I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

As the deafening roar of the jubilant crowd filled the streets of Rome, Julius Caesar brought his grand victory parade to a close, basking in the glory of thousands cheering his name. Banners fluttered in the summer breeze, golden laurels shimmered in the sun, and rose petals rained down from balconies, showering the triumphant general as he passed. But while the city celebrated, deep within the heart of the Roman Empire—inside the august Senate Castle—a very different scene was unfolding.

Tucked away within the palatial complex, far from the gaze of the jubilant masses, lay an opulent chamber. It was not the main Senate hall, but a grand room all the same—far more extravagant than the others, adorned with towering marble columns, detailed mosaics depicting the triumphs of old emperors, and golden chandeliers that cast a warm glow upon the frescoed ceiling. This room was reserved not for senators, but for an unusual gathering—one that Rome had never seen before.

Inside, a group of young men and women, none older than twenty, lounged with a quiet confidence that bordered on arrogance. Despite being surrounded by the iconography of Roman power, they stood out starkly. Their clothes were modern and foreign, entirely unlike the tunics and togas of the Roman elite. Their postures, casual and unbothered, suggested they feared nothing—not even the might of the Empire itself.

And that was not entirely misplaced. They were, after all, the Heroes of the Amun-Ra Empire—beings summoned from another world, brought forth by ancient rituals to shift the balance of power. It had been three days since their arrival in Rome, and the city had all but bent the knee. The Senate had welcomed them with lavish banquets, exotic gifts, and unwavering reverence. The greatest minds of Rome stood humbled before them, seeking favor, guidance—or perhaps, survival.

Rome itself had not performed the summoning. The knowledge to summon Heroes had long eluded them, buried in forgotten scrolls or hoarded by rival empires. But now that these beings had appeared, the Romans understood the gravity of their presence. They tread carefully, every conversation with the Heroes a delicate dance, every alliance a gamble for the future.

At the center of the chamber, seated with unshakable ease in a gilded chair, was a young man who exuded charisma and quiet menace. A gleaming sword lay across his lap, its hilt sculpted with the image of a roaring lion. In one hand, he held a small blade, slowly drawing it along the edge of his sword, as though sharpening it—or perhaps merely passing the time in a way that made everyone else uneasy.

His blond hair cascaded in waves to his shoulders, framing a sharp, handsome face. His eyes, the color of a northern sea, were calm yet piercing, always watching. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, as if he found the entire affair amusing.

His name was Axel Lundgren—a name whispered with reverence and fear alike. Even before the summoning, Axel had been a figure of authority within their class, admired for his magnetic presence and natural leadership. But the moment they crossed into this world and Axel awakened an SSS-rank Skill—one of the rarest gifts the gods could bestow—his place as their de facto leader was sealed.

“How long are we expected to wait here like this?” a clear, commanding voice rang out.

The speaker stood near one of the open windows, her figure framed by the Roman skyline beyond. She was striking—tall, poised, and impossibly beautiful, with the kind of elegance that would have made her a sensation back on Earth. Her hair, a silky shade of ash-brown, was cut to shoulder length and swayed gently as she turned. Her eyes, a brilliant shade of green, burned with equal parts curiosity and impatience. A finely crafted sword rested at her hip, its sheath decorated with ancient glyphs.

Freja Lind—the other legend among them. She, too, had been granted an SSS Skill, and though her demeanor was colder, more reserved than Axel’s, her influence was no less absolute. On Earth, girls followed her without question, drawn to her beauty, her talent, and her enigmatic aura. In this new world, little had changed. Though Freja neither sought command nor acknowledged her admirers, they gravitated toward her all the same, drawn by a force they didn’t fully understand.

She crossed her arms and glanced toward Axel, her voice again cutting through the silence. “We’ve been treated like kings for days. I’d prefer if we were told what they actually want from us.”

Axel didn’t lift his gaze from the blade resting across his lap, his fingers lazily drawing the edge of the small knife against it in slow, deliberate strokes. The sound of metal kissing metal echoed faintly in the spacious hall. A faint smirk tugged at his lips as he replied with casual amusement, “What is it, Freja? Already growing tired of this beautiful city of Rome? We’re being treated like royalty here. And at least it’s not as sweltering as Alexandria.”

He spoke as if the grandeur of Rome—the marble palaces, the gold-inlaid baths, the endless processions of servants—could seduce anyone into comfort.

Freja narrowed her eyes, the corners of her lips tightening ever so slightly. “I prefer Sweden over both,” she said curtly, her voice carrying a steely undertone that hinted at more than just climate preference.

Her classmates nodded in silent agreement. Despite the luxurious treatment and the ancient splendor surrounding them, their thoughts often wandered back to the forests, lakes, and cold skies of home. Sweden—frigid, distant, and far less adorned—was where their hearts remained anchored.

“Yeah, well… we can’t exactly walk back to Sweden, Freja,” came a teasing voice from across the room.

It belonged to Hugo Lindqvist, a tall, lean young man with jet-black hair and an irreverent smile. He was lounging atop a marble table like it were a park bench, arms folded behind his head, his boots disrespectfully crossed over an engraved mosaic. Like Axel and Freja, Hugo was no ordinary student. He, too, bore an SSS-ranked Skill, and his easy charm and tactical mind made him a valuable figure in the group—though he rarely took anything seriously.

“Not until we figure out how, at least,” he added, smirking.

“The Pharaoh—Ptolemy—he said he knew a way to send us back,” murmured a softer voice.

All heads turned to Klara, a timid girl with shoulder-length black hair and nervous eyes. She sat near one of the high windows, hands folded in her lap. She wasn’t as loud or prominent as the others, but her memory was sharp, and she rarely spoke unless she had something worth saying.

“He told us he’d help,” she added quietly. “But only if we helped him first.”

Freja’s lips curled into a skeptical frown. “I never trusted that man. He treated us like pawns. Promised a return home if we played along, but offered no real proof. Besides…” She paused, her gaze darkening as she looked down at the floor. “He’s dead now. Or so we’ve heard.”

A heavy silence fell upon the room, stifling and immediate.

It was true.

News had reached them only yesterday—fragmented whispers carried by merchants and foreign diplomats. Alexandria had fallen. Cleopatra, the ambitious and calculating queen, had allied with Julius Caesar. Together, they had stormed the city and crushed all opposition. Ptolemy XIII, the one who had summoned them to this world, had been executed along with every major political rival. Even his own blood hadn’t spared him. Cleopatra was consolidating her rule with merciless efficiency.

They had never even met her.

And now, they didn’t know where they stood. Had she claimed their summoning contract by conquest? Did she view them as enemies, or as assets left behind by her defeated brother? The uncertainty gnawed at them all.

“So now that Ptolemy’s dead,” Hugo finally broke the silence, “what do we do? Sit around and wait for Cleopatra to notice us? Or strike out on our own and figure out how to get back to our world without anyone’s help?”

His question hung in the air, heavy and honest.

“Uhh?! Come on, you guys really wanna go back to Sweden?” a loud, mocking laugh echoed through the chamber.

Isak Persson, a towering blond man with broad shoulders and a devil-may-care grin, raised a goblet of Roman wine and downed it in a single gulp. Unlike the others, he showed no trace of concern, only amusement. Holder of a powerful SS-ranked Skill and Axel’s closest friend, Isak thrived in the decadence of their new life. Responsibility bored him. Restraint, even more so.

He licked his lips and cast a leering gaze at one of the Roman servant girls standing silently nearby. Her posture was stiff, her eyes downcast—a mere ornament in the room.

Without a word, Isak rose, strode over to her, and grasped her wrist. She flinched, but didn’t resist. He pulled her into his lap and began to touch her with crude, groping hands, running them along her sides and then her chest. The girl made a quiet, uncomfortable sound, her body tense beneath his touch.

Isak grinned and kissed her neck. “We’ve got everything we need right here,” he muttered into her ear, as if that explained everything.

Freja’s expression turned to one of visible disgust. Her hand instinctively brushed the hilt of her sword, but she held back, jaw clenched and eyes burning with silent rage. She looked at Axel, who continued running his knife across his sword’s blade, still smirking, still watching—saying nothing.

At that moment, the tension in the hall was gently interrupted by the soft rhythm of sandals against polished marble—measured, graceful steps that signaled the arrival of someone familiar.

A woman entered the chamber, not quite of their age, and clearly not one of their classmates. Yet, her presence commanded attention with a subtle, practiced authority. She was beautiful—undeniably so—but not with the naive bloom of youth. Hers was a mature, composed allure, the kind that came with experience and confidence.

Johanna Ek.

Their teacher. Their guide. And, for all intents and purposes, the true leader of their displaced group.

She, too, had been dragged into this world alongside them, swept away from Sweden by the same otherworldly summoning that had upended all their lives. From the moment they arrived, Johanna had remained steadfast by their side, never once faltering in her responsibility, even when the politics of Alexandria or the decadence of Rome threatened to pull her students into dangerous games.

She wore her usual expression—a calm smile tinged with restraint—and her eyes, sharp and intelligent behind a pair of thin spectacles, surveyed the room with a teacher’s trained ease. Her ash-blonde hair was tied neatly into a bun, a few rebellious strands escaping to frame her face. The Roman-style gown she wore was elegant, if somewhat informal by local standards, with the fabric loosely gathered at the shoulders and waist, exposing a teasing glimpse of cleavage as it fluttered softly with each step.

“Everyone, please,” she called out in her warm, slightly amused tone, the sound like a breath of fresh air through the heavy atmosphere.

She walked toward them, chin lifted, her every movement poised with the confidence of someone used to commanding a classroom—whether in a Swedish high school or in a Roman castle.

“This is not the time for doubt or sulking,” she said with a gentle chuckle, coming to a halt near Axel and casting a brief glance toward the still-tensed Freja. “Julius Caesar himself is on his way here. That is not a minor visit. This may be our most important audience since we were summoned. So I ask of all of you…”

Her voice lowered slightly in tone, gaining a certain weight.

“Show him the respect he deserves. This is not just about diplomacy. It’s about survival.”

The students looked at one another, some nodding solemnly, others merely averting their eyes.

Johanna’s gaze swept the hall quickly, scanning the gathered youths one by one. Her eyes passed over Axel, Freja, Hugo, Klara, and even the still-sulking Isak—who now looked sheepish under her firm but fair scrutiny. She counted silently, mentally marking each familiar face.

Then she paused.

Her brow furrowed slightly.

“Wait… Where’s Elin?” she asked, her tone shifting ever so slightly, a note of concern slipping through her polished demeanor.

Elin Berg—the last of their group to receive an SSS-Class Skill couldn’t be found here.

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