Chapter 3: Uruk's Version of the Public Security Edict
Rowe couldn't quite understand why Gilgamesh was still so calm.
Even though he had watched several Type Moon works before transmigrating and had a general grasp of Gilgamesh's personality, predicting this King's emotional patterns was still impossible.
Perhaps that was the point.
Gilgamesh was fundamentally self centered, an existence whose moods were as unpredictable as a divine storm. To seek consistency from him was foolish.
So Rowe didn't bother thinking deeper.
If anything, the king's reaction only strengthened his determination.
If he could reclaim the power waiting for him on the Throne of Heroes, wouldn't he be able to read Gilgamesh like an open book?
Returning to the present moment, Rowe merely offered a faint smile in response to the king's sneering challenge. He didn't push further.
There was a limit to how much he could provoke this early.
A single misstep and Gilgamesh might kill him before his name was etched into human history, rendering the entire plan meaningless.
What he needed was timing.
Impact.
A provocation so profound that it would shake the annals of Uruk itself.
His earlier words had certainly planted a thorn in Gilgamesh's heart.
That was enough, for now.
"Hmph. So you've gone quiet? Is that all your pitiful bravado amounts to, mongrel?"
Gilgamesh sounded almost disappointed.
"Then grovel beneath the radiance of my majesty. Let my brilliance illuminate every foul inch of your wormlike existence!"
Rowe kept his expression neutral only by sheer willpower.
This man really speaks like this with a straight face?
Gilgamesh shook his head in open dissatisfaction. He had expected a more entertaining clash, but this priest had only offered a small spark.
"King, the time has come," a servant announced.
The joint divine ceremony was ready to begin.
Rowe glanced upward, noon.
The moment when the gods, accompanied by the blazing sun, were said to reach the highest point of Mesopotamia. Truly the ideal time for worship.
Now it fell on Rowe, the appointed host of the ceremony, to begin.
He stepped forward.
"Great and revered gods above," Rowe proclaimed, his voice echoing through the Pantheon like a ceremonial chant. "We, the people of Uruk, kneel before your divine radiance, offering gratitude and prayer…"
The Old Priest listened with emotion swelling in his chest. He glanced at Gilgamesh, leaning lazily against a stone pillar, face full of disdain, and felt tears prick his eyes.
The contrast was overwhelming.
Rowe, though not exactly pious, at least possessed respect and composure. His talent, though not at the level of the demigod king, still placed him second among the younger generation of Uruk.
For the first time in years, the Old Priest felt hope that the gods might not wholly abandon them despite Gilgamesh's reckless defiance.
But his relief didn't last long.
As Rowe finished his ceremonial address, the priests of each deity began their ritual dances. Flames blossomed atop the offerings, smoke rising to the heavens like a message carried by the wind.
Next came the most important part of all:
The King of Uruk reciting the sacrificial text.
In the old system of primitive city states, where divinity and kingship were intertwined, the ruler was the earthly messenger of the gods, the one closest to the heavens. Even the High Priest stood beneath him during rituals.
Which meant only Gilgamesh could complete this rite.
Rowe's clay tablet, carefully carved, meticulously prepared, was meant for exactly this moment.
"King, please recite the sacrificial text."
Rowe extended the stone tablet with both hands, bowing slightly as all eyes fell upon them.
Gilgamesh clicked his tongue but reached out and took it.
"If this were any other moment," he said, "forcing me to speak such garbage for the sake of mongrel gods would warrant ten thousand deaths. To think you worms would dare ask such a thing…"
And yet, even as he disparaged the gods, he still held the tablet.
The only reason he bothered to participate at all was simple:
His mother.
Ninsun, goddess of wisdom, daughter of Anu, the Heavenly King.
Gilgamesh was a demigod, a child of both heaven and earth.
For all his rebellion, that bond could not be severed.
But the gods no longer descended to the world in their true forms, and Gilgamesh had not seen Ninsun in a long time. That fragile connection grew thinner by the day, threatening to snap entirely.
For now, it was the only reason he tolerated this ritual.
Gilgamesh lifted the tablet.
Something that Rowe needed two hands to steady weighed almost nothing to him.
Under the dome of sunlight, the king's crimson eyes flicked across the carved text.
He began reading aloud.
"All gods in the heavenly temple look down upon the human world. They wield the powers of sky and earth…"
The first lines were normal.
But only the first.
"The gods chose a King to rule humanity. They believed the King they selected was perfect. Yet what did this King do?"
Gilgamesh's brows creased.
"That so called King is cruel and cold. He oppresses his people, treating Uruk as his personal playground. He imagines himself great, unaware that his subjects fear nothing but his authority."
His voice grew quieter with every sentence.
Still, he continued reading, perhaps out of instinct, perhaps out of arrogance.
"He tramples others, calls all subjects mongrels, reducing them to servants. And yet he fails to see that by his own logic…"
"He, born of both god and human, is the greatest mongrel of all."
Crack.
The clay tablet splintered in Gilgamesh's grip, fractures spreading like lightning across its surface.
Even though the king's voice had fallen nearly to a whisper, the devastating final line echoed clearly enough for those nearest to hear.
The Pantheon fell silent.
Utterly silent.
Faces drained of color.
Priests trembled.
Servants held their breath.
Only Rowe stood smiling, radiant, satisfied, triumphant.
This was his masterpiece.
His own version of a remonstration unto death, an ancient classic of righteous outrage, immortalized in Uruk's early dawn.
Especially that last line—
'Always calling others mongrels… and you alone may say it?'
I've tolerated you long enough.