I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC298 Is it over?
Nathan stood in the endless expanse of white—a place devoid of time and space, where silence was both a comfort and a torment. From this strange, ethereal realm, he could see the war raging far below, as though peering through an invisible veil that separated life from death. His gaze swept across the battlefield, taking in the chaos, the bloodshed, and the unrelenting cries of men and gods alike.
But Nathan was powerless.
He clenched his fists, the weight of his mortality settling heavily upon him. The realization was suffocating—he was dead. His presence here was a cruel limbo, a reminder that his fight was over while the world he had fought so hard to protect continued to spiral into turmoil without him.
Yet, amidst the bitterness of his situation, there was a sliver of solace. He noticed that Medea, Scylla, and Charybdis had not succumbed to the madness that had once loomed so close to them. Their composure, though unexpected, was a small mercy in a storm of despair.
"Aphrodite must have spoken to them," Nathan murmured, his white hair catching the faint, non-existent light of this place. His thoughts spiraled. What had she said to calm them? And more importantly, why were they still in Tenebria?With him gone, shouldn't they have abandoned the city, fleeing to find their own paths now that their bond to him had been severed by death?
He shook his head, banishing the questions that had no answers. Turning his focus back to the battlefield below, his piercing gaze landed on Paris.
The Trojan prince stood tall amidst the carnage, his movements now imbued with a strength and confidence that had not been there before. His blows struck with precision, his aura radiating a dark power that unsettled even the most stalwart warriors around him.
"What happened to him?" Nathan asked, his voice cutting through the void. He turned to the woman standing beside him, her black hair cascading down her back like a river of shadows. She seemed to belong here, her presence as timeless and enigmatic as the place itself.
"A corrupt God found him," the woman replied, her tone light yet laced with an undercurrent of something ancient and knowing.
"A corrupt God?" Nathan's silver eyebrows knitted together in confusion. He tilted his head toward her, waiting for an explanation.
But the woman only smiled, the corners of her lips curving upward in a way that felt both comforting and unnerving. "What do you think of him?"
Nathan frowned, his gaze narrowing as he returned his attention to Paris. "Nothing. Without him, none of this would have happened."
"Is that so?" Her voice softened, adopting a strangely sweet quality. "But without this war, you wouldn't have met them—Astynome, Kassandra, Atalanta, Penthesilea, and Helen…"
Nathan's jaw tightened at her words, but he couldn't deny the truth of them. "Yes," he admitted finally, his voice quiet but steady.
The woman's smile deepened, but her eyes darkened, a flicker of reproach glinting in their depths. "And yet, you left them behind. You abandoned them, Nate."
"I didn't intend to die," Nathan replied sharply, his icy tone cutting through the air like a blade. "The gods ignored their own restrictions and meddled in my death. They had no right."
"Indeed, they did," she agreed, her voice almost playful. "For Hera and Athena to conspire against you, plotting your end so carefully… you must have been quite terrifying to them. Imagine that—a mere human unsettling such powerful gods. How extraordinary."
Nathan scoffed, his lip curling into a sneer. "Cowards. That's all they are—cowards hiding behind their divinity to crush one mortal. If they're so powerful, why resort to underhanded schemes? A god stooping so low—it's pathetic."
His chest tightened with a familiar ache, one he could neither suppress nor ignore. The regret was a festering wound in his soul, eating away at him with every passing moment. He had wanted vengeance, to make them pay for their arrogance and cruelty. But now, that chance was lost.
The woman chuckled, the sound low and melodic, like the echo of a forgotten hymn. "Perhaps," she said, her voice laced with a calm wisdom, "but they've faced monsters before, Nathan. Great, terrible creatures that tested even their might. Is it so strange that they would fear a mortal who defied their expectations? One who showed power they could not control?"
Nathan's gaze hardened. "Who cares anymore?" he snapped, his tone as cold as the void surrounding him. "They got what they wanted. I'm dead. It's over."
The black hair Goddess smiled whispering into Nathan's ear. "Do you really think it's over, Nate?"
°°°°°
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."
Khillea wasted no time. With a determined glare, her golden armor gleaming under the fading sun, she surged forward, her flaming sword cutting through the air like a meteor descending from the heavens. Each step she took was laced with deadly precision, her movements a graceful yet fearsome dance of war. The flames on her blade roared like a living beast, feeding off her unwavering resolve.
Across from her stood Hector, the pride of Troy, his shoulders squared and his grip firm on his weapon. The sight of his opponent's burning blade bore down on him, but Hector refused to falter. Raising his sword high, he invoked the name of the god he trusted above all.
"Apollo, shield me with your divine light!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the battlefield. Your adventure continues at My Virtual Library Empire
At his prayer, a radiant golden glow engulfed his sword, illuminating the bloodstained earth beneath him. The light shimmered with divine power, defying the flames that blazed toward him. As the two warriors drew closer, the ground beneath them trembled. Cracks spiderwebbed outward from where their feet touched, the raw strength of their mana and physical power too great for the earth to contain.
The warriors who had been locked in battle moments before ceased their fighting, their weapons lowering as they backed away. They dared not stand too close to the clash of titans. Even seasoned soldiers, hardened by years of bloodshed, found their breaths caught in their throats as they looked on. All at once, the chaotic battlefield fell silent, the attention of every man and woman drawn to this singular duel.
For this fight would decide everything. The victor of this clash would determine the fate of the Trojan War. Greeks or Trojans—one side would leave this battlefield triumphant, while the other would face ruin.
Even the gods themselves turned their gazes toward the battlefield, their celestial forms watching the mortal struggle with bated breath. In Olympus, Zeus sat calmly upon his throne, his piercing eyes fixed on the scene below. Beside him stood Hermes, his expression unreadable, while others whispered amongst themselves. Yet one figure stood apart, tense with unease.
Hera, arms crossed, clenched her fists so tightly her knuckles turned white. Though she wore the mask of a calm goddess, inside, she was restless. Still, she trusted Khillea—trusted her strength, her will, her destiny.
Athena, too, watched, though she felt no apprehension. Her confidence in Khillea was absolute. For Athena, there was no doubt, no uncertainty. Hector's defeat was inevitable. The goddess of wisdom merely wondered when the final blow would fall and how glorious it would be.
On the other side, the gods who had sworn themselves to Troy wore grim expressions. Apollo, Aphrodite, Artemis, and Ares stood in somber silence, their divine forms unmoving. They had placed their faith in Hector, their chosen champion. Yet, bound by the ancient laws, they could not intervene. Whatever unfolded on that battlefield was beyond their reach. The gods would have to witness the result, powerless to change it.
High above the battle, on the walls of Troy, the tension was unbearable. Andromache stood clutching her infant son, her arms trembling as she gazed at her husband below. Her heart was heavy with a foreboding she could not ignore. Every instinct screamed at her to run to him, to pull him back to safety. Yet, all she could do was watch.
Beside her, King Priam and Queen Hecuba whispered prayers under their breath, their aged hands trembling as they clasped together. They begged the gods for their son's safety, for his strength to prevail against the fierce warrior who now bore down on him.
And yet, no prayers could soothe the despair in the heart of Kassandra. Standing atop the wall, her nails dug deep into the stone as she leaned forward, her fiery eyes locked on the battle below. Her shoulders shook with suppressed emotion. She had seen this moment long ago, the vision haunting her dreams.
This fight had always been inevitable.
Hector was destined to die. His fate had been sealed long before this day, and no force in heaven or earth could change it. She had tried to convince herself that the vision might be wrong, that her brother might escape death. The woman in golden armor from her nightmares had not appeared for so long that hope had flickered in her heart.
But now, she stood before them—the warrior who bore the wrath of Achilles.
Khillea.
The sight of her sent a chill down Kassandra's spine, her prophetic heart screaming that it was too late. The battle had already been decided.
And yet, even knowing this, she could not turn away. None of them could.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC299 Thana
"Do you really think it's over, Nate?"
The voice that echoed through the abyss was sultry and laced with an almost teasing amusement. The Dark Goddess stood before Nathan, her lips curled into a knowing smile, her piercing eyes gleaming with mischief and something else—something unreadable. In the void where Nathan now found himself, time and space felt warped, stretched thin like fragile silk. The sensation was eerie, yet strangely familiar.
"It is," Nathan murmured, his voice carrying the weight of finality. "My body is gone—reduced to nothing but ashes. I pushed myself beyond my limits. Khione and Aphrodite both warned me, yet I ignored them. I did it anyway."
The Dark Goddess tilted her head, her dark tresses cascading over her shoulder like a curtain of midnight. "You lost your temper."
Nathan's jaw tightened. "What else was I supposed to do? Hera and Athena have interfered time and time again in the conflicts of mortals. Poseidon wasn't even subtle about it—he openly used his divine power to hunt us down, to slaughter us like insects. How could I not be angry?" His voice was cold, the fury in his chest still simmering, refusing to be extinguished.
The goddess chuckled softly, her laughter as delicate as it was haunting. "I think your anger was less about Poseidon's interference and more about the fact that he was chasing after Khione," she mused, her voice dripping with amusement.
Nathan stiffened at her words, a flicker of something unspoken flashing across his eyes. He exhaled sharply. "Maybe. But does it even matter anymore?" His fingers curled into fists, his knuckles white. "She's dead."
A sharp silence settled between them. Nathan's certainty was unwavering. He had no doubts—if he was dead, then Khione and Amaterasu were gone too. That was the rule. That was how the Forbidden Seal worked.
But then, the goddess tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "She isn't dead, though."
Nathan's breath hitched. His gaze snapped to hers, eyes wide with confusion. "What?"
The Dark Goddess grinned. "Khione and Amaterasu aren't dead. Why would they be?"
Nathan felt his chest tighten. "That's impossible," he said, shaking his head. "I used the Forbidden Seal on both of them. The contract is absolute. If I die, they die. That is the law of the seal."
The goddess took a step closer, her presence cold and suffocating. "But you aren't dead yet, are you?"
Nathan faltered. His pulse—if he even had one anymore—pounded in his ears. "I'm dead. My body turned to dust. Nothing can surpass death. Even Apollo—the god of healing himself—couldn't find a way to defy it." He turned his gaze toward the god in question, who stood in the distance, his golden aura dim, his eyes filled with the agony of watching his people fight a losing battle.
Nathan's voice softened. "He tried. For five months, he searched for a way to save me. He sacrificed his people, burned through his divinity, and yet… I still died." He let out a hollow laugh. "That's all there is to it."
The goddess leaned in, her breath ghosting against his ear. "Apollo did find a way, Nate."
His body went rigid.
"That's the reason I'm here with you," she whispered. And before he could react, she pressed her lips to his.
A violent shudder ran down his spine. Cold. A frigid, deathly cold that seeped into his very soul. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced, an unnatural chill that coiled around his very essence. And yet, despite his lack of a physical body, he felt it—felt himself tremble beneath her touch.
As she pulled away, a wicked smile adorned her lips, a gleam of something dark and ancient flickering in her eyes.
Nathan swallowed hard, his breath unsteady. "Who… who are you?"
The goddess licked her lips, savoring his reaction. Her grin widened, eerie and captivating all at once.
"My name is Thanatos," she purred, her voice a siren's call.
Nathan felt the weight of the name settle over him like a death sentence.
"You can call me Thana, Nathan."
"Thana?" Nathan's voice wavered as he spoke, his mind struggling to grasp the presence before him.
Thana tilted her head, her lips curling into an enigmatic smile. "Do you wish to live again, Nathan? Or will you accept true death?" Her voice was neither cruel nor kind—just an undeniable force that demanded an answer.
"I want to live," Nathan replied without hesitation, his voice steady despite the weight of the moment.
Her smile widened, revealing sharp, gleaming teeth. "Then, you must give me your soul."
Nathan stiffened, his breath catching in his throat. **"My soul?"**
"Yes," she affirmed, her voice dripping with an eerie certainty. "Do you accept? Give me your soul, and I will grant you life once more."
Nathan did not answer immediately. His gaze drifted downward, beyond the void, toward the battlefield below.
Hector and Khillea had been fighting for what felt like an eternity. The clash of their blades reverberated through the air, an unrelenting storm of steel and fury. Hector's body was drenched in blood, his breathing ragged, his once-proud stance faltering under exhaustion. Wounds covered him—deep gashes across his arms, burns seared into his flesh. And yet, he stood. He fought. For his wife, his son, his people. For Troy.
Khillea, in contrast, remained almost untouched. Her armor glistened beneath the fading sunlight, her blade unyielding, her movements relentless. She was a force of nature, an unstoppable tempest of destruction. But beneath her merciless assault, there was something unsettling in her eyes—a hollow emptiness, as if death no longer held meaning for her.
They were both important to Nathan.
He refused to let this battle end with one of them lost.
Nathan clenched my fists and turned back to Thana, meeting her gaze without fear. "Take my soul. But I will live."*
Her grin widened, darkness swirling around her like a living entity. Nathan's vision blurred, the world twisting into nothingness.
°°°°
The sun hung low over the Trojan plains, casting long, weary shadows over the battlefield. The sky was painted with hues of crimson and gold, as if the very heavens bled for the warriors below. Darkness crept along the horizon, a silent harbinger of the night to come.
And still, the battle raged.
Though countless warriors fought and perished, all eyes remained fixed on one clash—the brutal struggle between Hector, the prince of Troy, and Khillea, the relentless warrior of the Greeks.
To those watching, they were no longer human. They were monsters. Gods of war, locked in a dance of death with no end in sight.
Hector swayed on his feet, his breathing labored, his grip on his sword trembling from sheer exhaustion. Blood dripped from his wounds, staining the earth beneath him, yet he refused to fall. Even as pain wracked his body, he stood for his people.
Khillea, on the other hand, showed no such strain. Her stance was unwavering, her every strike precise and merciless. And yet, behind that unwavering strength, there was something unsettling—an absence of desire to win, as if the battle itself was the only thing that kept her tethered to the world.
The Trojans held their breath, their hearts heavy with the inevitable. Silent tears traced the faces of Hector's family, for they had seen the truth long ago.
The battle had been decided within the first hour.
It continued only because Hector refused to fall.
But now, it was only a matter of minutes.
Hector could barely stand, his body battered and broken, his strength dwindling like the last embers of a dying fire. And yet, he held his sword firm, refusing to kneel, refusing to surrender.
Aeneas and Atalanta stood at the edge of the battlefield, their hands clenching into fists. Every instinct screamed at them to intervene, to throw themselves between Hector and Khillea—to stop this madness before it reached its tragic conclusion. But they did not move.
This was a battle between warriors, and they understood better than anyone that Hector would never accept outside help. Khillea had challenged him alone, and he would fight her alone. To step in now would be an insult, a dishonor to his name. If he died here, it would be as a warrior—one who earned his place among the honored dead in the fabled Isles of Heroes.
BADAM!
Just as Hector steadied himself for another attack, a sudden impact shattered the air. Khillea's fist crashed into his jaw with the force of a divine hammer, sending him flying. His body slammed into the blood-soaked earth, carving a deep trench in the dirt before coming to a halt.
Pain exploded through his body as he struggled to move. His vision blurred, his mind teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.
A shadow loomed over him.
Khillea.
She had moved at an inhuman speed, closing the distance in an instant. Her golden armor glowed in the dimming sunlight, her flaming sword raised high—an executioner delivering the final stroke.
Hector gritted his teeth and forced his arms to move. He tried to stand, but his legs betrayed him, refusing to support his weight.
The blade came down.
Instinct alone saved him. He raised his sword just in time, catching the strike before it split him in two. But he could not stop it entirely. A wave of searing heat erupted as Khillea's flaming sword cut across his stomach, carving a deep, smoking wound.
"Gahh!" Hector coughed violently, blood spilling from his lips. His strength drained away, darkness creeping at the edges of his vision. His body screamed for rest, for release. But even as his consciousness threatened to slip, he forced his arm to move.
A final, desperate swing of his sword.
But Khillea was faster.
She leapt back, avoiding the strike with ease, landing gracefully on her feet. Her golden eyes bore down on him, watching as his trembling fingers lost their grip on his weapon. His sword slipped from his grasp, falling to the ground with a dull, final thud.
Khillea exhaled, lowering her own weapon. "It's over." Her voice was calm, almost… solemn. She lifted her sword once more, preparing for the final strike. "You were strong, Hector of Troy."
And then, she swung down to end it.
But in that instant—
Everything froze.
A stillness fell upon the battlefield, unnatural and absolute. The air grew heavy, thick with an overwhelming presence. A silence so profound it seemed to smother even the sound of breathing.
A chill—sharp and piercing—spread across the field, creeping into the bones of every warrior. It slithered through the air like an invisible specter, sending shivers down the spines of all who stood witness. Even Khillea felt it.
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For the first time, she hesitated.
Something was coming.
Something terrifying.
Her instincts screamed at her to react. She shifted instantly, raising her golden shield just as an explosion echoed through the battlefield.
Impact.
An unseen force crashed into her shield with terrifying speed, the sheer force sending shockwaves rippling through her body. Her arm trembled under the impact, her fingers numb from the force that rattled her bones. And then—
She was sent flying.
The mighty Khillea, the warrior who had dominated this battle without pause, was blown backward.
The earth trembled beneath the explosion of power. Then, a second detonation roared through the air.
Out of nowhere, a wall of ice erupted from the ground. Jagged, unyielding, impenetrable. The frozen monolith carved a divide between the Greeks and Hector's wounded body, shielding him from all harm.
The battlefield was stunned into silence.
Hera's eyes widened in disbelief. She stepped forward, gazing upon the impossible sight before her. "What is this…?"
Athena moved beside her, her expression unreadable. But her sharp gaze flickered toward the figure standing amidst the icy aura beyond the barrier.
A presence.
A being hidden within the freezing mist, its form barely visible, its power undeniable.
Both goddesses narrowed their eyes.
And then—
The figure vanished and Hector's body wasn't there anymore.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC300 He is alive??
The battlefield had fallen into a stunned silence.
Nobody could quite grasp what had just happened.
Moments ago, Khillea and Hector had been locked in a battle of legends—a clash worthy of the greatest epics. The outcome had seemed inevitable; Khillea had dominated the fight, pushing Hector to his limits, and in the final moments, she had brought him down. Victory was in her grasp.
But then—something struck her.
Something unseen, something terrifying.
Most of the mortals had seen nothing. To them, it was as if an invisible force had intervened, hurling Khillea away like a mere doll before a titan. Only the gods had perceived it—an icy aura, faster than the wind, had surged across the battlefield and struck Khillea with overwhelming force.
And then, an enormous wall of ice had erupted from the ground, severing the Greeks from their fallen foe. Hector and the mysterious presence behind the freezing mist had vanished beyond it.
The warriors on both sides could only stare, frozen in confusion and awe.
"What… just happened?" Athena's voice broke the silence, her wide eyes locked onto the towering ice barrier.
The night had fallen, and with it, the battle came to an unceremonious end. The Trojans, still dazed by what had transpired, had already begun their retreat, marking the conclusion of today's bloodshed.
But Athena was not satisfied. She turned sharply toward Hera, her golden gaze searching for answers. "Where is he?! Where are they? Hera, do you see them?"
But Hera didn't respond immediately. She stood motionless, staring at the ice with an expression that sent a chill through Athena's spine.
Then, in a whisper, she spoke.
"Do you feel it, Athena?"
Athena frowned. "Feel what?"
Hera's fingers curled into a tight fist as she exhaled sharply. "Look closely at the ice. This… this is Khione's ice."
"Khione?" Athena's brows furrowed. "Are you saying she's responsible for this?"
Hera shook her head. "No. It wasn't her." Her voice wavered—an unfamiliar uncertainty creeping into it. She hesitated before speaking again, but when she did, her next words sent a jolt through Athena's chest.
"I think… I saw Heiron."
Athena's body stiffened. Her head snapped toward Hera, disbelief flashing across her face. "What are you saying? Heiron is dead."
"I know," Hera murmured, her gaze still fixed on the ice as if trying to confirm her own words. "But I swear, for the briefest moment, I saw him… yet he looked different. He wasn't the same. He looked like Khione. And… he was using her power."
A tense silence passed between them.
Finally, Athena spoke, her voice laced with suspicion. "Khione disappeared a year ago. Do you think she has something to do with this?"
Hera's lips pressed into a thin line. "I don't know." She clenched her fists tighter, her divine aura crackling with barely contained fury. "But if Heiron has returned… then he must be sent back to the underworld where he belongs."
Athena exhaled through her nose, shaking her head. "You're imagining things, Hera. No mere mortal can return from death. Not even with Apollo and Aphrodite's favor. Death is absolute."
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Hera's glare darkened. "I don't know what I saw," she snapped. "But I intend to find out. And whoever is responsible for this… will be punished."
With that, she vanished, her rage crackling in the air like a brewing storm.
Hector should have died.
Hector should have fallen, and with him, Troy would have crumbled within a week.
Yet once again—someone interfered.
Hera's fury was boundless as she stormed into Olympus, the grand halls trembling beneath her divine wrath. "Zeus! What's the meaning of this?!" she erupted, her voice shaking the heavens.
The last time she had dared to confront him, Zeus had rejected her so coldly, so violently, that she hadn't even set foot in Olympus for fear of his wrath. But this time, her rage overpowered her caution.
Zeus sat upon his throne, watching her with an unreadable expression.
Hera's eyes burned with accusation. "Don't tell me you brought him back! Did you do it, Zeus?! Did you bring Heiron back to life?!"
Zeus's expression did not change. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't play dumb with me, Zeus!" Hera's voice cracked like thunder. "I know who it was! It was Heiron! You brought him back, didn't you?!"
A soft chuckle echoed through the hall.
"Even Father wouldn't have such power," Hermes interjected smoothly, stepping forward with an easy smile as if to shield Zeus from the accusation. "Not even he can undo death's decree, Mother Hera."
Hera's fists trembled with fury. "Then how did he return?! We saw him perish—his very body turned to ashes! This is a violation of the cosmic laws!"
For a moment, Zeus said nothing. Then, slowly, he rose from his throne, his presence suffocating.
"I need to speak with Hades." His voice was cold, final. "Until I return, none of you will interfere."
His piercing gaze met Hera's, and in it, there was no mercy. "And Hera… if you disobey me again, I will kill you this time."
Hera's body stiffened. The weight of Zeus's words was absolute, but she held her ground, her divine aura crackling in silent defiance.
Zeus did not wait for a response. He vanished in a flash of golden lightning.
A tense silence lingered in the throne room until Hermes turned his gaze downward, watching the Trojan battlefield with a smirk.
"You've surpassed all my expectations."
A thrill ran through him as he watched the chaos below. Nathan—no, Heiron—had died. There was no question about it. And yet, he was back. Even Hermes, in all his cunning, had no idea how it had happened.
Hera clenched her fists so tightly that blood would have spilled had she been mortal. "That bitch Khione… I knew she was alive. She must have had something to do with this." Her voice seethed with venom before she, too, vanished in a gust of divine fury.
A slow, amused laugh echoed from a nearby couch. Dionysus, reclining lazily with a goblet in hand, smirked at the unfolding drama. "Just when I thought this war was dull, it's finally getting interesting."
Hermes turned to his half-brother, a knowing glint in his eyes. "You've yet to take a side, Dionysus. Who do you think will win?"
Dionysus swirled the wine in his goblet, his smirk widening. "If that man is truly Heiron… then the Greeks are doomed. Anyone who defies even death itself does so for a reason." He took a slow sip before chuckling. "And I can't wait to see what that reason is."
Hermes smiled, his gaze once more fixed upon the city of Troy.
°°°°°°
Inside the great halls of Troy, unease gripped the air like an unshakable curse.
"Hold on, Hector!" Aeneas gritted his teeth as he dragged Hector's limp body across the marble floor of the throne hall, desperate to get him to safety.
Somehow, Hector had made it inside the walls of Troy. Yet the figure who had carried him—the one who had saved him—was nowhere to be seen. It was as if they had vanished into thin air.
Aeneas carefully laid Hector's broken form upon the cold ground. The prince's breath was shallow, his body slick with blood, but he was still alive. Barely.
The throne room was packed. King Priam, Queen Hecuba, Paris—every noble and warrior of significance had gathered, their eyes fixed on the dying champion of Troy.
Five healers knelt around him, their hands trembling as they worked feverishly to stem the bleeding. Their magic and herbs had come just in time; the worst of his wounds had been stabilized. But Hector remained pale, his body fighting against the pull of the underworld.
"H…Hector…" Andromache's sobs shattered the tense silence. She clutched her husband's hand, tears cascading down her face. She had truly believed she would lose him.
Beside her, Hecuba clung to Priam's hand, her nails digging into his skin. Not Hector. Not her firstborn.
Across the room, Kassandra stood frozen, her mind caught between two warring emotions—relief and horror.
Relief, because her brother was alive. Horror, because he shouldn't be.
She had seen it. The golden-armored woman had slain him—she had seen him die.
And yet, here he was.
The room buzzed with whispers.
"Who… who saved him?" Clytemnestra was the first to voice the question lingering in everyone's mind.
What had carried Hector back?
What was it?
Her sharp gaze flickered toward Priam, searching for answers. Perhaps it had been some hidden trump card of Troy's king?
But Priam slowly shook his head. "I do not know." His voice was grave, heavy with the weight of uncertainty. "But whoever it was, they have saved not only my son… but the soul of Troy itself."
"Saved?" Paris scoffed, his tone laced with suspicion. "What if this is a trick? What if this 'savior' is our enemy?"
A cold laugh rang through the air.
"At least they were more useful to Hector than you were."
Every head turned toward Helen.
Paris stiffened, his lips parting in shock. "Helen—"
"Your brother fought to protect you, even as he lay dying." Helen's voice was sharp, cutting through him like a blade. "And you hid behind him."
Tears still glistened on her cheeks—remnants of grief, of anger, of memories of her own brother, Castor, who had not been so lucky.
"I… I was going to save him!" Paris stammered, but his voice wavered.
Helen turned away, eyes filled with quiet contempt. She didn't believe him.
Neither did anyone else.
A hush fell over the room.
Polyxena, standing at the edge of the gathering, whispered under her breath, "I wonder who he is…"
The moment she spoke, an unnatural chill seeped into the air.
The grand doors of the throne room, bolted shut, groaned under an unseen force. A breath of frost curled through the gaps, slithering into the chamber like living mist.
Aeneas was the first to react, his sword flashing as he leapt to his feet.
Every warrior followed suit, hands gripping hilts, eyes darting toward the disturbance.
The temperature plummeted. The torches flickered wildly before dimming, as though something had stolen their warmth.
Then—the frost moved.
It twisted, condensed, and began to take form.
A silhouette emerged, standing amidst the swirling ice.
A man.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC301 REVEAL
The temperature plummeted. The torches flickered wildly before dimming, as though something had stolen their warmth.
Then—the frost moved.
It twisted, condensed, and began to take form.
A silhouette emerged, standing amidst the swirling ice.
A man.
As the icy aura gradually began to dissipate, a figure slowly emerged from the swirling frost. The once-blinding mist faded, revealing the contours of a man whose very presence exuded an otherworldly magnificence.
His hair, pure as freshly fallen snow, cascaded freely behind him, each silken strand catching the dim light and shimmering with an ethereal glow. He was clad in a pair of obsidian-black pants that contrasted sharply with the pristine white tunic adorning his torso. A simple yet elegantly crafted belt cinched the fabric at his waist, accentuating his tall and imposing form. His skin was impossibly pale—no, not merely pale, but luminescent, like polished marble untouched by the imperfections of mortality. It was the kind of pallor that spoke not of frailty but of divinity itself.
Then, as the last remnants of mist dissolved into nothingness, his face came into full view. His lips, perfectly sculpted, held a quiet, unreadable expression. His nose was straight, noble in its structure, and then there were his eyes—glistening pools of molten gold. But it was not their color alone that sent shivers down the spines of all who beheld him. At the center of each radiant iris was a thin, demonic slit, a stark contrast to the mesmerizing beauty that surrounded it. The unnatural pupils exuded a quiet menace, an authority so profound that even seasoned warriors found themselves frozen in place, unable to tear their gaze away.
It was as if a god had descended upon them.
"Who... are you?" King Priam finally asked, his voice cautious, laced with the weight of uncertainty.
It was clear that neither he nor the others recognized the figure standing before them. How could they? This was not Heiron, at least not as they had known him. The man they saw now was a vision transformed, his disguise peeling away to reveal something far greater—something incomprehensibly different. This was Nathan's true form, the form he had taken after absorbing the divine energies of Khione and Amaterasu. Not a single soul present had ever witnessed him in this state before, and the drastic change in his appearance left them reeling.
"H... Heiron?"
The first to break the stunned silence was Astynome. Her voice trembled as she took an unsteady step forward, her breath hitching in disbelief. Read new chapters at My Virtual Library Empire
Since Heiron's supposed death, Astynome had buried her emotions beneath an unyielding mask, feigning indifference even as grief clawed at her insides. The agony of loss had driven her to the precipice of despair more times than she could count. She had toyed with the idea of surrendering to oblivion, allowing herself to be consumed by the void, but something—some unshakable instinct—had kept her tethered to existence.
She had never truly believed he was gone.
Perhaps it was the blood of her father, Apollo, coursing through her veins, granting her a sixth sense that defied reason. She had seen Heiron vanish before her very eyes, yet deep within, something told her he was not lost—not completely.
Astynome's whispered utterance sent a ripple of shock through those gathered.
The ones who reacted stronger were Atalanta, Kassandra and Helen.
Every eye darted between her and the figure before them, searching for even the faintest trace of the man they had known.
But they found nothing.
His expression, calm and distant, bore only the slightest echo of the Heiron they remembered. Yet beyond that, there was no resemblance—no tangible proof that this was truly the same person. He was no longer the man they had mourned. He was something else entirely.
Then, before anyone could react further, a blur of movement shattered the uneasy stillness. A lone figure surged forward, heedless of the stunned onlookers, and threw herself into Nathan's embrace.
Kassandra.
Her arms wrapped around him with desperate fervor, as though she feared he might disappear once more if she did not hold on tightly enough. Her body trembled against his, the sheer intensity of emotion overwhelming her. The others could only watch in silence, their own thoughts tangled in uncertainty and disbelief, as the veil of mystery surrounding Nathan deepened further.
She may be the only one besides Astynome who recognized Heiron.
Tears streamed silently down Kassandra's face as she gasped for breath, her cheek pressed against Nathan's chest. Her body trembled, overwhelmed by a whirlwind of emotions she could barely contain.
Queen Hecuba, still reeling from shock, attempted to call out to Kassandra, but the words died in her throat the moment she saw Nathan move. Slowly, gently, he reached out and wrapped his arms around Kassandra, enveloping her in a reassuring embrace.
"!"
Kassandra's entire body shivered at the mere contact, a visible tremor running through her frame as if a jolt of energy had coursed through her. For a moment, it was almost comical how her form seemed to tremble uncontrollably against his, but as Nathan's hand found its way to her back, offering a firm yet soothing pat, everything stilled. The tension melted away, replaced by a profound sense of relief.
Nathan then lifted his gaze, his devil golden eyes meeting those of the others, who continued to stare at him in utter disbelief.
"I am Heiron," Nathan declared, his voice calm but resolute. "But my true name is Nathan. I am also known as Samael, the Lord Commander of Tenebria."
"Tenebria? Lord Commander?" Aeneas repeated, his voice thick with shock. The name of Tenebria was well-known, but to associate it with the man before them—Heiron—was beyond their comprehension.
"I came here because Aphrodite asked me to aid the Trojans against the Greeks," Nathan continued, his words sending yet another wave of astonishment through the gathered onlookers.
A sudden, mocking laugh shattered the heavy silence. Paris scoffed. "Aphrodite? Is that a joke?"
Nathan did not even spare him a glance. His expression remained impassive, unwavering in its seriousness. His sheer presence, combined with the fact that he had seemingly risen from the ashes before their very eyes, left little room for doubt. Whether they wanted to believe it or not, the truth was undeniable.
"Aphrodite sent you... but why hide your identity?" Queen Hecuba finally found her voice, her expression torn between curiosity and unease.
"Because I am the Lord Commander of Tenebria, a nation that has nothing to do with Troy," Nathan explained simply.
The weight of his words settled upon them like a heavy shroud. Tenebria was already viewed with hostility by many, and if word spread that its Lord Commander had taken the side of the Trojans, it would undoubtedly provoke the wrath of numerous gods and kingdoms alike. But this was not the only reason for his secrecy. Nathan had no intention of exposing himself—not as Samael, not as Nathan—to the gods who watched and schemed from the shadows.
Aeneas took an unsteady step forward, his voice trembling with disbelief as his eyes remained locked onto Nathan.
"Heiron… is that truly you?" he asked, his tone a mixture of shock, hope, and lingering sorrow. His breath hitched, as if he feared that speaking would shatter the apparition before him. "How? We saw you… dying… I saw you dying…" His voice cracked, and despite his efforts to maintain composure, a few stray tears welled in his eyes, threatening to fall.
Nathan exhaled, knowing that the truth was far too convoluted to explain. Instead, he gave them a version that was close enough.
"A lot has happened," he admitted, his expression unreadable. "My death was orchestrated by the gods who support the Greeks. They weren't supposed to interfere in the war to begin with, yet they did so shamelessly—ensuring my demise." He let his words settle, watching the stunned expressions before continuing. "But the Trojan gods retaliated. They would not let such treachery go unanswered. They intervened… and brought me back."
A collective silence fell upon the group, as if the very weight of his words had crushed their ability to respond.
Atalanta, who had remained quiet up until now, finally spoke. Her usually sharp eyes were wide with emotion, and though she had been moved to tears, she had swiftly wiped them away, unwilling to show vulnerability.
"The gods… brought you back?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper, as if saying it aloud would somehow make it less real.
Nathan met her gaze and gave a single nod. "They did."
This only deepened the shock gripping the others.
They had all heard countless stories of gods favoring mortals, bestowing blessings, lending their strength, and whispering prophecies… but this? This was beyond mere favoritism. The gods had not just supported him—they had defied the natural order, pulling him from the clutches of death itself. Such an act was unheard of, even among the greatest of heroes.
Still, Nathan had no intention of dwelling on their reactions. He turned away from the stunned onlookers and directed his attention to Hector, whose unconscious form lay on the ground. His gaze softened as he looked at the battered warrior.
"How is he?" he asked, his voice laced with concern as he turned to Andromache.
Andromache, still trembling with relief, clutched Hector's hand as if afraid to let go. Tears streaked her cheeks, yet her lips curled into a faint smile as she nodded.
"A-Alive… Heiron, he's alive… Thank you… Thank you so much…" Her voice wavered, filled with boundless gratitude as she lowered her head in a deep bow, her shoulders trembling.
Nathan frowned slightly and shook his head. "I wouldn't let one of my few true friends die," he said, his tone firm. "There's no need to thank me for that."
Andromache lifted her head, her teary eyes brimming with appreciation. Even in the chaos of war, Hector had a true friend who would fight for him, and for that, she would forever be grateful.
Aeneas, still processing everything, let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head in amazement. Though the reality of Nathan's return still felt surreal, his words—his unwavering loyalty—felt undeniably real.
However, not everyone shared their relief.
Paris stood a short distance away, his hands clenched into tight fists, his jaw set in rigid anger. His entire body trembled, his expression twisted with barely restrained frustration.
His gaze flickered toward Helen. She had not taken her eyes off Nathan—not even for a moment. The intensity of her focus, the silent awe in her gaze, made Paris's blood boil.
He turned away sharply, letting out a harsh scoff.
"Must be quite convenient… to have gods on your side," he sneered, his voice dripping with venom.
Without waiting for a response, he spun on his heel and stormed off, his rage barely contained.
Nathan, however, remained utterly indifferent, as though Paris had never spoken at all. Whether he had truly acknowledged Paris's presence or simply deemed him irrelevant was a question left unanswered.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC302 Nathan's goal
"Must be quite convenient… to have gods on your side," he sneered, his voice dripping with venom.
Without waiting for a response, he spun on his heel and stormed off, his rage barely contained.
Nathan, however, remained utterly indifferent, as though Paris had never spoken at all. Whether he had truly acknowledged Paris's presence or simply deemed him irrelevant was a question left unanswered.
Priam released a weary sigh, his gaze following the figure of his son as Paris stormed away in silent fury.
"Forgive him for his behavior," the Trojan king murmured, shaking his head. "Paris has always been... headstrong."
Nathan merely nodded, his expression unreadable. In truth, he couldn't have cared less about Paris's tantrum. A year ago, perhaps, he might have retaliated with pettiness, just as he had with Jason and the others. But he had changed since then. He had learned, he had grown. Such trivial grievances no longer mattered to him.
A lighthearted chuckle suddenly broke the lingering tension. "Kassandra, my dear, don't you think you've embraced him long enough?" Queen Hecuba teased, her warm gaze settling upon her daughter.
Kassandra flinched as if struck, immediately stepping back with an embarrassed flush coloring her cheeks. It was unbecoming of a princess to act so freely, yet neither Priam nor Hecuba seemed to mind. On the contrary, they both bore gentle, knowing smiles. Their daughter, once burdened by sorrow and plagued by her cursed visions, now stood before them with renewed light in her eyes—a light that hinted at something deeper.
Affection? Love?
Hecuba wondered, but she did not voice her thoughts.
"We are delighted to see you alive once more, Heiron," Priam spoke again, his tone laced with genuine relief. Then, with an amused chuckle, he added, "Or should I call you Lord Commander? Perhaps Nathan or Samael?"
Nathan allowed a ghost of a smile to cross his lips before it faded just as quickly. "No, you may continue to call me Heiron," he answered. "I revealed my real names to you because I find it exhausting to continue lying. However, I would prefer if my true identity did not reach other ears."
Though his words carried a note of caution, his voice was so cold, so eerily composed, that it seemed as if he did not truly care whether the gods uncovered his identity or not. There was an unsettling indifference in his tone, a quiet defiance that sent a shiver through those who listened.
Priam studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Then we shall honor your wishes and continue calling you Heiron."
But despite the relief of his return, one question lingered in the king's mind, a question that troubled him deeply.
"But... are you still willing to fight for us?" he asked, his voice betraying his uncertainty. "You gave your life for the Trojans once. Are you truly prepared to risk it again?"
Nathan met Priam's gaze evenly. He knew what the king was truly asking. Was this loyalty? Was this obligation? Or was there something else?
For a brief moment, silence stretched between them. And then, at last, Nathan spoke.
"Achilles," he said, his voice unwavering. "Khillea. I want to save her."
The words fell like thunder upon the gathered crowd.
Shock rippled through those present. Wide eyes, hushed whispers, and stunned disbelief filled the room.
Helen, in particular, reacted the most. Her breath hitched, and she clenched her fists. Khillea—the very warrior who had slain her brother, Castor. And yet, Nathan wanted to save her?
"She gave birth to my child," Nathan continued, his tone as steady as ever. "And I refuse to let her die. Let me deal with her. I will fight her and bring her down myself."
Queen Hecuba's eyes widened in surprise, her expression a mixture of disbelief and intrigue. "She is one of your women?" she asked, her voice laced with both curiosity and astonishment.
The room fell into a contemplative silence as the weight of her words settled over them. It was nothing short of shocking—Khillea, a Greek leader and a warrior Queen, bound by the blood and honor of her people. How, then, had he managed not only to get close to her but to the point where she carried his child? The mere thought defied reason, a notion too surreal to grasp easily.
Nathan exhaled slowly, his gaze steady as he addressed the unspoken doubts in the air. "Not yet," he admitted, his tone composed yet firm. "It's… complicated." He paused, as if searching for the right words to encapsulate the turmoil that had consumed Khillea since the death of Patroclus. "She lost herself after he died. Since then, she fights only to kill… or to be killed. A warrior without a purpose, waiting for death to claim her. But I refuse to let her throw her life away. I will take care of her."
A heavy silence followed his declaration. The flickering torchlight cast elongated shadows across the marble walls, the solemn expressions of the gathered nobles betraying the conflict within their hearts.
King Priam, ever the wise ruler, finally broke the silence, his voice calm but resolute. "Achilles has slain many Trojans," he acknowledged, his gaze steady upon Nathan. "And if we could rid ourselves of her, it would undoubtedly bring some measure of reassurance. But…" He allowed a pause, measuring his words. "You have saved far more Trojan lives than we can count. You have even spared my own son's life on more than one occasion." He turned his palms outward in a gesture of acceptance. "If you swear to take responsibility for her, then we will not stand in your way."
Beside him, Queen Hecuba nodded in agreement, though the lines of worry had yet to fade from her expression. "She has killed many of our people," she admitted, her gaze holding Nathan's intently. "But this is war. Death is inevitable." Her lips curved into a faint, weary smile. "And besides, you are not bound to Troy. If you can stop her from spilling more blood, then for that alone, we are grateful."
Andromache, standing close to Hecuba, lowered her head slightly before speaking. "My husband fought Achilles in a fair battle to the death," she murmured, her voice tinged with sorrow. "He knew the risks. He was prepared." She raised her gaze to meet Nathan's. "But I was not ready to lose him. And I cannot bear to see more senseless death, not when it can be prevented. Please… stop her."
Nathan inclined his head in acknowledgment, understanding the weight of their requests. However, from the corner of his eye, he noticed Helen slipping quietly out of the chamber, her posture tense, her expression unreadable. He knew why she was leaving—he could only imagine the thoughts racing through her mind. He would have to speak with her soon.
Meanwhile, Clytemnestra remained composed, her features unreadable. Unlike the others, she did not seem shaken by the situation. Instead, she regarded Nathan with a level gaze, her demeanor reflecting a wisdom far beyond her years. She understood the nature of war—that it was not a matter of good versus evil but a clash of ambition, power, and pride. There were, of course, exceptions—men like Agamemnon, who had ignited the flames of war through arrogance, or a certain Trojan prince whose selfish actions had led to the downfall of so many. But in the grand scheme of battle, morality was often blurred.
Nathan finally spoke, his voice unwavering. "I will," he affirmed. "Once I have settled matters with Khillea, only Agamemnon will remain." His gaze hardened. "And when he falls… this war will end."
"We all wish for that outcome," Priam admitted with a weary sigh, the weight of years and war pressing heavily upon his shoulders. His once-proud frame seemed burdened by exhaustion, his voice carrying the quiet fatigue of a man who had witnessed too much suffering. He studied Nathan for a moment, his gaze lingering on the young warrior's expression—distant, unreadable, as if his mind were elsewhere. Something about him felt different, though Priam could not quite place what it was.
With growing concern, he asked, "Heiron, do you have something prepared to eat? You should regain your strength before concerning yourself with anything else."
Nathan turned his gaze toward the Trojan King and offered a small nod. "If you could have it sent directly to my room, that would be best." His voice was steady but detached, as though the physical world held little significance to him at the moment.
Priam nodded in understanding. There was something strange about the young man before him—he seemed almost ethereal, like a figure that had walked the line between life and death and returned changed. Yet, whatever had happened, he owed him too much to pry. Instead, he simply bowed his head slightly in gratitude.
"Once again, Heiron, I must thank you for saving my son," Priam said solemnly. "He is the future of Troy. Without him, our people would have lost all hope."
Nathan gave him a slight nod in acknowledgment, then turned without another word, making his way toward the exit.
Aeneas, who had been standing near Hector, took a final glance at the wounded prince before quickly following after Nathan. His footsteps were light but eager, his curiosity evident in the way he studied the man beside him.
"How are you feeling?" Aeneas finally asked as they walked.
Nathan's fingers curled into a fist, flexing instinctively. A surge of raw energy coursed through him—his body no longer felt broken, no longer weak or hindered by past wounds. Instead, he felt renewed, almost as if he had been reborn into something stronger, something more powerful than ever before.
"Good," Nathan replied, his grip tightening briefly as he tested the strength within him. His muscles felt denser, his body more responsive. Every movement carried an effortless precision, a stark contrast to the pain and exhaustion he had once endured.
Aeneas chuckled, though there was a hint of unease behind his laughter. "Man, you look different," he admitted, shaking his head in mild disbelief. "Just looking at you gives me chills."
Nathan glanced at him, a faint smile playing at the edges of his lips. "You've changed a lot too. You seem much stronger than before."
Aeneas exhaled sharply, crossing his arms as his expression turned more serious. "I had to," he admitted. His gaze darkened, memories flashing through his mind. "After you… died, everything changed. Hector, Atalanta, Penthesilea, Helen's brothers—we did what we could. We held the line, somehow. But it was difficult." His fingers curled into fists, as if recalling battles fought in desperation, moments when they had been on the brink of collapse.
Nathan reached the door to his chambers and stepped inside. Before closing it, he turned back to Aeneas, his gaze steady and filled with quiet certainty. Find your next adventure on My Virtual Library Empire
"Don't worry," he said, his voice carrying an unmistakable sense of finality. "I'm here now."
Then, without another word, he shut the door behind him.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC303 The Gods's rewards
After Nathan retreated into the solitude of his room, he moved with slow, deliberate steps toward the center of the chamber. A deep breath filled his lungs as he closed his eyes, shutting out the world around him. In an instant, he felt the familiar pull of displacement, and when he opened his eyes again, he found himself standing in a vast expanse of white—a space devoid of walls, ceiling, or floor. It was the same ethereal plane he had visited before, where he had once stood in the presence of Aphrodite, Artemis, and Apollo.
This time, however, the gathering had grown.
Ares was there as well.
The god of war crossed his arms over his broad chest, his crimson cloak billowing slightly despite the absence of any discernible breeze. His expression twisted into one of mild irritation as his sharp gaze flicked to Apollo, brimming with incredulity.
"I can't believe you brought him back, Apollo," Ares scoffed, his deep voice tinged with disbelief. "Do you even realize how many rules you've broken? Our father will strike you down if he learns of this." His tone was one of accusation, yet there was a flicker of curiosity beneath his words.
Apollo, standing with his usual air of confidence, merely smiled. There was no trace of concern in his eyes.
"I didn't bring him back," the sun god clarified, his voice calm. "I merely sought help to save Nathan before his life could be extinguished. His body was already beyond repair, so a new one was necessary. That was all. Once his vessel was replaced, he was healed."
Artemis, who had remained silent until now, narrowed her green eyes, suspicion flickering across her elegant features. "And whom did you seek out for this so-called help, brother?" she asked, though it was clear she already had a hunch.
Apollo did not hesitate. "Thanatos."
The name sent a palpable wave of unease through the gathered gods.
"Thanatos?!" Ares' composure shattered as he gaped at Apollo, his voice rising in sheer shock. "How in the Underworld did you manage to get that crazy goddess to agree?!"
The reaction was expected. Thanatos—the Goddess of Death—was a being shrouded in fear and enigma. Among all divine entities across pantheons, she was known to be one of the most unpredictable and dangerous. Even Zeus himself refrained from interfering in her affairs. Capricious, elusive, and utterly indifferent to the laws that bound the rest of the gods, Thanatos did as she pleased. She held dominion over the boundary of life and death, and if there was any deity capable of breaking the fundamental laws of existence, it was her.
Of course, no power came without a price. What that price was, no one could say. And yet, Apollo had dared to approach her.
Apollo met Ares' incredulous stare without wavering. "I had to argue my case for a long time. In the end, I convinced her by showing what Heiron had accomplished in this war… Or rather, should I say—what Nathan Parker had accomplished?"
A pregnant silence followed as Apollo's piercing gaze shifted toward Nathan.
Artemis frowned, tilting her head slightly. "Who?"
"Nathan Parker," Apollo revealed, his voice measured. "One of the heroes summoned by Khione a year ago. He was supposed to have perished, yet he was mysteriously saved. After that, he was summoned once more—this time by Tenebria, as the Hero of Darkness. There, he assumed the name Samael."
The weight of Apollo's words settled over them like an ominous storm cloud. Shock rippled through the gods, save for one.
Aphrodite.
Unlike the others, she remained perfectly composed, an amused smirk playing at the edges of her lips. Of course, she already knew the truth. After all, she had been the one to summon Nathan into Tenebria in the first place.
Apollo's gaze darkened as he turned toward Aphrodite, his eyes cold and piercing. "You don't look surprised, Aphrodite," he said, his voice edged with suspicion.
Aphrodite merely smiled, her expression one of pure satisfaction. Of course, she was happy. When Nathan had vanished before her eyes, it had felt as though her heart had shattered into countless pieces. But soon after, she had received a message from Apollo, who had returned with news—news that he had found a solution for Nathan. That he would be back.
She had been relieved, yet anxiety had gnawed at her ever since. Now, however, Nathan stood before her once more—stronger, more radiant, and undeniably more handsome than ever. His presence nearly rivaled Apollo's own divine beauty. Power radiated from him, a strength far beyond that of a mere mortal. A shiver ran down her spine as she drank in the sight of him, scanning his new form.
At Apollo's pointed remark, she tilted her head slightly, feigning innocence. "What are you talking about, dear Apollo?" she asked, her voice laced with amusement.
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Apollo's eyes narrowed. He already knew the truth—Aphrodite had known everything from the very beginning. It was more than likely that she had been the one to summon Nathan into Tenebria. Unlike the rest of them, she had seen his potential long before anyone else.
Artemis let out a low chuckle, crossing her arms. "If Thanatos is involved, then not even Zeus or Hera can do anything about it," she remarked, smirking at the thought. She could already picture Hera flying into a rage, only to find herself utterly powerless. After all, Thanatos had been the one to make this decision—her will was absolute in matters of life and death.
Ares, however, was less amused. His brows furrowed as he eyed Nathan warily. "Wait a damn second. You all seem far too casual about this. Are we forgetting that he's the Hero of Tenebria? Aren't they supposed to be our enemies? The previous Demon King openly defied us gods!" His voice carried a sharp edge, laced with deep-seated caution.
Aphrodite let out a soft, knowing laugh. "Don't worry," she said smoothly. "He won't follow in the footsteps of the previous Demon King. You should know by now—he only fights those who have wronged him."
Ares hesitated for a moment, then huffed in irritation. Since the reassurance had come from Aphrodite herself, he found himself unable to argue further. Her words carried weight.
As for Apollo and Artemis, they seemed utterly indifferent to Ares' concerns. To them, this so-called conflict was little more than a passing disturbance. Artemis had spent that time secluded within her divine forest, and Apollo had been absent from Olympus altogether. Whatever had transpired between Tenebria and the gods was of little consequence to them now.
Nathan, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke, his voice steady and resolute. "I am here for the Skills you have promised me."
The reminder stirred a flicker of recognition in Ares' eyes. He had, indeed, made such a promise along with Artemis and Aphrodite. Now that Nathan stood before them, fully restored, it was time to fulfill their end of the bargain.
"Oh, yes, we did promise him that," Ares muttered before straightening. His expression hardened with determination. "I am a man of my word."
Extending his hand, Ares unleashed a surge of crimson divine energy. The radiant glow enveloped Nathan entirely, wrapping around him like a living flame. Nathan remained unfazed, only the slightest twitch of his eyes betraying his reaction.
"I have granted you my Roar of War," Ares declared, a smirk tugging at his lips. "With it, you will fight like a God of War on the battlefield. But be warned—use it wisely, and do not overextend yourself."
Next came Artemis. Stepping forward, she raised her hand, and a wave of green divine magic cascaded over Nathan. As the energy seeped into him, his vision sharpened instantly. The world around him became strikingly clear, and for the first time, he could perceive the immense reservoirs of mana and magic coursing through the gods standing before him. Their power was truly terrifying.
"I have given you my vision," Artemis proclaimed, her voice calm yet firm. "Nothing shall escape your eyes. Use it in moderation, and you will be able to see even the most distant of targets—and strike them down from afar."
Then, Aphrodite stepped forward. Unlike the others, she closed the distance between them, her gaze smoldering with amusement. Without hesitation, she leaned in and pressed a kiss to Nathan's lips.
Ares scowled in open disapproval, but held his tongue, assuming this was simply Aphrodite's method of bestowing her gift.
"I have given you my charm, Nate," she murmured with a teasing smile. "With it, none shall be able to resist you. But I advise caution—it is always active. Unless you suppress it, women from every corner of the world will flock to you, drawn like moths to a flame."
A warm pink glow enveloped Nathan as Aphrodite's power settled within him. The moment the energy took hold, Artemis felt an involuntary shiver course through her body. The sheer potency of his newfound charm was overwhelming, forcing her to avert her gaze lest she succumb to its effects.
Sensing the immediate impact, Nathan swiftly suppressed the ability, bringing it under control.
"Since everyone else has given you a gift, I will do the same," Apollo interjected, his amusement evident. Striding forward, he gently placed a hand upon Nathan's head.
Nathan's body glowed with a golden radiance—this was not just a mere skill but something far more profound. As the divine energy coursed through him, Nathan felt an entirely new force awaken within him.
Apollo stepped back, his signature smile in place. "Now, you can wield my Light Magic."
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC304 Helen's happiness
[Nathan Parker]
Lvl 505
Skills: [Divine-Rank: Forbidden Seal],[Divine-Rank: Death Curse], [Divine-Rank: Aphrodite's Charm], [SSS-Rank: Eye of Odin], [SS-Rank: Roar of War], [SS-Rank: Vision of Artemis], [C-Rank:Deep Voice], [C-Rank: Stealth Cap].
°°°°°°
Nathan sat on a worn wooden bench in the open courtyard, bathed in the golden glow of the morning sun. The air was crisp, carrying with it the distant sounds of soldiers preparing for battle—yet today, no war cries echoed, no steel clashed. The aftermath of Hector's near-death encounter had left both sides in an uneasy truce, as if even the gods themselves held their breath, waiting for what would happen next.
The Greeks had been especially shaken, bewildered by his sudden appearance on the battlefield. Whispers of his power had spread like wildfire among their ranks, their once-unshakable confidence now laced with uncertainty.
As he leaned back against the bench, a cool breeze ruffled his white hair. He exhaled softly and brought up his stats, his sharp eyes scanning the glowing interface that floated before him. It had been a while since he last checked them, and in that time, everything had changed.
The numbers before him were almost absurd. Each of his stats had skyrocketed, reaching levels that would have been unimaginable just days ago. Thousands upon thousands—no temporary boosts, no artificial enhancements—these were his new, permanent abilities. A frightening realization, even for him.
His gaze shifted to his Skills. Some had vanished, lost to the hidden costs of his meteoric rise in power. A drawback, no doubt, but nothing he couldn't accept. What he had gained far outweighed what he had lost.
Two SS-rank Skills.
And then, the true prize—Aphrodite, ever so indulgent, had graced him with a Divine-Rank Skill, a gift befitting the goddess of love and beauty. He had expected no less from her.
Yet, that was not all.
Another Divine-Rank Skill now rested in his arsenal, one that sent a shiver down his spine even as he read its name.
[Divine-Rank: Death Curse].
Thanatos herself had bestowed this upon him, a reward for the soul he had willingly placed in her hands. A weapon forged in the depths of death itself. A trump card against beings far beyond the realm of mortals—against gods.
But such power came with a price. Just like the Forbidden Seal, this skill, too, was restricted by a charge bar, a limit imposed on what could only be described as an overwhelming cheat. Not that he minded. If it were freely usable, it would hardly be fair.
Nathan's attention then drifted to his LUCK stat.
20,000.
A number so ridiculously high that it seemed almost comical. Then again, considering how many times he had cheated death, perhaps it was only natural. He had Thanatos' favor, the blessing of the very goddess who governed the cycle of life and demise. And then there was Aphrodite—her influence had played no small role either, especially when it came to his CHARM stat. Receiving a Divine-Rank Skill from the goddess of love was bound to have its effects.
Not that he wanted to be overwhelmed by it.
With a thought, he instinctively suppressed Aphrodite's gift to its minimum output. Even he knew better than to let such an ability run wild. Power was one thing. Influence, especially of this nature, was another entirely.
Nathan closed his stats window with a flick of his fingers and looked ahead.
Tomorrow, everything would end.
Nathan could feel it in the air—the weight of inevitability pressing down on him like a silent storm on the horizon. Tomorrow, he would face Khillea, and tomorrow would mark the final day of this war. No matter what, he would ensure that outcome.
As he sat there, lost in thought, a faint presence brushed against the edge of his senses. Someone was watching him. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
Helen.
She flinched when he spoke her name, as if caught in the act of something she wasn't sure she should be doing.
"Can you come here? Let's talk," Nathan said, his voice even, yet carrying an unspoken weight.
There was hesitation—long enough that he could hear the way her breath hitched slightly—but then the soft sound of footsteps on stone filled the quiet courtyard. A moment later, she lowered herself onto the bench beside him, her movements careful, uncertain.
Nathan turned his head slightly, studying her. The once-proud queen looked tired. The soft glow of the morning sun illuminated her delicate features, but the shadows beneath her eyes betrayed the turmoil she carried.
"Are you angry?" he asked.
Helen blinked, as if caught off guard. "Angry about what?"
Nathan didn't hesitate. "Khillea killed your brother, didn't she?"
A flicker of emotion passed through Helen's gaze—grief, sorrow, something deeper. But instead of answering, she latched onto a different part of his words.
"Her name isn't Achilles but Khillea?" she asked quietly.
"Yes," Nathan confirmed. "Tell me, are you angry that I want to save her?"
Silence.
Helen's hands slowly curled into fists on her lap. Her fingers trembled, nails pressing into her skin.
"My brothers… they always wanted to protect me and my sister," she whispered, her voice raw, as if every word scraped against something fragile inside her. "Even now, they abandoned the Greeks and joined the Trojans… just to keep us safe. They knew the risks. They knew death could happen… yet they still fought."
A shaky breath.
"Castor died… and I...I know it's war, but I can't accept it. It's too hard," she admitted, blinking rapidly as she fought against the tears threatening to spill.
Nathan exhaled, his expression unreadable. "He was a good man. He fought well."
Helen's lips trembled. "And she killed him."
"Yes," Nathan said without denial. "But, Helen… Castor went to her first. He sought the fight, and he lost. I don't think he regrets it. He fought and died as a warrior—for his sisters, just as you said. This… is war."
Helen let out a broken breath. Her shoulders shook.
"A war I created…" she whispered, her voice cracking as tears finally slipped down her cheeks.
Nathan turned his gaze forward, watching the distant horizon.
"You didn't," he said firmly. "Paris and Agamemnon did."
Paris.
That foolish prince—blessed with a divine charm, yet lacking the wisdom to wield it properly. He had been given the ability to seduce any woman, and in his blind arrogance, he chose a married queen of Sparta. He had no foresight, no understanding of the consequences that would follow. Not even Aphrodite had predicted that outcome. Find exclusive stories on My Virtual Library Empire
Helen let out a bitter, trembling laugh.
"Yes… and yet…" she hesitated, eyes glistening with unshed tears, before finally admitting, "Even if I had a choice… I wouldn't have changed anything. I still would have come to Troy."
Her voice was quiet, but filled with conviction.
Nathan said nothing for a long moment. He simply sat beside her, letting her words settle in the space between them.
"I… felt suffocated in Troy," Helen admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Back then, I thought it was normal—that nothing was wrong. But after coming here, after seeing how people treated me with kindness… I realized it wasn't normal at all."
She exhaled shakily, her hands clenching in her lap.
"And I felt relieved to have left Troy." She let out a self-mocking laugh. "I'm terrible, aren't I?"
Nathan shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"No. You just tasted happiness for the first time. There's nothing wrong with that."
Helen turned to him, her gaze searching his face. There was hesitation, something unspoken lingering in her throat before she finally voiced it.
"I… am angry at Khillea because she killed Castor, but… I think I'm also jealous."
"Jealous?"
Helen swallowed hard. "Y…yes." She hesitated before asking, "When did you meet her?"
"During the war. When I infiltrated the Greek camps," Nathan answered honestly.
Helen's fingers curled tightly against the fabric of her gown. "You fell for her during the war?"
"I did."
"I… see." Helen's voice wavered, her expression shadowed with something he couldn't quite place. "She is… yes, beautiful and charming. More than me."
You have nothing to envy her for, Helen."
Her lower lip trembled. "T…then why?" She bit down on her hesitation before forcing the words out. "Why didn't you come to me?"
"Come to you?"
"Y-yes…" Helen's voice was small, uncertain. "Even though we lived in the same place, you fell for someone so far away. But I… I was the closest to you. And still, I wasn't enough… is that it?"
Bitterness laced her words, and for the first time, she looked utterly fragile.
Nathan exhaled and met her gaze with quiet intensity. "You were more than enough," he said, his voice firm. "You have been since the day I saw you."
Helen's breath caught. "Then…" she hesitated, as though gathering every ounce of courage in her body. Her trembling fingers reached for his hand, grasping it hesitantly.
"I… I want you," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I want to be with you."
As soon as she spoke those words, Nathan moved.
He closed the distance between them and captured her lips in a kiss.
Helen's eyes widened in shock, but she didn't retreat. A soft, muffled gasp escaped her as warmth spread through her entire body, setting her nerves ablaze. Her lips trembled under his touch before she surrendered completely, pressing into him.
Nathan deepened the kiss, his tongue teasing against her soft lips before slipping inside. His hands roamed downward, tracing the curves of her body through her gown. Helen shivered, arching slightly as heat pooled in her stomach.
"Mmhgnn~~" A muffled moan escaped her as his hand slid up, cupping her breast through the delicate fabric. They were full, soft, big enough to be unable to fit in his grasp as he kneaded them.
A haze of desire clouded his mind, urging him to rip away the barrier of clothing between them—to claim her entirely. But just as his fingers tightened around the silk of her dress, a piercing gaze snapped him back to reality.
Nathan didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
Paris.
The cowardly prince stood behind a pillar, his expression twisted with murderous hatred as he watched the scene unfold before him. Yet, despite the sheer rage in his eyes, he didn't dare to attack.
Nathan smirked against Helen's lips before finally pulling away.
Helen sat breathless, her lips swollen, her chest heaving. A dazed, heated expression lingered in her half-lidded eyes as she gazed at him.
Nathan ran a hand through her golden locks, his smirk deepening.
"After the war," he murmured, "you will be mine."
Helen shivered at his words.
"Haa… y-yes~" she whispered breathlessly, surrendering completely.
And in the shadows, Paris seethed.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC305 Nathan vs Khillea! (1)
The sun rose over Troy, painting the sky with hues of gold and crimson, its brilliance unmatched as it cast long shadows over the battlefield. It was another day of relentless war, another day where the clash of steel and the cries of the fallen would echo across the blood-soaked plains. Yet, despite the routine brutality of the conflict, something about today felt different—an unseen force lingered in the air, thick with an indescribable tension.
A chilling unease settled over both the Greeks and the Trojans, an unshakable premonition whispering in their minds. It was a feeling of dread, as if the gods themselves had descended to observe the carnage about to unfold. Every warrior, hardened by years of battle, could sense it—a day that would be remembered for centuries, a day that would decide the course of history. Their hands trembled not from fear of death but from the weight of what was to come.
It was as if destiny itself had drawn them to this moment, and so, on this fateful day, both sides resolved to fight with everything they had.
For the Greeks, hope burned bright in their hearts, rekindled by the arrival of a legend. Khillea, the warrior whose name now resounded through their ranks, stood at the forefront, her golden armor gleaming under the morning sun. The Myrmidons, her loyal warriors, no longer questioned the truth they once struggled to accept—Khillea was Achilles, the strongest warrior in this accursed war. They no longer cared that she was a woman, for to them, she was Achilles, their invincible leader, their harbinger of victory. With her at the helm, their spirits soared, and their blades thirsted for battle.
Meanwhile, across the battlefield, the Trojans, who had been gripped by despair since the loss of their great warrior, now found themselves standing taller, their morale surging like a tide.
Heiron had returned.
They had seen him die—his body turning to ashes, disappearing entirely. And yet, there he was, standing among them once more, his presence igniting a renewed fervor in their hearts. It was impossible, yet undeniable. His resurrection could only be the work of the gods, a divine sign that they had not abandoned their city. Heiron was not merely a man who had defied death—he was a symbol, the chosen champion who would lead them to triumph.
For the Greeks, however, his return was nothing short of a nightmare.
"It cannot be him!"
"No… Look at them! They are calling his name!"
"I saw him die! His corpse lay on this very ground!"
"Hades has returned him to the living! He is an omen of our doom!"
Fear spread through their ranks like wildfire, the unshakable belief that Heiron had been sent by the gods to smite them down. If the heavens had granted him life once more, then what hope did they have?
And indeed, Heiron was changed. He no longer bore the weariness of mortality; instead, he radiated an otherworldly presence, his once-battle-worn features now sharpened with an almost divine perfection. But they did recognise his demonic gold eyes.
The ones most shocked by Heiron's literal resurrection were none other than Agamemnon and Odysseus.
Agamemnon was beyond stunned. It was him—he felt it in his very bones. That hateful man, the one he thought had been erased from existence, had returned, and the mere presence of Heiron sent an unnatural chill running down the spine of the King of the Greeks. He refused to accept the feeling of dread creeping through his veins, yet there it was, undeniable and suffocating.
"How is this possible…" he muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Odysseus, standing a short distance away, could only stare in utter disbelief. His sharp eyes locked onto Nathan, watching as he moved across the battlefield with near-divine speed, slaughtering Greek soldiers by the hundreds. At this moment, Nathan resembled a true Demigod, a force of destruction unleashed upon them.
If the gods had brought him back, what could it mean? Odysseus pondered, his mind racing. It could only be a bad omen for the Greeks.
Yet, despite the overwhelming dread creeping into his heart, Odysseus held onto two slivers of hope: the assurance that Hera and Athena were still on their side and the knowledge that Khillea stood with them, fighting in their ranks.
With that in mind, Odysseus turned his gaze to Khillea, who was already watching Heiron intently. Standing atop her war chariot, she urged her horses forward, rushing past the soldiers at full speed toward her foe. Her golden divine shield was braced firmly on her left arm, while in her right hand, she gripped her golden divine sword, its radiant blade gleaming in the sunlight.
Nathan, sensing the approaching warrior, turned his attention toward Khillea, his gaze dark and unreadable. Reaching for his weapon, he grasped the Black Demon King's blade—a demonic sword, not a divine one, but one of the few weapons capable of standing against the might of Khillea's divine arms.
As if moved by an unspoken agreement, both Greeks and Trojans instinctively parted ways, clearing the battlefield for the imminent clash.
Nathan locked eyes with Khillea, but the woman he saw was no longer the mischievous and playful warrior he had once fallen for. She was different now—cold, unyielding, a true warrior forged in war's cruel embrace.
Tightening his grip on his sword, Nathan kicked off the ground, launching himself forward at blinding speed.
Khillea, with unwavering resolve, propelled herself from her chariot, soaring through the air to meet him head-on.
Their distance vanished in an instant. Both warriors raised their swords, their blades singing as they sliced through the air, poised to strike.
—BADOOOOOOOOOM!!!
The moment Nathan's demonic sword clashed against Khillea's golden blade, an immense shockwave of mana erupted from the point of impact. The collision was so fierce that a violent cyclone of raw energy swirled around them, howling like a raging storm. The sheer force sent debris flying, uprooted chunks of the battlefield, and hurled nearby warriors into the air like leaves caught in a tempest. But amidst the chaos, Nathan and Khillea stood their ground, unmoving, unwavering.
Khillea narrowed her eyes as she studied the man before her, her expression laced with genuine curiosity.
"Who are you?" she asked, her voice steady despite her growing wariness. She had, of course, heard rumors—whispers of a certain Heiron, the one who had slain both Ajax and Heracles. Yet, no rumor had prepared her for the sheer magnitude of his strength. This man—whoever he truly was—stood before her like an unshakable mountain.
Nathan did not respond. Instead, his figure flickered, vanishing into thin air like a ghost. In an instant, ice surged forth, swirling around him in a dance of glacial power. He made no effort to conceal it anymore—Khione's ice, the chilling essence of an ancient force, now cloaked him entirely. His demonic sword pulsed with darkness, its entire length encased in a sheath of crystalline frost as he swung it in a wide arc.
BADOOOOM!
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Khillea reacted swiftly, bringing up her shield just in time. The thick layer of ice crashed against her defenses, spreading like creeping vines, attempting to entomb her. For a brief moment, she was taken aback by the resilience of the frost, its presence unnatural, as though it carried the will of something far beyond mere magic.
With no other choice, she summoned a surge of golden light, igniting flames of divine radiance that crackled to life around her. The ice sizzled and evaporated in an instant, but even as she freed herself, Nathan was already upon her.
His sword descended like a judge's final verdict.
Khillea barely managed to intercept the blow, her golden sword meeting his in a furious clash. The collision sent another massive shockwave rippling through the battlefield, cutting through the very wind itself. The ground beneath them trembled, cracks spiderwebbing outward from the sheer force of their exchange.
They remained locked in place, staring into each other's eyes, neither willing to yield an inch.
Then, without warning, Khillea's magic flared to its peak. A blinding surge of fire and light erupted around her, engulfing Nathan in a radiant inferno. The flames raged, swallowing everything in their path, their golden brilliance searing through the battlefield.
She leaped back, watching intently, expecting him to struggle against the purifying flames.
But then—
A chilling presence seeped through the light, snuffing out the flames like a winter storm quenching a candle. The fire dissipated as frost consumed the air, revealing Nathan once more, standing unscathed within a protective barrier of ice. His cold, calculating gaze locked onto hers as he slowly raised his hand.
From his palm, an enormous lance of ice materialized, its edges sharp enough to slice through steel with ease. With a mere flick of his wrist, the frozen projectile shot forward at blinding speed.
Khillea barely had time to react. She braced herself, raising her shield once more.
BADAAAAAM!
The lance shattered against her defenses upon impact, but the force behind it sent her skidding several meters backward. Her boots dug into the ground as she struggled to regain her footing, her heart pounding. As she lifted her gaze, her breath caught in her throat.
Nathan was already there.
His leg shot forward in a brutal kick, striking her shield with monstrous force.
BADOOOOM!
The impact was devastating. The sheer power behind the blow forced her back once more, her arms numb from the reverberation. Yet, even as she staggered, she recovered quickly, her instincts sharpened by years of battle.
With a burst of light, she propelled herself forward, her golden sword gleaming as she swung at him with divine fury.
Nathan met her charge head-on, his ice-cloaked sword flashing in response.
Fire and ice collided, clashing in a dazzling explosion of light and frost, the battlefield trembling beneath the sheer magnitude of their battle.
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