Chapter 009: Dust Explosion—Cook It!
You have to understand: in this era, the Sumerians worshipped the gods with deep reverence. Yet now, looking around, most of Uruk's people no longer fear the divine. How were they so thoroughly indoctrinated?
"Big sister Brünhilde, how will King Gilgamesh defeat the Bull of Heaven?" Grea whispered.
That monstrous bull seemed weakened—perhaps the gods had limited its full power so as not to alarm rival pantheons—but even at this strength, no Bronze Age weapon could fell it.
"How should I know? Keep watching," Brünhilde replied, curiosity flickering in her eyes.
Gilgamesh beckoned a few royal guards, then they sprinted back to the temple. Brünhilde hadn't witnessed every moment—the Valkyries jumped forward in time like skimming a movie—so she'd missed some key scenes. But she caught sight of something astonishing: nearly half the city's residents had been evacuated from the temple precinct. And one of the pyramid-like temple's massive lower gates stood wide open—revealing a reinforced storeroom that doubled as a refuge.
Was this for civilian safety? No—if safety were the aim, they wouldn't drive people away. Then the only explanation was that they planned to lure the Bull of Heaven inside and trap it. But thick walls alone couldn't hold such a creature. To actually mortally wound—or kill—it, they'd need enough force to blow the temple itself to rubble.
Wait—could it be…? Brünhilde's eyes widened in disbelief. Was Gilgamesh about to use a temple-level explosion against the bull?
Chapter 009 (continued)
After laying waste to the fields, the Bull of Heaven thundered toward the city walls. Even a full-strength punch from Gilgamesh could only wound its thick hide; swords and spears barely scored it, and its flesh healed almost immediately. Ordinary weapons shattered under his blows. Yet the fact he'd managed to injure the beast at all proved his preparations would finish the job.
The Valkyrie system granted Gilgamesh enhanced physical prowess as his mission progress climbed—unlocking latent potential. Now he sat atop the temple throne, taunting the enraged bull.
"Come on, dumb cow!" he jeered.
The bull snorted steaming breath and pawed the stone floor, gearing up for another charge. Then, with seismic force, it rammed the throne dais—cracks spidering out across every flagstone. In an instant, it closed half the distance between them.
At that moment, Gilgamesh slipped a hand to one of the throne's side levers—and flipped it down. The very floor beneath the bull collapsed, dropping it screaming into the temple's depths.
A furious roar echoed as a wave of heat and energy swelled below. Through the gaping hole, Brünhilde saw a hellish glow, like a volcano about to erupt.
BOOM!
A thunderous blast, louder than any storm, shook Uruk to its core. Citizens staggered, dazed by the concussion, then gaped at the sky-high explosion lighting up the city in red flames. Stones rained down—but thanks to Gilgamesh's evacuation orders, there were almost no casualties.
"What…what was that?" Grea stammered, her voice wobbling. She'd been relocated to the city wall and watched in shock as the temple blew apart.
"A dust explosion—didn't you study?" Brünhilde laughed, admiration in her tone.
Dust explosion? Grea frowned. She'd heard the term but never learned the science.
Brünhilde explained: the temple's lower gates and vents had been open for ventilation. They'd poured fine wheat flour into the chamber. When the bull was lured inside, the vents closed. The bull's scorching body ignited the airborne flour, causing a rapid rise in temperature and pressure—and the colossal blast.
As the roar faded, a lone figure emerged through rolling smoke: King Gilgamesh himself. The blast had injured him—no doubt he'd braced for the shockwave—yet here he stood.
Suddenly rubble behind him shifted as if something tried to break free. The stones gave way, revealing the crushed but still-alive Bull of Heaven, impaled by metal shards.
Its blood-red eyes locked onto Gilgamesh, and it stumbled forward to gore him with its remaining horn. But the king didn't turn. He'd heard its labored steps and knew its strength was gone—its charge slowed and its eyes drifted shut. At one meter behind him, it collapsed utterly.
Uruk's people, who'd feared for their king, erupted into triumphant cheers. This—this was their king's power.
"Bring me a great cauldron!" Gilgamesh commanded.
And so they stewed the Bull of Heaven for ten days and ten nights.
That night, the skies—once studded with stars—turned starless. Black clouds churned, and tornadoes descended to the earth. Thunder pealed like heralds of apocalypse.
"It's Anu, sky-god of the Babylonian pantheon!" Brünhilde whispered, staring upward.
"Anu himself? Should we hide?" Grea huddled behind her sister. Lesser gods might not notice them—Anu, however, was different.
"No need," Brünhilde shook her head, her gaze fixed on the throne. She felt no fear, only awe—and a chill down her spine. In Gilgamesh's ruby-red pupils, she saw a weighty, murderous intent. He meant to slay a god.
At that moment, Brünhilde's heart pounded with excitement and dread. She would witness a human killing the chief god.
Chapter 010: Chief God Anu Arrives
Anu, the god of the sky, reigned as the supreme deity of the Babylonian pantheon. Perched at Heaven's highest tier, he rarely tread the mortal realm.
Today marked the tenth day since Ishtar borrowed the Bull of Heaven—and had yet to return it. Anu knew why: humans had insulted the goddess, and she'd demanded the bull be sent to punish their king. Though Gilgamesh's defiance was factual, what right did mere mortals have to spit in a god's face?
Anu had lent the bull to Ishtar to teach that arrogant human the true might of divinity—and to rein in Ishtar's licentious ways. She needed reminding not to overstep her bounds and venture into other gods' domains, lest their pantheon be mocked.
Thus Anu sent a summons to bring the Bull of Heaven home.
But—what? The bull didn't answer. Not out of disobedience, but because Anu's command simply wouldn't reach it, as if it lay outside the divine signal network.
Troubled, Anu summoned a vision of the bull's realm. The image sharpened on his sight: a grand city of mortals—Uruk. The temple lay in ruins, its collapsed walls revealing a vast sacrificial altar where a giant cauldron boiled unknown horrors. Perched atop a nearby throne was a figure brimming with arrogance—Gilgamesh, King of Uruk—gnawing on a chunk of meat. A cow, it seemed, churned in the bubbling pot.
Anu's eyes flared with incandescent bolts of divine lightning. His supreme authority had been usurped—by a human.