The temple of Uruk was an architectural labyrinth—an accretion of stone and ritual added by generation upon generation of kings and priests. It did not stand merely as a building but as the city's memory, its stones recording promises and oaths, repairs and rivalries. In the age Rowe now inhabited, gods were not rhetorical devices or convenient metaphors; they were forces men both feared and relied upon. Worship was not simple superstition here but the language of dependence: through rites and offerings people declared loyalty, begged protection, and kept fragile bargains with the divine.
Because of that, each new King of Uruk had always enlarged or restored the temple, not merely to display wealth but to reaffirm the bond between throne and heaven. To the city's populace the gods' rule was obvious and immutable; even a king as brazen as Gilgamesh could not entirely overturn that conviction. So the annual Pantheon ceremony—the great, joint worship that united every cult and altar—still drew the city together in a spectacle of incense and flame.
For Rowe, however, the ceremony's sanctity was secondary. When the High Priest's subordinate summoned him, he took up the clay tablet he had finished and threaded through stairways and narrow galleries until he reached the inner sanctum: the Pantheon itself.
The main hall was hewn from vast, unbroken blocks: pillars rose like the trunks of primeval trees, supporting a broad dome whose shadow seemed to be a weight upon the world. The older ritual-lore claimed the first pillars had been raised by Ea at the shaping of the world—whether truth or pious tale, the stones possessed a gravity that made men bow. Niches around the hall housed statues of the gods of Uruk; at the chamber's true center stood Anu, the sky-king, whose effigy served as the axis for the entire rite.
As Rowe slipped through the side door, the Old Priest—linen robe hanging loosely over his thin frame—inclined his head. "Rowe, you have come," the old man said, voice soft with the fatigue of many dawns. "Arigatou… you have served well." His small attempt at a borrowed phrase sounded odd in this place, but it carried a warmth that no ritual could fake.
Rowe answered with the modesty the temple taught him. "It is my duty," he said, keeping the clay tablet pressed to his chest. Around him the senior priests had already taken their places: each sat before the statue of the deity they tended, a seating arrangement both ancient and exact. Today, those appointments mattered; tradition set the frame within which kings and gods and men performed their parts.
Normally the Old Priest himself would stand before Anu. Today, however, he stepped aside and placed Rowe into the station the old man had named him for. "Onegaishimasu," he intoned to the assembly in a soft, formal tone—please help him, he meant. "Assist Priest Rowe. It is his first time to lead this full Pantheon; show him guidance."
"We will cooperate, High Priest," the priests replied in resigned harmony. Weathered faces looked on Rowe with something like paternal approval: they respected the young man's competence and envied the Old Priest the certainty of a capable successor. But there was no chatter now; ritual compressed conversation to a minimum.
A shout from beyond the heavy doors sliced through the hush: "The King is here!"
The hall turned into the kind of silence that feels like held breath. The High Priest withdrew step by step, yielding the central station before the effigy of Anu, King of the Gods, to Rowe. From the dome above, morning sunlight spilled in thin shafts, refracting as golden motes that seemed to drift like divine dust across the marble floor.
Rowe straightened his spine. His linen robe, donned hastily on the way here, now hung crisp and solemn, the clay tablet steady in his grip. His face was set in calm dignity, yet his stillness carried the faint tension of a man awaiting judgment. To the onlookers, it was natural to assume he was nervous. After all, while not his first ritual, this was his first time leading Uruk's greatest ceremony, with gods and men alike watching. Few would believe any priest could remain utterly unshaken in such a role.
But Rowe's unease did not come from inexperience.
His thoughts were consumed by the figure who would soon stride through the temple doors. Gilgamesh—the half-divine king of Uruk, tyrant, and hero alike. For Rowe's designs to take shape, for his name to be burned into the weave of human history, Gilgamesh had to be provoked. Not mildly, not with mere annoyance, but to the point where fury became inevitable.
Just then, the sound arrived:
Clatter.
The temple doors groaned open. First came the servants—rows upon rows of attendants in neat procession. They unrolled soft wool carpets dyed with rare pigments, spread offerings of precious metals and stones, and laid fragrant flowers brought from foreign lands at the feet of the statues.
Only then did the King of Uruk himself appear.
"Hmph. So this is the vaunted Festival of the Gods? Such extravagance, wasted on cowardly mongrels too afraid to descend from the heavens. To squander my treasures on them—it makes me furious!"
The voice was sharp and resonant, dripping disdain. To the people of Uruk, the tone was familiar, even expected. This was their king: irreverent, arrogant, utterly unrepentant. Even in sacred halls, his contempt for the gods and their rites burned openly.
The Old Priest, standing at Rowe's side, sighed inwardly. Gilgamesh's scorn was notorious, but hearing it at the heart of the Pantheon was still disquieting. By contrast, Rowe's quiet diligence, though imperfect by ritual standards, now seemed almost endearing. The Old Priest found himself realizing why he had entrusted so much to this young successor. Against a tyrant like Gilgamesh, even flawed reverence shone like sincerity.
Rowe himself did not dwell on such comparisons. His eyes were fixed on the approaching king.
Gilgamesh's figure was unmistakable: tall and broad-shouldered, golden hair gleaming like hammered sunlight, features too symmetrical to belong to a mere mortal. His crimson eyes held a reptilian glint, narrow pupils cutting like blades. His attire was both archaic and regal—lower body draped in a skirt-like garment of fine cloth, upper body bare, muscles carved like mountain stone, traced with red lines that gleamed faintly, as if marking his half-divine origin.
Yes, he was a tyrant. Yes, he was hated. But even his harshest critics could not deny that Gilgamesh radiated the aura of a king—charisma born of supremacy, the kind that compelled obedience even as it invited rebellion.
Surrounded by attendants, he entered without hesitation, showing not the faintest reverence for the gods whose statues towered over him. Instead, his gaze locked on Rowe, standing before the effigy of Anu.
"Has this year's Chief Priest changed?" Gilgamesh scoffed. His lips curled into a sharp smile. "Good. Better than that stubborn fossil. I hope you can amuse me with something new, mongrel."
The arrogance was as expected—an insult tossed casually, like one might swat a fly. Ordinarily, a priest would have bowed his head, let the slight pass, and avoided fanning the unpredictable flames of Gilgamesh's temper. That was the instinctive reaction of the people of Uruk, drilled into them through countless encounters with their volatile king.
But Rowe was no ordinary priest.
He had no intention of surviving this encounter unscathed. His plan demanded escalation—provocation layered carefully, step by step, until Gilgamesh's wrath became uncontainable. Rage, after all, did not ignite fully in an instant. It had to be stoked, seeded early, and cultivated to its peak.
This was the perfect opening.
"Believe me," Rowe said, voice steady but edged with a sardonic lilt. His words rang clear against the temple's stone. "You will 'enjoy' it very much."
A hush fell instantly.
Crimson pupils narrowed, and Gilgamesh's smile sharpened into a sneer. "Mongrel… did I permit you to speak?"
The atmosphere froze. Priests stiffened, servants faltered mid-step, guards exchanged uncertain glances. To speak back to the king, even in jest, was madness. To answer him with sarcasm verged on suicidal.
The hall held its breath, waiting for the explosion.
But instead of immediate wrath, Gilgamesh chuckled low in his throat, the sound cold and amused. His sneer remained, but the fury the onlookers expected did not come—at least, not yet.
This priest was interesting. Insolent, reckless, perhaps even amusing.
And Gilgamesh, King of Uruk, found himself eager to see just how far this "mongrel" would go.