The sky the next morning was a vast, unbroken curtain of pale blue. To the west of Uruk, beyond the last stretches of cultivated land, the world gave way to an expanse of fertile plains that eventually merged with vast, yellow sands. In the distance, Rowe could see his destination: a lush, unnaturally dark forest standing at the edge of sight. Before it, on a raised hill, stood the formidable silhouettes of guard towers and a sturdy stone wall—the first and last line of defense against the horrors within. This was the Demonic Beast Forest.
The journey from the city-state had been uneventful, a testament to the fact that even in an era protected by the gods, this was still an ancient, untamed world. Human footprints had yet to conquer the land; for much of the way, all that lay underfoot was barren yellow earth, stretching out in a monotonous expanse. To save time, Rowe had opted for a more direct mode of travel, utilizing a flying-type Noble Phantasm summoned from the Gate of Babylon. Now, he descended, landing gracefully as the golden light of the treasure faded behind him. His simple linen robe fluttered around him in the dry, incoming wind.
He was quickly approached by vigilant guards, their expressions weary but resolute. After explaining his purpose and identity as the King's envoy, he was granted passage. Before long, the leader of the border garrison, a man tall and sturdy with the build of a seasoned warrior, stood before him. His face was etched with the fatigue of constant battle.
"Greetings, Priest Rowe," the man said, his voice rough but respectful.
"You have all worked hard," Rowe replied, his gaze sweeping over the surrounding soldiers. He saw faces weathered by wind and dust, armor that protected only vital areas and was heavily dented and scarred. Many had crude bandages—strips of cloth or even leaves—wrapped around wounds that still seeped blood. It was clear they were engaged in a brutal, unending struggle.
But their hardship was, in a twisted way, irrelevant to his goal.
"I have come bearing the King's command," Rowe announced, his voice carrying an authority that belied his youthful appearance. "From this moment forward, the defense of this sector is my responsibility."
To emphasize his point, he waved a hand. The air around him shimmered, and several golden, brilliant ripples materialized. From within these portals, the tips of legendary swords and spears emerged, radiating a sharp, deadly light and an aura of immense magical energy. The display was undeniable; his identity as the wielder of the King's treasures was confirmed beyond doubt.
"Take me to the front line," Rowe commanded, pointing towards the foreboding forest visible beyond the wall.
"Respectfully, sir, would you not like to rest first?" the guard leader ventured, concern in his eyes. "Or at least receive a full briefing on the situation? The forest is—"
"There's about to be another riot, isn't there?" Rowe interrupted, glancing at the man. His single, accurate statement left the tall soldier speechless.
Indeed, by the time news reached Uruk, the Demonic Beast Forest had already experienced multiple waves of riots. The creatures inhabiting the shadowed woods seemed to be stirred by some unseen force, hurling themselves with frenzied desperation against the walls and the soldiers who manned them. The garrison had been fighting almost continuously, day and night, with little respite. Their exhaustion and injuries were a direct result of this relentless assault.
And now, even without being told, Rowe could feel it—a building pressure in the air, a bestial restlessness that signaled a new tide of monsters was gathering. As a legitimate Priest of Uruk, he possessed at least this much sensitivity to disturbances in the natural and supernatural order.
Regarding this imminent threat, he certainly had no intention of 'standing by.'
"Sir, I really must insist," the leader tried again, his voice laced with genuine worry as he saw Rowe preparing to head straight for the battlements. "You are new to this front. You do not know the specific dangers of the Demonic Beast Forest. Inside, the very air suppresses mortal strength. And it is filled with all sorts of... unpredictable hazards. Even the most skilled warrior can fall to a single, tiny misstep or a moment of bad luck."
"There's such a good thing?" The words escaped Rowe's lips before he could stop them, his face lighting up with an unmistakable flicker of excitement.
The guard leader stared at him, utterly silent. Had this priest misunderstood him completely?
Seeing the man's bewildered expression, Rowe quickly composed himself. "Ahem. What I mean is... since I am here as the King's personal envoy, it is naturally impossible for me to stand idly by while a crisis unfolds." He straightened his robe, adopting a more formal tone. "I represent the King's majesty. Allowing a threat to persist would tarnish his prestige. You wouldn't want to be responsible for that, would you?"
By invoking Gilgamesh's name and reputation, Rowe effectively eliminated any further possibility of dissuasion. To contradict him now would be to show disrespect to the King himself.
Gilgamesh was an absolute tyrant, but his unparalleled power forged an ironclad prestige among the military. In the army, his word was law; no soldier would dare, or even think, to show him disrespect. The invocation of his authority was a command that brooked no argument.
"Let's go!" Rowe waved his hand dismissively. "Open the gate. Order a full retreat of all personnel."
"W-What...?" The guard leader was stunned into repetition, his mind struggling to process the suicidal order.
"I said, open the gate and withdraw the troops!" Rowe's hands fell to his sides. Though a faint smile played on his lips, his tone was laced with an undeniable, final authority. "I alone am enough."
He stated it with unceremonious bluntness: "Your presence will only get in my way."
This was a calculated move. Having endured several previous, frustrating "accidents" where his attempts at a glorious death were thwarted by unforeseen interventions, Rowe had learned a critical lesson. He had to eliminate all possible variables. Each of these battle-hardened guards was a potential hero, their presence a wild card that could very well disrupt his plan by trying to save him. After all, Rowe's core idea was to engineer a fatal "accident."
It was a classic trope throughout history: a powerful warrior, facing a seemingly manageable foe, meets a tragic end due to a single moment of misfortune—a stray arrow, a misplaced step, a sudden intervention by the fickle goddess of luck. That was the narrative he sought to create. To live vividly and die brilliantly, like a summer flower, leaving behind a legend shrouded in endless regret.
"I announce this by royal decree!" Rowe declared, shifting his attention from the speechless leader to the surrounding soldiers. His voice rose, carrying across the wall:
"Soldiers of Uruk! You have strained every muscle, spilled your blood, to defend your homes and the nation that stands behind you!"
"You have all worked tirelessly. You have endured beyond measure."
"But what I need you to understand now is—you are not alone in this burden."
"You have fulfilled your duties with honor. You have held the line."
"Next—" he paused, letting his gaze sweep over their weary, determined faces, "—this becomes my battlefield."
With a grinding rumble of turning gears, the massive stone gate embedded within the magnificent wall began to lift. The soldiers who had been stationed outside the wall fell into a heavy silence. Moments before, they had been gripping their swords and spears, their bodies aching and exhausted, yet their eyes remained locked vigilantly on the depths of the forest, on the countless pairs of crimson eyes that swayed and glowed menacingly in the shadows. These men had fought countless battles for their besieged homeland. They had watched comrades fall, their hearts breaking even as they forced numb hands to pick up dropped weapons and fight on.
But in this moment, as Rowe stepped through the rising gate alone, his words echoed in their minds. They paused, not in fear, but in a dawning, profound realization. Soldiers are the defenders of the land, but they are not its only defenders. They had a backing; they had someone who would stand for them.
Rowe closed his eyes for a brief moment, stepping forward onto the contested ground. In response, more and more brilliant golden ripples blossomed in the air around him. From these portals, an array of sharp, legendary swords and unnamed Noble Phantasms emerged, their points aimed squarely at the restless horde in the forest. The scene was illuminated by the warm morning sun, casting a rainbow-like glow upon the clearing and the lone figure clad in a simple linen robe.
The guards stared, transfixed, at the young man's back.
So brilliant.
It was not the distant, untouchable glory of a god, but a radiance that, in this critical moment, seemed to shine for each and every one of them. It was the image of a man marching undaunted toward death, resolutely facing an overwhelming tide.
ROAR—!
The demonic beasts, which had been lurking and writhing with pent-up aggression, could no longer suppress their bloodlust. The intense, threatening aura emanating from the opened Gate of Babylon acted as a catalyst, triggering a complete and utter eruption. Claws extended, monstrous bodies darted forward, countless trees were smashed aside. A massive cloud of dust and shredded foliage was thrown into the air, kicked up by the charge of a thousand horrors, forming a wave of destruction that seemed to shake the very heavens and earth.
The Demonic Tide was unleashed.
This was not merely a riot.
It was an onslaught more intense, more furious, and more unprecedented than any that had come before.