Chapter 13: Facing the Riot Alone
The next day.
The sky hung like a vast curtain over the western frontier.
Beyond Uruk's borders, the land spread wide and silent. Fertile plains gave way to long stretches of pale yellow sand, rolling toward the horizon like an endless sea.
Rowe stood in that emptiness and looked ahead.
In the distance, a lush forest rose at the far edge of sight. Towering guard towers and thick stone walls crowned the hill before it, stark against the green.
He knew that was the Demonic Beast Forest.
The journey from Uruk's city state had been uneventful. Even with the blessings of gods, this was still an ancient age. Human footprints had not yet swallowed the world. Underfoot there was only earth, sand, and more earth.
So Rowe had not wasted time walking.
He had flown.
Using a flying Noble Phantasm from the Gate of Babylon, he crossed the land in a straight line and landed here without ceremony. The moment his feet touched the ground, wind rushed forward and snapped his linen robe as if trying to push him onward.
Several guards at the perimeter moved to stop him, wary of any stranger approaching the forest.
Rowe calmly explained who he was and why he had come.
Not long after, the captain of the garrison arrived. He was tall and broad shouldered, the type forged by wind, sand, and war.
"Greetings, Priest Rowe."
Rowe gave him a short nod.
"You've all worked hard."
His eyes swept across the soldiers. Their faces were coated with dust and fatigue. Their armor, little more than vital plates, was cracked and battered. Many had improvised bandages from vines and leaves, some still stained with blood.
They were exhausted.
They were hurting.
They had been holding the line for too long.
Rowe understood that immediately.
Still, he did not hesitate.
"I have come under the King's command," Rowe said. "From this moment on, leave it to me."
He raised a hand.
Golden ripples bloomed around him, shimmering like a calm sea of light. The air sharpened. Noble Phantasms hovered within those circles, waiting to be called forth at a thought.
A chill crawled up the guards' spines.
The priest's identity was undeniable now.
Rowe pointed toward the wall and the forest beyond it.
"Take me to the front. I want to see the situation."
The captain blinked. "Shouldn't you rest first? Or at least hear the report before you go in?"
"There's another riot coming, isn't there?"
One sentence.
The captain fell silent.
The truth was obvious to anyone who had lived through the last few days. By the time the report reached Uruk, the forest had already erupted more than once. The Demonic Beasts inside had been drawn into a frenzy by something unseen, crashing against the walls and throwing themselves at the guards in waves.
The soldiers had fought without pause, day and night. Their injuries and hollow eyes were proof enough.
Rowe could feel it too.
The pressure in the air.
The restless movement beyond the trees.
The way the forest breathed as if preparing to spit out something violent.
Even without a detailed report, Rowe knew another tide was close.
He was a priest of Uruk. He was not blind.
And he had no intention of standing back.
"Sir, you should still understand what you are walking into," the captain tried again. "You are new here. Inside that forest, a mortal's power is suppressed. And it is full of accidents. Even the strongest warrior can die to the smallest mistake."
"There's a thing like that?"
Rowe's eyes lit up far too quickly.
The captain froze.
Then Rowe coughed lightly and recovered his composure.
"Ahem. What I mean is, as the King's envoy, I can't ignore a crisis like this."
He tilted his chin slightly and invoked the only name that mattered here.
"I represent the King. Anything that would damage his prestige…"
He let the sentence hang.
The captain understood immediately.
No soldier of Uruk would dare question the King's prestige. Gilgamesh may have been a tyrant, but among warriors his authority was absolute. His strength was proof enough to silence doubt.
The captain exhaled and nodded.
"Understood."
"Then let's begin."
Rowe lifted his hand again.
"Open the gate."
"And have everyone withdraw."
The captain stared at him. "What?"
"I said open the gate and pull back the troops." Rowe smiled, but his voice carried weight that could not be refused.
"I alone am enough."
His words were blunt.
"You being here will only get in my way."
He had learned from earlier failures.
If he wanted a clean death, he had to remove every possible variable.
These soldiers were veterans. Their presence could interrupt his plan. They might save him when he did not want saving.
After all, Rowe's goal was not victory alone.
It was to die by accident.
That kind of death had never been rare in human history. A powerful fighter steps onto a battlefield that should be winnable, then fate tilts slightly, luck betrays him, and he falls in tragedy.
A single deviation, a single cruel joke of the world.
That was the ending Rowe wanted.
Live like a summer blaze, die brilliantly, and leave regret carved into the annals.
He did not allow the captain time to argue.
Rowe turned to the soldiers and raised his voice.
"I declare this by royal decree."
"Soldiers, you have exhausted yourselves defending your homes and the nation behind you."
"You have done well."
"But hear this clearly."
"You are not alone."
"You have fulfilled your duty."
"So from now on…"
Rowe stepped forward.
"This is my battlefield."
The mechanisms groaned. Stone gears turned.
The massive gate set into the wall began to rise.
The soldiers outside the wall fell silent.
Until now, they had gripped spears and swords with hands shaking from exhaustion, eyes locked on the forest depths, on the crimson eyes swaying between trees.
They had swung their blades countless times. They had watched comrades fall. They had swallowed grief and lifted the weapons that dead hands could no longer hold.
They had endured.
But now, as Rowe walked past them, as they heard his words, something stopped inside their chests.
Soldiers defend the land.
But they are not the only ones who will.
Rowe closed his eyes and continued forward.
More golden ripples unfolded around him. Noble Phantasms emerged like drawn blades, their points aimed at the forest.
Morning sunlight spilled across the field, catching on steel and gold, scattering bright shards of light among the trees.
The soldiers watched him.
A tall, young figure in a plain linen robe.
No crown.
No armor.
No banner.
Yet that presence shone through the wind and dust.
Not the glory of a god.
But something human that still refused to bow.
A man stepping forward alone, unmoved by death, facing an overwhelming tide with steady resolve.
Then the forest answered.
A roar tore through the trees.
The Demonic Beasts that had been writhing and waiting finally erupted under the pressure of the Gate of Babylon unleashed aura.
Claws ripped dirt.
Bodies surged.
Trees snapped and fell.
Dust exploded upward. Leaves scattered like shredded banners in a storm.
A black green wave rose and rolled toward the open gate.
The Demonic Tide.
Another riot.
And this one was worse than anything before.