Babylon unveiled its grandeur as I crossed the final hill. The city stretched to the horizon—an endless sea of clay roofs, white stone walls, and towering ziggurats. Ten thousand souls pulsed in unison behind those walls, a vivid display of civilization. It was a magnificent sight, brimming with blood in veins, emotions, and motion.
The urge to unleash a massacre gripped me. To let blood flow everywhere, like water through the city's canals, spilling down the river, flooding the land. Tempting. But not yet.
Babylon's walls rose fifty cubits, crafted from baked brick and sealed with bitumen, shimmering with golden sheen. Eight gates led into the city, each adorned with dragons and bulls—symbols of local gods. Yet even these ancient deities paled before the city's new masters. The Eternals, as people called them. The ones I came to find.
The main gate, the Ishtar Gate, stunned even me. Azure tiles gleamed in the sun, as if the heavens had descended to earth. The Processional Way, paved with white stone, stretched from the gate to the city's heart—the ziggurat Etemenanki, dubbed the "Tower of Babylon" by locals.
I entered amid a throng of merchants, pilgrims, and travelers. No one noticed me—just another cloaked wanderer. The guards, vigilant for order, merely asked me to lower my hood and questioned no further. How easy, I thought, as I bent the mortal's mind with a glance, passing without hindrance.
Inside, I felt every heartbeat, every drop of blood coursing through the veins of this living organism called Babylon. The temptation to drain them all was strong, but I restrained myself.
The city thrived by its own rules. Wide streets radiated from the center like wheel spokes. Main arteries teemed with people and goods—merchants hauling spices from India, silk from Serica, gold from Nubia. Artisans worked in shops, crafting metal, pottery, fabrics—everything the world's greatest city needed.
The air brimmed with scents: hearth smoke, exotic spices, the sweat of countless bodies, temple incense. And another scent—power. Ancient, alien power emanating from the city's core, where an unfinished temple rose. I'd sensed it before entering, but here it was amplified tenfold.
It reminded me of the past.
I found lodging in a poor quarter near the river port. The owner, a fat Assyrian with greasy fingers, took payment upfront and asked no questions. Perfect. The room was small, dark, with a single window facing an inner courtyard. I didn't need more. I wasn't here for comfort, nor did I plan to stay in this filthy place.
I ventured into the city the first day.
For a week, I studied Babylon, moving through it by day like any resident. The city was divided into quarters: merchant, artisan, priestly, palatial. Each had its own rhythm, but all eyes turned to the center, where the new temple rose. The Temple of the Eternals, workers whispered, hoping these beings would always be with them.
Construction never stopped. Thousands of laborers swarmed like ants around the growing structure. Stone arrived by river barges, bronze and gold by caravans from distant lands. Architects from across the world debated proportions and decorations. This was to be no mere temple—a wonder of the world.
But I cared not for the construction, only for those inspiring it. The Eternals. I saw them first on my third day.
They appeared at dawn, as sunlight touched the ziggurat's peak. Ten figures in vibrant blue, green, and other hues, edged with gold, radiating their own light. Even from afar, I felt their power—not magical like I knew, but something else. Familiar. A power from the past.
People fell to their knees at their arrival. Thousands of voices raised prayers and pleas. Children wept with emotion, elders sobbed with joy. I stood in the crowd, watching this spectacle, trying to understand their reaction. I tilted my head, observing with disgust.
What was this groveling? Where was their self-respect? Why worship so fanatically?
I had to admit, the Eternals were beautiful—not merely attractive, but an otherworldly beauty that made mortals forget everything else. Their movements were graceful, voices melodic. Their words reached every ear, even at the crowd's edge.
"Children of the world," said the one at the forefront, a short woman with dark hair and earth-colored eyes. "Today, we share new knowledge with your teachers, who will pass it to you…"
Her name was Ajak, I learned later from city gossip. Their leader, their high priestess. People whispered she could heal any wound, even pull souls back from death. Intriguing.
Others stood beside her. Sersi, a dark-haired woman said to turn stone to gold, sand to jewels. Ikaris, a warrior with blazing eyes, able to fly faster than birds. Thena, a combat master who could conjure weapons from air. All were perfectly formed, standing impossibly straight, as if poles were fixed in their spines.
They weren't human.
Seven others followed, each with unique gifts and legends. But one drew my eye—a massive man with a bear-like build and kind face. Gilgamesh. He seemed from lands I'd once roamed. They said he was the strongest Eternal, able to crush mountains barehanded, yet the kindest, most human.
I watched them for weeks, studying their habits. By day, they worked with builders, teaching new techniques. Evenings, they received supplicants, granting healings. At night… they did what they thought no one saw.
I followed in shadows, silent as air. My abilities let me stay unnoticed, muffling sounds with blood droplets I'd learned to wield on the spot. What I saw changed everything.
They weren't gods. Not even close.
When unseen, the Eternals dropped their perfect masks. Ajak spent hours staring at a glowing tablet, receiving orders from an unseen source. She spoke, but no one seemed to listen on the other end. Ikaris flew alone beyond the city, not as a god surveying his domain, but a soldier on patrol, forced to do so. His face showed discontent, yet he did his… job? Yes, it felt like a job.
Intriguing.
Sersi wept at night, longing for a place she whispered of: "Olympia." Their home? Perhaps. I'd never heard of it in this world.
Sprite, the eternal child, conjured illusions—not for human amusement, but to relive a past filled with sorrow. Scenes of towering mountains, glass cities, flying boxes. Olympia, I realized. Astonishing.
Druig fascinated me most. He could control minds, like me. But unlike me, he used it constantly—not maliciously, but from boredom. Making a merchant give goods for free, a soldier march in circles, a child dance until collapsing.
They played with humans like children with dolls. Not out of cruelty—boredom, superiority, indifference. Humans weren't wards or children to care for. They were toys.
Phastos crafted wondrous machines, not to ease human lives, but to see their reactions to new technology. He tossed devices onto scholars' tables, asking what they were, listening to guesses with a bored expression before leaving. Makkari raced through the city at superhuman speed, not aiding anyone, but reveling in her power, her superiority.
And Gilgamesh… kind, human Gilgamesh. At night, unseen, he trained on stone blocks meant for the temple, smashing them to dust with bare hands—not out of need, but boredom. Each shattered block meant extra work for masons, more costs for the city. He didn't care. He was bored.
A month of observation revealed the truth. The Eternals weren't gods. They were something else—akin to the Deviants I'd met in forests. The same artificial nature, the same alienness. But where Deviants were honest in their savagery, where I hunted humans as cattle, killing them openly, the Eternals lied.
They feigned love, care, wisdom. Behind their masks were beings for whom humanity was a curious experiment. They studied humans like children study ants—with curiosity, but no true understanding or empathy.
Disdain grew in me daily. These false gods basked in worship, accepted sacrifices, let temples be built in their honor. For what? Amusement? Experimentation?
Why?
People gave them everything. Farmers offered grain their families barely had. Artisans toiled day and night crafting temple adornments, neglecting their own needs. Parents brought sick children, begging for healing, ready to give all for their lives.
The Eternals accepted it as their due. As if human worship was their natural right, not a gift to be earned.
During my hunts, I pondered this. Each night, I chose a victim—merchant, artisan, sometimes priest. I drank their blood, felt their emotions, their distant thoughts. In each, I found love for the Eternals, faith in their divinity, readiness to die for them.
One woman, whose blood was especially sweet, dreamed her son would become a temple priest. She saved every coin, skimped on food to pay for his education. In her fleeting memories, I saw her praying to Sersi, seeking a blessing.
Sersi didn't even remember her. To her, the woman was one of thousands, an indistinguishable face in the crowd. Yet that woman saw Sersi's brief glance as her life's happiest moment.
A man I found in an alley by the docks had saved his whole life for a pilgrimage to Babylon. He sold his home, tools, everything, to worship the Eternals. When Ajak touched his forehead in blessing, he wept with joy. That touch made him feel his life was worthwhile. He wasn't even ill.
To Ajak, it was routine, a dull duty done while thinking of something else.
The Eternals' hypocrisy became glaring. They preached love but felt none. Spoke of wisdom, yet their choices were often capricious. Promised protection, but only when it wasn't inconvenient.
I saw Deviants attack villages beyond the city. The Eternals knew—patrols reported it regularly. Yet they didn't rush to help. Too far, too bothersome, too few people to matter.
Their movements, their effort, weren't worth those steps. Weren't worth those people.
Dozens, hundreds died while the Eternals decided if action was warranted. When they finally arrived, survivors hailed them as saviors, forgetting those who died waiting.
A month in Babylon taught me more than years of wandering. I understood power's nature, faith's mechanism, worship's cost. The Eternals weren't gods—just impostors. Powerful, yes. Dangerous, certainly. But not gods.
And if they weren't gods, they could be killed.
The thought came gradually, like dawn piercing pre-dawn dark. First as vague discontent, then realization, finally resolve.
I would kill them. Not all at once—I wasn't that arrogant. One by one, methodically, patiently. Starting with the strongest, most revered. Gilgamesh.
Why him? Perhaps because his lie was the most revolting. He played the kind giant, protector of the weak, just warrior. People loved him most, saw him as the most human Eternal. In truth, he was as indifferent an experimenter as the rest.
Or perhaps because he was the strongest. If I could kill him, the others would see they weren't immortal, invincible. Fear is a great teacher.
I began planning. Studied his routine, habits, weaknesses. Gilgamesh loved hunting beyond the city—not animals, but Deviants. It was his main duty, his way to serve. In that, I saw opportunity.
In the forests, far from the city and other Eternals, he'd be vulnerable. Not mortally so—he was still far stronger than me. But more vulnerable than among his kin.
I only needed the right moment.
It came at the end of my second month in Babylon.
Dawn was painting the sky pink when a rider galloped through the city gates. His horse was foam-flecked, he barely clung to the saddle from exhaustion. A messenger. He brought dreaded news.
"Deviant!" he shouted, weaving through streets to the city center. "A massive Deviant in the mountains! It killed a caravan, heading for the valley!"
Panic swept the streets. People fled to temples, begging the Eternals for protection. Merchants shuttered stalls, preparing to flee. Soldiers amassed at the walls, knowing their weapons were useless against a Deviant.
The Eternals' reaction surprised me. As the messenger reached the central square, where they received morning prayers, Gilgamesh heard his report with… boredom.
"Another one," he muttered, yawning. "How many can there be?"
"Gilgamesh," Ajak began, but he waved her off.
"I'll handle it alone," he said, rising from his golden throne. "One Deviant's no reason to bother everyone. You do your tasks, I'll be back for dinner. Make something exotic—I'm tired of local food…"
His voice dripped with such confidence that even the other Eternals exchanged glances. Sersi frowned.
"Maybe go with someone? Or at least take Ikaris…"
"Sersi, dear," Gilgamesh laughed, his tone condescending. "I was killing Deviants when you were still turning pebbles into flowers. One pathetic monster in the mountains? Not even a warm-up."
He turned to the crowd, who gazed at him with hope and adoration.
"Citizens of Babylon!" his voice boomed. "Fear not! Gilgamesh will protect you! By sunset, I'll lay this beast's head at your feet!"
The crowd erupted in cheers. People fell to their knees, chanting his name. Children wept with emotion. Gilgamesh basked in their worship, arms spread, like soaking in a warm bath.
That moment solidified my plan.
I watched his preparations from a nearby rooftop. Gilgamesh took his time—checking his golden bracelets, his power's source, selecting weapons he knew he wouldn't use. It was a ritual, a performance for himself. For the fanatical crowd.
Arrogance oozed from every move. His eyes held no doubt, no caution. To him, this was a stroll, a diversion, a way to stretch after weeks of city boredom.
That arrogance made him vulnerable.
At noon, Gilgamesh left the city. Alone. No other Eternals, no guards, no precautions. Just him and his boundless confidence in his invincibility.
I followed at a distance, using every skill to stay unseen. Two months in Babylon had honed my abilities—regular feeding on citizens' blood and experiments with it made me more adept. But above all, more patient.
The mountain path took hours. Gilgamesh walked leisurely, almost strolling. He paused to admire views or pluck a mountain flower. No urgency, no sense that each wasted minute could cost lives to anyone the Deviant met.
That only pleased me. The longer he dallied, the farther we got from the city, the less chance anyone would find or hear what happened next.
The trail wound through rocks and scree. The air thinned, the wind chilled. Ancient cedars gave way to stunted pines, then bare stone and sparse shrubs.
Gilgamesh stopped on a high cliff overlooking the valley. He stood long, savoring the majestic view and his own grandeur. In the setting sun's rays, his figure gleamed like gold.
"Where are you, beast?" he muttered, scanning the gorges. "Is it so hard to find one wretched Deviant?"
He didn't know the Deviant was gone. I'd tracked it for over a week, sensing its blood, and knew it had fled to northern caves. Gilgamesh, blinded by arrogance, didn't notice simple signs—tracks, scents.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, he showed irritation.
"Damn it," he grumbled, descending the cliff. "Where's that blasted…"
His voice cut off. He froze, sniffing. His heightened senses finally caught what I'd stopped hiding moments ago—the scent of blood.
Human blood.
"Who's there?" he shouted, turning my way. "Show yourself!"
I stepped from behind a boulder, slow, theatrical. My hood was down, face exposed. In the fading sunlight, my eyes burned red, fangs gleamed.
"Good evening, great Gilgamesh," I said, bowing slightly. "How's the hunt? Found your Deviant?"
His eyes narrowed. His bracelets pulsed with faint golden light.
"You… you're the one killing in the city," he said slowly. "We searched for you, but you slipped away. I smell their blood on you. What are you…"
"Of course," I licked my lips. "Fresh. Your worshippers, by the way. Very… devoted. Even dying, they whispered your name."
Gilgamesh's face twisted with rage. His golden aura flared brighter, denser.
"You dared…" he hissed. "You dared kill innocent people? Those who believed in us?"
"Innocent?" I laughed. "Funny to hear from a creature who plays with humans like a child with ants. Tell me, Gilgamesh, how many do you remember? Their faces, names, stories?"
He didn't answer, but his face told me—none. To him, humans were a faceless mass of admirers, a source of amusement.
"You're a monster," he said finally.
"Yes," I agreed. "But an honest one. I don't pretend to be a god or humanity's savior. I kill because I'm hungry. You? You kill from boredom."
"I protect people!"
"You entertain yourself," I corrected, shrugging. "And today, entertainment came to you."
Gilgamesh charged with a roar of fury. His speed was staggering—in a split second, he closed the distance, his fist aimed at my face.
But I was ready. Two months studying him weren't wasted. I knew he'd attack in anger, relying on strength over technique.
I dodged at the last moment, his fist whistling past my ear. The air from the blow scorched my cheek. Had it landed, my head would've been smeared across the rocks.
Gilgamesh crashed into the boulder behind me. Stone cracked, shards flying. He turned, eyes blazing with rage.
"Stand still, coward!" he roared.
"Why?" I stepped back. "You're stronger. Prove it."
He attacked again, a flurry of punches. Right, left, right—each could shatter my bones, but none hit. I danced between his fists, using his momentum against him, weaving away from each swing.
"Fight like a man!" he growled, missing repeatedly.
"I fight like a hunter," I replied, landing a quick strike to his ribs.
My fist hit his side, feeling like striking granite. But Gilgamesh flinched, bending slightly—not from pain, but surprise. When was the last time anyone made him feel a blow?
"Does it hurt?" I taunted.
"Tickles," he snarled, but his voice held uncertainty.
The fight wore on, and I saw his weaknesses. Gilgamesh was immensely strong but predictable. Thousands of years of victories made him arrogant, lazy in technique. He relied on brute force, forgetting the art of combat.
I'd studied dozens of fighting styles over centuries. I'd battled warriors of every nation, masters of blade and spear, wild beasts, and creatures. My experience was broader, more adaptable.
And I was hungry. That gave me strength he lacked.
Each of my strikes was precise, targeting pressure points, joints, nerve clusters. Alone, they did little harm, but they added up. His face showed something he likely hadn't felt in millennia—doubt.
"What… what are you?" he rasped after a particularly painful series of hits.
"A monster," I said, dodging his desperate swing.
Gilgamesh was losing control. His attacks grew wilder, more desperate. He swung like a drunk, wasting energy.
I grew calmer, colder. Every drop of blood I'd drunk in Babylon sang in my veins, fueling strength and speed. Months of preparation led to this.
"Surrender!" he shouted, missing again. "I don't want to kill you!"
"Liar," I laughed. "You dream of smashing me to bits. But you can't even hit me."
That truth stung more than any blow. His pride, swollen by millennia of victories, couldn't fathom defeat.
He lunged to grab me, but I spun under his arms, landing behind him. My elbow slammed into his kidney, making him double over in pain.
"You're slowing, Gilgamesh," I whispered in his ear. "Weakening. Boredom's made you lazy."
He spun with a roar, but I was gone. His fist cleaved the air where my head had been.
"I… I'm invincible!" he gasped. "The strongest Eternal!"
"Were," I corrected. "Once. Now you're just a spoiled child playing god."
For minutes, I dismantled his defenses. A strike to the solar plexus doubled him over. A blow to the knee buckled him. Rapid hits to his head smeared blood across his face.
Gilgamesh fell and rose, fell and rose. Blood streamed from his broken nose, his left eye swelling shut. His breathing grew ragged, movements unsteady.
I hadn't even broken a sweat—if this body could sweat.
"How…" he rasped, wiping blood. "How is this possible?"
"Did I mention your worshippers' blood?" I asked, circling him. "How sweet it was in my throat? Each drop made me stronger. Their faith in you became my strength."
Horror spread across his face. He realized—his own followers were weapons against him.
"You… used them…"
"Like you," I stopped before him. "The difference is, I was honest about my intentions."
Gilgamesh tried to rise, but his legs failed. He collapsed to his knees, panting. His golden aura faded to near invisibility.
"Now… I'll show you…" he began, but I cut him off.
My fist smashed his jaw upward with such force the sound echoed through the mountains. Blood sprayed from his split lips as his head snapped back.
He fell on his back, arms splayed. His eyes were open, but his gaze was cloudy, distant.
"It's over," I said, crouching beside him. "Game's done, 'great' Gilgamesh."
He tried to speak, but only a wheeze escaped. I leaned closer, eager to hear the last words of the mightiest Eternal.
"Why…" he whispered.
"Because you lie," I said simply. "To people, yourselves, the world. You play gods, but you're just spoiled children with dangerous toys."
I stood, scanning around. We were alone in these wild mountains. No one for miles to hear or see.
"The funniest part?" I said, turning to him. "You came to hunt a Deviant. And became the prey."
Understanding flashed in his eyes. A final spark of horror before the inevitable.
I seized his throat and lifted him from the ground. My fingers tightened, cutting off his breath. Gilgamesh thrashed, but his strength was gone.
"Sleep, false god," I whispered, squeezing. "An eternal sleep."
Something cracked in his neck. His body went limp. His eyes glazed over.
Gilgamesh, the strongest Eternal, humanity's protector, crowd's beloved—was dead.
I released him, and his body hit the rocky ground like a sack of grain. No grandeur, no divinity. Just dead flesh.
But I wasn't done.
I knelt over him, sinking fangs into his neck. An Eternal's blood was unlike anything I'd tasted. It wasn't blood in the usual sense—I couldn't control it, and its color was a strange gold. Yet it burned in my throat like molten metal, filling every cell with unimaginable power.
Fleeting visions flooded my mind. Flashes of light, battles, laughter. A millennium of pain. Familiar eyes, six of them.
The last drop slid from my lips, and the visions stopped. But the knowledge remained. I now knew everything about the Eternals. They were followers of that colossal creature.
A name surfaced. Arishem. The Creator.
This knowledge sickened me further. They'd made this world a cradle for a creature that descended to earth. Made it an apple, gnawed by a worm from within.
They weren't even real beings. Just intricate puppets playing assigned roles. And humans worshipped them as gods. Those gods waited for the worm to awaken.
Damned creatures.
I stood and stepped back. The task was done. The first Eternal was dead, and his death would change everything.
Now they'd know fear. They'd learn they weren't immortal, invincible. That fear would make them weaker, stupider, more human.
And thus, more vulnerable to what I planned next. I'd kill them all, kill the worm.
Gilgamesh was just the beginning.
I felt his artificial blood change me, like the Deviant's had, making me stronger, making me…
Something struck me from the side with immense force. The world blurred into pain and light. I tumbled through the air, crashing into a tree.
Makkari. The superfast creature hit me at full speed. My skull cracked against the bark, and consciousness slipped. The blow was too strong, too swift—I hadn't even seen her.
For the first time in centuries, I felt darkness consume me. The last thing I saw before sinking into the void was figures approaching through the haze. Artificial creations of that colossal beast, unable to fight fair even in an honest duel.
Then came darkness. Total, unrelenting darkness, unknown to me for centuries.