It seems she's confident that humanity can slay a god, which is why she proposed this scheme. In reality, no matter how powerful humans become, they simply cannot kill a god.
Her reason for believing humans stood a chance in the Ragnarok match was that she had a secret preparation. Without it, humans would stand no chance at all. Overhearing that hidden fact from the Babylonian pantheon was truly shocking.
If a human really did succeed in slaying a god, why did almost none of the other pantheons know—only the Babylonian gods? From their scattered remarks, Brünhilde pieced together the truth: it was too embarrassing to admit. A divine being allowing itself to be killed by a human is the greatest divine shame. Moreover, the fallen god was a major figure—other pantheons would mock them mercilessly. So the Babylonian gods concealed the incident and punished the godslayer with divine retribution.
That godslayer was one of Sumer's Three Great Heroes—Gilgamesh, the fifth king of Uruk. In the ancient Epic of Gilgamesh, he's described as the son of the goddess Ninsun, a superhuman demigod—exactly like Brünhilde herself. But was that true? Now Brünhilde began to doubt. The gods' seven-million-year chronicle of human history contains many errors and hearsay. As gods, they never bothered to learn every detail—such was their arrogance.
So which god did Gilgamesh truly slay? It was Anu, the chief deity of the Babylonian pantheon. Impossible to imagine, yet it was said to have happened. Determined to uncover the facts, Brünhilde accessed the Akashic Records' divine-history database and searched "human slays god." Scores of entries appeared—clearly not what she expected. Most described overblown mortals who arrogantly adopted a god's name, only to be killed by others. These were trivial "godslayer" tales, not true divinity.
She then searched "Gilgamesh" and found the pertinent dossier. Its contents matched what she'd heard.
"Lady Brünhilde, I've returned."
Her youngest sister Grea slipped in, made sure they weren't followed, and quietly closed the door.
"Well?" Brünhilde asked, glancing at her.
"I learned that Anu of the Babylonian pantheon has missed four consecutive Human Fate Councils."
"Really?" Brünhilde raised an eyebrow. Four absences starting right after Gilgamesh's era? Fascinating. She bit her thumb and chuckled. If the records were true, why had she never met King Gilgamesh? They claimed he was too proud to appear, but proud enough that no one laid eyes on him for millennia? Something was off.
Also, if Gilgamesh really entered the Throne of Heroes as a demigod, he wouldn't be among the thirteen chosen humans. But if the records were false and he'd been purely human, then of course he belonged in the human candidate pool.
A human who could slay the chief god—he was exactly the champion Brünhilde needed. With him, humanity would claim the first victory before the gods.
She burst into triumphant laughter. To slay a god before the assembled deities at Ragnarok—that would be the ultimate spectacle!
"Lady Brünhilde, what's so funny?" Grea trembled. Taunting the gods so openly was reckless in the extreme.
"Nothing—just delight," Brünhilde replied, eager to see the gods' stunned faces.
"Delight?"
"Yes. I believe we've found our first human godslayer."
Grea broke into a cold sweat at her sister's audacity. Could she at least tone it down?
"Shh! Quiet, Lady Brünhilde."
"Come on, Grea."
"Where to?"
"To meet that king."
A window had popped up, showing Gilgamesh's portrait and details.
"Are we going to the Throne of Heroes?"
"No—his era." She would travel back to Uruk and witness the truth. She had to see how this hero-king actually slew a god.
Gilgamesh watched the fearful priest with a slight smirk. Then Gilgamesh felt it—an unsettling sensation, as if someone watched him—not with malice, but disapproval.
Watching him? He narrowed his eyes and scanned the cleanup zone. Among the soldiers carrying bodies, some stole glances at him, then bowed their heads and trembled. They feared a sudden curse or execution at his hands.
Fear—and terror—is a potent tool of rule.
He saw no one, yet sensed the gaze persist. It felt as if someone stood openly beside him, yet he could not see them. They were very close—over there? To his right?
Feigning ignorance, he rose, drew his dagger, and casually wiped the blade on a cloth, as if simply playing with it.
"L-Lady Brünhilde…" Grea stammered, panic in her eyes. The Sumerian hero-king stood before her, blade gleaming under his touch, so close she could almost reach out and touch him. That notorious killer, calmly polishing his sword—what might he do if provoked?
"Has he discovered us?" she whispered.
Brünhilde nodded, a hint of amusement on her lips. "Perhaps."
Having come to this era and faced him in person, Brünhilde confirmed he was entirely human. No divine aura, no hint of Ninsun's son. Gilgamesh was no demigod—just a remarkably cunning man. He'd poisoned the Elder Council and Citizens' Assembly with red lapis powder and staged eerie phosphorescent flames. The perfect recipe for a divine curse.
He'd forged an image of dreadful power.
"Ah—!" Grea nearly gasped, covering her mouth at her sister's revelation.
In the next instant, a bright slash of bronze. Gilgamesh's blade swept through a nearby rack, splintering it.
"Ahhh—my head…it's still here?" Grea shrieked, touching her scalp—intact. Then her neck—no wound.
Why scream? Because the bronze sword had sliced just past her throat. More precisely, it first cleaved Brünhilde's side then narrowly missed Grea's neck.
Grea paled. She sensed his eyes flick to them. With a flick of his wrist, the bronze sword embedded itself point-first in the ground.
"Ugh—" Grea stifled a scream.
The brutal hero-king could faintly detect them—those hidden watchers in plain sight.