I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me Chapter 528: Revealing to Athena!

Chapter 528: Revealing to Athena!

The only sound that stirred the quiet adow was the whisper of a cool breeze passing through the tall grass, carrying with it the faint scent of earth and early dawn. The sky above hung in pale stillness, streaked with fading hues of amber and rose, as if nature itself held its breath in anticipation.

Aphrodite stood close beside Nathan, her hand lightly brushing his arm — a subtle gesture of familiarity. Across from them, Athena stood alone. Her blue eyes, usually sharp and unwavering, froze the instant they t his. For a mont, ti itself seed to hesitate.

She rarely allowed herself to show surprise, yet now, the goddess of wisdom found her composure cracking. Her mind, disciplined and trained beyond mortal asure, scrambled to make sense of what she saw.

Nathan.

Here.

Beside Aphrodite.

Her heart gave an involuntary shudder.

Everything Johanna had told her — everything she refused to believe — ca flooding back with cruel clarity. The Trojan War. The whispers of deceit. The claim that he had stood among the Trojans, not by destiny, but because Aphrodite had guided him there.

It was all true.

She had tried to dismiss as much information as possible. Yet now, seeing Septimius—standing with Aphrodite at his side, the truth struck her harder than any spear or blade ever could.

Johanna’s words echoed relentlessly within her.

“He manipulated you. He used your trust, your faith. He only sought power — over Ro, over you. Even Pandora was just another piece in his design.”

The voice repeated in her mory like a curse. And though her reason told her she should be furious, her heart betrayed her. She had always prided herself on detachnt, on clarity. But now… now there was only ache — deep, bitter ache.

Why?

Why did the sight of him with Aphrodite wound her so profoundly? Why did her chest tighten, her throat burn, when she knew she should only feel anger?

Athena’s jaw trembled. She bit her lip, hard enough to draw a trace of divine ichor, and turned toward Aphrodite.

“So that was it, wasn’t it, Aphrodite?” she said, her voice quiet but shaking, her usual calm unraveling. “What did I do wrong to you?”

The goddess of love blinked, visibly unsettled. Athena’s words carried no venom, only heartbreak — a kind of pain Aphrodite had not expected from her long-ti rival.

Even Aphrodite, who had traded barbs and sches with Athena across centuries, felt a pang of guilt pierce through her. She had imagined Athena’s wrath, her cold fury — not this trembling sorrow. She turned slightly toward Nathan, her expression unreadable.

She had never known how deep Athena’s feelings for him ran, hidden behind her mask of logic and divine restraint.

“Do you hate that much?” Athena asked again, softer now. “All I ever wanted was…” Her voice faltered, cracking mid-sentence. She gripped her lance tighter, the polished shaft trembling faintly in her grasp. Whatever words were ant to follow — forgiveness, explanation, love — died on her lips.

“It’s fine,” she whispered at last, lowering her gaze. The light dimd in her eyes, replaced by quiet resignation. “Just… leave.”

“Athena.”

Her na escaped Nathan’s lips like a quiet invocation — the first ti he had ever spoken it aloud, without disguise, without distance.

Athena’s fingers tightened around her lance. Her knuckles turned pale, the sacred tal creaking faintly under the pressure of her divine strength. Yet she did not turn. She would not grant him the rcy of her gaze — not yet.

Nathan took a slow step forward. Then, without a word, he lifted his hand and brushed aside the magic that cloaked his identity. The illusion dissolved like morning mist under sunlight.

Before her eyes, his mortal façade faded away.

His hair, once rely ordinary white, now shimred into an ethereal white — a hue so pure as Khione’s, reflecting the cold majesty of winter’s breath. His skin followed, glowing faintly, unearthly in its perfection, as if sculpted from snow and moonlight like Khione’s. Then ca his eyes — no longer crimson, but blazing with golden demonic brilliance, deep and ancient, radiating power that defied the heavens themselves.

The transformation was silent but imnse. The air itself bent around him, the grass bowing under the weight of his aura. It was both divine and profane — an intoxicating balance of purity and corruption, light threaded with shadows.

And though Athena had promised herself not to look, she could not resist. Against her will, her gaze rose — and in that instant, she saw him.

Septimius.

Heiron.

The one from Troy. The one she had seen fighting. The one who had changed the course of fate.

Only now, he was not the sa. Stronger. Sharper. His presence eclipsed even what she rembered of that fateful war. Every line of his face, every pulse of his power, carried a powerful authority.

And still… it was that face. The sa one that had haunted her — not through love or hate alone, but through mory. Through loss.

She had despised him once — or told herself she had. Not for who he was, but for what he represented: the turning of a war that should have been won, the crumbling of plans laid over centuries. Because of him, Troy did not fall as it was ant to. Because of him, she had failed to secure the gates of the Aegean — a vital line of defense prophesied to protect the Greek world from the forces Gaia had whispered would one day co.

Rationally, she knew her resentnt was misplaced. Yet divine pride often outlasted reason. And deeper still, beneath that pride, was sothing far more dangerous — fascination.

She had always known he was not mortal. His Darkness magic alone defied the balance of Olympus. His ties to the Tenebria Kingdom — that shadow realm of gods long exiled — made him an anomaly among beings. A threat. A warning.

And now, standing before her in his true form, he was everything she feared. And everything she could not ignore.

“When I first saw you,” Nathan began, his voice calm but carrying weight, “during the Trojan War — a goddess among n, leading the Greeks to slaughter for the sake of one woman — I thought of you as worse than them. You, the goddess of wisdom, waging war over pride. Over beauty.”

Athena said nothing. Her eyes burned, but her lips did not move. The only sound was the sighing of the wind.

“I thought,” he continued, “that your loyalty to the Greeks was just another petty rivalry — revenge against Aphrodite, for being chosen by Paris. I saw you as no different from Hera. Proud. Vindictive. Willing to burn cities to satisfy an old wound.”

He paused, his golden eyes softening, though his tone remained firm. “I even thought of killing you, once. After you and Hera had plotted against so many tis.”

Athena’s fingers twitched, but she did not lift her lance.

“I am not one to forget my grudges,” Nathan admitted, his words heavy. “When I t you again in Ro, I thought fate had delivered the chance I had long awaited. I believed it was destiny — that I could repay the insult of Troy by deceiving you, by turning you against Caesar and bending your plans to my will.”

He exhaled slowly, his aura dimming slightly, like the fading glow of a dying star. “And at first, that was all it was — vengeance. Cold, calculated vengeance. But…”

His gaze t hers, and for a heartbeat, divinity t divinity — two ancient wills colliding, neither yielding.

“But I changed,” he said softly. “After spending ti with you. After learning your heart — your true purpose. I began to understand why you fought the way you did, why you made the choices you made in Troy. I realized I had been wrong all along.”

Athena’s eyes trembled — warmth and fury intertwined in her blue irises. She wanted to speak, to shout, to curse him for his audacity — but sothing in his tone disard her.

“You…” she began, anger lacing her voice, but Nathan raised a hand, stopping her mid-word, his expression solemn.

“I understand your anger,” Nathan began, his voice low. The wind carried his words gently across the still field, as if even nature itself wished to hear his confession. “You have every right to hate , to despise what I’ve done, to condemn every shadow I’ve cast upon your path. But before you judge entirely, I need you to know this — I was never false with you.”

Athena’s eyes flickered, but she remained silent, her expression unreadable — a calm surface barely hiding the turmoil within.

“Every ti I spoke with you,” Nathan continued, his tone heavy with sincerity, “every word, every praise, every look, every mont of worry… all of it was real. I didn’t pretend. I didn’t smile to deceive you. I didn’t offer kindness to trap you. Everything I said — everything I felt — ca from . Not Septimius, not any disguise. .”

His golden gaze softened. “From the mont I understood who you truly were, I saw you differently. Not as an adversary, not as a goddess upon a throne, but as a woman — proud, unyielding, and pure in her cause.”

For a heartbeat, even the air seed to pause. Athena did not move, but her fingers trembled faintly against her lance. The goddess who had once silenced entire armies now found herself wordless.

Nathan exhaled slowly. “Yes,” he admitted, “I still intend to bring down Ro. I will not deny that. I seek to end Caesar’s dominion and forge an alliance between Tenebria and what remains of this empire. That much is my truth.”

His voice grew quiet, heavy with understanding. “But if you stand against … if you oppose in that, I will not fight you. You are a goddess — Ro’s protector, her wisdom, her shield. I will respect your choice, even if it ans standing alone.”

The breeze stirred again, rustling the grass between them. Nathan’s shoulders rose with a sigh, his expression softening into sothing almost human — weary, but resolute.

He smiled faintly. “My na,” he said at last, “my true na… it isn’t Septimius. Nor Heiron. Nor Samael.” He looked at her, unflinching. “It’s Nathan Parker. I was one of the Heroes summoned by the Goddess of the Light Empire.”

Athena’s eyes widened. For the first ti, her composure shattered — not from anger, but sheer disbelief.

The revelation struck like thunder. Athena’s grip faltered; even the divine light that clung to her dimd. She had known of his ties to Tenebria, of the darkness that followed him — but this? That he had once been a summoned Hero before that?

Her breath caught.

Aphrodite, watching silently beside them, turned her gaze toward Nathan, eyes wide. She hadn’t expected him to bare this truth — not now, not here. The knowledge he had just given Athena could destroy him. With her wisdom and influence, she could unravel his every secret, cast him down from every realm that still tolerated his existence. Neither he nor Aphrodite could stop her, should she choose to act.

Nathan seed to understand that, and yet… he didn’t waver.

“That’s all you need to know,” he said finally. “I’ve told you everything. With this truth, you can do whatever you wish. You can reveal . You can strike down. You can erase from this world if it will bring you peace.”

He didn’t add but he was also extrely grateful toward Athena since she had protected Sienna and Siara during the whole Trojan War and even before that since their summoning. He had held grudge against her and wanted to enslave her nonetheless for being one of the reasons behind the Trojan War but now that he understood everything….

All he felt now was guilt for misunderstanding her, tricking her since his arrival at Ro willingly or not and also so kind of indebtedness toward her for having protected both his sisters all long.

Of course he wouldn’t let himself killed but his words were sincere when revealing his identity to her.

Athena remained silent. Her expression softened, yet her eyes glistened with sothing unspoken — sorrow, perhaps, or restraint.

Seeing her still unmoved, Nathan lowered his hands. A shadow passed across his face. Then, with quiet resolve, he turned away.

He took a single step, then another, before pausing — unable to leave without saying what his heart demanded.

“Just rember,” he said softly, glancing back over his shoulder, “that every word I spoke as Septimius… every mont we shared… was true.”

His eyes lingered on her. “And, Athena,” he added — his voice trembling, though only slightly — “I like you.”

The goddess froze. Her body stiffened, her heartbeat echoing like distant thunder in her chest.

“I really like you,” Nathan went on seriously. “I like your selflessness. I like that icy mask you wear — that calm, unyielding face that hides your kindness. I like how you never chase glory, how you act not for reward, but for the sake of humanity itself. You never care how they see you — only that they live.”

He took a breath, his voice softening further. “Beyond Zeus, beyond Hera, beyond all the others who claim dominion over mortals… you are the first who truly deserves to be called a goddess of humanity.”

A woman who reminded him a lot of his mother who was also selfless. Nathan could never be like that so why he admired won like that going to such extent for others.

For a fleeting mont, his eyes seed to shine with sothing almost divine — admiration, guilt, love — before fading back into their golden glow.

He lingered only long enough to see the faint tremor in her stance, the struggle she would not show, then turned away. There was nothing more to say.

Aphrodite stepped forward. Her hand rose gently, resting upon his shoulder — a gesture of farewell. Power shimred between her fingers as divine light coiled around them.

In a burst of brilliance, Nathan’s form began to fade.

Before his form fully vanished into the shimr of Aphrodite’s divine light, Nathan’s voice rose once more — quiet, yet resolute, echoing across the still adow.

“I’ll expect to see you tonight,” he said. “In the arena. I’ll wait to see you upon your throne, Athena more than anyone else.”

He hesitated, the faintest shadow crossing his expression. “And if I don’t… I’ll understand.”

His figure dissolved completely, leaving behind only a whisper of power and the ghost of warmth in the air where he once stood.

For a mont, there was only silence. The wind stirred gently, brushing through the tall grass as if trying to fill the emptiness he left behind.

Aphrodite remained.

She stood there, her eyes following the fading shimr until nothing of Nathan remained. Then she sighed — not delicately, as one might expect from the goddess of beauty, but heavily, almost wearily.

“My whole life,” she began softly, her gaze shifting toward Athena, “I’ve never been jealous of anyone.”

Athena turned her head slightly, her pink eyes glancing toward her rival — wary, silent.

“Even you,” Aphrodite continued, “even when mortals compared our beauty, when poets and kings built temples to sing of our nas, I never envied you. You were logic. I was desire. We walked separate paths.”

Her voice lowered, touched with sothing uncharacteristically raw. “But now… I think I finally understand what jealousy feels like.”

Athena’s brow furrowed faintly.

“I don’t like you,” Aphrodite said simply. “You live with a freedom most of us envy — free from passion, from attachnt, from all the things that chain hearts. Yet you use that freedom for such… selfless acts.” Her lips curved in sothing between scorn and sorrow. “And still, despite all that, Nathan… he chose you.”

She let out a short, bitter laugh. “He’s never spoken so much to convince anyone of his truth. Never pleaded like that. I’ve known him longer than you — I’ve seen him fight gods, stand against the will of heaven and fate themselves. But never have I seen him bare his heart like this.”

Her eyes softened, though the faintest edge of hurt remained. “He fell for you, didn’t he? Truly. I didn’t think it possible for him. And yet… here we are.”

Athena said nothing. Her expression was unreadable — too calm to be indifferent, too still to be peaceful.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Aphrodite muttered, looking away for a heartbeat before eting Athena’s gaze again, “but I’m jealous. Genuinely jealous. Nathan never spoke to like that. Not once. And the fact that you — you of all goddesses — hold his heart…” She clenched her hand slightly. “It makes feel… bitter.”

Athena’s gaze turned aside once more.

Aphrodite narrowed her eyes. “You know what? You’re annoying,” she said abruptly, stepping forward until the air shimred with divine tension.

In the next instant, she appeared before Athena — close enough that the goddess of wisdom could see her reflection flicker in Aphrodite’s eyes.

“Nate never begs,” Aphrodite said firmly. “He doesn’t kneel, he doesn’t plead. But he loves you — that much I can tell. And if you, in your pride and anger, choose to punish him despite everything he’s just said… you’ll hurt him in a way even the gods won’t be able to nd.”

Athena’s hand twitched around her lance, but she did not raise it.

“So I’ll show you,” Aphrodite said suddenly. “He told you everything, but he left out what pride wouldn’t let him say.”

Her fingers glowed softly, radiating with a light that shimred like molten gold and rose petals. “I’ll show you his life.”

Before Athena could protest, Aphrodite extended her hand, and the world shifted.

Visions poured into Athena’s mind — blinding and vivid. She saw not a god, not a hero, but a boy.

A child born in a frail mortal body, in a world of cold steel and sorrow. She saw him suffer through pain that even immortality could not dull — betrayals, loss, the slow erosion of innocence. Every wound carved into his spirit, every mont of defiance against fate itself, unfolded before her like the turning of ancient pages.

From his first breath on Earth to the mont he was summoned to another realm — every trial, every scar, every choice burned into her mory.

Nathan’s struggles, his loneliness, the deaths he had witnessed — and the strength it took not to fall. However she carefully removed the parts about the enslavents of Khione, Amaterasu and Hera. Also Poseidon’s death. These were things only Nathan could reveal since it was clearly abnormal even from Gods’s point of view…

When the vision faded, the field returned — silent, cold, and still. Aphrodite lowered her hand, her expression softened but weary.

“He said he told you everything,” Aphrodite murmured, her eyes distant. “But he’s proud. Too proud. So I showed you what he wouldn’t.”

She turned her gaze toward Athena — the eternal rival who now shared in a truth few ever could.

“Now I hope you as Goddess of Wisdom understand,” Aphrodite said quietly. “That man you think of as a manipulator… he’s lived through pain even gods would flee from. And yet he still is standing.”

Seeing Athena silent and with an hard to read expression Aphrodite turned around.

“Only one thing, Athena. I never hated you or held against you any grudges but if you hurt my Nate in anyway,” she glanced at Athena, her pink eyes glowing frighteningly cold. “I will never forgive you.”