Eternal Kingdom — Asgard
In the magnificent golden palace of Asgard, upon the highest throne, a proud king rested his chin upon his hand, lounging lazily in his seat.
Beneath his dazzling golden hair gleamed a pair of sharp, eagle-like eyes. His crimson irises and radiant armor shimmered even amidst the palace's eternal brilliance.
He was Gilgamesh, son of Odin, the God-King of Asgard — the God of Light, the Eldest Prince of the Eternal Realm.
Before transmigrating, Gilgamesh had merely been a shut-in, indifferent to the world around him. When the single-player game "American Comic" was released, he created an extraordinarily powerful character — the Hero King: Gilgamesh template.
The eldest son of Odin, ruler of Valhalla, master of the Twelve Zodiac Palaces, possessor of the Eighth Sense, the awakened Alaya-vijnana…
A series of overpowered settings had forged him into an invincible being.
He had thought it was nothing more than a game — yet unexpectedly, he was transported into the world of American comics, where all those settings became reality.
At first, he was thrilled. After all, the noble status and overwhelming power he now possessed were things he had only ever dreamed of in his former life.
But as time passed, that excitement faded into a deep, unending boredom. Every command he gave was instantly obeyed; every desire, instantly fulfilled. There was no longer any struggle — no thrill of striving toward something beyond reach.
Eternal life, once a blessing, became a curse of endless tedium.
Thus, Gilgamesh's arrogance and indifference only grew with time. His lofty heart, untouched by emotion or ambition, made him a stranger even among gods.
From top to bottom in Asgard — including Odin, Thor, and Loki — none held affection for him. Yet Gilgamesh seemed utterly unconcerned, continuing to act as he pleased.
Originally, Odin had intended for Thor to inherit the throne, for his strength and courage were unmatched. But even Odin had come to realize that Thor's impulsive temper might one day make him a tyrant.
Still, he had no choice — and thus, Thor was appointed the next King of Gods.
And today was the day of Thor's coronation.
Tap… tap… tap…
Crisp footsteps echoed through the vast, silent hall, stirring the drowsy Gilgamesh from his languor.
He opened his eyes. In those crimson pupils reflected a figure bathed in gold.
The newcomer wore radiant golden armor and carried a horned helmet beneath his arm. His long blue hair flowed behind him, his handsome face calm and composed beneath the gleam of his white cloak.
With measured steps, he approached and bowed.
It was Saga, the Gemini Gold Saint of the Twelve Palaces — a man who embodied both good and evil, excelling in mind, skill, and power alike.
"Lord Gilgamesh," Saga said in a deep, steady voice, "Thor's coronation ceremony is about to begin. By the order of His Majesty Odin, I have come to invite you to witness it."
Gilgamesh's expression barely changed, though a faint spark flickered in his eyes.
"Oh? My foolish little brother — the one whose mind is filled only with battle and brawn — has finally reached this point?"
His tone was languid, almost dismissive, as if even his brother's coronation failed to stir the slightest ripple in his heart.
Saga bowed his head slightly, remaining silent, though a faint look of approval crossed his face.
The world called Lord Gilgamesh arrogant, yet compared to Thor — whose ambitions were steeped in conquest — perhaps arrogance was the lesser sin.
And as for Loki, whose heart was full of deceit and schemes… he was even less deserving of mention.
"Notify the other Gold Saints," Gilgamesh said, slowly rising from his throne. "Let them accompany me to the temple. We shall witness the so-called glorious moment of my foolish little brother."
Gilgamesh rose to his feet, the golden plates of his armor clinking softly with a crisp, regal sound. His tone was unhurried—laced with arrogance and indifference, as though nothing in the world could possibly delay him.
"I hope he can bring me at least a little amusement. Otherwise…"
"This will be dreadfully boring."
Saga bowed his head, accepting the command without hesitation, then turned and departed from the temple.
As Gilgamesh stepped through the great golden gates, all twelve Gold Saints knelt like statues upon the marble platform below, heads bowed low. A gentle breeze swept across the plaza, stirring their capes so that they fluttered in unison—solemn and awe-inspiring.
With a brief glance to confirm that all were present, Gilgamesh descended the steps, his movements calm and deliberate. Only when he had passed did the twelve rise in perfect synchrony, following him toward the coronation hall.
Meanwhile, in the great plaza of Asgard, countless citizens had gathered, awaiting the moment when their new king would ascend the throne.
A vast crimson carpet stretched across the plaza like a river of fire. Upon it strode Odin himself, clad in golden armor and bearing the Spear of Eternity. At his side walked Queen Frigga, her gentle smile as serene as the morning light.
Behind them followed Loki, the Three Warriors of Asgard, and Sif.
Volstagg waved enthusiastically to the crowd, a broad, honest smile spreading across his bearded face. His simple, good-natured manner had always endeared him to the people. He was Thor's staunchest supporter—forever proud of the Thunder God's achievements.
Fandral, Hogun, and Sif stood nearby, their demeanor far more restrained. Though they smiled politely, their gestures were far less flamboyant than Volstagg's exuberant display.
Loki, however, wore a different kind of smile—gentle, elegant, yet tinged with sorrow. The god of mischief, third prince of Asgard, knew his place all too well. He lacked Thor's strength and Gilgamesh's overwhelming presence. The throne of the gods was forever beyond his reach.
Though he longed to prove himself worthy, he could only watch from the side, his ambitions hidden beneath that calm, bittersweet smile.
The royal procession reached the platform, yet the ceremony did not begin.
Whispers rippled through the assembled crowd.
"Why hasn't it started yet?"
"Someone must still be missing."
"Could it be Thor?"
"No—it's Prince Gilgamesh!"
"He's here! He's here!"
At that moment, the massive temple doors swung open with a deep, resonant boom. Gasps of awe swept through the crowd.
Down the length of the crimson carpet walked a young man with golden hair and armor that gleamed brighter than sunlight itself.
Behind him marched twelve Gold Saints, their capes billowing like banners of divine authority.
"By the gods, it's Lord Gilgamesh!"
"He didn't even look at us—how arrogant!"
"Look, that's Lord Saga—the incarnation of divinity itself!"
"And Lord Aphrodite of Pisces… he's so beautiful!"
Cheers and cries filled the air, but Gilgamesh paid them no mind. He had long grown used to such adoration. What once might have seemed novel had become little more than noise.
In truth, he found such attention tedious. There were even those who threw themselves at him, begging to bear his children—an absurdity that only deepened his disdain.
Thus, he wore his cold expression like a mask, an armor of indifference to keep the masses at bay.
Leading his twelve Gold Saints, Gilgamesh ascended the platform, arms crossed as he looked down upon the crowd below. The twelve behind him stood still, eyes lowered, hands clasped neatly behind their backs.
The sheer weight of their combined presence—radiant, divine, and imperious—seemed to eclipse even Odin himself. The people of Asgard could only gaze upward in stunned reverence, breath caught in their throats.