Yes—Rowe finally recalled, this too was part of Gilgamesh's so-called "wisdom," the very quality the gods themselves wished to see.
For in the divine calculus, Gilgamesh was more than a king. As a demigod, born from both mortal and divine essence, he was meant to serve as the representative of the gods upon the earth. His brilliance was proof that the divine bloodline remained unbroken, that the "Heavenly Wedge" could still bind the realms of man and god together.
The sharper his wisdom, the more it confirmed the gods' claim: even absent from the human world in their main bodies, the gods yet safeguarded mankind, guiding their kings from afar. So long as that proof endured, faith would remain. And so long as faith remained, the Pledge—the eternal covenant tying the Age of Gods to the mortal plane—would not collapse.
Thus, in the eyes of the high heavens, Rowe's reckless act—his audacity to strike at Gilgamesh with words sharper than any blade—had unexpectedly become an instrument of divine will. He had not disrupted the sacred festival; he had redirected it. By driving Gilgamesh to pause and reflect, he had nudged the King toward a path the gods could still claim as wisdom.
It was a balance of consequences, nothing more.
But because Rowe understood this too well, he felt like weeping without tears. This result—this outcome—was the exact opposite of what he had sought!
Suppressing the urge to shout his frustration at the heavens themselves, Rowe steadied his expression and forced himself to look forward once more.
The holy light within the temple lingered faintly, though the radiance that had delivered the divine edict had already faded. Around them, towering statues of Mesopotamian deities cast long shadows. The priests, who had prostrated themselves to the ground, now rose shakily to their feet, reverence still painted across their faces.
"High Priest…" Rowe's voice carried low as he turned toward the old man.
The elder met his gaze, weathered eyes gleaming with a mixture of relief and awe. Slowly, almost ceremoniously, he extended his withered arm from beneath his robe. With trembling fingers, he lifted the hem of his linen garment, bowed deeply, and declared:
"Greetings… Divine Messenger."
The moment those words left his lips, the others reacted in unison. One after another, the priests bent their heads, their voices joining in solemn salutation.
Rowe, who had been publicly recognized by the gods themselves and who now bore the weight of their decree, was no longer just a priest. In their eyes, he was the chosen intermediary—a mortal bearing divine sanction. In short, a Messenger of the Gods.
Such a title eclipsed the authority of any priest. Symbolically, it stood nearly alongside the King himself.
Of course, "nearly" was the operative word. Even if granted the gods' blessing, Rowe could not hope to rival Gilgamesh, whose authority as King of Uruk was absolute. Military, civic, religious, diplomatic—every matter of the city-state lay in his grasp. He was the axis upon which Uruk spun, the one sovereign before whom even divine mandates bent, for the gods themselves had no vessel to manifest in full.
And yet—even the faintest comparison to the King marked Rowe as exceptional, a figure unique within Uruk.
The problem was… it was the last thing Rowe desired.
He exhaled bitterly. "High Priest, fellow priests… please, there's no need for such courtesy. I was only fortunate. Nothing more."
But the others, ignorant of his inner despair, interpreted his composure differently. They saw not reluctance, but steadiness. They whispered to themselves of his humility, his lack of arrogance, his temperament surpassing even the seasoned elders of the temple.
They rejoiced, while he despaired. All the happiness belonged to them, and Rowe had none.
Still, the wheel of fate did not pause. He could lament, yes, but he could not rewind time. Since the gods had twisted events this way, he had no choice but to adapt.
So be it. This attempt failed. Then I'll try again. If he could not die today, then surely opportunities would present themselves tomorrow.
The age he had been cast into was far from stable. War, famine, divine wrath—death lay everywhere in wait. Surely he would find a path to it.
"Living is hard," he muttered to himself, forcing a crooked smile. "But dying… seems even harder."
Once more, Rowe steeled himself.
At that precise moment, a voice thundered from the temple's grand doors:
"The King has a command."
The proclamation rang out from the temple gates, solemn and resonant. A tall figure strode forward, clad in bronze armor that gleamed faintly in the filtered light. His helm covered his brow, but the sharp edge of his expression was unmistakable.
This was no ordinary soldier. He was one of the King's heralds—members of the Royal Guard entrusted not only with enforcing Gilgamesh's will, but also with broadcasting it throughout Uruk. Every movement carried the weight of authority, every word was a reflection of the King's majesty.
His boots struck against the stone-paved floor with steady rhythm, echoes rippling across the vast temple hall. The gathered priests stiffened instinctively, apprehension etched into their aged faces.
The King… was he seeking punishment once more?
True, Gilgamesh had never been known to go back on his word outright. For all his arrogance, he still bore the pride of a king who did not contradict himself lightly. But they had seen too much of his caprice, his mercurial nature, his fits of whim that trampled precedent. He was the one ruler they could never predict.
Rowe, too, felt his chest tighten. But before his thoughts could form into speculation, the herald's sharp gaze swept across the chamber. His voice rose, strong and imperious, carrying the same arrogant cadence as the King himself.
"The King commands thus: Rowe, co-priest of the temple. Though your words were rebellious, and you dared to offend the noble King of Uruk, His Majesty, magnanimous as the heavens and vast as the starry sea, has looked upon your loyalty. Seeing that your intentions sprang from sincerity, the King has chosen to disregard your offense."
The herald's next words made Rowe blink.
"Not only does the King forgive you—he elevates you. By decree, you are to serve henceforth as Adjutant to the King himself. From tomorrow, you will attend His Majesty within the palace, ever at his side."
The priests gasped softly. The echoes of the proclamation rolled through the chamber like thunder.
Rowe was left speechless. His thoughts tangled in absurd contradiction. A part of him, the part that still clung to his original "plan," sagged in disappointment. Another part stirred with grim amusement.
So it has come to this.
For most monarchs, serving as adjutant was a coveted position. Proximity to the sovereign meant influence, power, and the possibility of shaping decisions at their root. But Gilgamesh was no ordinary king. He was a tyrant, mercurial and unpredictable.
To serve him closely was to live on the edge of a blade. A single wrong glance, a single word uttered at the wrong moment, could lead to ruin. To serve a king is like serving a tiger, the proverb from Rowe's past life whispered mockingly to him. And this king was no mere tiger—he was a beast with claws honed by divinity and pride.
Yet this was precisely what Rowe desired. The closer he stood to Gilgamesh, the nearer he would be to the eye of the storm. And as the oldest epic's hero, Gilgamesh's life would not lack crises. Opportunities to meet death would surely follow.
When the herald departed, the hall grew quieter, leaving only the priests' anxious murmurs.
"Rowe… Priest Rowe, what will you do?" one of them asked in tremulous concern.
Rowe surprised them with a smile, his voice calm and steady. "Gentlemen, there is no need for sorrow. To stand at the King's side has always been my wish."
He even let his tone soften with deliberate conviction. "If the King can change his ways, then to serve him will be worth any risk."
His act was flawless. The priests, who had already come to see him as a messenger of the gods, nodded fervently. They praised his courage, his humility, his vision.
"Ah… at our age, we can't match the breadth of a young man's heart," the High Priest murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"If we can't compare, then we can't," another sighed. "With so many people in Uruk, who could possibly compare to him?"
They exchanged approving looks. To them, Rowe was singular. The youth who had defied the King, won the gods' blessing, and now been elevated by decree—his name was already echoing through the city-state.
And then, inevitably, the conversation drifted into human trivialities.
"By the way," one priest coughed lightly, "doesn't Little Rowe lack a wife? I still have a granddaughter—what do you think?"
Another barked a laugh. "Granddaughter? She's what, five years old? You're dreaming."
"What's wrong with arranging early? Better than offering up that thirty-year-old daughter of yours!"
The temple filled with their bickering, at once mundane and strangely comforting.
Rowe only managed a strained smile. People are people, no matter where you go. Even priests, sworn to serve the gods, were just men—prone to gossip, to family schemes, to the same old patterns he had once known in another life.
But his heart had already drifted elsewhere. His mind leapt ahead, to the looming palace of Uruk, to the seat of the tyrant king. There, his next stage awaited.
It was time to make a new plan.
...
In the palace of ninety-nine steps, light slanted across the grand throne.
Gilgamesh lounged upon it, half-drowsing, crimson eyes half-lidded. Yet when the figure before him spoke, his gaze sharpened.
"Priest Rowe has accepted your command," the woman said. Her veil shimmered faintly, obscuring her features, but her voice carried the measured calm of someone entrusted with state secrets. She was one of his current adjutants.
But her next words stirred him.
"Also… in the Temple of Ishtar, footprints were found upon the altar." She lowered her head, voice hushed. "It is suspected that the goddess herself… may have descended."
At that, Gilgamesh's languid expression snapped taut. His eyes gleamed like drawn blades, their crimson depths alive with sudden interest.
The lazy lion had stirred.