The outcome was the absolute opposite of his intentions. Not only had he failed to die, but Rowe could also feel a palpable surge of power coursing through him. It was a strange, external force, not something cultivated from within his own body or Magic Circuits. The source was unmistakable: the conceptual 'key' to a grand treasury, the authorization granted by Gilgamesh himself to access a sliver of the 'Gate of Babylon'.
The Gate of Babylon was not merely a vault; it was the very root of all human legend, a collection of every treasure conceived by mankind, stored within a separate dimension. Among its infinite array of Noble Phantasms were countless artifacts that passively enhanced their wielder—increasing strength, fortifying the spirit, or sharpening the senses. For any other soul in Uruk, such a boon would be a cause for ecstatic celebration, a divine favor that could elevate a common soldier to the rank of hero.
But for Rowe, it was an unmitigated disaster. This strengthening was precisely what he did not need, and certainly did not want. It was an anchor, a chain that would undoubtedly hinder his ultimate, singular action. This 'reward' was, in truth, the most exquisite form of punishment.
A complex mix of frustration and resignation welled up within him. He turned his head, his gaze traveling up the grand steps to the dazzling, golden-haired figure lounging upon the throne. As their eyes met, Gilgamesh's blood-red pupils glinted with open amusement. A wide, arrogant grin spread across his face.
"You may spare this King your words of gratitude," Gilgamesh declared, his voice echoing with theatrical magnanimity. "The barking of a stray dog born of the mud is a noise this King has no desire to hear!"
He clapped his hands together once, a sharp sound that cut through the settling dust. "Of course, this King is a ruler of unparalleled generosity. Considering your previous performance, which was amusing in its pathetic audacity, this King had initially intended to merely bestow upon you a random treasure from my collection." He paused, letting the condescension hang in the air. "But now! You have performed an even more interesting spectacle for this King's entertainment—a mortal provoking a goddess to the brink of apoplexy! Such a show deserves a greater reward. Thus, I shall lend you the temporary right to utilize a fraction of this treasury's power. You would do well to be suitably grateful!"
As always, his speech was a masterclass in self-aggrandizement and contempt for others. Rowe knew that any attempt to refuse would be both futile and likely to amuse the King further. So, he simply shook his head, his expression utterly deadpan. "Idiot."
He still held onto a sliver of hope that he could provoke the King into delivering the fatal blow he so desperately sought. Yet, perplexingly, Gilgamesh was not angered in the slightest. If anything, his amusement seemed to grow. For those he deemed 'kindred spirits'—those who shared his disdain for the divine order—he displayed a surprising, almost indulgent tolerance for their impudence.
"..." Siduri, standing beside the throne, watched the exchange in stunned silence. She had a sudden, powerful urge to check if the King had been replaced by some benevolent, if similarly arrogant, impostor.
"AH AH AH! You—how dare you ignore me!"
The enraged shriek finally broke the moment. Ishtar, who had been momentarily stunned into silence by the failure of her attack and the sudden appearance of the Gate of Babylon, regained her senses. The dark-haired goddess, her form radiating palpable fury, glared first at Gilgamesh on the steps before fixing her crimson eyes with laser-like intensity on Rowe.
She was not foolish; she understood perfectly that Gilgamesh had intervened, granting this insignificant mortal a sliver of his power. Yet, in this moment, the King of Heroes suddenly seemed like a secondary concern. The insults Rowe had hurled at her—the direct, blasphemous assault on her very essence as the Goddess of Beauty—had inflicted a deeper, more personal humiliation than any rejection from Gilgamesh ever had.
A strange calm descended upon her after the initial outburst. The failure of her attack had forced a moment of cold calculation. She realized that simply vaporizing Rowe would be, in a way, an admission of defeat. It would be a tacit acknowledgment that his words had struck a nerve, that she, the embodiment of beauty, had been so enraged by an accusation of ugliness that she could only respond with brute force.
She took a deep, steadying breath, her chest rising and falling beneath the fabric of her attire. A slow, dangerous smile spread across her lips, far more terrifying than her previous rage. "Rowe, was it?" she purred, her voice dripping with venomous sweetness. "I shall remember you."
"This is the first time this goddess has encountered a mortal with the audacity—the sheer, delightful stupidity—to declare me ugly and claim I know nothing of beauty."
Within the grand, spacious hall of the royal palace temple, dust motes still danced in the columnar streams of light pouring through the hollowed windows. The goddess, standing bathed in one such pillar of light, elegantly brushed a strand of her long hair aside. Her crimson eyes locked onto the fading golden ripples of the Babylonian Treasury around Rowe. Her smile widened, her lips appearing as red as fresh blood.
"But next time, little mortal," she vowed, her voice a silken promise of vengeance, "this goddess will personally show you what true divine beauty is. Not through words, but through an experience you will not forget… you wretched, fascinating bastard!"
Wait a minute, Rowe thought, a cold dread seeping into his bones. Weren't you here for Gilgamesh? Why is your entire focus on me now?
He suddenly had the distinct feeling that he had overplayed his hand spectacularly. He understood the twisted logic instantly. The humiliation he had delivered was, in her eyes, more profound and personal than Gilgamesh's simple, arrogant rejections. And so, with the capriciousness inherent to her divinity, Ishtar's obsessive focus had quite naturally shifted. She hadn't given up on Gilgamesh, but she had most certainly 'fallen in love' with the idea of making Rowe's existence a special kind of hell.
Rowe opened his mouth, perhaps to try and de-escalate the situation, but Ishtar gave him no chance. With a final, contemptuous flick of her hair, she dissolved into particles of brilliant light and vanished from the temple.
The silence left by Ishtar's dramatic departure was immediately shattered by a booming, incredulous laugh that erupted from the throne. "HMPH HAHAHAHA! This King must concede," Gilgamesh roared, slapping the armrest of his throne in sheer delight, "as a court jester, you possess a truly unparalleled talent! You have managed to make this King laugh out loud!"
Rowe turned slowly, his face a perfect canvas of utter exhaustion, his eyes the very definition of dead-fish emptiness. "If that's what passes for comedy with you," he retorted without a hint of deference, "then your sense of humor is as lowly and simplistic as an insect's."
Siduri, who had been watching the exchange with mounting trepidation, instinctively gasped. Even after the scene with Ishtar had established a bizarre precedent, she was still not accustomed to Rowe's brazen, almost suicidal approach to addressing the absolute monarch of Uruk. To so casually insult the King was unthinkable.
What shocked her even more was the King's immediate response.
"Hmph! Even if this King were an insect," Gilgamesh declared, striking a proud, defiant pose, "I would be a brilliant, golden insect that could transform into the very sun blazing in the sky! An insect whose radiance not even the heavens could hope to obstruct!"
…You actually admitted to being an insect. Siduri strongly resisted the overwhelming urge to bring a hand to her face, a testament to her years of cultivated composure. The logical contortions of her King were uniquely trying today.
"Still an insect," Rowe countered flatly, beginning to ascend the steps toward the throne. "Just a particularly flashy stink bug."
"If this King is a stink bug, then what does that make you? A lowly dung beetle, rolling its ball of filth?" Gilgamesh shot back, leaning forward with a challenger's grin.
"If I'm a dung beetle," Rowe replied without missing a beat, having reached the top of the stairs, "then you're the maggot festering within the dung beetle's meal."
"..."
Watching the two of them engage in such a childish, nonsensical war of words, Siduri was silent for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, a soft, genuine laugh escaped her lips. It was a sound so rare in the solemn throne room that it immediately drew the attention of both men.
"What is it?" Rowe and Gilgamesh stopped their bickering simultaneously, turning to look at her.
Facing the King's direct question, Siduri naturally could not voice her true thoughts—that the King, in all his divine majesty, was bickering with this strange priest like an old friend. It was something that had never happened before. For the first time, the high and mighty King Gilgamesh seemed to have found a companion, a verbal sparring partner who was not cowed by his presence. The sight was strangely heartwarming.
"Hmph, you must also find this fellow's ridiculous analogies amusing, correct?" Gilgamesh 'realized', misinterpreting her laughter entirely.
"You're the ridiculous one, Kin Pika," Rowe retorted, leaning against the side of the throne dais.
"Kin Pika?" The young King of Uruk raised an eyebrow, the unfamiliar term sparking his curiosity rather than his ire.
"It's a title for your pretentious, gold-flashing appearance," Rowe explained with a snort. "Fitting, isn't it?"
"Gold-flashing?!" Gilgamesh considered it for a moment, then let out another short bark of laughter. "A crude, yet not entirely inaccurate title! It suits this great King's brilliance!"
However, Rowe had no more energy to continue the bizarre debate. The day's events had been a rollercoaster of failed suicide attempts and unexpected divine confrontations, leaving him mentally drained. He simply walked to the steps on one side of the towering throne and sat down, the weight of his thoughts clear on his face. He needed a new plan. The series of spectacular failures—surviving the Gugalanna, enduring Ishtar's wrath, and now being 'blessed' by the King himself—forced him to ponder a terrifying possibility: was he going about this entirely the wrong way? Did his approach need a fundamental adjustment?
Notably, neither Gilgamesh nor Siduri made any fuss about him taking a seat so casually within the royal presence. In their eyes, Rowe's performance, aside from his abrasive personality, had perfectly exemplified the virtues of a 'loyal minister.' His act of selflessly confronting Ishtar—whom they believed was solely there for the King—had painted him in an aura of 'pioneering for the King, commendable loyalty and bravery.' With such perceived virtue, a little rudeness was a minor, understandable quirk.
'Why isn't he angry?' The unknowing Rowe fell into deep thought, completely misreading their tolerance. 'I've been this insulting… even banishing me to the front lines would be a reasonable response now…'
"My King," Siduri spoke up, her voice returning to its formal, reporting tone, seizing the lull in the conversation. "There is a matter I need to report."
Gilgamesh waved a hand, the amusement fading from his eyes, replaced by the cold, analytical calm of a ruler. "Speak!"
Siduri nodded. "It is regarding the forest teeming with Demonic Beasts to the west of Uruk…"
"Has there been another riot among those mongrels?" Gilgamesh glanced at her, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly.
"Yes," the young adjutant confirmed. "The Demonic Beast activity has intensified, causing significant distress to our subjects living near the border. My suggestion is to dispatch a powerful warrior to completely seal the main entrance to that forest, but…" She trailed off, the implication clear.
"But in all of Uruk, only this great King possesses the strength for such a definitive task, is that it?" Gilgamesh finished for her, a disdainful sneer curling his lip. "Hmph. A bunch of mutts… and a court full of useless fools who cannot handle them!"
Siduri remained silent, but her respectful stance conveyed her agreement with the assessment. She also knew, with quiet certainty, that the King, for all his bluster, would not ultimately refuse a request that protected his city and his people. The question was not if he would act, but how.