He was already a candle flickering in the wind, on the verge of being snuffed out—so what was he still glaring at?!
"Heh heh heh… by all means, try," the King of Uruk rose to his feet, chuckling softly. "You'll regret it a billionfold."
His voice was low, yet it seemed to shake heaven and earth, suffused with an unfathomable authority. Even the roiling storm clouds overhead stilled as though cowed.
Such unbreakable will: even if his subjects were slaughtered before him, he would neither bow nor plead. Instead, he would fix those red-jasper eyes—bright as a fierce star cleaving the night—on them, and when the moment came, he would exact vengeance a billion times over, just as he promised.
Marduk frowned. Could this mortal truly rise again? He had sensed the king's soul consumed, reduced to cosmic dust—an immutable fact even gods could not defy.
"Entering next role. Countdown: 5…" the system announced. Gilgamesh slid back onto his shattered throne and checked his status—still stuck at 99.9%. Had he failed?
Not quite. That final 0.1% required waiting until the modern era to see if his deeds endured in legend. Only if his story survived as true myth would the bar complete. If it were erased, he would fail—but he could seed tales into the future to safeguard his legacy.
The countdown hung at "1," and he felt himself drawn away, as when he first died. What would his next role be? Something intriguing beckoned.
Chapter 014: Why History Diverged—The Summoning Begins
On the altar, the king's silhouette faded to dust. The throne blew away like ashes on the breeze; the altar itself dissolved.
Had King Gilgamesh's mortal life truly ended?
"Wait—that can't be right."
"What is it, Sister Brünhilde?"
"According to every record, Gilgamesh lived to a ripe old age. If he died here, history would diverge wildly."
Brünhilde fast-forwarded the vision. Her eyes widened: Babylonian myth had invented a man named Enkidu—Gilgamesh's "friend"—who took the throne, subtly rewriting the true past.
Why not simply overwrite humanity's memories? Because tampering with millions of minds would register as a massive historical anomaly to any visiting pantheon. Gilgamesh's name was known far and wide. His sudden disappearance would look suspicious.
So the Babylonian pantheon staged Enkidu's rise, letting the Urukites believe their king had merely suffered a mild divine chastisement, not death. Decades later, other gods came to observe, and under Enkidu's rule the story of the "godslayer" became a whispered fantasy, almost wholly disbelieved.
Thus no other pantheon ever learned that a Babylonian chief god had been slain by a human—that shame remained buried. Enkidu, once his task finished, ascended as a demigod, replacing Gilgamesh in the heavens.
Hence the imposter Gilgamesh was never seen beyond Babylon's realm, kept from the wider divine assembly.
"How did Gilgamesh kill Anu?" Brünhilde muttered, massaging her temples. Even the Babylonians, despite time-traveling inspections, never detected the ruse. If any god had accompanied Anu and touched the chains or the spear, they'd have seen the one-use Noble Phantasms—but they were a moment too late, and the relics had become mortal weapons.
"Just how did he pull it off?" she fretted. Only Gilgamesh himself could answer, but he lay dispersed as cosmic dust—impossible to summon. What remained were only historical echoes, not a true soul.
"No—something's off!" Brünhilde realized she'd missed a critical detail.
"Sister, you want to go back again? Even if you spoke with him, history is fixed. The world's forces would snap back in line. Besides, Gilgamesh is so perceptive he sensed us spying across time. If we appeared, he might slay us instantly."
Grea's words trailed off as Brünhilde seized her shoulders.
"What did you just say, Grea?!"
"I—I said Gilgamesh might attack if he sensed us."
"No—the bit before that. What else did you mention?"
Suddenly Brünhilde's eyes blazed. The clue was there.
"You said he could detect us watching him across time."
Grea shrank away—Brünhilde's grip was fierce enough to hurt. Then Brünhilde laughed, a sound of pure glee.
"Of course! If he senses us in his past, then he can't be truly gone. His body turned to dust, but his soul remains whole in the cosmos."
Laughing, Brünhilde checked the clock. They'd spent ages on their first candidate—if every summon took so long, they'd never fill all thirteen spots before Ragnarok. But first, they would call Gilgamesh.
Chapter 015: "I, Too, Would Vote to Destroy Humanity"
Grea pressed a fist to her chest, terrified as Sister Brünhilde readied the summoning system. The target: the early Sumerian King of Uruk, Gilgamesh—the man who slew and cooked the Bull of Heaven, and murdered the sky god Anu himself.
Such a man, who treated godslaying like a casual chore, could turn on them in an instant, viewing them as fellow divine beings. To save humanity, Brünhilde risked her life to call him forth.
"Stand by the door," Brünhilde instructed. "At any sign of danger, flee. Summoned souls can't leave without permission."
Brünhilde inhaled deeply. All signs pointed to Gilgamesh's hatred of gods—Grea's fear felt well-founded.
Coordinates set, she reached toward the glowing hologram.
"Summon confirmed."
The panel flared, bathing the chamber in a kingly aura that begged for kneeling. Brünhilde staggered back, muscles coiled in readiness for sudden chains—these could bind even the gods themselves, and a lone Valkyrie would stand little chance against them.
With a burst of light, he appeared.
Golden hair, red eyes—he lounged with that lazy grace, yet exuded unmistakable pride. He blinked at the altered surroundings, then took it all in with amused curiosity.
When his gaze landed on Brünhilde, she froze. Those red-jasper eyes—like fierce stars against midnight—seemed to pulse with solid, murderous intent.