Chapter 2: Gilgamesh
The temple of Uruk was a vast and intricate structure, layered chambers, winding corridors, towering pillars, and sacred halls interwoven like the veins of a living myth.
Unlike the world Rowe had come from before transmigrating, this realm was not a distant echo of mythology.
Here, the gods truly existed, and humanity lived beneath their shadow.
Worship was not a mere cultural relic.
It was loyalty.
It was fear.
It was dependence.
And so, each generation of Uruk's king expanded the temple complex, honoring the legacies of their predecessors. In the eyes of the people, humans were born under divine authority, and even Gilgamesh, who held open disdain for the gods, could not erase that belief. Were it otherwise, the grand divine festival would not have been held at all.
The annual ceremony of collective worship was both elaborate and overwhelming.
But for now, none of that mattered to Rowe.
After receiving the High Priest's summons, Rowe immediately carried the clay tablet from his workroom, weaving through stairways and corridors until he reached the central site of the ceremony:
The Pantheon.
The main hall dedicated to the gods.
Constructed from massive, unbroken stone slabs, its pillars soared upward like ancient supports of the world, the same ones said to have been carved by the god Ea at the dawn of human civilization.
On all four sides stood statues of the deities, and at the center of them all was Enlil, King of the Gods, ruler of the heavens.
Before Enlil's statue stood the Old Priest, cloaked in linen, who looked up as Rowe entered from the side door.
"Rowe, well done," the elder said warmly. His expression softened, relief, gratitude, and pride mingled in his eyes.
Rowe offered a small smile. "It is my duty."
Around them, the temple's priests had already taken their places, each seated before the statue of the god they served. Such seating arrangements had been tradition since ancient times.
As High Priest, the old man naturally stood before the statue of Anu, but as host of the ritual, he should have opened the ceremony.
This year, however, the duty would fall to Rowe.
"Everyone," the High Priest addressed the gathered clergy, "this is Rowe's first time conducting a ceremony of this magnitude. I ask that you support him."
"We will fully cooperate with Priest Rowe," the priests replied in unison.
They were older men, long committed to their divine duties. Toward Rowe, their attitudes were warm, some even held envy, for the High Priest had chosen his successor well.
But this was not the time for chatter.
A voice from outside suddenly boomed:
"The King is here!"
Instantly, silence washed over the hall.
Every priest straightened.
The High Priest stepped aside, yielding the central position to Rowe.
Sunlight streamed down through the open dome above, scattering into golden motes. The dawn sky cast brilliant colors across the stone floor.
Rowe stood tall, dressed in ceremonial linen, the carved tablet held firmly in both hands. His expression was composed, perhaps even tense, and to the onlookers, his nerves were understandable. This was his first time leading such a colossal ritual.
But in truth, Rowe was not nervous about the ceremony.
He was thinking about how to provoke Gilgamesh with maximum efficiency.
He needed the king enraged.
Enraged enough to kill him.
Enraged enough to grant him the unnatural death he needed.
Outside the temple, the processional sounds began:
Clatter.
Servants streamed inside, rolling out thick wool carpets across the floor. Containers of treasure were presented, exotic flowers were offered at the feet of the statues.
And finally—
Gilgamesh entered.
"Hmph. So this is the so called Festival of the Gods?" the king scoffed, his voice echoing across the Pantheon. "Such extravagance wasted on a pack of mongrels who only dare peek at humanity from their heavens. To think my treasury was plundered for this, absolutely infuriating."
The tone was unmistakable.
The people of Uruk had heard it countless times.
Even on a divine festival, the king's arrogance knew no restraint.
Beside Rowe, the old priest sighed softly. He had long since abandoned the hope of persuading Gilgamesh to respect tradition. Instead, he now placed that burden, the preservation of faith and ritual, on Rowe's shoulders.
Compared to Gilgamesh, nearly anyone appeared devout. Even Rowe, who wasn't exactly a model worshipper himself, suddenly seemed saintly.
Rowe, for his part, paid little attention to the exotic treasures being laid out. His gaze was fixed solely on the approaching king.
The tall figure emerged fully into view.
Gilgamesh, short golden hair, sculpted features, serpent like crimson eyes. His lower body was wrapped in traditional skirt like cloth; his upper body was bare, defined muscle traced with crimson divine circuits that glowed faintly like molten lines in stone.
He moved like someone who considered himself the axis of the world.
And unfortunately for Uruk, that arrogance had some justification.
Gilgamesh glanced once at Rowe, who stood before Enlil's statue.
"So the Chief Priest changed this year?" Gilgamesh mused with a smirk. "Good. Better than that decrepit fossil. I expect a different kind of performance from you, mongrel."
His contempt rolled through the temple like smoke.
Normally, remain silent, that was the rule.
Gilgamesh did not tolerate casual replies.
A single wrong word could invite instant death.
This was how any ordinary person of Uruk would behave.
But Rowe was not ordinary.
Rowe wanted to die.
And provoking Gilgamesh early was essential.
So he smiled.
"Believe me, Your Majesty," Rowe said lightly, "you will enjoy it very much."
His voice echoed through the stone chamber, polite on the surface yet carrying unmistakable sarcasm.
Gasps scattered among the priests and servants.
Gilgamesh's eyes narrowed.
"Mongrel… did I give you permission to speak?"
Several priests went pale. Servants and guards froze mid breath.
No one, absolutely no one, expected Rowe to respond to Gilgamesh so casually.
One wrong move, and the king could slaughter him on the spot.
And yet—
Gilgamesh did not erupt into fury.
He sneered instead, amused.
This young priest…
This insolent, reckless priest…
Now this was interesting.
And Gilgamesh welcomed interesting disasters far more than boring obedience.