Ishtar's chest rose and fell like the tide. For a heartbeat the goddess seemed genuinely stunned—an almost comical paralysis that betrayed the shock of being called ugly to her face. Then the reaction came: heat, motion, and a flurry of emotion so swift Siduri had to pinch the bridge of her nose to steady herself. A mortal daring to insult a goddess so plainly—this was something even the reckless Gilgamesh had rarely invited.
Siduri felt her headache bloom. Telling the Mistress of Beauty, in her presence, that she had no understanding of beauty—this was an affront beyond diplomatic remedy. The adjutant glanced at Rowe, at the calm audacity written across his face, and felt equal parts admiration and terror. Of all people, she thought, only he would stand there and do such a thing.
It was true, of course, that Rowe's words had a kernel of bitter accuracy. Ishtar's appearances rarely brought gentle blessing; they brought upheaval. The goddess who presided over beauty and war loved beautiful things, yes—but her love so often took the form of havoc. Mortals confused her ardor for mercy, but what followed usually resembled purgatorial ruin more than idyll. People whispered such truths in alleys; they never said them into a goddess's face—until now.
Across the grand hall, sunlight slowed through dust and pooled upon the polished stone. Silence settled, taut as a drawn bowstring. Rowe held Ishtar's gaze without flinching. He could see in her features a resemblance to Gilgamesh: both born too bright, both raised sheltered from reprimand, both commanding obedience by sheer presence. Such beings did not know how to be contradicted; hence their brief disorientation.
But astonishment rarely lasted long. Ishtar recovered with the speed of a storm. Her long hair whipped like a banner; her crimson eyes focused until they burned. "You truly do not want to live, mortal!" she declared. The voice was leveled and dreadful now—divinity stripped of playfulness and wrapped in the authority of anger.
Rowe stepped closer, deliberately narrowing the space between them. "What do you think, Lady Ishtar?" he pressed. "Admit it—your beauty is a lie. You are ugly." His words landed like hammers. He did not scream; he did not plead. He mocked gently, with the cool certainty of a man who had accepted the consequence of his actions.
For a moment the goddess' composure fractured. She hissed a string of divine fury—words sharp enough to cleave clay—but the golden bow in her palm brightened into a full, lethal manifest. Light braided itself into a weapon; the Venus-bow gleamed, and the palace itself seemed to shrink beneath the pressure of her presence. At ten meters' distance, one true shot would have unmade him.
Still Rowe stood firm. Where others staggered, he was like a stake driven into earth. In his mind he had already rehearsed this scene a thousand times: the ignoble priest who hurls the ultimate insult and accepts the inevitable end. To be struck down by a goddess for such a deed—public, mythic, and irreversible—was precisely the sort of death he believed the Throne of Heroes would record.
Yet the truth of the matter was that Rowe did not know everything. He did not know that Siduri, despite her orders to keep the goddess from disturbing the King, had begun to feel something like respect for the young man.
Siduri's devotion to King Gilgamesh was a force akin to absolute faith. His will was her command, his desires her purpose. She would obey unconditionally and execute his orders with flawless precision. In her eyes, Rowe's existence had begun to hold a similar, albeit nascent, significance. He possessed the potential to become an entity who could truly comprehend the King of Heroes. They shared a common disdain for the gods and a recklessness that bordered on the suicidal. While the mortal undoubtedly overestimated his own capabilities, this common ground was, for now, enough to warrant her protection.
Thus, in the span of a single, decisive instant, Siduri resolved to act. Strands of shimmering, golden light materialized around her graceful form, the air humming with activated magical energy. As the King's chief retainer, she was far from powerless. The countless treasures Gilgamesh casually bestowed upon his court were not merely ornamental; they were instruments of immense power, and their strength flowed through her.
"Even at the cost of my life..." she whispered, her eyes filled with a firm and pure resolve, "I will save Priest Rowe from Ishtar's wrath!"
Her body tensed, a coiled spring ready to launch herself into the path of certain destruction. At that very moment, Ishtar's divine retribution was unleashed. The arrow, a manifestation of Venus's fury, shot forth not as a mere projectile but as a descending cataclysm. It was a dazzling stream of light, a flat impact that fell from the heavens like a falling star, raising great waves of interwoven crimson and gold that set the very sky ablaze. This was a mighty force no mortal could hope to resist—the genuine strike of an angered goddess.
Yet, just as Siduri's muscles contracted to propel her forward, she froze. A voice, familiar and imperious, resonated beside her ear, halting her completely. "Wait, Siduri."
The King's voice.
She spun around, her eyes widening in surprise. There, upon the throne he had vacated mere moments ago, sat Gilgamesh. He had returned as silently as a phantom, reclining with one hand propping his chin. His crimson eyes, usually filled with boredom, now glinted with keen, undisguised interest as he observed the scene unfolding below.
"Look," Gilgamesh commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Siduri fell silent, turning her gaze back to the spectacle. Below, Rowe stood his ground against the divine onslaught. He had closed his eyes, his body unmoving, as if in serene acceptance of his imminent obliteration.
—BOOM!
A deafening roar shattered the air, followed by a shockwave that shook the very foundations of the palace hall. Dust and debris billowed upwards in a thick cloud. Within the chaos, Ishtar's furious cry echoed, "...To defy divine majesty is to invite heavenly punishment!"
The force of the impact was fleeting yet absolute. The sound of air being torn asunder was so intense it made Rowe's scalp prickle, and he felt his entire being tremble in resonance with the violent energy. Under such an attack, death should be instantaneous, right? There won't even be time for pain... how wonderful! A final, bright smile touched his lips.
But then, a new sound cut through the cacophony, clear and distinct.
Click.
It was a precise, mechanical sound, like a perfectly crafted key turning in an ancient lock, triggering a sequence of hidden mechanisms to slide into place.
What was that?
Though it lasted only a moment, the sound was so alien to the context of his annihilation that it gave Rowe pause. Immediately after, he saw it: a shimmering, golden radiance manifesting before him. Ripples in reality itself, appearing as if from nothingness.
What is this? This is...
"This King's treasury, compiled of every treasure upon this world! A manifestation of this King's supreme wisdom—the Gate of Babylon!" Gilgamesh's voice rang out from the throne, filled with arrogant pride. He tapped a finger lightly on the armrest. "Though it still lacks its core treasure to act as its keystone and is not yet fully complete, it remains the sole treasure in this world that belongs to this King alone, absolutely unique!"
The King's crimson eyes narrowed with amusement. "Though he is but a stray dog born of the foul mud, unsightly to the extreme and fit only to bark, the spirit he displayed in facing and rebuking the corrupt gods—this fearlessness in the face of death—is indeed worthy of this King's praise."
He gestured grandly. "Behold! Even this King's own Treasury has acknowledged him, extending its gates before him for his use!"
Siduri glanced at the visibly pleased Gilgamesh. A silent, weary thought passed through her mind. You were the one who activated it for him, weren't you, my King...
She looked back towards Rowe. Even from a distance, it was clear he had heard the proclamation from the throne.
The Gate of Babylon?
This is the Gate of Babylon?
Recognition dawned on him. The golden ripples perfectly matched the description of Gilgamesh's Noble Phantasm from his memories. A cold dread, entirely opposite to the relief he should have been feeling, washed over him.
Wait.
If that's the case... then I won't be able to die!
Damn it!
Don't—!
His internal plea was cut short. The brilliant, devastating energy of the Venus Goddess crashed down. In response, countless Noble Phantasms—swords, spears, axes, and weapons of unknown purpose—simultaneously projected from the golden ripples. They did not shoot forward to clash, but instead formed a dense, rotating barrier in front of Rowe, their collective mass and magical energy creating an impenetrable wall.
A second, even more tremendous roar exploded as divine power met the world's greatest collection of treasures. The force of the collision sent billowing clouds of smoke and dust rolling outwards, obscuring everything.
But where there was smoke, there was, conspicuously, no injury. As the dust slowly settled, Rowe stood within the protective dome of glittering weaponry, completely unharmed. His face was utterly blank, a mask of stunned disbelief.
How... he thought, his mind reeling from the failed suicide attempt. How come I didn't die again?