Rowe still found himself puzzled by the composure of the King of Uruk.
Even after having watched many works from the Type-Moon world before his transmigration and possessing a general impression of Gilgamesh's infamous personality, Rowe could not clearly grasp the logic behind the King's emotional shifts. Perhaps there was no such logic to begin with. Gilgamesh, as an utterly self-centered monarch, embodied the phrase unpredictable moods in its purest sense.
But puzzlement did not mean hesitation. Rowe had no intention of dwelling on the mystery of Gilgamesh's temperament. On the contrary, this only solidified his determination—to ascend to the Throne of Heroes and reclaim his rightful power. If he attained that level of existence, would he not be able to read Gilgamesh's thoughts with ease?
Returning to the present, faced with the golden King's mocking sneer, Rowe simply curved his lips into a calm smile, refraining from pressing further.
One must know when to advance and when to retreat.
At his current stage, he lacked the means to inscribe his legend into history. If he provoked Gilgamesh to the point of a true outburst, his death would amount to nothing more than a wasted life. Both the hard-earned chance to etch his name into memory and his carefully chosen death would be squandered.
Still, he was confident that his earlier words and bearing had left a mark—undoubtedly a very negative impression carved deep into Gilgamesh's heart. That alone was sufficient for now.
"Hmph. No rebuttal? Is this truly the extent of your defiance, mere mongrel?"
Gilgamesh's crimson eyes narrowed with disappointment, though his arrogance did not waver. "Very well. Then remain beneath my unmatched radiance. Let that brilliance expose every foul inch of your worm-like existence!"
Rowe, inwardly, could not help but marvel. How could this man proclaim such shameless lines with absolute sincerity? Truly, this was Gilgamesh.
Keeping his face steady, he suppressed the twitch that threatened the corners of his lips.
Gilgamesh, for his part, shook his head in dissatisfaction. He had anticipated some kind of grand spectacle from Rowe, yet reality had proven far too plain.
"King, it is nearly time," one of the royal attendants reminded him respectfully.
Indeed, the hour of the joint worship ceremony for all the gods had arrived.
Rowe raised his eyes to the heavens. The sun stood at its zenith, blazing with merciless intensity. According to ancient belief, it was at this moment that the gods ascended with the scorching sun, reigning at the very pinnacle of Mesopotamia. To hold the sacrificial rite at this precise hour was the surest way to ensure that the divine would sense humanity's reverence.
Now it was his turn to step forward. As the designated ritual leader, Rowe's role was to stand before the gathered priests and begin the invocation.
"Great and revered gods above!"
With the dignity of a herald and the eloquence of a master of ceremonies, Rowe projected his voice across the temple courtyard. "We, the people of Uruk—your subjects—present ourselves here to offer our most sincere gratitude and prayers…"
The Old Priest, standing nearby, listened intently. His cloudy eyes shifted to Gilgamesh, who leaned languidly against a stone pillar, expression dripping with disdain. The contrast between the two young men struck the elder so forcefully that he nearly wept.
The disparity was cruelly evident.
Though Rowe lacked the immense might and piercing wisdom of Uruk's King, he was nevertheless counted as the city's second most promising youth—trailing only behind Gilgamesh himself. The gap was not insurmountable, and what he lacked in divine bloodline, he made up for with humility and composure. His words carried no hollow piety, yet they were suffused with a genuine respect that steadied the hearts of those listening.
For the Old Priest, who had long feared that Gilgamesh's brazen arrogance would eventually bring divine wrath upon Uruk, Rowe's bearing was like a sudden dawn. In that fleeting moment, the old man allowed himself to believe the city might yet be spared.
But such hope did not last long.
As Rowe's declaration faded into the heavy stillness of the temple, the priests stationed before the statues of their respective gods began their ritual dance. Their steps beat upon the stone floor in a slow, rhythmic cadence, the sound resonating like a heartbeat throughout the chamber.
Torches were lowered into the waiting braziers. In an instant, flames leapt forth and consumed the offerings. A thin wisp of smoke spiraled upward, as though it truly sought the divine realm.
And now—
The most crucial moment arrived: the King of Uruk himself would recite the sacrificial text.
Whatever else happened, Gilgamesh was the sovereign of this city-state. In an age when divinity and kingship were entwined, the ruler was more than mortal authority. He was the priest who stood closest to the gods, the mediator of their will to humanity. Even the Chief Priest and other clergy, no matter their years of service, were ultimately attendants to the throne.
Rowe lifted the stone tablet he had personally crafted and inscribed for this occasion. It was weighty, heavy with the significance of what it contained. To the world, it was the sacred script of devotion. To Rowe, it was something far sharper—a weapon that could strike at the King before all of Uruk.
He brushed aside the folds of his linen robe and stepped forward. The eyes of priests, attendants, and the gathered people all followed him. He bowed slightly, holding the tablet aloft as one would present an offering.
"King, please recite the sacrificial text."
Gilgamesh, lounging against a carved stone pillar, allowed his crimson gaze to flicker toward Rowe. For a moment, disdain curled his lips. Then, with reluctant motion, he reached out and plucked the heavy tablet from Rowe's hands.
"To think you dare to force me—the noble King—to mouth such repulsive words for these mongrels," he said coldly, his voice carrying the weight of judgment. "Were this any other day, for so grievous a crime of disrespect, you would all deserve ten thousand deaths!"
The priests froze, trembling. Yet Gilgamesh's pride demanded that he not appear petty before his subjects. Though his words were venom, he still held the tablet aloft. His posture said, Even this, I do because I permit it.
The truth was plain. Gilgamesh bore no reverence for the divine. The only reason he endured this farce of ceremony was the memory of his mother—Ninsun, the all-knowing goddess, daughter of the sky-father Anu.
Gilgamesh was no ordinary man. He was a demigod, born of both mortal king and immortal divinity. His blood carried human limitation, but within it also coursed godlike strength and wisdom. That connection to Ninsun was a tether he could never entirely sever, fragile though it had become.
And fragile it was indeed. The gods no longer descended in their true forms. Gilgamesh had not beheld his mother in countless years. That bond frayed with every passing day. It was only by its last strands that the golden King tolerated this rite.
With disdain etched across his face, Gilgamesh accepted the tablet. The object that required both of Rowe's hands felt as light as air in his grip. Light from the open dome above poured down upon him, painting his golden hair with a divine radiance that made him seem less man than idol. His scarlet eyes lowered to the etched text.
He began to read.
"All gods who dwell in the heavenly temple, look down upon the world of man. You wield the great powers of sky and earth…"
The opening flowed smoothly, a customary invocation.
But that was only the beginning.
"The gods chose a King to rule humanity. They believed their chosen King to be flawless. Yet what has that King done?"
The cadence shifted. Gilgamesh's tone faltered. His eyes narrowed.
"That so-called King is cruel. Cold-hearted. He oppresses his people, treats Uruk as his personal dominion, silencing all voices of objection. He proclaims himself great, yet fails to see that the people do not love him—only fear his authority and power."
The King's brows drew together. A ripple of silence spread through the temple as the gathered realized the prayer was not prayer at all. Gilgamesh's voice grew quieter, each syllable weighted with restrained fury.
Still, bound by pride or instinct, he continued.
"That King tramples upon all, naming his subjects mongrels, considering none but himself worthy. Yet he does not know—if judged by his own measure…"
The final words cut like a blade.
"…he, born of both god and man, is the greatest mongrel of all."
Crack.
Hairline fractures spiderwebbed across the clay tablet, groaning under the pressure of Gilgamesh's clenched fingers.
Gasps echoed through the hall. Even spoken at near whisper by the end, every person close enough had heard the words.
Then fell silence. Absolute, suffocating silence.
The priests exchanged fearful glances, their faces drained of color. To insult the King so openly was a crime beyond imagining. To make him himself read aloud such an insult—before the eyes of gods and men—was blasphemy wrapped in treason.
And yet, in the midst of this dread stillness, Rowe alone smiled.
His lips curved with quiet satisfaction. His heart swelled with delight.
This was exactly the result he had pursued.
As a transmigrator, Rowe carried memories of another world. In that far-off land of later generations, there had once lived a man—an upright minister—who dared to submit a memorial to the Emperor himself, openly denouncing his ruler's failings. It became known as the First Memorial to the Throne.
That man was Rowe's idol.
Though Rowe lacked such legendary literary brilliance, he had now emulated that spirit. What he had inscribed was enough—more than enough.
Especially that final sentence.
Always calling others mongrels… Do you think only you can hurl such words?
I've endured your arrogance long enough!
Rowe's smile deepened. In this sacred space, before god and man, his remonstrance had been carved into history.