In the annals of Uruk's history, and indeed across the whole of Mesopotamia, Gilgamesh was recognized as a tyrant. His was a reign defined by absolute will. He held no reverence for the gods, viewing them as corrupt and indolent. He wielded the power of life and death over his subjects with casual authority, seated upon his throne as the sole arbiter of fate, freely confiscating the property and lives of his ministers on a whim. His rule was capricious and absolute.
Yet, it was crucial to understand that Gilgamesh was a tyrant, not a fool. He was far from an incompetent or mediocre king. As the sole ruler who governed this nation, he had never abandoned his duty to rule. However, his extreme self-centeredness and willfulness often led to decisions that seemed utterly absurd to ordinary people, and the methods he employed were invariably cruel and overbearing. The kingdom existed as an extension of his own treasury, a possession to be managed according to his inscrutable whims.
But precisely because he was so profoundly self-centered, Gilgamesh placed immense, almost possessive, importance on the nation's safety. Uruk was his nation. He alone had the right to dispose of it as he pleased; he would never tolerate outsiders dictating its fate or allow external forces to intrude and harm what was unequivocally his property. The threat of Demonic Beasts at the border was not merely an attack on his people—it was an affront to his ownership.
"Dare to disturb this King's territory?" Gilgamesh's voice was a low, dangerous rumble that filled the throne room. He rose from his throne, a figure of dazzling golden majesty. "This King will make those beasts, those mongrels who dwell in the gutters, understand a fundamental truth! What the King possesses must never be wantonly trampled upon!"
Under Siduri's attentive gaze, he made a swift and decisive choice. He would personally journey to the western border to eradicate the problem with overwhelming, royal force.
However, what neither of them noticed was the flicker of calculation in the eyes of Rowe, who had been sitting informally on the steps. The news of the border crisis had ignited a new, desperate hope within him. As Gilgamesh declared his intent, Rowe stood up.
"Wait!" he called out, drawing their attention. He brushed absently at the linen robe stained with dust from his earlier ordeal. "I'll go."
He looked directly at Gilgamesh and Siduri. "You are the King. The king should not act lightly. Remaining in Uruk to govern is your duty. This border skirmish is beneath your direct attention."
Rowe's idea was brutally simple. Since his primary plans—antagonizing Gilgamesh or provoking a goddess into killing him—had spectacularly backfired, he would settle for the next best thing: a strategic retreat from the relative safety of Uruk's royal city to the perilous borderlands. He was aware of the Demonic Beast Forest in the west, a perpetually blighted area teeming with monstrous creatures that posed a constant, significant threat. Even with heavy guard patrols, riots were common. By volunteering, under the official commission of the King himself, the Uruk soldiers stationed there would be powerless to stop him from walking directly into the most dangerous zones. There, he could finally engineer a tragic, yet legend-worthy, demise—whether by a fatal "accident" or a heroic last stand against an overwhelming siege.
Siduri, of course, could not immediately agree. Her protective instincts as the King's adjutant flared. "Priest Rowe, I'm afraid you..." she began, intending to gently point out that he likely lacked the necessary combat prowess to handle such a threat.
Her words died in her throat.
For around Rowe, the air itself began to shimmer. Several golden, brilliant ripples materialized in the space around him, and from these portals, the tips of legendary swords and unidentable Noble Phantasms emerged, their edges catching the light and sparkling with immense, latent power. It was the manifestation of the authority Gilgamesh had bestowed upon him mere moments ago—the right to utilize a fraction of the Gate of Babylon.
Siduri could only stare in surprise.
Gilgamesh, however, threw his head back and burst into laughter once more. "Hmph! Hahaha! For a mere barking stray dog born of the mud, to be able to manifest this King's treasures with such proficiency so quickly... it truly surprises this King." His crimson eyes glinted with a mixture of amusement and approval. "Very well! In that case, take this King's Noble Phantasms and go! Display this King's magnificent glory to those foolish beasts! Let them witness a fraction of my radiance before their annihilation!"
"Could you try speaking like a normal person?" Rowe rolled his eyes, the picture of impoliteness.
"This King is the one and only ruler of heaven and earth! My words are naturally the words of a king! How could the vernacular of mere mortals hope to restrain me?" Gilgamesh sneered, his pride a palpable force in the throne room. "It is your disgusting, dung-like barking that needs to cease!"
Here we go again... Siduri sighed silently within the confines of her own mind, watching the two figures—the absolute monarch and the inexplicable priest—descend into another round of childish squabbling. She was beginning to accept that this dynamic might be a permanent fixture of the court, and that she would have to learn to adapt to this uniquely trying environment.
However, her practical assessment cut through the noise. Seeing the golden ripples of the Gate of Babylon still shimmering around Rowe, and the lethal tips of Noble Phantasms hovering within them, the young adjutant conceded the point. With even a fraction of the King's Treasury at his command, Priest Rowe unquestionably possessed the raw power to suppress the Demonic Beast riot. He was, for all his insolence, a viable substitute for the King's personal intervention.
"I'm not wasting any more words with you." Rowe's attention was already elsewhere. He looked beyond the palace pillars to the world outside, where the azure sky was deepening into the hues of dusk. The setting sun bathed the city of Uruk in a wash of fiery red, like a mountain range cloaked in autumn colors. He shook his head and, offering no formal farewell, simply turned and descended the palace steps, his footsteps echoing his resolve.
"Hmph!" Gilgamesh's sneer followed him, but his crimson eyes held a different quality as they tracked the slender, linen-robed figure. "Since you are going to battle in this great King's stead, even a dirty stray dog should shine brightly. Those mongrels in the west have been gnawing at the gutters for years. This King does not wish to see his messenger wallowing in the mud." He paused, then added with characteristic arrogance, "That would be a stain upon this King's magnificent image!"
"You should worry more about your own speech impediment," Rowe retorted without turning around, pausing only for a moment at the grand entrance. He glanced back, shook his head in apparent disappointment, and then stepped out into the evening air without a backward glance.
Of course, he understood the subtext. He could perceive the thread of concern woven into Gilgamesh's insulting words. Even if he didn't comprehend why the King of Heroes had chosen to acknowledge him in this way, the fact was undeniable: Gilgamesh had genuinely accepted his presence. And Rowe, for all his yearning for a glorious death, was still human. He couldn't help but feel a faint, unwelcome stir of emotion at the gesture.
But then again—
"A grown man being so tsundere is truly disgusting," he muttered under his breath, the modern anachronism lost on the ancient world but perfectly capturing his sentiment.
...
Siduri, catching the tail end of his words from the doorway, rationally chose to pretend she had heard nothing.
"Hmph! Hahaha! The feeling is mutual!" Gilgamesh's wanton laughter boomed through the hall. "The feeling is absolutely mutual!"
From his childhood to his ascent as king, no one had ever dared to offend him so brazenly and yet consistently fail to provoke his genuine wrath. This was a novel experience. "A fellow who scorns the gods, just like this King... Very well! Let this King see if you possess the qualifications to stand alongside me! Let us see if you are worthy of becoming this King's friend!" His voice echoed deeply, a proclamation that was both a challenge and a rare acknowledgment. Upon his towering throne, the King shone with a brilliant, approving light and waved a dismissive hand.
Meanwhile, Rowe, who had stepped fully outside, paused. Before him lay Uruk in the quiet hour of dusk. Trees swayed gently before simple homes; an old yellow dog slept leaning against a doorframe; travelers hurried home, and strong young men, chosen for corvée labor, shared final words with their families. These clusters of earth and stone buildings, this meticulously organized city—a super-sized settlement of hundreds of thousands—was a marvel that could only exist in this Age of Gods, supported and constrained by divine will.
Yet, this scale was the limit. The gods would not permit the true unification of humanity, for such a feat would accelerate their own fading from the world of man. In the earliest days, the gods' presence had been a boon to humanity. Now, it had gradually become a chain, a restriction holding back human potential.
But these grand, historical currents had nothing to do with him. At least for now, he had no intention of interfering. His goal remained singular, simple, and personal: he only wanted to die.
As these thoughts crossed his mind, Rowe looked up towards the darkening sky. His eyes widened slightly. There, streaking across the twilight, was a falling star.
A shooting star... he thought. That's auspicious.
He hoped his own life could be like that meteor—brief, brilliant, carving its name onto the bedrock of the Human Order before vanishing in a final, spectacular flash.
Wait.
A cold realization doused his poetic musings. His analytical mind, always sharp, seized on a critical detail.
"If I remember correctly," he murmured to himself, his voice low, "shooting stars in the Age of Gods aren't just random space rocks burning up. They represent something—or someone—descending from the heavens to the world of man."
His gaze sharpened, tracking the star's path with newfound intensity. The memory of Ishtar, a goddess descending in a pseudo-Servant vessel, was still fresh.
"Apart from Ishtar... what else is coming down now?"
Rowe keenly grasped the terrifying implication. His planned, simple death in the western forests was suddenly complicated by a variable from the sky. The world, it seemed, was not yet done with him.