I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me - Chapter 497: Gladiator Tournament: Second Round: Is it Over?
Chapter 497: Gladiator Tournament: Second Round: Is it Over?
The vast colosseum trembled with life as the second round unfolded below the sand-stained arena. Above, on towering marble walls, immense screens shimmered with the magical projection of the spectacle below, ensuring that not a single soul—whether seated close to the pit or high in the galleries—missed even a heartbeat of the struggle. The roar of the crowd was deafening, yet beneath it one could sense their disbelief, their awe, as the unthinkable played out before their eyes.
The gladiators, those warriors fated to fight and die for Roman amusement, were not locked in combat against each other. No—on this day, they stood united. Shoulder to shoulder, battered and bloodied yet unyielding, they cut down the ravenous wolves released into the arena, each man protecting the other’s back. And at their head, like a general amidst the chaos, strode Spartacus himself—an unbending figure, scarred by chains yet burning with indomitable defiance.
But their unity was not without purpose. They fought with singular intent: to clear a path for Septimius—Nathan—whose charge was the cage. Every strike, every howl silenced, every crimson spray of blood bought him another step closer to the iron gate that loomed at the far end of the arena. The scene was so surreal, so mythic in scope, that the citizens of Rome, heirs to gods and empire, felt as if they were witnessing the birth of a legend worthy of Olympus itself. Some even found themselves hastily scribbling notes, as if afraid the memory would slip through their fingers and vanish like smoke.
Breathless, they watched as Nathan reached the gate at last. His muscles strained, his teeth clenched, the veins in his arms standing out as he forced his body against the weight of the iron bars. It was clear the task was not easy or from their perspective—each movement was slow, labored, the struggle etched across his face.
And then the cries began.
“Close it!”
“Close it!”
“Close it!”
The chant spread like wildfire through the amphitheater. Tens of thousands of voices merged into one, shaking the very stones beneath their feet. It was a strange, almost contradictory moment, for the Roman mob—known to thirst more for blood than mercy—now screamed for the gladiators’ survival, not their slaughter.
When at last the gate slammed shut with a thunderous crash of iron against stone, the arena exploded into sound. The crowd leapt to its feet, erupting in a storm of applause and cheers that rolled like thunder across the city. Yet Nathan was not done.
Without hesitation, he raised his sword, its blade glinting under the harsh sunlight, and thrust it down into the heart of the cage. His lips moved, whispering words too faint for the audience—or even his fellow gladiators nearby—to catch.
“Amaterasu.”
The name of the sun. The fire of the gods.
At once, the blade blazed with searing light, a white-gold radiance that swallowed shadow itself. Flames erupted, not red but pure, devouring light that clung to the iron cage like a lover’s embrace.
The wolves shrieked. Their howls rose into hideous crescendos as fire poured into the bars, consuming fur, flesh, and bone. The stench of burning meat filled the chamber, acrid and suffocating. The cage became a pyre, its interior transformed into a sunlit inferno in the heart of darkness.
Gladiators shielded their eyes, their mouths agape in awe and horror. Spartacus stood still, fists dripping blood, his gaze locked on Nathan with something unreadable in its depths — suspicion, respect, perhaps both.
The wolves clawed, screamed, burned. One by one their voices faltered, choked, until only silence remained. The flames roared for a moment longer, then dimmed, leaving only twisted corpses charred black within the cage.
Nathan lowered his sword slowly, the glow fading. The silence that followed was deeper than before, broken only by the crackle of smoldering embers.
A moment later, fire roared to life within the bars, engulfing the trapped wolves in an inferno of crimson and gold. Their howls were drowned by the crowd’s ecstatic cries as the beasts writhed and perished in the flames.
The sight was savage. The sight was beautiful.
The Roman public, who adored spectacle above all else, were now lost to rapture, screaming Nathan’s name, exalting his ruthless cunning and the sheer magnificence of his fire.
Nor were they alone. The gladiators themselves—men who had fought and bled together in the sand—roared in unison. They hailed Spartacus, who had led them, and Septimius, who had brought the wolves to their fiery doom. Their morale surged; with newfound vigor, they cut down the last of the beasts still prowling the arena before raising their weapons high in triumph.
From the imperial box, Caesar himself leaned forward, a chuckle escaping his lips as he studied the scene with amusement.
“I can scarcely believe it,” he murmured, the gleam of entertainment bright in his eyes. “He made them fight for him. They followed him as though he were already a commander, not a fellow prisoner of the sands. And Spartacus…” Caesar paused, recalling the thunderous punch that had shaken the air earlier. “He may despise Septimius, but even he could not deny the man’s strength. Is this respect? A recognition between two warriors too strong to ignore? What do you say, Octavius?”
At Caesar’s side, Octavius shifted, his expression sour, his mood blackened ever since Spartacus had entered the arena. His lip curled as he finally answered.
“I find little entertainment in this,” he spat. “This tournament was never meant for unity, nor for myths of comradeship. It was meant for blood, for finality. In the end, there must be only one victor. Only one who stands above the rest.”
His words, harsh and cold, seemed almost to fight against the tide of the crowd’s exaltation.
Meanwhile, in the imperial gallery, hearts beat as wildly as the clash below. Julia could no longer contain herself; she was entirely swept away by the sight of Nathan’s valor. Rising to her feet, her delicate hands clapped furiously, her cheeks flushed a deep scarlet, her lips parted in awe. Her eyes—bright, fevered, and shimmering with unrestrained admiration—never once left him. It was no longer the arena she was watching; to her, it was Nathan alone, standing as a god of fire and iron amidst the chaos.
Beside her, Fulvia’s smile curved soft and warm, a knowing glimmer in her gaze as though she foresaw what Julia herself could not admit aloud. Even Licinia, usually more restrained, sat frozen and breathless, her fingers tightening at the edge of her seat. Her gaze lingered on the projection of Nathan’s figure, and though her lips betrayed no words, her eyes were heavy with emotions too strong to easily cage.
Their admiration, however, was met with a stark contrast. Crassus—the father, the man of wealth and power—grew pale as marble. Each cheer from the crowd for Septimius felt like a hammer striking against his chest. His mind whirled with doubt and unease. Is it truly wise? he thought grimly. Is it wise to let such a man fight under Caesar’s banner? A man who bends even the mob to his will, who commands respect with every step he takes? The more Nathan shone, the darker Crassus’s unease became.
Across from him, Caesar burst into laughter, rich and commanding, filling the gallery with the sheer force of his amusement. Octavius’s dour words only seemed to fuel his delight.
“Do not fret, my son,” Caesar said with a smirk, his eyes alight with mischief. “This round is not yet finished. Rome does not grant such glory so easily.”
Even as he spoke, the ground beneath the gladiators trembled. At first, it was only a faint rumble, like distant thunder rolling in the belly of the earth. But quickly it grew, shaking the arena’s foundations, rattling the sand, and sending shockwaves through the stone benches where the crowd perched. Beneath the warriors’ feet, the very floor groaned and shifted.
“What in Jupiter’s name is happening!?” one gladiator cried.
“Hold fast! Grip something—anything!” another shouted in panic.
The sandy earth cracked, seams of light splitting it apart as though the ground itself were being torn open by the gods. With a grinding roar, the entire platform on which they stood began to rise, lifting the gladiators upward, their balance swaying as they clutched their weapons and each other for support. Then, as the dust cleared and the moon rays pierced their vision, they saw it—the arena floor had changed. The once familiar golden sand was gone, replaced instead by a jagged expanse of dark rock, cavernous and menacing, they had been fighting on until appeared replacing the sand.
The spectators, struck dumb for but a moment, erupted once more with manic glee. They cheered the survivors—bloodied yet unbroken, standing upon this strange new battlefield. And above all others, one name dominated their chants: Septimius.
Ethan stepped closer to Nathan, his lips curved in a half-smile, his tone tinged with admiration and jest. “You stole quite the spotlight, my friend,” he said, his eyes glinting.
Nathan did not even blink. “While you were useless.”
Ethan laughed aloud, shaking his head, the laughter carrying even amidst the cacophony of the mob. “You said you wanted Pandora. I let you take the glory. Consider it a gift.” With that, he turned to raise his hand to the crowd, basking in their cheers, though he knew well that Spartacus, too, claimed much of their adoration.
But among the gladiators, not all hearts were lifted. Isak stood rigid, his jaw clenched, his fists tight around his weapon. Rage simmered in his chest, burning hotter with every chant that called Septimius’s name. It should have been me, he thought venomously. My name they should scream, my glory, my triumph! I could have done the same—more! They should have seen me! His glare burned into Nathan’s back, a silent promise of resentment.
Nathan paid him no heed. His gaze had shifted elsewhere, beyond the sky, toward Athena and Pandora.
But the earth was not finished. Once again, the ground convulsed, far more violently than before. Dust rained down, weapons rattled against armor, and the gladiators staggered to keep upright.
“What now!?” someone cried, their voice tight with fear.
“We won already! Didn’t we win!?” shouted another, clinging to hope.
Their questions were answered not by the ground but by Caesar himself. Rising to his full height, his cloak rippling as he raised his arms high, his voice thundered across the amphitheater.
“Now! The final trial of the second round! Release it!”
His command split the air, and as though Rome itself obeyed, the earth ahead of the gladiators exploded outward in a violent surge. Fire burst from the fissures, a wave of heat scorching the air. From the inferno emerged a monstrous paw, red and massive, the size of a war-chariot’s wheel. Then another struck the stone, cracking it beneath its weight.
Slowly, dreadfully, the beast rose. A colossal figure, cloaked in crimson flame and smoke, its fur blazing like molten embers. A wolf—yet no mere wolf, but a nightmare wrought of fire and fury. Its snarling maw dripped molten saliva, its eyes glowed like burning coals, and its every breath sent waves of heat rolling across the cavernous floor.
The gladiators stood frozen, dwarfed before its enormity. The crowd shrieked in wild ecstasy seeing that monstrous beast.
The second round was not over.
