It was only because she hadn't made a sound that the hero-king finally tore his gaze away. The moment his eyes shifted, Grea's taut muscles relaxed, and her legs went limp as she slumped to the ground.
She nearly wet herself.
Her sister Brünhilde, by contrast, stood perfectly still, utterly composed.
The reason his strike had seemed to cut only empty air—doing them no harm—was that they weren't sharing the same space-time. It was like watching a holographic film: when an on-screen character lunges at you, the blow is meaningless and can't harm real flesh. And because the film is pre-recorded, you can't edit its content either.
In short, they were mere spectators of Gilgamesh's history—like watching a finished movie. If one could freely rewrite the past, the Babylonian gods would have already slipped through time to save their slain chief deity. But the gods' rule forbids casual alteration of history. Even if you could tweak events, the fallen god's soul was utterly shattered—an immutable fact. Resurrection, reincarnation, time travel—none could reverse that cosmic dust.
So how exactly did this human king slay Anu, lord of the Babylonian gods? Surely Brünhilde hadn't misheard?
"Let's go, Grea," Brünhilde said.
"Uh—where to?" Grea whispered, shrinking behind her sister.
"To the moment the Bull of Heaven dies."
Ishtar had been enchanted by Gilgamesh's charisma and proposed to him—and he'd refused. In a fit of wounded pride, the goddess begged her father Anu to unleash the drought-bringing Bull of Heaven for vengeance—only to have Gilgamesh butcher it.
But how could a human of that era fell a divine beast? Modern weapons might do it, but not bronze-age arms. Brünhilde was determined to witness that king's power firsthand.
As for whether she now believed he truly killed a god, the Akashic system had shown her the records—locked tight. Other pantheons needed Babylonian approval to view them. Only her Ragnarok proposal had granted her all-history access. Now that her system had forcibly unlocked every human chronicle, Babylonian consent was no longer required. That the hero-king's files were deliberately sealed meant there was a deep secret buried there.
Today Uruk was alive with celebration. The entire city buzzed, as if hosting its greatest festival ever.
Horn blasts rang out, and citizens respectfully cleared the main thoroughfare. Through the gates, the returning army marched in triumph.
From initial mistrust to unease, then fear, and finally outright worship, the people had come to revere one man: their king, Gilgamesh.
Since his coronation he'd enacted sweeping reforms—most notably transforming Uruk into the agriculture powerhouse of the region. Trade bolstered the economy, and military innovations spawned astonishing new weapons. When King Aga of Kish demanded free labor for canal projects and threatened war, Gilgamesh did not hesitate.
No one expected Uruk to prevail, yet Kish's mighty empire soon faced Uruk's armies at its walls—and fell. Uruk's soldiers carried superior arms, once the pride of Aga's elite guard. Their dedicated archer corps fired razor-sharp arrows at terrifying range—and metal shields were the only defense. Siege towers let them scale the walls in hours. Kish capitulated; its king paraded under Uruk's banners.
Of 4,000 Uruk troops, only five hundred died. Kish suffered over two thousand casualties.
"That—could it be—?" one citizen gasped.
"It's him—the King of Kish, Aga!" another confirmed.
A disheveled prisoner sat in a cart, yet even in that state he exuded an almost supernatural aura. Behind him, in a splendid chariot, sat the victor, chin propped on his hand, surveying the crowd with godlike arrogance.
It was Gilgamesh, their king. Joyful roars filled the air as he guided Uruk to supremacy. Aga was then led to the execution dais, his reign ended.
In the temple tower the statue of Ishtar—once the priests' guardian—was gone. Years ago that would have caused panic. Now, under Gilgamesh's rule and careful propaganda, people no longer worshipped the gods. Instead, they hailed their king as divine, crediting Uruk's prosperity to his godlike wisdom.
As Gilgamesh prepared to speak from the temple throne, a messenger burst in.
"My lord, troops from Lagash, Ur, and Nippur march on Uruk!"
Cruel smiles spread across the hall. "Excellent—they march straight into our hands. No more pretexts needed."
Uruk had grown powerful enough to devour its neighbors without apology. Those cities, wounded in commerce by Uruk's rise, were now striking back.
"Your Majesty, I'll lead the force against Lagash!"
"I'll take Ur!"
"Nippur's under my command!"
"Wait—if you three take them all, what's left for the rest of us?" another protested.
The hall erupted in bickering—until the king's lazy voice cut them off. "You handle Lagash, you take Ur, you get Nippur. Do not disappoint me."
No one dared object. A king's word was absolute.
True to form, Uruk's army crushed Lagash, Ur, and Nippur. In moments, all three states bowed to Uruk.
90%.
Current Progress: 90%.
Only one segment of the progress card remained sealed—and it hadn't moved since Gilgamesh routed those three cities. What was missing? Enkidu? Not even a hint of him. The Bull of Heaven incident? That involved the goddess Ishtar, Uruk's former patron deity. Did gods truly exist? Gilgamesh had sensed unseen eyes upon him—perhaps theirs. He was certain this wasn't the Type-Moon world.
Suddenly, without warning, a woman appeared before him—seductively clad, looking down at him as at a new pet. Her gaze irritated him so much he half-wished to gouge out her eyes.
This was surely Ishtar, the goddess herself. If they clashed, he could handle her—but he had only one shot. That chance was the reward at 50% progress!
The woman was indeed Ishtar, goddess of nature and harvest, also mistress of love, fertility, and war. Drawn down by Gilgamesh's fame, she now stood before him—and up close, she found him all the more alluring. Golden hair, red eyes—more handsome than any male god.
Her aura of pride and dominance made mortal and divine alike seem pale. He approved. Unfazed, he sat there, chin in hand.
Ishtar swayed her lithe body, projecting the divine presence of a goddess, her sensuous lips parting.
"I am Ishtar, the goddess of nature and harvest~"
"And?" he replied, still leaning on his hand, his tone languid and uninterested.