The red glow of the Underworld burned as always. Patrols of Gallû Spirits moved through various zones, each separated by the seven great gates.
"Huh!"
As they passed through a certain shadowed valley, a strange breeze stirred—soft as smoke, faint as mist. It brushed gently past one of the patrol teams, barely leaving a ripple in the dense miasma.
At the rear, three undead soldiers—armed with sword and shield, spear, and bow—paused for a moment, their gaze shifting toward the swirling death fog.
Their jawbones opened slightly, and red light flickered in their hollow eye sockets. One of them instinctively reached toward its newly regrown cervical vertebrae.
Something… just passed by?
But even if they tried to think or remember, there was no memory to retrieve. Their empty skulls couldn't hold a single trace of what had been.
Still, a deep, primal shiver crept up from their core—an inexplicable feeling of disgust and dread.
Something had triggered their instinctive fear.
"Rrrah!"
Just as the three distracted Gallû Spirits were falling behind, their leader—a hulking Underworld Guard twice their size, clad in skeletal armor—turned its head with a creaking motion.
It ground its jawbones together, its soul-flame flaring violently, letting out a sharp, chilling screech that trembled through the air.
The three recruits snapped to attention, scrambling to catch up on their fractured, bite-scarred thigh bones.
Whatever that fleeting presence had been, it didn't matter now.
If they kept daydreaming, their captain might well dismantle their bones on the spot and devour their soul-flames to sate the constant hunger every Gallû Spirit lived with.
After all, the most delicious meal of all to them—was the scent of a truly living soul.
So it really was that familiar face again? The one who'd beaten them down before?
What a strange twist of fate.
...
Deep within the valley, a man cloaked in death fog stirred. Having activated the Authority of the Beast to harmonize with the Underworld's atmosphere, he blended seamlessly into the miasma.
He looked back briefly.
Then, without hesitation, he pushed down the flicker of emotion and turned forward again—stirring a faint breeze as he slipped through crags and shadows with practiced ease.
Several hundred heartbeats later, he passed through the gray mist barrier at the valley's edge and entered a hidden enclave, moving with the confidence of familiarity.
There, seated atop a solitary stone, was Shamhat.
The sacred prostitute was casually grooming herself, but upon hearing movement, she turned her head with a smirk and sized up the intruder in her usual playful manner.
"You made it? That was faster than I expected…"
Anyone who could resist the erosion of death fog, dodge the senses of Gallû Spirits, and reach this place—no matter what form they wore—could only be that slippery little snake.
Well… maybe not so little anymore.
Shamhat traced her fingers along her glowing chin, her eyes glinting mischievously. Her gaze lingered—bold and deliberate—on a certain unspeakable place between the man's legs.
That strange intensity, as if it could see straight through his thin clothing, sent an uncomfortable heat crawling over his skin.
They say snakes have two of those, don't they…
Smack!
With a sharp crack, one of her pale claws was casually swatted away by the man, his face dark with irritation.
"Teacher!"
He growled the word between clenched teeth, his expression stiff, wary. His eyes held no trust—only unease toward the woman before him.
"Tch, no fun…"
Disappointed at her failed provocation, the seasoned seductress withdrew her hand and approached when the man nodded.
He raised the birdcage-like metal construct in his hand and gave it a slight shake.
From nowhere, a faint jingling rang out, spreading through the air. The wedge-shaped runes etched into the cage shimmered with golden-blue ripples—and in an instant, they pulled the soul-form of Shamhat inside.
A Ghost Cage.
A special container once used by Ereshkigal herself to preserve spirits.
It could block the sensory detection of Gallû Spirits, keeping them from catching the scent of a living soul and triggering a frenzy.
At the same time, it could keep the soul within safe from harm in most environments.
That's why the ancient snake had dared to bring Shamhat's soul along—smuggling her aboard for a grand escape from the Underworld.
Swathed in dense gray miasma, the ancient snake surged forward at speed. But his movements were too forceful, and it wasn't long before Shamhat's voice rang out from inside the cage—full of complaints.
"Hey! Samael-chan, quit shaking around! I'm getting dizzy…"
"Bear with it. We don't have much time. I have to break out of the Underworld before the last glow from the temple fades."
"If we don't… it'll all be over once Ere comes back!"
The ancient snake gave a sharp exhale, brows furrowed tightly. Instead of slowing down, he broke into a mad sprint.
The jagged black rocks on either side, the ghostly blue flames flickering across the wilderness, even the passing Gallû Spirits—all blurred as they sped past.
Still, to ease Shamhat's so-called dizziness, the man diverted a portion of Ether Factor to envelop the cage and, half-intentionally, changed the subject.
"Teacher, how much do you know about the Tablet of Destinies?"
Last night, during his final conversation with his master, the Underworld goddess had been evasive—almost deliberately avoiding the topic.
"Oh? The Tablet of Destinies? Heh… which one do you mean?"
From within the cage, Shamhat idly twirled her green hair around her index finger, her voice tinged with that usual playful ambiguity.
"Which one? There's more than one?"
The man's slit pupils narrowed slightly, his expression turning serious.
"Of course there is!"
"In Mesopotamia, humans are tools and livestock meant to serve the gods. But even so, there's a divide between the two."
"Communication typically starts with divine revelations. Priests and priestesses interpret the gods' will and then inscribe the necessary proclamations onto clay tablets."
"These tablets—meant to convey divine will—are what we call Tablets of Destinies."
Once it came to matters of her expertise, Shamhat grew animated, speaking fluently while twirling her hair.
The will of the gods as destiny itself?
The man frowned slightly. It gave him new insight into the oppressive nature of divine-human relations, but this wasn't what he was after.
"What else?"
"Oh, the second type—those created when someone with precognition glimpses the future, or receives inspiration from the world itself, and records it onto a tablet."
Shamhat paused, then continued with her explanation.
That must refer to the historical record left by King Gilgamesh when he passed through Kutha.
But the man wasn't satisfied. His eyes sharpened, voice dropping low.
"Teacher. You know that's not what I'm asking…"
"The most important Tablet of Destinies—what is it really?"
"If you're still hiding something from me, I'll have to reconsider our cooperation."
The faint smile on Shamhat's face vanished instantly. Her eyes flickered uneasily as she looked up at the pitch-black ceiling of the Underworld, her expression full of dread and hesitation.
"The Divine Seal of Authority—the Fate of All Things."
"Legend says it bears the beginning and end of everything in the Mesopotamian world. After the act of creation, nothing—not even the gods—can override it."
Suddenly, a memory from one of Ereshkigal's lessons hit the man like lightning.
"The Tablet of Destinies that records the Four Ages of Mankind—it's in the hands of Marduk, the King of Kings!"
"Shut up!"
In an instant, Shamhat's face went deathly pale. She shouted, her voice sharp with panic. Terror and hopelessness surged in her eyes as if those words alone were a death sentence held to her throat.