I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC150: Empire of Light before the War (2)
Outside the towering walls of the royal castle in the capital of the Empire of Light, the training fields bustled with activity. The clang of swords and the grunt of exertion filled the air as the Heroes, clad in armor and determination, honed their skills with relentless focus.
It was their final day before embarking on a journey that would take them far beyond the borders of their homeland—to another continent, another world.
Guards patrolled the perimeter, their watchful eyes often drifting toward the Heroes. There was something different in the air today, a weight that hung over the fields. The guards, seasoned warriors who had seen much, couldn't help but admire the discipline and intensity the Heroes displayed. These were not ordinary recruits.
They were humanity's finest, chosen by fate itself, preparing for a conflict unlike any they had ever known.
Tomorrow, they would leave the Empire, crossing seas and skies to the distant Achaean Continent—a land ruled by the Olympian gods for thousands upon thousands of years. It was said that the gods themselves had been born and raised there, in a time so ancient it had become more myth than memory.
Now, the continent was fragmented, divided into powerful city-states—the Athenians, the Spartans, and the Trojans, who ruled the farthest reaches of the land. War, true war, awaited them there.
The danger was there. They knew the blood that would be shed, the lives that would be lost. That was why the training today carried an edge of desperation. The Heroes pushed themselves beyond exhaustion, knowing that their skills would soon be tested in the fires of battle. The weight of responsibility was heavy, and none of them could afford to falter.
Overseeing the field was a striking figure—a woman with fiery red hair that cascaded down her back and piercing green eyes that missed nothing. Her expression was stern, her posture rigid as she watched the Heroes train with the gaze of someone who had seen battle before, who knew the stakes. This was Cecilia, one of the individuals raised and groomed by the Divine Knights themselves.
While she was not technically in charge of the Heroes—that role belonged to Liphiel—Cecilia had spent much time among them, becoming a quiet but constant presence by their side.
In recent months, she had grown even closer to them, offering more than just guidance—offering comfort. She had become a moral anchor, especially after the tragedy that had befallen them all.
Nathan.
His name lingered in the air, even though he was no longer there. The memory of his death had cast a long shadow over the entire group. The gruesome end he met—killed by Demons who had infiltrated the castle, his blood staining the floor of his room, his clothes left in ruins, and the ashes believed to be his—was a wound that had yet to heal.
His very presence, which had been slight but still noticeable, had evaporated completely. It was as though the world itself had erased him.
The shock was immense. Even those who hadn't particularly cared for Nathan were shaken to their core. He was one of them—a classmate, a companion—and if he could fall so suddenly, so brutally, then none of them were safe. Fear gripped the remaining Heroes, a fear that gnawed at the edges of their minds. Could they be next? Was death already stalking them, just waiting for the right moment to strike?
Cecilia had been their pillar of support during those dark days. She stood by them, steady and unwavering, offering whatever comfort she could. But it wasn't just Cecilia who had tried to pick up the shattered pieces.
Their teacher, Amelia, had taken Nathan's death the hardest. She had always been protective of her students, and the loss of Nathan felt like a personal failure, a blow that had struck her to the core. For a week, she had been inconsolable, retreating into solitude to grieve. Her absence was keenly felt, and when she finally returned, her recovery had been slow and painful.
Cecilia's sharp green eyes first locked onto the Hero with the strongest Skill, an SSS Skill, Jason Spencer, known as the Hero of Light. His golden sword gleamed as it cut through the air, meeting the blade of his sparring partner, Aiden Fletcher, who had earned a reputation as Jason's fiercest rival.
The clash of steel echoed through the training grounds, each strike causing the ground to shudder beneath the weight of their power.
Jason swung his sword in a sweeping arc, the blade humming with divine energy. Aiden met it head-on, his own sword glowing with a crackling intensity. Their swords collided with a deafening impact, sending out shockwaves that rippled across the training field. Dust rose from their feet as they exchanged blows, the sheer force of their battle enough to awe the onlookers.
In the past nine months, the growth of both Heroes had been nothing short of astonishing. Their power had reached levels that defied comprehension, and even the hardened soldiers who patrolled the castle grounds were left speechless by the raw energy they witnessed daily.
Aiden smirked as he parried Jason's strike. "You getting weaker, Spencer, or just scared?" His voice carried an edge of playful arrogance.
Jason met Aiden's taunt with a calm smile, his eyes gleaming under the midday sun. "No, Aiden. You've just gotten stronger."
The acknowledgment seemed to irritate Aiden, his expression tightening in frustration at Jason's ever-present composure. Gritting his teeth, he quickened his pace, his sword moving in blurring arcs as he launched a renewed assault. The intensity of their battle escalated, the clashing of their blades ringing out like thunder.
For minutes, the two warriors battled, neither giving an inch. Sweat trickled down their faces, their breaths coming in ragged bursts. Eventually, both of them stepped back, exhaustion beginning to weigh on their movements.
"Damn," one of their classmates muttered from the sidelines, wide-eyed at the spectacle before them. "Jason and Aiden… those guys are absolute freaks."
"Yeah, no way we're competing with them," another chimed in, shaking his head in disbelief. "Even with years of training, we wouldn't come close."
"Thank God they're on our side, right?" Another added, casting a wary glance at the two.
The boys in the class could only stare in awe, while many of the girls watched with starry eyes and flushed cheeks, admiring not only the strength but also the striking handsomeness of the two most reliable Heroes. Jason, with his golden aura, and Aiden with his fiery presence.
However, not all was harmonious within the ranks of the Heroes. Over the months, a rift had formed between those blessed with A-Skills or higher and those with more modest abilities. Jason and Aiden, now considered monsters of strength, represented a gap that many of their classmates knew they could never hope to bridge.
The divide grew, and while admiration persisted, so did an undercurrent of envy and frustration.
BADOOOM!
Suddenly the ground trembled as a thunderous explosion echoed from the distance, the sound rippling through the castle and the surrounding lands. Heads snapped toward the source, eyes widening in shock and fear. In the forest just beyond the castle walls, a massive fireball bloomed into the sky, its flames licking the air hundreds of meters above the treetops.
The force of the blast sent a shockwave that rattled windows and even reached the training fields, knocking dust and debris into the air.
A hushed silence fell over the onlookers, replaced by the faint murmurs of dread.
"She's at it again," one of the Heroes muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.
"She really needs to hold back. This is getting dangerous," another classmate whispered nervously.
"You wanna tell her that? She'll roast you alive," a third retorted, wide-eyed.
"One day, she's gonna kill us all," a voice added, half in jest, but the nervous edge in his tone was unmistakable.
Everyone knew the source of the explosion. There was only one Hero capable of such devastating fire magic among them. The power of the blast rivaled that of a 6-Star spell, a level of destruction that sent chills through even the most seasoned warriors. They all watched in awe unable to say anything. The person responsible was a Hero after all.
Cecilia's gaze remained fixed on the smoke billowing into the sky, her expression tight with concern.
"Courtney…"
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC151: Empire of Light before the War (3)
In the dense forest behind the royal castle of the Empire of Light, chaos reigned as smoke curled through the charred air and flames flickered menacingly. Once vibrant trees now lay blackened, reduced to brittle skeletons of ash, while the acrid stench of burning wood permeated the air like a suffocating blanket.
Amidst the devastation, a lone figure stood—her silhouette both haunting and striking against the backdrop of smoldering embers. Courtney, once just a beautiful girl, had grown into something more, something otherworldly. Her long chestnut hair, tied neatly behind her, framed her face, though the fire's glow caught the strands, making them shimmer like molten gold.
Her deep brown eyes, once warm and inviting, now held a distant, hardened look. The passage of time and the weight of grief had carved a new persona into her delicate features—one of coldness.
She had always been beautiful, but over the past months, her physical transformation had made her even more breathtaking, an ethereal embodiment of power and grace. Her once-gentle curves had sharpened into something close to perfection, the kind that left those around her in awe and intimidation alike.
The nobles of the castle whispered of her beauty, her classmates noticed the change too, but no one more so than Jason. He couldn't help but regret every moment he hadn't pursued her back on Earth. She had once been within his reach, a girl he might have won over. But now, she seemed unattainable—her heart locked away behind an icy barrier no one could penetrate.
Jason had tried to rekindle the connection they once shared, tried to regain her affection, but it was futile. The Courtney he had known was gone, replaced by someone he no longer recognized. Her laughter had vanished, her smile a distant memory. Instead, her face remained stoic, her eyes reflecting a pain that none of her classmates dared to ask about.
She spent most of her days secluded, training relentlessly in the wilderness, pushing her body to its limits. The only people she ever spoke to were Sienna, Siara, and, occasionally, Aisha. Even then, her words were few, her conversations fleeting.
Her classmates had their suspicions about what had caused the drastic change in her. It didn't take long for them to connect the dots—her descent into silence had begun after the news of Nathan's death. When she learned of his passing, her reaction had been one of raw, unguarded grief.
Tears had streamed down her face, shocking those who saw her, for Courtney had never shown such vulnerability before. In that moment, the depth of her feelings for Nathan became evident, a love far beyond what anyone had suspected. She hadn't just cared for him as a classmate; she had loved him deeply, perhaps more than was healthy.
That love had scarred her, left her hollow, and now, it was as if a piece of her had died with him. The world had lost its light, and so had she.
Courtney lifted her gaze to the smoke-filled sky, her eyes glazed with fatigue, as though the weight of her existence was pressing down on her shoulders. The flames that had once roared now crackled softly, the fire reflecting the turmoil inside her. Nine months had passed, but they had brought no relief, no solace. She had continued to exist, but nothing had given her a reason to truly live.
Her thoughts drifted briefly to her parents back on Earth. Would she ever see them again? She doubted it. The idea seemed more like a distant dream, something from a past life she barely remembered.
But what haunted her most was the absence of Nathan. She couldn't imagine a future without him—couldn't see herself in this world without his presence beside her. Life had become a hollow echo of what it once was, and every passing day without him felt like another step toward oblivion.
Her chest tightened with the realization that nothing mattered anymore. Not the fire she wielded, not the power that coursed through her veins, not the attention she garnered from those around her.
Without Nathan, there was no longer a reason to keep going.
In the span of mere days, he had ensnared her heart completely, leaving her madly in love. Courtney still remembered that night—their first night together, when his warmth lingered on her skin, comforting and intimate. Yet, just as quickly as he had come into her life, he vanished, disappearing before she could even savor the memory of his touch.
Suddenly, a massive sphere of water appeared above her, shimmering in the dim light before bursting open, releasing a beautiful cascade of rain. The droplets fell softly, the rhythmic patter gradually extinguishing the fires that raged around her. But as the rain touched Courtney's skin, it vanished, evaporating in an instant from the intense heat radiating from her body.
She didn't need to turn around to know who was responsible.
"You should hold back a little, Courtney," came a soft voice from behind.
Approaching from the smoldering treeline was a striking figure—her classmate, Siara Parker. With her auburn hair and piercing blue eyes, she had grown into her own kind of beauty, one that rivaled even Courtney's. Siara was Nathan's younger stepsister, and while her demeanor had not hardened in the same way Courtney's had, Nathan's death had still left its mark on her.
Siara's transformation hadn't been as dramatic as Courtney's, but it was undeniable. Nathan's death had hit her harder than she had ever anticipated. It was as if she had lost not just her stepbrother, but a piece of herself along with him.
The pain had driven her away from Jason, her longtime crush, because every time she was near him, she would be reminded of Nathan—of the bond they had shared, and the gaping void his death had left behind. The weight of those memories was too much for her to bear along all regrets.
Siara studied Courtney for a moment. She had suspected for some time that there had been something more between Courtney and Nathan, their interactions too frequent and too intimate to be mere friendship. Her suspicions had been confirmed the day Nathan died, when she saw Courtney's tears—tears that flowed as freely as her own, if not more.
In that moment, Siara realized just how deeply Courtney had loved him. It was a love that mirrored her own grief, a sorrow that connected them. It was that shared pain that forged a strange kinship between them, much like the bond she felt with Aisha and Amelia, who had also mourned Nathan's loss deeply.
"I was worried about you," Siara admitted quietly. "Not just as a classmate, but because… well, I know how much Nathan meant to you."
Courtney turned her head slightly, acknowledging Siara's concern with a small nod. "Yes. Sorry," she murmured.
Siara took a step closer, her gaze steady but filled with empathy. "Courtney, you're already strong enough. You know that, right?"
In the past months, Courtney had grown stronger—so much stronger that she had risen to the ranks of the elites, despite possessing only an A-Ranked skill. Her abilities had accelerated beyond expectation, to the point where she could easily hold her own against those with S-Ranked or higher skills.
Since that night with Nathan, it was as if her very body had undergone a transformation, propelling her strength and speed to unnatural heights. She was now clearly stronger than Siara, despite them both sharing the same rank of abilities.
But Siara wasn't envious—far from it. She was worried.
Courtney's voice was low, almost resigned. "I know… but it's not enough."
Not enough to ease the rage burning inside her. Not enough to satisfy the unrelenting thirst for vengeance that consumed her every thought. She didn't know who had taken Nathan from her, but it didn't matter. When she found them, she would be ready. She would stake everything on that one final act of revenge.
Siara's face softened into a sad expression. She could see the storm brewing within Courtney, the same storm she saw in her older sister and in Aisha. The same obsession with revenge that was slowly eating them all alive.
"And after you've taken your revenge," Siara asked, her voice barely above a whisper, "what will you do then?"
Courtney didn't answer. She stared at the ground, her lips pressed into a thin line. Because the truth was, she didn't know. She hadn't thought that far ahead. She didn't want to think that far ahead. The only thing keeping her moving, keeping her alive, was the thought of avenging Nathan.
Beyond that… there was nothing.
Siara sighed, shaking her head. "Please, rest," she urged softly.
Without waiting for a reply, Siara turned and walked away, leaving Courtney standing amidst the dying embers of the forest. She still had to check on Aisha, who was struggling even more than Courtney, and her older sister, whose obsession had become the most dangerous of all.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC152: Empire of Light before the War (4)
In one of the lavish rooms of the castle, reserved specifically for the Heroes, a soft light filtered through the heavy drapes. Amidst the golden glow, a strikingly beautiful woman with raven-black hair and piercing green eyes lay quietly on her bed, her expression weary and fatigued. Despite the exhaustion etched across her delicate features, there was a peacefulness to her.
Beside her, nestled in the folds of the bed's silken sheets, was a tiny baby girl, her chest rising and falling with the soft, rhythmic breaths of a deep and innocent sleep.
Amelia watched her daughter with a faint, affectionate smile—a rare moment of solace amidst the storm of emotions that had plagued her for the past week since the birth. The sheer physical pain of labor had faded, but the emotional weight still lingered, pulling at her. The smile didn't reach her eyes, not fully. She was in her mid-twenties, yet the recent months had aged her far beyond her years.
Becoming a mother hadn't been something she'd planned for. In fact, nothing about the life she was living now had been part of any plan.
Amelia had once been a teacher—a normal, dedicated teacher who loved her job and cared deeply for her students. Before that, she had her fair share of fleeting crushes, but nothing had ever taken root. She had never experienced a truly deep or lasting relationship.
There had been men—some of them nice, others less so—who had tried to get closer to her, even a few who had tried to force their desires upon her. She had rejected them all swiftly, unwilling to compromise her dignity or her heart.
Teaching had been her true passion, and she threw herself into her studies with single-minded determination. The pursuit of her career consumed her, leaving little room for anything else. Relationships, dating, love—those were things she had unintentionally left behind as her life became centered around her role as an educator. It was a choice she had made, or so she thought.
But even after becoming a teacher, she couldn't deny that the thought of companionship occasionally crossed her mind. Her colleagues often invited her out for dinners, intrigued by her beauty and charm. But even they couldn't stir anything inside her. They were polite, well-meaning, but dull. None of them truly interested her.
And then, Nathan had appeared.
Nathan was different. He wasn't like the others. He had been just a student, a quiet, reserved boy who had been bullied and overlooked by nearly everyone else. Amelia, in her role as a teacher, had noticed him right away. She had seen the pain he tried to hide, the loneliness that clouded his eyes and the slight darkness within them.
It was her responsibility to help, and so she did—offering him guidance, support, and a listening ear. What began as a simple student-teacher relationship slowly evolved into something more. Amelia found herself drawn to him, not just as a teacher helping a troubled student, but as a person deeply touched by his struggles.
Everything had changed when they were all summoned into this new world. Their lives had been thrown into chaos, and Amelia found herself as much a victim of this bewildering fate as her students. But she had to remain strong. She was the teacher, after all—their moral support, the one they turned to for guidance.
So, she donned a mask of strength, pretending to be in control, pretending to be okay when, in reality, she felt as powerless and overwhelmed as any of them.
That was when Nathan stepped truly into her life in a way she had never expected. He had reached out to her, sensing the burden she carried, the exhaustion she tried so hard to hide. He offered her the same quiet understanding that she had once offered him. Their conversations, initially simple, became the highlight of her days.
Each exchange made her feel lighter, as if Nathan was slowly lifting the weight from her shoulders.
And then something dangerous happened.
Amelia began to feel something more—something she couldn't explain at first, something she desperately tried to push away. It was wrong, she told herself. Nathan was her student. Her duty was to protect him, not… fall for him. Yet, despite her best efforts, she couldn't stop her heart from betraying her. The more they talked, the more time they spent together, the stronger her feelings grew.
And eventually, she stopped resisting.
She fell for him. Hard.
What happened next was inevitable. They crossed the line—a line Amelia had sworn she would never cross. The night they shared together, the intimacy, the closeness—it was unlike anything she had ever experienced before. And in that moment, she felt no guilt, no shame. All she felt was pure, unadulterated happiness.
For the first time in her life, she had found someone who understood her, someone who made her feel truly alive. Every moment with Nathan after that felt like a gift, something precious she clung to desperately.
But happiness, as she would come to learn, was fragile.
The day Nathan died, Amelia's world shattered. Everything she had built, everything she had come to care about, was ripped away in an instant. She remembered the moment vividly—the suffocating grief, the unbearable weight of loss crashing down on her like a tidal wave. She had broken down completely, her strength, her composure, all of it dissolving in the wake of his death.
Before Amelia fully realized it, her feelings for Nathan had deepened into something more than love—it was an all-consuming obsession. She was madly in love with him, and when he died, it shattered her completely. The pain of his loss was unbearable, like a gaping wound that refused to heal.
For a fleeting, dark moment, she had even thought of ending her own life, the despair so overwhelming that it seemed like the only escape. But there was one thing, one precious life, that stopped her from taking that irreversible step.
The life growing inside her.
She was pregnant, carrying Nathan's child. That revelation had changed everything. Suddenly, she had a reason to keep going. A reason to live. She accepted it—embraced it, even. Her child was the last connection she had to Nathan, the only part of him that remained in the world.
And now, as she looked down at her baby girl, a smile spread across her face. Gently, she stroked her daughter's tiny head, whispering her name with love.
"Sara…" she murmured softly, her heart swelling with affection.
Sara was everything to her now. She would do anything for her.
"Lady Amelia."
The sudden voice broke through the peaceful silence, causing Amelia to instinctively wrap her arms protectively around Sara. But the tension melted away as soon as she recognized the visitor. She let out a sigh of relief.
"Empress…" Amelia greeted quietly.
Standing in the doorway was Empress Helana, her regal presence softened by a warm smile. "I told you to drop the formalities already," the Empress said, her tone playful yet kind.
Behind her, Adelia—a close companion of the Empress—stepped into the room, her eyes immediately drawn to the tiny infant. "She's so cute," Adelia cooed as she approached Sara, teasingly poking the baby's cheeks, causing a soft gurgle in response.
In the months following Nathan's death, the Empress and Amelia had grown close. The Empress, once a distant figure of authority, had become a comforting presence in Amelia's life. Their bond had only strengthened after the breakdown in the imperial family, following the scandal surrounding Nancy's secret relationship and pregnancy.
The Empress, along with her daughter Adelia, had started visiting Amelia frequently, their connection deepening as they shared in the complex emotions of their respective situations.
The news of Nancy's affair and the resulting pregnancy had shaken the entire court. The Empress, furious and feeling betrayed by the Emperor's lies and secret relation, had distanced herself the Emperor along her daughter. Adelia and the Empress had been walking on eggshells ever since, knowing full well that their positions were precarious.
With Nancy's child potentially threatening the line of succession, only Geoffrey, the Empress's son, remained steadfast in his duty to protect his claim to the throne.
Amelia greeted them with a smile, though a flicker of sadness passed over her features. "I wish I could be with my students," she confessed quietly, her voice tinged with regret.
The war had come, and with it, her students were thrust into the chaos of battle. Amelia, once their guide and protector, now felt removed from them, distant. Her authority over them had diminished ever since she had secluded herself following Nathan's death and her subsequent pregnancy. She knew she couldn't be the same strong figure for them now, but it pained her all the same.
Rumors had circulated throughout the castle about the father of her child. Some whispered that it was the Emperor himself, though those claims were quickly denied by both the Emperor and Amelia. Others speculated it might be one of the guards, but no one knew the truth. Only Amelia knew, and she intended to keep it that way—for the sake of her daughter, for Nathan's memory.
"You can't, Amelia," Empress Helana said gently, stepping closer to her. "You're still recovering. You need to rest and take care of your little girl."
Amelia nodded, but there was a sadness in her smile. "Yes…" she agreed softly, though her heart ached for her students, for the life she had left behind.
But she couldn't abandon Sara. Her daughter was all that mattered now—her and Nathan's daughter. Amelia had to be strong for her. Even though the world outside was filled with conflict, she knew that her future was here, with Sara.
And for that, she would endure anything.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC153: Empire of Light before the War (5)
"Aren't they tired of training already?" A small, beautiful creature with vibrant green hair muttered under her breath, her delicate arms crossed in frustration. Her translucent wings flapped idly behind her as she hovered in the air, gazing down at the intense scene unfolding below.
Heroes, sweating and straining under the weight of their weapons, were rigorously preparing for the journey ahead—to the land of the Trojans.
The creature was Iphlea, a sprite, and the ever-faithful companion of Gwen since the awakening of her skill. Iphlea's luminous eyes flickered with mild annoyance, contrasting sharply with the serene demeanor of her charge. Gwen sat perched on the balcony's railing, her posture relaxed, her expression distant. She wasn't among those training with tireless energy.
No, Gwen was simply enjoying the warm embrace of the sun and the soft caress of the breeze that tugged gently at her hair.
If it were up to her, she wouldn't even consider traveling to another continent for a war that held no personal significance. It felt, to Gwen, like a pointless struggle—an exercise in futility where the sole reason to fight was because the call had been made. Duty over desire.
She sighed softly, glancing over the bustling courtyard with disinterest. What did she care for the glory of battle? Yet despite her reluctance, Gwen knew she had no real choice. A nagging sense of responsibility gnawed at her, even though the conflict seemed meaningless. Her role as one of the strongest Heroes demanded her participation, whether she liked it or not.
It wasn't only duty that weighed heavily on her mind—it was also the bitter reality of the royal castle, the Empire of Light's majestic yet hypocritical stronghold.
Gwen had hated the palace from the beginning. Its grandeur and beauty were only a thin veil hiding the rotten core of corruption within. The façade of righteousness, the whispered lies, the false promises—it all sickened her. And as time passed, her disdain only grew.
Nathan's death had solidified that. They claimed it was demons, that foul creatures had infiltrated the castle and struck him down. But Gwen knew better. She had sensed the deception in the air, though she had been powerless to act. She could still hear Nathan's voice echoing in her mind, warning Aisha to be cautious of Radakel. There was something dark lurking beneath the surface.
The Divine Knights, in all their shining glory, were anything but trustworthy. And wasn't it suspicious? Nathan's death came so soon after Radakel's failure and Liphiel's sudden appearance.
The whole situation stank of conspiracy. Too many unanswered questions swirled in her mind, leaving her more uneasy with each passing day. The castle had become a suffocating prison, its walls closing in around her. And then there was Nancy—another mystery that added to the growing discomfort.
Nancy, once just another Hero among them, had suddenly risen through the ranks, becoming a favored figure within the palace. Rumors flew about her relationship with the Emperor, whispers of her newfound status as his concubine spreading like wildfire. Worse still, she had borne him a child.
Gwen found the whole affair distasteful, another piece of the puzzle that made staying in the castle unbearable.
So, despite her apathy toward fighting, Gwen couldn't help but welcome the opportunity to escape the oppressive halls of the palace. She might not care for the battles to come, but at least she would be free from the suffocating hypocrisy of the Empire of Light, if only for a while.
"What do you feel about this war?" Gwen asked suddenly, her voice cutting through the stillness as she shifted her gaze from the training grounds below to Iphlea, her companion.
The green-haired sprite tilted her head, her tiny wings fluttering in thought. "Hmmm," Iphlea hummed softly, a hint of mischief dancing in her eyes. "A bit curious, I have to admit. Be careful, though. All of Olympus' eyes will be on you," she added, her voice laced with a mixture of warning and amusement.
Gwen's lips twisted into a scoff. "Can any of them send me back to Earth?" she asked, the question laced with cynicism. The thought of returning to her former life had crossed her mind many times, though it felt more like a distant dream now.
Iphlea's wings fluttered again, and she gave a small shrug. "Well, you'll have to ask them yourself... or maybe wait for Khione to come back—if she's not dead, that is," she said nonchalantly. "Or, who knows, maybe if you kill the Demon King, the Divine Knights will finally leave you alone."
Gwen's expression darkened. "I don't think so," she replied coldly, her voice edged with distrust. She harbored no faith in the Divine Knights, nor did she believe any of them would ever grant her freedom, no matter the outcome of the war.
°°°°°
Meanwhile, in a quiet, secluded corner of the castle grounds, Siara was making her way toward a place she seldom visited, though she had no choice today. The path led her to an isolated, gloomy building outside the castle's radiant halls. It was the newly arranged training ground, a somber and foreboding site that always sent a chill down her spine.
She despised the place, but duty compelled her forward.
As she approached, the clash of swords rang through the air like thunder. The sharp, metallic sound echoed off the stone walls, growing louder with each step she took. Siara steeled herself before entering the main training field, her heart pounding with apprehension.
The scene that unfolded before her was intense. On one side of the training ground, she saw Aisha—an ethereal half-Japanese beauty, her long black hair tied neatly behind her. Lightning crackled around her slender frame as she delivered a flurry of fast, precise blows with her long sword.
The air around her buzzed with raw energy, every strike sending arcs of lightning toward her opponent, a Divine Knight.
Despite the relentless assault, the knight managed to parry each strike, though beads of sweat glistened on his brow. He was holding his ground, but just barely. They were evenly matched, though Aisha's exhaustion was starting to show. A thin line of blood trickled down her forehead, and her movements, though still powerful, had slowed.
Yet she fought on, pushing her body beyond its limits, unwilling to yield.
Then, a loud crash reverberated across the training ground.
On the far side of the field, the most violent battle was taking place. Siara's eyes widened as she saw a blur of movement—a figure moving so fast it was nearly impossible to follow. But she didn't need to see her clearly to know who it was.
Sienna.
Siara's older sister, her long black hair tied back in a sleek ponytail, moved like a whirlwind, her cold blue eyes glinting with a deadly intensity. Sienna, unlike Aisha, wasn't fighting a single opponent. She was up against three Divine Knights at once—and she was overpowering them effortlessly.
It was a sight to behold, both mesmerizing and terrifying. Sienna's sword moved with blinding speed, each strike carrying enough force to send her opponents staggering back. Her blows were ruthless, calculated, and devastating. Even with the combined strength of all three knights, they were no match for her. They fought desperately, but they were merely trying to survive against the onslaught.
Siara felt a chill run down her spine as she watched her sister in action. In the months following Nathan's death, something had shifted in Sienna. It was as though a part of her had snapped, and she had channeled that pain, that grief, into raw power. Now, she was unstoppable.
Sienna had become the strongest Hero in the Empire of Light, surpassing even Jason, the so-called Hero of Light, by miles.
She became the trump card of the Empire of Light.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC154: Troy in Chaos (1)
The Trojan capital was in chaos. A sense of dread filled the air as word spread—an army, the likes of which had never been seen, was marching toward them. Thousands of soldiers from the middle and western Achaean regions, united under the banner of the Olympian Gods, were closing in.
It was an alliance forged in fury, uniting states that had been bitter enemies only months before—Sparta and Athens, Corinth and Argos—all now driven by a singular purpose: the destruction of Troy.
Inside the royal palace, the throne room buzzed with the anxious murmurs of gathered nobles. Tension was palpable as they debated the looming threat, their voices echoing off the marble walls. Their usually composed faces were creased with worry, and their once confident stances seemed more hesitant with each passing hour.
King Priam, the ruler of Troy, sat upon his throne, his expression heavy with the weight of impending war. His regal posture belied the turmoil raging inside him. Next to him, Queen Hecuba, his devoted wife, sat with her hand clasped tightly in his, her knuckles white from the pressure. Her eyes darted nervously around the room, and the deep lines of anxiety etched across her face betrayed her fear.
She squeezed Priam's hand for reassurance, but even he, known for his unshakable demeanor, was visibly struggling to maintain composure.
The situation was dire.
"It's all your fault," a harsh voice broke through the tense discussion.
Hector, Troy's crown prince and eldest son of Priam, stood with his arms crossed, his brow furrowed in anger as he glared at his younger brother, Paris. Hector was the pride of Troy, standing tall and broad-shouldered, with a face that many considered a symbol of nobility and strength. His every move was filled with purpose, his dark eyes burning with fury.
He was the city's greatest warrior, revered by his people and the last hope for the survival of the kingdom.
But now, Hector's eyes blazed with something else: unrelenting rage.
For months, he had carried this anger inside him, and it showed no signs of dissipating. How could it? His brother's recklessness had brought war to their doorstep. Troy, once prosperous and secure, was now on the verge of ruin—all because Paris couldn't control his desires.
Paris, leaning against one of the columns, met Hector's glare with a defiant look of his own. He was every bit as striking as his older brother, though where Hector exuded strength, Paris was all grace and beauty. His lean frame, sharp features, and soft curls made him the envy of many. But where Hector had earned respect through valor on the battlefield, Paris was seen as the cause of their undoing.
His charm and good looks had been his greatest asset—and now, their greatest curse.
It was Paris who had ignited the flames of this war.
Sent to Sparta on a diplomatic mission, Paris had been tasked with paying respect to King Menelaus. But rather than honoring the king, Paris had set his sights on someone else—Queen Helen, the most beautiful woman in the world. Fueled by a mixture of lust and pride, Paris had taken Helen, using the girdle of Aphrodite—an enchanted artifact that granted its wearer irresistible allure.
The girdle's magic was meant for one use, and Paris had used it on Menelaus's wife.
In a single reckless act, Paris had kidnapped Helen and fled back to Troy.
The consequences were swift and brutal. King Menelaus, humiliated and enraged by the loss of his wife, called upon his powerful brothers, Agamemnon of Mycenae and the rest of the Achaean kings. United by the insult and their lust for war, they rallied their forces under a single cause: to bring Troy to its knees for Paris's arrogance.
Now, as the vast Achaean armies bore down on them, Hector could barely contain his fury. Every day he looked at Paris, and every day his anger grew. This war—this looming catastrophe—was all because his brother couldn't keep his lust and selfishness in check.
"You've doomed us all, Paris," Hector growled, his fists clenching. "Because of you, because of your... stupidity, we are now facing annihilation."
Paris's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing in response. He knew he had made a grave mistake, but his pride would not allow him to admit it openly, least of all in front of his brother.
Paris's eyes flashed with defiance as he responded to Hector's fury. "How long are you going to keep saying that, brother? We should focus on the war now, not on what's already been done," he retorted, his voice rising with frustration.
Hector's anger flared at Paris's stubbornness. "You idiot!" he barked, his voice echoing through the throne room. "We should have handed Helen back when the messenger came, asking for peace. Now it's too late!"
Two months ago, a messenger from Sparta had arrived in Troy, offering a peaceful solution—return Helen, and the conflict would end. But Paris, driven by pride and his so-called love for Helen, had refused, sealing Troy's fate and igniting the war that now loomed.
"I will never give back Helen!" Paris shouted, his voice filled with conviction. "What if I asked you to give back Andromache? Would you?!" He threw the words like a challenge, dragging Hector's beloved wife into the argument.
Hector's eyes burned with fury. How dare Paris compare his reckless act of lust with his marriage to Andromache? He clenched his fists, barely able to contain the urge to strike his brother. Andromache, standing beside Hector, glared at Paris with thinly veiled contempt. She had always disliked Paris, and now she despised him. His selfishness had plunged their city into chaos and peril.
Before Hector could lash out and strike Paris, their father, King Priam, raised his hand, his voice calm but commanding. "Enough."
The room fell silent as everyone turned their attention to the king. Priam's gaze was heavy with thought as he looked from Paris to Hector, his sons standing at odds like two forces of nature. His heart ached at the division between them, but he knew that a decision had to be made.
"We won't give Helen back to them," Priam declared firmly. "This war was inevitable. We all know Agamemnon's greed. He only needed an excuse, and now he has it. Even if we were to return Helen, Agamemnon would find another reason to attack us."
Priam's words settled over the throne room like a cold wind. He knew King Agamemnon all too well—a man driven by ambition, who lusted for power and wealth. Helen may have been the spark, but Agamemnon would have lit another fire if necessary. The war, Priam believed, was unavoidable.
"But, Father…" Hector protested, his fists clenched tightly. More than anything, he cared for his people—the soldiers who would die, the families who would suffer. The thought of sacrificing their lives for the reckless love of his spoiled brother was enough to drive him mad.
Before Hector could continue, the heavy doors of the throne room creaked open, drawing the attention of everyone inside. The room fell into a deep, hushed silence as the newcomer entered.
Standing in the doorway was a woman of breathtaking beauty, so otherworldly that mere words could hardly capture it. Her long, golden hair flowed like sunlight, reaching down to the small of her back, and her golden eyes gleamed with a mesmerizing allure. Every inch of her presence commanded attention, as if the gods themselves had sculpted her from the essence of beauty itself.
It was Helen.
Helen of Sparta, once the queen of Menelaus, but now... Helen of Troy.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC155: Helen of Troy
Standing in the doorway was a woman of breathtaking beauty, so otherworldly that mere words could hardly capture it. Her long, golden hair flowed like sunlight, reaching down to the small of her back, and her golden eyes gleamed with a mesmerising allure. Every inch of her presence commanded attention, as if the gods themselves had sculpted her from the essence of beauty itself.
It was Helen.
Helen of Sparta, once the queen of Menelaus, but now... Helen of Troy.
Paris's face lit up with joy as Helen entered the room. "Helen!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with happiness and relief. To him, she was still the same breathtaking woman who had stolen his heart, her beauty transcending the realm of mortals.
But Helen did not even glance in his direction.
The enchantment that had once bound her to Paris had long faded. When Paris had used Aphrodite's divine girdle, capable of making any woman fall madly in love, Helen had been momentarily entranced. Yet the spell had worn off the moment she stepped foot in Troy. By then, it was far too late to change anything. Her fate was sealed.
Returning to Sparta, though, was not an option. Helen could only imagine the torment that awaited her there. Menelaus, her husband by forced competition, had been humiliated, and the men of Sparta were thirsty for vengeance. Her marriage to Menelaus had never been of her choosing.
When Helen's beauty became a curse, her father had organized a competition among the most powerful men in the Achaean lands. Menelaus had won, and Helen, against her will, became Queen of Sparta.
Menelaus had been patient with Helen, waiting for her to accept him as her husband, but Helen never did. Though their marriage was official, Helen had never given him her heart. She had always been distant, and Menelaus had respected that boundary for a time. But when Paris entered her life and whisked her away, it broke something inside Menelaus—his trust shattered, his patience turned to fury.
Helen had thought, perhaps, that escaping with Paris might offer her some form of freedom from Menelaus, but instead, it only plunged her into deeper despair. She found herself trapped in Troy, hated by both sides. Sparta despised her for betraying their king, and Troy blamed her for bringing the wrath of the Achaeans to their doorstep.
Now, she had no home. She could not return to Sparta, where death or worse awaited her. But she was no more welcome in Troy, where whispers of blame and scorn followed her wherever she went. Her beauty, once admired by all, had become a symbol of destruction.
Helen had never wanted this war. She had never wanted to be the cause of so much suffering. Now, as she stood before the gathered royals and nobles of Troy, she realized she couldn't stay silent anymore. The destruction looming over Troy was unbearable, and her presence only seemed to fuel it.
With a steady breath, Helen spoke, her voice soft but resolute. "I will go back to Sparta."
Her words stunned the room into silence.
Paris's face paled, his joy turning into disbelief. "What… what are you saying?" he stammered, stepping closer to her. "Helen, you can't! They'll kill you if you go back! You belong here, with me, in Troy."
Helen finally looked at Paris, her eyes devoid of the warmth he had once seen in them. "I don't belong anywhere," she said quietly. "Not in Sparta, not in Troy. But I can't allow this war to destroy more lives. If my return can bring an end to this, then I will face whatever awaits me in Sparta."
Hector, standing off to the side, watched the scene unfold with a mixture of anger and relief. Part of him still blamed Helen for the war, but another part of him understood her pain. He had always known that the war was about more than just Helen—it was about pride, power, and the ambitions of men like Agamemnon. But if Helen's return could truly stop the bloodshed, it was a path worth considering.
Paris shook his head, his voice pleading now. "Helen, no! I won't let you go. We can find another way—we can fight!"
But Helen's heart had hardened toward Paris. She had been swept up in his romantic ideals, tricked by divine intervention, and now all she could see was the cost of his actions. "This is not about us anymore," she said, her tone cold. "It's about stopping the bloodshed."
A heavy silence descended over the room at Helen's words, broken only by the sound of Paris clenching his fists, his knuckles white with frustration and powerlessness. The tension in the air was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. All eyes shifted towards the beautiful woman who stood at the heart of this conflict, her face shadowed with sorrow.
Despite the turmoil in the room, many of the Trojans, gathered in their royal chamber, exchanged glances of cautious delight. For them, Helen's offer to return to her former husband seemed like a beacon of hope—a possible way to avert the looming threat of war.
Among them, however, King Priam remained still, his expression unreadable, while his wife, Queen Hecuba, sat beside him with a stern and contemplative gaze, her sharp eyes fixed on Helen.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Hecuba spoke. "No," she said firmly. "Even if you return to the Greeks, it will not stop them. They will attack us regardless, perhaps not now, but a few years from now. Your sacrifice will only delay the inevitable."
A collective gasp echoed throughout the room. Shock rippled among the gathered nobles and counselors, who had expected the queen to support Helen's suggestion, if only to buy them time. Yet here she was, seemingly taking the side of Helen, the woman who had sparked the war.
"But," came a hesitant voice from the back, "it could still buy us a few years. Time to prepare, to fortify ourselves against the Greeks."
Hecuba shook her head slowly, her eyes gleaming with resolve. "No," she said. "We shall not bow to them. We will fight, and whatever fate the gods have reserved for us, we will meet it with courage. We will not cower before the arrogant Greeks." She paused, her gaze turning to her eldest son, Hector, who stood tall and stoic beside his father. "Or should we, Hector?"
Hector sighed, though there was no hesitation in his movement. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he nodded in agreement. "Of course not, Mother. We will not run. We will face them."
Priam, who had been watching his wife and son with quiet pride, allowed a rare smile to soften his face. He turned to Helen, his voice gentle yet resolute. "You've heard them, Helen. Return to your chambers and rest. Our fate does not lie in your hands. Whether you choose to leave or remain, we will fight.
The decision is yours, but our path is clear."
Helen's hands trembled as she balled them into fists, her nails digging into her palms. The weight of their words settled heavily on her, but she could not find the strength to respond. Were they pitying her? Did they truly believe she was worth more than the war that raged because of her? Yet, amid her confusion, a faint sense of relief washed over her.
For so long, she had felt purposeless, like a mere ornament to be admired, an object of desire that men would kill and die for. She had been praised endlessly for her beauty, but no one had ever truly seen her. All they cared for was the face that launched a thousand ships. And now, even that beauty seemed like a curse, something that had only brought misery and destruction.
So why, then, did she still cling to life? What hope was she holding onto? She could not even understand it herself.
Before she could sink deeper into her thoughts, the heavy wooden doors to the royal chamber suddenly swung open with a loud bang, drawing all attention to the entrance. There, standing framed in the doorway, was a man whose presence exuded strength and power, his muscular frame imposing and his demeanor commanding.
His features were strikingly handsome, reminiscent of Hector, though his aura was more wild, less restrained.
"Aeneas," Priam greeted with a smile, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the man.
Hector's expression mirrored his father's as he stepped forward to greet his kinsman. "Brother," he said, clasping Aeneas's forearm with a firm grip.
Aeneas returned the gesture with a nod. He was renowned throughout Troy as the second-strongest warrior after Hector, a hero in his own right, and his arrival now only further bolstered the confidence of those present.
"Aeneas," Hector continued, "what news do you bring?"
The younger man turned his attention to Priam, his expression shifting to one of serious intent. "Your Majesty," Aeneas began, "all the mercenaries who answered our call for aid have arrived. They await your command in the courtyard."
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC156: Kassandra of Troy
" Hector." Aeneas returned the smile before looking at Priam. "Your Majesty. All mercenaries who have answered our calls of support have arrived. They are waiting for us in the courtyard."
Priam's weathered features softened slightly as he gave a small nod. "Good," he said in a measured tone. "Hector, welcome them appropriately." The weight of the impending war bore down on the king's shoulders, and though he maintained a composed facade, he knew all too well the dire reality they faced.
The storm of war brewing on the horizon was not an ordinary conflict; this was a battle in which the greatest heroes of Greece would fight—Achilles, Heracles, and others of legendary prowess. These were men with divine blood and unmatched skill in battle. Troy was at a severe disadvantage, and Priam understood the gravity of it.
That is why he had sent messengers to every corner of the known world, summoning the most skilled and renowned mercenaries to their cause. It had been a desperate move, one born of necessity, for few would willingly fight for a distant kingdom like Troy, especially with the looming threat of such formidable opponents. Yet, whatever reinforcements they could gather would be crucial.
Even a few more swords could tip the scales, however slightly, in their favor.
"Yes, Father," Hector replied with a resolute nod. Without hesitation, he turned and strode purposefully toward the exit, his tall, armored figure cutting a path through the room like a pillar of unshakable strength.
As Hector left, Paris hesitated, his eyes flicking toward Helen. "Helen," he called softly, his voice tinged with uncertainty. But Helen, her expression unreadable, offered no response. Without a word, she turned on her heel and walked away, the weight of guilt heavy on her slender shoulders.
No matter what they said—no matter how they tried to comfort or absolve her—the burden of responsibility would never leave her. It clung to her, relentless and suffocating. She knew that when the war began and the blood of soldiers stained the ground of Troy, the guilt would only deepen, seeping further into her soul like a poison.
Every life lost, every sword raised in her name, would be another reminder of her part in this tragedy.
As the hall emptied and only the king and queen remained, the silence became almost unbearable. Priam sat quietly on his throne, his thoughts dark and brooding. Hecuba stood beside him, her posture rigid, but before either could speak, a shadow stirred from the far corner of the chamber. A figure emerged from the darkness—a woman whose presence seemed both otherworldly and tragic.
She was strikingly beautiful, her long red hair cascading down her back like flames, her deep crimson eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and something far more ancient. This was Kassandra, Hector's younger sister.
Since the day of Paris's birth, Kassandra had pleaded with their family to send him away—away from Troy, away from the city she had seen doomed in her prophetic visions. Apollo himself had blessed her with the gift of foresight, and with it came terrible dreams, visions of Troy's destruction, all linked to the boy who now stood at the heart of their troubles.
She had seen it all before it began—the downfall of their city, the ruin that would follow in Paris's wake. But no one had believed her. Not her family, not her people.
It was a cruel irony that Apollo, angered by Kassandra's refusal to submit to him, had cursed her gift. Though she could see the future, no one would ever believe her warnings. It was as though her voice had been silenced, though she continued to speak. Her pleas had fallen on deaf ears, and now the grim future she had foreseen loomed over them all.
Her mother, Queen Hecuba, had made half-hearted attempts to send Paris away in those early years—weeks spent trying to rid Troy of the boy Kassandra had warned about—but the efforts had failed. Fate, it seemed, had bound them to this course.
Now, with the war creeping ever closer, Kassandra's prophecies were no longer simply dreams—they were becoming reality.
Hecuba, sensing her daughter's presence, sighed heavily, already anticipating what was to come. "Don't start again, daughter," the queen said tiredly, her voice tinged with exasperation. She assumed Kassandra had once more come to complain, to remind them of how often she had warned them of this fate—how they had ignored her, how they had failed to heed her words.
But when Hecuba turned to look at her daughter, she was met not with defiance or anger, but with silence.
Kassandra stood there, her expression hauntingly calm, her lips unmoving.
"Kassandra?" Priam's voice broke through the silence that had settled over the room, worried for his daughter.
Kassandra's red eyes flicked up to meet her father's, her expression a mix of confusion and fear. She parted her lips, her voice hesitant. "It stopped."
Priam and Hecuba exchanged puzzled glances, their brows furrowed in unison. "What stopped?" Priam asked.
"My dreams," Kassandra murmured, as though the admission itself was difficult to process. "They've… completely stopped."
The weight of her words hung in the air, thick and ominous. Priam's frown deepened, confusion etched into his features. "What do you mean?" he pressed, leaning forward slightly in his throne, trying to grasp the full meaning of her statement.
Kassandra shook her head slowly, her red hair swaying around her like a shroud. "I don't know," she whispered, the words laced with uncertainty. "I don't know what's happening."
Hecuba, ever the steady force beside Priam, stood up, her posture stiff as she stepped toward her daughter. "Kassandra," she began cautiously, her voice softer now, "you've always told us you saw Troy destroyed—turned to ashes." Her eyes searched Kassandra's face for confirmation. "Isn't that what you've always said?"
"Yes, mother!" Kassandra replied, the sudden intensity in her voice betraying her fear. "I saw it. I truly saw it. Years ago, it was clear—the fall of Troy, its destruction—it was all there. But…" her voice wavered, and she faltered as if unsure of how to continue. She paused, collecting herself before speaking again, more quietly this time.
"But nine months ago… the dreams stopped."
"Stopped?" Priam's voice was low, now tinged with a deeper concern.
Kassandra nodded, her hands clenching into fists as she struggled to find the right words. "Yes… they stopped completely. For years, I saw everything. The fires, the walls crumbling, the city in ruins. But now… now I don't dream of Troy anymore. I don't see what's to come.
I don't see anything at all." Her voice grew fainter with every word, as though the weight of not knowing crushed her.
Hecuba stepped forward, her hand reaching out to Kassandra. "What does that mean? Why did it stop?" She asked softly.
Kassandra's voice trembled as she answered, "I don't know, Mother. I don't know why. It just stopped. It's like the future has become… a void. I can't see what will happen anymore. And it terrifies me." Her eyes, wide and glassy with fear, looked to her parents for answers they could not give.
Hecuba, seeing the vulnerability in her daughter's usually strong gaze, pulled Kassandra into a gentle embrace. "It's okay, Kassandra," she whispered, her voice as soothing as the soft touch of her hands. "Perhaps this is a good thing. If the dreams have stopped, maybe it means we have a chance—maybe the gods have changed their course."
Kassandra buried her face in her mother's shoulder, her arms trembling slightly as she tried to comprehend what was happening. "I… I don't know…" she mumbled, her voice muffled. "What if it's worse? What if the silence means something even more terrible is coming?" The uncertainty was gnawing at her, making her feel more lost than she had ever been.
Priam, watching them both, felt an unease settle in his chest. The idea of Kassandra no longer being able to see the future, no longer having even the faintest thread of foresight, was unsettling. "Perhaps," he said slowly, as if thinking aloud, "the gods have shrouded the future in darkness for reasons we cannot yet understand. But we mustn't lose hope."
Kassandra pulled back from her mother's embrace, her red eyes gleaming with unshed tears. "But why?" she asked, almost pleading. "Why nine months ago? Why did it stop so suddenly? I've always had the dreams… but now, I'm blind to what's to come."
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC157: The Greek Kings
"Lands in sight!" a sailor's voice rang out, breaking the rhythmic sounds of waves lapping against the ship's hull. His shout spread like wildfire across the deck, stirring the crew from their tasks and waking those who had been resting. All eyes turned toward the horizon, and there, barely distinguishable against the vast expanse of blue, was the faint outline of land.
An island.
After a grueling week at sea, with nothing but the endless waters surrounding them, the sight was a balm to their weary souls. The tension that had been building during the long voyage finally began to ease. Murmurs of excitement rippled through the crew, and even the most battle-hardened soldiers aboard felt a surge of anticipation. The shores of Troy were now within reach.
The sea was filled with countless ships, their towering sails casting shadows across the water, creating the illusion of a forest of masts stretching into the distance. These vessels were no ordinary ships; they bore the finest soldiers from every corner of the Achaean kingdom. Warriors, each bound by a shared purpose—to wage war under the banner of the Olympian gods.
They were the Great Army of the Greeks, assembled to lay siege to the walls of Troy.
On one of the largest ships, a young man with sharp, handsome features stood at the bow, his gaze fixed on the distant land. A wide grin spread across his face, his golden hair catching the sunlight as the wind tugged at it. "Troy, at last," he muttered, his voice filled with a mix of triumph and anticipation.
This was Jason, the famed Hero of the Argonauts, the man who had once led an intrepid crew on a perilous journey in search of the Golden Fleece.
Though his quest had ended in failure—thanks to a mysterious and unwelcome intruder—Jason's renown remained undiminished. His name still held weight across Greece, and now, he had a second chance to carve his place into the annals of history. This time, he would not fail. The war against Troy would be the stage upon which his legend would be reborn, and he was determined to see it through.
Beside him stood a figure even more imposing—broad-shouldered and towering in stature, with muscles that seemed hewn from stone. His skin gleamed in the sunlight, and his eyes were as clear and bright as the sky above them. This was Heracles, son of Zeus, the demigod whose feats of strength and endurance had made him a living myth.
Yet despite his reputation, there was an air of disinterest about him as he leaned against the ship's railing, watching the horizon with a quiet intensity.
"Are you ready, Heracles?" Jason asked, his voice filled with the enthusiasm that was conspicuously absent in his companion.
Heracles glanced at him, his expression neutral. "Yes, though I have little interest in this war," he admitted, his deep voice resonating like thunder in the wind.
Jason raised an eyebrow, surprised by the admission. "Then why are you here?"
Heracles looked skyward, as if searching for an answer in the clouds. "Hera asked me to come," he said simply. His tone was neither bitter nor resentful, merely matter-of-fact. "I couldn't refuse her."
It was a surprising answer, given the history between Heracles and Hera. The queen of the gods had been the bane of Heracles' existence, ever jealous of him as the product of one of Zeus's many infidelities. Yet over time, their relationship had shifted.
Hera had come to appreciate the strength and resilience of the demigod, perhaps because, despite their past animosity, Heracles had carried out many of her commands with unwavering obedience. And, as Jason mused, Heracles' very name was a tribute to her—a subtle acknowledgment that had perhaps softened the goddess's wrath.
"Well, whatever her reasons, I'm glad you're here," Jason said with a grin, clapping Heracles on the shoulder. "With you by our side, and the other heroes backing us, this war won't last long." His eyes drifted to the other ships surrounding theirs, where he could make out the figures of the greatest kings and warriors of Greece.
Men whose names had already become legend: Achilles, the peerless warrior, Odysseus, the cunning strategist, and Agamemnon, the commanding king whose will had united them all.
°°°°°
After an hour, all the ships had berthed safely on the shores of Troy. The Achaean forces, numbering in the thousands, disembarked with an eerie calm, as if expecting an immediate clash. But there were no surprise attacks from the Trojans. It seemed the defenders had chosen to remain within the safety of their towering walls, conserving their strength for the inevitable siege.
The Trojans, wise in the art of war, had no interest in wasting their soldiers on futile skirmishes when they had the advantage of formidable fortifications.
Within another hour, the Achaean camp was fully established. Rows of tents stretched across the coastline, each group of soldiers organized by their city-states or allegiances. Despite their shared goal—the conquest of Troy—there was little camaraderie among them.
Distrust lingered, heightened by their competitive natures and the knowledge that glory would be earned by the mightiest, not the most cooperative. They were allies for now, but none were eager to make friends.
This was particularly true for a group camped furthest from the Greeks, a contingent from the distant Empire of Light. Their foreign customs and aloof demeanor set them apart, drawing frowns from the Greek warriors, who regarded them with suspicion. Though bound by the same cause, the differences between them were as vast as the sea they had just crossed.
At the heart of the sprawling camp stood the largest and grandest tent, the central hub for strategy meetings and war councils. It was a colossal structure, draped in regal colors and adorned with banners from every corner of the Achaean world. Inside, a throne fit for a king dominated the room, and upon it sat a man who radiated authority and power.
He was Agamemnon, King of Mycenae and the undisputed leader of the Greek forces—a man whose very presence demanded obedience.
Agamemnon was a sight to behold. Though well into his forties, his muscular frame and sharp gaze revealed the vitality and strength of a man still in his prime. His thick beard framed a face hardened by years of war, and his eyes gleamed with ambition. He was the king of kings, the only one capable of uniting all the disparate Greek forces under one banner.
Yet, beneath his calm exterior, Agamemnon was as ruthless as he was calculating. He knew that this war was not just about the fall of Troy but about securing his legacy as the greatest ruler Greece had ever seen.
Gathered before him were the greatest heroes and legends of the Achaean world. Each of them renowned, each with a role to play in the coming conflict.
Menelaus, King of Sparta, stood at his brother's side, his face twisted with fury. It was his stolen wife, Helen, that had sparked the flames of this war, and the anger that burned within him showed no sign of waning. His hatred for Paris, the prince of Troy who had taken Helen, was palpable, and he longed for the day when he could spill Trojan blood.
Beside him was Odysseus, the King of Ithaca, his sharp eyes scanning the room with a calculating gaze. Known as the most cunning and intelligent man to ever be born, Odysseus was lean and serious, his mind always a step ahead. Where others relied on brute strength, Odysseus relied on wit.
Heracles, the towering son of Zeus, stood like a living mountain, his presence almost overshadowing the others. His strength was legendary, and even among this assembly of great men, he was regarded with awe.
Diomedes, King of Argos, waited with arms crossed, his handsome face betraying no emotion. He had earned a reputation as a fearsome warrior, and though he remained silent, his mind was already on the battlefield.
Standing nearby was Ajax, King of Phthia, whose towering frame and arrogant grin made him nearly as imposing as Heracles.
Lastly, there was Nestor, the elderly King of Pylos, who had earned his place at Agamemnon's side not through brute force but through wisdom. A veteran of countless wars, Nestor now served as an advisor, his vast experience invaluable to the younger leaders. Though his fighting days were behind him, his counsel carried weight in every discussion.
Agamemnon's glowing eyes swept over the assembled heroes.
"Shall we begin?"
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC158: The Heroes of the Light Empire Faces the Greek Kings
"Shall we begin?" Agamemnon asked, his deep voice resonating within the tent, eyes narrowing with impatience.
Nestor, the eldest and wisest of the gathered kings, glanced around the tent with a furrowed brow. "Achilles is not here yet," he observed.
The air inside the tent thickened. Everyone present knew they were waiting for the most formidable force in their ranks, the man whose very name was a promise of destruction on the battlefield: Achilles. Yet, in this crucial hour, the hero was conspicuously absent.
Agamemnon's face twisted with contempt, his lips curling into a sneer. "I don't care," he spat. "Let's start without him."
His dismissal was sharp, almost venomous. Agamemnon had always loathed Achilles, that much was clear to everyone. To him, Achilles was insufferable—arrogant, insolent, a warrior who dared to defy the 'king of kings' without the slightest regard for his authority.
Achilles had never bowed to Agamemnon, never recognized his superiority, and that was an unforgivable sin in the eyes of the Mycenaean ruler.
But Achilles had never cared for the politics of kings or the egos of men like Agamemnon. He was there for one reason alone: to fight. Glory and battle were his only pursuits, not the petty quarrels of Agamemnon or his brother, Menelaus, who had lost his wife in the most pathetic manner imaginable. Achilles had no respect for such men.
"What of the Heroes?" Odysseus asked suddenly, a wry smile dancing on his lips as he leaned forward/
"Heroes?" Agamemnon raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with skepticism.
Nestor was quick to clarify, "He speaks of the Heroes from the Empire of Light."
At this, Agamemnon let out a short, derisive chuckle, filled with scorn. "Those children? Heroes?" His voice thickened with mockery. "The very idea is laughable. They have no place in the company of real men, men who've spilled blood on the battlefield. The only reason I haven't sent them packing is because they came recommended by the goddess Hera herself.
Otherwise, I'd have had their ships burned and left them to swim back to that weak, pathetic Empire of Light."
"That's rather harsh, King Agamemnon," came a sudden, melodic voice, soft yet brimming with an undeniable power.
The kings turned, and all eyes shifted to the entrance of the tent. Standing there was a woman of such beauty that the air itself seemed to still in her presence. Her long, shimmering blue hair fell gracefully past her shoulders, and her golden eyes glowed with an ethereal light behind a delicate pair of glasses.
Her lips curled into a gentle smile, but there was something dangerous beneath that serene expression, something that made even seasoned warriors shift uneasily.
In unison, the kings straightened, their gazes instinctively drawn to her. Agamemnon, for all his arrogance, felt a sliver of wariness. She was not particularly strong in appearance—no armor adorned her, no weapon hung at her side—but something about her aura demanded respect, if not outright fear.
"Our Heroes are more reliable than you may think, King Agamemnon," the woman said, her voice as light as a breeze, yet it cut through the air like a blade.
Agamemnon's eyes narrowed. "And who might you be?" he asked, his voice low, though the coldness in his tone was unmistakable.
"She is the one responsible for the Heroes of the Empire of Light," Nestor answered before the woman could speak. "Lady Liphiel, a Divine Knight of the Empire of Light."
At the mention of her title, Odysseus' expression shifted, a gleam of interest sparking in his intelligent eyes. The others, however, remained suspicious, their mistrust of the foreign knight evident in their stiffened postures.
"A Divine Knight, you say…" Odysseus mused, leaning back slightly as if calculating the value of such a figure in their midst.
While the kings knew little of the mysterious Empire of Light, they had heard enough to understand that the title of Divine Knight was not one to be taken lightly. These were warriors of renown, blessed and favored by their gods, wielding powers that could tip the balance in the coming war. Yet, that very power made them dangerous and unpredictable.
Liphiel, still smiling, cast her gaze around the tent, seemingly unbothered by the wary looks and whispered suspicions. "I must say," she began, her voice smooth, "it is an honor to stand in the presence of such legends. I've heard many tales of your bravery, your triumphs on the battlefield."
"And we've heard nothing of you or those brats you dare call Heroes," Ajax snickered, his voice thick with mockery as he lounged lazily in his seat, arms crossed. His eyes glinted with derision. "Why don't you take them back to their mothers where they belong?"
A ripple of laughter followed, but it was cut short by a sudden, sharp voice from the entrance of the tent. "I can send you to see your mother first, you motherfucker."
The words were delivered with a biting edge, and the tension in the room spiked instantly. Heads turned as a young man strode confidently into the tent. He was one of the Heroes from the Empire of Light, and judging by the storm in his eyes, he had heard every word of Ajax's mockery.
Aidan was visibly bristling with irritation. His youthful features were hard with the look of someone who had been underestimated far too many times. He hated it—being looked down on, being dismissed because of his age or appearance. His fists clenched tightly at his sides, and his sharp gaze fixed on Ajax.
"What did you say?" Ajax growled, rising from his seat, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the floor. His muscles tensed, ready for a fight.
Aidan didn't flinch. He stood his ground, his expression cool and defiant. "I don't think it's wise to underestimate someone just because of their age," he said, his voice calm, though the underlying tension was palpable. "Consider it a piece of advice."
Before Ajax could respond, another figure entered the tent, his arrival drawing the attention of every seasoned warrior present. Jason Spencer, one of the other Heroes from the Empire of Light, stepped forward with a disarming smile. His golden armor gleamed brilliantly in the flickering torchlight, a testament to his rank and skill.
Even the most battle-hardened kings couldn't help but notice the way he carried himself—with quiet confidence and an undeniable presence.
As experienced men of war, they could sense something different about these two. There was a fire in their eyes, a raw potential that couldn't be ignored, especially in Jason Spencer, whose very aura seemed to command respect.
Liphiel, still standing by with her serene smile, gestured to the two young warriors. "Allow me to introduce two of the strongest Heroes from our Empire: Hero Aidan and Hero Jason," she said, her voice filled with pride.
"Hero... Jason?" A voice spoke up, this time with a hint of surprise. The speaker was none other than the Greek Hero, Jason himself, his brow furrowing slightly.
Hearing the name spoken aloud sent a jolt through him. His name—the name of the Hero who had once led the Argonauts across treacherous seas in pursuit of the Golden Fleece—was now being shared by this young upstart from the Empire of Light. And what's worse, this newcomer was also being called a 'Hero.' A wave of discomfort rippled through him, stirring his pride. He didn't like it.
How could anyone else bear the same title, let alone the same name, when he had crossed oceans and faced untold perils? In his mind, he alone was worthy of that title.
Ajax, sensing his friend's growing irritation, guffawed loudly. "Look at that, Jason! This little pup has the same name as you! How amusing."
Jason Spencer, unaware of the tension brewing in the room, merely smiled. "Oh?" he said, turning his gaze to the older Jason. "You must be the great Hero Jason, the one who conquered the Golden Fleece. It's truly an honor to meet you in person."
Jason Spencer's tone was genuine, a reflection of the admiration he had for the myths he had once heard about on Earth. His words were meant to open a friendly conversation, to pay respect to the legendary hero who shared his name. After all, standing before a figure of such ancient renown should have been a moment of camaraderie, not conflict.
But the smile on Jason Spencer's face only deepened the storm brewing in the Greek hero's chest. Silence fell thick and heavy in the tent. Every king present knew the truth—Jason of Greece had not truly 'conquered' the Golden Fleece. It had been snatched from his grasp in a humiliating defeat by an enemy from Tenebria, a failure that had haunted him ever since.
For many, it had been a source of mockery, a stain on his legacy.
And now, this boy, this other Jason, was unknowingly treading on old wounds.
From Jason of Greece's perspective, this was no innocent remark. He heard only scorn, mockery laced beneath the polite words. His pride screamed at the affront. How dare this foreigner, this so-called Hero from the Empire of Light, speak to him with such gall?
"You bastard…" Jason of Greece growled, his eyes darkening with a murderous glint. He took a step toward Jason Spencer, fists tightening, his rage barely held in check.
Jason Spencer's smile faltered, confusion clouding his features. He hadn't expected such a hostile reaction, and for a moment, he wondered what he had done to deserve such ire.
Sensing the dangerous shift in the atmosphere, Odysseus quickly raised his hand, his calm voice cutting through the rising tension. "Let's all settle down," he urged, stepping forward in a bid to restore order. "There's no need for violence. We're all here for the same purpose, after all."
But even as Odysseus spoke, there was a flicker of amusement in the eyes of some—especially Ajax, who was barely containing his laughter. Diomedes, seated nearby, smirked as well, clearly entertained by the growing tension between the two Jasons.
During that brief but charged silence, the flap of the tent stirred once more, drawing the attention of everyone inside. The air shifted, and as the figure stepped in, it felt as though time itself slowed in reverence to her presence. Every gaze was immediately captured, and all eyes turned toward the newcomer.
Aisha Nakano.
She moved with a quiet grace, her long, raven-black hair cascading down her back like a silken waterfall. The dark locks framed her face, accentuating the striking contrast with her flawless, porcelain skin. Her eyes were a deep brown so dark they seemed almost black. Those eyes, calm held the gaze of everyone in the tent.
Her attire was as remarkable as her presence—a beautifully crafted black dress armor that hugged her figure with both elegance and strength. Every curve of the armor was sleek, a blend of form and function that made her appear as if she were both a goddess of war and beauty incarnate.
For a long moment, silence reigned as the kings of Greece, men who had fought and commanded armies, found themselves breathless at the sight of her. Even Agamemnon, who ruled as the king of kings and bore little tolerance for distractions, could not hide the flicker of awe that passed through his features.
Even Menelaus who had once laid claim to the most beautiful woman in the world, Helen of Troy, found himself captivated by the new arrival. Though in his heart he knew that Helen's beauty was unrivaled, there was something about this woman, Aisha, that stirred a different kind of admiration in him. Where Helen was a beacon of light and perfection, Aisha was the embodiment of mystery and shadow.
Her black hair, her half-Asian features, and her armor—everything about her whispered of a beauty not bound by the expectations of the world but carved from a different, darker allure.
Aisha stood at the entrance of the tent for a brief moment, surveying the gathered kings and heroes with a calm, discerning gaze.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC159: Lyrnessus
Even Menelaus who had once laid claim to the most beautiful woman in the world, Helen of Troy, found himself captivated by the new arrival. Though in his heart he knew that Helen's beauty was unrivaled, there was something about this woman, Aisha, that stirred a different kind of admiration in him. Where Helen was a beacon of light and perfection, Aisha was the embodiment of mystery and shadow.
Her black hair, her half-Asian features, and her armor—everything about her whispered of a beauty not bound by the expectations of the world but carved from a different, darker allure.
Aisha stood at the entrance of the tent for a brief moment, surveying the gathered kings and heroes with a calm, discerning gaze.
Like Sienna, Siara, Gwen, and Courtney, Aisha had initially refused to come when Liphiel summoned her to greet the Greek Kings. The very thought of standing before those men, many of whom had already leered at her and her classmates, disgusted her.
Ever since they had arrived, the Greek warriors, with their hardened bodies and minds warped by years of fighting, had gazed at the young women as though they were divine beings descended from Olympus itself. To them, Aisha and the other five greatest beauties were nothing short of goddesses—a rare and unattainable prize after abandoning their homes for the grueling war.
Aisha despised the way those warriors looked at them, as if their beauty was a reward for their suffering. The idea of being objectified in such a crude manner was enough to keep her away, but in the end, her curiosity overrode her disgust.
She wanted to witness how these so-called legendary kings and heroes would strategize for a true war, and if they were as mighty as the myths made them out to be.
Stepping into the tent, Aisha felt every gaze lock onto her once more, though she had grown accustomed to this reaction. The air was thick with the sound of heavy breathing and silent awe. Liphiel's smile brightened at the sight of her.
"Hero Aisha, you finally came," Liphiel greeted warmly, her eyes reflecting both relief and admiration.
Aisha gave a small nod in acknowledgment but said nothing, her expression unreadable. She could already feel the weight of lustful gazes crawling over her skin, one of them more prominent than the rest.
Ajax, standing among the Greek kings, shamelessly licked his lips, his eyes devouring her every feature. He had seen many beautiful women in his life, but Aisha was unlike any he had encountered. The old bitterness of losing Helen's hand to Menelaus resurfaced, though it dulled quickly. In his mind, Aisha was the perfect replacement, an even greater prize.
She would make a fine wife—strong, beautiful, and seemingly unclaimed. He had always resented Menelaus for his good fortune with Helen, but now Ajax felt as though fate had delivered him something better.
Agamemnon, who usually had little tolerance for women in matters of war, took one glance at Aisha and held his tongue. There was something different about her—she radiated strength, not merely the beauty that entranced the likes of Ajax. She could be more than useful on the battlefield, he realized.
Odysseus saw Agamemnon's unspoken approval as an opportunity to shift the focus. Gesturing toward the large table in the center of the tent, where a map of the Trojan territories was spread out, he spoke with the calm confidence of a seasoned strategist.
"This is our plan," Odysseus began, pointing to a specific location on the map. "We will start by striking at the City of Lyrnessus. The king there is one of Troy's strongest allies, and if we sever their connection, it will cripple the Trojan supply routes, isolating the capital from much-needed support."
Aisha moved closer to the table, studying the map with a discerning eye. The city was positioned strategically, close enough to the Trojan capital to be of significant importance, yet vulnerable without direct reinforcement.
"It's not a large city," Heracles interjected. "They won't have enough knights to match us in strength. It should be a swift victory."
Diomedes leaned forward. "Then there's no need for all of us to waste time taking over the city. We can split our forces."
Odysseus nodded, his grin widening as the plan solidified in his mind. "Exactly. We don't need everyone. Achilles will lead the initial assault, opening the hostilities."
At the mention of Achilles, Agamemnon let out a sharp breath, his irritation evident. "Achilles," he spat, clearly not pleased by the reminder of the one warrior he could never control.
Odysseus, unfazed by Agamemnon's contempt, continued. "Yes. He is our greatest weapon, and we'll need him to kickstart this war. It's the perfect way to draw him in. Achilles thrives on combat, and this will motivate him. He won't refuse the chance to open the war with his own hands."
Ajax laughed heartily, his coarse voice filling the tent. "That's for sure, that bastard always craves the bloodshed," he said, referring to Achilles, his words heavy with crude admiration.
Odysseus, ever focused on strategy, gestured toward the map once again. "Lyrnessus won't yet be aware of our early arrival. This is our chance to strike while they're unprepared. We can take them by surprise and conquer the city with minimal resistance. Let's not waste time."
Before anyone could respond, Liphiel stepped forward.
"We will also lend our assistance," she said calmly.
Agamemnon's face twisted in displeasure, his pride wounded. He had never felt comfortable around these outsiders—the Heroes of the Empire of Light. To him, this war belonged to the Greeks, and no foreign power should outshine his army. "That won't be necessary," he said curtly, his tone dismissive.
Liphiel, unperturbed, offered a knowing smile. "I believe it is necessary, King Agamemnon. If we are to be taken seriously by you and your men, we must prove ourselves on the battlefield. Observe us, and you will understand why the Goddess Hera herself has vouched for us. We do not intend to interfere; we will merely show you our strength."
Odysseus nodded in agreement. "I think it's a good idea, King Agamemnon. Let us see what these Heroes from another world are capable of. It may serve us well to know their strengths."
Agamemnon scowled, but with Odysseus aligning with Liphiel, he had little choice but to concede. "So be it," he grumbled.
Odysseus, satisfied with the outcome, turned back to Liphiel. "Very well, Lady Liphiel. Prepare your Heroes. We will soon move out."
As the tension in the room began to settle, Odysseus glanced at Agamemnon one last time. "I will handle Achilles," he said. There was no need to argue over who would command the strongest warrior among them—Odysseus knew how to motivate Achilles in a way that even Agamemnon could not.
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