Chapter 5: Loyalty Recognized by the King, Counsel Approved by the Gods
Rowe's final declaration rang through the Pantheon, clear and resolute.
That was enough.
He closed his eyes and quietly accepted what he believed was inevitable.
He was certain he would die.
No king could tolerate what he had just said.
Least of all Gilgamesh.
But Gilgamesh did not move.
Beneath the anger boiling in his chest, something else surfaced
A faint, unexpected note of contemplation.
There was no doubt that, in that instant, he had been furious.
As an arrogant king, this was the first time anyone had ever stood before him, pointed at his face, and hurled such accusations.
Even if those words could not shake the core of his being, they were still an unprecedented humiliation.
Especially that single word.
Mongrel.
Turned back against him.
And yet—
"The King should be chosen by the people."
That one sentence, shouted by Rowe at the height of his "rage," made Gilgamesh, who should have been drowning in fury, suddenly hesitate.
Gilgamesh loathed the gods.
Because of his divine blood, he had been appointed by them as king over humanity.
In the eyes of heaven and earth, he was the "wedge" that linked the gods and mankind.
When he was younger, he might not have fully understood what that meant.
As he grew, he came to see it for what it was:
A chain.
The gods wanted to control him, define him, shape his life into a predetermined puppet show.
He refused.
He would not be bound.
He would not be controlled.
He would not play the role of the obedient, ideal king they had written for him.
So he rebelled.
So he became a tyrant.
Every act of cruelty, every reckless indulgence at its root, was his rejection of the gods.
And because of that
He found himself agreeing with Rowe.
He should be the king of humanity.
He should be chosen by the people.
Not as some puppet crowned by arrogant gods.
This man…
Perhaps he, too, was disgusted by those distant, self-righteous beings in heaven.
Perhaps he was speaking not as a priest serving the gods, but as a human addressing a fellow human.
Gilgamesh looked at Rowe eyes closed, waiting for his execution.
All around them, the temple remained silent. Everyone else was kneeling, afraid to even breathe. But Gilgamesh, with his sharp gaze, could see it clearly:
Because of Rowe's words, hearts had stirred.
The priests.
The servants.
The Old Priest most of all
They wanted to save him.
Because his words, shouted with such reckless resolve, had been for the people of Uruk.
He had said what they all felt.
What they had longed to say.
What they had never dared to voice.
"Interesting…"
Gilgamesh laughed.
Rowe, who had been quietly waiting for death, slowly opened his eyes when nothing happened.
What he saw was Gilgamesh's lips curved into an amused smile, and in his crimson eyes, the snake-like pupils no longer radiated cold hostility, but a sharp, unmistakable admiration.
"Your howling was as grating and filthy as the barking of stray dogs in the wilderness," Gilgamesh said lazily. "As repulsive as maggots writhing in the mud."
"Yet"
"This King has indeed felt the loyalty you displayed, staking your life on your conviction."
The phrasing was as insulting as ever.
But the acknowledgment in his tone was undeniable.
The priests all exhaled in relief.
Only Rowe was completely dumbfounded.
What?
Who am I?
Where am I?
Wait—aren't you supposed to kill me?
You're a self-centered tyrant! How are you taking this so calmly? This doesn't match your character at all!
No matter how loudly he screamed internally, reality remained unchanged.
"This King acknowledges your loyalty," Gilgamesh declared, "and forgives your offense against this great and noble King."
He waved a hand dismissively, already turning away.
"Go home and weep with gratitude. Be thankful for this King's magnanimity."
"Today's farce ends here. This King is tired. I will return to rest."
He strode toward the main gate.
On any other day, if the ritual had been interrupted like this, people from all sides would have rushed to stop him; his mother in heaven might even have delivered a divine oracle through the ceremony.
But at this moment, both mortals and gods alike seemed stunned into silence.
No one moved to block his departure.
Gilgamesh felt oddly refreshed.
He didn't have to recite those revolting sacrifical lines, nor linger in the temple watching his treasury offerings be burned away for those parasites in the heavens.
The more he thought about it, the more satisfied he became.
Rowe did quite well, he decided.
Upon returning, he would have to give that man a proper reward.
With the king gone in such a good mood, only a stunned Rowe remained—
Along with a temple full of priests who were finally able to breathe again.
"Thank goodness… The King is still wise enough to understand your intentions, Priest Rowe."
One elderly priest struggled to his feet and approached, followed by others. None of them showed the slightest hint of blame. On the contrary, they all looked relieved that Rowe had survived.
"Rowe, if you intended to do something like this, why didn't you tell us beforehand?" the High Priest added, eyes still wet. "If we all spoke together, it wouldn't have been necessary for you to bear such pressure alone."
Rowe was genuinely moved.
He knew these old men truly cared for him.
He also wanted to cry for a very different reason.
Intentions? What intentions?
I just wanted to die.
And now that hope—using Gilgamesh as his executioner—had completely collapsed.
Rowe let out a deep, heavy sigh.
"Little Rowe, why such a gloomy face?" another priest asked kindly. "Are you worried the gods will blame you for interrupting the ritual?"
At that, Rowe's eyes lit up.
There were real gods in this world.
If the gods were enraged by his behavior—by the interruption of their festival and the loss of offerings—
wouldn't they demand his death?
While everyone else grew nervous at the thought, Rowe's heart filled with renewed hope.
Just then, a shout came from one of the priests:
"Look—the will of the gods!"
Everyone looked up.
From the hollowed opening at the top of the dome, a radiant light descended, gathering above the statue of Anu, King of the Gods.
Divine radiance.
The gods could not descend in their true forms, but they could still send down their will.
Rowe's pulse quickened.
In his mind, there was only one possible verdict:
They would demand his execution.
The Mesopotamian plains were full of petty gods and vengeful spirits. Surely, at least one of them would want his head.
But the next moment—
His smile froze.
"Priest Rowe," the divine voice resounded through the hall, "you rebuked the misguided King and moved him to accept your loyal counsel. Though you displayed disrespect toward the Festival of the Gods, your fearlessness in the face of death has earned the admiration of the divine."
"The gods forgive your offense."
"And further decree—
All your actions in the human world shall be permitted by the gods."
The priests erupted in cheers.
They praised the King's wisdom and the gods' compassion, voices full of awe and gratitude.
Only Rowe stood there, rigid.
"…"
He had no words.
Why?
He just wanted to die.
Why was that so difficult?