Rowe had rehearsed this very moment, this exact scene, countless times within the theater of his mind. To admit it felt somewhat callous, but in the days following his encounter with Enkidu, a part of him had been actively anticipating this confrontation.
As a transmigrator privy to the threads of fate, he knew this clash was an inevitability written into the very fabric of this era. The Wedge of Heaven and the Chains of Heaven were destined to cross paths, their meeting a celestial imperative.
And he—Rowe—had long since prepared his role: that of the intervenor, the sacrificial pawn who would throw himself into the gears of destiny.
Utilizing the familiar chains extending from the shimmering Gates of Babylon, Rowe propelled himself through the forest. His movements were a blur, faster and more agile than ever before, a flickering phantom weaving through the ancient trees as he closed the distance.
The battle between Gilgamesh and Enkidu was already in full swing. With every yard he gained, the overwhelming pressure of their clashing energies grew more intense, a physical weight in the air. The very ground trembled, and clouds of dust and pulverized foliage bloomed into the sky.
From a distance, the conflict painted the world in a dazzling, violent tapestry of brilliant gold and vibrant green.
Rowe took a deep, steadying breath, centering himself for the performance to come.
"Hmph hahaha...! Though you are but a mongrel, it is rare indeed to find one with the power to contend with this great King!" The unrestrained, booming laughter of the Uruk King echoed from the clearing ahead, laced with a grudging respect.
"However! You have committed a sin that even this King's star-sea-like magnanimity cannot forgive, you artificial weapon! Right here, you shall meet your end!"
The King, resplendent in his golden armor, stood tall upon the deck of his hovering Vimana. His scarlet eyes burned down upon the 'maiden' with the cascade of flowing green hair below. Behind him, the air itself shimmered and warped.
Not dozens, but hundreds of golden ripples had manifested, layering over one another in a breathtaking display of absolute power. From these portals, an innumerable host of blades and swords emerged, their points glinting ominously. They formed a dense, inverted steel forest suspended in the sky, a constellation of lethal intent all aimed at the single figure below.
In response, Enkidu stood firm, one slender, pale hand pressed against the earth. The ground itself seemed to breathe with her, dust and soil coalescing and rising, transforming under her divine touch into countless weapons of polished stone and enchanted earth. Her arsenal mirrored his, a testament to her nature.
To a significant degree, Gilgamesh and Enkidu's combat styles were eerily similar, and their raw power was perfectly, impossibly matched. It was this very parity that drew the Hero King's admiration even amidst his wrath. His scarlet eyes, while filled with the cold fire of vengeance, also held a spark of genuine appreciation.
Though enraged by the presumed death of his subordinate, the direct clash with this god-sent 'messenger' had revealed her true nature to him: she was a weapon, a masterpiece of clay. And weapons do not kill; it is the hand that wields them. The true target of his hatred was, and always had been, the gods themselves.
But this philosophical distinction did not mean he would show mercy to the clay doll before him. Shattering her here and now was the most direct and devastating message he could send to the heavens—a declaration of his inviolable dignity as the King of Uruk.
And yes, at this very moment...
The gods were watching.
High above the firmament, beyond the sight of mortal eyes, brilliant, indifferent lights shimmered. Pairs of divine eyes, vast and ancient, observed the battlefield. The clash between the Wedge and the Chains was of paramount importance to them.
As the forgers of the Chains of Heaven, they watched with vested interest to see if their creation could fulfill its primary function: to correct the wayward path of the Wedge of Heaven.
Rowe, landing silently on a thick branch at the edge of the clearing, looked up. With the heightened perception granted by his connection to the Root as a priest, he could just make out the shimmering, oppressive shadows of the divine observers. This was a grand performance on the stage of the world.
But what happens, he thought, a thrill of anticipation coursing through him, if the play is interrupted?
"You are also very powerful..." Enkidu's clear voice rose from beneath the canopy, her emerald eyes, visible through her swaying green hair, shining with unwavering resolve. "But, until I am reunited with my friend, I will not fall here."
She leaned forward, her hand still pressed to the soil. The earth responded to her will, dust and sand swirling with renewed vigor. The clay figure, shaped by the Mother Goddess Aruru herself, shared her creator's potent generative abilities.
She could transmute the common earth into divine constructs, weapons that were in no way inferior to the legendary armaments raining from Gilgamesh's Treasury. And her power was, for all intents and purposes, endless—as long as she remained connected to the earth, the energy to sustain this monumental battle would not cease.
Indeed, neither Gilgamesh nor Enkidu had yet ascended to the absolute zenith of their power as chronicled in the epics Rowe remembered. Gilgamesh's Gate of Babylon remained in its semi-complete state, its ultimate treasure, the primordial sword that cleaved heaven and earth, still awaiting its destined acquisition.
Enkidu, likewise, had not fully manifested the absolute, conceptual binding power inherent to the 'Chains of Heaven' itself. Yet, the magnitude of power they now unleashed upon each other was already of a scale that could shatter mountains and challenge the divine. This was their ultimate exchange, a decisive blow born from mutual recognition and unyielding will.
On the ground, a lush, living forest of earthen weapons stood ready, thrumming with the planet's vitality. In the sky, a suspended, glittering steel forest of Noble Phantasms hovered, a constellation of humanity's greatest achievements pointed downward.
From a distance, the two forces, one of earth and one of steel, began to converge and interlock. It was a terrifyingly beautiful sight, like the slowly closing fangs of a primordial beast, preparing to grind everything caught between them into dust.
Gilgamesh stood with his arms crossed upon the deck of the Vimana, his expression solemn, a king presiding over a cataclysm. Below, Enkidu's plain white robe billowed around her, her exquisitely beautiful face set with determination, her lips pressed into a thin line.
Who would emerge victorious?
Neither could say.
The gods observing from their celestial vantage point were equally uncertain of the outcome between the Wedge and the Chains they had forged.
And at this precise, critical juncture, Rowe, watching from the edge, finally made his move.
He tightened his grip on the iron chains descending from his own, smaller-scale Gates of Babylon. With a powerful pull, he launched himself forward, a solitary figure arcing directly into the epicenter of the clash, the deadly point of convergence between the two overwhelming forces.
"You two, stop this at once!"
With a voice strained with feigned desperation and raw emotion, Rowe roared. His handsome young face was a perfect mask of panic and self-sacrificing resolve.
"Rowe?" Enkidu's head snapped up. Seeing him rushing recklessly into the maelstrom, her concentration faltered for a split second, her emerald eyes widening in shock.
"This mongrel isn't dead?"
Gilgamesh was equally startled by the sudden appearance. A flicker of pure, unadulterated relief—the satisfaction of knowing his possession was not lost—flashed through him. But it was instantly replaced by a far graver, more urgent severity. Rowe's survival was confirmed, but his current action was tantamount to suicide.
Both he and Enkidu were at the point of unleashing their full, concentrated power. Unleashing such force is one thing; recalling it is another matter entirely. A thrown punch can be pulled, but how does one call back a lightning bolt already cast from the sky?
The combined power of the Wedge and the Chains was infinitely more potent and unstoppable than any mere arrow.
"Mongrel, get out of the way!" Gilgamesh roared, the serpentine shadows in his scarlet pupils writhing and expanding with frantic intensity.
"Rowe, quickly, move!" Enkidu's cry was equally desperate, laced with a fear she had never known before.
They strained, their divine and heroic wills clashing against the inertia of the cataclysm they had set in motion. But it was a futile effort. The 'interlocking' of their powers continued unabated, the howling magical currents tearing at the fabric of reality like a torrential beast.
'Is that the 'Key of the Heavens' we recognized?' a detached, divine thought-voice whispered on the wind.
'Why is he so recklessly impulsive?'
'A rare... potentially useful piece...'
'What a pity. He is still too weak to withstand such an impact. It seems he can only be discarded here.'
'Can we utilize his death to further awaken the Wedge's emotions? To temper him?'
The gods' cold, analytical conversation drifted into Rowe's heightened perception. They likely assumed he was beneath their notice, making no effort to conceal their callous calculations.
Their words were a mixture of indifference and condescending malice. But Rowe had no intention of dealing with them now. There would be time to settle that account later, he was sure of it. Plenty of opportunities in the future.
For now, in this suspended moment, he merely hung in the air, braced against the crushing pressure from above and below. His face was a stern mask of tragic heroism, the picture of a man who would rather sacrifice himself than see those dear to him destroy one another.
Rowe spread his arms wide, as if to embrace the heavens and steady the earth.
And in that moment, hidden from all observers by the blinding radiance of the colliding energies, a truly hearty, triumphant smile finally broke across his face.
It's coming,
It's so close!
My death is finally at hand!
Rowe believed, with every fiber of his being, that in the annals of history yet to be written, a bard would surely record this day. They would tell of a man who stood alone against a force capable of swallowing mountains and seas, a man who, even facing death nine times over, would stride forward without a single regret.