Chapter 458: The Gladiator Tournament: Starting Day! (3)

Athena.

Nathan’s eyes slowly rose to the sky, and there she was.

Even after nearly a year, her presence struck him with the same force as the first time he’d seen her—during the chaos and ruin of the Trojan War. And yet now, she seemed… more. More regal. More divine. There was a radiant authority in her posture, in the way she hovered above the gathered crowd, as though she wasn’t just a goddess, but the very embodiment of wisdom, strategy, and unwavering purpose.

Perhaps it made sense. After all, in Rome, Athena—known here as Minerva—had become the center of worship. Temples bore her name, philosophers praised her intellect, and generals swore by her might. She was, without a doubt, the most revered deity within the empire’s marble walls.

But even so, Nathan instinctively pulled his hood a little lower.

Despite the layers of magical disguise he wore and the intense suppression of his power—his aura so carefully concealed it was almost nonexistent—he didn’t dare risk exposing himself. Not here. Not now.

Especially not to her.

Their last encounter had ended… poorly. Their parting moment in the aftermath of the Trojan War had been laced with venom and disillusionment. And considering his significant role in the Greeks’ eventual downfall—Athena’s beloved heroes, whom she’d fought so fiercely to protect—he was certain she bore no small amount of contempt for him.

Not quite on Hera’s level of loathing—no one could rival the Queen of Olympus in that regard—but Athena’s disdain was cold, controlled, and resolute. A quiet, calculating hatred.

The kind that never forgot.

“A goddess!”

“It’s Minerva! The Goddess Minerva!”

“She’s here… She’s really here!”

“So beautiful… so divine…”

The crowd’s voice rose like a great wave crashing against marble steps. Cheers, gasps, prayers—all overlapping as the Roman masses beheld their divine patron. Nobles and commoners alike stared in awe as the goddess floated down, her silver and gold-trimmed robes fluttering with celestial grace, her radiant armor gleaming with each beam of sunlight that kissed it.

Even the Pope—an old man whose body trembled from age and fervent devotion—rose with watery eyes, tears streaking down his wrinkled cheeks as he clasped his hands in reverence.

Crassus stood beside him, his expression unreadable but respectful, and behind them, Octavius, Fulvia, and the rest of Rome’s high nobility followed suit, standing tall as if compelled by some invisible force of holiness to acknowledge the goddess’s arrival.

Nathan remained seated for a moment longer before slowly rising with the others, his eyes never leaving her.

And yet, it wasn’t Athena that truly caught his attention.

It was those who had come with her.

His gaze moved to a figure trailing slightly behind—a man with wild, white hair that curled in every direction like wind-blown snow. He smiled broadly, waving cheerfully at the dumbfounded spectators. No one knew who he was, and yet he acted as if he belonged there—as if this was his stage, too.

Nathan narrowed his eyes. Something about the man felt… off. But he turned his attention to the second figure.

A woman stood directly beside Athena.

Tall, poised, and ethereal in a flowing white gown that shimmered subtly with every movement, her features were completely concealed behind a thin, gossamer veil that draped from the top of her head to the base of her neck. She said nothing. She moved not an inch. She simply stood there, silent and still, like a statue carved from moonlight.

But Nathan could feel it.

Even from across the arena, even through layers of magic and noise, he sensed it—a darkness. Ancient and oppressive, coiled like a sleeping serpent behind the veil.

It was her.

Pandora.

He had no doubt. That overwhelming presence could belong to no other.

The reward of the grand gladiator tournament. The prize that had drawn warriors, nobles, and mercenaries from all across the empire.

The key of the box that once unleashed ruin upon the world.

And she was here.

Not just as a trophy—but as a guest.

Watching.

With Athena.

Athena let her gaze sweep across the thunderous crowd, her expression unreadable as thousands of mortals stood frozen in awe. For a heartbeat, silence hung in the air as her eyes moved slowly, observing every corner of the colossal coliseum.

Then, her gaze settled upon the man at the center of it all—Caesar.

“Goddess Minerva, it is the greatest honor of my life to receive you in our Empire,” Caesar said, his voice echoing through the enchanted amphitheater, carried by divine acoustics.

The goddess gave a small, regal nod—acknowledgment from a being whose very presence was enough to command armies and silence kings.

Then, with a wave of her delicate hand, reality itself shimmered.

In the air above the arena, three thrones of divine craftsmanship appeared out of nothingness—floating, gilded constructs adorned with celestial runes, hovering as if they belonged in the heavens. Athena stepped gracefully into the center throne, taking her place like a queen among mortals. To her right, the white-haired man ascended his seat with a carefree grin and theatrical wave to the crowd.

Dionysus.

The God of Revelry, Madness, and Ecstasy—his presence here was no less bizarre than it was dangerous.

But it was the final figure, the one who sat silently to Athena’s left, that drew the most curiosity from Nathan.

She moved with ethereal grace, settling into her throne with a quiet authority. Draped in white from head to toe, her face concealed behind a translucent veil, she remained silent. But beneath that veil, Nathan saw it—the curve of her lips barely shifting into the faintest smile.

A smile not of peace.

But of anticipation.

Pandora.

She was finally free.

After centuries of confinement, after being sealed away by Olympus for nearly annihilating humanity, the cursed woman of myth now sat in full view of the world once more. But her release had not been born of mercy—it was necessity. Her prison had begun to crack, leaking dark and malevolent aura into the world at such a rate that the gods could no longer contain it. They had been forced to unbind her, fearing what would happen if the corruption within her was unleashed by force rather than will.

And now she watched.

She watched not with serenity, but with the eagerness of a child awaiting a game. A twisted sort of excitement, like a predator disguised in silk and innocence.

After all, this tournament was for her. The victor would earn her hand. They would replace the fool who came before—Epimetheus, who lasted less than a single day before his soul was shattered.

She wondered, with a thrill in her chest: who would survive her this time?

Caesar, ever the showman, raised his hands as the crowd began to settle once more.

“Let us not make the gods wait!” he declared, his voice booming with theatrical pride. “Let the games begin! To open this grand tournament, we offer a match worthy of Olympus itself! Warriors of Rome, cheer for our first champion—BENJAMIN!”

The great iron gate on the northern side of the arena groaned as it opened. A figure stepped out—tall, massive, and encased in brutal black armor. He towered above most men, at least seven feet in height, with each of his steps shaking the earth beneath him. A broadsword the size of a grown man rested on his back, its hilt etched with glowing red symbols.

The crowd roared, the stands trembling beneath their thunderous cheers.

But Nathan’s heart stopped.

His eyes widened, pupils narrowing.

That man.

Even through the full helm concealing his face, Nathan could feel it—the aura. Familiar and malevolent.

It was him.

The one responsible for the kidnapping of Ameriah and Auria. The one who vanished into the shadows before Nathan could finish him.

Yet something was different.

The man looked nothing like he did before, now encased in a new identity of armor and silent rage. But Nathan had fought enough corrupted men to recognize the signs. He had faced Paris, devoured by madness, and Agamemnon, twisted by divine corruption.

And this Benjamin… was like them. Worse, even.

“He’s corrupted,” Nathan whispered under his breath, his fists tightening beneath his cloak. “There’s no doubt.”

But then, a darker thought followed.

“Caesar… is aligned with a corrupted god?”

It didn’t make sense—unless Caesar himself was either manipulated, or far more complicit than anyone imagined. And what of Athena? Her divine eyes must have seen what Nathan did. She had to know.

And yet she sat, unmoving.

Unbothered.

Not a flicker of concern crossed her perfect face. No comment. No warning. Just calm, regal indifference.

Nathan’s jaw tensed.

This is what the gods were. Arrogant. Detached. Untouchable. They didn’t fear corruption—they believed themselves above it.

The crowd, oblivious to the malevolent energy pulsing from the armored warrior, screamed with adoration.

And then Caesar lifted his arm again. “And his opponent!”

He turned to the southern gate, his voice swelling with grandeur.

“A Thracian warrior. A gladiator born from fire and rebellion. Once a chieftain… now a legend reborn.”

A pause.

Then:

“Spartacus!”