"Though it is the wild barking of a stray dog, this King will grudgingly grant your idea a passing evaluation!"
After Rowe finished outlining his audacious plan, Gilgamesh fell into a moment of contemplative silence before delivering his verdict. His words were, as ever, laced with insult, but his expression told a different story. His face was alight with a fierce, beaming joy, his crimson eyes gleaming with unmistakable eagerness.
It had to be said that Rowe's ambitious scheme—to turn a defensive battle into an offensive war against the heavens—resonated deeply with the Hero King's own rebellious and domineering nature. Merely overcoming challenges was never his true desire; dominating and overturning the established order was.
"This King eagerly anticipates the horrified reactions of those foolish deities, hmph ha ha ha!" His captivating, arrogant laughter once again filled the room.
"Whatever Rowe wishes to do, I will support him," En-chan stated softly, her expression one of gentle, unwavering devotion. She would never oppose the will of her 'friend' and creator; she would move heaven and earth to fulfill his desires.
"Assistant Rowe's proposal… is indeed a strategy worth attempting," Siduri added after a moment of careful consideration. Compared to Gilgamesh, who often acted on pure, self-indulgent whim, the young woman who managed the day-to-day intricacies of the entire kingdom naturally weighed the practicalities more heavily.
Yet, in the end, she found no grounds for outright rejection. Of course, this didn't mean Rowe's idea was without flaw. A theory was just a theory; its execution would require an immense amount of meticulous preparation.
For instance.
"How… can we make the other city-states truly feel the imminent crisis?" Siduri raised the most critical and practical question.
The manifestation of the Bull of Heaven and Humbaba was occurring on the borders of Uruk. Their subsequent paths of destruction would, in all likelihood, be aimed directly at the royal city, converging from the east and west. The cataclysmic power they wielded and the existential threat they posed were directed at Uruk alone.
For the other kingdoms scattered across the Mesopotamian Plain, it would be a distant storm, easy to ignore from the safety of their own lands.
But then again…
"The gods claim they are sending down their ultimate beasts only to punish us," Rowe said, a cynical smile touching his lips. "But… who would truly believe that?"
Gods never genuinely cared for humans, just as humans did not concern themselves with the thoughts of their livestock. Verbal promises from the divine were inherently worthless.
Long before, during the very peak of the Age of Gods, the deities had committed countless acts of betrayal and capricious cruelty. The gods received faith because of their overwhelming power, not because of their trustworthiness. That trust had been exhausted eons ago.
When it came to the words of the gods, it was difficult for the various kingdoms to offer their full faith. Even if their kings and high priests clung to a sliver of hope and were willing to believe, what of the common people? The merchants, the farmers, the soldiers?
If given a choice, no one would want their lives and livelihoods to hinge upon the ethereal and fickle moods of distant, uncaring deities.
"I understand Rowe's meaning!" Siduri was still processing the concept, but Enkidu spoke up first. The Divine Construct brushed a strand of her soft, emerald-green hair behind a delicate ear, and her moist red lips formed the clear, simple syllables: "No matter what justification the gods proclaim, as long as we make the other kingdoms aware of the impending crisis of the Bull of Heaven and Humbaba—or more precisely, make them believe in this threat—that will be sufficient."
In other words, it was a matter of public opinion. Public sentiment was like water; placid, it could be ignored, but brought to a boil, it could make fiction into fact. Enkidu, a clay doll created by the gods themselves, possessed an innate, impeccable wisdom when it came to understanding such fundamental forces.
And once she had articulated it, Gilgamesh naturally grasped the concept instantly. The subsequent planning no longer required Rowe's direct guidance.
"Worthy of being this King's friend!" the golden-haired Hero King began, starting, as always, with a compliment to himself. He then turned his sharp gaze to Siduri. "If this King's memory serves, Uruk is always teeming with merchants from various nations, is it not?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," Siduri confirmed promptly.
Uruk stood as the undisputed apex of Mesopotamian civilization—a magnificent city-state whose markets pulsed as the mercantile heart of the known world. Traders and freemen from every corner of the plain converged here, their caravans laden with goods to be exchanged and transported back to their homelands, weaving a complex web of commerce that fed the kingdom's immense wealth.
And merchants, by their very nature, were creatures of profit. Offer them sufficient incentive, and there was little they would not do.
"Provide those merchants with a substantial sum from the treasury and have them perform a service for this King!" Gilgamesh commanded with a regal wave of his hand. "Instruct them to sow a specific seed of truth during their travels to every city, village, and crossroads—"
"Let them say that the Sky God has grown weary of human ambition and insolence. He will soon unleash the ultimate trials of heaven and earth, a divine punishment meant to scourge all of humanity from the world."
He leaned forward, a cunning glint in his crimson eyes. "And to overcome this trial, all people must unite under a single banner, with the strongest nation as their core and protector!"
It was a masterstroke of political manipulation, still wielded in the name of the very gods he despised. Though he held them in contempt, a strategically-minded Gilgamesh never minded borrowing their waning influence. He was pragmatic enough to admit that in this late stage of the Age of Gods, fear of the divine was still a potent force in the hearts of mortals. This was the most suitable, and most likely effective, method to achieve rapid unification.
"Yes, Your Majesty." Siduri paused, processing the grand scale of the deception, then bowed deeply. "I will see to it at once!"
The young adjutant hurried away, understanding the critical importance and urgency of the task. First, apply overwhelming pressure through manufactured public opinion. Then, build an unstoppable momentum for unification.
"To use the name of the gods... in order to ultimately drag those very gods into the dust?" Gilgamesh mused, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. "Hmph ha ha ha! I truly look forward to the horrified expressions of those fools when they realize what has transpired!"
For some reason, the sheer audacity of the plan filled him with profound satisfaction.
Rowe, for his part, also began his own secret calculations. To unite the various nations, one must demonstrate sincerity and commitment, right? he thought. Perhaps I could volunteer for a diplomatic mission to a particularly hostile city-state... and intentionally provoke them into assassinating me.
The plan was elegantly simple in his mind. His death would provide Gilgamesh with a perfect casus belli to declare war on that nation, demonstrating Uruk's power and resolve while terrifying other neighboring kingdoms into submission.
It would be the ultimate sacrifice: to serve his king with utter devotion until his final breath. And if he could find a way to temporarily disable Ereshkigal's blessing beforehand, his chances of a successful, permanent death would be significantly higher.
Even if the probability of the Goddess of the Underworld intercepting his soul in the Kur was nearly one hundred percent, Rowe still felt the attempt was worth making. He spoke of accomplishing great deeds and courting a great death, but he had no intention of abandoning any possible opportunity for a glorious end, no matter how slim the chance.
'The King, the Sage, and the God-made clay doll jointly devised a grand strategy within that sunlit room to counter the divine punishment.'
'The King commanded the merchants to become his heralds, carrying the carefully crafted words of the Sage across the land.'
'Heaven and earth are on the verge of collapse; a cataclysm akin to the ancient Flood that submerged the world in the time of Utnapishtim approaches once more.'
'The King calls for all to unite.'
'The Sage urges all to take up arms.'
'The divine clay figure will stand with them, a weapon against the heavens.'
Rustle, rustle.
On the sun-baked dust of a distant wilderness, a lone figure moved with a steady, purposeful gait. His emaciated form was shrouded in a black, tattered robe, yet he exuded not frailty, but a strange, enduring robustness. He raised his head, revealing a face almost entirely obscured by a thick, unkempt black beard and hair.
Behind him, a deep, dark spatial rift slowly closed, a temporary chasm bridging the gloomy silence of the Underworld with the world of the living. The old man, who called himself Ziusudra, paused as if listening to the distant whispers carried on the wind—whispers of merchants' tales and growing panic.
"Disaster approaches once more..." he murmured, his voice a dry rasp. "And one of the original three, the one whose destiny remains unwritten... he might be the key."
He exhaled a slow, weary breath that seemed to carry the weight of millennia. "This old man should go and meet him."
He lowered his head and continued his slow, deliberate walk forward. His footsteps fell upon the loess dust, each print left behind dark and lifeless, as if Death himself had passed by. The scant vegetation at the edges of his path instantly withered and blackened, a testament to the aura of absolute finality that clung to him.