The Uruk soldiers stationed outside the Demonic Beast Forest watched the unfolding cataclysm with a mixture of profound emotion and sheer horror. They were deeply moved by Rowe's selfless declaration, yet utterly terrified by the scale of the riot they now witnessed. The signs of an impending beast tide had been present for days, a constant tension thrumming in the air. But even these battle-hardened warriors, who had faced countless skirmishes on this very border, were baffled. Why was this riot so immense, so overwhelmingly unprecedented?
However, Rowe remained perfectly calm amidst the chaos. For he knew the terrifying scale was, in fact, his own doing. Demonic Beasts, while more potent and vicious than ordinary animals, were still fundamentally beasts. And like all beasts, they could be driven into a maddened frenzy by the right external stimulus. The fully manifested Gates of Babylon and the myriad of sharp, legendary Noble Phantasms now hovering around him were serving precisely that purpose. The treasures collected by Gilgamesh, even if not all could rival divine constructs, possessed an aura of immense power that was anathema to such creatures. By unleashing this concentrated pressure, Rowe had given the horde a stinging, primal sense of existential crisis, provoking the exact overwhelming response he needed.
"Fall back! This scale is far beyond what you can withstand!" Rowe shouted, his voice cutting through the din as he positioned himself firmly on the battlefield side of the wall. He glanced back at the guard captain.
The young, tall warrior met his gaze, a silent understanding passing between them. After a moment's heavy silence, knowing any further delay would be catastrophic, the captain bellowed his order. "Everyone—retreat inside the wall immediately!" He then turned back to Rowe, his voice laced with genuine respect and concern. "Priest… please be careful!"
The soldiers, disciplined despite their fear, swiftly retreated through the gate. With a final, grinding rumble, the massive stone barrier sealed shut, leaving Rowe entirely alone in the vast open ground between the formidable wall and the edge of the raging forest. He stood solitary against a scene of terror, a surging tide of claws, fangs, and thunderous roars.
Around him, the golden ripples of the Gate of Babylon surged with even greater intensity, the air humming with released magical energy. All possible obstacles—the well-meaning soldiers who might try to save him—had been cleared away. The stage was set perfectly.
A genuine smile touched Rowe's lips.
He tightened the sash of his priestly robe and, instead of retreating, took a deliberate step forward, meeting the charge head-on. Under the stunned, watchful eyes of every soldier on the wall, a strange sense of elation bloomed within him.
His happiness stemmed not only from the imminent achievement of his goal but also from the nature of the act itself. All along, Rowe had considered his 'golden finger'—the mysterious power tied to his death—to be a troublesome complication. Yet, that very power, the promise of an existence at the pinnacle of the Throne of Heroes, had always been his ultimate reliance. It was the foundation of his fearlessness. Because of it, he could treat with disdain the things that made ordinary men tremble. Whether publicly insulting Gilgamesh or confronting the Goddess Ishtar, he claimed it was all for the sake of dying, but in truth, it was also what he genuinely wanted to do—actions he would never have dared under normal circumstances.
This moment was no different. To have all the Uruk soldiers retreat to safety, leaving himself alone to face thousands of Demonic Beasts… it felt right. These soldiers were warriors with firm beliefs, fighting for their homeland. They should not die meaninglessly here. They deserved to have longer journeys, to see more of their lives.
And in doing this…
"I can also be a glorious hero who dies heroically, for once!"
It was an absolute win-win scenario.
Rowe stopped his advance. The bestial roars intensified, and the world before him was completely obscured by a churning cloud of dust and debris, within which countless pairs of crimson eyes gleamed with mad bloodlust.
He spread his arms wide.
This was not a gesture of surrender. With so many witnesses, Rowe's desired death had to be spectacular, not pathetic. To be torn apart instantly by the horde would not make him a hero; it would make him a joke, a clown.
A clown might, by some bizarre twist of fate, ascend to the Throne of Heroes. But such a lowly existence could never hope to touch the specific, supreme throne Rowe had reserved for himself—a seat among the pinnacle of legends. Otherwise, he would have sought a far simpler and more direct end long ago!
Therefore, his strategy was more refined. He would first use the overwhelming firepower of the Gate of Babylon to clear a significant swathe of the horde, creating a stage of relative calm. Then, according to his meticulously planned script, while facing the remaining, manageable number of Demonic Beasts, he would expertly feign a momentary lapse, "accidentally" exposing a fatal weakness. A heroic, last-stand death against diminished odds—that was the narrative he needed.
So, at this precise moment, the flashing, splashing streams of light converging around him intensified. The trembling Noble Phantasms accumulated enormous kinetic energy, their sharp edges rippling with power and tearing the very air into swirling patches of pure white vacuum. The hum of released magic was deafening.
"If you have the guts, then come at me, you mindless beasts!" Rowe roared, spreading his arms wide in a defiant challenge. His dark eyes reflected the seemingly endless army of monstrosities. The once-azure sky was now submerged by the massive, chaotic magical energy emanating from the beast tide, stained into a vast, ominous crimson.
The soldiers peering from atop the wall held their collective breath. Every man watched, transfixed. They knew, with utter certainty, that no matter the outcome, they would never forget the scene unfolding before them for the rest of their lives. It was a sight ripped straight from the golden age of ancient myths—a powerful hero repelling rampant monsters with his aura alone, akin to legendary sages wielding divine staves to part the seas.
And then, before a single blow was exchanged—indeed, before close combat was even necessary—the battle seemed to be decided.
Yes.
The entire horde of Demonic Beasts, responding to Rowe's loudly echoing declaration… shuddered to a halt. Their aggressive forward momentum died instantly. As one, they turned—a chaotic, scrambling mass of fur, scale, and fear—and fled back into the depths of the forest from which they had come.
A sudden, eerie silence fell, broken only by the settling dust brushing past a single, slowly falling leaf. The scene was utterly desolate.
Rowe stood frozen, as if turned to stone.
To any observer, it appeared as if he, by his sheer presence and overwhelming power, had instilled primal fear into the rampaging beasts, forcing the creatures that had plagued Uruk's border into a panicked retreat.
But Rowe himself was utterly bewildered.
No. Why are you running?
Come back here!
Are Demonic Beasts really this cowardly?!
He desperately wanted to scream these questions at their fleeing backs.
However, his sharp senses soon provided an answer. As the thunderous noise of the stampede faded, he detected something else—a subtle, melodic echo woven into the silence.
"Is this… a song?" he murmured, his priestly perception locking onto the sound. "But one filled with such distress…"
It was a melody imbued with undeniable divinity, yet it resonated with a profound and palpable sorrow. Connecting this to the 'falling star' he had witnessed the previous night, a realization dawned on Rowe.
"The goddess who created Enkidu… Aruru?"
It wasn't Enkidu who had descended. It was the goddess herself—the divine artisan, Aruru, who had been tasked by the gods to fashion the humanoid weapon 'Enkidu' from clay. Had she descended into this very forest? In the later legends, Enkidu's initial awakening did indeed occur in a quiet, ancient woodland. Although this Goddess Aruru was most likely, like Ishtar, descending in a 'pseudo-Servant' state, a goddess was still a goddess. Even in a diminished, possessed form, her divine presence possessed a scale and pressure that far exceeded most beings in the current world; only a demigod hero like Gilgamesh could compare.
The Demonic Beasts had heard her clear, divine call—a call of distress or command—and had not dared to disobey. Or perhaps, the riots themselves had been triggered because the beasts, on a subconscious level, had sensed Aruru's imminent descent. They feared the heavenly goddess, and so had been desperately trying to flee the area. It was a plausible theory.
Rowe fell into deep thought, piecing together the fragments of legend and current events.
"I recall the stories… when the Goddess Aruru was granted the task of creating Enkidu's form, she was constantly pondering, unable to perfectly realize his appearance…"
"This song confirms it. The goddess is deeply distressed, plagued by artistic block on a divine scale."
"She has developed severe doubts about her own 'craftsmanship'—"
"And in such a vulnerable mental state," Rowe reasoned, a familiar, dangerous spark igniting in his eyes, "it would be very easy for her to be influenced by external factors. Her emotions would be volatile, agitated, irritable…"
He understood the situation perfectly now. A distressed, emotionally unstable goddess was a powder keg of divine wrath waiting for a spark.
A slow, determined smile spread across his face. The plan was back on track, albeit with a new, even more spectacular target.
Understood.
I'll go to the scene right away and offer some… constructive criticism