Chapter 310 - I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED ME 2

I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC177: Ajax angry

"Lyrnessus has fallen. Our first battle ended in great success," Patroclus announced, his voice carrying a tone of satisfaction.

The commanders and heroes of the Greek forces had gathered inside a large, well-furnished meeting tent, spacious enough to accommodate over twenty individuals. The atmosphere inside was thick with the heady scent of sweat, dust, and battle-worn armor. At the center of the tent stood a large wooden table, and spread across it was a meticulously detailed map of the Trojan territories.

The map was marked with strategic points—fortresses, rivers, and the path to Troy itself. Lyrnessus, once a powerful stronghold in support of the Trojan capital, had been a key obstacle to their campaign. Its fall now represented a crucial victory.

"Lyrnessus was a thorn in our side, threatening to aid the Trojan capital if we allowed it to stand. This is indeed good news," Odysseus added thoughtfully, turning his gaze toward Agamemnon. The King of Mycenae, towering over the table with his arms crossed, looked particularly pleased with himself.

Odysseus, ever the tactician, had a reason behind his compliment. "Good job, King Agamemnon," he said, his voice smooth and calculated. It wasn't that Odysseus was known for flattery—far from it—but he was always a man of strategy, and right now, Agamemnon's mood needed to be kept in check.

Ever since the king had sacrificed his own daughter, Iphigenia, to the gods for favorable winds on their journey to Troy, his temper had been unstable, brooding under the surface.

"Yes, brilliant work as always, Agamemnon," Nestor, the elder statesman, added with a smile, his voice full of praise. There was a weariness in his eyes, though. Nestor, wise and aged, knew the balance of egos among the Greeks was as delicate as the war they waged.

Agamemnon, basking in the attention, grunted approvingly, his lips curling into a satisfied smile. For all his titles and power, he was, at his core, a simple man who relished recognition—especially after the personal sacrifice he'd made.

But not everyone shared their view.

"Why is he taking all the praise when he did nothing?" A voice, sharp and irritated, rang out, cutting through the air like a blade.

Odysseus and Nestor inwardly groaned, exchanging a glance that spoke volumes. They could practically feel the tension crackling in the air before even turning their heads. The timing couldn't have been worse.

Jason Spencer, his expression darkened with frustration, strode into the tent, Liphiel accompanying him. Jason's golden armor gleamed in the dim torchlight, a stark contrast to the scowling face beneath his helm. He wasn't trying to mask his displeasure; it was clear he had had enough of being sidelined by the Greek kings.

From the very beginning, the Heroes of the Empire of Light had been treated like children, barely acknowledged, despite their invaluable contributions. They had fought fiercely, yet here they were, excluded from the praise and recognition being showered upon Agamemnon, a king who hadn't even been at the forefront of the battle.

Jason's annoyance had finally boiled over. He had been the one to breach the walls of Lyrnessus, tearing down its defenses and paving the way for the Greek army's advance. Yet here was Agamemnon, smugly soaking up praise he had not earned.

"Watch your tongue, brat," came a growling voice, filled with warning and threat.

It was Ajax, the mighty warrior, towering at the far end of the tent. His eyes blazed with fury, and for a moment, Jason felt a cold chill of fear creep down his spine. The air seemed to thicken with the weight of Ajax's presence, as if the very earth under their feet could crumble under his rage.

Ajax was a towering figure, his massive frame more akin to a mountain than a man. His body, broad and muscled like a living fortress, was riddled with scars from countless battles. Each scar told a story—of victories, of violence, of near-death encounters that he had always come out of as the victor.

His hands, resting on the hilt of his sword, seemed capable of snapping necks with ease, and his stare was enough to make lesser men falter.

Jason felt a pulse of instinctive fear, knowing full well that Ajax was one of the strongest warriors in the Greek army. Perhaps only Achilles, Heracles, or Agamemnon himself could hope to best him. His height alone was intimidating—he stood head and shoulders above most of the soldiers, his presence casting a long shadow that seemed to stretch across the tent.

Jason forced himself to stand his ground, though he could feel his heartbeat quicken. Ajax was not someone to trifle with. His eyes, dark and burning with murderous intent, locked onto Jason like a predator sizing up prey.

"Did you forget your place, boy?" Ajax rumbled, his fingers twitching near the hilt of his sword.

For a fleeting moment, Jason faltered, fear creeping into his heart. But pride and anger quickly surged back, fortifying his resolve. He clenched his jaw, unwilling to back down completely, even in the face of Ajax's barely contained fury.

Ajax, a close ally of Agamemnon and himself a king, felt his blood boil at the sight of a mere teenager daring to insult the King of Kings, the man leading all the Greek armies. For Ajax, the Heroes of the Empire of Light had only intruded upon their war for glory and reward. The only reason they weren't outright dismissed was because they had been chosen by Hera herself.

Jason, despite the pressure, quickly bit his tongue, his eyes narrowing in defiance as he glared back at Ajax. It was his pride, his unyielding sense of self-worth, that resisted the overwhelming presence of one of the greatest warriors among the Greeks.

The tension was palpable, and those gathered in the tent exchanged uneasy glances. Jason, though young, was standing his ground, and that was no small feat. Even Ajax, towering like a mountain, with his scarred body and aura of death, was slightly taken aback, his frown deepening.

For a boy who had grown up in a peaceful world, untouched by war, and had been here for less than a year, Jason was showing unexpected grit.

Still, many thought his pride was misplaced, almost reckless. A man like Ajax could break him with a flick of his wrist. Yet Jason's eyes burned with defiance, unwilling to yield even an inch.

Liphiel, watching from behind, couldn't help but smile. Jason Spencer, despite his brashness and youth, had something special. He wasn't the strongest person here—far from it—but there was a reason why he had been chosen as the Hero of Light. Walking into this tent, facing down the kings of Greece and one of its fiercest warriors, took more than just courage.

It took guts and the sort of raw audacity that could turn the tide of a war. Liphiel knew Jason had potential, a hidden darkness within him that could be shaped into something truly terrifying. But it would take more than a mere threatening gaze from Ajax to awaken it.

"I don't care," Jason began, his voice steady despite the pressure. "We are here too, and I don't have to remind you kings that it was the Goddess Hera herself who chose us. You can either accommodate us or tell Hera directly that you refuse her help—and we'll leave."

His words, calm yet laced with a thinly veiled threat, caused Ajax to grit his teeth in frustration. Even Ajax, with all his strength and might, could not open his mouth to defy the will of the gods so openly. Hera's favor was not something to take lightly, and Jason had just used it as his shield. The silence in the tent thickened.

Odysseus, who had been watching the exchange with a calculating eye, allowed a small smile to creep onto his lips. "He's no ordinary kid," Odysseus remarked, stepping forward to mediate. "Let's accept that much."

Heracles, standing tall beside Ajax, then added in a calm, measured tone, "Yes, but I ask that you show respect to your elders—especially when they are kings."

Jason's eyes flickered for a moment, as if weighing the admonishment, but before he could respond, Liphiel stepped forward.

"I apologize on behalf of Hero Jason. His frustration is understandable. But we are all on the same side, aren't we?" She turned to Patroclus, who had observed the Heroes of Light during the battle. "Lord Patroclus, you saw how our Heroes fought. What do you think?"

Patroclus, who had remained quiet up until this point, nodded. "Yes. They are not to be underestimated," he admitted, his voice carrying the weight of an honest warrior's assessment. There was no denying the contribution the Heroes of Light had made during the fall of Lyrnessus.

Odysseus, sensing the moment was right, smoothly interjected. "Then it's settled." He glanced around the room, his words helping to ease the mounting tension. His timing, as always, was impeccable, lending support to Liphiel's efforts to smooth things over.

Ajax, still simmering with anger, gave Jason one last glare before stepping back. Heracles placed a hand on Ajax's shoulder, calming the towering warrior with his steady presence. Jason, still standing tall, nodded but said nothing further.

The meeting continued none of them unaware that outside an intruder was wandering in their camp...

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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC178: Achilles's True

The tension in the room had finally eased, the after-battle meeting of the Greek kings reaching its conclusion with little incident. Jason Spencer, had made his points, but Agamemnon, sitting upon his makeshift throne, barely regarded them as anything more than the naive ramblings of a young man.

To Agamemnon, Jason and the others were nothing more than boys playing at war, unaware of the true weight that kings like him carried.

Agamemnon leaned back, his heavy golden armor gleaming under the dim light, his brow furrowed in thought.

"Why didn't Achilles come?" Agamemnon's gruff voice broke the momentary silence, his sharp eyes shifting toward Patroclus, who was preparing to leave the gathering.

Patroclus, poised at the edge of the fire's glow, halted mid-step. His expression was calm but spoke volumes, a thin layer of amusement beneath his composed exterior. "You know how he is," he replied, turning his gaze to Agamemnon. "Achilles doesn't care for these tedious talks. But rest assured, when it's time to fight, he'll be there. You have nothing to worry about."

Agamemnon scowled, his lips curling in disdain. He could never understand Achilles, the aloof warrior who refused to kneel to anyone, especially him. "I heard he's gotten his hands on some beauty from Lyrnessus back at the camp," Agamemnon muttered, his voice dripping with cynicism. "That's probably where he's been spending his time. Playing with her while we deal with the real matters of war."

Patroclus's lips curved into a subtle, knowing smile, though he kept his thoughts to himself. The truth was far more complicated. Achilles had no love for Agamemnon, nor for the sycophants surrounding him, constantly praising him for deeds he hadn't even accomplished. Achilles despised these pompous gatherings where men like Agamemnon strutted about, feigning leadership.

His hatred for the High King was no secret, and so he remained in his tent, unwilling to be commanded by a man he held in such low regard.

"Perhaps," Patroclus said, tilting his head slightly, "but I've heard you, too, have a prize of your own, King Agamemnon. A fair beauty from the temple of Apollo?" His tone was light, but the implication was clear.

Agamemnon's eyes flickered briefly with satisfaction, his mind already wandering to Astynome—the priestess of Apollo who now lay captive in his tent. She was a rare prize, her beauty only made more tantalizing by her sacred status. Agamemnon had claimed her as his spoil without a second thought.

"Astynome," he said, the name rolling off his tongue with a possessive pride. "She's mine by right. What does it matter if she prays to Apollo?"

There was a murmur among the kings, their eyes darting toward Nestor, the aged and wise ruler of Pylos, who had remained quiet until now. His expression was measured, but the concern in his eyes did not go unnoticed.

"I've heard," Nestor began cautiously, "that she's a priestess of Apollo. Perhaps… some care should be taken."

Agamemnon shot him a dismissive look, his pride wounded by the suggestion that he should be cautious with what was rightfully his. "So what?" he barked. "She's my reward, and I have every intention of enjoying her. No god can change that. We are kings, Nestor. These are the rules of our world.

Spoils go to the victor."

The silence that followed was heavy, the weight of Agamemnon's words hanging in the air. He was right, in a way. On this blood-soaked continent, war governed all. Kings took what they wanted, and the gods rarely intervened in the affairs of men—at least, not openly.

Still, Nestor's hesitation lingered, the elder king unable to shake the fear that Apollo might not take kindly to his priestess's defilement.

Nestor lowered his head, choosing not to press the matter further. Agamemnon was stubborn, and there was little use in arguing with a man so drunk on his own power. But the feeling in the pit of Nestor's stomach remained—a creeping dread that something was amiss.

Everything, it seemed, was progressing smoothly. Perhaps too smoothly.

But even as Nestor walked away, he couldn't help but feel a dark cloud looming on the horizon. Agamemnon might have been confident in their victory, and why wouldn't he be? They had the backing of Hera, Queen of the Gods, and the patronage of Athena, Goddess of War and Wisdom. With divine favor, how could they lose?

°°°°°

The Greek camps sprawled across the battlefield like a patchwork of disparate forces, each settled at a significant distance from the other. It was a sight that would make any observer question if they were truly allies. The lack of unity was palpable, a reflection of their fragmented origins—each army hailing from different cities with long histories of rivalry.

The Spartans and Athenians, notorious for their mutual disdain, kept their tents as far apart as possible, their enmity unforgotten even in the face of a common enemy.

But they weren't the only ones divided by tension. The Heroes of Light, hailing from foreign lands, held nothing but contempt for the Greeks, who treated them with either jealousy or disdain. To the Greeks, the Heroes of Light were outsiders, tools for war, and nothing more.

As a result, the heroes had chosen to remain distant, setting their camp apart, the air between them filled with unspoken resentment.

On a hill a little further away stood the Myrmidons' camp, known for its ruthless warriors. At the peak of the hill, Achilles' tent loomed large, commanding an imposing view of the battlefield below. It was grand but stark, devoid of guards. Achilles had no need for protection; his name alone struck fear into both allies and enemies alike.

Only Patroclus, Achilles' cousin and closest companion, could enter the tent freely. But today, Patroclus was absent, and within the spacious confines of the tent, only two figures remained: Achilles and Briseis, his newly claimed spoil of war.

Briseis sat beside the bed, her hands bound with rough ropes, her posture rigid and defiant. Her dark eyes burned with silent fury as they met Achilles' cold, indifferent gaze. He stood not far from her, still clad in his bloodstained armor, the gore of battle fresh upon him.

The blood that stained his armor was not only the blood of faceless enemies, but that of her people—men who had fought to defend their home, her brothers, perhaps, or childhood friends.

Her heart ached with the weight of all she had witnessed. Taken from her home in Lyrnessus, she had seen the cruelty of the Greek army firsthand, their monstrous treatment of her people. She had watched helplessly as her city burned, its people butchered or enslaved, the cries of the dying still echoing in her ears. And now, she found herself a captive, claimed by the most feared warrior among them.

Despite the terror she had seen, Briseis could not help but feel a twisted sense of relief. She hated herself for it, but in the deepest part of her heart, she knew that her fate could have been far worse. Among the Greeks, there were those far more brutal, far more savage, who would have treated her as little more than an object, a trophy to be abused and discarded.

Achilles, at least, seemed to have some measure of control, though she despised him all the same.

Achilles finally broke it, his voice deep and measured. "Do you know who I am?" he asked, his tone devoid of emotion as he began removing his blood-soaked armor, piece by piece. The metal clanked heavily as he set it aside, his muscular frame now exposed to the cool air of the night.

Briseis's jaw clenched, her eyes still defiant despite the fear that churned inside her. "Achilles, King of Phthia," she answered, her voice steady though it trembled slightly at the edges. She knew exactly who he was.

Achilles dipped a cloth into a nearby basin filled with perfumed water, the fragrant steam rising in soft curls. He began to cleanse his face, wiping away the blood and grime that had accumulated over the course of the day's battle. His movements were slow, methodical, and weirdly careful.

"Also," Achilles added, glancing briefly at her, "child of the goddess Thetis." His words were not a boast, but a reminder. He was no ordinary man, but a demigod. A being born of both human and divine blood.

Briseis clenched her jaw, holding back a sharp retort. Achilles stood before her, radiating the arrogance she had heard so much about. He was every bit as prideful as the tales had warned, but now that she had a closer look at him, there was something unexpected about the famed warrior.

Without his armor, Achilles looked nothing like the brute she had imagined. He was lean, his muscles subtle and finely sculpted, not the bulging mass of strength that Ajax or other Greek champions displayed. His skin was smooth and pale, almost glowing in the dim light of the tent, and appeared unmarked, a strange contrast to the violent life he led.

It was hard to believe that this flawless skin belonged to the man who had felled countless foes in battle, a warrior whom even the gods themselves whispered about.

Briseis, despite her anger, found herself astonished. Was this truly the body of the strongest warrior of the Greek armies, the man whose very name struck terror into the hearts of his enemies? Even she, in some twisted sense, felt a pang of envy toward his unblemished skin and long, flowing red hair, which until now had been tied back but now spilled freely past his shoulders.

The soft shimmer of gold in his eyes as he glanced at the mirror only confirmed the divine blood that coursed through him.

Magnificent. She had to admit it—he was truly magnificent.

Achilles turned back toward her with a smirk then removed the top layer of the clothing with casual ease, baring more of his skin to the cool air.

Briseis instinctively averted her gaze in shame and discomfort. But something caught her eye, just before she could fully look away. A flash of something unusual. Her brow furrowed as confusion overtook her, and her gaze hesitantly drifted back to him, curiosity overriding her instinct to look away.

What she saw made her breath catch in her throat. Her eyes widened in disbelief, and she froze, her mind racing to make sense of what she was seeing.

Achilles' chest was not what she had expected. Beneath the smooth, almost otherworldly skin of his abdomen, there was a thin, white cloth bound tightly across his chest. But what truly caught her attention was the unmistakable outline beneath that cloth—soft curves, the unmistakable shape of a woman's chest, hidden beneath the fabric.

Briseis slowly raised her gaze, her eyes tracing the elegant curve of the valley that led down to those appetizing concealed peaks, the delicate rise and fall of Achilles' chest.

"A… A woman?"

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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC179: She's a woman!

Achilles' chest was not what she had expected. Beneath the smooth, almost otherworldly skin of his abdomen, there was a thin, white cloth bound tightly across his chest. But what truly caught her attention was the unmistakable outline beneath that cloth—soft curves, the unmistakable shape of a woman's chest, hidden beneath the fabric.

Briseis slowly raised her gaze, her eyes tracing the elegant curve of the valley that led down to those appetizing concealed peaks, the delicate rise and fall of Achilles' chest.

"A… A woman?"

"Quite surprised, aren't you?" Achilles laughed, her voice now softening into a tone far more feminine than Briseis had ever heard. There was a light, almost musical quality to it, a stark contrast to the gruff, commanding voice she had used until now, seemingly on purpose to deceive everyone around her.

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Briseis blinked, her brow furrowed in confusion. "Are you really Achilles?" she asked, her voice laced with doubt. The name Achilles of Phthia carried the weight of legends—tales of a warrior without equal, said to be the greatest ever born after Perseus himself, the hero who had slain the dreaded gorgon.

And the Achilles from those stories was undoubtedly a man, or at least, that was what everyone believed.

As Briseis stared at the figure before her, the uncertainty gnawed at her. Could it be someone else entirely masquerading as the famed warrior?

But Achilles merely smiled, a slow, knowing grin that seemed to dismiss Briseis's doubt as if it were a fleeting thought. "Achilleas," she said softly, her lips curling. "That's the name my mother gave me. But only those close to me call me Khillea. They, and they alone, know the truth—that I am, and have always been, a woman."

Briseis found herself at a loss for words.

Achilles—a woman? It seemed impossible. This was the warrior who had felled the greatest foes of Troy, the unstoppable force of the Achaeans' army. And yet, as Briseis stood there in stunned silence, the truth seemed to settle around her like a thick, heavy fog.

Achilles' eyes gleamed as she continued. "In the world of the Achaeans, it is men who are allowed to shine. Any woman who dares to outshine them is not honored, but discredited, mocked, or worse." There was a bitterness that crept into her tone, a bitterness born of years of understanding the harshness of the world. "I learned that lesson early. So, I became what they needed me to be.

I lived as a man, fought as a man, and carried myself as one. Can you imagine if that fool Agamemnon ever discovered the truth?"

Briseis shivered at the thought. Agamemnon—the arrogant king, so full of pride and self-importance—had always despised Achilles for her defiance, for her refusal to bow to him. What might he do if he learned that the warrior he envied and resented was, in fact, a woman?

Briseis could only imagine the lengths to which Agamemnon might go to exert control over Achilles, perhaps even try to claim her as his own, forcing her into submission with the same ruthless tactics he used against his enemies.

The idea was sickening, but not unthinkable. Agamemnon was known for his schemes, for the underhanded ways in which he sought to bend others to his will. And while Achilles was stronger than him—stronger than any of the Greek kings, perhaps—it was not beyond reason to think Agamemnon would attempt to entrap her.

A twisted thought bloomed in Briseis' mind: if Agamemnon couldn't best Achilles in battle, he might resort to more cowardly means to break her spirit and make her his likely even assaulting her.

But that wasn't the only danger. And what about the other kings?

Currently, they held Achilles in the highest regard, treating her with the respect owed to a fellow king and warrior—one who could rival even Perseus in might. But if they were to discover that she was a woman? Would that respect turn to scorn? Would they laugh at her, cast her aside as lesser, unworthy of their ranks?

And what about her warriors, the Myrmidons? If they abandon her because she is a woman, Phthia would be without protection and all the others countries might attack them.

"That's why I hide," Achilles said simply, a resigned note in her voice. "To avoid the useless trouble it would bring. It's easier this way."

"Why are you telling me this?" Briseis asked, her voice trembling with fear. For a moment, her heart pounded in her chest as dread crept over her. Why would Achilles, of all people, reveal such a monumental secret to her? She was nothing more than a stranger—an outsider in this world of warriors and kings. The only conclusion she could draw was bleak: perhaps Achilles planned to silence her forever.

Her mind raced, grasping for an explanation. But Achilles simply smiled.

"You belong to me now," Achilles said, her voice calm, almost playful, but with an underlying threat that made Briseis' blood run cold. "And if you speak a word of what I've told you, you will lose my protection. I think you know very well what will happen to you if the others catch you without me. Believe me," she laughed softly, "you're better off here."

Briseis swallowed hard, the truth of Achilles' words settling in. She couldn't deny it. Achilles was right. As dangerous as this situation felt, she was far safer here, under the protection of this fearsome warrior, than she would be anywhere else in the Greek camps. If anyone discovered what Achilles had revealed, Briseis knew her life would be forfeit.

But still, confusion gnawed at her. "Why did you take me with you, then?" she asked, her voice hesitant, unsure. She couldn't understand why Achilles had chosen her, of all people. She was just a woman—powerless, quiet beautiful yes but unremarkable. A moment ago, she had been certain that Achilles intended to rob her of her virginity, to take her by force as men often did in the brutal world of war.

But now, a different kind of uncertainty settled over her. Why had she been spared? Why had Achilles chosen to reveal herself?

Could it be that Achilles had a preference for women? The thought fluttered through Briseis' mind like a fragile whisper, but before she could dwell on it, Achilles—or rather, Khillea, as she had called herself—moved with surprising swiftness.

Suddenly Khillea reached out, her fingers brushing against her skirt. In one smooth motion, she lowered it, revealing her untouched, vulnerable pussy.

Briseis flushed a deep crimson, her breath catching in her throat as she quickly averted her gaze, overwhelmed by a rush of shame and confusion.

But Khillea, seemingly indifferent to Briseis' discomfort, continued undressing herself with practiced ease. She unwrapped the bandages that had been tightly bound around her chest, and as they fell away, her breasts—full and bountiful—were revealed. Briseis couldn't help but glance, despite herself.

In that moment, she realized that any man in the Greek camps would have lost his senses at the sight of Khillea like this. She was, without a doubt, breathtaking—her body as flawless as her battle prowess.

Even though Briseis was a woman, she couldn't help but feel an undeniable pull toward Khillea. She was not only the strongest warrior among the greeks, but also, impossibly, the most beautiful. There was something otherworldly about her, a perfection that made Briseis wonder if she truly had been born from a goddess, as the myths claimed.

Naked and unabashed, Khillea turned her attention to the basin of hot water that had been prepared for her inside the tent. She moved gracefully, dipping her toes in first to test the temperature, then sliding her entire body into the water with a soft, contented sigh.

"So good~," she moaned, her voice rich and sensual as the warmth of the water began to relax the tension from her muscles, worn from the strain of battle. Her moans filled the space between them, each one laced with pleasure as the water were washing away the dirt and blood of the battlefield.

Briseis remained where she was, sitting awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Her mind was still racing, trying to process everything—the revelation of Achilles' true identity, the strangeness of the situation, and the undeniable allure of the woman in front of her.

"What are you doing?" Khillea's voice interrupted her thoughts. The question was casual, but there was an unmistakable command in it. "Come."

Briseis blinked, startled. "F...For?" she stammered, her heart pounding in her chest as she hesitantly approached the bath.

As expected, Briseis' suspicions seemed to be confirmed. Khillea, it appeared, was more interested in women than men.

But Khillea's next words caught her off guard.

"Wash my hair."

Briseis blinked, the tension in her chest easing slightly, though her confusion deepened. That was not the command she had expected.

"You heard me?" Khillea's voice was soft but firm, the hint of amusement lingering in her tone.

Snapped out of her swirling thoughts, Briseis hesitated only for a moment before moving closer. She reached out, her hands trembling slightly as she took hold of Khillea's soft, long red hair, which cascaded down her back in thick waves. The scent of the water was soothing, floral and delicate.

With gentle fingers, Briseis began to wash the strands, her movements slow and deliberate. The warm water ran through Khillea's hair, and with it, the tension in Briseis' body began to loosen as well. She could feel Khillea's muscles relax beneath her touch, the warrior's body sinking deeper into the bath.

"Mmmn~" Khillea moaned, a low, contented sound that sent a faint ripple through the room. Her breasts floated just above the water's surface, barely visible, glistening in the dim light of the tent. The heat from the bath had turned her skin a soft pink, her beauty almost ethereal as the steam rose around her like mist.

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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC180: Glory for Death

"A good, hot bath after plunging into the chaos of battle, with the stench of blood still clinging to me, is truly the best thing in this world," Khillea murmured, her lips curling into a satisfied smirk as she sank deeper into the steaming water.

Her cheeks were flushed, though whether from the heat of the bath or some deeper, strange pleasure brought on by the thought of war, it was impossible to tell.

The air around her was thick with the scent of the herbs that floated in the water, meant to cleanse and soothe, but for Khillea, they were mere afterthoughts. What she reveled in wasn't the calm of the bath, but the thrill of the battle that had led to this moment of respite. There was no denying it: Khillea loved war.

Loved the clash of blades, the cries of fallen foes, and the rush of knowing she had survived another day on the battlefield.

She tilted her head back, letting her damp, dark hair spill over the edge of the bath as her servant, Briseis, dutifully finished washing it. Khillea's eyes gleamed with something wild, untamed.

"Don't you agree, Briseis?" she asked, turning her head slightly to glance at the girl who stood behind her, hands trembling as she worked.

Briseis hesitated, her lips pressing together before she answered, her voice barely above a whisper. "I... I don't know. I've never fought. I don't know what it feels like."

Khillea's laugh was low, almost indulgent, as if Briseis's innocence amused her. She raised one leg out of the water, admiring the way the droplets clung to her pale, well-sculpted limb, embellished with thin, intricate scars that told their own tales of battle.

"You should learn," Khillea said, her voice light but carrying an edge of seriousness beneath it. "There's no feeling quite like it. It reminds you that you're truly alive. When your blood is pumping, your heart racing, and death is just a breath away... that's when you know what living really is."

Briseis remained silent, her hands moving to wring out the washcloth, trying to hide the slight tremble in her fingers.

"Why are you attacking us?"

The question lingered in the steamy air for a moment, and Khillea's smirk deepened as she leaned back against the smooth stone of the bath. "Why do you ask?" she replied, the amusement still playing in her tone, though her eyes had grown sharper.

Briseis swallowed, but pressed on, her voice gaining a bit of strength. "Is it for Agamemnon? His brother... the one who lost Queen Helen?"

At the mention of Agamemnon, Khillea's expression changed, darkening into something almost contemptuous. The playful spark in her eyes dulled, replaced by irritation as she scoffed.

"Agamemnon? Ha! What a joke. I couldn't care less about him or his pitiful, cuckolded brother," she spat, her annoyance palpable. "I am here on my own volition, not because of some ridiculous feud over a stolen woman."

Briseis's brows furrowed in confusion, though she tried to keep her voice steady. "Then... are you attacking us for pleasure? For the sake of taking innocent lives?"

Khillea threw her head back and laughed, the sound echoing off the stone walls. There was no anger in her laugh, only amusement, as if Briseis's question was the most absurd thing she had ever heard.

"I take pleasure in battle, not in mindless destruction like the beasts I am forced to fight alongside," Khillea corrected, her voice sharp but laced with pride. "You see, in this war, I am destined for greatness. I will carve my name into history, become a legend that people will sing about for generations to come. Long after I am gone, they will remember me."

"A... legend?" Briseis echoed, the word unfamiliar on her lips as she tried to grasp the magnitude of what Khillea was saying.

Khillea's expression softened, just a little, as if speaking of her destiny stirred something deeper within her. "Yes. A year ago, my mother—wise and knowing as she is—told me that if I joined this war against the Trojans, I would become a legend. It is my fate."

"Is that... why you're here?" Briseis asked.

"Yes," Khillea replied, her tone almost reverent now, as though speaking of something sacred. "But it seems my fate holds something else as well. I am destined to die once I have achieved that immortality of name and deed."

Briseis's eyes widened in shock. She hadn't expected that. "Die? But... why?"

Khillea shrugged, almost nonchalantly, as though the thought of her own death was inconsequential. "Honor. Immortal glory. What is a short life, so long as my name lives on for thousands of years? That doesn't sound so bad, does it?"

But to Briseis, it sounded utterly mad. The more Khillea spoke, the more it became clear to her that this woman was driven by something beyond reason, beyond sanity. She was willing to give up everything—her life, her future, her very soul—for the sake of glory, for a place in the stories told by bards and poets.

And for Briseis, that was incomprehensible.

"And what if you stayed?" Briseis asked, her voice quiet but steady, cutting through the ambient warmth of the tent. Her question was simple, almost naive, yet laced with a deeper understanding of the choices Khillea had made. After all, anyone would have chosen to stay behind, to avoid the horrors of war and live a longer, peaceful life.

Khillea, who had been basking in the fading heat of the bath, turned her gaze upward. Her eyes seemed distant as she stared at the fabric of the tent ceiling, the lines of her face softening in the flickering torchlight. For a fleeting moment, Briseis saw her not as the fierce, battle-hardened warrior, but as a young woman—a girl—lost in thought.

"Love, children, family..." Khillea murmured, almost to herself, her voice tinged with an emotion she rarely let slip. Desire. She couldn't completely hide the yearning that slipped through her mask, though she quickly caught herself.

Briseis blinked, surprised. Could it be that Khillea, the woman who reveled in battle, who sought immortal glory, actually wanted something so simple, so human? "Do you want them?" Briseis asked softly, her voice carrying a strange mix of curiosity and empathy.

Khillea remained silent for a long moment, weighing the question in her mind. Then, with a sharp, almost defiant exhale, she shook her head and recovered her usual confident smirk, turning to rest her arms on the edge of the basin, the water lapping at her elbows.

"It's either immortal glory or that," she said, her smirk widening, though her eyes still held that distant gleam. "I made my decision the day I left my homeland, my territory. But..." Her voice lowered slightly, and the smirk faltered for a brief second. "I'm not going to give up just because my mother said I can only have one of them."

Briseis tilted her head, confused by the contradiction in her words. "Wh... what do you mean?" she asked, furrowing her brows.

Khillea's smile returned in full force, more predatory now, as if she had some secret plan brewing in her mind. "I want to leave behind an immortal legacy of my prowess, yes, but I also want to leave behind a personal one."

Briseis's eyes widened slightly, the meaning behind Khillea's words dawning on her. "A child? But your mother said..."

"Yes, yes, yes," Khillea interrupted, sulking as she turned away again, splashing water in frustration. "I know what my mother said. She's told me time and again—if I choose to take part in this war, I forfeit any chance of children. But that doesn't mean I'm just going to lie down and do nothing about it. Or not even try?" She scoffed, her tone dripping with disdain. "That would be pathetic."

Briseis nodded slowly, though inwardly, she couldn't help but feel that no matter how much Khillea tried, she would not be able to escape the fate foretold by Thetis, a goddess. Prophecies, especially those from divine lips, were rarely wrong. If stepping foot in Troy meant that Khillea would never have children and would ultimately die, then surely it was a fate that could not be avoided.

Still, Briseis hesitated to voice this, sensing that Khillea wouldn't take kindly to being reminded of the harshness of her destiny. Instead, she offered a more practical response. "There are plenty of men, so I suppose you have a wide choice," she said cautiously, keeping her true thoughts to herself.

Khillea burst out laughing, her mirth echoing off the tent walls, though there was a bitter edge to her laughter. "Are you joking?" she asked, amusement lighting up her face. "Have you seen those men? Most of them are nothing more than brutes, driven by their own base desires and lust for battle. They're hardly the kind of men I'd want to leave a legacy with."

She shook her head, her laughter fading as she considered her options more seriously. Khillea wanted a child, something more than just the immortal glory she had been promised—a living legacy that would carry on her name and bloodline. She would sleep with a stranger, if necessary, to make it happen. But the real question was who? NovelBin-original-content

None of the Greek kings, that much she was certain of. Khillea despised most of them, seeing them as weak or foolish men driven by petty squabbles and personal ambition. Agamemnon, in particular, filled her with disdain. The thought of bearing a child with a man like him made her skin crawl.

Then there was Menelaus—pathetic in his obsession over Helen, as if his lost queen was the only thing that mattered in the world.

Maybe Odysseus, she mused for a brief moment. He was cunning and intelligent, traits Khillea could respect. But even that idea quickly died. Odysseus was utterly devoted to his wife, Penelope. His loyalty to her was renowned, and Khillea knew that trying to seduce a man like him would be pointless.

"There will be definitely someone worthy of you." Briseis said but didn't think really that. Her thoughts about the Greek men were really not good. For her they were all trashes after she had witnessed what they had done to her city and to the women...

"Maybe..." Khillea mumbled not believing herself that she will ever find someone worthy of her.

As expected she will just have to sleep with the first stranger who seemed somewhat good enough.

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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC181: Gwen's doubting

In the camp of the Heroes of the Empire of Light, the air was thick with conflicting thoughts. Among the ranks, there was a division. Half of them had abstained from the battle at Lyrnessus, not out of cowardice, but because the battle felt meaningless—a pointless expenditure of energy. Some simply couldn't muster the interest to engage in a skirmish that offered no immediate reward.

They hadn't come to this war out of any deep-seated loyalty or purpose, but rather at the beckoning of Hera. Liphiel had made it clear: gaining the favor of a goddess like Hera could offer unimaginable benefits. She might even be their ticket back to Earth. That promise alone was enough to bind them to her cause.

In addition to Hera's influence, there was another reason stirring among the Heroes—the myths. These heroes were no strangers to the legends, tales of gods, demigods, and mortals destined to triumph in epic battles. They believed, or perhaps convinced themselves, that fighting on the side of the Greeks meant fighting on the side destined to win. To them, it wasn't a gamble; it was a sure thing.

Victory was preordained, or so they thought. Joining a war where the outcome seemed written in the stars was enticing. The allure of being part of a destined victory was too strong to resist.

However, beneath that confident exterior, there were whispers. A few of them, though they would never dare voice it openly, harbored doubts. This wasn't Earth. These were not mere myths playing out in front of them. And there was no certainty that this war would end the way the stories told. The realization gnawed at the edges of their thoughts, but they kept it buried deep.

Inside one of the many tents scattered throughout the camp, the air was stifling. Aisha, one of the Heroes, slipped quietly into a specific tent, her movements careful and deliberate. The scent of healing herbs and the sterile tang of medicine clung to the fabric, almost overpowering. On the bed, resting, her arms and head swathed in bandages, was Gwen Lawrence.

She lay there, exhausted, her body aching from the recent battle in Lyrnessus. Though Liphiel's healing magic had mended her wounds, the fatigue remained—a deep, bone-weary exhaustion that no magic could wash away. Even Iphlea, Gwen's trusted companion, lay limp beside her, clearly just as worn out.

As soon as Gwen spotted Aisha at the entrance, her expression soured. A frown pulled at her lips, and she grumbled, "What are you doing here?"

Her voice was rough, edged with annoyance. Gwen hated being seen like this—wounded, vulnerable, bedridden. It was an affront to the image of strength and pride she clung to.

Aisha, unfazed by Gwen's irritation, took a step closer. "Just checking on you. What happened?" she asked, her tone soft but curious.

Despite their prickly personalities, Aisha and Gwen shared a bond—an odd relationship born from their shared status as loners. They weren't best friends, but there was a mutual understanding between them, a silent respect for each other's solitude.

For a moment, Gwen didn't respond, her jaw clenched, eyes staring ahead. The tent's silence felt heavy, broken only by the occasional flicker of wind outside. Aisha pressed on, a small frown forming. "Was it Hector? Aeneas? Or maybe that Amazon queen, or Atalanta?" She listed off the names of the dangerous warriors in the Trojan's side, the ones Liphiel had warned them about.

Gwen's hands tightened into fists, the knuckles going white under the strain. "None of those," she muttered, her voice carrying a deep bitterness. Her grip on the sheets tightened as the memories of the battle flooded back, unbidden. "His name was Heiron…"

Aisha's brow furrowed. "Heiron?" The name wasn't familiar to her. She didn't recall Liphiel mentioning him.

"He... he's a monster," Gwen continued, her voice trembling, not from fear but from the humiliation of being so thoroughly outmatched.

Aisha stood there, stunned. Gwen was always the proud one, the fighter who never backed down, never admitted weakness. To hear her call someone a monster—a being that had so easily bested her—was shocking. Gwen, with all her strength and pride, had been broken by this mysterious warrior.

"He didn't even flinch," Gwen spat, her voice rising with a surge of frustration. "One of my strongest attacks… combined with Iphlea… and he just beat it off. Like it was nothing."

Gwen still had trouble comprehending what had transpired during that fateful battle. She replayed it over and over in her mind, her disbelief mingling with frustration. It wasn't just the fact that she had been defeated—after all, in war, losses happened—but the manner in which it had occurred felt surreal. She had witnessed it firsthand, yet part of her still refused to believe what she saw.

Heiron had been untouchable, cloaked in an otherworldly armor of ice that encased his arms, clinging to his skin like a second layer of flesh. It shimmered with an unnatural coldness, effortlessly absorbing the full brunt of her attack. Gwen had thrown everything at him, a combination of her strongest offensive spells and Iphlea's immense power, yet the ice remained, unyielding, untouched.

And then there was his attack.

Celestial Rank, he had called it, a term foreign to Gwen's understanding. She had never heard of magic ranks being named like that before. The sheer force behind his magic was unlike anything she had ever encountered. It had taken her down with frightening ease. That rank—Celestial—echoed in her thoughts. How had she never come across such a classification in all her years of training?

"Did you tell Liphiel about him?" Aisha's voice broke through her thoughts.

"Yeah," Gwen replied flatly.

Of course, she had informed Liphiel. There was no way someone like her—one of the strongest Heroes, accompanied by a powerful sylph like Iphlea—could fall in battle without it drawing attention. Liphiel had been displeased, to say the least. She was irritated not just by Gwen's defeat, but by the emergence of an unknown, unpredictable threat.

Heiron wasn't someone they had anticipated, and the mystery surrounding him unsettled Liphiel deeply. She had immediately set off to gather information, determined to uncover who or what this Heiron truly was.

Gwen's brow furrowed as a thought tugged at the corners of her mind, a distant memory trying to resurface. "Do you remember that guy?" she asked suddenly, her voice hesitant.

Aisha raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

"You know… the one in Uteska. The one who killed Radakel in a single blow," Gwen clarified, her voice quiet, as though she wasn't sure she should even bring it up.

Aisha's expression didn't change, but she nodded. "Yes. What about him?"

Gwen hesitated, her fingers twisting the edge of her bandage absentmindedly. "He was using ice too, right? I... I think that..." She trailed off, her thoughts running wild. There was something there, some connection that she couldn't quite grasp. She shook her head, dismissing the idea almost as soon as it had formed.

"Nothing."

It was impossible, wasn't it? The man who had defeated Radakel in Uteska had been a demon, a figure from Tenebria, far removed from the battlefield she had just fought on. What would someone like him be doing in a place so far from his homeland? It didn't add up. And besides, Gwen had encountered plenty of people wielding ice magic before. There was nothing unique about that.

But still… something about Heiron nagged at her. His mana, his energy—it had been different, unplaceable.

What Gwen couldn't know, what she couldn't possibly have guessed, was how much had changed since that battle in Uteska. Nathan, the one she remembered as the ice-wielding demon, had undergone numerous transformations since then, each one reshaping not just his appearance but his very essence.

His mana had evolved, twisted by the forces he had encountered, and now it was nothing like the energy Gwen had once felt. And, beyond that, he no longer looked the same, his appearance altered dramatically after enslaving Amaterasu. The man she had fought at Lyrnessus, Heiron, was not someone she could recognize—not anymore.

"Take care, then," Aisha said, cutting through the silence. She didn't press further, sensing Gwen's inner turmoil, and without waiting for a reply, she turned and left the tent.

Outside, the cold night breeze greeted her, brushing against her skin and making her hair dance in the wind. The chill in the air felt refreshing, almost cleansing, after the stifling tension inside. She took a deep breath, letting the coolness calm her mind as she wandered away from the cluster of tents that housed the other Heroes.

As Aisha wandered further, the surroundings gradually changed, and before she realized it, she had entered the territory of the Greeks.

"Look!"

The call came from a group of Greek soldiers lounging near a fire, their eyes lighting up as they caught sight of her.

"It's one of those women from that Empire!"

A few of them chuckled, nudging each other, their eyes lingering on Aisha with lascivious gazes.

"She's super hot!"

"Hey, cutie! How about playing with us tonight?" one of them jeered, standing up and swaggering toward her, emboldened by the laughter of his comrades.

Another chimed in with a lewd grin, "We'll make you feel like a real woman!" m|v|l|e m|p|y|r original content

Their voices were a cacophony of insults and uninvited advances, their vulgarity hanging in the air like a thick fog.

She moved with a steely grace, her dark eyes fixed ahead, refusing to dignify their taunts with a reaction.

But then, her feet came to an abrupt halt.

Something...or rather, someone had caught her attention.

Amidst the noise and the dim glow of campfires, her gaze settled on a solitary figure, standing apart from the other Greeks. Unlike the boisterous soldiers who had tried to get her attention, this man radiated a silent, strong presence. He was dressed in the unmistakable armor of a Spartan.

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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC182: Aisha's attacked!

Amidst the noise and the dim glow of campfires, her gaze settled on a solitary figure, standing apart from the other Greeks. Unlike the boisterous soldiers who had tried to get her attention, this man radiated a silent, strong presence. He was dressed in the unmistakable armor of a Spartan.

He stood alone, framed by the roar of the forest fire. The flames licked the sky with hungry tongues, casting a pulsating orange glow on his figure, but he didn't flinch. His eyes, icy blue and piercing, were locked onto something hidden in the chaos of burning woods. His mouth was obscured by a rough cloth, but there was no mistaking the cold intensity in his gaze.

Aisha couldn't tear her eyes away. He felt it, she could tell. His attention shifted. Slowly, he raised his head and their eyes met, icy blue against the dark brown of hers. The world around her seemed to still, her breath caught in her throat. A heat stirred in her chest, something she couldn't explain—was it the fire's reflection in his gaze, or something deeper, darker, pulling her in?

He held her gaze for only a second longer, then turned his back as if uninterested, walking away into the heat haze, leaving her in a moment of quiet confusion. What was it about him?

Before she could gather her thoughts, rough hands grabbed her. Her arms were seized from both sides, the sharp bite of calloused fingers digging into her skin. She twisted her head around, heart racing, to find three men leering at her, their faces twisted with ugly grins. Their clothes were stained with the grime and sweat of battle, their breath sour as it hit her face.

"Wh..what are you?" she hissed, glaring at them, eyes flashing with defiance.

"You're coming with us, woman," one growled, his voice thick with lust. He grinned wider, enjoying her expression.

"Let me go." She said coldly.

They didn't bother to respond. One of them slapped a hand over her mouth, muffling her protest as they dragged her across the camp. She struggled, kicking and thrashing, but their grip was iron, and her strength meant nothing against their sheer size. Within moments, they had forced her into a tent, tossing her roughly to the ground like a trophy claimed after a long hunt.

Aisha hit the floor with a grunt, quickly spinning around to face them, her hand instinctively reaching for her blade—but before she could draw it, a shadow loomed over her.

A massive hand shot out, wrapping around her throat with the force of a vice, lifting her clear off her feet. Her eyes widened in shock as she was pulled up, her body dangling in the air as she clawed at the hand gripping her neck.

She quickly saw the identity of the man.

Ajax the Great, King of Salamis.

His body was a monument of muscle, broad and scarred, his chest bare save for a deep, jagged line running from his collarbone to his navel, a mark of countless battles survived. His abs were carved from years of bloodshed, each muscle defined in brutal perfection.

His eyes roved over her, the cold blue heating with something else. His lips curled into a lewd smirk beneath his mask of indifference. She was armored, but even through the layers of protection, he could see the beauty beneath. The way her body curved, the defiance in her stance—it thrilled him.

From the moment Ajax's eyes first landed on her, Aisha had sealed her fate in his mind. He had already decided: she would be his to ravage, his to break. A woman like her, with foreign beauty so rare in this brutal, blood-soaked world, couldn't just walk by unnoticed. She stood out, like a prize begging to be claimed, and Ajax had never been one to deny himself anything.

Aisha, feeling the rough press of his calloused hand around her throat, tried with all her strength to wrench his arm away, her fingers digging into the thick muscle, but it was futile. He was immovable, a mountain of a man, each muscle rippling with the kind of strength that came from a lifetime of slaughter and conquest. It wasn't just skill—it was something primal.

The blood of Zeus ran in his veins, a divine force behind every brutal swing of his sword, every enemy crushed beneath his feet. He wasn't king by title alone.

Her eyes flashed, a last desperate surge of power as she summoned her lightning. It crackled around her, arcs of blue electricity snapping through the air and wrapping around Ajax's massive frame. His muscles tensed, his expression twitching as a brief dizziness flickered across his face. She was strong, but he was beyond strength.

His body absorbed the lightning, barely phased, the grip on her neck unyielding.

"Ungh!" Aisha's breath hitched, her vision dimming as his hand squeezed tighter. She could feel her power slipping away, mana no longer responding to her call. A faint glow pulsed around Ajax's fingers, some kind of ancient magic, binding her abilities, cutting off her strength. Her body was her own no longer.

"Don't fight back, woman," Ajax growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "It will only hurt more." His hand flexed around her throat, lifting her effortlessly before slamming her onto the table behind them. Her body hit the wood with a sharp thud, the air knocked from her lungs, and still his hand remained tight around her neck, keeping her pinned, keeping her helpless.

Aisha gasped, struggling to breathe, her legs thrashing weakly beneath him. Every attempt to summon her mana was met with that same resistance, the glow in his fingers sapping her strength, leaving her powerless beneath him. Her heart pounded in her chest, the fight draining out of her as the reality of the situation pressed in.

"Ajax! Don't forget to share when you're done!" one of his men called out from the entrance, leering as they peered inside, their laughter crude and filled with anticipation.

"Yeah! We want a turn too!"

"Save some for us, will ya?"

Ajax's men jeered, their voices thick with lust. They were already imagining the ways they'd use her, already hungry for the spoils of their king's conquest.

Ajax threw his head back and laughed, a deep, booming sound that made the tent walls shudder. "Gahahaha! Maybe when I'm done with her! If she's not broke by then!" His eyes, blazing with lust and cruelty, turned back to Aisha as he towered over her, the smirk on his face widening. "But I doubt she'll last that long."

His men backed out of the tent, closing it behind them, the sound of their laughter fading into the night.

With his free hand, Ajax gripped the front of her armor, his fingers curling around the leather and metal like it was nothing more than paper. He pulled hard, ripping it apart with a brutal strength, the sound of tearing fabric and snapping straps filling the air.

Now only the white cloth a bit torn was visible showing a glimpse of her cleavage making Ajax's narrowing further in excitement.

Ajax's smirk widened as his fingers dug into Aisha's soft cheeks, twisting her face up towards him. Her beauty, even in distress, captivated him. "What a face you have," he growled, voice dripping with lust. He leaned in close, his breath hot and heavy against her skin. "I'll fuck you all night. Scream as loud as you want, no one will come.

They'll just think I'm breaking in another one of my rewards."

The camp outside was filled with men who'd done just that—conquered and claimed. Women's screams had long since lost any meaning, reduced to background noise in the victory of war. Ajax's tent was no different. To anyone who passed by, it was just another conquest, another woman to be used.

His impatience grew, his hand sliding lower to the waistband of his loose skirt, fingers curling around the fabric. His cock, hard and throbbing, strained against the cloth, eager to claim the woman beneath him. But just as he moved to free himself, something cold and sharp pressed against his neck, freezing him mid-motion.

The blade's icy tip bit into his skin, a chill crawling up his spine.

"Move, and I'll pierce your throat."

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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC183: Aisha's pain

"Move, and I'll pierce your throat."

Ajax's eyes flicked to the side, and there she stood. Sienna. Her presence was like a dark storm, her black hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, her blue eyes colder than the steel she pressed against him. She was breathtaking, more so than even Aisha, her beauty matched only by the lethal intent in her gaze.

Her hand was steady, the blade poised to end his life with the slightest flick of her wrist. Ajax hadn't expected this—hadn't sensed her approach.

She could kill him where he stood. And yet, she didn't. Her restraint was barely contained, but she knew the consequences of such an action. Killing a Greek king, even one as hated as Ajax, would bring the full wrath of the greeks, their armies or maybe the Gods who blessed him.

"Release your filthy hand from her," Sienna ordered.

Ajax's grin didn't falter, though the muscles in his arm relaxed, his grip loosening from Aisha's throat. Slowly, he raised his hands in mock surrender, still savoring the situation even as he was forced to yield. "As you wish," he said, his voice low and dangerous, as if daring her to strike anyway.

Aisha gasped, her chest heaving as air flooded back into her lungs. She coughed violently, the red marks of his fingers still imprinted on her neck as she struggled to sit up, her body trembling from both the attack and the sudden release.

"Move away," Sienna ordered, her blade pressed harder against Ajax's neck, the sharpness of the steel biting into his skin just enough to draw a thin line of blood. Her tone held an authority Ajax hadn't heard in years, an authority that made even his own blood chill for a second.

Ajax's eyes flicked between the two women before looking at Sienna.

This one was different. Stronger than Aisha. Sharper, deadlier, and far more willing to spill blood if provoked.

She could kill him. But she wouldn't—not yet. Ajax knew the cost of a fight here, and though he could overpower her, the wounds he'd sustain wouldn't be worth it. Not now. Not with the others nearby.

"Fine," he said, stepping back, the mocking smirk never leaving his lips. His towering form retreated, but the hunger in his eyes remained, lingering on both of them. "But I'll remember this." He touched the thin cut on his neck, wiping the small bead of blood with his thumb before leaving jumping above the three dead bodies of his comrades.

Sienna didn't let her guard drop, the sword still held steady, tracking every step he took. Only when Ajax had moved far enough away did she lower her blade.

"Are you alright?" She asked, turning her gaze to Aisha.

Aisha's breath hitched as she touched her neck, the lingering sensation of discomfort tightening around her throat like a noose. "Y-yes... thank you..." she murmured, her voice barely audible, her fingers trembling as they traced the invisible marks left by her earlier struggle.

Sienna stood in front of her, her icy gaze cutting through Aisha's silence with cold precision. Though her face remained calm, there was no mistaking the irritation simmering beneath the surface. "What were you doing alone in those beasts' territory?" she demanded, her tone sharp as a blade. "You know how dangerous they are, and yet you wandered around as if you didn't care."

Aisha remained mute, her eyes downcast, unable to meet Sienna's fierce stare. She could feel the weight of her judgment, the unspoken disappointment hanging in the air between them.

Sienna crossed her arms, her voice hardening even further. "Were you even trying to escape, Aisha?" The question cut through the silence like a whip.

Sienna wasn't a fellow hero of the Light Empire—she was someone who had trained alongside Aisha, someone who knew her strengths, her limits. Together, they had trained against the Divine Knights, pushing their abilities to their limits, and Sienna was well aware that Aisha had the power to get out of most situations.

She could have fought back, could have slipped away before the situation became dire. Yet... she hadn't.

It was as if, for a brief moment, Aisha didn't care what happened to her.

The silence stretched between them, and Sienna's patience was wearing thin. Aisha's silence, her refusal to explain, only made her frustration grow. "You've faced worse, Aisha. Why didn't you fight back? Why let yourself get to that point?"

Aisha's lips parted, but no words came out. She didn't know what to say—how could she explain what she barely understood herself? Maybe, just maybe, if her mind hadn't been consumed, as it always was, by him, she could have done something. Could have reacted faster, could have avoided the danger. But her thoughts always seemed to drift back to him. Always.

No.

She knew it was no excuse. If it had been Courtney, she wouldn't have hesitated—Courtney would have burned everything to ash without a second thought, consequences be damned. But Courtney's rage was different, driven by something raw and unrelenting. Nathan's loss had ignited a fire in her, one that fed her every step. She burned hotter, wilder, for him.

Aisha, on the other hand, was drowning in her thoughts of Nathan. While Courtney used her grief as fuel, Aisha sank beneath it, consumed by an endless, quiet despair. It had made her stronger in some ways, but not like Courtney. It hadn't set her aflame. It had turned her cold, empty.

And then there was Sienna.

Sienna was controlled madness. She mourned Nathan too—more deeply than anyone else—but she channeled that pain into her training, sharpening her skills until she became the strongest hero of the Light Empire. It was her constant thoughts of him that fueled her, but they never crippled her like they did Aisha. She was honed to the edge of madness, but never past it.

But Aisha? Aisha was a different story altogether, and it was clear that Sienna's patience was wearing thin with her.

Sienna shifted, the coldness in her eyes softening for just a moment before her lips parted again. She hesitated, perhaps debating whether to say what was on her mind. But in the end, she chose not to. Instead, she turned toward the entrance of the tent. "Don't be late. I won't come for you again."

Without waiting for a response, Sienna stepped outside, the flap of the tent closing behind her with a soft rustle.

Aisha sat still, her hands resting on the rough surface of the wooden table beside her. Her fingers curled into fists, her knuckles turning white as she squeezed tighter and tighter.

"N...Nathan..." she whispered, her voice raw and broken, the sound barely escaping her constricted throat. There were no tears in her eyes, but the pain was carved deep into her expression. Her face twisted with anguish, the hurt so intense it threatened to break her entirely.

He had stolen her heart…and then vanished from her life.

How could she ever forgive him for that?

Nathan, because of his absurd LUCK had left too deep a mark on her soul. He had no idea, no awareness of how much he had impacted her. How much of herself she had lost the day he disappeared from her world.

No matter how hard she tried, no matter how much time passed, Aisha couldn't forget him. He haunted her every thought, every moment of silence, until it was all she could do not to scream from the weight of it.

Did she really not care anymore? What difference would it make if something happened to her? Nathan wasn't there. He had been gone for so long, and in his absence, nothing felt real—nothing mattered. As long as she was alive, what did it matter what became of her body, her strength, her purpose? It was all hollow now, a shell of what once was.

The ache of his absence consumed her, numbing her to everything else.

"Aisha."

The sound of her name, spoken softly but firmly, startled her from her spiraling thoughts. Her gaze, which had been fixed blankly on the floor, lifted slowly. She turned, her body moving almost mechanically, to face the source of the voice.

A shadowed figure stood at the far end of the tent, partially obscured by the dim light and heavy fabric walls. But even in the darkness, she recognized the outline of the armor he wore—the Spartan armor. The same armor she had seen earlier, watching silently as the flames consumed the woods.

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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC184: Meeting Aisha after nine months... (1)

"Aisha."

The sound of her name, spoken softly but firmly, startled her from her spiraling thoughts. Her gaze, which had been fixed blankly on the floor, lifted slowly. She turned, her body moving almost mechanically, to face the source of the voice.

A shadowed figure stood at the far end of the tent, partially obscured by the dim light and heavy fabric walls. But even in the darkness, she recognized the outline of the armor he wore—the Spartan armor. The same armor she had seen earlier, watching silently as the flames consumed the woods.

That voice…

Aisha froze at the sound. She had never heard such a deep, velvety voice before, but something in its resonance stirred a distant, almost forgotten memory. It was as though a string within her heart had been gently plucked, vibrating with a familiarity she couldn't place. Slowly, she lifted her gaze.

Before her stood a man. His curly black hair was slicked back, gleaming under the soft light, and his piercing icy blue eyes locked onto hers. The intensity of his gaze was so cold, it sent shivers down her spine, as if his mere look could encase her in ice. Yet, beneath the coldness, there was something unsettlingly familiar.

He smiled—a small, almost imperceptible curve of his lips.

"Ha..." The sound escaped Aisha's lips before she even realized it, a strange mix of disbelief and shock. Her mouth hung open slightly, her breath caught in her throat. His face, his voice, even that fleeting smile—it was all different. And yet, that smile. That smile reminded her of someone. Someone who had once smiled at her in just that way.

Her heart stuttered, her lips trembled, and her wide eyes shimmered with uncertainty.

It couldn't be him.

Her hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into the soft fabric of the tablecloth beneath her, as if grounding herself in reality. Her gaze never wavered from his face. She studied every detail with painstaking precision, searching for proof, some unmistakable sign that it wasn't merely a cruel illusion. But the more she looked, the more her heart screamed the truth she wasn't ready to believe.

Deep inside, she already knew. The moment he had called her name, the moment he smiled, that hope she had buried long ago resurfaced like a tidal wave. But she was terrified—terrified that this was just another one of the countless dreams she had suffered through since his supposed death. Another nightmare that would leave her shattered when she awoke.

"It's been a while, Aisha."

His voice was clearer this time, steady and unmistakable.

Aisha's breath hitched in her chest, and in that instant, her body moved on its own. She surged forward, leaping over the table without a second thought, and crashed into him, wrapping her arms around him in a fierce embrace. "I-it's really you?! Na… Nathan?!"

She clung to him desperately, as if he might vanish if she let go. Her face pressed into his chest, the cold metal of his armor beneath her cheek, but she didn't care. Her shoulders shook as silent sobs wracked her body, her tears spilling freely, dampening the smooth surface of his armor. Each tear felt like a release, years of pent-up pain and longing finally pouring out.

Nathan's arms circled her gently, pulling her closer with a tenderness that broke the final dam of her resistance. "Yes, it's me," he whispered softly, his breath warm against her hair.

As he hugged her, Nathan had a weird face berating himself for having revealed himself yet seeing Aisha crying relieved as if she felt alive again, he didn't regret.

°°°°°°

A few minutes earlier.

I couldn't get close to his tent.

I had been circling the encampment for what felt like hours, my steps measured and cautious, each passing minute sending spikes of frustration through my veins. Every now and then, I cast fleeting glances toward Agamemnon's main tent, where the figure of the ruthless king loomed like a dark shadow within. It was the perfect moment.

Agamemnon was there, and Astynome—she was so close, just within reach. But standing in the way were two grim-faced guards, their spears gleaming dully in the campfire light, positioned at the tent's entrance like impenetrable sentinels.

They weren't there to guard the king. No. Their job was to prevent anyone, especially Astynome, from slipping away unnoticed.

I continued to pace, my mind racing, trying to conjure a plan. Running into the vast desert with Astynome, with an entire army at my back, seemed like a death sentence. The heat of the day had already surrendered to the chilling winds of night, the air cold enough to cut through armor, but none of that concerned me now. Every solution I thought of led to the same conclusion—escape was impossible.

The guards began to eye me suspiciously as I passed them for the third time, their expressions darkening with each circuit I made. I couldn't risk drawing their attention any longer. With a sigh, I peeled away from the tent and retreated toward one of the fire pits scattered throughout the camp. I settled down in front of the flames, allowing the heat to wash over me, warming my cold, stiff fingers.

The fire crackled softly, the only comfort in this desolate place. The night's chill seemed to seep into my very bones, and for a brief moment, the temptation to close my eyes and surrender to sleep tugged at me.

But then, something made me tense. A sudden shift in the atmosphere, a presence. I felt a gaze on me—sharp, penetrating. My eyes shot upward, and for a fleeting moment, my breath caught in my throat.

It was her.

Across the flickering firelight, Aisha's gaze met mine. My heart pounded in my chest. It felt as though years had passed since I had last seen her, and in those moments, time seemed to freeze. She had changed—grown even more beautiful, if such a thing were possible.

Her delicate features were now framed by a quiet maturity, but her expression remained as unreadable as ever, like a marble statue carved with divine precision. Stoic. Unshakable.

Did she recognize me?

Nine months. Nine long months had passed since I'd seen her. And yet, standing there, I couldn't shake the hope—maybe foolish hope—that she would remember me. Had I been so arrogant to think my presence, my LUCK, had left any lasting impression on her?

I quickly averted my gaze, breaking the moment, and hurriedly stood up. I had to leave before she followed me, before questions were asked, before my presence in the camp aroused suspicion. Being alone like this, without purpose, already made me look guilty. I needed to stay focused on the mission—to find Astynome and escape back to Troy. Time was running out.

I wandered the camp again, skirting the edges of the tents, my senses heightened, but soon something strange happened. A familiar ripple brushed against my awareness—Aisha's mana. That distinct electric pulse of her lightning magic. My body tensed. Why was she using magic here?

Could it be?

A deep sense of dread settled in my stomach. Without wasting another second, I followed the trail, moving swiftly through the camp. The closer I got, the more the tension coiled within me, and my instincts screamed that something was wrong.

Finally, I reached a tent. The scene before me made my blood run cold.

Three men stood at the entrance, laughing raucously, their cruel voices dripping with malice.

"Ahaha! Ajax is gonna break her!"

"Fuck it, I wanted to have her first!" another growled, his voice filled with venomous lust.

"It's Ajax, you idiot. Do you want to die?" the third man sneered, shaking his head.

"Don't worry, though… we'll have our sweet time after he's done, hehe."

My eyes grew cold, the kind of cold that comes from a deep, simmering rage. I could piece together the scene easily enough. Whatever was happening in that tent, it wasn't hard to imagine. The muffled sounds, the cruel laughter of the men, and worst of all—Aisha's faint, struggling voice.

All reason within me evaporated. That deep hatred, the kind that had boiled inside me just like when I was summoned to Tenebria filled with only hatred toward the Divine Knights, started to surge back with a vengeance. It had managed to diminish -quite a lot when I met Akane and Ayaka, their presence soothing the anger that had once consumed me. But this?

This brought it all crashing back, and I didn't care about the consequences anymore.

Without thinking, I moved, my steps heavy with intent. The only thought in my mind was to kill the man inside, whoever he was. No mercy. No hesitation. Just raw, unfiltered violence and in the most cruel way possible.

But before I could act, something stopped me in my tracks.

Screams pierced the air—loud, sharp cries that were quickly silenced. I froze, and blood splattered just outside the tent's entrance. My gaze darted to the source of the chaos, and there she was. A woman with a veil of long, black hair tied in a ponytail, moving with deadly grace. My breath caught in my throat as a wave of nostalgia washed over me. I recognized her immediately.

Sienna.

She slipped into the tent before I could react, and I silently positioned myself behind the thick fabric. I listened closely, waiting. Moments passed, and the sounds from within told me what I needed to know. Sienna had intervened just in time, driving the bastard away before he could go any further. Aisha had been saved, but instead of relief, the air inside the tent was thick with tension.

A bitter argument followed.

"Were you even trying to escape, Aisha?"

"You've faced worse, Aisha. Why didn't you fight back? Why let yourself get to that point?"

Sienna's frustration was high, and her words echoed in the space between them, but what caught my attention more than anything was Aisha's silence.

She didn't respond. Not a single word.

Why wasn't she fighting back? Why wasn't she retorting like she used to? I'd known Aisha for long enough to know that silence wasn't like her. It felt wrong. So wrong.

Something was terribly off.

It was as if she had given up—like she was just existing, not living. Just... drifting. And seeing her like that, broken and downcast, pained me in ways I couldn't have imagined.

This wasn't the Aisha I knew, the fierce girl who would stand her ground no matter what despite being silent.

I carefully peeked inside the tent. There she was, sitting with her head bowed, her shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world was pressing down on her. Her face was drawn, her expression hollow. And seeing her like that—it seemed really pricking my heart.

I clenched my fists, fighting the urge to rush in and pull her into my arms, consequences be damned. My heart screamed at me to do something, to help her, to let her know that I was there. But something held me back. Maybe it was guilt, maybe fear or just because it wasn't the right time yet...

But she never forgot about me.

I started to turn away, to leave before I made things worse. But then I heard it—a soft, broken whisper.

"N...Nathan..."

Her voice was barely audible, a pained mumble echoed, damaged, but unmistakable.

I froze, my body going rigid. My mind raced, but there was no hesitation in my movements. Without another thought, I spun on my heel, throwing the tent flap open as I stepped inside.

"Aisha."

Her name slipped from my lips before I could stop it.

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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC185: Meeting Aisha after nine months...(2)

Aisha's eyes locked onto mine, wide with shock and disbelief, as if she were staring at a ghost. I couldn't blame her; it wasn't every day that someone you thought dead suddenly reappeared in front of you. Her expression wavered—hesitation, confusion, fear. It was all there, battling beneath the surface.

I took a breath, my voice softer than before as I broke the silence between us. "It's been a while, Aisha."

At the sound of my voice, something in her snapped. Her hesitation melted away, and without warning, she leaped over the table, closing the distance between us in an instant. Her arms wrapped around me with desperate intensity, as if she was afraid I would vanish if she didn't hold on tight enough.

"I-it's really you?! Na... Nathan?!"

Her voice trembled with a mix of joy and disbelief as she clung to me, her tears falling freely, soaking the armor I wore. Her body shook with each sob, and I could feel the warmth of her tears against the cold metal of my armor. I wanted to comfort her, to let her know it was really me, but the hard steel between us made our embrace feel distant, impersonal.

I silently cursed the armor for being in the way. I could feel her hands gripping me tightly, as if she feared I might disappear again. She wept uncontrollably, her face buried against my chest. I let her cry, feeling the weight of the moment settle over us like a heavy shroud.

For what felt like an eternity, we stayed like that, her sobs the only sound in the stillness. After a long minute, she pulled back slightly, her tear-streaked face tilting up to look at me once more. Her eyes, red and puffy from crying, searched mine, filled with confusion and a need for answers.

"H...how is this possible, Nathan...? I thought you died… They said... they told me you were gone... I don't understand…"

Her voice was shaky, her words tumbling out in a desperate stream as her mind struggled to process the impossible. She kept mumbling to herself, lost in the whirlwind of emotions and disbelief.

It was understandable. Liphiel had undoubtedly crafted a convenient story about my disappearance, probably blaming it all on the Demons while painting herself as the savior. That woman was cunning—twisting truths to suit her needs. The mere thought of her filled me with a burning hatred that simmered just beneath the surface.

I will definitely kill this woman when the opportunity arises.

"It's a long story," I finally replied, my voice tight with restraint.

Aisha looked up at me again, her brows furrowing as if she was starting to piece things together. Her eyes, sharp and discerning, flickered with recognition. "It's... the Divine Knight, isn't it?" she asked, her gaze piercing straight into mine.

I had warned her before. I had told her to be cautious of Radakel and, by extension, the Divine Knights. They were all tied to the corrupt Empire of Light, a web of deceit and power. Aisha had reached the correct conclusion, as always. Her intuition had never failed her.

I didn't answer immediately, but my silence spoke louder than words. Aisha's jaw clenched, and I saw the anger flare in her eyes. She had every right to be furious.

"That day," I began, my voice lowering as I recalled the memory, "Liphiel tried to kill me. I should have died, Aisha. Everyone thinks I'm dead, and honestly, it's better if it stays that way—for now, at least."

Aisha's expression shifted, confusion swirling within her as she tightened her grip on my chest. "B-but why? Why would you let them believe you're dead? Why hide?" Her voice was small, almost pleading, as if she couldn't comprehend why I would make such a choice.

I sighed, feeling the weight of the situation bear down on me. "If they knew I was still alive, they'd send their best after me. It's only a matter of time before they see me as a real threat. I need time, Aisha. Time to prepare, to grow stronger, before I can take them on."

Her fists clenched tighter against my chest, and I could see the pain in her eyes. "Why are they trying to kill you, Nathan? I don't understand..." Her voice trembled in her confusion.

Why were they trying to kill me?

The truth was simple enough: I was too unpredictable, too dangerous. They thought I was weak, an expendable pawn. But then Oscar had died, and I had been with him when it happened. His death had raised too many questions—questions that pointed back to me. They suspected I wasn't alone, that I had a powerful ally hiding in the shadows, and that suspicion alone was enough for them to want me gone.

"They don't trust me, because I always knew something was up with them so decided to get rid of me. They failed though." I said.

Aisha's eyes narrowed as her emotions shifted, suspicion darkening her gaze. She tilted her head slightly, as if weighing her next words carefully.

"Why are you here, Nathan? You didn't come all this way just to reunite with us, did you?" Her voice was quieter now, edged with something sharp, almost wary.

I met her gaze, deciding it was best to be honest. "I'm working as a mercenary for Troy. Right now, I'm infiltrating this camp."

Her eyes widened in shock, her mouth opening slightly in disbelief. "Troy? Infiltrating? What... why?"

"It's complicated." I paused for a moment, searching for the right words. "I need something, Aisha. I've made a deal to fight for Troy, and I'm here to save a woman who's been captured by Agamemnon—Astynome, the priestess of Apollo."

The moment I mentioned another woman's name, Aisha's gaze changed. It sharpened, her eyes narrowing dangerously, and I couldn't hide my surprise. This was the first time I'd ever seen her with such a possessive look. Her lips tightened, and her body language shifted from open to tense.

It felt oddly familiar, though, like when I was with Medea or Scylla—women who didn't take kindly to perceived competition. Charybdis, at least, was more straightforward to calm down, but this… this was new territory with Aisha.

"Why do you want her?" she asked, her voice losing its softness, her earlier tears now completely dried. Her tone was laced with suspicion, and I could see her trying to control her emotions, but they flickered across her face too quickly to hide.

It took me aback for a second. Was she really jealous? Over a woman she didn't even know?

"She's Apollo's priestess. By saving her, I can get Apollo's attention and ask him for a favor. That's all."

"A favor?" Aisha repeated, her tense posture easing slightly as she seemed to absorb that explanation. For some reason, relief flashed across her features. I wondered what she thought I intended to do with Astynome.

Silence stretched between us as she contemplated my words, her thoughts clearly racing. I couldn't blame her for needing time—after all, I had been dead in her mind until mere moments ago. She was still processing my return, the lies Liphiel had spun, and now this—me, tangled up in a war and working for Troy.

As I watched her, my mind shifted to something darker. My eyes drifted over her form, catching glimpses of her torn clothes and her breasts.

But I wasn't feeling aroused by this sigh as it only reminded me of what had nearly happened to her moments ago in the tent.

King Ajax of Salamis…

A sickening, twisted rage welled up inside me, far more dangerous than mere hatred.

Sienna had driven Ajax away without killing him, no doubt to avoid the wrath of the Greek kings. She was bound by her allegiances, and antagonizing all the kings would be disastrous. Even with her strength and that of the others in the Empire of Light, fighting off the massive Greek army would be impossible, in this place.

But I wasn't a Hero of Light Empire anymore. I had no loyalty to them, never had, nor any reason to hold back. I was with Troy now.

Not like it changed anything on what I was about to do to that King.

"I understand better now what's happening," Aisha nodded.

I nodded to her.

"We will have opportunity to see hmmmm?"

Aisha's sudden kiss caught me completely off guard. Her lips pressed against mine, and before I could process what was happening, she pushed me down with unexpected force. I instinctively wrapped my arms around her, catching her as she fell onto my chest. The familiar warmth of her body sent my thoughts spiraling, but I was too stunned to react.

"Before you leave again... I want you to fuck me," she whispered, her voice carrying an edge of desire, her usual calm and nonchalant expression staring down at me.

I blinked, still processing her words. "Aisha?"

This was not the Aisha I remembered. She had always been straight in her words, but this... this was different.

I opened my mouth to say something, but she cut me off as if sensing my what I wanted to say. "I know about you and Courtney." Her voice was steady, and I felt her fingers grasp my arm, tearing away at the armor that covered me, exposing the simple tunic underneath. She smiled, a playful but almost possessive glint in her eyes.

"I don't care," she whispered, her lips curving into a wicked smile. "I just want to be with you right now, Nathan."

Before I could respond, she leaned down and kissed me again, this time deeper, more demanding.

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