Chapter 4: Strong Rebuttal — The King Chosen by the People
No one had expected the ceremony to descend into such a disastrous silence
No one except Rowe, who had orchestrated this moment from the start.
A suffocating stillness filled the Pantheon.
Even without looking up, every priest and servant could sense it:
The King's wrath was rising.
Slowly. Inevitably. Catastrophically.
Since the moment Gilgamesh drew breath upon this earth, no one, neither his mortal father nor the goddess Ninsun, had ever dared to insult him to his face.
But Rowe had done exactly that.
"Y Your Majesty… this must be some kind of mistake…"
The Old Priest stumbled forward, frail hands shaking.
His thoughts were a chaotic blur, he could not fathom why the respectful Rowe would commit such an offense. Yet even in this moment, he instinctively shielded the boy.
Perhaps, he thought desperately, Rowe had carved the wrong tablet by accident.
But Gilgamesh silenced him with a single glance.
Those crimson, serpent like pupils radiated a piercing coldness, a chill from the deepest abyss of the underworld.
"Did this King permit you to speak, you mongr—"
The insult halted on Gilgamesh's tongue.
After what he had just read aloud, even he found it momentarily impossible to utter that familiar word.
The King's expression contorted, cold, murderous, humiliated.
And the pressure of his divine blood surged outward.
Every priest, servant, and guard collapsed to their knees at once, trembling uncontrollably beneath the force of his wrath.
Gilgamesh was a demigod.
His anger alone held the weight of a natural disaster.
But Rowe stood firm.
He had once passed through the Root.
Even if that power was sealed away on the Throne of Heroes, the vestige of that experience meant Gilgamesh's killing intent barely scratched him.
Instead, his heart swelled with joy.
The angrier Gilgamesh became, the closer Rowe drew to his goal.
He smiled, mocking, unafraid, practically radiant.
Gilgamesh's eyes hardened to ice.
"You filthy mongrel… Have you considered the consequences of defying this glorious King? Insolent worm!"
The crimson divine circuits running across his body ignited, glowing fiercely.
But Rowe answered without flinching.
"Who among us isn't lowly compared to something greater?"
His voice carried confidence, not arrogance, but conviction sharpened into a blade.
"Greatness is relative. Lowliness is eternal. Compared to you, I am weak. Compared to the gods, you are weak. Compared to the universe, even the gods are insignificant."
"But at least I understand that truth."
His smile widened, bright, almost luminous.
"You, oh 'great' King, do not."
Gilgamesh's teeth clenched.
Rowe pressed forward, prepared long before this moment:
"Tell me, Gilgamesh, do you only dare raise your hand against your own people?
Do you only dare wield your self proclaimed authority to crush the subjects who obey you?"
His voice rang out through the hall:
"A King should be a protector of his nation, a shield for his people.
But you, what have you done?"
"You torment the powerless.
You measure all things by your whims.
You trample dignity beneath your feet."
"You treat this nation as your plaything, Uruk as your personal treasure box, and its people as toys to be broken at your convenience."
He stepped forward, eyes burning.
"Are you worthy of being King?"
"Gilgamesh, you are the only true mongrel here."
Rowe's face flushed with adrenaline, his voice clear, passionate, unyielding.
Each sentence landed like a hammer against the throne.
Gilgamesh's expression shifted, from fury to an eerie, dangerous calm.
To call a king by name was an act of open rebellion.
But Gilgamesh's quiet was far more terrifying than his rage.
For all his arrogance, Gilgamesh had always been the one to call others mongrels.
No one had ever thrown the word back at him.
Not until Rowe.
Yet the priests and servants prostrated on the ground felt something unexpected:
Rowe's words resonated.
Because everything he said was true.
The King was cruel.
Tyrannical.
Unpredictable.
Despised those above him and crushed those below.
These were truths every Uruk citizen knew yet never dared to speak.
Only Rowe
Here.
Now.
At the cost of his life.
The Old Priest began to weep, helpless, emotional, overwhelmed.
He had not misjudged Rowe.
Not at all.
The boy loved Uruk.
Loved it with a fire deeper than anyone in that temple.
"Are you done?" Gilgamesh asked at last, voice cold, detached, divine.
The glowing crimson circuits on his body flared, lighting the Pantheon like blood red constellations.
A punishment was coming,
A divine, deadly sentence for a crime of rebellion.
Any normal man would have begged for mercy.
Rowe leaned forward eagerly.
"Done? Of course not!"
"Gilgamesh! You believe you can do as you please simply because the heavens chose you? You believe your demigod blood entitles you to rule over mortals?"
"No."
"No one has that right."
"Uruk is a city built by human hands, from its walls to its foundations.
This land is ours.
This home is ours."
"Our King should be chosen by the people."
"You—"
He pointed straight at Gilgamesh.
"—are unworthy."
Crack.
The clay tablet in Gilgamesh's grip shattered completely, bursting into fragments that scattered across the floor.
Rowe felt slight regret. He would've preferred the physical evidence intact.
But it was enough.
More than enough.
As the first man in human history to deliver a rebuke unto death, Rowe knew this moment would be written into the annals.
He inhaled, raised his voice, and declared his final words:
"I am only one man. You can kill me."
"But after my death, the people will never again remain silent."
"In the years to come, there will be those who rise against your tyranny."
He smiled, a hero courting martyrdom.
His glorious death awaited.