Ethan returned to the house, stepped into the kitchen, and set a kettle of water on the stove. He was thirsty. A cup of tea felt appropriate.
The fire of civilization had been lit.
The young Bugape he had chosen—tall, muscular, his thick fur giving him a rugged presence—reminded Ethan of something mythic, almost European in stature. So, he named him Gilgamesh, after the legendary first hero king.
He had high hopes for him.
In fact, Ethan had even granted Gilgamesh a set of termite genes—ones the other Bugapes had failed to assimilate during previous trials. It was a gift, a burden, and a signal: Ethan expected greatness.
Whether Gilgamesh could truly ascend was no longer up to him.
Outside, Ethan sat cross-legged at his front door, surveying the courtyard.
"The yard's maybe 500, 600 square meters," he mused. "The sandbox only takes up a fifth of that."
He glanced at the rest of the space—wild, overgrown, unkempt. He didn't have a clear purpose for it yet, but figured it was time to start clearing weeds. It was something to do.
As for the sandbox itself—expanding it wasn't necessary. Larger wasn't always better. Managing it was already a complex task, and the current size was more than enough to contain the accelerated evolution within.
Then—knock, knock.
A soft tapping came from the front gate.
Ethan dropped his hoe and opened the door. There stood Mia, her arms overflowing with food containers. Her eyes darted toward the courtyard, then back at him.
"What's this?" she asked, tilting her head. "Gardening now?"
"Yeah," Ethan replied, casually wiping sweat from his brow. "Just trying it out. Exercise helps."
She couldn't see the sandbox, of course. To her, it just looked like he was tending to an oversized garden.
"I thought you were joking when you said you were gonna start farming," she said, still peering around. "You're a college grad. Worked overseas. Weren't you also supposed to be... you know... dying?"
Her gaze dropped to his shirtless torso, taking in the toned, chiseled muscles beneath his tanned skin. She immediately flushed red.
"Ah—Big Brother Ethan, I'll just leave the food here!" she blurted out. "Do you want help? I've helped my mom plant rice before. Your garden's huge, and you're alone now... it must be too much."
"I'll manage," Ethan said with a soft chuckle. "It's not like I'm planting anything serious. Just thought I'd throw down a few seeds and see what sprouts. Who knows—maybe I'll grow something magical."
"Ooh," she said with interest, then patted her chest proudly. "Well, let me know what you want to eat. Mom and I will cook it for you!"
She gave him a cheerful wave and turned to go—but not before throwing a final, offhand comment over her shoulder:
"You were all gloomy before... and now, suddenly full of energy. Even your hair's grown back. Isn't that what they call a last burst of vitality before the end? Don't worry—I'll take good care of you in your final days!"
...
"Excuse me?"
Ethan stared after her, stunned.
"So now I've got hair again and that means I'm dying?!"
"What the hell!? Is this supposed to be my last meal or something?" he grumbled. "I'm not even in the terminal stage—I'm mid-stage stomach cancer!"
Still muttering, he opened the lunchbox she'd left behind.
Inside: poached eggs, stir-fried greens with meat, and sweet carrots. Simple. Wholesome. It smelled incredible.
Ethan sat down and dug in with joy.
"She's a damn good cook. I'll absolutely keep letting her bring food over."
He told himself it was practical—cancer patients needed proper nutrition, after all. But really, the home-cooked meals were just too good to pass up.
Afterward, full and content, he lay on a garden lounger, staring at the sky. He was too comfortable to move.
Eventually, he got up and resumed his chores, clearing weeds and tidying the yard. His clothes were caked in mud, so he washed them methodically, wrung them out, and hung them to dry on the line.
"I really need to buy a washing machine," he muttered.
---
The next day, Mia returned—right on schedule, lunchbox in hand.
She smiled sweetly, her round face full of quiet sympathy. Ethan, lounging under the sun with a light breeze brushing past, couldn't find anything to complain about.
Fresh air. A warm meal. Friendly company.
It was, unexpectedly, the most peaceful time of his life.
---
For Ethan, a single day passed: a few meals, a short nap, some light garden work.
But in the sandbox world, a century had gone by.
Two generations of Bugapes had lived and died.
---
Ethan watched with curiosity.
Had that wide-eyed youth from before—Gilgamesh—already passed away, his fire extinguished?
No.
Quite the opposite.
Gilgamesh had stunned him.
Ethan kept meticulous records of their progress. In the first decade after receiving the Three Treasures, Gilgamesh led his people with fierce determination. He mastered fire—its warmth, its power. He used it to cook food, scare off beasts, and provide comfort during bitter nights.
It was the birth of civilization.
The Sword of Damocles was a divine weapon in that ancient world. With it, Gilgamesh hunted monsters no other Bugape could face. The tribe began to thrive. They no longer fled. They fought back.
By the second decade, Gilgamesh was in his prime—tall, commanding, and revered. His people called him the Hero King.
He used fire-fallow cultivation to tame the forest. Ash-fed soil gave rise to crops. Agriculture began.
He was brutal, arrogant, and peerless. A conqueror and visionary.
He invented writing—cuneiform etched into stone. A system to preserve memory, to pass on knowledge. He chronicled his triumphs in a bold and boastful text titled:
The Epic of Genesis.
He had 131 wives. Dozens of strong, clever children.
But the Bugapes lived short lives—thirty to forty years. And now, Gilgamesh was approaching the end.
---
In a towering treehouse, a fire burned bright.
Gilgamesh sat on a throne made of Arrah-hide. His body, once mighty, had grown heavy and slow. He gazed at the wall of trophies—skulls of monstrous beasts, sharp-fanged and defiant even in death.
It was a hall of glory. Of conquest.
He had no regrets.
"My son, Agga of Kish," he whispered, "will succeed me. He is strong. Wiser than I ever was. He will lead our people forward."
Gilgamesh accepted death. He was tired.
But then, his gaze fell upon the final gift—the Blood of the Conqueror.
"The Great Beast of Wisdom said only the world's strongest can survive this."
He chuckled, slowly unsealing it.
"Am I not the strongest?"
He opened the vial. Poured it over a fresh wound.
The pain was immediate—and indescribable.
He writhed. Screamed. Rolled across the floor. His lungs clawed for breath. His body burned from within. It was agony unlike anything he had ever known—and yet, somehow, he endured.
When it was over, he stood.
Changed.
His fur had fallen away, revealing sculpted, godlike musculature. His face was no longer beastly—it was beautiful. Elegant. Almost divine.
His hair had turned snow-white. His skin now gleamed ivory, like pale armor.
He looked like a frost giant from myth.
And he was stronger than ever.
With a flick of his fingers, he shattered a nearby handrail carved from the bone of a legendary beast.
---
That same day, outside the central firepit, Agga of Kish—his son—stood tall. He held the Sword of Damocles aloft and was crowned chief.
He was wise. Noble. Beloved. A better leader than his father had ever been.
Gilgamesh had known this. He had even accepted it.
But now…
Now it was different.
Now that he had returned—reborn—he felt something else.
Possessiveness.
Pride.
And rage.
Even though Agga respected him deeply and had no desire to usurp him, Gilgamesh could not bear to be overshadowed.
"I've returned," he said coldly. "And that means the throne is mine."
---
That night, the tribe wept.
The Hero King reclaimed his crown—not with ceremony, but with blood.
Agga of Kish died by his father's hand.
And thus, Gilgamesh began his second reign.