I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

“It is a tremendous honor to meet the great Julius Caesar.”

Johanna’s voice carried with it the weight of reverence and restrained awe. As the man who once ruled the heart of the Roman Republic approached them, flanked by his dignified entourage, the teacher stepped forward, representing not just her students, but all of modern Earth’s astonishment.

The Heroes—mere teenagers plucked from their world and thrust into the heart of the Amun Ra Empire’s ambitions—stood frozen, mouths slightly agape, as their eyes drank in the sight of the living legend. The air felt heavier, the world itself more vivid. There he was: Julius Caesar. A name etched into every history book. A man whose shadow had loomed across centuries. And yet, he stood here, in flesh and blood, before them—reborn in this strange world as a power in his own right.

It was surreal, and none of them could quite believe what they were seeing. It was as though time and history had shattered and rearranged themselves just to orchestrate this impossible meeting.

Caesar’s lips curled into a confident, knowing smile—the kind only those used to command and worship could wear with ease.

“You must be the leader of the Heroes,” he said, his deep voice smooth as flowing wine. His eyes lingered on Johanna. “A fitting title… for such a radiant beauty.”

The compliment, laced with old-world charm and a trace of mischief, caused Johanna’s cheeks to bloom with a delicate flush. Despite her experience and composure, it was impossible not to be disarmed by his presence.

“I am deeply honored to meet you, as are my students,” she replied, gathering herself with a polite smile, then stepped aside with a graceful gesture. “May I present to you—The Heroes of the Amun Ra Empire.”

Caesar’s expression grew more intrigued, his arms parting slightly in an open, almost theatrical gesture as his gaze swept across the group. His eyes, honed through years of politics, war, and betrayal, scanned them with the precision of a strategist.

Some were ordinary—wide-eyed, trembling, still grappling with their new roles. But a few stood out sharply. Their eyes burned with intensity, their bodies carried the early weight of power not yet fully unleashed.

So these are the ones I’ve heard so much about… he mused silently. He had, of course, been briefed on the so-called “Heroes” summoned from another realm—children wielding unnatural strength, magic, and potential. Until now, he had dismissed them as the kind of fantasy whispered in court corridors. But now, seeing them up close, he understood. They were real. And some of them might even be dangerous.

“A pleasure to meet you, Emperor,” came a calm yet assertive voice.

Axel stepped forward with the quiet confidence of someone who was used to being seen as the strongest in the room. Tall, composed, and sharp-eyed, he extended his hand in greeting. His lips curled into a polite smile—but it was a mask, and Julius Caesar recognized it instantly.

Caesar returned the handshake, a slow smirk forming as their hands met. So this one’s a player, he thought. Charming smile, calculating gaze. Reminds me of… well, me.

Their handshake lasted a moment longer than necessary—two tacticians measuring each other, silently acknowledging the game between them.

Axel’s attention then slid sideways, and his eyes locked onto someone else in Caesar’s retinue.

Julia.

The emperor’s daughter, a picture of noble grace and youthful beauty, stood with quiet composure—until Axel’s gaze found her. Her poise faltered. A soft blush rose on her cheeks, and her eyes darted away in embarrassment. Despite her best efforts, Julia had been unable to hide her fascination with Axel since the day he arrived. She was drawn to power, to strength, to the mystery that clung to him like a cloak. And Axel knew it.

He didn’t just notice it—he intended to use it.

Caesar observed the exchange in silence, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Of course, he had noticed Julia’s reaction. She had always been dutiful, raised to understand that her role as his daughter came with obligations. Originally, he had considered marrying her to Gnaeus Pompey—back when he still believed Pompey would be a loyal ally and not a threat. When that alliance soured, his thoughts drifted to Marcus Antonius. Both men were powerful assets to his designs.

Julia, for her part, had never protested. She understood her place in the grand design, and Caesar had never questioned her obedience.

In the absence of Marcus Antonius—once Caesar’s favored choice for a potential match with his daughter—the balance of Julia’s affections had begun to shift. And now, her eyes lingered all too frequently on Axel.

Three days. That was all it had taken for Axel to play his cards with cunning precision. He had not flaunted his strength nor paraded his rank. Instead, he moved with quiet authority, spoke with confidence restrained by discipline, and treated Julia with just the right measure of charm and distance to spark curiosity—and desire.

For someone raised in the courts of Rome, surrounded by ambitious men and flatterers, Axel was a fresh anomaly: unpredictable, foreign, powerful. And most of all, uninterested in Rome’s games, which only made Julia want to play them with him all the more.

Elsewhere among the Heroes, Hugo stood with a quiet intensity. A wielder of an SSS-rank skill, he was a force to be reckoned with—at least on paper. But his strength had failed to capture the attention of the one who fascinated him most: Licinia, the demure and enchanting daughter of Crassus.

Licinia was all grace and innocence—her light gold brown eyes shying away from prolonged gazes, her demeanor untouched by the political claws of the Roman elite. She had the same softness Julia carried in her earlier years, untouched by the heavier burdens of expectation. But unlike Julia, whose heart was slowly being stirred by Axel’s mysterious aura, Licinia felt nothing for Hugo.

To her, these Heroes from another world—these supposedly extraordinary beings—lacked the commanding essence that radiated from Caesar. From the moment she had first stood in his presence, she had felt it: a towering force, as though history itself bent in deference to him. No title, no magic skill, no foreign legend could replace that sense of awe.

And in Caesar’s recent absence, that contrast had only grown clearer in her heart. No matter how much the Heroes shone in their realm, here in the beating heart of Rome, they were simply… young. Powerful, yes—but not commanding. Not yet.

On Caesar’s side of the hall, Marcus Antonius—once the bold and charismatic general—was now visibly ensnared in his own desires. His gaze, far from subtle, clung to Freja with an almost animal hunger. The Nordic woman’s beauty was unlike anything Rome had ever seen: pale as moonlight, hair the color of burnished golden brown, eyes as sharp and cold as winter’s breath. And Marcus, lacking any semblance of restraint, was devouring her with his eyes.

He had bedded queens and noblewomen, seduced priestesses and daughters of senators—but Freja, in her fierce beauty and aloof demeanor, awakened something deeper in him. A lust, yes, but mingled with the need to conquer, to tame what refused to be touched.

Freja, for her part, was far from flattered. She could feel his eyes upon her like grime on her skin. Disgust brewed beneath her stoic expression. She had seen this treatment before—of women reduced to mere objects of lust and conquest.

In Alexandria, they were seen as divine beings—messengers of higher realms. Feared. Respected. But here, among the Roman elite, she felt more like an exotic trinket to be collected. The way the politicians’ eyes roved across her form, as though assessing her value in bed rather than on the battlefield, only confirmed her disdain.

She longed to leave this suffocating palace, to flee the stares, to once again breathe the air of power—not of objectification.

Then came a shift in the room’s atmosphere.

“Dear Caesar!”

The words rang out like a fanfare, drawing attention toward the entrance. A younger man strode in with open arms and a gleaming smile. His face bore the proud sharpness of patrician blood and the exuberance of youth.

Marcus Junius Brutus.

A Roman senator in his own right and—though not officially acknowledged—long whispered to be Caesar’s illegitimate son.

Beside him walked a woman whose beauty defied time. Her posture was poised, her smile serene, and her eyes lit with unmistakable affection as they met Caesar’s. She could have passed for Brutus’s sister, but all present knew the truth: Servilia, his mother and secretly Caesar’s lover.

Caesar turned to face them, his expression lighting up with genuine warmth. He stepped forward, clasping Brutus in a firm, fatherly embrace.

“Brutus, you’ve grown again,” he laughed, pulling the young man into his arms with the ease of a man greeting family, not just a political ally.

“And you’ve only grown your list of impossible victories, Dear Caesar,” Brutus replied with mirth, his voice rich with admiration and cleverness.

The room softened momentarily, warmed by the rare sight of Caesar’s laughter—an echo of his humanity amidst the calculated coldness of politics.

Then Caesar turned to Servilia.

He did not speak immediately. Instead, he reached for her hands, kissed her cheeks gently, and leaned closer. His voice dropped to a whisper, intimate and private, for her ears alone.

“I missed your body,” he said, the words carrying both longing and memory.

Servilia’s eyes flickered with the past. Her cheeks flushed the faintest shade of rose as she replied softly, “I did as well.”

That brief exchange between Caesar and Servilia—those few whispered words laced with unspoken memories—was all they allowed themselves before pulling apart.

Then a voice, loud and theatrical, cut through the brief silence that followed.

“Now, now! Let us not dawdle in the atrium like idle statues. There will be plenty of time to become acquainted—or reacquainted—in the banquet hall. A grand feast awaits us all in honor of Caesar’s triumph!”

Crassus, ever the jovial statesman, stepped forward with his usual smile, the fine folds of his purple-bordered toga rustling softly as he gestured grandly toward the opulent marble doors that led into the banquet chamber. His tone was light, but it carried the authority of a man accustomed to command.

Julius Caesar gave a nod of agreement, his eyes briefly scanning the gathered figures of senators, heroes, and guests. But just as the group prepared to move forward—

“Wait.”

His voice, though calm, stopped the forward motion of several guests.

“Elin is still missing. We’re still waiting on her arrival.”

Freja spoke.

“We can’t leave yet.”

Her voice was not loud, but the quiet steel in it brought a subtle shift in the room’s atmosphere. She stood with arms crossed tightly over her chest, her sapphire gaze scanning the halls like a hawk.

“I won’t go anywhere until I’ve seen Elin arrive safely.”

There was no pretense in her voice—just worry, hidden behind a wall of controlled emotion.

Freja’s fingers flexed at her sides as she added, more to herself than anyone else:”This place… Rome… it’s too dangerous for someone like her. Elin is too soft-hearted, too trusting. It’s a trait I’ve done my best to protect her from, but now…”

She swallowed. “Now she’s alone out there.”

Freja had good reason to worry—she had seen the way the Romans, even in jest, looked at their women from another world: not as equals, not even as humans in some cases, but as exotic curiosities or alluring property. Freja had endured such gazes all evening, and it made her skin crawl. She would not allow Elin, kind, naïve Elin, to walk straight into that without protection.

Caesar raised a brow in interest, one hand brushing lightly against his jaw.

“Elin?” he echoed, the name unfamiliar on his tongue.

Johanna, who had remained quiet until now, stepped forward with a gentle smile.

“She’s the last of our summoned Heroes. The kindest among us… though perhaps the most vulnerable. It appears she has yet to arrive.”

No sooner had the words left Johanna’s lips than the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the corridor.

A young voice called out, breathless but cheerful:

“I’m here, Professor! Sorry I’m late!”

All heads turned.

Elin rushed there with an apologetic smile but she wasn’t alone.

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