Felix returned to the house, stepped into the kitchen, and set a kettle on the stove. His throat was dry—he wanted a proper cup of hot tea.
Outside, the fire of civilization had already been lit.
The young Bugape was tall and powerfully built, his frame covered in coarse fur. His features carried the rough symmetry of ancient Western legends, and recalling humanity's oldest myths, Felix had named him Gilgamesh—the first king of Sumerian lore.
He had placed great expectations on him.
So much so that Felix had granted him the termite genes—something every other Bugape had failed to assimilate. The message was clear: Gilgamesh was special.
Whether he would rise… or fall…
That choice now belonged to him alone.
Felix stepped outside and sat cross-legged at the front door, surveying the overgrown courtyard.
"The whole area's about five or six hundred square meters," he muttered. "The sandbox only takes up a fifth of it. I should clear the rest."
Without hesitation, he stood and began pulling weeds. He wasn't sure what he'd use the space for yet, but preparing ahead never hurt.
As for expanding the sandbox?
He shook his head.
The current scale was already a headache to manage. Bigger wasn't always better.
Knock. Knock.
A crisp knock echoed from the front gate.
Felix set down his hoe and opened it. Standing there was Ellie, arms full of food. She craned her neck to peer past him, eyes lighting up.
"Oh? Gardening now?"
"Yeah," Felix replied casually, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel. "Trying it out. Exercise is good for the body."
To her, it looked like nothing more than ordinary yard work. She had no idea that just beyond her perception lay an entire evolving world.
"I didn't think you were serious when you said you'd take up farming," Ellie said, baffled. "You're a college graduate! You worked overseas! And aren't you… terminally ill?"
Her gaze drifted—unintentionally—across his bare, well-defined torso.
Her face instantly flushed red.
"B-big brother Felix! I'll just leave the food here!" she blurted. "Do you need help? I used to help my mom plant rice seedlings! Your yard's huge—wasn't it, like, six hundred square meters? Your family was loaded… but now it's just you. That's too much work!"
"No need," Felix said with a chuckle. "I'm only planting whatever catches my interest. Who knows? I might grow something strange. Exotic flowers, maybe."
"Oooh~" Ellie hummed, curiosity sparkling in her eyes. She patted her chest proudly. "Alright then! Tell me what you want to eat next time! Mom and I will cook it for you!"
She skipped away cheerfully.
But just before leaving, she tossed out one final line.
"You used to be so depressed. But now you're full of energy—and your hair even grew back! Is this what they call the final burst of vitality before death? Don't worry! I'll take good care of you in your last days!"
"…Huh?"
Felix froze.
Just because my hair grew back, you think I'm about to die?
"What the hell?! Was that my last supper just now?" he muttered darkly, glaring after her as he opened the lunchbox. "You little menace…"
Inside was a lovingly prepared meal—poached eggs, stir-fried greens, carrots, and sliced meat. Simple. Homely.
And fragrant.
Felix dug in without hesitation.
"She's a good cook…" he muttered. "I should definitely have her bring food every day."
For a stomach cancer patient, a healthy, balanced diet was essential. Meals like this were perfect.
After eating, he reclined on a lounge chair in the yard, full and utterly content.
Later, he resumed clearing weeds. Mud smeared his arms and legs. He washed his clothes by hand, wrung them out, and hung them to dry.
"…I really should buy a washing machine."
The next day, Ellie returned—right on schedule—with another lunchbox.
Felix looked at her bright, innocent face, full of concern for his supposed impending death, and felt an unexpected calm.
A quiet life.
Gardening. Good food. Familiar warmth.
If this wasn't happiness, what was?
For Felix, it had been just another peaceful day.
But inside the sandbox—
More than a hundred years had passed.
Two generations of Bugapes had lived and died. Their lifespan was short—barely forty to fifty years.
Had the young Gilgamesh grown old and passed on?
No.
He had defied fate.
In the first decade, Gilgamesh led his people into retreat—but he learned. He mastered fire, discovering its power: cooking food, warding off predators, warming the tribe at night.
Fire marked the birth of civilization.
The Sword of Damocles remained unrivaled. With it, Gilgamesh slaughtered countless beasts, carving out living space for his people.
By the second decade, he was in his thirties—at his physical peak.
Tall. Imposing. Unmatched.
They called him the Hero King.
He introduced slash-and-burn agriculture, clearing forests to grow crops—the dawn of farming.
Charismatic yet ruthless, he laid civilization's foundation. He created a writing system—cuneiform—to record history.
And in his vanity, he composed an epic.
He named it Genesis.
A tyrant.
A genius.
He took 131 wives, who bore him many strong and intelligent children.
But time spared no one.
By his late thirties, Gilgamesh felt his strength fading.
In a wooden treehouse, fire crackled softly.
"This flame of civilization…" he murmured, staring into the fire. "Gifted by the Great Beast of Wisdom… so brilliant. Like a crimson flower dancing in the wind."
He sat upon a throne of Arrah hide, surrounded by severed beast heads—trophies of conquest.
He had lived gloriously.
He had achieved everything.
"My successor will be my son," he said quietly. "Agga of Kish. Strong. Wise. The tribe will prosper under him."
Death's breath crept closer.
Silently, he retrieved the vial of the Blood of the Conqueror.
"The Great Beast said only the greatest warrior could drink this… and live."
"And gain power beyond imagination."
His voice trembled.
"I am the greatest… am I not?"
"…We shall see."
He pierced his flesh and poured the blood into the wound.
Agony erupted.
Pain beyond battle. Beyond death.
He screamed. His body twisted, bones groaning under the strain.
But he endured.
When he rose, he was reborn.
The fur receded, revealing a sculpted, godlike physique. His face was bare—perfect. His once-dark hair had turned snow white.
His skin glowed faint ivory, echoing the termite lineage.
He looked divine.
"This power…"
He clenched his fist—
—and shattered a bone handrail with ease.
Elsewhere, Agga of Kish stood before the tribe, raising the Sword of Damocles as he declared himself chief.
Kind. Noble. Beloved.
Everything his father was not.
Gilgamesh had stepped aside willingly.
But now—
Everything had changed.
Even without ambition, Agga was a threat.
"I have returned," Gilgamesh said calmly. "The throne is mine."
That day, screams echoed through the Sumerian village.
Blood soaked the earth.
The Hero King had risen again—
And reclaimed his crown by killing his own son.
Gilgamesh's second reign had begun.