I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC306 Nathan vs Khillea! (2)
The most breathtaking and ferocious battle since the onset of the Trojan War was unfolding upon the bloodstained fields of Troy. Warriors, nobles, and even the gods themselves bore witness to a spectacle that defied mortal comprehension. The clash of titans had begun.
On one side stood the mightiest warrior of Greece, the unparalleled Queen of the Myrmidons and ruler of Phthia—Achilles, though known by her true name, Khillea. Draped in a resplendent golden armor that shimmered like the sun itself, she was a vision of divine fury. A golden sword, wreathed in searing flames, danced in her grip with deadly precision, while a shield, embossed with the glory of Hephaestus' craftsmanship, was clasped tightly in her left hand. Every movement of hers was a blur of celestial light, her divine speed turning her into a golden streak across the battlefield, an embodiment of war itself.
Her opponent was none other than Nathan, and though no tales had sung of his exploits before, none could now deny his place in legend. The air around him crackled with a chilling frost, the ground beneath his feet hardened by an unnatural cold that seemed to devour warmth itself. Each swing of his weapon sent out frigid gusts that clashed against Khillea's golden inferno, creating a mesmerizing cyclone of ice and flame. Sparks erupted, frost bloomed, and golden fire roared, their battle an intricate dance of opposing forces locked in an eternal embrace.
How long had they fought? Hours? Perhaps only moments? Time had lost all meaning in the presence of such a duel. Those who bore witness did not care—they longed for this battle to last an eternity.
The very earth quaked beneath them, the heavens seemed to tremble. Even the gods, so often indifferent to mortal affairs, stood silent. Their eyes, accustomed to divine conflicts, widened in disbelief as they watched the battlefield unfold below.
Ares, the god of war himself, could not suppress his astonishment. His voice, uncharacteristically uncertain, broke the heavy silence.
"A-Apollo… what in the name of Olympus did you do to him?" Ares asked, his usual bravado absent, replaced with sheer incredulity.
He had expected Nathan to be formidable, yes, but this? This defied all reason. Nathan was not merely holding his own against Achilles, he was matching her strength for strength, strike for strike, without so much as a faltering breath. It was unthinkable.
Ares had, in the depths of his mind, fantasized about Achilles' defeat before—but only at the hands of Hector, and even that had required an impossible miracle. Yet Hector had failed. The strongest warrior of Troy had fallen, crushed beneath the unstoppable force that was Achilles. And now… now Nathan stood where Hector could not, matching Achilles as an equal. No, as a superior.
Even Artemis, ever composed and enigmatic, narrowed her eyes in contemplation, turning toward her twin. There was something about Nathan's movements, his overwhelming power, that left even her questioning the nature of his strength.
"Brother," she said softly, her voice laced with suspicion. "Did you interfere? Did you bless him with something?"
The golden-haired god chuckled, his radiant eyes glinting with amusement.
"I did nothing," Apollo replied, the faintest smirk playing at his lips. "This… this is all him."
The battle raged on, and as the echoes of their clash reverberated across the battlefield, a new legend was being written in fire and ice.
"How is that even possible?" Artemis murmured, her green gaze locked onto Nathan as he fought.
Something about him had changed. His aura was different—his stance unwavering, his eyes calm yet carrying an unsettling chill. And yet, as he clashed with Khillea, there was no intent to kill in his gaze, no murderous hunger behind his strikes. It was almost as if he were testing himself, rediscovering his own strength.
Regardless, Artemis was certain of one thing—he had not been this powerful before.
Nathan had always been strong. His victories over warriors like Ajax and even the legendary Heracles were proof enough of that. But this—this was something beyond mere strength. He had ascended to a level few mortals, or even demigods, could reach. The only plausible explanation that came to her mind—and likely to the minds of others—was divine intervention. Perhaps Apollo had blessed him? Or maybe Thanatos, the goddess of death who had resurrected him, had granted him an unfathomable boon?
But no.
"No, Nate obtained a blessing from no one," a voice interjected.
It was Aphrodite, her lips curled into an affectionate smile as she watched Nathan fight. There was a rare gleam in her eyes, a glint of exhilaration, admiration—perhaps something even deeper. How long had it been since she had felt such excitement watching a man? No, she mused, had she ever felt this way before?
Artemis turned to her sharply. "What do you mean?"
Aphrodite chuckled, a melodious sound that rang through the air. "Nate fought for an entire year, bearing an unbearable burden. His body weakened, fractured, saturated with experiences and strength it could not fully contain. He kept growing stronger, but his body refused to keep up, breaking down under the strain after what he had sacrificed."
"It's like wielding a sword with only one arm for a year because the other was useless—weak, broken. But imagine, all at once, that other arm is restored. Suddenly, the weight shifts, the balance returns, and everything you've accumulated—every ounce of skill and experience—finally flows freely into your entire being."
Ares' eyes widened in realization. "You mean... now that his body is whole, all the experience and strength he accumulated has finally integrated, unrestricted?"
"Exactly," Apollo confirmed, his voice tinged with fascination as he too watched Nathan.
There was something undeniably enthralling about him.
"The Nathan you see now," Apollo continued, his tone almost reverent, "is the true Nathan. No more burdens, no more chains restraining him. This is his full strength, unshackled at last."
Artemis turned her gaze back to Nathan, her green eyes studying him intently.
She had to admit—he looked different now. There was an undeniable allure to him, a presence that commanded attention. Before, she had felt nothing, no particular pull toward him. But now… now, she felt something stir within her, an unfamiliar attraction. And she knew—this was not Aphrodite's divine charm at work.
A frown crossed her lips. "Was it really a good choice to give him these Skills?" she murmured to herself.
It had seemed unnecessary at the time, and now she feared they had only made him even more monstrous. True, he had not yet reached the power of the gods—he was on par with demigods like Achilles which was already a scary feat. But at the terrifying rate he was progressing, Artemis felt a twinge of apprehension. She and Ares had granted him abilities that were, in their own right, incredibly potent. And then there was Apollo, who had gifted him Light Magic on top of it all…
"A promise is a promise, Artemis," Ares remarked, unconcerned. He was a god, after all. For now, he was still stronger than Nathan. But watching Nathan fight, seeing the raw potential brimming within him—it excited Ares. He could already imagine it. One day, perhaps, he would cross swords with the mortal. The thought alone made his blood boil with anticipation.
While the Trojan gods were reveling in the sight of one of their own warriors standing toe-to-toe with Achilles—the warrior they had long considered unbeatable—the Greek gods were experiencing the opposite reaction.
"T-This can't be possible…" Hera whispered, her voice laced with disbelief. Her wide eyes remained locked on Nathan as he moved effortlessly across the battlefield.
"What kind of man has Khione summoned?" Athena muttered beside her, a deep frown etched onto her face. Stay connected through My Virtual Library Empire
This… This was beyond anything she had ever seen before.
Yes, there had been extraordinary heroes in the past—those summoned by Khione's previous efforts. Some had been remarkable, even verging on the level of legends. But none—none—had ever reached this level of strength in just a single year.
Of course, the third class of summoned heroes had its standouts. Sienna, for instance, was incredibly talented, her prowess undeniable. And Courtney—she had proven to be surprisingly strong, displaying a potential that even Athena had not expected.
But Nathan…
Nathan was something else entirely.
He was in another dimension altogether.
And it perplexed Athena to no end.
Summoned heroes were supposed to come from a peaceful world, untouched by war or divine interference. How, then, had a man from such a place grown into a warrior of this caliber? How had he become so powerful, so ruthless, so instinctively brilliant in battle?
What kind of past had forged him into this relentless force of nature?
Clearly, he had not grown up in a normal environment to reach this level of strength and mentality.
Athena had keen eyes for talent, and she recognized an unfathomable gift within Nathan right now. It felt as if he had no limits.
A tinge of regret flickered across Athena's eyes.
"If only I had noticed him…" she mused, thinking back to the day when all of Khione's heroes were summoned. That day, she had not even spared Nathan a glance, nor had she cared.
In the end, he had died—just another casualty, felled by some random demon, or so she had heard. But she knew better. The Divine Knights had played a role in his death.
And now, Athena was certain of one thing—the Divine Knights were going to regret, perhaps more than they could possibly fathom, having ever antagonized Nathan…because she was sure Nathan was someone remembering and holding grudge.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC307 Nathan vs Khillea! (3)
"Why is Zeus not doing anything?!" Hera's voice thundered across the sky above the Trojans grounds, her rage barely contained as she watched the battle below. Her fingers clenched into tight fists, her knuckles turning white. Another hour had passed, and yet Nathan was still standing, still fighting—matching Khillea blow for blow with a tenacity that defied all logic.
A sense of dread settled deep in her chest, an instinctual warning that something was not right. She had a bad feeling—no, a terrible feeling—about all of this.
"What do you expect Zeus to do?" Athena asked with a weary sigh, her expression calm but thoughtful as she observed the ongoing clash.
"Kill him, of course!" Hera spat, her frustration reaching a fever pitch. "This human is dangerous! He must be eradicated before he grows into a threat we can no longer control!"
Athena merely shook her head, the golden glow of her eyes reflecting the chaotic battle below. "I don't think my father will intervene."
Hera's eyes narrowed, her voice sharp with disbelief. "Why not? He is clearly a menace, and we don't even know how he attained such strength. He's dangerous, Athena. You of all people should see that."
Athena folded her arms, her expression unreadable. "My father has already returned to Olympus," she said slowly, "and yet he has not spoken a single word about Nathan. That silence speaks volumes."
Hera's breath hitched, and she took a step forward, her frustration mounting. "Are you saying… Zeus can't do anything?" She sounded dumbfounded, as though the idea was too ludicrous to be real. "He is the King of Olympus! The ruler of all gods!"
Athena met her gaze, her expression unusually tense. "That may be true, but even my father has limits. There are some gods and goddesses… even he cannot control."
For the first time, doubt flickered in Hera's eyes. The very thought that someone could stay Zeus's hand, that a divine force existed beyond his reach, unsettled her. She could only assume that a god—or perhaps a goddess—had taken a special interest in Nathan. And whoever they were, they were powerful enough to silence Zeus himself.
Hera clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. The thought infuriated her, but she could do nothing about it.
Instead, she turned her gaze back to the battle, watching, waiting. She still had faith in Khillea. There was no way she could lose—Hera knew her strength better than anyone. She had seen her triumph over impossible odds before.
She would not lose.
And yet, the battle had escalated beyond anything they had expected.
The clash of power had reached a terrifying crescendo. Nathan and Khillea moved at such speeds that they had become little more than blurs of motion, their blows striking with such force that the very air trembled. Even Agamemnon, the self-proclaimed leader of the Greek forces, could no longer follow their movements.
Khillea's entire body burned with golden flames, each flicker of light pulsing with divine might, turning her into a radiant warrior bathed in the brilliance of the gods. Opposing her, Nathan stood wreathed in ice, an unnatural cold radiating from his form. The very ground beneath his feet had frozen solid, tendrils of frost creeping outward, cracking and consuming the earth in a deathly embrace. Those standing behind him shivered, feeling the creeping touch of his unnatural chill against their skin.
Khillea exhaled sharply, golden mist escaping her lips. Her piercing gaze locked onto Nathan's, her body humming with unrestrained power. And yet… she hesitated.
Why?
She had sworn to eradicate all Trojans. She had burned with vengeance ever since Patroclus fell, her grief an unquenchable fire in her soul. And yet, as she looked into Nathan's icy, determined gaze, she felt… doubt.
It was as if he wasn't fighting with everything he had. As if he was holding something back.
A strange, unfamiliar feeling curled in her chest.
Why does it feel like her hatred is fading?
She shook the thought away, gritting her teeth. It didn't matter. She had to go past him. She had to reach Paris, the coward cowering behind Nathan. He was the one who had slain Patroclus.
And she would not rest until she buried her spear in his heart.
Khillea raised her sword high, her golden eyes gleaming with unshaken resolve. She took a slow breath, steadying herself as divine power coursed through her veins. Then, in a voice filled with determination, she whispered:
"Celestial Dual Magic."
At that moment, the air around her ignited with an overwhelming surge of power. Blazing golden flames erupted from her body, intertwining with pure, radiant light. The two forces, both celestial in nature, spiraled into a massive vortex of raw energy, their brilliance so intense that the battlefield was momentarily bathed in a blinding glow.
A hushed awe fell over the onlookers. Even the gods watching from Olympus fell silent.
Celestial Magic alone was a force few mortals could wield, but to harness two celestial elements in unison—fire and light—was a feat only those with the rarest of divine talents could achieve. Such a technique placed Khillea's strength just beneath that of the gods themselves, an unfathomable power that only the chosen few in all of history had ever attained.
Nathan, standing across from her, remained unfazed. His sharp demonic gaze met hers.
Khillea's heart pounded in her chest. This was the strongest opponent she had ever faced. He was the warrior she had long dreamed of battling—the one worthy of testing the limits of her strength. From the moment she had left her homeland for Troy, she had known that if she were to meet her end, it should be at the hands of an opponent of unparalleled might.
Despite the anger that had once consumed her—despite her thirst for vengeance—something deeper stirred within her now. A thrill, a desire long buried beneath the weight of grief.
A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.
If I must die today, then let it be against him.
This time, she would not hold back.
Her next attack would not be to wound. It would be to kill.
Nathan's gaze remained unreadable as he lifted his sword in response. The temperature around him plummeted instantly. Frost crept across the battlefield, crackling as it expanded outward. A deafening explosion of ice shattered through the air.
BADOOOOM!
In the blink of an eye, a massive sword of ice materialized in front of him, shimmering with a cold, ethereal glow. Its sheer size dwarfed everything in its path, radiating an aura of deathly frost that threatened to freeze even the gods who bore witness.
Nathan's voice was calm, yet laced with an unshakable power.
"Celestial Magic."
Khillea's breath caught in her throat.
He could wield Celestial Magic as well and this perfectly?
Her heart raced.
She gripped her sword tighter. There were only two outcomes now—she would either defeat him, or she would perish by his blade. Either way, she would embrace her fate.
The battlefield fell into a moment of perfect silence.
Then, without hesitation, Khillea launched herself forward.
A sonic boom echoed as she moved, her speed tearing through the air with enough force to send soldiers flying from the sheer shockwave of her motion. Dust and debris were hurled in every direction as she closed the distance between them, fire and light cascading around her like a divine comet.
Nathan stood his ground, unmoving.
He waited.
And then—
In a single, fluid motion, he lowered his sword.
The massive ice sword shimmered for an instant before it shot forward, an unstoppable force of destruction that blurred through the battlefield at terrifying speed.
Khillea's eyes sharpened. Fast.
But she was faster.
With a swift motion, she unclasped the golden shield strapped to her left arm.
This will buy me time.
Summoning every ounce of strength in her body, she hurled the shield directly at the oncoming attack.
BADAAAAAM!
The battlefield trembled as the two forces collided.
The golden shield did not shatter—but neither did the ice sword. Instead, the impact sent Khillea's shield ricocheting away, barely managing to slow the incoming attack.
She had expected as much.
There was no time to hesitate.
With a fierce roar, Khillea tightened her grip around her golden sword, her entire being consumed by an infernal blaze. The flames and light surrounding her intertwined into something even greater, something divine.
She met the approaching ice sword head-on.
With all the strength of a warrior who refused to fall—
She swung.
BADOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!
The heavens themselves seemed to split apart as the two demigod-like forces clashed. The resulting shockwave tore through the battlefield, uprooting even the strongest warrior, shattering the ground, and sending tremors rolling through the earth. The sheer magnitude of the collision sent an aurora of fire and frost spiraling into the sky, painting the heavens with a battle between two warriors whose strength defied the very limits of mortality.
The battlefield was silent.
A thick cloud of dust and debris hung in the air, obscuring the aftermath of the devastating clash between fire and ice. The lingering echoes of their attacks rumbled in the distance, as if the world itself had yet to recover from the impact. The ground was scarred, fissures spreading outward like veins of destruction. The very air crackled—half searing hot from Khillea's flames, half deathly cold from Nathan's frozen aura.
Nobody could see what had happened.
And then—
As the dust began to settle, two figures stood amidst the wreckage.
Nathan and Khillea.
Both warriors were still standing, though their bodies bore the toll of the battle. Blood trickled down Nathan's forehead, staining the white strands of his hair. Across from him, Khillea stood firm, but her breaths came in ragged, uneven gasps. A crimson trail ran down the side of her face, mingling with sweat and soot. Though both had suffered injuries, it was clear—Khillea had taken the worse of the exchange.
Yet, despite her state, her grip on her sword never wavered.
For a moment, there was only silence between them, the distant sounds of war fading into an eerie stillness.
Then, Nathan did something unexpected.
He spoke.
"Khillea."
Her eyes widened.
The way he said it—so certain, so familiar—it sent a jolt through her heart.
How?
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How did he know?
Few, if any, knew her true name. Though her identity as a woman had been exposed, she had never spoken her real name to another soul since stepping onto the battlefield. To most, she was simply Achilles, the warrior of unmatched strength, the relentless avenger of Patroclus.
And yet—Nathan had called her by name.
As if he had known her all along.
She clenched her teeth, forcing down the whirlwind of confusion that threatened to consume her. Her eyes sharpened, but before she could speak—
Nathan took a step forward.
"Let's stop this," he murmured.
He met her gaze, his gold demonic eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that sent an unfamiliar chill through her body.
And then, he said something that shook her to her very core.
"For our daughter."
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC308 Convincing Khillea
"Let's stop this," he murmured.
He met her gaze, his gold demonic eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that sent an unfamiliar chill through her body.
And then, he said something that shook her to her very core.
"For our daughter."
Khillea froze in place, her entire body rigid as Nathan's words sank in.
For our daughter?
Had she misheard him? No… he had said it clearly, without hesitation. The weight of those words pressed down on her, making her heart pound in her chest.
Her breath hitched. It couldn't be.
"N…Nathan?" she finally managed to whisper, her voice trembling with a mix of disbelief and raw emotion.
She had thought him. Lost. Erased from the world. She thought he would never come back anymore to her.
The man standing before her looked different. Completely different. His presence was overwhelming, his strength undeniable. His very existence now exuded a power that seemed to defy all reason. Yet… as she stared into his face, listened closely to the cadence of his voice, something stirred deep within her. It was him. It had to be.
Nathan's lips curled into a small, knowing smile, as if he understood exactly what was going through her mind.
"It's really you?" she asked again, her fingers trembling at her sides.
His expression softened, but his voice carried a weight of regret.
"I am," he said solemnly. "I regret that I wasn't there… when our daughter was born. When Patroclus died."
The name Patroclus sent a violent shudder through Khillea. Her fists clenched, her entire body stiffening as a surge of grief and fury clawed its way to the surface.
Yes. That's right. Patroclus.
Her rage had a purpose. Her grief had a name.
No matter who stood before her—no matter if it was Nathan himself—she would not abandon her revenge.
"I don't care," she said, forcing down the overwhelming storm of emotions threatening to break through her composure. Her voice was cold, controlled—her sword arm steady, despite the chaos within. "Let me pass."
Nathan's gaze hardened instantly.
"No," he said firmly. "I won't let you throw your life away in some senseless, suicidal revenge."
Khillea's head snapped up, her eyes flashing dangerously.
"Senseless?" Her voice cracked with fury. "You have no idea what I felt for Patroclus! He was the only family I had in this cursed world!"
Her body trembled—not in weakness, but in the overwhelming power coursing through her veins. Magic surged outward, crackling in the air.
Flames erupted.
Her sword ignited once more, its searing light bathing the battlefield in an ominous glow. The fire coiled around her body, wrapping her in a blinding aura of vengeance.
Nathan, however, didn't flinch. He remained still, his silver-white hair barely shifting in the wind as he met her fury with a gaze of unshaken resolve.
"I know," he said quietly.
His voice was steady, yet heavy with meaning.
"I didn't speak to him much, but I knew one thing for certain." Nathan's eyes softened, but only slightly. "He cared about you. More than anything."
Khillea's grip tightened around her sword.
Nathan continued. "And he would never—never—have wanted you to die like this."
She felt her breath catch, just for a moment.
But the anger was still there.
"In vain?" she spat back. "You think this is in vain? You don't understand anything, Nathan. We are going to win this war."
Nathan shook his head, his expression darkening.
"This isn't about the war anymore, Khillea," he said, voice now ice-cold. "You and I both know that."
She opened her mouth to protest, but his next words struck like a blade to the heart.
"I've slept with you twice," Nathan continued, his voice measured yet unyielding, "and I've spoken with you enough to understand who you really are. You're not doing this for strategy, for victory, or for the Greeks. You're doing this because you think you have nothing left."
Khillea's breath hitched.
"After you kill Paris, after you cut down whoever remains in your path—you won't stop. You'll keep fighting. Keep slaughtering. And then one day… you'll die. Not as a warrior. Not as a hero. But as a broken puppet in the middle of Trojan soil, discarded without a second thought."
His eyes, colder than she had ever seen them, pierced straight through her.
"And I refuse to let that happen."
A heavy silence fell between them.
Khillea stood frozen, her mind at war with itself. Her flames flickered, their rage momentarily shaken.
Nathan wasn't pleading. He wasn't begging. He wasn't even trying to convince her with words of comfort.
He was declaring.
Khillea's grip on her sword tightened as she glared at Nathan, her breath ragged with emotion. Was he really going to stand in her way?
"Are you going to stop me?" she asked, her voice laced with both defiance and pain.
Nathan's response was firm.
"Yes."
Khillea gritted her teeth. Then so be it.
In an instant, her form blurred. She vanished from sight, reappearing in a flash of golden light as she swung her sword down upon him.
Nathan's black blade rose to meet hers, their weapons clashing with a force that sent violent tremors rippling through the ground beneath them. A deafening shockwave exploded outward. The very earth split apart beneath their feet as they exchanged a flurry of strikes, each blow colliding with enough power to shatter boulders.
Nathan's movements were calm, calculated—his ice sword meeting her blazing slashes with unyielding precision. Fire and ice clashed in a furious dance of destruction.
"You have a daughter now," Nathan said, his voice carrying over the roar of their battle. "You should take care of her. Raise her."
Khillea's eyes widened for the briefest of moments before she gritted her teeth, her attacks growing fiercer.
"I am not a good mother!" she screamed, her voice raw. Tears burned at the edges of her vision, but she refused to let them fall. "I won't be! I can't be!"
Nathan's expression softened—but his stance did not waver.
"You can become a good mother," he countered, deflecting another one of her searing strikes. "I know that. And I will help you."
Khillea's movements faltered for a split second. Help her? Him? After all this time?
Her eyes widened in shock. But before the emotions could settle, she gritted her teeth and lunged forward once again.
She couldn't afford to believe in his words. Not now.
"You left me alone," she muttered under her breath, anger simmering beneath her grief. She had called out to him. She had wanted him to stay. And yet—"You didn't stay with me when I asked!"
Nathan's response was cool, unshaken.
"I had other issues to deal with," he admitted. Then, without hesitation, he added, "And I have other women to take care of."
Khillea froze for a fraction of a second, her eyes flickering with an emotion far darker than mere anger.
"T...Then how are you going to take care of me?!" she demanded, her voice cracking with something she refused to name.
Nathan didn't hesitate.
"I can. And I will," he declared, his icy gaze locking onto hers. "Since the day I claimed you, you were already mine, Khillea. And I forbid you from throwing your life away."
Her heart pounded furiously against her ribs, but she refused to let his words shake her.
"You can't order me around!" she roared, thrusting her hand forward.
A blinding wave of searing flames and radiant light surged toward him. A devastating storm of Celestial Rank Magic.
Nathan remained unfazed.
With a single motion, he swung his black sword through the attack, slicing it apart as if it were nothing but mist.
Khillea barely had time to react before he moved—faster than she had ever seen before.
Nathan closed the distance between them in an instant.
Khillea gritted her teeth, raising her blade. She wouldn't go down that easily.
She gathered all of her magic, preparing another devastating attack. Celestial Rank Magic burned at her fingertips—a spell powerful enough to obliterate everything in its path.
But Nathan's sword moved first.
A prison of ice erupted around her.
The frost spread like creeping vines, coiling around her limbs, her waist, her legs—freezing her in place before she could react.
Khillea's eyes widened.
This ice—it wasn't normal.
She summoned her flames, preparing to melt through it in an instant. But it didn't melt.
Khione's ice.
Before she could completely break free, Nathan was already upon her.
She had no choice. She needed to change tactics.
With a furious cry, she summoned a radiant barrier of pure light around her—a shield strong enough to repel even the most powerful darkness magic.
He wouldn't be able to touch her now.
Or so she thought.
Nathan didn't hesitate.
He simply reached forward.
Khillea's eyes widened in pure disbelief as his hand pierced straight through her barrier—as if it were nothing but a veil of mist.
Impossible.
Before she could react, his fingers wrapped around her wrist. And then—
He pulled her forward.
A gasp escaped her lips as she stumbled straight into his arms.
And then, before she could even begin to struggle—
Nathan wrapped his arms around her.
A firm, unrelenting embrace.
Khillea's breath caught in her throat.
Her flames flickered. Her entire body tensed.
But she didn't push him away. Experience more on My Virtual Library Empire
For the first time since this battle had begun—she didn't know what to do.
"You don't have to fight anymore," Nathan whispered, his arms tightening around Khillea in a gentle embrace.
His voice was calm—steady—like an unshakable force amidst the storm raging within her.
Khillea trembled, feeling the warmth of his presence. His strength. His unwavering certainty.
For so long, she had fought alone. Pushing away everyone, believing that no one could ever truly stand by her.
But now…
Nathan was here.
"You don't have to feel lonely either," he murmured against her ear. "I'll be there with you. Let's raise our daughter together. Like a family."
Khillea's breath hitched.
A family.
A real family.
Tears welled in her eyes as her hands hesitantly rose.
And then, for the first time in what felt like forever—she let herself believe.
Her fingers clutched onto Nathan's back as she hugged him in return, her hold light at first, but then—tighter.
She wasn't alone. Not anymore.
Nathan chuckled softly.
"Do you want Patroclus to see us fighting? He's already seen us naked and fucking—this would be the last straw for him."
Khillea blinked.
Then, unexpectedly, a laugh escaped her lips.
It was soft—shaky—but real.
She smiled against his shoulder, hugging him even closer.
Nathan let her.
Finally, she accepted him.
Finally, she chose to live.
And that choice alone—that one thought—was enough to shatter the fate she had once believed was unchangeable.
But just as the warmth of their embrace settled—
A sharp, searing pain tore through Nathan's back.
His body jerked. A cold sensation spread through his spine.
Khillea's eyes widened.
Something was wrong.
She felt it—the tension in his muscles, the sharp hitch in his breath.
Her hands trembled as she reached behind him.
And then—warmth.
Blood.
Her fingers came away soaked in crimson.
Her heart stopped.
She looked up.
And then—
She saw him.
Paris stood before them, his sword dripping with Nathan's blood.
A twisted, deranged smirk stretched across his face.
He had stabbed Nathan's back from behind taking both of them off guard.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC309 Paris's judgement
Khillea's hand trembled violently, her fingers slick with the warm, crimson essence of life—Nathan's blood. Her breath hitched as she stared at the glistening scarlet staining her palm, a stark and damning proof of yet another tragedy at the hands of Paris.
First, he had stolen Patroclus from her, wrenching away the one she cherished as a brother. Now, he dared to strike again, this time trying to take Nathan—the only light left in her darkened world, the one tether keeping her from spiraling into despair.
Her vision darkened, rage surging through her veins like a relentless storm. A sinister aura seeped from her form, thick and suffocating, like the weight of impending doom itself. The temperature around her seemed to drop, the air turning frigid with the sheer force of her wrath.
Paris, who had been so sure of his victory, felt an unnatural chill creep up his spine. His instincts screamed at him—danger. With a sharp intake of breath, he yanked his sword free from Nathan's back, crimson droplets splattering across the battlefield, and swiftly leapt away, creating distance between them. His hands clenched around the hilt of his blade, but even he couldn't suppress the creeping tendrils of fear that wrapped around his chest.
Khillea's legs tensed, ready to launch herself at him and tear him apart for what he had done. But before she could make her move, a gentle touch against her hair stopped her in her tracks.
"N...Nathan! Are you okay?! I will call Asclepius! He will heal you!" Khillea's voice cracked with desperation. Her mind was frantic, the thought of losing Nathan unbearable. She had finally found a reason to live beyond war, beyond vengeance. And if that was ripped from her... she would be lost. Lost to madness, lost to the abyss of despair she had barely climbed out of.
If she had to drag Asclepius to his knees and force him to heal a Trojan warrior, she would. If she had to defy the gods themselves, she would. Nothing mattered anymore except Nathan and the future they could have.
Yet, to her disbelief, Nathan merely smiled—calm, unfazed, as if Paris's attack had been nothing more than an inconvenience, a fleeting discomfort rather than a fatal blow. His golden eyes shimmered with amusement, tinged with something even deeper—absolute confidence.
Paris's blade had been no more than a mere mosquito bite to him.
Pain? He had endured agony beyond comprehension. He had suffered wounds far worse than this—tortures that shattered lesser men, trials that should have claimed his life a thousand times over. A stab in the back from Paris? It was nothing. It was laughable.
Even as the Greeks gawked in disbelief, the gaping wound on his back was already closing, flesh knitting itself together at an unnatural speed. The corruption meant to spread through his body dissipated instantly, as if it had never been there.
"I...Impossible!" Paris stammered, his face pale with horror. "This sword was given to me by a Corrupt God! You should be dying!"
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His voice trembled, unable to reconcile what was happening before his eyes. That blade had slain heroes, struck down warriors who should have been untouchable. And yet, Nathan stood there, completely unharmed, untouched by the power that had been meant to end him.
Poor Paris. He had no idea.
Nathan's body had long since become something beyond human limits. The darkness that once threatened to consume him had instead become his strength. And now, with light magic coursing through him as well, there was no force of corruption that could claim him.
With certainty, Nathan gently cupped Khillea's face, lifting her gaze away from Paris and back to him.
"Look at me, Khillea," he said, his voice steady, soothing. "The war will be over soon. Leave the rest to me and watch."
Khillea's rage melted into something else entirely. Her lips quivered, her breath shallow as she gazed into Nathan's unwavering eyes—so full of power, of promise.
Overcome, she surrendered to the overwhelming emotions surging within her and threw her arms around him, pulling him into a desperate, passionate kiss.
The battlefield stood still.
The Greeks, already struggling to comprehend what had transpired, were utterly dumbfounded.
Achilles—or rather, Khillea—who was supposed to be the Greeks' strongest weapon, was now locked in an intimate embrace with their worst enemy, their greatest nightmare—Heiron, the man who had miraculously returned from the dead.
And if that alone wasn't shocking enough, it seemed Khillea had not only shared her bed with Heiron twice, but they had even borne a daughter together! The realization sent ripples of disbelief through the ranks of the Greek warriors. When had that even happened? How had no one noticed? The revelation left them dumbfounded, struggling to comprehend the gravity of what they had just witnessed.
Yet the absurdity did not end there.
Paris, a Trojan Prince, had just driven his blade into the back of Heiron, a Trojan legend who stood on equal footing with Hector himself. A supposed ally turned traitor in the blink of an eye. Nothing made sense anymore. The war had taken many strange turns, but this was beyond anything they had ever imagined.
It was madness.
And yet, for the gods who observed from their celestial thrones, it was pure, unfiltered entertainment. Many of them reveled in the unfolding chaos, their laughter echoing in the heavens, finding amusement in the mortals' struggles and betrayals.
Most of those present had no idea why Paris had chosen to stab Heiron, but a select few understood the reasoning behind his treachery—Nathan included. And among those who shared in this knowledge was Helen, whose troubled expression suggested that she had already suspected something like this would occur.
Nathan turned slowly, his piercing gaze locking onto Paris, who stood frozen in place, his hands trembling despite the fury in his eyes. His anger was a thin veil barely concealing the terror coursing through his veins under Nathan's scrutiny.
"You just stabbed me," Nathan's voice was devoid of warmth, his words striking with the precision of a blade. "And you did it in front of your entire family."
Paris flinched at the cold accusation, his lips parting as if to retort, but nothing came.
Nathan took a step forward, the weight of his presence pressing down on the disgraced prince. "How do you think they look at you right now?"
Paris hesitated, the unspoken question gnawing at his mind. And yet, against his better judgment, his gaze drifted toward the towering walls of Troy, where the very people he had sworn to protect stood watching.
Helen's expression was a mask of utter disgust. The moment she had seen Nathan stabbed from behind in a cowardly attack, her heart had nearly stopped like for Astynome and Kassandra. But then, as Nathan stood, unscathed her terror had been replaced by something else entirely.
Contempt.
Astynome's cold, judgmental gaze bore into Paris, mirroring Kassandra's sharp glare. Neither of them spoke, but their silence was deafening. The message was clear.
A curse upon Troy.
Paris had not only brought war to their doorstep—he had now tried to murder the very man who might have been their salvation.
Andromache, Hector's wife, had the same look of revulsion etched onto her features. If she had despised Paris before, it was nothing compared to what she felt now. He had always been arrogant, always spoken disrespectfully toward her husband—the man who truly bore the weight of Troy on his shoulders. But now? Now he had crossed an unforgivable line.
He had betrayed the man who had saved Hector's life.
The man who was, in every sense, Hector's truest friend.
Priam's face bore the expression of a father whose hope had finally withered, a man watching his own son succumb irredeemably to disgrace. He stood tall, his regal bearing unwavering, but the disappointment in his gaze was unmistakable. It was not the disappointment of anger, but of resignation. Paris was lost to him.
Beside him, Queen Hecuba's lips trembled as she fought to contain the pain welling up within her. More than anyone, she suffered in this moment. Her daughter, Kassandra, had foreseen this since childhood. She had warned her, pleaded with her—send him away, never allow him to remain in Troy. He will bring its downfall. And yet, Hecuba had clung to her love as a mother, ignoring the dire prophecy. Now, Troy stood on the precipice of ruin, its survival hanging by a fragile thread, and all because of Paris. Each passing day could be the city's last, and the near loss of Hector had been yet another wound inflicted upon them by his selfishness.
Now, to make matters worse, Paris had just attempted to strike down the very man who had saved them all—Nathan, wielding magic beyond their understanding, magic powerful enough to rival the wrath of gods themselves.
It wasn't only Priam and Hecuba who bore the weight of this realization. The entire city of Troy had turned against Paris. Their gazes, once filled with admiration for the prince, now radiated nothing but cold contempt. Among them stood Aeneas, his strong jaw clenched in barely restrained fury. His fingers twitched against the hilt of his sword, itching to end Paris's disgrace himself, but he knew it was not his place.
Paris, trembling with frustration and desperation, suddenly erupted, his voice hoarse with anger. "Don't you dare look at me like that!!" he shouted, his body quaking. "I-It's all because of him! Because of you, Heiron! You should have never come to Troy! You stole Helen! You corrupted her mind with your tricks!"
Nathan tilted his head, his expression a mixture of amusement and pity. "Stole?" he repeated, a mocking lilt in his voice. "She was never yours to begin with."
Paris's eyes burned with unbridled rage. Without hesitation, he lunged, his corrupted magic swirling around him like a storm of malevolence. He swung his sword, aiming to sever Nathan's head from his shoulders.
But Nathan barely moved. With effortless grace, he sidestepped the attack and drove his fist deep into Paris's abdomen. The breath fled from Paris's lungs in a strangled gasp, his body doubling over in agony. Before he could recover, Nathan twisted his wrist, disarming him with a swift, brutal efficiency. The corrupted sword flew from Paris's grasp, landing far beyond his reach.
Now defenseless, Paris staggered, his arms wrapped around his midsection as he groaned in pain. But he refused to yield. The corruption surged through him, forcing his broken body to rise once more.
BADAM!
"Grugh!!"
Nathan with a slap that resounded like a punch sent Paris rolling on the ground pathetically.
Nathan had disgusted gaze. He had no desire to dirty his hands with the blood of such a pathetic guy. Paris wasn't worth the effort.
"Heiron."
The deep, steady voice of Hector cut through the tension. The Trojan champion strode forward, his bronze armor gleaming despite the battle-worn dents and scratches marring its surface from the battle of a day ago. Despite the deadly state he was in, he plunged once more in the war right after.
Nathan turned to face him, his expression unreadable.
Hector met his gaze with solemn determination. "Please," he said, his voice steady. "Let me handle my brother."
Nathan looked Hector for a long moment before speaking, his tone carrying the weight of an unspoken warning. "Hector, he has gone too deep. You understand what that means, don't you?"
There was no hesitation in Hector's response. "I know," he said, gripping the hilt of his sword with firm resolve. "Don't worry, Heiron. I will do what must be done."
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC310 Agamemnon's corruption
Nathan's eyes darkened. He studied Hector for a long moment before speaking, his tone carrying the weight of an unspoken warning. "Hector, he has gone too deep. You understand what that means, don't you?"
There was no hesitation in Hector's response. "I know," he said, gripping the hilt of his sword with firm resolve. "Don't worry, Heiron. I will do what must be done."
Hector strode forward, his steps measured and firm, until he stood before Paris. His younger brother glared at him with unbridled hatred, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
For a long moment, Hector simply observed him, his expression unreadable. Then, with a sigh that carried the weight of disappointment and sorrow, he spoke.
"You have fallen very low, Paris." His voice was steady, but the pity in his eyes was unmistakable.
"SHUT UP!!" Paris roared, his voice cracking under the pressure of his own fury. "What do you know about me?!"
Hector's gaze remained unwavering, piercing through his brother's rage like a blade through soft flesh. "I know that you don't care about Troy," he said, his tone cold and sharp. "You only care about Helen—not as a person, not as a woman with her own thoughts, her own will—but as a prize, something you stole and refuse to let go of."
Paris's body tensed, his nails digging into his palms.
"I also know that you resent Heiron," Hector continued, each word dripping with ice. "That you've always envied him. That deep down, you wanted him dead. And today, you finally acted on that hatred. You tried to kill him."
"He is a stranger!" Paris spat, his voice shaking.
"A stranger?" Hector scoffed, his lips curling in disdain. "A stranger who has saved Troy countless times. A stranger who has saved my life on multiple occasions. A stranger who is the very reason Troy still stands." His voice grew sharper, cutting through the thick tension between them. "And yet, what have *you* done for Troy, Paris? What have *you* given, besides dragging a war to our doorstep? You, who have offered nothing but selfishness and ruin?"
Paris's body trembled, his breath ragged with fury. "SHUT UP! SHUT UP!!" His screams were near hysterical, raw with desperation and blind rage.
Then, something shifted.
A suffocating darkness erupted from him, swallowing his entire body. It wasn't mere shadow—it was something deeper, something wrong, something reeking of malice and corruption. His form twisted within the writhing blackness, his features obscured save for his eyes—two burning crimson orbs, gleaming with murderous intent.
"I WILL KILL YOU ALL…." His voice was no longer entirely human. It was guttural, beastlike, laced with a feral hunger for destruction.
With a snarl, he lunged at Hector, his speed inhuman, his movements like a predator finally unleashed.
Hector did not hesitate.
His grip tightened around his sword, and in an instant, his weapon erupted with radiant light. The golden glow bathed his armor, illuminating his resolve. He met Paris head-on, his blade swinging forward in a brilliant arc, prepared to strike down the brother who had already crossed the point of no return.
Nathan observed the scene from afar, his expression impassive. A single glance told him everything he needed to know. Hector had already made up his mind. He had chosen Troy over family. He had chosen duty over blood.
And Hector had chosen to do it himself.
It wasn't just about honor—it was about perception. It would not do for Nathan, the so-called savior of Troy, to be the one to strike down a Trojan prince. That responsibility had to fall on Hector's shoulders. He understood this well.
But truthfully, Nathan had no desire to waste his time on someone like Paris anyway.
Let Hector do what needed to be done.
And let Paris reap the consequences of his own downfall.
As the chaos of battle raged around them, Khillea suddenly approached, her presence commanding yet filled with an undeniable warmth. Without hesitation, she grasped Nathan's arm and pulled him into a kiss, her lips pressing against his with a mixture of urgency and affection.
"I will order the Myrmidons to retreat," she whispered against his lips, her breath warm and fleeting.
Nathan met her gaze, his golden eyes softening for a moment as he returned her kiss. "I'll see you later," he murmured. "Take care of our daughter."
Khillea's expression turned tender. "Kyra," she said.
Nathan blinked. "Kyra?"
A gentle smile played on her lips. "That's her name," she confirmed, her voice sweet yet resolute. Then, without another word, she turned and strode away, her red hair flowing behind her like a banner in the wind.
Nathan watched her departure, his heart swelling with emotions he rarely allowed himself to feel. But as soon as she vanished from sight, his expression hardened. The warmth in his eyes was extinguished, replaced by a steely, cold focus as he turned his gaze toward Agamemnon.
It was finally time to rid the world of the greatest trash among the Greek kings.
However, as he studied his target, a flicker of confusion crossed his mind. Something was wrong.
Agamemnon was not positioned in the back, where a cowardly king would normally stand. Instead, he was at the very front of his army, standing alone, his massive hands gripping the hilt of a familiar sword—Paris's sword.
The self-proclaimed ruler of the Greek forces stared at the weapon with an unsettling intensity, as if it were whispering to him, calling him, consuming him.
Then
BADOOOOM!
A deafening explosion of darkness erupted around Agamemnon, an abyssal vortex swallowing everything in its path. Soldiers nearest to him—his own men—were caught in the swirling mass, their bodies twisted and consumed before they could even scream. The air was filled with the sound of bones snapping, flesh tearing, and armor crumbling into dust.
A chorus of terrified cries echoed across the battlefield as Greek warriors scrambled to escape the catastrophe, their disciplined ranks dissolving into chaos. Even the most hardened veterans, men who had fought in countless wars, found themselves paralyzed by horror.
Nathan narrowed his eyes, his sharp gaze analyzing the transformation unfolding before him.
It was similar to what had happened to Paris—but far more violent, far more grotesque.
Agamemnon's body expanded, his form growing taller and more monstrous by the second. His once-golden armor blackened and cracked, dark energy seeping from every joint and seam. Paris's sword, now an extension of this unholy metamorphosis, stretched and twisted, growing longer, wider, pulsing with an ominous glow.
And yet, despite the monstrous proportions of his new form, Agamemnon's head remained unchanged—his human face unnaturally small against his bloated, corrupted body. His expression was a twisted blend of rage and euphoria, as though he were reveling in the overwhelming power coursing through his veins.
His presence exuded a force unlike anything before—something far darker, far more insidious than simple strength.
Nathan's eyes narrowed further.
This was beyond what happened to Paris. This is something else entirely.
The Greeks, realizing the sheer magnitude of the horror before them, stumbled backward in terror. The disciplined army that had once been the pride of the continent now resembled nothing more than a frightened herd, each man desperate to distance himself from the abomination their king had become.
Even Odysseus, a man known for his sharp mind and iron will, stood frozen for a moment, his expression betraying his shock. Then, regaining himself, he turned and bellowed, his voice cutting through the panic.
"Get back! EVERYONE! RETREAT!"
His command was not just for his own men—it was a warning to all Greeks.
Something unnatural had been unleashed.
And even their own king was no longer on their side.
As Agamemnon's transformation reached its completion, an eerie silence settled over the battlefield. It was a suffocating, unnatural stillness—one that sent a shiver down the spines of even the bravest warriors. No one dared to speak. No one dared to move.
Then, slowly, Agamemnon lifted his head.
His abyssal gaze, now devoid of any semblance of humanity, locked onto Nathan with an unnatural intensity—like a predator honing in on its prey. His soulless black eyes shimmered with malevolence, an endless void of seething hatred.
The moment his eyes met Nathan's, every soldier standing between them instinctively took a step back, fear gripping their hearts. A primal, unspoken understanding coursed through them—this was no longer their king. This was something else. Something monstrous.
But Nathan stood firm. Unmoved. Unfazed.
A twisted grin curled Agamemnon's lips, his expression a grotesque mockery of amusement.
"Giihihiih!" A chilling, guttural chuckle erupted from his throat, warped and distorted like the voice of a man who had long since lost his sanity. His mouth twisted as he spoke, his words slow and dripping with venom.
"I… will… kill you… with my own hands. I will rip your limbs apart, tear your flesh while you still breathe… You will suffer for what you've done to me…"
Nathan remained still, his golden eyes unblinking as he stared down the maddened king. He could feel the sheer, overwhelming hatred radiating from Agamemnon—a hatred so deep it had utterly consumed him.
Even in this monstrous state, Agamemnon remembered everything.
Nathan had humiliated him. He had taken Astynome and Briseis from his grasp, robbed him of his spoils of war. He had set fire to his ships, severing his path of retreat, stripping him of his control. Enjoy exclusive content from My Virtual Library Empire
For Agamemnon, a man who prided himself as the King of all Greeks, such disgrace was unforgivable.
He would not could not accept it.
With a deafening, guttural roar, Agamemnon launched forward.
"GRAHH!!"
In an instant, his massive form disappeared from sight, vanishing in a blur of terrifying speed.
Then
BADOOOM!!
The earth split apart beneath him as his colossal blade came crashing down. The sheer force of the impact sent shockwaves rippling through the battlefield, shattering stone and soil alike. Tremors surged outward, knocking surrounding soldiers off their feet as dust and debris exploded into the air.
Agamemnon's wild gaze searched through the destruction, his bloodthirsty grin widening.
But Nathan was nowhere to be seen.
BADAAM!!
Before Agamemnon could react, a devastating force slammed into his back.
Nathan's boot connected with his massive frame like a thunderbolt, sending the monstrous king hurtling forward. His enormous body crashed into the ground, rolling violently across the shattered battlefield, carving trenches in the earth with every impact.
A moment later, he rose to his feet, his monstrous form towering once more. His eyes burned with unrelenting fury as he snapped his head toward Nathan.
There, standing amidst the swirling dust, was Nathan—calm, composed, and untouched. His expression was devoid of amusement now, his golden eyes cold as winter steel.
A slow smirk played at the edges of his lips as he raised his sword.
"Let's end this, Agamemnon."
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC311 Nathan vs Agamemnon
"Let's end this, Agamemnon."
Nathan kicked off the ground, his movements swift and precise, as he drew his black demonic sword. A chilling aura trailed behind him, an ominous mist of icy energy that crackled in the air. His target was clear—Agamemnon, the towering warrior who stood defiantly, exuding a newfound and unsettling strength.
Agamemnon raised his sword, a weapon he had stolen from Paris, though it no longer resembled its former self. The blade was now darker, broader, pulsating with a malevolent energy that twisted the air around it. A sinister black aura emanated from its edge, almost alive, as if whispering promises of destruction. Despite his massive frame, Agamemnon moved with shocking speed, closing the distance between them in the blink of an eye.
Nathan reacted instantly, bringing up his sword to block the incoming strike. The clash sent a deafening shockwave rippling through the battlefield, forcing him to skid backward, his feet carving deep grooves into the earth. The force behind Agamemnon's attack was monstrous—far beyond what a mere mortal should possess.
He wasn't a Demigod, yet he had reached their strength, all thanks to Paris's corrupted sword.
Nathan wasted no time. He tightened his grip on his weapon and slashed through the air. "Celestial Ice Magic."
A massive lance of ice materialized before him, thick, jagged, and gleaming with divine frost. Its sheer presence caused the surrounding temperature to plummet, and a mist of frozen vapor spiraled outward. With a mere flick of his blade, Nathan sent the icy projectile hurtling toward Agamemnon at breakneck speed. Your adventure continues at My Virtual Library Empire
The gods watched in stunned silence.
Celestial Magic—used with such ease, such mastery. It was as if Nathan had become one with it, his control absolute. There was no hesitation, no delay. He wielded the celestial magic power as naturally as breathing, a feat that even the greatest warriors of legend had struggled to achieve.
Agamemnon barely had time to react. The lance struck his chest with devastating force, piercing through his form and leaving a gaping hole where his heart should have been. Yet, no blood spilled from the wound. Instead, the darkness that cloaked his body writhed and shifted, as if it were a living entity. The wound did not remain—it healed within moments, the black substance pulling itself back together, reforming as if nothing had happened.
"Kahaha!!" Agamemnon burst into laughter, his voice twisted with manic delight. He spread his arms wide, reveling in his own invulnerability. "Look! You cannot defeat me! Heiron!!"
His grip tightened around his corrupted blade, and with a feral roar, he swung it at Nathan. The sheer force of the strike split the air itself, a wave of dark energy carving a devastating path through the battlefield. Soldiers in the distance, caught in the blade's arc, were instantly cleaved apart, their bodies vanishing as the corrupt power erased their existence.
"This... This is my power!!"
Nathan, unfazed by Agamemnon's deranged exultation, remained silent. His expression was calm, calculating. Without a word, he raised his sword, the air around him turning frigid.
A breath. A moment.
Then, with a single downward slash, Agamemnon's entire form froze over in an instant. A towering sculpture of ice now stood where the warrior had been, his face forever captured in a twisted grin. Silence stretched over the battlefield as frost glistened in the sunlight.
Crack.
A fissure ran down the frozen Agamemnon, followed by another. Black mana seeped from the cracks, pulsating like a living heart. Then, with a final surge of power, the ice shattered apart. Fragments of frozen debris scattered across the ground as Agamemnon emerged, hunched over, gasping for breath.
His confidence was gone, replaced by something far more raw—rage.
With ragged breaths, he lifted his gaze to Nathan, his eyes burning with hatred. The battle was far from over or at least he thought.
Nathan smirked, the expression barely noticeable but filled with confidence.
Agamemnon's eyes burned red with fury, his bloodshot gaze locked onto Nathan as he raised his sword.
BADOOOOM!
The ground beneath him shattered as he charged forward, moving even faster than before. The sheer force of his advance tore apart the battlefield, deep fissures splitting the earth in his wake.
BADAM!!
With a monstrous roar, Agamemnon threw a massive punch toward Nathan. Reacting instantly, Nathan met the strike with his sword, the impact sending tremors through his arms. Once again, the force drove him back, but he refused to yield. Twisting his body, he delivered a powerful counter-kick, striking Agamemnon in the chest and sending him tumbling across the ground.
Agamemnon, undeterred, roared in frustration and hurled himself forward once more. His movements were frenzied, fueled by unrelenting wrath.
"You call yourself the King of Kings, yet you fight with stolen power," Nathan taunted, his voice laced with contempt.
"DON'T YOU DARE!!!" Agamemnon bellowed, his swings becoming erratic yet deadly. His massive hands carved through the air with terrifying speed, each slash leaving trails of destructive energy behind Nathan. But despite the ferocity of his attacks, not a single blow reached its mark.
"You claim to be the ruler of all Greeks, yet you wield a sword stolen from a Trojan prince," Nathan sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. He turned his gaze toward the gathered Greek warriors, their expressions uncertain, their voices silent. "Is this your king?" he questioned, his words cutting deeper than any blade.
Agamemnon's rage reached a breaking point. "I WILL KILL YOU! KILL YOU!!!" he roared, his body swelling with raw, unchecked power. His sword, too, grew even larger, pulsating with the same ominous darkness that consumed him.
With a sudden burst of speed, he caught Nathan by the leg. Before Nathan could react, Agamemnon slammed him violently into the ground, the impact shaking the battlefield. Without pause, he hurled Nathan through the air, sending him crashing into the dirt.
Yet, as the dust settled, Nathan rose to his feet with ease, as if nothing had happened. A thin trickle of blood ran down his forehead, but he paid it no mind. His eyes, sharp and unwavering, remained fixed on Agamemnon.
"Your king has lost control," Nathan stated, his voice carrying across the battlefield. "He has killed his own men, his own people. Look at him! He's lost everything!" He let out a mocking laugh, each word a dagger in Agamemnon's pride.
Agamemnon's breathing turned ragged, his fury reaching a fever pitch. Nathan's words weren't just insults—they were truth, a truth he could not bear to hear. The Trojan War no longer mattered. The destruction of Troy was irrelevant. The vengeance for his daughter, forgotten.
None of it meant anything anymore.
All that mattered was killing the man who dared to mock him.
The real issue was that the man standing before him wasn't even taking him seriously. In fact, it was painfully obvious—almost as if he were toying with him, mocking his every move with effortless ease.
Nathan was toying with the King of the Greeks, Agamemnon. And it wasn't just an illusion or some trick of the mind—every single Greek and Trojan present could see it.
He was humiliating the great King of the Achaeans, reducing him to a mere spectacle before his own soldiers.
Agamemnon's expression darkened, his grip tightening around his weapon. Yet, no matter how fiercely he tried to fight, no matter how much power he poured into each strike, it was all meaningless. Nathan evaded his attacks with ease, as if they were nothing more than the clumsy flailing of a child.
The gods themselves watched in stunned silence.
"What… what is happening…?" Hera's voice wavered, her disbelief evident.
She struggled to comprehend what had just unfolded before her.
They were losing the war.
No.
They were going to lose the war.
Her mind raced, searching for some explanation, some logical reasoning behind this absurdity. But the sight before her shattered all expectations.
"Why… why would Khillea do such a thing…?" she murmured, utterly speechless.
Khillea—her greatest hope, the strongest warrior in this war, the woman she had placed all her faith in—had just turned her back on everything. Without hesitation, without a second thought, she had kissed Nathan, and in that moment, the entire battlefield had shifted.
To make matters worse, it wasn't just that.
The kiss carried meaning—deep, undeniable meaning. It was not one of fleeting passion, but of something far greater. Nathan had swallowed entirely Khillea's rage.
The fiery warrior, once consumed by the flames of vengeance, had become utterly pacified by Nathan's words.
Now, she was commanding all the Myrmidons to retreat.
And the most terrifying thing?
Not a single one of them questioned her decision.
Because the Myrmidons had never truly considered themselves part of the Greek forces. They had always stood apart, their loyalty belonging solely to their leader—first to Achilles, and now, to Khillea. They despised Agamemnon with every fiber of their being, but they had chosen to fight only because their Queen had chosen to.
With her stepping away from the war, they followed without hesitation.
Their vendetta against Troy had already been reduced to embers. The only thing that had fueled their rage was the murder of Patroclus at Paris's hands. But even that no longer mattered.
Because all eyes were now on another battle.
The battle between Hector and Paris.
Anyone watching could already see the outcome.
Hector's strikes were precise, unwavering, relentless. His eyes burned with determination, filled with unshakable resolve.
He was going to kill his brother.
And Paris, weak and desperate, could do nothing to stop it.
Hera's fingers trembled as she clutched the edge of her throne, her breath shallow.
"Is this… a dream…?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
She didn't even have the strength to be angry anymore.
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