Night blanketed the city-state of Uruk, its vast walls and ziggurats bathed in the silver glow of countless stars. To those who gazed upward, it seemed as though the heavens themselves were watching—myriad eyes, silently observing the majesty of the great city below.
Within the temple at the city's heart, a side chamber flickered with firelight. Shadows danced across the walls, cast by the bonfire burning in a bronze brazier. Here sat a young man with black hair and dark eyes, his hand steady as he carved words into a flat clay tablet. Each careful stroke of his knife etched symbols that shimmered faintly in the glow.
"Rowe," came a hoarse, aged voice beside him, "thank you for carving the sacrificial text for tomorrow's ritual." The speaker was an old man robed in white linen, his voice carrying the weight of decades of service. "My eyes have grown too dim for such work. In the days ahead, this position of High Priest must fall to you."
At first hearing, such words might resemble the empty promises of worldly officials in later ages, platitudes offered without weight. But Rowe knew the Old Priest spoke in earnest. Time had withered him; his body no longer possessed the strength to fulfill the duties demanded by the gods of Uruk.
And Rowe—still young, quick of mind, and one of the few temple attendants capable of reading and writing with fluency—was indeed the natural successor. He alone could recall the honorifics of the city's many deities without falter. Otherwise, the High Priest would never have entrusted him with so significant a task as preparing the very words of sacrifice.
This, Rowe realized, was no mere courtesy. It was a clear sign.
In the year since his transmigration, Rowe had demonstrated ability, though his lack of seniority kept him among the lesser priests. By all rights, such responsibility should not have fallen to him. And yet here it was.
He raised his head, offering a calm reply: "Please rest assured, this is my duty."
The Old Priest sighed, eyes glistening with quiet relief. "What a fine young man." Slowly, with effort, he pushed himself upright. His frail form trembled beneath the weight of the ceremonial robe, his long beard and tangled hair swaying as he shuffled toward the door. "Continue your work. I shall not disturb you. Rest early, for tomorrow you must preside in my stead."
He paused at the threshold, muttering to himself, "If only the King possessed your composure…"
But even he knew such hopes were vain.
All of Uruk was familiar with the nature of its ruler—Gilgamesh, the arrogant, reckless King who bore little restraint, whether toward his people or even the gods themselves. His disdain was public, his tyranny unrestrained.
Yet the Old Priest's sigh of helplessness was born not only of despair at the King but of blindness—literally. His failing eyes could not discern what Rowe truly carved upon the clay. He did not know that the young man's pen was not drafting a prayer, but something altogether different.
Rowe was not writing a sacrificial hymn.
He was composing a memorial—a direct admonition to his King. Each line was sharpened with regret for Uruk's decline, sympathy for its suffering people, and fury at the tyrant who called himself divine. It was not sacrilege against the gods, but a rebuke aimed squarely at Gilgamesh himself.
Rowe cared nothing for rituals. He had no intention of flattering heaven. What he sought was to expose the hypocrisy of the so-called King, to carve words that would echo as condemnation.
"If I can leave my name in the order of mankind this way, and die for it…" He let the thought trail off, lips curling with faint amusement.
After sending the Old Priest out of the chamber, Rowe lingered in silence. A faint guilt stirred within him for the lie, but it was swallowed quickly by the certainty of his resolve. He turned back to the clay tablet, the firelight dancing across its surface, and as he traced the words carved into it, he laughed softly to himself.
The truth was simple. He had not written this text for Uruk, nor for its weary people crushed beneath a tyrant's heel. He did not possess such lofty patriotism. He was still too new to this world, too detached to weave his fate with theirs. No—his purpose was more selfish, more absolute.
He sought to die.
Not in despair, but in design. A chosen end that would carve his name into the annals of human history.
Yes, Uruk was indeed a city-state upon the Mesopotamian plain, yet Rowe had already confirmed this was not the Uruk described in history books. The golden-haired youth who ruled as King was no ordinary monarch. Gilgamesh—the half-god tyrant whose beauty and arrogance radiated like the sun itself—was proof. This was the Uruk of the Nasuverse, where myth and history coexisted, and where truth bent beneath the weight of legend.
And in the Nasuverse, all phenomena shared one absolute origin: the Root.
Akasha—the vortex from which all existence flows, and to which all existence must return. It is the source, and it is the end. To enter or leave any world, one must inevitably pass through that infinite origin.
Rowe, as a transmigrator, had done exactly that.
But unlike most, he had not merely brushed against it.
Though his mind had been battered by the turbulence of space and time, though his thoughts had nearly dissolved in the flow of eternity, he had seen. For the briefest instant, he had grasped what lay within. The Root was all and nothing, a paradox of origin. To dwell within it was to be omniscient, omnipotent, and yet weightless. And in that state, Rowe had understood exactly where he was being cast. This was the Nasuverse—its rules and its dangers laid bare before him.
Yet there was something else.
Beyond the Root, tethered to human order, he perceived a great record—a throne beyond mortality and time. The Throne of Heroes.
It was a domain where the legends of mankind were immortalized. Every hero, every myth, every extraordinary figure from every parallel world and divergent history was inscribed there. Their deeds became stories, their stories became records, and those records transcended death.
And Rowe, standing upon the brink, understood the truth: he could not carry the Root's omniscience into the mortal world. His body would shatter, his soul would be annihilated. But he could leave behind an imprint.
So he did.
In that instant before he fell into the world, he carved his claim into the Throne of Heroes itself. Not as a name—yet—but as a symbol. At its apex, he inscribed a seat, a throne above all others, a pinnacle only he could occupy. It was bold, arrogant, and utterly reckless. But it was his cheat, the one advantage he could secure as a transmigrator hurled into this unforgiving order.
"…A shame I couldn't take the Root's power with me," Rowe whispered, running his fingers across the grooves of the tablet. His voice was calm, almost amused. "But this is enough. As long as I etch my name into human order with a deed that cannot be erased, and die in a manner neither natural nor self-inflicted, the Throne will acknowledge me. I will ascend… and when I do, I will return to that throne and reclaim what belongs to me."
When that day came, the Throne would not bind him. It would be his dominion.
That was why he had written this so-called sacrificial text—why he had poured such venom into every line. This was no mere prayer. It was a calculated challenge, a deliberate step toward a legendary death.
To stand before a King and denounce him openly, to strike at his pride where all could see—such audacity would echo through history. That alone would be enough to fix Rowe's name within the human record. And once the deed was done, his end would follow swiftly.
Still, he knew the dangers. This was not a world without guardians. The Counter Force—humanity's unconscious will to preserve itself—would not allow him to tamper openly with history if they perceived his true aim. If they realized he sought to use his own death as a ladder into legend, they might intervene, warping his fate, denying him the end he sought.
And so he had to tread carefully. His record had to be indisputable. His deed could not be stolen, twisted, or misattributed to myth. He could not risk some false entity standing in his place, nor his feat being rewritten as someone else's legend.
Therefore, his words had to be perfect. They had to wound. They had to enrage. They had to leave Gilgamesh with no choice but to act in wrath.
No hesitation. No forgiveness.
With quiet determination, Rowe picked up the carving knife once more. The fire crackled beside him as he leaned over the tablet, tracing each line, correcting every detail. His eyes gleamed as he refined the sharpness of his rebuke, as though polishing a blade meant for a tyrant's heart.
Time slipped away unnoticed. The bonfire burned low, and beyond the narrow window the stars paled. Slowly, the black veil of night lifted, and the first light of dawn spilled across the city. Uruk stirred awake; the streets filled with voices and footsteps, its people moving like ants in the shadow of their colossal walls.
Rowe's body swayed, heavy with fatigue. His cramped fingers trembled from hours of work, but he forced his eyes to remain fixed on the tablet. Only when a hand touched his shoulder did he start, blinking rapidly.
"Priest Rowe."
A young temple subordinate stood at his side, bowing slightly. "The High Priest calls for you. The Pantheon ceremony is about to begin."
Rowe stared blankly for a moment before realizing the sun had risen. The sky outside the window was already gold.
"…I understand."
Clutching the tablet in both hands, he rose slowly, his expression unreadable. The weight of clay was heavy, but the weight of his decision was heavier still. Within it, he carried not only a rebuke, but the key to his chosen end.
"I'll go now."
And with that, Rowe stepped forward, ready to deliver his memorial—his death sentence—into the hands of the King.