"Twelve Mušḫuššu, twenty-seven Uridimmu, three Ugallu..."
"You took down that many again today? Good work."
As usual, Siduri came to verify the count and distribute the reward. By now, she had grown used to Samael's results.
Nearby, a mix of curious, impressed, and uneasy gazes were fixed on the well-known figure of the sacrificial hall, who occupied a private partitioned chamber.
The fact that he had escaped all the way from the Magical Beast-infested north to Uruk was incredible on its own. Even more so was how he spent entire days holed up in that room, immersed in the gruesome pleasure of dissecting Magical Beasts.
Some even claimed they had seen him alone inside, razor in hand, grinning eerily at heaps of torn flesh—a scene straight out of a nightmare.
Naturally, his coworkers had kept their distance for a time.
But rumors began to circulate: this heroic soldier had once watched helplessly as his comrades were torn apart by Magical Beasts. The trauma had warped him, leaving him to unleash his grief and fury on their corpses.
And truth be told, outside the dissection room, he acted pretty normal.
People couldn't help but pity him. Behind closed doors, they sighed in sympathy.
Still, morbid and bloody nicknames began to spread.
"Butcher of the Sacrificial Grounds."
"Babylonian Dismemberment Fiend."
"Uruk's Professional Executioner."
Completely unaware that others saw him as some kind of lunatic, Samael greeted the onlookers with a friendly wave and received a round of stiff, forced smiles in return.
Siduri, ever composed, offered a slight smile. She didn't dispel the wild rumors and instead gave a few words of encouragement as she casually handed over his wages.
Samael weighed the pouch in his hand. Inside, the clinking of over a dozen Priestess Silvers rang out. He smiled in thanks.
A job that let him collect divine fragments and earn money? Too good to be true.
If it weren't for the looming crisis and the threat of Uruk's destruction, he wouldn't mind doing this forever.
Outside the chamber, Siduri called over the logistics team to sort and transport the separated bones, flesh, hides, and poison sacs to various facilities for optimal use.
As her subordinates carried out the task, the now-idle High Priestess glanced thoughtfully at her top performer and conveyed the subtle goodwill of a certain proud Hero King.
"The King has instructed that if you ever need anything, you're free to ask me..."
"I'm fine here. There's nothing I need."
Leaning against the totem pole, the ancient serpent responded calmly, his gaze drifting toward the sky, growing distant.
"Right now, just staying alive is hard enough. That's all that matters. The rest can wait. We all need to focus on that one simple goal."
Siduri put away her clay tablet and let out a quiet sigh, clearly moved.
Unlike Samael, who rarely left his dissection room, she was constantly out enforcing orders and encountering people. She saw more, knew more.
Mesopotamia was in upheaval. Not every Sumerian city-state had a Hero King to turn the tide.
Not everyone had Samael and Ana's luck—surviving the long journey, breaking through the beast-infested lands, and settling safely in Uruk.
Kutha, wiped out by a nameless plague. Eridu, swallowed by rainforest. Nippur, where people remained trapped to this day.
Each brief entry on the clay tablets told a story soaked in blood and tears.
Even in supposedly safe Uruk, the Magical Beasts attacked day and night, and every day brought new names to the list of the dead.
Yes, in times like these, staying alive was a blessing in itself. What more could anyone ask for?
Realizing her thoughts were growing heavy, Siduri gave her cheeks a gentle slap and smiled apologetically at Samael before softening into her usual gentle expression.
As High Priestess, she was the voice of the King's will. She couldn't afford to spread anxiety. Whatever dark thoughts she had, she had to keep them buried while on duty.
It seemed not only Gilgamesh, but everyone in Uruk, from the top down, was doing their part to survive—fighting for tomorrow.
The ancient serpent nodded politely and waved goodbye to his superior.
Under the setting sun, Uruk's streets were as lively as ever, with no sign of impending doom or despair.
The lingering heaviness in Samael's chest slowly lifted, washed away by the vibrant atmosphere. He couldn't help but laugh at himself.
You don't even understand life—how can you worry about death?
What's the point of fretting over the afterlife when you haven't figured out how to live yet? What a waste of energy.
Just as Samael was adjusting his mood, he passed a forge on the side of the street.
Suddenly, a burly, bald man in a beast-hide apron rushed out from beside the furnace, waving a hammer and blocking his path with a fierce glare.
It looked like a street brawl was about to erupt—until, at the moment of contact, the man threw his arms wide and pulled Samael into a bear hug, grinning fiercely all the while.
"Haha! Nice one, Samael! You actually beat General Leonidas at arm wrestling!"
"My old man was right about you! You've got real skill!"
"How about I use a new method to forge you a batch of spears?"
The excited, proud blacksmith was none other than the one Old Um—the ghost from the underworld—had entrusted to Samael's care.
His family had been blacksmiths for generations, always dreaming of forging a legendary weapon that would stand the test of time.
To achieve that, Old Um had traveled across the Sumerian city-states to refine his craft. He even ventured into the monster-infested mountain mines in search of the perfect materials.
Sadly, in the perilous Age of Gods, the old blacksmith's dream ended when a high-ranking Magical Beast crushed him into paste.
Though dead, his unfulfilled dream and broken family legacy became a lingering regret for Old Um.
So, he made a deal with Samael: to pass down his blacksmithing knowledge to the next generation.
Out of respect for their time running gambling tables together in the underworld, Samael accepted. After much searching, he finally managed to find and reach out to Old Um's son, who had fled to Uruk.
The recent boost in equipment quality was, in fact, indirectly thanks to Samael.
Unlike his sharp, well-traveled father, the son was an honest, straightforward man.
So, the moment he heard Samael had won an arm wrestling match, he immediately set his mind on forging suitable spears for his training.
And for those who treated him with kindness, the ancient snake always returned the favor.
After a quick discussion on the spears' weight and design, Samael quietly left behind some Priestess Silvers and slipped away.
...
Turning the corner, he was met with a wave of floral fragrance. Ana, wearing a flower crown and watering the blossoms, looked up in surprise and eagerly waved at him.
...
(40 Chapters Ahead)
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