Taking Sparta — A More Suitable Female (1)

With its queen gone, Sparta had no order left.

A handful of factions tried to swallow the city in the chaos, but after a vicious civil war a winner finally emerged.

The nastiest bitch of the lot claimed the throne.

"Nngh. Say whatever you want… you have no right, Calliope!"

"What nonsense is that supposed to be? The god of war chose me. His oracle is becoming reality as we speak."

Calliope, commander of the Spartan garrison.

Having won the civil war at last, she ground her boot into the defeated woman's heavy breasts.

Aside from Sparta's former queen, Ayra, no one had ever respected her. And none of the bitches who threw themselves into this civil war had noble blood to begin with. So whoever became queen would be equally short on a convincing claim.

In times like these, you had to flex hard enough that no one would dare stab you in the back later.

"Girls, grab this bitch's limbs and spread her. Let's humiliate her so thoroughly she never even dreams of the throne again!"

"W-wait! Don't you dare do that to me!!"

For all the good it did her.

Calliope's subordinates ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠forced the enemy commander's legs apart.

"I sentence you to death for the crime ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of rebellion."

"Kyaaaah!!"

And so the rebel leader's hymen was punched through by a wooden staff. She thrashed and screamed that she didn't want it, but the more she struggled, the deeper the stick drove into her cunt.

"Reach above your station for the throne and all you'll shit is blood, you stupid bitch."

Calliope folded her arms with arrogant satisfaction.

With the last rebel faction wiped out, she was finally Queen of Sparta.

Lighter in spirit, Calliope strolled through the city.

"If it ends at this level… I can raise Sparta again!"

The civil war had finished faster and cleaner than expected, so the major facilities hadn't been wrecked and the population hadn't been cut in half. Handle the cleanup properly and Sparta would reclaim its old prestige.

My Queen, I'll inherit your legacy.

With Queen Ayra gone, there didn't seem to be a single bitch left who could stop Calliope. The previous queen had never named a successor, after all.

"I may not carry the queen's blood, but I consider myself warrior enough to lead Sparta. Wouldn't you agree?"

Shamelessly, Calliope walked into the palace and started playing queen. Yet with a spear in her hand, not a single retainer dared defy her. The palace maids were already waiting on her as if she were the new queen.

"I will fight until the day Sparta recovers its former glory. Understood?"

"If that is Her Majesty's will, th-then of course we must obey…"

Having tasted power, Calliope sank into self-intoxication. Somehow she felt certain she would surpass not only the previous queen Ayra, but even the legendary Leonidas himself.

I'll be the greatest queen in Spartan history!

The feeling of planting her ass on the throne was pure bliss. The bigger the stunt she'd pulled, the bigger her ambition grew. All that remained was to prove that Sparta's new queen was a truly great monarch—

When the curtain actually rose, her reign lasted three days.

The tragedy began the day some Hannam bastard showed up in Sparta with a Greek beauty tucked under his arm.

I took Nike and the army to Sparta.

We must have been a little late, because the civil war was already over. So we walked straight into the palace—only to find some cocky cunt sitting on the throne with her legs crossed.

Damn, she's got a hot body.

She clearly worked out hard; those eleven-pack abs were razor sharp. A proper Spartan warrior woman, no question. If she weren't looking down her nose at me so arrogantly, she'd have made a fine second wife.

"Who the hell are you?"

the Spartan cunt asked.

I answered right back.

"Who the hell are you?"

"…I am Calliope, the new Queen of Sparta. I'll ask again. What kind of bastard walks into my palace without permission!"

"Ah, see, this palace already has a rightful owner."

With that, I shoved the "legitimate heir" forward.

The moment Calliope saw Nike's face, the color drained from hers.

"Ah… no. This can't be—!"

"Calliope, was it? Sorry, but this throne is mine. My mom—no. The bitch who gave birth to me was Sparta's previous queen, Ayra."

There were no DNA tests in this era, but Nike's face was all the proof anyone needed. She looked exactly like her mother, only with slightly bigger tits. You could have sworn Nike was Ayra rolled back to twenty years old.

"And the gentleman beside me is the cock who knocked Mom up!"

"This barbarian… is the husband of the previous queen, Ayra?"

"Mm… not so much a husband as, y'know, he just did fun things with Ayra after she became his cunt-slave and then I was born—hyaaah?!"

I hastily pinched Nike's ass to shut her up.

She's my daughter, but this girl is way too much of a bitch. Better clean this up before anyone gets the wrong idea.

"Ayra married me and bore a daughter. That daughter is Nike, standing right here beside me."

"Don't lie! Queen Ayra, who kept her purity her entire life, would never have done something as base as marry…!"

Should I take Calliope on a tour of the dairy farm? Part of me wanted to show her the whole milking-and-birthing process, but we didn't have time, so I held back.

In silence, I handed her the letter of recommendation Helen had written.

"As you can see, even Hegemon Helen has recognized Nike as Ayra's successor. Climb down off that throne right now before this gets any uglier, Calliope."

"Hmph! Tell that Helen bitch to go spread her cunt! A Spartan warrior woman does not take orders from Athens!!"

Hmm. So that's how she wants to play it?

I may have underestimated Sparta's hatred of Athens.

Fine then—should I just drag her off by force?

While I was mulling it over, welcome news arrived.

"Your Majesty! Ares, god of war, has delivered an oracle!"

A maid burst into the audience chamber and shouted.

At this point, a veteran like me caught on instantly.

"Don't tell me the Oracle is in Sparta?"

"Hey, barbarian. Are you about to lecture me that a Wonder belongs in the capital, Athens?"

World Wonders.

In History, those were critically important buildings. Pyramids, the Great Wall, Machu Picchu—that sort of thing. They granted far greater bonuses than ordinary buildings, so every civilization scrambled to build them first.

Infuriating as hell. You're at 99% on the Pyramids… and some other civ finishes first.

Every World Wonder could exist only once on the entire planet. But the system never restricted who built them or where, so Japan sticking ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Machu Picchu on Mount Fuji was a regular occurrence.

Same logic here: the Oracle, which by rights should have been in Delphi, was sitting in Sparta.

I sketched the big picture in a flash.

"Of course not. The Oracle suits Sparta far better than Athens, obviously."

The Oracle had been the temple where the ancient Greeks received prophecies from Apollo, god of oracles. In this beautiful-girl-patched world, Ares the war god had taken over that job. For reference, that bastard was more famous for stealing other men's women.

Culture was every bit as essential to victory as Science and Gold.

One more reason to swallow Sparta, then.

"How about we receive the oracle together, Calliope? A prophecy that descends at a moment this critical is bound to concern Sparta's future."

"…Fine. Just don't do anything that insults the gods, barbarian."

Calliope looked sour, but she couldn't defy the word of a god. The Greeks still believed Olympus sat up there above the clouds.

Reality is more like… they're jerked around by the code I wrote.

A short while later, the moment we set foot in the Oracle, a system message popped up—a little awkward to read aloud, but the content was pure welcome.

This place honored Ares, but of course no god was going to climb down from the clouds. Nobody lived up there in the first place.

So even in ancient Greece, every oracle was received and delivered by a priestess acting as the god's proxy: Pythia.

She was a beautiful girl too. Just a little… eccentric.

As a servant of the gods, the priestess insisted that nothing must be concealed. Wearing neither a toga nor so much as a scrap of cloth over her breasts, the naked priestess strained with everything she had to commune with the divine.

"At last… haaah ♥ I have received an oracle concerning the fate of Sparta."

Her stiff, jutting nipples were proof enough that the prophecy had landed. Once she had composed herself, Pythia delivered it.

"Sparta's next queen comes from outside Sparta."

"Priestess… but for Lord Ares to say something so absurd—"

"—Rebel commander. Are you defying the will of the gods?"

The sharp rebuke made Calliope take a step back. With all her subordinates gathered here, throwing a tantrum in the sacred Oracle would only cost her the people's hearts.

"Forgive me, Priestess. I, Calliope, respect the gods of Olympus."

Calliope yielded a pace. She still seemed to think she had a shot depending on how the oracle was interpreted.

Well, plenty of women besides Nike have come from outside Sparta.

She could even stretch it and claim, "Actually, I'm an outsider too."

But the real trial was only beginning.

With the Easter egg active, the Oracle played favorites exclusively with the woman I'd brought—Nike.

Pythia continued describing the "queen soon to come."

"Born in Sparta, yet conceived in a foreign land—and—"

"—Priestess, one moment. What do you mean by 'conceived'…"

Pythia glared at Calliope, and she fell silent at once.

"The future queen was impregnated in a foreign land, and even so she has returned to Sparta, the root of her very being."

It was Nike's origin story, but up to this point it still sounded like a proper Greek oracle—vague, full of room for interpretation. That was how the legendary Oedipus managed to cling to hope. Of course, his ending of mother-fucking incest still wrapped up as a tragedy.

"Ah…! The god is showing me a far clearer future!!"

Pythia's nipples swelled larger and harder than before. The full Easter egg event had kicked in. Moments later, the priestess—having been "granted" an orgasm—trembled from head to toe as she spoke.

"Hnnngh ♥ Khh?! O-only a female whose cunt-mound is silky smooth shall become queen, He says!!"

A stunned Calliope cut her off.

"Priestess!! Snap out of it! That isn't a god—it's a demon—"

"—I swear upon the River Styx… ouk! T-truly, the god declares that only she whose sex is hairless, whose inner folds are a soft rose-pink, and whose nipples crowning her udders are not dark may rule Sparta… haang… ♥"

Pythia couldn't finish. She sank to her knees. Only after Calliope's horrified guards hauled her back to her feet did the priestess recite the final condition the god demanded.

"And the Queen of Sparta… is fated to become her own father's wife."

"Why would the god… forge such a cruel destiny…?"

Calliope's shoulders sagged as she muttered. Even she could see she had no hope left.

Of course, she'd received the beautiful-girl patch same as everyone else, so strip her clothes off and she might well have a pale cunt, pink folds, pink nipples. But she could only become queen by fucking her own dad? Even in the Greek tragedies where incest ran wild, people still pointed fingers at Oedipus for screwing his mother.

"Then I… I cannot become Queen of Sparta…"

Calliope clearly had no interest in starring in her own tragedy. Her fists were still clenched—ambition hadn't died completely—but only one who accepted fate could become Queen of Sparta.

"Priestess. I believe I am the Queen of Sparta that Lord Ares seeks."

Only Nike satisfied every single condition. And Ayra's daughter didn't even treat the god-given destiny as a tragedy—she took it as a comedy.

"Actually, I already went a round with Daddy before we even arrived in Sparta!"

Pythia jolted in shock and asked what on earth she meant. Nike answered as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Well, you see… today I only got it on my face instead of a creampie, but playing with Daddy's cock and catching his seed is still the same thing, right?"

"I-I see. That would certainly count as a daughter having sex with her father. As expected, an oracle from Lord Ares… never errs."

Even the Oracle's priestess had acknowledged Nike's legitimacy.

Just as Calliope clenched her fists in fury, a system message appeared.

That's my good girl, Nike.

I slipped an arm around the waist of my daddy-obsessed daughter. She was the kind of filthy little girl who only giggled when I pressed my lips to her ear and whispered.

"Thanks. Nike is the finest bitch in all of Hannamguk."

"Hehe. Since Daddy treats me so cute… I have to repay the grace of being born, don't I? ♥"

Grace, huh… Yeah. She'd repaid it plenty, at this point.

Because right now Sparta was no longer a standalone civilization—just a single city. Which meant Nike holding the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠title of queen did not mean she was going independent from me.

Nike is still a Great General belonging to Hannamguk.

And I just so happened to be that nation's ruler. The system seemed to know it too, treating "Queen of Sparta" as Hannam's subordinate.

Even a happy family has a hierarchy.

A daughter climbing on top of her daddy should only ever happen during cowgirl.