soften the blow. "Achilles…" he began, his voice low. "After you left, much has happened. It's not easy to—"
"Where is Patroclus, Odysseys?" Achilles cut him off, her words slow and deliberate, her tone sharper this time.
Her voice carried a weight that stilled the air around them.
Odysseus hesitated, his gaze dropping to the ground. "Achilles... Patroclus fought with the Myrmidons while you were gone. He stood with us, side by side…"
Her eyes narrowed further, a flicker of anger flashing through them. "I told him not to fight," she hissed. "I ordered him not to fight. And he agreed! Is he hurt?"
Her voice cracked slightly, betraying her growing unease. Anger and worry warred within her, each threatening to spill over.
Odysseus's lips parted, but no sound came out. He couldn't bring himself to say it, to crush the fragile hope in her voice. He glanced toward the Myrmidons, searching for someone to take this burden from him, but they all remained silent.
Achilles's grip on the baby tightened, her knuckles turning white. Her voice dropped to a deadly whisper. "Odysseus. Tell me where he is."
Odysseus swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Achilles… Patroclus is…" His voice faltered, the words refusing to come.
"Is he gravely hurt? Tell me where he is!" Khillea demanded, her voice tight with urgency as she strode past Odysseus, her steps quick and determined. "My mother will heal him. She'll make it right."
"You can't," Odysseus murmured, his voice barely audible, each word carrying the weight of despair. "It's too late…"
Before he could explain further, another voice cut through the tension like a blade.
"No, she can't."
Khillea turned sharply, her golden eyes narrowing as she spotted Agamemnon approaching, his imposing figure framed against the camp's dim torches. The air seemed to grow heavier as his words hung between them.
"What did you just say?" Khillea's tone was sharp, her gaze piercing as it locked onto Agamemnon.
But Agamemnon did not flinch. Behind him, a group of soldiers emerged, carrying something on a makeshift wooden bier. A heavy cloth covered the shape beneath, its outline unmistakably human. The soldiers moved with quiet solemnity, their faces grim and pale.
Khillea's brows furrowed. Her heart quickened, though she refused to acknowledge the dark thought that whispered in the back of her mind.
Agamemnon strode forward and gestured toward the bier. "See for yourself," he said, his voice steady but cold. Reaching down, he grasped the edge of the cloth and pulled it back in one swift motion.
Khillea froze.
Beneath the cloth lay Patroclus, his face pale and still. His chest no longer rose and fell with breath. The golden armor he wore—her armor—was tarnished and mangled, blackened by what could only be burns from a cursed weapon. The once-pristine metal was shattered at the chest, where Paris's cowardly arrow had struck.
Silence descended like a shroud over the camp.
Khillea's gold eyes widened, ever so slightly, before narrowing again. She did not speak, nor did she move. Her gaze remained locked on Patroclus's lifeless face. Her expression was unreadable, frozen in an icy calm that defied the storm building within her.
"He's dead," Agamemnon said bluntly, as if the finality of the words could pierce the surreal haze that gripped the scene. "The Trojans killed him. Cowardly, from behind. Hector and Paris were the culprits."
The words reverberated in the air, but Khillea did not react. She did not even blink. Her focus remained fixed on the body of her closest companion, the man who had shared her tent, her victories, and her dreams.
Odysseus stood nearby, his throat tightening as he observed Khillea's expression—or rather, the absence of one. He had seen her in countless battles, her face twisted in rage, defiance, or triumph. But this… this silence, this stillness, was more unnerving than anything he had witnessed before.
"Achill—" Odysseus began, stepping closer. He wanted to say something, anything to comfort her. But before the words could escape his lips, Khillea turned abruptly.
Without a word, she walked away, her steps measured, her posture rigid.
The Myrmidons parted to let her pass, their heads bowed, their gazes averted. The silence deepened, save for the faint crackle of the campfires.
Odysseus started to follow her, but he stopped when he caught a glimpse of her face.
Khillea's expression—though fleeting, hidden beneath the dim light—was like a crack in the façade of a mighty temple. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her jaw clenched so tightly it trembled. And her eyes…
Her golden eyes blazed with a fury so cold it could freeze the world. It was an expression that promised retribution, one that made even the most battle-hardened Myrmidons shudder.
Odysseus swallowed hard, his heart heavy with dread. He did not need to follow her to know what was coming next.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC291 Paris back to Troy
The city of Troy buzzed with an air of celebration, a stark contrast to the somber gloom that hung over the Greek camps. Laughter echoed through the streets, children darted about with carefree smiles, and the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine filled the air. It was a rare moment of joy amidst the long years of war, all thanks to the unprecedented victory on the battlefield that day.
The Greeks, formidable and relentless, had suffered a staggering blow. Three of their most vital leaders had fallen: the wise Chiron, the stalwart Menelaus, and the young but courageous Patroclus. It was a day that the Trojans would remember, for it marked a turning point in a war that had seemed unwinnable for so long.
For weeks, the Trojans had been on the back foot, struggling to hold their ground against the relentless Myrmidons and the fierce leadership of Patroclus, who had joined the fray in Achilles' stead. Yet, amidst the chaos and despair, Hector—the hero of Troy—had risen to the challenge. In a clash of titans, he had defeated Chiron, his spear striking true and felling the legendary centaur who had guided and taught many Greek heroes.
But the fall of Menelaus and Patroclus? That was a different tale entirely, one steeped in mystery and surprise. Their deaths were not Hector's doing, nor the work of any renowned Trojan warrior. Instead, the credit—or perhaps the suspicion—belonged to a man who had once been scorned, ridiculed, and dismissed.
Paris of Troy, the wayward prince who had fled the battlefield a month ago after a humiliating defeat at the hands of Menelaus, had returned. And he was no longer the same man who had once been derided for his cowardice. His newfound strength, both physical and in his presence, was undeniable. The once-timid prince now walked with an air of confidence that bordered on arrogance. His strikes on the battlefield had been swift, precise, and lethal, claiming the lives of Menelaus and Patroclus with uncharacteristic ferocity.
His return, however, raised as many questions as it did cheers. How had Paris changed so drastically? What power had he gained, and at what cost?
That evening, King Priam hosted a grand feast in honor of the day's victory. The great hall of Troy was alive with the hum of conversation, the clinking of goblets, and the aroma of roasted lamb and honeyed bread. Soldiers, nobles, and even commoners gathered, all eager to celebrate the rare triumph. At the center of the hall sat Paris, his grin as wide as the crescent moon, basking in the admiration and curiosity of his family and comrades.
Hector, however, was less enthused. His sharp eyes watched Paris like a hawk, suspicion etched into every line of his face. When the moment was right, he leaned toward his younger brother, his voice low but firm.
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"Where were you all this time, Paris?" Hector asked, his tone heavy with suspicion.
Paris, lounging comfortably with a goblet of wine in hand, smirked at his older brother. "Come now, Hector, must you greet me with such a wary gaze? I'm your brother, after all."
"You ran away, Paris," Hector replied bluntly, his tone as sharp as a blade. "And now you return, wielding strength that doesn't belong to you."
Paris's smirk faltered for a moment, but his defiance quickly returned. He straightened, meeting Hector's glare with one of his own. "Watch your tongue, brother. This strength is mine! I earned it. I deserve it!"
Hector's brow furrowed, his unease growing. "I wonder about that," he muttered, his voice laced with doubt.
The tension between the brothers crackled like a storm ready to break, drawing the attention of the rest of the royal family. Queen Hecuba, ever the mediator, raised a hand to silence them.
"Enough, both of you," she said firmly, her regal tone commanding respect. She turned her gaze to Paris, her expression softening, though her eyes held a hint of concern. "Paris, we are glad for your return, but tell us—where have you been all this time? And how did you come by this power?"
The room fell silent, all eyes on Paris. The prince, however, seemed unbothered by the weight of their stares. He laughed, the sound echoing through the hall like the toll of a bell.
"What does it matter where I was or how I gained my strength?" he asked, his tone dismissive. "The only thing that matters is that I am here now. With me, Troy's victory is assured."
He rose from his seat, lifting his goblet high as if to toast his own triumph. "I will be the one to slay Odysseus and Agamemnon! And if that coward Achilles ever dares to leave his tent, I will cut him down as well!" His voice rang out, filled with a confidence that bordered on hubris.
Kassandra sat at the edge of the gathering, her eyes fixed on Paris as if trying to pierce through his very soul. Her face was pale, framed by strands of dark hair that seemed untouched by the festivities around her. Her weary eyes, ringed with dark circles, betrayed sleepless nights—weeks, perhaps even months—spent tormented by memories she could not escape. She looked like a woman haunted, her spirit tethered to a moment she could never reclaim.
Heiron was dead. The name echoed endlessly in her mind, a wound that refused to heal. The memory of his touch, his promise, his kiss—they lingered like ghosts, tormenting her during every waking hour and haunting her dreams. He had promised her happiness, a life beyond the shadows of war and bloodshed. But promises were as fragile as the human body, and Heiron had proved that when he fell, his blood soaking the very soil he'd sworn to protect.
In his place, it was her brother Paris who had returned. Paris. She spat his name silently in her mind, her lips tightening. The man who fled when the city needed him most, only to come back basking in glory not his own.
"Now, if you will excuse me," Paris announced, rising to his feet with a goblet of wine still in hand. His voice carried the same irritating bravado that Kassandra had despised since they were children. "I need to see my beautiful wife. She has no doubt missed me terribly during my absence." He chuckled to himself, his laughter grating against Kassandra's ears like nails on stone. With a carefree wave, he strode out of the hall, leaving behind a trail of unease.
For a moment, there was silence, broken only by the faint murmurs of the gathered nobles. Then Kassandra spoke, her voice cutting through the air like a blade.
"He is going to bring doom to Troy."
The room fell still. The weight of her words settled over the hall like a heavy shroud. Hector, Aeneas, Priam, and Hecuba all turned to her, their eyes wide with shock. Even the servants paused in their duties, unsure if they had truly heard what they thought they had.
"Kassandra," Priam sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Not this again."
Her father's exasperation did not faze her. She stood, her weary frame radiating a strength born from despair. "I have told you since his birth," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "Paris will bring ruin to Troy. He should leave and never return."
Hector studied his sister carefully. There was something different in her tone tonight—an urgency, an undeniable truth that clawed at his instincts. It was as if some divine force, long suppressing his belief in her visions, was loosening its grip. For the first time, he found himself questioning his own doubts.
"Kassandra," Hector began, his voice quieter now, "why do you say this? Why tonight?"
She turned to him, her gaze meeting his with an intensity that made him flinch. "Because I can see it," she whispered, the weight of her words sinking deep into the air. "I have always seen it. Every step he takes, every word he speaks—it leads us closer to destruction."
Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked out of the hall, her footsteps echoing loudly in the stunned silence she left behind.
"What do we do, Father?" Hector finally asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.
Priam leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple as if trying to dispel the tension building in the room. "What do you want to do?" he asked, his tone laden with exhaustion.
"I don't know," Hector admitted, his brow furrowed deeply. "Maybe it's just my instincts, but I feel… uneasy. As if something terrible is on the horizon."
Priam regarded his eldest son carefully, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he turned to Astynome, the priestess who had been sitting quietly at the edge of the gathering. Since Heiron's death, she had spoken little, her once-lively demeanor now shrouded in grief.
"What do you think, Priestess?" Priam asked, his voice soft yet commanding.
Astynome looked up slowly, her eyes hollow but thoughtful. For a long moment, she said nothing, the silence stretching thin. Then, finally, she nodded.
"I agree," she said simply, her voice barely above a whisper.
Her words, though few, carried weight. Priam sighed heavily, leaning forward in his seat. "Then we will take no rash actions," he declared, though his tone was far from decisive. "Not yet. But we will remain vigilant."
Hector nodded, though the unease in his heart did not abate.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC292 Helen's sadness
Helen sat quietly in the garden of the Trojan castle, the gentle hum of the breeze weaving through the flowerbeds around her. The garden, once a place of solace, now seemed like a hollow echo of what it used to be. The vibrant blossoms no longer brought her peace; they felt like mockeries of her sorrow. She gazed at the marble fountain in the center, the water's gentle trickle failing to soothe her restless thoughts.
She felt adrift, lost in a sea of emotions that had no outlet. She didn't know what to think or what to feel anymore. Everything seemed to be falling apart. Just when Troy seemed to be stabilizing, when life had started to regain some semblance of normalcy, Heiron was gone. His death was like a black shroud cast over the city, darkening the hearts of everyone within its walls.
It would be dishonest to say she hadn't cared for him. She had. He was more than a passing acquaintance; he had become her confidant in a way no one else could. Unlike the others who only saw her as a trophy, a figure to admire or resent, Heiron treated her like a person—just a woman who needed someone to talk to.
Their conversations had been a rarity in her life: genuine, short yet meaningful exchanges that she found herself looking forward to. When the pressures of her existence—the endless guilt, the weight of expectation, the suffocating isolation—grew too much to bear, she could vent to him. He would listen without judgment, without ulterior motives.
Heiron had cared. Not about her beauty, not about her infamy, but about her. He even shared news of the war with her, sparing her the humiliation of having to ask others who might scoff or sneer. For those brief moments, she had felt seen, understood, even human. But now, Heiron was dead.
A sharp pang of loneliness pierced her chest. She hadn't anticipated how much his absence would hurt. The garden felt emptier now, devoid of the comfort his presence once brought. And once again, the familiar weight of guilt crept in.
This was all because of her. It didn't matter what others said to absolve her; the truth was clear in her mind. If it weren't for her, this war wouldn't have happened. If she hadn't been born, the world might have been a more peaceful place. The thought lingered, growing heavier with each passing day.
"You're here alone again?"
The sudden voice startled her, pulling her from her spiraling thoughts. Helen turned to see her older sister, Clytemnestra, standing at the edge of the garden. Her sister's presence was both a relief and a reminder of the burdens they shared.
"Sister…" Helen murmured, lowering her gaze, unable to meet Clytemnestra's eyes.
Clytemnestra sighed, her steps measured as she approached. Her expression was stern but tinged with concern, a look Helen knew well.
"How long are you going to keep running away from me?" Clytemnestra asked, folding her arms.
"I'm not running away," Helen replied weakly, her voice lacking conviction.
"You are," Clytemnestra said firmly. "And I've already told you—what happened to my daughter, Iphigenia, is not your fault."
Helen flinched at the mention of her niece, the memory of the young girl's tragic fate cutting through her like a blade. Iphigenia had been sacrificed, a casualty of her father Agamemnon's ambitions and the whims of the gods. Yet, despite knowing the true cause, Helen couldn't stop blaming herself.
"But it is," Helen whispered, her voice trembling. "If not for me, there would have been no war. If not for me, Iphigenia would still be alive. How can I not feel responsible?"
Clytemnestra knelt beside her, placing a hand on Helen's shoulder. Her touch was firm but comforting.
"This war… It wasn't born from you," Clytemnestra said. "It was born from men's greed, their lust for power, their refusal to take accountability for their own choices. Agamemnon sacrificed my daughter because of his hubris, not because of you. You carry a burden that isn't yours to bear, Helen."
Helen closed her eyes, tears welling but refusing to fall. Clytemnestra's words were meant to comfort, but they couldn't erase the gnawing guilt.
"If only I hadn't been born," Helen whispered bitterly. "Perhaps then the world would have been spared all this suffering."
Clytemnestra frowned, gripping Helen's shoulders tighter. "Don't speak like that. The fault lies with those who wield violence and destruction, not with you. You're not the cause of their hatred, their war. You're just the excuse they use to justify it."
"Maybe… but if I wasn't born, none of this would have ever happened," Helen murmured, her voice laced with guilt, her gaze fixed on the ground. The weight of her self-condemnation was palpable, each word sinking deeper into the still air around them.
"Why do you keep blaming yourself?" Clytemnestra countered, her tone firm yet tender. She knelt beside Helen, her hands gently gripping her sister's shoulders as if to shake some sense into her. "Everything will end well, you'll see. The Greeks are faltering. Just yesterday, they lost three of their commanders, and Menelaus is dead! You don't have to worry about him coming after you anymore."
Helen's heart stirred faintly at the mention of Menelaus, her former husband and King of Sparta. He was dead. Yet, even with the knowledge that he could no longer harm her, a fresh wave of unease swept over her. Menelaus had been a vengeful man, but Agamemnon, his brother, was far worse. As long as Agamemnon lived, Helen knew the war would not end.
The mere thought of him made her stomach twist in fear. Agamemnon despised her, more than any other. He blamed her for the sacrifice of his daughter, Iphigenia—a choice he made but one he found easier to lay at her feet. Helen shivered at the thought of falling into his hands. What kind of punishment would he deem fitting for the woman he held responsible for his loss?
Clytemnestra seemed to sense her sister's spiraling fear. Her eyes softened, but her frustration remained. She hated Agamemnon as much as Helen feared him, perhaps even more. But she couldn't deny his power, nor the aura of terror he carried as a king.
"If it's Agamemnon that you're worried about, Helen, you shouldn't be," a confident voice suddenly interjected.
Both women turned, startled, to see Paris standing at the edge of the garden. His blond hair caught the sunlight, and he carried himself with the smug assurance of a man who had cheated death.
Despite his unexpected return, Helen's expression remained neutral. There was no joy, no relief, no spark of happiness in her eyes. If anything, her gaze hardened ever so slightly, her lips pressing into a thin line. She had already heard the news that Paris was alive, but she hadn't gone to see him. Why would she?
Paris had never truly mattered to her. Whatever fleeting affection she had once felt for him had been shallow, a passing mirage in a life filled with regret. And now, even that illusion was gone.
"What are you doing here?" Clytemnestra asked, her voice sharp, her gaze narrowing as she stood to face him.
"What kind of question is that?" Paris replied with a laugh, spreading his arms in mock offense. "Can't a man come to see his wife?"
"Helen isn't your wife," Clytemnestra shot back coldly. "You used magic to deceive her into following you. Everyone knows that now."
The truth was out, undeniable and damning. Helen hadn't left Sparta willingly. She hadn't chosen Paris out of love or desire. It had all been a cruel trick, a spell that had clouded her mind and led her to Troy.
Paris, however, seemed unfazed. "That doesn't change anything," he said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "From the moment she stepped onto that boat, she became my wife. And as her husband, it's my duty to protect her."
"Protect me?" Helen muttered under her breath, the words almost inaudible.
"Yes!" Paris exclaimed, taking a step closer, his voice swelling with self-assured pride. "I killed Menelaus for you, Helen. He won't bother you anymore! And I'll kill anyone else who dares to harm you. Kings, soldiers—Troy itself! I'll destroy them all if it means keeping you safe. I swear it!"
Clytemnestra's jaw tightened as she stepped protectively in front of her sister. Helen's hands clenched in her lap, her nails digging into her palms.
"Kill them all?" Helen repeated softly, her tone hollow, her gaze distant.
Paris nodded, oblivious to the growing tension. "Yes, my love. No one will ever hurt you again, not while I'm here."
Helen looked up at him, her eyes shimmering with a mixture of anger and despair. "You think this is what I want? More bloodshed, more death? You think killing my husband—killing thousands of men—will erase the pain of all that's been lost?"
Paris faltered, his confident smile wavering.
"You talk of protecting me," Helen continued, her voice rising, trembling with emotion. "But all you've done is bring more destruction, more suffering. You didn't save me, Paris. You condemned me. Just like everyone else."
Paris opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. Clytemnestra stepped closer to him, her glare icy.
"You've done enough harm," she said, her voice low and threatening. "Leave her be, Paris. She doesn't need you."
Paris's glare darkened, his jaw tightening as he stepped forward and seized Helen's arm with a bruising grip. His fingers dug into her skin, his voice a venomous hiss. "You belong to me, Helen."
Helen froze for a moment, her breath catching at the sharpness of his tone. But then, lifting her gaze to meet his, her expression turned icy, her voice steady and cold. "No, Paris. I don't."
His teeth ground audibly as anger flared in his eyes. "Is that it?" he spat, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "Is it because of him? That mercenary, Heiron? Don't tell me you fell in love with that weakling!" Read latest chapters at My Virtual Library Empire
The accusation struck Helen like an unexpected blow, but she quickly recovered, her composure unshaken. She didn't understand why he was dragging Heiron into this—what purpose it served—but her lips curved into a soft, defiant smile.
"Yes," she said simply, her tone laced with quiet strength. "I loved him."
Paris's grip tightened further, his fingers like iron bands around her arm. His face twisted with fury as he shouted, "He's dead! He died a dog's death on the battlefield! And now I'm here for you, Helen. I'm the one who's alive! I'm the one who's here!"
Before Helen could respond, a sharp, mocking laugh broke the tense silence. Paris turned sharply toward Clytemnestra, who stood to the side with her arms crossed, her laughter cutting through his outburst like a blade.
"What's so funny?" he snarled, his eyes narrowing at her.
"Nothing," Clytemnestra replied, smirking as she shook her head. "It's just… if Heiron were still alive and standing here before you, you wouldn't dare act so bold. You wouldn't even try."
Her words sliced through Paris's bravado, leaving him momentarily speechless. His face flushed with anger and embarrassment.
"What?!" he barked, his voice rising in disbelief and indignation.
"She's right," Helen said, her voice soft but firm, her gaze unwavering. "You could never compare to the man Heiron was."
With that, she tore her arm free from his grasp, her movements resolute and final. Without sparing him another glance, she turned and walked away, her head held high.
Paris stood frozen, his hands clenched into trembling fists at his sides. His nails dug into his palms as he watched her retreating figure, every fiber of his being brimming with frustration and fury.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC293 Paris's jealousy
A week had passed since the deaths of Chiron, Menelaus, and Paris. In their wake, the war between the Greeks and Trojans raged on, fiercer than ever. The Trojans had anticipated their enemies to be emotionally shattered, burdened by grief and uncertainty. Yet, to their dismay, the Greeks seemed anything but weakened. If anything, their resolve had solidified, becoming a cold and calculating force that sent shivers through Trojan ranks.
Gone was the arrogance that had once characterized the Greeks—the swagger and hubris that so often preceded their downfall. In its place was a chilling determination, a gaze devoid of sentimentality, focused solely on the grim task of annihilating their foes. This unyielding resilience unnerved the Trojans. How could their enemies, battered by losses, rally with such vigor? It was infuriating, maddening even, to see them rise stronger from what should have been crippling blows.
The Trojans clung to one hope: the realization that their opposition now rested on the shoulders of just two men—Agamemnon and Odysseus. These were the last Greek leaders to defeat. Once they fell, the war would be over. Or so they believed.
But the Greeks had no intention of making it easy. Their forces moved with newfound cohesion, no longer fractured by city-state rivalries. Spartan, Athenian, Mycenaean—those distinctions no longer mattered. All bore the same banner now: the banner of Greece. They had set aside their pride, their differences, and even their longstanding enmities. The Myrmidons, once Achilles' fiercely independent warriors, now fought alongside the rest, unified in purpose.
This unprecedented unity had not come easily. It was Odysseus, with his sharp wit and silver tongue, who had orchestrated it. He had seen the writing on the wall, understanding with grim clarity the danger that lay ahead. Achilles' wrath had been a harbinger, a warning of what was to come. If the Greeks did not unite, they would surely fall.
And so, Odysseus took on the mantle of leadership, delivering a speech that would resonate through the ages. Standing before the weary and disheartened Greek forces, he spoke not of glory or conquest, but of home. He reminded them of the families waiting for their return, of the lives they had left behind, of the dreams they had once cherished. He painted vivid pictures of their wives' longing gazes and their children's laughter, urging them to fight not for pride but for the chance to see those they loved again.
His words struck a chord. Even the most hardened warriors found their spirits rekindled. For once, it was not Agamemnon who led them, but Odysseus, whose heartfelt plea transcended mere rhetoric. He became the voice of their collective longing, their shared desire to end the bloodshed and return to the lives they had sacrificed for this endless war.
Odysseus himself was no stranger to that yearning. Each night, as he lay beneath the cold stars, his thoughts turned to Ithaca, to his wife Penelope and his son Telemachus. Their faces haunted his dreams, their absence gnawed at his soul. He longed to hold them, to hear their voices, to live the quiet life he had once taken for granted. And if that meant leading the Greeks to victory—no matter how many battles or lives it cost—he would do so without hesitation.
But the Greeks faced formidable opponents, each a force of nature on the battlefield. Chief among them was Hector, the pride of Troy. He had always possessed the aura of a warrior, but the war had shaped him into something far greater—a legend in his own right, a man whose name would echo alongside those of Heracles and Achilles. His presence on the battlefield was commanding, almost invincible. No matter the odds or the number of enemies surrounding him, Hector fought with unparalleled ferocity, cutting down anyone who dared cross his path.
He was not alone. Aeneas, the noble and steadfast warrior, stood at his side. Together, they formed the backbone of the Trojan resistance. They understood that the survival of Troy depended on them now more than ever. The days ahead felt finite, as if an unseen clock ticked closer to their end. Hector and Aeneas fought as though every moment mattered, as though their blades alone could hold back the tide of fate.
Then there was Penthesilea, queen of the Amazons, whose fierce beauty was now a mask of cold determination. She no longer fought for glory or honor. Her sole purpose seemed to be the slaughter of as many Greeks as possible. Her movements were precise, her strikes lethal, and her face devoid of emotion. She was a living storm on the battlefield, leaving death in her wake.
Atalanta, too, was among the Trojan ranks. The famed huntress, her golden hair catching the light of the setting sun, fired arrow after arrow with a machine-like precision. Her movements were mechanical, her face as expressionless as the still waters of a calm lake. But her aim was unerring, each arrow claiming a dozen Greek lives. To witness her in action was to see death personified, a grim reaper wielding a bow.
Castor and Pollux, the twin brothers of Helen and Clytemnestra, fought with equal fervor. Their loyalty to their sisters was unwavering, and they battled tirelessly to protect them from Agamemnon's relentless pursuit. Their twin blades danced like silver threads weaving through the chaos, their unity and skill unmatched.
And finally, there was Paris.
Paris, the man who had sparked this entire conflict with a single reckless choice, now stood as a whirlwind of death on the battlefield. BADOOOM!!! His presence was like a thunderclap, announcing slaughter wherever he appeared. Blood sprayed through the air, the ground littered with the lifeless bodies of those unfortunate enough to cross his path. His blade sang its deadly song, striking down Greeks with a ferocity born of desperation and anger.
Yet, even as Paris fought, his mind was not wholly in the present. His thoughts were haunted by a conversation from days prior—a conversation with Helen and Clytemnestra that still burned in his mind.
He had returned to the palace expecting Helen to welcome him, to weep in his arms as she once had. But instead, she had mocked him, her words sharp as daggers. Clytemnestra had joined her, the two women ridiculing him in unison. Their laughter was cruel, their disdain unmistakable.
They had compared him to Heiron, the man Paris had hated most, even in death.
Paris had been furious, his pride wounded. He dismissed their words as foolishness, the bitterness of women who misunderstood him. Yet deep inside, he couldn't deny the truth they spoke. Heiron's presence had always unnerved him. No matter how much he insulted the man, Heiron never retaliated. He had looked through Paris as though he were invisible, insignificant. And that silence was the most cutting of all. It made Paris feel small, powerless, as though he were standing before a force beyond his comprehension.
Even now, with Heiron dead, the memory of his gaze haunted Paris. It was maddening. Why, he wondered, did he still feel that weight, that presence pressing down on him? Why did Heiron's shadow linger, taunting him, even from beyond the grave?
Paris let out a primal scream as his blade struck down another opponent, the sound echoing across the battlefield.
Whatever doubts Paris may have harbored in the past had been washed away by the tide of blood and the raw power surging through his veins. He was stronger now—stronger than he had ever been. No one could stop him. Not Hector, not Aeneas, and certainly not Heiron, even if the man miraculously returned from the grave. Heiron's name was nothing more than a whisper in the wind now, a fading shadow of a memory. Paris sneered at the thought.
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He clenched his sword tightly, his eyes burning with a mixture of arrogance and rage. Helen's words still echoed in his mind, sharp and mocking. She had ridiculed him, belittled him, compared him to a man who no longer existed. But he would show her. He would force her to see the truth, to understand that he was the strongest, the savior of Troy, and the man who had risked everything for her.
His plan was simple: he would kill Agamemnon, the man she so feared. He would crush the Greeks, ending the war in a display of his might that no one could deny. And when the dust settled, he would take Helen, claim her as his own, and leave no room for doubt in her mind. She would have no choice but to accept him, to bow before the man who had protected her, who had ended the war for her. She would realize that Paris was her savior, her conqueror, her one and only.
While he was at it, he thought darkly, he would also deal with Clytemnestra. The sister who had joined Helen in mocking him, laughing at him, belittling him. She too would learn the truth. He would take her, break her, and make her understand that he was the only man worthy of reverence. Heiron? He scoffed at the name. Chiron was nothing. A pale shadow next to the blazing light of his greatness.
Fueled by these thoughts, Paris moved like a whirlwind across the battlefield. His sword sang as it cut through flesh and bone, blood splattering across the ground in rivers. The screams of the dying were music to his ears, the sound of his dominance. He was unstoppable, a force of nature, slaughtering hundreds of Greeks with each swing of his blade.
But even as he fought, his gaze was fixed on one man: Agamemnon. The Greek king stood at the edge of the battlefield, his expression unreadable, his presence commanding. Agamemnon had always been a symbol of Greek arrogance, a man who thought himself untouchable. Yet now, Paris noticed something different. The king was closer to the battlefield than before, his cold, calculating gaze fixed on the chaos before him.
Paris smirked, his lips curling into a predatory grin. "You're making things easier for me, King Agamemnon," he muttered under his breath. Without hesitation, he surged forward, his speed and determination cutting through the ranks of Greek soldiers like a hot knife through butter. He was a man possessed, his singular focus on ending the Greek king and claiming his victory.
But just as Paris prepared to close the distance, a burst of golden light erupted in the center of the battlefield, blinding and brilliant. It was as though the sun itself had descended to earth, bathing the warring armies in its radiant glow. The light was so intense that even Paris was forced to halt, shielding his eyes with his arm as gasps and cries of astonishment rippled through both sides of the conflict.
The brilliance lingered for several heartbeats before it began to fade, revealing a stunning sight that left everyone speechless. In the midst of the battlefield stood a golden carriage, its horses as majestic and radiant as celestial beings. But it was not the carriage itself that captured their attention—it was the figure standing upon it.
Paris's breath caught in his throat. She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, her presence as otherworldly as the light that had announced her arrival.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC294 Khillea Queen of Myrmidons
The brilliance lingered for several heartbeats before it began to fade, revealing a stunning sight that left everyone speechless. In the midst of the battlefield stood a golden carriage, its horses as majestic and radiant as celestial beings. But it was not the carriage itself that captured their attention—it was the figure standing upon it.
Paris's breath caught in his throat. She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, her presence as otherworldly as the light that had announced her arrival.
Her long, fiery-red hair cascaded down her back, tied neatly into a ponytail that swayed gently with each step her horses took. It framed her face like a banner of war, a striking contrast to the sharp, golden eyes that burned with an icy, unrelenting intensity. Those eyes alone were enough to quiet the battlefield, commanding the attention of every soldier present. She was a woman, yet her presence exuded such raw, unyielding power that even the mightiest warriors, including Agamemnon, felt dwarfed by her aura.
Agamemnon, his brows furrowing in confusion and disbelief, turned to Odysseus, who stood frozen, his face a mask of shock. "Who is she?" Agamemnon demanded, his voice cutting through the uneasy silence like a blade.
Odysseus, unable to tear his gaze away from the figure before them, muttered under his breath, "Achilles…"
"W...what?" Agamemnon snapped, certain he had misheard. He turned to Odysseus, whose mouth hung slightly open, his expression betraying an incredulity that mirrored the murmur now spreading among the soldiers.
"It's Achilles. She is Achilleus," Odysseus repeated, his voice trembling with a mixture of awe and bewilderment.
The words rippled outward, carried from one stunned soldier to the next. Gasps and whispers filled the air as disbelief took hold of the Greek ranks. Every pair of eyes locked onto the figure standing at the heart of the chaos.
"Is this some kind of sick joke?" Agamemnon growled, his voice tinged with both disbelief and fury.
But Odysseus shook his head, his tone resolute despite the madness of his claim. "It's no joke. You feel it, don't you? You've seen Achilles fight countless times. You know his strength, his presence. Look at her! You can't deny it."
Agamemnon turned his gaze back to the woman now identified as Achilles. Her presence was undeniable, as was the weight of her identity. The truth clawed its way into his mind, an unrelenting beast he could not banish. "Achilles… is a woman," he muttered under his breath, his words bitter and heavy with humiliation.
Memories surged forth unbidden. The insults, the scorn, the endless comparisons to Achilles—always Achilles. The unyielding shadow of a warrior whose prowess had made Agamemnon's own leadership feel hollow. And now this? The revelation that the thorn in his pride was no man but a woman?
A fresh wave of anger surged through him, tinged with a humiliation so sharp it was almost unbearable. His teeth clenched, his jaw tightening painfully as his hatred for Khillea, for Achilles, burned brighter. A woman had mocked him, belittled him, eclipsed him. The thought alone was a dagger to his pride.
But Agamemnon swallowed his fury for the moment, his gaze never leaving Khillea. She would pay for this insult, but not now. For now, the battlefield belonged to her.
Khillea stood at the center of it all, her silence a thunderclap that echoed louder than any war cry. Her divine golden armor caught the sun's rays, gleaming brilliantly as if forged by the gods themselves.
This was no ordinary armor. It was a masterpiece, crafted by the hands of Hephaestus at the behest of Thetis herself. Her previous armor, which had been worn by Patroclus, was now discarded, unable to serve its purpose after his death. Thetis had begged the forge god to create something stronger, something that could match Khillea's indomitable spirit. And Hephaestus had delivered.
The result was breathtaking. The armor was as beautiful as it was functional, shaped to fit the lithe yet powerful frame of a warrior woman. Intricate designs of vines and waves flowed across the surface, as though the armor itself celebrated the divine heritage of its wearer. It was not merely protection—it was a declaration of her unmatched strength.
In addition to the armor, Hephaestus had crafted a new weapon for her: a spear that seemed to hum with restrained power, as though eager to taste battle. The golden shield at her side bore the visage of a lion, its roar frozen in time.
Khillea paid no mind to the multitude of shocked gazes fixed upon her, her golden eyes unyielding as she turned toward the Myrmidons. Among the assembled warriors, they seemed the most visibly shaken. The realization was dawning upon them—Achilles, the mighty king they had followed with unwavering loyalty, was, in truth, a queen.
Confusion flickered across their faces, their tightly-knit ranks briefly disturbed by the revelation. Yet as Khillea's gaze swept over them, sharp and commanding, their doubts melted away like snow under the sun. One by one, they straightened their backs, standing tall under the weight of her piercing stare. Her very presence was magnetic, exuding authority, power, and an almost ethereal beauty.
She was no less their leader now than before. No, she was more. She was Achilles. She was Khillea.
"Follow me," she commanded simply, her voice cutting through the din like a blade.
The familiar phrase sent shivers down the spines of the Myrmidons. It was the same resolute tone Achilles had always used, the same calm assurance that demanded obedience without question. Goosebumps rippled across their skin.
It didn't matter if she was a man or a woman. No, she was their commander. And they would follow her to the ends of the earth—or to the depths of Hades itself.
The Myrmidons roared as one, their powerful voices rising in unison. The sound echoed across the battlefield like a thunderclap, startling even the Spartans, who prided themselves on their discipline. The cry was a promise, a declaration of loyalty that transcended blood, gender, or reason.
Without hesitation, they surged forward, their weapons raised high, trailing behind Khillea as she advanced. Her carriage shot ahead, a golden streak amidst the chaos, and the Myrmidons followed like wolves chasing their alpha.
"Stop the carriage!"
"Kill her!"
The cries of the Trojans rang out as they broke free from their stupor, rushing toward the carriage in a desperate bid to halt her advance. But their efforts were in vain. The Myrmidons fell upon them with the ferocity of wild beasts, cutting them down mercilessly.
The Trojans who managed to slip past the Myrmidons' unrelenting defense found themselves facing Khillea herself. Their fates were sealed.
With a single, fluid swing of her lance, Khillea cleaved through dozens of men in an instant, their bodies crumpling to the blood-soaked ground. The lance moved as though it were an extension of her will, cutting through flesh and armor effortlessly. Blood erupted in crimson arcs, painting the battlefield with a grotesque artistry. Wherever she went, a trail of death followed, an unholy testament to her overwhelming power.
To the Trojans, she was no longer human. She was a monster, a force of nature sent to annihilate them.
The realization spread like wildfire through their ranks. The Achilles they had fought in the early days of the war—the one who had toyed with them, relishing the thrill of battle—had not been using even half his strength. That Achilles had been merely playing. But now? Now, Khillea was fighting in earnest, and the difference was staggering.
This was the Achilles whispered about in fearful reverence. The strongest of the Greeks. The one favored by both Hera and Athena, goddesses who rarely agreed on anything. The stories had not exaggerated—they had fallen short.
As Khillea moved through the battlefield, she suddenly felt the sharp hum of an arrow cutting through the air, its speed and precision a testament to its archer's skill. A normal warrior might have struggled to avoid such a shot, but Khillea raised her golden shield without effort, deflecting the arrow with a metallic clang.
Her golden eyes locked onto the source of the attack—Atalanta. The famed huntress stood atop a rise, her bow still raised, her expression one of disbelief. Her lips parted slightly as though she couldn't comprehend what she had just seen.
On the other side of the battlefield, Hector watched the carnage unfold, his people being slaughtered like lambs before a lioness. His fists clenched tightly, his knuckles white. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to charge into the fray, to challenge Khillea and put an end to the slaughter.
But as he took a step forward, a hand gripped his arm, halting him. It was Aeneas, his expression grim. Find more chapters on My Virtual Library Empire
"You can't, Hector," Aeneas said, his voice steady but urgent. "She's too strong. Even for you."
Hector's jaw tightened, his body trembling with the effort of restraining himself. He could see the truth in Aeneas's eyes, but it did little to quell the fire of his anger.
"She's slaughtering them," Hector growled through gritted teeth.
"And she'll slaughter you too," Aeneas replied, his grip unyielding. "You're not just a warrior, Hector. You're the future of Troy. Don't throw that away."
"Still!"
"You aren't alone!" Aeneas shouted shifting his gaze toward Castor and Pollux rushing toward Khillea.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC295 Khillea vs Castor and Pollux
"Are you sure about this, brother?" Pollux's voice carried a rare tension as he leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The two of them surged toward Khillea at a breakneck pace, the pounding of their horses' hooves echoing like distant thunder across the battlefield.
Castor glanced at him with a teasing grin, his confidence as unshakable as ever. "Are you worried, Pollux? About a woman, of all things?" he quipped, the corners of his lips curling into a smirk.
"She isn't just any woman," Pollux replied, his voice sharper than usual. His grip on the reins tightened as his gaze flicked to their quarry.
Ahead of them, Khillea moved through the chaos like a specter of death, her every action precise and devastating. She dispatched her foes with an almost terrifying efficiency, cutting them down as if they were nothing more than blades of grass before a scythe. Each motion was deliberate, economical, and utterly devoid of hesitation.
"I'm not blind, brother," Castor shot back, his tone more serious now as his gaze followed Khillea's deadly path. "I see what she's capable of. But if we don't stop her, who will?"
"Hector is here," Pollux said, his tone quieter, almost as if he were speaking more to himself than to his brother.
Castor barked a laugh, though it lacked his usual warmth. "Now you're truly scared, aren't you?"
Pollux didn't answer. His silence spoke volumes, far more than words ever could. Unlike Castor, Pollux bore the blood of Zeus, an inheritance he shared with their cousin Helen. It gave him heightened instincts, a sharper awareness of danger—especially danger that loomed over Castor.
Deep down, Pollux didn't just fear Khillea; he feared for Castor. Though his brother was formidable, even fearless, Pollux understood all too well the risks they faced. If he could help it, he wanted to keep Castor away from someone like Hector.
As they drew closer to the carnage, Khillea's gaze finally turned toward them. Both men felt the weight of her eyes like a physical blow. A chill crawled up their spines, their skin prickling with goosebumps as they faced the full brunt of her aura. It was an aura forged in blood and battle, the kind of presence only a warrior who had taken tens of thousands of lives could possess.
Still, they were warriors too.
With a shared look of unspoken determination, they urged their horses forward. The world seemed to blur around them as they charged toward Khillea, who stood like an unshakable pillar atop her chariot.
Castor's twin blades gleamed in the sunlight, a stark contrast to the dark storm brewing in Khillea's eyes. Pollux followed close behind, his spear poised like a serpent ready to strike.
Khillea didn't flinch. With a flick of her wrist, her blade arced through the air to meet their assault. The steel of her sword clashed against Castor's twin blades with a sound that reverberated like thunder. Sparks danced in the air, and Castor gritted his teeth as he felt the raw power behind her strike. She was stronger than anyone he'd ever faced.
Pollux lunged from the side, aiming to exploit the momentary distraction. His spear shot forward with deadly precision, but Khillea's reflexes were inhuman. Without looking, she shifted her weight and parried the spear with her armored forearm, the impact sending a shockwave through Pollux's arms.
"Weak," Khillea muttered coldly.
Castor snarled and surged forward again, his blades moving in a blur. Each strike was fast, precise, and relentless, a storm of steel aimed to overwhelm. Khillea met his assault with ease, her movements fluid and calculated. It was as if she could read his every intention before he acted, and Castor's frustration grew with each failed attempt to break through her defenses.
Pollux circled around, seeking an opening. He watched her closely, analyzing her movements, her patterns. Khillea's fighting style was almost unnatural in its efficiency. There were no wasted motions, no unnecessary flourishes. Every strike, every block, every step was calculated for maximum effect.
"Castor, fall back!" Pollux shouted, his voice cutting through the din of battle. "We need to regroup!"
"No!" Castor barked, his eyes blazing with defiance. "She's just one woman! We can take her!"
Khillea's smirk deepened, and she moved with sudden, terrifying speed. In a single fluid motion, she disarmed Castor of one blade, sending it spinning through the air. Her foot lashed out, striking his chest and sending him staggering backward. Pollux seized the opportunity, his spear flashing toward her unprotected side. But Khillea twisted her body at the last moment, and the spear grazed harmlessly off her armor.
"Together, then," Pollux growled, stepping beside his brother. "We attack together."
Castor nodded, his breath ragged but his resolve unbroken. The brothers charged in unison, their weapons a blur of steel and fury. They moved like a single entity, their attacks coordinated and relentless. For a moment, it seemed as though they might have the upper hand. Khillea was forced to retreat a step, then another, as she deflected their blows.
But then she changed.
The smirk vanished from her face, replaced by a cold expression. Her movements became even faster, her strikes even more precise. She fought with an elegance that was almost otherworldly, and the brothers found themselves on the defensive. Every time they thought they had found an opening, she would counter with devastating efficiency.
"You fight well," Khillea said, her voice calm despite the chaos around her. "But you lack the strength to see this through."
Her words stung, but Castor and Pollux pushed forward. Castor's blade found its mark, on her skin but nothing happened as if her skin was an armor itself. Pollux thrusted his spear on her chest but the armor deflected it easily as well.
Khillea narrowed her eyes and struck back.
With a roar that shook the battlefield, she unleashed a flurry of attacks. Her blade moved with blinding speed, a whirlwind of death that neither brother could fully counter. Castor barely managed to block a strike aimed at his neck, the force of the blow sending him reeling. Pollux lunged to protect his brother, but Khillea's sword met his spear with such force that it snapped the shaft in two.
Pollux stumbled, his eyes widening in shock as he stared at the broken weapon in his hands. Khillea didn't give him time to recover. She closed the distance in an instant, her blade slashing across his chest. Blood sprayed into the air as Pollux fell to his knees, clutching the wound.
"Pollux!" Castor shouted, his voice raw with anguish. He surged toward Khillea, his remaining blade a blur of motion. He fought with everything he had, his attacks fueled by desperation and fury. But Khillea was unrelenting. She blocked his strikes with ease, her expression unreadable.
"You should have listened to your brother," she said coldly. Her sword arced through the air, and Castor barely managed to duck under the strike. He rolled to the side, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath.
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Pollux tried to rise, his body trembling with the effort. "Castor… run…" he rasped, blood dripping from his lips.
"No!" Castor shouted, his voice breaking. "I won't leave you!"
Khillea's eyes narrowed, and she moved toward Castor with purpose. He raised his blade, determination etched into his features. "If you want him, you'll have to go through me," he growled.
Khillea tilted her head, her gaze piercing. "So be it."
The final clash was brutal. Castor fought with everything he had, his strikes wild and desperate. But Khillea was unstoppable. She parried his attacks with ease, her movements precise and deadly. Slowly, inexorably, she drove him back.
In one swift motion, she disarmed him completely, his blade clattering to the ground. Castor fell to his knees, his chest heaving as he glared up at her. "Do it," he spat, defiance burning in his eyes.
Khillea raised her blade, the sunlight glinting off the steel. For a moment, she hesitated, her gaze lingering on him. Then, without a word, she brought the sword down.
Pollux screamed as he watched the blade pierce Castor's chest. Blood spilled onto the ground, staining the earth beneath them. Castor's body crumpled, his eyes wide with shock and pain. Khillea withdrew her blade and stepped back, her expression unreadable.
Without wasting time, Khillea turned her sword toward Pollux, who lay groaning on the ground. Though he was hailed as the more invincible of the two brothers, the weapon she wielded was forged by Hephaestus himself, its blade shimmering with a divine brilliance that made mortals quiver in awe.
She brought her sword down, intending to finish him, but her instincts screamed danger. With a swift motion, she twisted her weapon, deflecting an arrow aimed directly at her head. The projectile clanged off her blade, ricocheting harmlessly into the dirt. Khillea's gaze snapped toward the archer, and there she saw her—Atalanta, poised and resolute, her bowstring taut with another arrow ready to fly.
"You again," Khillea muttered under her breath, a flicker of irritation crossing her face. Before she could make another move, the earth beneath her feet trembled slightly, and a shadow fell across her.
Another warrior had landed between her and Pollux, her arrival marked by a dramatic flourish of her cape and the gleam of steel in her hands. The newcomer's presence was commanding, her armor bearing the intricate designs of a queen and her eyes gleaming with battle-lust.
"I'm glad to see another woman strong enough to stand against these arrogant Greek kings," the warrior declared, her voice laced with both amusement and challenge.
Penthesilea, Queen of the Amazons, grinned as she leveled her sword at Khillea. The blade glinted in the sunlight, its edge razor-sharp and eager for blood.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC296 Khillea vs Penthesilea
"I'm glad to see another woman strong enough to stand against these arrogant Greek kings," the warrior declared, her voice laced with both amusement and challenge.
Penthesilea, Queen of the Amazons, grinned as she leveled her sword at Khillea. The blade glinted in the sunlight, its edge razor-sharp and eager for blood.
For a moment, silence blanketed the battlefield as two of the strongest women faced each other, their gazes locked in a contest of wills. The tension was palpable, the air heavy with anticipation. Then, without warning—
BADOOOM!
An earth-shaking explosion of sound erupted as their swords collided. Sparks flew, and a fiery aura ignited around the clashing blades. Penthesilea, her muscles taut and strained, poured every ounce of her strength into her swing. Khillea, in contrast, held her flaming sword firm, her expression unyielding, as if she were merely holding back a storm with effortless grace.
Suddenly, Khillea's sword roared to life with an intense burst of fire. Flames danced along the blade, forcing Penthesilea to leap back to avoid being consumed. The Amazon queen barely managed to dodge, but Khillea pursued her without hesitation, her weapon blazing like a meteor streaking across the battlefield.
"You are quite fast!" Penthesilea grunted, gritting her teeth as she snatched another sword from the ground to intercept the fiery strike.
BADOOOM!
The impact released an inferno, fire spilling outward like a tidal wave. The sheer heat melted both of Penthesilea's blades within moments, reducing them to slag. The flames licked at her arms, burning her flesh. Though she extinguished the fire quickly, the pain seared into her body, sharper than she had anticipated.
She winced, her breath ragged, but her resolve did not falter. Penthesilea grabbed two more swords, bracing herself for another round. This time, she called upon her Amazonian magic, a unique spell designed to push her physical limits. Her body began to glow faintly, an aura of pure energy enveloping her. Her movements became faster, sharper, and more precise.
Her aura erupted as she charged, closing the gap between her and Khillea in the blink of an eye. With a roar, Penthesilea swung both swords with incredible speed and force, aiming to overwhelm her opponent.
Khillea barely had time to raise her golden shield, but when the weapons met it, the resulting shockwave was catastrophic. Soldiers and debris were hurled in all directions as the force of their collision rippled across the battlefield.
Penthesilea's arms screamed in agony, her muscles numb from the sheer power reverberating through her body. She grimaced, staring at the impenetrable golden shield. "What kind of shield is that?" she groaned, her voice laced with disbelief.
Khillea didn't respond. Instead, she swung her flaming sword again, aiming for a decisive blow. Penthesilea evaded the strike with a deft leap, twisting midair to land behind Khillea. She thrust both swords toward her opponent's unguarded back with pinpoint precision.
CRACK!
The sound of breaking steel filled the air as both blades shattered on contact with Khillea's enchanted armor. Penthesilea's eyes widened in disbelief as fragments of her weapons clattered to the ground.
"This is… unfair…" she murmured, her voice tinged with frustration.
BADAAAM!
Khillea responded with a brutal kick, her armored foot slamming into Penthesilea's chest. The force of the blow sent the Amazon queen hurtling backward, crashing into the ground with bone-jarring impact.
Penthesilea groaned, coughing up blood as pain radiated through her ribs. She felt several of them were fractured, the sharp sting with each breath confirming her suspicion. Lying on the battlefield, her vision blurred, she couldn't help but admit the truth: Khillea was unlike any opponent she had ever faced.
Her armor was impenetrable. Her sword was forged by gods. And even without these divine gifts, Khillea herself was an indomitable force.
But there was no time to linger on despair. Penthesilea's instincts screamed at her to move, and she barely managed to roll away as Khillea's fiery blade came crashing down where she had been lying. The ground where the sword struck erupted in flames, molten rock bubbling in its wake.
Gritting her teeth, Penthesilea forced herself to her feet.
Penthesilea's body jolted as jagged fragments of flying rocks tore through her armor and flesh, leaving deep gashes that oozed blood. Her once-pristine warrior's attire was now in tatters, clinging to her like a ghost of its former glory. Pain pulsed through her, but there was no time to falter.
Khillea was relentless. With her sword raised high, she charged like an unyielding tempest.
BADOOM!
The ground trembled beneath Penthesilea's feet as she narrowly dodged the blow, rolling aside just in time to evade the blade's devastating arc. Dust and debris exploded into the air, momentarily obscuring her vision. But Khillea was faster—unforgiving. She followed through with brutal precision, slamming her shield into Penthesilea's midsection.
The force of the impact sent her flying, her body tumbling across the blood-soaked earth like a discarded doll. She landed hard, skidding to a stop amidst broken weapons and lifeless bodies. A sharp, metallic taste filled her mouth as she coughed up blood. Her head spun, and the edges of her vision blurred as her senses struggled to regain focus.
This strength… it's overwhelming, she thought, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Achilles… no, this is something even greater. How can I hope to stand against her?
"Queen!"
The desperate voices of her Amazons reached her ears, cutting through the haze. Her loyal warriors, clad in crimson-stained armor, surged toward her, shields raised and swords drawn, ready to defend their leader.
But they stood no chance.
Khillea met their charge with the unyielding ferocity of a lioness among lambs. Her sword gleamed with a wicked light as it cleaved through their defenses as if they were made of paper. Blades snapped in two, shields shattered, and bodies fell. The air filled with the sickening sounds of flesh tearing and bones breaking. Severed limbs and lifeless forms scattered the ground, painting the battlefield in a grim mosaic of death.
The proud cries of the Amazons transformed into harrowing screams of agony, echoing across the battlefield.
The Trojans, witnessing the massacre, rallied to their aid. Waves of soldiers—first dozens, then hundreds—poured in to stop Khillea's rampage. Their spears and swords struck at her from all sides, a desperate storm of steel meant to overwhelm her.
But it was futile.
Khillea's sword danced with deadly precision, each swing carving through the masses with terrifying ease. No shield could block her, no armor could endure her strength. Men fell before her in droves, their lives snuffed out in an instant.
From afar, commanders of both armies—Greek and Trojan alike—stood in stunned silence. Their mouths hung agape as they watched the lone warrior, a woman, overpower their forces as if they were mere children playing at war.
Penthesilea's heart burned with grief and fury as she witnessed her Amazons—the sisters who had followed her into countless battles—slaughtered without mercy. Her fists clenched until her nails bit into her palms.
Snatching up a discarded sword, she pushed herself to her feet, ignoring the searing pain coursing through her body. With a battle cry that tore through the chaos, she charged toward Khillea, her determination blazing like a fire.
Khillea's attention snapped toward her just as she vanished in a blur of speed.
Penthesilea barely had time to register the movement before Khillea reappeared beside her, the warrior's flaming sword poised to strike. The heat of the weapon singed the air, and the deadly arc of the blade glinted with an otherworldly light.
The sword descended.
And then—it stopped.
The battlefield seemed to freeze in place. Khillea's blade halted mere inches from Penthesilea's neck, the flames licking at her skin but not burning her. Confusion flickered in the Amazon queen's eyes as she dared to look up. Find exclusive stories on My Virtual Library Empire
Khillea's gaze was no longer on her. The warrior's golden eyes, filled with intensity and purpose moments ago, had shifted elsewhere.
Penthesilea followed her line of sight, her breath catching as her eyes landed on a lone figure standing amidst the chaos.
The man had blond hair that shimmered like the sun, though it was matted with sweat and dirt. In his hand, he held a sword that glowed with an eerie, black radiance. There was something magnetic about him, an aura that seemed to demand attention even from a force like Khillea.
Khillea's grip on her weapon tightened as her lips pressed into a thin line.
"Paris of Troy," she muttered with icy cold voice that sent shivers to everyone around.
Of course, she knew him—everyone knew him. The prince of Troy, the man who had caused this entire war. And the man who had slain Patroclus, Achilles' closest companion.
Paris stood there, watching them, his expression unreadable. Yet, beneath his composed facade, there was a clear unease in his eyes.
The ever-confident grin that usually graced Paris's face was conspicuously absent. His usual air of self-assurance, the smirk that taunted both allies and enemies alike, had been wiped clean.
He could feel it—Khillea's anger, raw and suffocating. Her presence radiated an inhuman power, a force so overwhelming it made his heart race in sheer terror.
And then there was her gaze.
Khillea's golden eyes locked onto him, burning with a murderous intensity that pierced straight through his carefully constructed facade.
Paris's breath hitched as a shiver ran down his spine. He thought he knew fear—he had faced death countless times during this cursed war. Yet this was different. This was a fear that gripped him by the throat and refused to let go.
Until now, there had been only two people in all his life who had ever truly frightened him. The first was Heiron.
And now, there was Khillea.
Paris swallowed hard, instinctively taking a step back. Then another. His movements were slow and cautious, as if any sudden motion might provoke the wrath of the furious warrior before him.
Khillea noticed his retreat.
Without a word, Khillea released her grip on Penthesilea, letting the Amazon queen crumple to the ground. Penthesilea gasped for breath, her body trembling from the aftershock of narrowly escaping death. But Khillea's attention was no longer on her.
It was on Paris.
In a blur of motion, Khillea surged forward, her flaming sword leaving trails of light in its wake.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC297 Khillea vs Paris
Without a word, Khillea released her grip on Penthesilea, letting the Amazon queen crumple to the ground. Penthesilea gasped for breath, her body trembling from the aftershock of narrowly escaping death. But Khillea's attention was no longer on her.
It was on Paris.
In a blur of motion, Khillea surged forward, her flaming sword leaving trails of light in its wake carving arcs of brilliance through the air as she advanced on her prey. Paris's instincts screamed at him to flee, and he obeyed without hesitation, turning on his heel and sprinting away.
"Stop her!" he barked over his shoulder, his voice tinged with desperation as he waved at the Trojans. The soldiers, loyal more to his title than the man himself, hesitated for only a fraction of a second before charging toward the oncoming storm.
It was a futile effort.
Khillea's sword met the first soldier with an explosion of heat and light, cleaving through his shield as though it were made of parchment. The man barely had time to scream before he crumpled, his body consumed by the flames that danced along her blade. Another soldier lunged at her, his spear aimed for her heart, but she sidestepped effortlessly, bringing her sword down in a blazing arc that split him from shoulder to hip. The stench of burning flesh filled the air as Khillea continued her relentless advance.
Paris ran, his lungs burning as he pushed his body to its limits. He could hear the screams of the Trojans men behind him, each one cut short by the ferocious warrior he had unleashed. Fear clawed at his chest, but he shoved it aside, focusing instead on survival.
"Coward," Khillea snarled, her voice cutting through the chaos like a whip. "Is this you killed Patroclus? Running away and killing him from behind?"
Paris gritted his teeth, her words stoking the embers of his pride. He hated her. Hated her for making him feel weak. Hated her for turning his carefully constructed image of divinity into a pathetic farce.
"Stop her!" Paris spat again. "Delay her! Kill her if you can!"
The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, but their loyalty bound them to obedience. They formed a line, shields raised, spears leveled, their resolve wavering only slightly as Khillea's fiery silhouette appeared at the mouth of the alley.
She didn't hesitate.
Khillea's first swing shattered the nearest shield, the force of the impact sending its wielder crashing into the wall of Trojans waiting behind. Her second strike carved through two more soldiers in a single motion, their bodies reduced to ash before they hit the ground. The remaining men broke ranks, panic overtaking discipline as they scrambled to escape the inferno that was Khillea.
Paris didn't wait to see the outcome. He darted out. He needed an escape, a way to put distance between himself and the vengeful warrior.
But eventually Paris reached a wall of greeks warriors, spartans glaring at him.
"No… no, no, no…" he muttered, spinning around. His hand went to the hilt of his sword, a dark blade that seemed to pulse with an unnatural energy. He drew it, the weapon's black magic swirling around him like a living thing. The place darkened, shadows stretching and writhing as though alive, responding to the blade's malevolent aura.
Khillea quickly arrived, her movements unhurried. She stalked toward him like a lioness closing in on a wounded gazelle, her flaming sword casting eerie shadows across the ground. The heat emanating from her was oppressive, and Paris could feel sweat dripping down his face as she approached.
"You are no worthy of your title as prince." Khillea said coldly.
Paris straightened, forcing confidence into his posture as he raised his sword. "Do you know who you're dealing with, woman?!" he sneered. "I am Paris of Troy! A son of the gods! You are nothing but a mortal playing with fire!!!"
Khillea's lips curled into a humorless smile. "And you," she said, "are a coward hiding behind your divine parentage. Let's see how much of a god you truly are."
"AHHHH!!" With a roar, Paris lunged at her, his black blade cutting through the air with a sinister hiss. The dark magic surrounding it surged forward, tendrils of shadow lashing out like serpents. Khillea met his attack head-on, her flaming sword colliding with his in a burst of light and darkness. The impact sent a shockwave rippling through the field, cracks spiderwebbing across the ground.
Paris pressed the attack, swinging his sword in wide arcs that left trails of shadow in their wake. Khillea parried each strike with precision, her movements fluid and fast. Their blades clashed again and again, the opposing forces of fire and shadow battling for dominance. The air grew heavy with heat and darkness, the clash of their magic creating an oppressive, almost suffocating atmosphere.
"Is this all you have?" Khillea taunted, her voice cutting through the chaos. "You call yourself a god, yet you fight like a frightened child."
Paris's eyes blazed with fury. "You dare mock me?!!" he spat. "I will show you the power of a son of Troy!"
He channeled more of his dark magic into his blade, the shadows thickening and twisting into grotesque forms. They lunged at Khillea like living creatures, snapping and clawing at her with vicious intent. But she stood her ground, her fiery aura burning away the shadows before they could reach her. With a powerful swing of her sword, she unleashed a wave of flame that consumed the dark tendrils, forcing Paris to stumble back.
"Enough!" he shouted, desperation creeping into his voice. He charged at her again, his movements wild and reckless as he poured everything into his attack. Khillea met him with unrelenting force, her sword blazing brighter than ever as she struck. Their blades collided one final time, the impact sending a shockwave that shook the air around.
Paris's sword shattered under the force of her strike, the black magic dissipating into nothingness. He staggered backward, his eyes wide with disbelief as he stared at the broken hilt in his hand. Khillea advanced on him, her expression cold and merciless.
"I will make you suffer and send you to the deepest hell." Khillea said taking a step forward.
"No… no… No… No!!" Paris stumbled backward, his trembling hands releasing the grip on his sword. His wide eyes were filled with disbelief as his voice cracked under the weight of panic. "H-How!? This… this is impossible! I AM THE STRONGEST!"
Despite his words, the so-called Prince of Troy scrambled desperately across the dirt, clawing at the ground in a feeble attempt to escape. His once-proud demeanor had shattered entirely.
Khillea stood over him, her shadow casting a menacing shroud upon the fallen warrior. Her sharp gaze bore into him, searing with unrelenting rage. Her mind churned with disbelief. This man—this sniveling, groveling coward—was the one who had taken Patroclus from her? The thought churned her stomach, fueling her fury.
Unforgivable.
Her heart clenched at the memory of Patroclus, his smile, his steadfast presence, his promises. He was supposed to stay alive, to raise her daughter. Now, he was gone—stolen from her by this pitiful excuse of a warrior.
Khillea's hand trembled, her knuckles white from the unrestrained grip on her sword. Anger radiated from her in waves as she lifted the blade high, her intent clear. This was no longer a duel but an execution—a reckoning.
"No! Stop! No!! You can't do this to me!" Paris wailed, his voice cracking as he raised his arms in a pitiful gesture of surrender. "I was chosen by the gods! THE GODS!!"
But Khillea didn't care. The weight of his pleas meant nothing to her. Her eyes, burning with a cold fury, remained fixed on him. Slowly, she lowered her sword, aiming for his heart. Enjoy more content from My Virtual Library Empire
Before the blow could land— BADOOOOM!
A thunderous explosion rang out, and the clash of steel sent shockwaves through the air. The sheer force of it sent dust spiraling around them in a chaotic frenzy. Khillea's blade had been stopped, deflected by another.
Her gaze shot upward, locking onto the towering figure that had appeared before her.
He stood there like a statue of war itself. Blond hair shimmered under the dim light, framing a face weathered by battle and responsibility. His muscular form, scarred yet regal, exuded an air of divine strength. Unlike the coward at her feet, this man's presence was commanding, princely. His stern eyes held a glint of determination that seemed unshakable.
Hector had arrived.
"Brother! BROTHER! PLEASE SAVE ME!!" Paris's wretched cries shifted instantly into elation, a desperate grin spreading across his face as he struggled to his feet. He clung to the faint hope that his older brother, the champion of Troy, would shield him from death.
But Hector's gaze wasn't on Paris. It was fixed solely on Khillea.
"Finally, we meet, Achilles… or should I call you by your true name?" Hector's voice was deep, calm, yet edged with the weight of both expectation and regret.
"Move," Khillea ordered coldly, her voice sharp as a blade. She had no interest in engaging him—not yet. Her target was Paris, and nothing would stand in her way.
"I can't." Hector's tone was firm, unwavering.
Her grip tightened on her weapon. "I will deal with you after I've killed Paris. Move." Her words came out even colder, laced with the promise of violence. She stepped forward, attempting to push past him, but Hector stood his ground, unyielding.
"If you wish to take his life," Hector said evenly, his gaze hardening as he raised his sword, "you will have to go through me first."
Khillea's jaw clenched, her teeth grinding audibly. The fire in her chest burned hotter, her patience wearing thin. This was not a fight she wanted, not now. Yet, Hector's calm defiance only stoked the flames of her wrath further.
He regarded her with a tired, almost resigned smile. "Let us end this, Achilles."
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