Chapter 310 - jdjg

I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC160: Penthesilea: Amazonian Queen

"It is a great honor to stand beside you, the legendary Amazon Queen," Hector said, his voice carrying both admiration and respect. A warm smile spread across his face as he extended his hand toward the striking figure before him--a woman of rare and formidable beauty. Her blond hair, cropped to the nape of her neck and tied back in a practical fashion, glinted in the sunlight.

Her skin, bronzed by the sun, gleamed with a sheen of sweat, beads of moisture tracing their path down her toned, muscular form. Despite the armor she wore, it was impossible to overlook the sensual curves of her body, the lithe strength of her limbs, and the raw, untamed power she radiated. She was a warrior through and through, but there was no denying her femininity.

Her sculpted arms, the flat expanse of her stomach, and the long, powerful legs hinted at a beauty that rivaled even the most delicate of women, though hers was sharpened by years of battle.

This was Penthesilea, daughter of Ares, the God of War. Queen of the Amazons.

The name alone struck awe and fear in the hearts of her enemies. The Amazons, a tribe of fierce and unyielding female warriors, were known across the lands for their unparalleled prowess in combat. Agility, strength, and precision were their calling cards, and none wielded them more masterfully than Penthesilea herself. Their society, closed off to men, thrived in isolation.

The Amazons raised only their daughters; sons were returned to their fathers after brief, calculated encounters meant only to secure the survival of their people. Their lives were dedicated to battle, to honing their skills as archers, riders, and masters of the blade.

And Penthesilea was more than just their Queen by birthright--she was the embodiment of their strength, the spearhead of their fighting spirit.

To Hector, her presence here, in Troy, was a blessing beyond measure. With the Greek forces closing in, any edge they could gain was vital. And having Penthesilea on their side was a tremendous boon. Her reputation alone could inspire his soldiers, but her strength in battle would be nothing short of invaluable.

He clasped her hand firmly, feeling the solid grip of a warrior who had seen countless battles. "We are fortunate to have such a powerful ally join our cause."

Penthesilea's lips curled into a teasing smile as she shook his hand. "Don't be so formal, Hector. My reasons for fighting here are far more personal than you might think," she said with a chuckle that hinted at a deeper story, one she chose not to share.

Hector's smile widened, though a flicker of curiosity passed through his eyes. Still, he respected her boundaries. "Nevertheless, welcome to Troy."

She released his hand, her expression becoming more serious as she turned her attention to the scene before them. "How are the preparations?" she asked, her sharp eyes scanning the bustling soldiers below. From their vantage point atop the city walls, they could see the full extent of Troy's defenses.

Men moved with purpose, reinforcing the already mighty walls, while others sharpened weapons, prepared catapults, and distributed supplies. The sound of hammers striking stone, the clatter of shields and swords being readied for war, filled the air. There was an almost palpable tension, the city itself brimming with anticipation for the coming battle.

"The preparations are progressing well," Hector replied, crossing his arms as he, too, observed the frenzied activity. "The Greeks may have their champions, but we have our own warriors of renown. More importantly, we have the walls--built by the hands of Apollo and Poseidon themselves. They have stood strong against every siege and will protect us now, as they always have."

Penthesilea nodded, her face stern but approving. "The gods protect the brave, yes," she said, though her tone held a note of pragmatism. Her faith, perhaps, was not as blind as Hector's. She had lived her life by the sword, and in her experience, it was one's own strength that determined victory, not the whims of the divine.

"We are not in the wrong either," Hector said, his voice filled with a bitter edge as he gazed into the distance. "A war over a single woman. It's almost unbelievable. So much blood ready to be spilled over something so trivial. But then again..." He paused, his brow furrowing in thought. "She does share some blame.

I doubt Agamemnon would have ever let go of Troy so easily. He was looking for an excuse."

Penthesilea, standing beside him with her arms crossed, let out a low hum of interest. "Queen Helen, hmm? They say her beauty rivals that of the Goddess of Love and Beauty herself, Aphrodite. Is it true?" Her lips curled into a smile as she licked them in anticipation. "I admit, I am eager to see her for myself."

Hector didn't respond immediately. His silence spoke volumes, for even though he had a loving and devoted wife--Andromache, who waited for him within the walls of Troy--there was no denying that Helen's beauty was something otherworldly. It transcended the realm of mortal women, captivating all who gazed upon her, and even Hector, as loyal as he was, had to steel himself in her presence.

Helen's allure was like a force of nature--impossible to ignore, and dangerous to underestimate.

He shook his head slightly, refocusing his thoughts. "Don't touch her, Penthesilea," he warned, his tone firm, but not unkind. He knew the Amazon Queen too well. She had a taste for beauty, whether it be in the form of men or women, and her desires often led her to seek out those who caught her eye. "She's under our protection, and that means yours as well."

Penthesilea laughed, a deep, throaty sound that sent a shiver down Hector's spine. She took a step closer, her hand running lightly over Hector's toned chest, her fingers lingering just a moment too long. Her voice dropped to a sensual whisper as she leaned in, her lips dangerously close to his ear. "Are you jealous, Hector?" she purred, her breath warm against his skin.

Hector stiffened but did not pull away. "This isn't about jealousy, Penthesilea," he replied, his tone measured, though the tension in his muscles was apparent.

Penthesilea's smile deepened as she looked up at him with half-lidded eyes. "Do you remember what I asked of you, Hector?"

Hector blinked, momentarily thrown off guard. "What?"

Her grin turned predatory, and she let out a low chuckle. "I told you," she said, her voice rich with suggestion, "I want my future children to be strong. And for that, they need strong genes.

I wish to bear the children of the strongest man I know." Her eyes gleamed as she took a step closer, her hand boldly reaching for his waist, her fingers tugging at his clothes as she reached toward him with intent. "Let's not waste time. Let's do it now."

For a brief moment, Hector's breath caught in his throat. The Amazon Queen was a force of nature in her own right--irresistible, dangerous, and alluring. She was the kind of woman most men would die for, and her confidence only made her more desirable. But Hector quickly regained his composure. His hand shot out, catching her wrist before she could go any further. His grip was firm but not harsh.

"No," he said, his voice steady, though his pulse raced beneath his skin. "I told you before, Penthesilea. My answer is no."

Penthesilea tilted her head, studying him with a mixture of amusement and disappointment, though the gleam in her eyes suggested that she enjoyed the challenge. "Hector, ever the loyal husband," she mused, letting her fingers slide slowly out of his grasp. "Such restraint in the face of temptation. Admirable... and rare."

Hector exhaled, his heart pounding as he tried to shake off the heat of the moment. The last thing he needed was to give in to such advances, especially now, with a war looming over them. His loyalty to Andromache, to Troy, and to his people outweighed any fleeting desire. "I won't betray my wife, not even for you," he said firmly.

Before Penthesilea could respond, a voice rang out from behind them.

"Hector!"

Both of them turned to see Aeneas sprinting toward them, his expression grim and his tone breathless. "What's happening, Aeneas?" Hector asked, his voice tight with concern as he stepped toward his comrade.

"It's the Greeks!" Aeneas replied, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to catch his breath. "They've reached Lyrnessus and begun their assault!"

"What?!" Hector's voice was filled with shock and alarm. He had not expected the Greeks to arrive so soon, and worse yet, their scouts had failed to report the enemy's movements. Lyrnessus was some distance away, far enough that any help would take time to arrive. But if they delayed, the city could be destroyed before they even had a chance to intervene. He couldn't let that happen.

"We need to move quickly," Hector muttered, his mind racing. "Aeneas, you're with me. We'll take a small force and make for Lyrnessus. There may still be time to save the survivors."

"Finally, some action!" Penthesilea said, her lips curling into a fierce grin. "I'm coming with you."

Hector nodded, knowing that her presence would be invaluable in the skirmish ahead. "Alright. Let's move. We'll need speed." He turned, selecting ten of his fastest warriors to join them. He didn't want to take too many of Troy's best fighters in case the city was attacked in their absence. It was a delicate balance--saving Lyrnessus while ensuring Troy's safety.

As they prepared to leave, a calm, resonant voice cut through the air. "I will join you as well."

Hector, Aeneas, and Penthesilea all turned to see a man approaching. His hair was black as night, and his eyes, a piercing ice blue.

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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC161: The Mysterious Mercenary Heiron

"I will join you as well."

My voice rang out, reaching Hector and Penthesilea, catching both of their attentions. They turned toward me, their eyes narrowing as they took in my appearance. Their expressions were a mixture of curiosity and suspicion as they assessed me from head to toe.

I had chosen my appearance carefully. My body was of average build, neither too imposing nor too slight. My face, handsome enough to be noticed but not so striking as to draw undue attention, was framed by simple armor--functional, but not ornate. I looked every bit the part of a wandering mercenary, a man with no particular allegiance or cause beyond his own survival. It was the perfect disguise.

I needed to fight alongside the Trojans without revealing my true identity as the Hero of Darkness. If word spread, it would only create unnecessary problems for Tenebria. Worse yet, it would draw the eyes of the Gods, and in this war, their attention was the last thing I needed.

"Who might you be?" Hector's voice was calm, though there was an edge of curiosity. His gaze lingered on me, as if he sensed something wasn't quite right.

The Amazon Queen, Penthesilea, was no less intrigued. Her eyes gleamed as she looked me over, as if assessing my potential.

"A mercenary," I answered with a shrug, keeping my tone casual. "I'm here for money. The more useful I am, the more I'll be paid, right?" I deliberately emphasized the greed, the desire for wealth. It was a lie, of course. I had no interest in gold. What I wanted was to test the strength of those I'd soon be fighting.

And more than that, I needed to confirm a suspicion--the possibility that my classmates might be here. Not that I cared for most of them, Sienna, Siara, Amelia, Courtney and Aisha. If they were here, I had to know.

Hector's gaze sharpened. "Your name?" He asked.

"Heiron," I replied smoothly, my voice steady.

"Where are you from?" Another question, this one probing deeper. His eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping into his tone. Maybe his instincts were telling him I wasn't just a random mercenary.

"I have no country," I said, my voice growing colder. "I travel wherever there's work. Do you have a problem with that?" My tone was laced with annoyance, intentionally baiting them. The other warriors behind Hector bristled, their hands drifting toward their weapons.

One of them, a particularly rash young man, stepped forward, his sword drawn. "How dare you speak like that to Prince Hector?!"

Before he could finish his threat, I moved. In an instant, my hand shot out, grabbing his sword by the blade, the sharp edge biting into my palm. But I didn't flinch. Instead, with a single twist of my wrist, I snapped the blade in half as if it were nothing more than brittle glass.

The man staggered back, his eyes wide with disbelief. "W-what?!"

Hector's expression shifted, surprise flickering across his face, though he quickly masked it with calm professionalism. Penthesilea, on the other hand, seemed impressed, a sly smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

"I think I've made it clear I can hold my own," I said, my voice even. "I'll be more than capable of following you into battle, as will my companion. Unless, of course, you'd prefer not to have any help."

"Companion?" Hector frowned, his gaze shifting behind me.

From the shadows, a figure stepped forward. She wore a mask that concealed her entire face, save for her eyes, which gleamed a dark, unsettling red. Her hair, a deep ocean blue, was tied back, the strands catching the light as she moved with silent grace. She stood closely behind me, her presence as quiet and dangerous as the night itself.

Penthesilea's eyes narrowed, clearly intrigued by the mysterious figure. "And who might she be?"

"Her name is of no concern," I replied, glancing back at the masked woman. "But she's skilled enough to match any of your warriors."

Penthesilea laughed, a sharp and amused sound, as she reached out her hand toward me. "You really have guts to speak like that, don't you?"

But before she could touch me, her arm was caught midair.

My companion had stepped forward, her hand gripping Penthesilea's arm firmly, her cold red eyes glaring at the Amazon Queen with an intensity that made the warriors around us freeze. Charybdis said nothing, but the warning was clear.

Penthesilea raised an eyebrow, impressed rather than intimidated. "Interesting. You're quite strong, aren't you?"

"Charys," I called her name softly.

At my command, Charybdis released Penthesilea's arm, letting it drop without a word. She was entirely capable of breaking it, and had I not spoken up, she likely would have. Charybdis was not one to tolerate anyone's touch on me, and her strength rivaled that of the of certain gods.

I had found her and recruited her after the battle against Kastoria. I couldn't bring Medea with me, as her appearance and reputation were too well-known, making her a liability. Instead, I had chosen Charybdis. While Medea was resourceful and cunning, Charybdis had raw power, surpassing even Medea in sheer strength.

It had taken considerable effort to tame her wild nature, but eventually, she had submitted to me, offering her loyalty and devotion.

Hector observed us quietly, a thoughtful look passing over his face before he nodded. "Fine. You will come with us. Get the horses ready!" he ordered his men. "We leave immediately."

With the decision made, I motioned for Charybdis to follow me, and we slipped away from the camp, finding a secluded spot away from prying eyes.

Once we were alone, I cornered her against the wall of a nearby building, my hands reaching up to remove her mask. As it fell away, her face was revealed--breathtakingly beautiful, with features that could rival any of the great beauties of this world. But she wasn't just another mortal woman. She was a goddess, and her power shone through in her crimson eyes.

Her expression was emotionless, a stark contrast to the intensity of her earlier actions. She stared at me, waiting, as if my words were law.

"You need to control your emotions, Charybdis," I said, my hand brushing against her pale cheek.

"Hmn~" she let out a soft, almost involuntary moan at my touch, her cheeks flushing as her skin began to shift into a deep blue hue, the telltale sign of her transformation.

Without hesitation, I closed the distance between us, sealing her lips with mine in a deep, commanding kiss. Her body shuddered at the contact, her transformation slowing as I asserted control.

"Hmn~" Another soft sound escaped her lips, her resistance melting away.

My hand slid beneath her dress, fingers tracing her skin until they reached her breasts. I grasped them firmly, feeling her nipples harden under my palm as I massaged her.

"Once we reach Lyrnessus, you may eat whoever you wish," I whispered, my voice low. "Is that fine?"

Her breath hitched, and she nodded eagerly. "Haa~ yes."

Satisfied, I pulled back, watching as her red eyes gleamed with hunger.

She needed to get herself under control sometimes and only I could do it.

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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC162: Lyrnessus Attacked! (1)

Lyrnessus.

Lyrnessus, a once flourishing town nestled within the Trojan territory, shimmered like a hidden gem in the heart of a war-torn landscape. Its streets were lined with sprawling markets, adorned with vibrant fabrics, aromatic spices, and the echoes of cheerful chatter. The fertile fields surrounding the town stretched into the horizon, a symbol of its prosperity and peace.

But now, the serenity of Lyrnessus was under threat. The looming shadow of war crept ever closer.

King Euenus sat upon his ornate throne, carved from dark olive wood and gilded with gold. His face, usually calm and dignified, was etched with deep lines of worry, his gaze distant as he contemplated the weight of the message he had just received.

Around him, the noblemen of Lyrnessus gathered, their murmurs low but tense, reflecting the fear that gripped their hearts.

Euenus was known as a close confidant of King Priam, having stood by his side during the hardest of times. It was no surprise that Euenus had supported Priam's decision to defy the Greeks and shield Helen, refusing to bow to the invaders' demands. But now, the price for that decision was at their doorstep.

Suddenly, the heavy doors of the hall swung open with a thunderous crash. A guard, his armor smeared with dirt and his face pale and drenched in sweat, stumbled in. He collapsed onto his knees, panting as if the weight of the news he carried was physically crushing him.

"Y—Your Majesty!" he gasped, his voice trembling, the desperation clear in his tone. "The Greeks… they are here!"

A gasp echoed through the chamber. Noblemen stood in stunned silence, their disbelief palpable. Some clutched the hilts of their swords in reflex, as if expecting the enemy to burst into the hall at any moment.

"Wh... what?!" one noble stammered, his voice shaky.

"Impossible!" shouted another, his hands gripping the edge of the nearest table, knuckles turning white.

"They cannot be here already!" cried a third. "We thought we had more time!"

The hall descended into chaos, with the nobles speaking over one another, panic setting in like wildfire. Fear flickered in their eyes, whispers of defeat spreading through the crowd.

"What should we do, Your Majesty?" one of the eldest noblemen finally asked, his voice barely above a whisper, seeking guidance in their moment of crisis.

Euenus, who had remained silent, slowly rose from his throne. His tall, broad frame cast a shadow across the hall, commanding the attention of every person present. His voice, though calm, carried the weight of unshakable authority.

"Our messenger has already been sent to Troy. King Priam will not abandon us," Euenus declared, his words filled with a steady assurance that washed over the room like a balm. "What we must do now is hold the line. We cannot afford to lose ourselves to panic. Prepare the walls! Ready the archers!

We must stand firm and fight until reinforcement comes. There is no other choice."

The room, once filled with despair, slowly began to shift. Euenus's words rekindled hope, fanning the flames of courage in the hearts of the men. A rallying cheer erupted, and soon, the nobles and guards alike began rushing out of the hall, heading toward their positions.

As the nobles hurried to organize the defense, a figure approached the throne with calm determination. Mynes, son of Euenus and the crown prince of Lyrnessus, stepped forward. His armor gleamed under the flickering light, every piece meticulously polished, symbolizing both his rank and his readiness for battle.

The prince's strong features were set in grim determination, though there was a flicker of sorrow in his eyes.

"Father," Mynes greeted.

Euenus turned to his son, his expression softening, though a deep sadness clouded his gaze. "My son… we did not even have time to prepare your marriage," Euenus said quietly, his voice thick with regret.

This day had been meant to mark the prince's wedding—a celebration of life and unity. Euenus had long planned to hand over the throne to Mynes after the ceremony, allowing him to lead their people into a prosperous future. Now, all those plans had crumbled like dust in the wind, overtaken by the brutal reality of war.

Mynes, seeing the sorrow in his father's eyes, smiled gently. "Worry not, Father," he replied. "We shall drive these Greeks away, and then, we will celebrate. You will be there. You will see it."

Euenus placed a hand on his son's shoulder, pride gleaming in his tired eyes. "Fight with honor, my son. Lyrnessus depends on you."

With a final nod, Mynes turned and strode out of the hall, ready to face the Greeks but a woman stood there on his way.

Briseis was a vision of grace and beauty, her dark, curly hair pulled back, accentuating the fine angles of her face. She was young, not yet past her early twenties, but her poise carried the weight of someone far older.

But today, that radiant beauty was marred by concern. Her brow was furrowed, her lips pressed into a tight line, and her eyes, usually filled with warmth, were shadowed by a growing sense of dread.

She stood quietly, her gaze fixed on Mynes—the man she was soon to marry. In a time of peace, this would have been a day filled with celebration and joy, a day of vows and union. Yet now, war loomed on the horizon, threatening to tear apart everything they had planned.

Mynes, fully armored and ready for battle, looked at her with seriousness. His voice was steady, but beneath it, Briseis could hear the tension. "Be careful, Briseis," he said, his words simple but filled with a quiet plea.

Briseis nodded, though her heart clenched with unease. "I will," she replied, her voice soft, but there was an unsettling feeling that gripped her tightly, an ominous premonition that refused to let go.

Mynes, seeing the concern in her eyes, offered a final reassuring look before turning to leave. His footsteps echoed through the stone halls as he walked with purpose, heading toward the towering walls that surrounded Lyrnessus.

As he ascended to the battlements, the view that awaited him was grim. Standing high above the gates, he could see the horizon darkened with the figures of the Greek army. They were close—too close. From his vantage point, the gleam of their armor and the rhythmic march of their soldiers made his stomach tighten. The Greeks had come.

Mynes swallowed hard. His nerves were on edge, a rare feeling for a man who had seen many battles. He had fought valiantly alongside Troy's finest, even earning the honor of fighting beside Hector, the greatest warrior of their people. But now, staring down at the Greeks, something felt different. The fear that gnawed at him wasn't for himself but for the fate of Lyrnessus and its people.

As these thoughts churned in his mind, one figure in the enemy's ranks stepped forward, catching Mynes' eye. He was a striking man, his red armor shining under the sun, a symbol of authority and strength. But it wasn't just the armor that sent a chill through Mynes—it was the emblem emblazoned upon it.

The Myrmidons.

Mynes's heart skipped a beat. The Myrmidons were legendary warriors, and they followed none other than Achilles, the King of Phthia. Stories of Achilles had long echoed through the lands, each one more daunting than the last. Some whispered that Achilles was even stronger than Hector, a thought that sent waves of unease through those who dared to imagine facing him.

But the man who stood before Mynes was not Achilles.

The warrior raised his gaze to meet Mynes' from atop the wall. His expression was calm, almost sorrowful, as if he regretted the violence to come.

"I am Patroclus," the man called out. "I speak on behalf of Achilles. In his great generosity, he offers you mercy. Surrender Lyrnessus now, and we swear no harm will come to your people. Open the gates, and bloodshed can be avoided."

There was a pleading edge to Patroclus's words. It was clear that, unlike many of the Greeks thirsting for blood, he did not wish for unnecessary violence. His eyes seemed to beg Mynes to consider his offer, to think of the lives that could be spared.

But Mynes's resolve was firm. He had no illusions about the Greeks. Their promises of mercy were fleeting, fragile words spoken to mask the conquest they sought. He straightened his shoulders, his voice strong as he answered.

"I warn you in return," Mynes declared. "Leave Troy's lands at once, and you might live to see your family again. Stay, and you will not."

His words rang out across the walls, and behind him, the soldiers of Lyrnessus erupted into cheers, their voices fierce with defiance. They were ready to fight. They were ready to defend their home.

Patroclus looked down, shaking his head slowly, regret flashing briefly in his eyes. Without another word, he turned on his heel and retreated back to the Greek lines. Whatever chance for peace had existed was now gone.

"He warned you bastards!" came a mocking voice from the walls above.

Aiden, one of the Heroes of the Empire of Light, grinned.

Beside Aiden stood Jason, Siara, and Gwen, each prepared for the coming storm.

Only Sienna, Courtney, and Aisha had chosen to remain back at the main camp, not really attracted to a random town or maybe they feared what was going to happen to Lyrnessus and didn't want to take any part in it...

The time for diplomacy had passed. The Greeks were at their doorstep, and there was only one thing left to do.

"FIGHT!!!"

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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC163: Lyrnessus Attacked! (2)

The earth trembled beneath the relentless march of the Greek army as they surged toward the walls of Lyrnessus. The sound of countless footsteps grew louder, shaking the very foundations of the city. Despite the defenses that lay before them—imposing walls, fortified gates, and the perfect vantage for archers—they pressed forward without hesitation.

Faces twisted with madness, they rushed across the open field, a perfect target for the awaiting defenders. Yet, there was no fear, no hesitation. All that filled their hearts was a thirst for glory and the promise of rewards.

Mynes, standing tall atop the battlements, surveyed the scene with grim determination. His eyes moved over the approaching horde—faces twisted into smirks, wild eyes filled with the lust for battle. He raised his hand high, the signal that his archers had been waiting for.

"Archers!" he bellowed, his voice commanding and clear.

The archers stationed along the walls moved with precision. They readied their bows, strings pulled taut, arrows poised to strike. The tension was maximum as they aimed high, their arrows glinting like dark feathers against the pale sky. Every man awaited the prince's next move, their breath held in unison.

Mynes watched the Greeks for a moment longer, feeling the weight of the impending clash. Then, with a swift motion, he brought his hand down. "Release!"

In perfect synchronization, a storm of arrows shot into the air, darkening the sky like a black cloud of death. The arrows soared high, momentarily blotting out the sun before descending in a deadly arc toward the charging Greeks below.

"Shields!" Patroclus's voice rang out over the battlefield, sharp and steady.

The Myrmidons, Achilles' elite soldiers, moved with flawless discipline. Without a flicker of fear or hesitation, they raised their shields as one, planting their feet firmly into the ground. The arrows slammed into their shields with a cacophony of thuds, but not a single one breached their ranks. Their faces remained impassive, as though the barrage was little more than a passing nuisance.

The rest of the Greek army, however, did not fare so well. Composed of soldiers from various regions and armies, they lacked the unshakable discipline of the Myrmidons. Chaos erupted among their ranks as the rain of arrows descended upon them. Screams filled the air as many fell, arrows embedding themselves deep into skulls and throats.

Blood sprayed across the battlefield, staining the earth beneath them.

Among the few who stood their ground were the Spartans and Athenians, their formations holding firm. Their shields, though less flawless than the Myrmidons', still managed to block many of the deadly projectiles. They pressed on, determined to break through despite the carnage surrounding them.

And then there were the Heroes of the Empire of Light.

Unlike the rest of the Greek soldiers, this elite group, numbering only a dozen, had little to fear from the arrows. Siara Parker stood at their center, her staff raised high, glowing with magical energy. She was one of the most skilled mages among them, her magic a sight to behold.

Above them, a massive dome of shimmering water floated, rippling and undulating like a protective veil. The arrows that rained down upon her and her comrades were no match for the spell. The water caught them mid-flight, slowing them to a crawl before rendering them completely harmless.

Arrows that once fell with deadly intent now floated gently within the dome, suspended like leaves drifting in a still pond. The Heroes moved forward with ease, untouched and unhindered.

Jason, fighting alongside Siara, glanced up at the dome of water shielding them. His usual cocky grin widened. "Impressive as always, Siara," he said, his tone light despite the deadly seriousness of the battle unfolding around them still with the intention of conquering Siara who turned distant from him after Nathan's death.

Siara, her face calm and focused, didn't respond.

Siara stood amid the chaos of the battlefield, fully aware of why her sister, Aisha, and Courtney had chosen not to partake in this seemingly futile battle. Their objective was clear: support the Greeks to ensure Troy would eventually submit and hand over Helen. It was simple, and they knew how the Trojan War was supposed to unfold from the legends of their world.

But she, along with the others, had agreed to keep their knowledge of Earth's history a secret. They didn't want to risk changing the future. If the Greeks believed victory was guaranteed, they might grow complacent, and complacency could lead to devastating mistakes. Moreover, they couldn't be entirely sure that the Trojan War in this world would end the same way it did in their myths.

This world had its own rules, its own possibilities.

Siara had chosen to fight for more personal reasons. She didn't want to be the weak link. She wanted to protect those she loved, to ensure that no more of her friends would die in a war they could control. She knew she lagged behind the others—Courtney, Aisha, Sierra, and Gwen—all of whom were among the strongest in their class. Siara yearned to grow stronger, to stand alongside them as equals.

Mynes, watching the relentless advance of the Greeks, finally decided to unleash his full fury. His expression hardened. "Raise the fire arrows!"

The archers responded immediately, drawing their bows and summoning flames to the tips of their arrows. A sea of burning missiles streaked toward the advancing Greeks, moving faster than the previous volleys. The air crackled with the intensity of the magical flames as the arrows bore down on the soldiers below.

Siara reacted instantly. Her staff glowed with power as she summoned an even stronger shield of water. The shimmering dome expanded, catching every flaming arrow in mid-flight, extinguishing their deadly flames before they could strike.

Patroclus, sensing that even Siara's magic wouldn't be able to hold off their barrage forever, acted swiftly. He raised his sword high, its blade gleaming with divine light. A protective barrier of radiant energy expanded outward, shielding the Myrmidons and the other Greek soldiers from harm.

"Let's break through them!" Patroclus shouted.

Jason, standing beside him, grinned as his sword began to glow with a brilliant golden light. The sheer amount of mana flowing through him drew the attention of both friend and foe alike. He was about to unleash something powerful.

"Seven Star Rank Magic!" Jason called out.

With a deafening roar, Jason swung his sword down, and a colossal blade of pure light materialized in the air above him. The sword was enormous, radiating such intense light that it blinded everyone on the battlefield, including those atop the walls of Lyrnessus. The very air seemed to vibrate with the power of the spell.

Mynes, squinting against the overwhelming brilliance, tried to understand what was happening. His heart sank when he saw the colossal sword of light descending toward his city's gates.

In an instant, the magical sword smashed into the gates of Lyrnessus with an ear-splitting explosion.

BADOOOM!

The massive gates, once so sturdy and strong, crumbled under the impact. The explosion sent debris flying in all directions as the doors of Lyrnessus were completely obliterated. Rubble scattered across the battlefield, and the path into the city now lay wide open.

Mynes stared in shock, his face turning pale as the gravity of the situation sank in. The walls that had protected his people were now nothing but ruins.

"E-Everyone! With me! Get down immediately!" Mynes barked out the order, regaining his composure as best as he could.

He grabbed his sword and, without hesitation, leapt from the battlements to the ground below, determined to fight with his people in what seemed like the city's last stand.

BADAM!

The force of the impact echoed through the streets as Mynes landed hard, only to be immediately met by a vicious attack.

"DIE!" Aiden's voice snarled with malicious glee, his massive sword swinging down toward the prince with lethal intent.

Mynes barely managed to react in time, bringing his sword up to parry. The strength of Aiden's strike sent shockwaves through his arms, and the force of the blow drove him back, sending him crashing into the wall of a nearby house. The structure crumbled from the impact, and dust and debris billowed into the air.

"Prince Mynes!" came the horrified cries of his soldiers as they saw their leader nearly buried in rubble.

"You Greek bastard!!" one of Mynes' men roared, his voice filled with rage.

Without hesitation, they charged toward Aiden, their fury burning like a wildfire. But Aiden wasn't alone. His classmates, along with the Greek army, had already breached the walls and now flooded into the city. The once orderly streets of Lyrnessus were now filled with chaos as battle erupted on every corner.

The clash of steel against steel rang out like thunder. Soldiers screamed in both rage and pain as the Greeks, driven by bloodlust and the promise of glory, fought with ruthless efficiency.

"Protect the city! Protect the prince!!" one of the soldiers shouted desperately, their voice breaking under the strain of battle.

Losing Prince Mynes would mean losing the heart and soul of Lyrnessus. Without their leader, the morale of the defenders would shatter like glass, and the city would fall entirely into the hands of the Greeks.

"We have to hold until Troy sends reinforcements!"

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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC164: Lyrnessus Attacked! (3)

"They're breaking through," a soft voice echoed.

Atop the city of Lyrnessus, hovering just above the chaos below, stood three figures, gazing down upon the unfolding battle. The once-vibrant city, now drenched in blood and dust, teetered on the edge of collapse.

The one who spoke was none other than Aphrodite, the Goddess of beauty and love herself. Her usual radiant charm was dimmed, replaced with an expression of unease as her gaze flickered over the battlefield. Her glossy, auburn curls cascaded over her slender shoulders, and her perfect lips twisted into a frown.

It was not often that such mortal affairs disturbed the goddess, but the fall of Lyrnessus gnawed at her.

They had already breached the city's walls. And the one responsible for this breach? Jason Spencer, the Hero of Light, who had wielded his formidable SSS-Skill, the power that had now torn through the defenses of Lyrnessus like paper.

"Khione's Heroes, are they?" Apollo's voice broke the silence, drawing Aphrodite's attention. He stood nearby, his golden hair gleaming under the divine light that seemed to perpetually surround him. The sun god bore the same effortless grace as ever, but behind his smile, a flicker of frustration danced in his eyes.

Though he remained composed, there was no mistaking the sting of watching a city that worshipped him fall under siege. Yet he wasn't as distressed as his sister of love. His smile, though calm, was bitter. "It's my first time seeing Khione's chosen, but I suppose she made a good pick this time. Too bad she's not here to watch it unfold."

"What of Khione?"

It was Artemis who spoke. The Goddess of the Hunt stood apart from her brother, her silver hair flowing like moonlight over her shoulders. Her shimmering green eyes glinted with an intensity that matched her reputation as a warrior. Unlike the others, there was no facade of beauty masking her strength.

She was a figure of deadly grace, standing with a confident posture that betrayed no sign of uncertainty. Her attire, a white, flowing Greek tunic, barely reached her knees, leaving her long, milky thighs and strong, athletic legs exposed. She was smaller in stature than most, yet every inch of her exuded a power that could rival even the strongest of the gods—perhaps even Athena herself.

Artemis was not one to shy away from war, and today was no exception. She had chosen to side with Troy, not just because of her brother Apollo's connection to the city, but because the conflict had drawn Hera into its folds. Any chance to thwart Hera, to see the queen of the gods defeated and humiliated, was an opportunity Artemis relished.

Apollo turned to his twin sister with a knowing smile, his eyes softening for a brief moment. "I just thought," he began, his tone thoughtful, "if Khione were here, she wouldn't have allowed her Heroes to be drawn into this senseless war. It has nothing to do with them, yet here they are. Hera took advantage of their involvement, as always."

Aphrodite, her earlier frustration fading, let out a small, melodic giggle. "Hera's always had it out for Khione, hasn't she? The old witch never misses a chance to torment her."

Artemis let out a bitter laugh in response, her voice laced with disdain. "Is there any woman in this world Hera doesn't hate?"

Her words hung heavy in the air, charged with a personal grudge. Artemis' hatred for Hera ran deep. The goddess of marriage, in her infinite bitterness, had spent centuries blaming other women for the faults of her husband, Zeus. To Artemis, it was the ultimate hypocrisy. Hera's inability to control her unfaithful husband, her constant blaming of the innocent, grated against Artemis' very core.

If Hera can't keep her own husband in check, then she has no one to blame but herself. Not the women he seeks. Not her mother.

The fault was hers, and hers alone.

"Prince Mynes!!"

The cry echoed through the battlefield, sharp and desperate. Immediately, the eyes of the three gods above snapped toward the source, where the prince of Lyrnessus, Mynes, stood locked in a vicious struggle, facing off against Aiden. The prince's defenses were faltering, his once proud stature now hunched and bloodied.

"This is bad," Aphrodite murmured, her voice laced with urgency. Her pink eyes were wide with concern as she observed the scene unfolding below. "If Mynes falls now, the city will be overrun long before Troy's reinforcements can arrive." Her voice trembled slightly as she realized the dire consequences. The city would fall, and with it, another blow to the Trojan war effort.

Zeus had forbidden them from interfering in the war directly, a decree that none of the gods dared to disobey openly. But, of course, divine beings rarely played by the rules. There were always ways to bend them, to influence events in more subtle, indirect ways. Aphrodite, Apollo, and Artemis knew this well.

"Hector is on his way," Artemis said coolly, her arms folded across her chest as she gazed down with a cold gleam in her eyes. From her vantage point, she watched Aiden and Jason tearing through the Lyrnessus forces with ease, as if the warriors were mere children playing at war. "Once he arrives, he'll drive them back. There's no need to worry."

But Aphrodite shook her head. "He won't be here in time," she said, a note of frustration creeping into her voice. "We can't afford to let Mynes die now. The city's defenses will crumble if he falls."

Apollo, standing beside her, glanced down at the battlefield, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Then perhaps a little divine intervention is in order," he said, a mischievous smile playing on his lips as he made a move to descend toward the battlefield.

Before he could, however, Aphrodite placed a gentle hand on his arm, halting him. "No," she said softly but firmly. "I'll handle this. You save your blessings for later."

Apollo raised an eyebrow but didn't protest. Instead, he watched with quiet curiosity as Aphrodite descended, invisible to mortal eyes, her radiant form slipping gracefully from the skies and landing silently amid the chaos of Lyrnessus.

On the battlefield below, Prince Mynes was groaning in pain, his body hunched over, barely holding himself together after Aiden's sudden and brutal attack. His once-bright armor was dented and smeared with blood and dirt, his sword hanging limply in his hand. His men rushed to his aid, lifting him awkwardly to his feet, but the prince's strength was fading fast.

He knew he couldn't hold on much longer.

Then, in his moment of despair, he heard it—a voice, soft and seductive, like the whisper of the wind carrying a secret just for him.

"I bless you, Mynes," the voice cooed, smooth and melodious. He felt the lightest brush of lips against his cheek, warm and delicate. "Kill them all."

At once, a surge of unimaginable power tore through his body, driving out the pain, the exhaustion, and the fear. Mynes let out a guttural roar—not of agony, but of pure, unadulterated bliss. His body began to glow with a radiant pink light, a manifestation of Aphrodite's blessing. His wounds closed, his energy returned tenfold, and every muscle in his body thrummed with newfound strength.

The very air around him seemed to hum with divine energy.

His men stepped back in awe as the transformation took place. Mynes stood taller now, his once-tattered armor gleaming as though freshly forged. His eyes burned with a fierce light, and the faintest pink glow surrounded him like an aura of pure power. The hesitation, the fear that had once clouded his mind, was gone. All that remained was the singular, driving instinct to destroy his enemies.

"Still hiding behind your men, coward?" Aiden's mocking voice rang out across the battlefield as he leapt into the air, sword raised high above his head. His blade gleamed with a fierce, red light, the power of his own SS-Skill radiating from it. He aimed directly for Mynes, intending to end the prince's life in one swift strike.

But before Aiden could land his blow, something incredible happened.

BADAAMM!

The sound of impact reverberated through the battlefield as Aiden's body was sent flying backward with a violent force. His vision blurred as he felt himself crashing into the hard earth several feet away, his sword clattering uselessly from his grasp. Pain exploded in his chest, and when he looked down, he saw blood pouring from a deep, gaping wound in his stomach.

"Gaaah!" Aiden gasped, coughing up a mouthful of blood as the realization of what had just happened sank in.

"Aiden!!" One of his friends cried out in horror, their voice filled with shock as they rushed to his side. The sight of their fallen comrade drew the attention of all their classmates, who now stared in disbelief at the scene before them.

"YEAAHHH! HAIL PRINCE MYNES!!"

The battlefield erupted with jubilant cries as Mynes' soldiers, once on the verge of despair, suddenly found themselves invigorated by an unexpected and glorious turn of events. The sight of Aiden—one of their most strongest opponents—lying wounded and bloodied, felled by the sheer strength of their prince, sent waves of exhilaration through the ranks.

The men who moments before had been struggling against the onslaught of the Greeks now shouted their loyalty, fists raised high, their voices echoing across the city of Lyrnessus.

Mynes, standing at the forefront, gazed down at his hand, which still glowed with the faint, divine light of Aphrodite's blessing. The soft, pink glow pulsed gently, like the heartbeat of a goddess herself.

"This is real." Mynes marvelled at the power that coursed through him. His body, once bruised and battered, now felt weightless and invincible. The pain, the exhaustion—gone, replaced by an overwhelming sensation of strength. But more than that, he had heard a voice—a sweet, seductive whisper that lingered in his mind.

Aphrodite.

There was no doubt. It had been her, the goddess of love and beauty, one of the divine patrons of the Trojans. The realization sent a surge of euphoria through him. A Goddess, not just watching from above but descending to stand by his side, granting him her power. He clenched his fists, feeling his strength swelling with each passing moment.

His once wavering spirit was now blazing, ignited by the knowledge that Aphrodite herself had chosen to intervene on their behalf.

With renewed determination, Mynes lifted his gaze, locking eyes with his next target: Jason Spencer, the Hero of Light. The man who had spearheaded the assault on Lyrnessus, using his SSS-Rank skill to shatter the city's defenses.

"I will honor your blessing, Aphrodite," Mynes whispered under his breath, his words lost in the roar of battle but felt deeply within his soul. His hand tightened around his sword as he raised his voice for all to hear. "Come on, men! With me!!"

"OOOHHHH!!!"

The soldiers, fueled by their prince's unshakable confidence, let out a resounding cheer. Their spirits, which had been crumbling under the relentless Greek assault, surged with new life. They moved as one, their bodies responding to the energy that radiated from Mynes, following him without hesitation.

The collective roar of their voices reverberated through the city as they charged forward, ready to reclaim their land, ready to fight for their prince, for Troy, and now, with the divine favor of the gods themselves.

On the other side of the battlefield, behind the advancing Greek armies, two figures floated above the chaos, watching with cold eyes.

Hera, queen of the gods, her golden eyes sharp and blazing with anger, hovered with an air of menace. Her once serene and regal expression had twisted into one of pure fury.

"Aphrodite...you little bitch."

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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC165: Lyrnessus Attacked! (4)

"What the hell just happened?!" Brad gasped, his voice filled with shock as he watched Aiden struggle on the ground, clutching the deep gash across his stomach. Though Aiden wouldn't die from the wound—he was a Hero after all, and it would take much more to kill him—the sight of blood pooling around him was unnerving. Death had been a hair's breadth away.

"I don't know either, but that guy just got a hell of a lot stronger…" Jason muttered, his eyes locked onto Mynes, who now stood radiating power. His expression turned grim. "Be careful around him. This isn't the same prince we were fighting before."

They didn't know what exactly had transpired, but one thing was clear: Mynes had become a far more dangerous foe. The pink aura surrounding him was evidence of something divine at play, an unmistakable sign that a god had blessed him, tipping the balance of power in the Trojans' favor.

On the other side of the battlefield, Patroclus watched the events unfold with calculating eyes. Unlike the others, he wasn't rattled by Mynes' newfound strength. His gaze lingered on the pink glow surrounding the prince, and he couldn't shake the thought of divine intervention. A god's blessing. He had nearly forgotten that they, as Greek Heroes, weren't the sole protagonists of this grand war.

The Greeks, too, had gods on their side, writing their own stories. And they weren't just facing any mortals—they were going up against heroes backed by two of the most powerful goddesses: Hera and Athena.

Jason raised his sword, its edge gleaming with the power of his summoned light magic. He knew he couldn't afford to hold back. Not now. If he did, the next swing from Mynes could be his last. He couldn't allow that. "Alright," he breathed, his voice steadying as the light around him intensified, filling the battlefield with a bright, searing glow.

"Seventh Rank Light Magic! Take that!" Jason roared, swinging his sword downward with all his strength, the blade blazing with radiant energy. The air crackled with power as he aimed to crush Mynes in a single strike.

But Mynes was faster. With an almost inhuman burst of speed, the prince leapt into the air, his sword pointed straight at Jason as he dived down like a thunderbolt.

Jason's eyes widened in panic, the speed of the attack catching him off guard. But before Mynes could strike, a towering wall of water surged up between them. Siara's magic. The barrier shimmered, absorbing the force of Mynes' attack just long enough for Jason to sidestep out of harm's way.

Mynes growled, his momentum barely slowed by the barrier. He shifted his focus, now darting toward Siara.

Siara's breath caught as she saw him charging toward her, and her mind raced to form another defensive spell. But before she could act, a powerful gust of wind slammed into Mynes, throwing him back. He skidded to a stop, regaining his footing swiftly, his gaze snapping toward the source of the wind.

Hovering above the battlefield was a figure bathed in a soft golden light—Gwen, her blonde hair streaming behind her as she floated effortlessly, a small winged creature flitting beside her.

"Be careful he's strong, Gwen. A Goddess had blessed him," Iphlea whispered to Gwen.

"I know. "

°°°°°

Inside the castle of Lyrnessus, the atmosphere was tense, thick with dread as the sound of battle and screams echoed through the walls. The Greeks had breached the city, and chaos reigned outside. In the throne room, King Euenus sat slumped on his seat, a man defeated by the weight of inevitable loss. The Greeks had shown no mercy to the citizens, cutting down even the defenseless.

He had dismissed his guards and attendants, ordering them to flee for their lives, though many had refused, vowing to remain by his side. Despite his command, one person had stayed behind—Briseis.

Euenus looked at her, his sigh heavy with resignation. "What are you still doing here, Briseis? I told you to run."

"Running away has never been an option for me."

Euenus frowned, though he understood her spirit. "You should know better than anyone what the Greeks do to women they capture. They won't just kill you. You know the fate that awaits you if they take you prisoner."

Briseis didn't flinch. She knew the grim reality awaiting captured women—defilement, humiliation, and worse. Yet she stood firm. "I am a proud Trojan. I will fight until the end."

Euenus smiled sadly at her courage. "You accepted marriage to my son, Mynes, for the sake of the kingdom. It was a noble act. I am grateful, Briseis, for however brief it has been. I only wish I could have seen your marriage…" His voice trailed off, heavy with regret. There would be no wedding now.

No future. Only death awaited them.

He didn't dare dream of rescue. Lyrnessus was doomed, and he knew it. If, by some miracle, he were spared, he would end his own life for failing his people.

Suddenly, the throne room doors swung open with a sharp CLACK!

The sound reverberated in the chamber, pulling Euenus from his thoughts. His heart raced as footsteps echoed lightly through the room. A figure appeared—a man, a striking one, with long red hair tied back and golden eyes that gleamed with cruel confidence. He wore armor—red, like the blood of battle—but this was no ordinary armor. It was unmistakable, marked with the symbol of the Myrmidons.

Euenus rose to his feet, stepping protectively in front of Briseis. His voice trembled as he spoke. "Who are you?"

The man smiled—a chilling, confident smile. "I think you already know."

Euenus' throat tightened, and he gulped, his worst fear confirmed. "Achilles."

Their worst nightmare had indeed arrived—Achilles, King of Phthia, stood before them, a force of death incarnate.

"Father!" A voice rang out, and a young man clad in full armor barged into the throne room.

"Epistrophus!" Euenus' eyes widened in horror as he saw his youngest son. "I told you to leave!"

But Epistrophus stood firm, his eyes ablaze with determination. "How can I leave when my brother is fighting for us out there? I am not a coward!" His sword gleamed in the dim light of the hall as he pointed it defiantly at Achilles.

"Run! You can't defeat him!" Euenus pleaded, his voice thick with desperation, but his son's resolve did not waver.

Achilles merely smiled, the kind of smile that sent chills through any who knew of his reputation.

Feeling provoked, Epistrophus let out a battle cry and rushed toward Achilles, his sword raised high, intent on striking him down. But before his blade could descend, Achilles moved like lightning.

SLASH!

In an instant, Epistrophus' arm was severed, and blood sprayed into the air.

"GAHHHH!" Epistrophus screamed in agony, staggering back as his lifeblood spilled onto the marble floor.

"I commend your bravery," Achilles said coolly, swinging his hand with effortless precision.

SPATTER!

Before Euenus or Briseis could react, Epistrophus' head was severed from his body, rolling across the floor, leaving his father to watch in silent horror. His youngest son was gone in an instant.

"No…no…." Euenus fell to his knees, his entire body trembling as Briseis rushed to support him. His kingdom was crumbling, his youngest son was dead, probably the eldest as well, and now his last hope was extinguished.

"Lyrnessus has fallen. It's over," he muttered through clenched teeth, wiping the tears from his face as he looked at Achilles, who stood there, unmoved by the devastation he had caused.

With nothing left to lose, Euenus bowed his head, his fists shaking. "Kill me…but please, spare her. She has nothing to do with this."

Achilles glanced at Briseis, who stared back at him, her eyes filled with defiance.

"You have my word," Achilles said after a moment. "No one will touch her."

"Thank you," Euenus whispered, a faint glimmer of relief crossing his tear-streaked face.

"Your Majesty?! No!" Briseis cried out, shaking her head, unwilling to accept what was about to happen.

Euenus placed a trembling hand on her arm. "Please... live for us. You must live for us."

Tears streamed down Briseis' cheeks as she stepped away, her heart breaking. She had no choice but to honor his final wish.

Euenus knelt before Achilles, his head bowed in submission. "You are a good king," Achilles said solemnly, truly respecting the old King. "But this is war."

SPATTER!

With a swift stroke, Achilles ended Euenus' life, leaving Briseis standing alone in the blood-soaked throne room, her tears mingling with the horror of the moment. The last King of Lyrnessus had fallen.

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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC166: Lyrnessus Attacked! (5)

"He's too strong!" Jason shouted, his voice trembling with both exhaustion and frustration. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his body was drenched in sweat, the result of pushing his SSS-Skill far beyond its usual limits. His hands tightened around his weapon, muscles trembling from the strain, but he refused to back down.

Mynes, standing amidst the chaos, remained unfazed. Since receiving Aphrodite's divine blessing, he had been holding off their combined assault. His movements were both fierce and smart, as if the goddess herself guided his hand. Around him, the Myrmidons, loyal warriors of Lyrnessus, fought valiantly at his side, though many had already fallen.

Despite their efforts, a number of enemies had slipped past Mynes and were now ravaging the city beyond. Fires rose in the distance, and the screams of fleeing citizens echoed through the air. Mynes, however, remained resolute, his focus unbroken. He was buying precious time, sacrificing his strength so that his people—his innocent people—could escape the doom that had befallen them.

"Sixth-rank water magic!" Siara shouted, raising her staff high. Her voice rang with urgency and desperation as torrents of water manifested, swirling around Mynes like serpents made of liquid force. The water coiled tighter and tighter, seeking to imprison him in a crushing grip.

For a brief moment, hope flickered in Siara's eyes.

But Mynes, undeterred, swung his sword in a blinding arc. The blade cut through the enchanted waters as though they were mere vapor, scattering droplets into the air.

Siara's face paled as her energy dwindled. She had poured everything into that spell. Her legs gave out beneath her, and she collapsed to her knees, utterly spent.

"Siara!" Jason cried, his heart sinking. He saw her fall and rushed forward, abandoning caution as he hurled himself at Mynes in reckless fury. "You're annoying! Just die!!" Jason's sword came down in a heavy swing aimed at Mynes' chest.

But Mynes barely flinched. His movements were swift, almost effortless. As Jason lunged, Mynes deflected the blow and retaliated with a fierce punch to Jason's stomach. The force of the hit sent Jason flying several feet, his body crashing into the dirt with a dull thud. Jason groaned in pain, clutching his abdomen.

The sky above them was stained with the hues of sunset, a fitting backdrop to the carnage below. The day was nearing its end, but their battle raged on, seemingly without conclusion.

They had known from the start this would be no easy victory, but they had assumed that with their numbers—great and powerful—they would have quickly overwhelmed the city of Lyrnessus, especially after the walls were breached. Yet here they were, hours later, still fighting against this lone man.

"I won't let you destroy my city... my people..." Mynes roared, his voice cracking with emotion. His body was shaking, not from fear but from the weight of the responsibility that pressed upon him. He couldn't let Lyrnessus fall. Not like this. With a savage cry, he turned his gaze to Patroclus, who stood apart from the others, his expression calm, even amused.

"You're next," Mynes growled, pointing his bloodied sword at Patroclus.

Patroclus, however, merely smiled—a thin, knowing smile. Unlike Jason, he wasn't rushing into battle, his impatience kept in check. He had seen enough. He knew how this would end. Achilles, his companion and leader, had already disappeared into the heart of the city, and by now, Patroclus was certain Achilles had already slain the King of Lyrnessus. It was only a matter of time before the news spread.

The citizens would lose all hope, and Lyrnessus would fall, crumbling under the weight of their despair.

The battle was, to Patroclus, nothing more than a formality at this point.

Suddenly, a figure came rushing toward them, his face pale, streaked with dust and tears. His breath was ragged, his eyes wide with horror.

"P-Prince Mynes!" the soldier gasped, his voice thick with emotion.

Mynes turned toward the man, dread filling his heart. He already knew what was coming. The soldier's face said it all.

"The young Prince Epistrophus and our King Euenus... have been killed!" the soldier choked, barely able to speak through his sobs.

The words hit like a physical blow. For a moment, the world around them seemed to still. Mynes stood frozen, his mind struggling to process the news. The other warriors of Lyrnessus faltered, their weapons slackening in their grips as the reality of their loss sank in.

Mynes' mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no words came. His throat felt dry, and he bit down hard on his tongue to keep the surge of grief at bay. Now was not the time. He couldn't afford to fall apart, not when his people still looked to him for guidance. Not now.

"What about Briseis?" Mynes asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as though he feared the answer.

"We... we didn't see her, my prince. But it seems... it seems she's been taken." The soldier's voice broke again.

Mynes' heart clenched painfully in his chest. His fists tightened around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white.

"I'm sorry, Briseis," he whispered to himself, feeling the sharp sting of guilt wash over him. She had been caught in the storm of his battle, dragged into a fate she did not deserve.

"Are you ready, Gwen?" Iphlea asked.

"Yes," Gwen replied.

Mynes frowned, his brow creasing as he turned his attention to the woman who had, until now, remained unusually silent. For some time, Gwen had not engaged in the battle, her gaze fixed on him but her intentions unreadable. The air around her seemed to shift, growing heavy with an ominous energy. Mynes could sense something was wrong.

Very wrong.

His instincts screamed at him to move, to prepare for what was coming, but his body felt frozen in place as he raised his gaze toward the sky. That's when he saw it.

Hovering above Gwen was a gigantic, swirling sword of pure energy, its blade shimmering with an almost blinding light. It was massive, far larger than any weapon he had ever seen, and its edges seemed to pulsate with raw mana, thick and almost suffocating in its intensity. The sword hummed in the air, vibrating with untold power as if it were alive, waiting for Gwen's command.

Mynes felt a chill crawl down his spine, his heart skipping a beat.

"Eighth-Rank Magic," Gwen murmured, her voice carrying a chilling order. Her hand lowered, and with it, the sword of mana descended, as if obeying her silent will.

There was no warning. No time to react.

BADOOOM!

The ground beneath them quaked violently as the sword vanished from view, moving faster than the eye could follow. Mynes didn't even have a chance to defend himself. The next thing he felt was an unbearable, searing pain ripping through his abdomen. His eyes widened in shock as he looked down, his breath catching in his throat.

The blade had struck him directly, embedding itself in his stomach.

The force of the blow was catastrophic, sending Mynes hurtling through the air as if he were no more than a ragdoll. His body was flung hundreds of meters away, smashing through buildings, homes crumbling like brittle paper under the sheer impact of his passage. Debris flew everywhere as stone and wood alike were obliterated in his wake, his form leaving a trail of destruction behind him.

When his body finally skidded to a halt, a deep, gaping wound replaced his stomach, the flesh torn away by the magic sword's devastating strike. Blood poured from the massive hole, an unrelenting torrent of red that stained the earth beneath him.

Mynes coughed violently, blood spurting from his mouth as his body trembled uncontrollably. His hearing dulled, the chaotic sounds of battle fading into a distant murmur, and soon, even the sensation in his limbs disappeared.

He was dying.

He should have already been dead. His heart had been obliterated in the attack, destroyed along with most of his torso. And yet, here he was, clinging to life, if only for a few more agonizing moments.

Perhaps it was Aphrodite's blessing that allowed him these final seconds. The goddess had gifted him with strength, and perhaps in her mercy, she was allowing him this small fragment of time before the end.

In those fleeting moments, Mynes could hear them—the cries of his people. The children screaming in terror as they were pulled from their homes, the women assaulted and taken by force, the men butchered in cold blood. His once beautiful city, the proud jewel of Lyrnessus, now lay in ruins, sacked by invaders with no mercy or restraint.

Tears welled up in his eyes, and he could not stop them as they rolled down his blood-streaked face. The pain of his wounds was nothing compared to the anguish that gripped his heart.

He had failed them. He had failed his father, his people, and even Briseis, who was now likely in the hands of their enemies.

"I'm sorry... Father. Everyone..." His voice was weak, barely more than a whisper, each word heavy with sorrow and regret.

But as his life ebbed away, a new sound broke through the haze of his dying mind—a voice, soft and gentle, like the soothing wind after a storm.

"You did enough, Mynes. Rest."

It was a voice he barely recognized, yet it filled him with a strange sense of peace. His eyes, heavy with the weight of death, struggled to stay open, but in the distance, he saw a figure standing over him. The figure was blurred, their features indistinguishable, but Mynes didn't need to see them clearly to know who it was.

He knew.

A faint smile touched his lips, a final gesture of acceptance and gratitude, as the last of his strength faded. His eyes closed for the last time, and with that, Mynes, Prince of Lyrnessus, took his final breath.

I leave you the rest Hector.

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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC167: Trojan Rescuers Have Arrived!

"Rest well, my friend," Hector murmured, his voice heavy with grief as he knelt beside Mynes' lifeless body. The once-proud prince of Lyrnessus now lay still, his bloodied armor broken, his face forever frozen in a final, peaceful expression. Hector stared down at him, his heart weighed down by a sorrow that words could not convey.

Mynes had been more than just an ally. They had known each other for years, had stood side by side on the battlefield, and had shared countless meals and moments of camaraderie. To Hector, he was not just a fellow warrior but a brother in arms, someone he respected deeply. And now, to see him like this—defeated, his city in ruins—filled Hector with deep regret.

I should have come sooner.

But it was too late now. No amount of regret or guilt could change what had already happened. The city had fallen, and Mynes had died defending it with everything he had. All Hector could do now was honor his friend's memory and ensure that the survivors of Lyrnessus reached Troy safely, away from the wrath of the Greeks.

As Hector pondered over the next steps, Aeneas approached him from behind, his face grim.

"Hector," Aeneas said, his voice quiet but urgent, "Achilles' army is here. They've brought others with them—some of them are quite young, but they're strong. Very strong."

Hector's expression tightened, his brows knitting together. He had expected Achilles to be among the attackers, but hearing it confirmed sent a cold chill down his spine. Achilles, the greatest of the Greek warriors, was not a man to take lightly. His presence only meant more devastation was on the horizon.

"What about the people of Lyrnessus?" Hector asked, though part of him already dreaded the answer.

Aeneas's face darkened further, his features twisting in bitterness and anger. "Most of them… most of them have been killed," he said, his voice strained. "The Greeks showed no mercy. They didn't spare anyone—not even the innocent civilians who couldn't fight. It's a massacre." His fists clenched tightly, his knuckles white as his anger boiled beneath the surface.

Hector closed his eyes, letting out a long, pained breath. War… he understood war. He understood the violence and the death that came with it. But this? This was something else entirely. The Greeks had crossed a line, and Hector couldn't comprehend the senseless brutality they had unleashed on the people of Lyrnessus.

Women, children, the elderly—those who had no part in the conflict were butchered as if they were soldiers on the battlefield.

Why? Why such cruelty?

The scene around him was a testament to the horror that had unfolded. Blood stained the ground, thick and dark, pooling beneath the bodies that littered the streets. Limbs and corpses lay scattered as far as the eye could see, innocent lives extinguished in a senseless slaughter. The once vibrant city of Lyrnessus was now reduced to nothing more than a graveyard.

Aeneas continued, his tone growing more hopeful despite the grim circumstances. "I've ordered the others to gather all the survivors behind the city. The carriages are ready to take them to Troy. Several have already begun the journey, slipping away while the Greeks are still occupied. They haven't noticed our presence yet," he explained.

Hector gave a nod of approval. That had been their plan from the beginning—not to engage the Greeks directly but to save as many of the people of Lyrnessus as possible. It wasn't about winning a battle here. It was about saving lives.

"Good," Hector replied, his voice firm. "We aren't here to fight. We can't waste time getting drawn into a battle we can't win. Focus on evacuating the survivors before anyone realizes we're here."

Aeneas's face softened a bit as he nodded in agreement, but the worry hadn't left his eyes. "The good news," he continued, "is that not all the Greek kings are present. I didn't see anyone resembling Achilles, either. But I did hear some of the soldiers calling the one leading the Myrmidons 'Patroclus.' If he's here, then it's very possible Achilles isn't far behind."

The mention of Patroclus made Hector pause. Achilles' closest companion and trusted right hand—where Patroclus went, Achilles usually followed. If Patroclus was leading the charge here, it meant that Achilles' presence in Lyrnessus was all but guaranteed, even if he hadn't yet shown himself on the battlefield.

"And the bad news?" Hector asked, sensing there was more Aeneas hadn't yet said.

Aeneas's expression darkened again. "I saw Agamemnon's flag."

Hector's heart sank. Agamemnon, the king who had ignited this entire war, was a far more dangerous presence than most of the other kings. He brought with him not just soldiers but a relentless drive to conquer and crush anything in his path. If Agamemnon's forces were on their way, time was running out.

Hector thought quickly, his mind racing as he weighed their options. They needed to move fast—there was no time for hesitation. "We don't have time to waste," Hector finally said, his voice sharp with urgency. "Get everyone moving, now. Don't engage the Greeks unless it's absolutely necessary. We can't afford to get bogged down in a fight."

He paused, his thoughts turning to another concern. "I already warned Penthesilea, but I hope she listens."

°°°°°

Agamemnon's boots crunched against the shattered remnants of Lyrnessus's gates as he entered the fallen city, the smell of blood thick in the air. Behind him followed a fraction of his army, hardened men who had fought beside him for years, their faces void of emotion as they surveyed the destruction. Agamemnon's eyes gleamed with cold satisfaction.

Though he had allowed Achilles the honor of launching the first assault, the King of Mycenae had no intention of standing idly by while others claimed the glory. His pride demanded that he be part of this victory, even if it meant overseeing the bloody aftermath.

"Has everything ended?" Agamemnon asked, his tone casual as he glanced at the smoldering ruins around him.

Patroclus, walking beside him, gave a curt nod. "Yes. It's only a matter of minutes before Lyrnessus completely falls into our hands."

Patroclus's gaze flickered across the scenes of carnage around them. Everywhere they passed, civilians were being slaughtered mercilessly. Women and children cried out in vain, their prayers to the gods going unanswered as Greek soldiers tore through the city like wild animals. His heart twisted in his chest, but he said nothing.

What could he do?

He was Achilles' closest companion, and the Myrmidons were unmatched in their brutality. But Patroclus was different—he did not revel in the slaughter of innocents. Still, it was war, and his voice, for all its weight among the Greeks, could not stop the madness.

"It took longer than I expected," Agamemnon said with a mocking smile. "I thought Achilles could take this city within an hour."

Patroclus's expression hardened as he recalled the fierce battle that had delayed them. "There was… a bothersome opponent," he admitted. He couldn't help but feel a measure of respect for Mynes, the prince who had stood against them for hours despite the overwhelming odds. Mynes had been blessed by a goddess, Aphrodite no less.

"Where is Achilles now?" Agamemnon asked.

"He's gone to kill the King. He should be returning soon," Patroclus replied.

Agamemnon's lips curled into a smile. "Good. We'll continue as planned—this is just the beginning." His gaze darkened as he thought of Troy, its towering walls built by the hands of gods themselves—Apollo and Poseidon. That was his true goal. The fall of Troy would be his ultimate triumph.

He did not care for these smaller victories, for these villages and minor cities were mere stepping stones toward his ambition.

He had sacrificed too much to turn back now. His own daughter, Iphigenia—his beloved, his favorite—had been offered up to the gods to ensure their passage to Troy. There was no turning back. Compassion had no place in him any longer. Only conquest mattered now.

As these thoughts swirled in his mind, Agamemnon's gaze was drawn to a small, beautifully adorned temple standing untouched amidst the chaos. A temple dedicated to Apollo, god of the sun, music, and prophecy. Yet, even this sacred place was not spared from the Greeks' violence.

As he and Patroclus approached, the scene before them unfolded with savage clarity—Greek soldiers, their faces twisted with ugly glee, were desecrating the holy site. The priestesses inside were assaulted ruthlessly, their cries for mercy echoing in the air, while the male priests lay dead at the soldiers' feet.

At the sight of Agamemnon, the soldiers immediately paused in their vile acts. They straightened up and bowed respectfully, fear flickering in their eyes. They knew better than to displease the king, especially one as volatile as Agamemnon.

Agamemnon strode inside the temple. The once-echoing cries of panic and pain seemed to fade into an eerie silence as he ignored the men around him, his attention drawn to something—or rather, someone—near the altar.

Kneeling before the statue of Apollo, her back to him, was a young woman. She was dressed in the pure white robes of a priestess, her slender frame framed by the soft glow of the temple's fading light. Despite the chaos and destruction happening around her, she remained serene, her lips moving in quiet prayer, oblivious to the King of kings approaching.

Agamemnon's footsteps echoed in the stillness as he moved closer. Something about her unwavering devotion, her utter disregard for the carnage behind her, piqued his interest. When he finally stood beside her, his eyes widened in brief surprise.

She was beautiful.

More than beautiful, even. Agamemnon had seen many women in his life, from noble queens to foreign concubines, but this priestess possessed a radiance that seemed almost otherworldly. Her soft blonde hair was tied back with care, revealing delicate features that spoke of innocence untouched by the horrors outside the temple walls.

Her skin was porcelain, unblemished, and she had an air of purity that felt almost unreal amidst the bloodshed.

The young woman, with large, luminous blue eyes that seemed to reflect the very skies Apollo ruled over, remained kneeling, hands clasped together in a gesture of prayer. Her voice was low, murmuring words of devotion to her god, completely ignoring Agamemnon's looming presence.

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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC168: Astynome

The young woman, with large, luminous blue eyes that seemed to reflect the very skies Apollo ruled over, remained kneeling, hands clasped together in a gesture of prayer. Her voice was low, murmuring words of devotion to her god, completely ignoring Agamemnon's looming presence.

"Who are you?" Agamemnon's voice cut through the silence.

She did not answer at first, nor did she turn to face him. For a moment, Agamemnon felt a surge of anger. How dare she ignore him, the King of kings?

But just as he was about to repeat himself, she stopped her prayers and slowly rose to her feet. She stood gracefully, her movements fluid like water. When she finally turned to face him, her blue eyes locked onto his, and for the first time in a long while, Agamemnon felt something akin to hesitation.

"I am Astynome," she said softly. "The high priestess of Apollo. I offer my prayers to the god, even in these dark times."

There was no fear in her voice, no trembling in her stance. She stood before him, as resolute as the statue of Apollo towering behind her. Agamemnon found himself both impressed and irritated. She should be trembling, begging for mercy like the others.

"Do you not fear me, girl?" He asked, narrowing his gaze. "Do you not know who I am?"

Astynome met his gaze evenly. "You are Agamemnon, King of Mycenae. But my fear is not for men, no matter how powerful they believe themselves to be." She glanced briefly at the statue behind her. "I fear only the gods."

Her words, though spoken calmly, carried a weight that struck Agamemnon more deeply than he would admit. For a moment, the image of his own daughter, Iphigenia, crossed his mind. The sacrifice he had made for the sake of this war. The gods had demanded blood—his blood—and yet they had not spared him from the horrors of this conflict. What had been the purpose of that sacrifice?

"You speak of gods as though they will save you," Agamemnon said coldly, masking his momentary discomfort with arrogance. "But where are they now, Astynome? Where is your Apollo? He cannot protect you from what is to come. No god will. They are all with us."

Astynome's eyes flickered with something—a mixture of sorrow and understanding. She took a step closer.

"The gods watch, even when they seem silent," she replied. "And they will judge all men, in time. Even you, Agamemnon."

For a fleeting second, Agamemnon felt an icy shiver crawl up his spine. He quickly dismissed it. She was just a priestess—nothing more. Yet, something about her gaze lingered in his mind, stirring old fears.

"Then they will watch you being defiled by me. You will make for excellent entertainment until I erase you and your kind from existence, Trojans of the world. At least you will have a magnificent view and the honor of sharing the bed of the King of Kings," Agamemnon declared with a smirk, his voice dripping with arrogance.

He towered over Astynome, a priestess bound to the god Apollo, his eyes gleaming with cruel intent. Yet despite the horrifying words spoken, Astynome did not flinch, did not tremble. Instead, a faint, almost serene smile curved her lips.

Agamemnon's brow furrowed in confusion. He had expected fear—terror even—but here she was, standing before him, calm and undisturbed, as if his threats meant nothing.

"Why are you smiling?" He asked, his voice sharp with suspicion.

"As Apollo's priestess, it is my duty to deliver his visions to those who seek his wisdom, to share what the god sees for the fates of others," Astynome began, her voice soft but steady. "Yet, for the first time since I took this sacred role, I have seen nothing when it comes to my own future."

Agamemnon let out a harsh laugh, his amusement ringing through the empty temple. "He has abandoned you, and you smile at your misfortune?"

"Whether Apollo has abandoned me or not matters little," Astynome replied. "I will accept my fate, whatever it may be. But know this—I am certain it will not be at your side, King Agamemnon."

There was a quiet, unwavering confidence in her words, and it was this confidence that unsettled Agamemnon the most. The certainty with which she spoke, despite the looming uncertainty of her vision, struck a chord of doubt deep within him. She could see nothing of her fate—was it because the god had indeed forsaken her, or was there something even greater at play?

Even in the face of this unknown, Astynome wouldn't lose her face.

But behind her resolute expression, there was the faintest shadow of doubt. Had Apollo truly turned his gaze from her? Or was the veil of nothingness she saw a sign of something far more mysterious?

Agamemnon's smirk faded, replaced by simmering anger at the audacity of her defiance. Her refusal to cower, to fear him, was an insult he would not tolerate. He had broken many before her—proud warriors, defiant nobles—but there was something about her calm that made him seethe. His fists clenched, knuckles turning white.

But then he smiled—a dark, twisted expression that promised cruelty. He was eager, oh so eager, to see that calm, beautiful face twisted in anguish, to see her break. He imagined her begging, pleading for his mercy, her pride shattered under the weight of his will. He would take her, night after night, until that confidence melted away, until she became a willing participant in her own degradation.

Without warning, he lunged forward, his grip iron as he seized her arm, fingers digging into her soft skin. Astynome winced, a slight groan of pain escaping her lips, but her expression remained composed. Agamemnon dragged her out of Apollo's temple.

°°°°°°

"Aren't you going to do something, brother?" Artemis asked, as she glanced toward her twin.

Apollo, standing beside her, remained still, his gaze fixed on the scene unfolding below.

"I wish I could," he murmured, his voice heavy with restrained emotion. "But I cannot intervene directly to save someone. Father watches us closely today, perhaps more than ever. If only someone else steps forward to help her... then, maybe, I could bless him to fight Agamemnon."

Artemis frowned, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the situation below. "What about her father?" she asked, pointing to the heartbreaking sight at the temple's entrance. Astynome's father knelt on the ground, his once proud figure now bent low in supplication. His hands trembled as he reached out, his voice choked with tears as he begged Agamemnon to spare his daughter.

"Please, my King," he sobbed, "take mercy on her. She is innocent, a priestess in service to the gods. Do not take her from Apollo's temple. I beg of you."

Agamemnon glanced at the man with contempt, the faintest curl of a sneer twisting his lips. Without a word, he kicked the old man aside, sending him sprawling to the ground, the sound of his body hitting the stone echoing through the sacred space.

"He's too weak," Apollo said, shaking his head slowly. "Even if I granted him strength, it would be a waste. He wouldn't stand a chance against Agamemnon."

"But she is your priestess, brother. She has served you faithfully," Artemis said.

"I know," Apollo replied, his voice low and strained. He did not need reminding. Astynome was one of the few mortals he truly respected, her loyalty and devotion unmatched. "But sometimes, even the gods must let events play out. We cannot always interfere simply because something feels unjust to us."

His words rang with the ancient truth known among the immortals. Mortals lived and died, their fates often beyond the direct intervention of gods. To meddle without reason could bring wrath from their father, Zeus, and alter the delicate balance between fate and divine will.

"I promise you this, Agamemnon," Apollo said under his breath, his eyes narrowing as they followed the arrogant king dragging Astynome away. "You will not have a peaceful death."

Beside them, Aphrodite stood in unusual silence, her expression thoughtful, her lips curved ever so slightly in a smile that neither Apollo nor Artemis could understand.

"You won't have to worry about your priestess for long, Apollo," Aphrodite said softly after a moment, her voice carrying an eerie calm. "It seems fate has already set something in motion."

Both Apollo and Artemis turned to her in confusion.

"What do you mean?" Artemis asked, her brow furrowed. "What do you see?"

Aphrodite's smile deepened as she gazed at a specific spot near the temple, her eyes gleaming with the certainty of someone who knew far more than she was revealing. Slowly, Apollo and Artemis followed her gaze, their curiosity piqued.

Atop the temple of Apollo, a solitary figure stood, outlined against the sky. His silhouette was sharp, cutting a striking image against the backdrop of the heavens. He gazed down upon the unfolding scene below, with an eerie silence. His cold, ice-blue eyes locked onto Agamemnon and Astynome.

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