The evening passed without further incident, the tension that had briefly flared during their conversation dissipating into the quiet murmur of the dining hall. The next morning, as the first rays of dawn began to pierce through the dense canopy of the forest, Gilgamesh stood alone amidst the trees. The air was crisp and cool, with the faintest hints of morning dew still clinging to the foliage.
Gilgamesh's gaze was focused, his hands moving with practiced precision as he shaped the mana around him. The elements responded to his will, bending and twisting in intricate patterns. Fire, water, wind, and earth—each obeyed his commands, merging and separating at his discretion. But today, his interest lay elsewhere.
"The balance between yin and yang..." he mused aloud, his voice barely above a whisper. "Two opposing forces, yet together they form the foundation of all things. Their uses are vast, from enhancing the body's resilience to manipulating the very flow of time. Such power must be wielded with precision."
With a flick of his wrist, a dark shadow materialized before him, its form shifting and writhing like a living entity. The shadow element had piqued his curiosity, its potential for concealment and subterfuge unlike any other. However, there was something else he needed to verify.
He extended his hand, the shadow responding instantly, coiling around his fingers like a living thing. "The true nature of this element... its connection to the void, to the unseen realms... I need to understand it completely."
Satisfied for the moment, he released the shadow, letting it dissipate into the surrounding darkness. "But not now," he murmured. "This requires more controlled conditions, and the slums will serve well enough."
Gilgamesh turned away from the forest, his thoughts already shifting to the next phase of his experimentation. With a subtle gesture, the world around him shifted, and in an instant, Gilgamesh found himself in the slums of the capital city. The once serene and isolated forest was replaced by the oppressive atmosphere of narrow, grimy alleyways and dilapidated buildings. The stench of decay and poverty hung heavy in the air, and the morning sun barely penetrated the thick clouds of filth and despair that seemed to cling to every surface.
As he wandered through the slums, Gilgamesh observed the miserable conditions of the people living there. Ragged children with hollow eyes played in the dirt, while their parents, gaunt and broken, huddled together in tattered clothing, trying to keep warm. The sight was a stark contrast to the luxury and opulence he was accustomed to, but it did not faze him. Instead, it only fueled his curiosity and cold ambition.
As Gilgamesh continued to stroll through the slums, his crimson eyes surveyed the desolate surroundings with a mixture of disdain and a rare flicker of sympathy. "What a terrible situation," he muttered to himself, his voice laced with both contempt and a hint of something softer. "This kingdom is a reflection of its weak leadership, allowing such wretchedness to fester. If I were its ruler, such pathetic sights would not exist. The kingdom would flourish under my reign, lifting those with potential and eliminating the rot that holds it back. A ruler must command with absolute authority, but also understand the burden of caring for his people."
It wasn't long before his aura of effortless superiority drew the attention of the local vermin. Seven lowly thugs emerged from the shadows, clad in tattered armor and rags, their leader—a hulking brute with a scarred face—brandishing a rusted blade like a fool who had yet to grasp his own insignificance.
"Oi, rich boy," the leader sneered, his voice a pitiful attempt at intimidation. "You've wandered into the wrong part of town. Hand over everything you've got if you value your life."
Gilgamesh didn't so much as blink. His lips curled into a cold, disdainful smirk, as if he were watching animals performing a tiresome trick. His crimson eyes gleamed, more amused than threatened by their pathetic display. "Ah, how fortunate," he said, his voice smooth yet laced with regal menace. "I was in need of entertainment. You, mongrels, shall suffice."
Before they could react, the space around him rippled, and the golden light of the Gate of Babylon flickered into existence. Countless shimmering portals opened, each revealing treasures of unimaginable power. In the blink of an eye, the thugs were struck down, impaled by weapons more glorious than they could ever fathom. Their leader and several others fell, lifeless before their minds could even comprehend the sheer futility of their actions.
The remaining few screamed, their terror palpable, but it did nothing to save them. Another volley of weapons shot forth, their cries silenced as their bodies crumpled to the dirt. The alleyway, once filled with the stench of desperation, was now a graveyard, strewn with the broken forms of those foolish enough to cross him.
As the last thug fell, the metallic clang of his death still hanging in the air, the onlookers—those miserable souls who had dared to observe from the shadows—stood frozen in horror. Their eyes widened as they beheld the carnage, the alley littered with corpses impaled by radiant weapons that gleamed with an otherworldly splendor.
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, and the cowardice of the slums was laid bare. Panic spread like wildfire. Mothers clutched their children, fleeing from the scene, while men trampled one another in their desperate scramble to escape the wrath of the king before them. The very air was thick with fear, the miserable slums now alive with the sound of frantic footsteps and terrified whispers.
Gilgamesh surveyed the chaos with cold indifference. The fleeing masses were beneath his notice. He approached the fallen thugs, eyes narrowing in detached interest. Kneeling down, he regarded the corpses before him as one might study a curious artifact.
"Pitiful creatures," he mused, his voice barely more than a whisper, though it carried the weight of his absolute authority. "But even in death, I shall grant you a purpose far greater than the worthless lives you once led." His lips curled into a cruel smile. "If my theory holds, then you shall rise again—no longer as the wretched refuse you were, but as shadows. Loyal to none but your king, perfect reflections of your former selves, bound to serve me for eternity."
He stood, his gaze sweeping over the alleyway littered with the bodies of those who dared defy him. "Rejoice, mongrels, for even in death, you are granted the honor of serving your king."
Gilgamesh extended his hand, the air around him thickening as dark energy began to swirl ominously around his fingertips. The power of the shadow element surged, crackling with an almost malevolent intensity. His crimson eyes glowed brighter, reflecting the darkness that spiraled in his grasp. With an imperious voice that reverberated through the alley, rich with the authority of a king, he unleashed the shadow energy into the corpses before him.
"Arise," Gilgamesh commanded, his voice slicing through the stillness, cold and imperious.
The shadows he summoned seeped into the ground like tendrils of living darkness, wrapping themselves around the fallen bodies. Yet it wasn't the corpses themselves that moved, but something far more sinister. From each lifeless form, a shadowy figure began to ascend, slowly pulling itself free from the body it mirrored. The shadows, darker than the deepest abyss, took the exact shapes of the thugs they had once been, though now they were far more than mere criminals—they were twisted reflections, made of pure darkness, darker and more terrifying.
As the last of the shadows emerged, the alley was filled with the eerie sight of shadow-clones standing over the discarded corpses. Their forms wavered slightly, as if they were barely tethered to reality, but their figures were unmistakable—identical to the men they once were, yet far more sinister in their pitch-black composition. There was no light in their eyes, only a void, and the fear that had once contorted their faces was replaced by expressions of unwavering, absolute loyalty.
One by one, they knelt before him, shadows bowing to the one who had brought them forth. Gilgamesh looked down at them, his smirk widening with satisfaction as he surveyed his new creations. His experiment had yielded the desired result. These were no mere slaves, but extensions of his will, crafted perfectly to obey his every command without question, without hesitation.
He relished in the sight. These shadow beings, born from the dead, were the perfect instruments of his power—loyal, fearless, and utterly bound to him. "A success," he murmured, his voice laced with cold amusement. "To think even death cannot free you from servitude."
His eyes gleamed as he contemplated the possibilities. This new power, this dominion over the shadows, opened endless doors for him to exploit. The world had yet to grasp the weight of its inevitable submission, but in time, they would all kneel—just as these shadows did now.
"Serve me well," he intoned, his voice low but resonant, "and you may find purpose in your otherwise worthless existence." His smirk deepened, the king's amusement laced with a sense of cruel satisfaction.
Gilgamesh stood amidst the kneeling shadows, their forms barely solid, tethered to this world by his command. His cold eyes swept over them one last time, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he contemplated their potential. Yet, for now, their purpose was fulfilled. With a graceful flick of his wrist, the air around him shimmered. The shadows wavered, like candle flames caught in the wind, before being drawn back into the void of his Gate of Babylon. They did not simply vanish—they were stored, their dark forms collapsing into golden portals as they were sealed away for later use.
"Return to your place," Gilgamesh said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it resonated with absolute authority. The shadows dissipated in an instant, retreating into his vault, leaving behind nothing but silence and the lifeless bodies they had once mirrored.
The alley fell quiet again, the eerie tension that had filled it dissipating with the disappearance of the shadowy figures. Only the grim evidence of Gilgamesh's actions remained, a silent testament to his superiority. He cast one last indifferent glance at the fallen thugs, their discarded forms little more than a passing amusement in his eyes.
Without a word, he turned and stepped into the shadows himself. The world around him shifted, reality bending to his will. In an instant, the grimy alley of the slums vanished, replaced by the familiar luxury of Roswaal's mansion. The opulent corridors, lined with rich tapestries and polished stone floors, stood in stark contrast to the filth he had just left behind.
Gilgamesh reappeared at the threshold of his room, the door standing slightly ajar—a detail that did not escape his notice. His crimson eyes narrowed ever so slightly, a flicker of suspicion crossing his features. He had no need for a key, nor would anyone be foolish enough to intrude upon his domain—unless they were particularly bold or particularly foolish.
The moment he stepped inside, the faint rustling of fabric reached his ears. Someone was there. His gaze scanned the room, sweeping over the meticulously arranged furniture, the ornate bed, the lavish gold and crimson drapes that framed the windows—everything appeared in order. But there, by the corner of the grand mahogany desk, a figure moved with cautious precision.
It was Ram.
The pink-haired maid was rifling through the contents of his desk drawers with a delicate but hurried hand, her sharp eyes flitting over each object she inspected. Though her face remained composed, there was a certain urgency in her movements—an unspoken anxiety that betrayed her usually stoic demeanor. Clearly, she hadn't expected to be caught.
Gilgamesh, silently closing the door behind him, leaned back against it with an amused smirk tugging at his lips. He folded his arms across his chest and watched for a moment, allowing her the illusion of secrecy, just to see how long it would take for her to notice his presence. There was a dangerous, almost predatory glint in his crimson eyes, as if he were indulging in some private amusement.
Ram's fingers had just closed around an intricately carved golden pendant, an artifact from his vast collection, when she suddenly froze. Her sharp instincts kicked in, the unmistakable sensation of being watched creeping over her like a chill down her spine. She turned slowly, her eyes widening in recognition as they met Gilgamesh's.
There was no immediate expression of fear on her face—Ram was too disciplined for that—but her guarded stance betrayed a subtle tension. Her pink eyes locked onto his, and for a moment, the room seemed to stand still, the weight of his silent judgment pressing down upon her.
"Well, well," Gilgamesh drawled, his voice low and dripping with amusement. "I didn't take you for the curious type, Ram. Bold of you to rummage through a king's belongings without permission." His tone was laced with condescension, but also a faint note of intrigue. His crimson eyes never left hers, studying her every movement, every breath.
Ram straightened, still holding the pendant between her fingers, though she made no attempt to hide it now. Her expression remained impassive, though there was a flicker of annoyance in her eyes. "My apologies, Gilgamesh-sama," she said, her tone crisp and formal, but her voice held a steely edge. "I was merely ensuring that everything was in order. It is my duty, after all."
"Is that so?" Gilgamesh's smirk deepened, his golden gaze narrowing slightly as he pushed away from the door and took a slow, deliberate steps forward. The air between them seemed to hum with tension, thick and electric, as if the very atmosphere bent to his will. "I wonder," he continued, his tone low and laced with menace, "is it customary for maids to inspect their master's personal effects so thoroughly? Or could it be that you simply couldn't resist the temptation to pry into my affairs?"
Ram stood her ground, unflinching, though Gilgamesh's keen eyes did not miss the faint tightening of her grip around the pendant in her hand. "It is my duty to protect the mansion and its residents," she replied evenly. Her voice was calm, but beneath the surface, there was a quiet defiance. "If I suspect anything... unusual, I must investigate."
Gilgamesh's smirk faded, replaced by a cold, piercing look. He took another step forward, his presence looming, the space between them shrinking until the air felt suffocating under the weight of his dominance. "Unusual?" he echoed, his voice barely more than a murmur, yet it cut through the air like a blade. "And what, pray tell, do you find unusual about me, Ram?"
A heartbeat of silence passed, the tension between them thick and heavy, like the air before a storm. But Ram did not flinch. Her pink eyes remained steady as she looked up at him, her expression unwavering. "Everything about you is unusual, Gilgamesh-sama," she said, her voice as calm and composed as ever. "But that is to be expected. You are not like anyone else."
Gilgamesh's eyes glinted with faint amusement at her boldness, though the smirk that played at his lips was cold, his amusement tinged with a dangerous edge. "You're not wrong," he responded, his voice smooth and silky, but carrying the sharpness of a blade hidden beneath. "I am unlike any being you've ever encountered. And that, Ram, is precisely why you should tread carefully."
With deliberate slowness, he reached forward, his hand gently grasping her chin between his thumb and forefinger. He tilted her head slightly upwards, forcing her to meet his piercing crimson gaze as he leaned in, his face only inches from hers. His breath brushed lightly against her skin, cold and commanding, as though the very air bent to his will.
His voice dropped to a near whisper, each word laced with a subtle but undeniable threat. "I'll allow you this transgression, just this once. But know this—there are consequences for crossing a king."
Ram's gaze remained locked with his, her posture still composed, but the tension in her body was unmistakable. She was smaller than him, forced to look up into his eyes as his fingers lightly held her chin. Yet despite the intensity of his gaze, she did not waver. There was no fear in her eyes, only quiet strength, a servant who knew her place yet refused to cower.
"Understood, Gilgamesh-sama," she finally said, her voice steady, even as his fingers lingered a moment longer on her chin before releasing her.
Gilgamesh straightened, the ghost of a smirk still playing on his lips as he regarded her for a moment longer, satisfied with the control he held. "Good," he said, his tone coldly dismissive. "You may leave. And next time, Ram—" his gaze narrowed slightly, "—remember your place."
Ram bowed her head slightly in acknowledgment, her composure intact even as she turned to leave. The door closed softly behind her, leaving Gilgamesh alone once more, the echo of his warning still lingering in the air.
For a moment, Gilgamesh stood in silence, his eyes drifting to the pendant she had disturbed. With a flick of his wrist, the pendant floated gently from where she had left it and returned to its rightful place on his desk, as if untouched.
His lips curled into a smirk once more, amusement simmering beneath the surface. "Interesting," he mused, his voice barely a whisper in the stillness of the room. "This mansion holds more secrets than I anticipated."