"Last time, you killed your own son. Is it my turn now?"
Ethan stood motionless, staring down at the city. His expression was unreadable—pained, perhaps—but the emotion faded quickly. He wasn't surprised. Not really.
This was Gilgamesh's nature.
From the very beginning, Ethan had chosen him because he was the only one who, as a child, had dared to look up at a god and shout.
He had never known fear.
And of course—of course—it would come to this. The boy who once pointed a blade at the sky would one day raise that blade against him.
Ethan's voice boomed, calm but resolute:
"Gilgamesh, I will warn you only once. End this madness. Cease your brutality. You have twisted the gifts of civilization into tools of conquest. If you take this step... you will pay a price."
The Hero King's crimson eyes opened slowly.
They were full of fire.
"No punishment is worse than death," he whispered.
As if reborn, Gilgamesh stood tall—his muscles carved like marble, his pale white skin glowing in the twilight. His silver hair billowed like storm clouds.
"Today," he roared, "I will slay the Great Beast of Wisdom. I will seize your power, rip the knowledge from your bones, and claim immortality!"
He raised his sword high.
"This is no longer just rebellion. It is war. This is the clash of civilizations—yours against mine! You once guided us. Now, you stand in our way."
From the city below, the dull sound of ceremonial stone bells echoed.
And then—movement.
A flood of troops poured into the streets, thousands upon thousands, flowing through the city gates like rivers of iron and flesh.
---
Ethan looked down at the massive mobilization and sighed.
"He planned this. Years ago."
Gilgamesh had built this moment with the precision of a tyrant-genius. He had spent decades conscripting soldiers, training armies, engineering every move to draw Ethan back into the world. And now, if Ethan did not bend to his will, he would try to kill a god.
He was bold. Cunning. Dangerous.
And Ethan, strangely, respected that.
---
Far to the south, in the city of Ur, a different figure stood on the balcony of her palace.
Ishtar, warrior queen of the steppes, narrowed her eyes.
From her great distance, the titan was still visible, his form breaching the sky, veiled in clouds and glowing with holy light.
"Magnificent," she whispered.
"He's finally made his move."
She understood Gilgamesh all too well. He would never have shared the Blood of the Conqueror unless he was preparing for war. And now the day had come.
With a graceful motion, Ishtar mounted her massive beast Ara, donned her dark felt war-hat, and gripped her hammer—a monstrous weapon of black stone and beastbone.
"Mother!"
A voice cried out behind her.
She turned.
"Is Zarn still alive?" she asked.
A young warrior stepped forward, sorrow etched across his face.
"Father lies in bed. He… doesn't have long."
Ishtar's gaze softened.
"Wait for me, my son. I will return with the blood of immortality. I will save him."
Tears welled in her eyes.
"I am not like Gilgamesh. I cannot watch my children die. I must gain more of the Blood—or even the blood of the god himself."
She turned back toward the horizon.
"To battle!"
Her army rode forth behind her—the fiercest warriors of the plains, charging with savage grace toward destiny.
---
In the forest city of Enkidu, nestled high within the colossal branches of the Divine Tree, another king stood still.
Enkidu, old and wise, leaned on a wooden staff. He looked at the giant far in the distance, half-obscured by clouds.
Behind him, his disciples stood in silence.
"Master… the king's orders," one finally said.
Enkidu did not turn.
"No," he said softly. "We will not go."
"Are you afraid?" another asked.
"No," Enkidu said. "I do not fear death. But I fear what we will become if we strike him. He saved us. Gave us fire, words, civilization. Without honor and restraint, we become beasts."
His voice was filled with sorrow.
"My students, answer me this: Are we savages? Or are we civilized?"
The disciples fell silent.
They knew their master had power—he was one of the strongest in the land. But now, he would not raise his blade.
And so, quietly, Enkidu turned to his most trusted student.
"Utnapishtim."
"Yes, Master."
Enkidu knelt and bowed his head.
"If Gilgamesh wins, take my head to him. Let him punish me for insubordination."
"If the Great Beast wins, then offer my head to him. Let him know that not all of us are monsters—that there is still reason left among our kind. Let him spare what remains of our people."
Utnapishtim trembled.
"Master…"
Enkidu closed his eyes and smiled.
"Do it."
With a clean stroke, Utnapishtim raised his blade.
And the wise king of the forest died without resistance.
He wrapped the severed head in hides and held it close, his hands stained red.
---
The sky darkened.
"Fire!"
A storm of blood-red arrows and jagged spears rose into the clouds, aimed at the god who loomed above them.
The earth itself quaked.
Uruk became a battlefield.
Buildings collapsed like toys. Stones crumbled beneath the weight of panic and war. Civilians screamed. Children cried. Fires spread. Explosions echoed. The chaos was deafening.
Blood soaked the streets.
And at the center of it all, towering above the horror, stood the Great Beast of Wisdom—calm, unmoving, watching the civilization he had once gifted spiral into self-destruction.