"My king, these disasters have gone on for too long. Please make a decision."
A rare trace of discomfort crossed Ophis's face. She rubbed the space between her brows.
Resolve the disasters...? I'm not some dragon who commands wind, rain, or sunlight...
"I understand. You may leave."
After the priestess withdrew, Enkidu stepped forward. Her usual gentle smile was gone, replaced by quiet gravity.
"Nature is enraged," she said.
"Then I'll expand my energy into a barrier—disperse it across the land to block the storm, restrain the rain, evaporate the floods, and limit the damage as much as possible."
Ophis's gaze rested on the raging skies, then shifted toward Enkidu.
"Is that… acceptable?"
"Eh?"
"Enkidu, you love nature, don't you?"
For months, the land had been tormented by howling winds, endless rain, and floods that swallowed entire districts.
To the people of Uruk, it was nothing short of a nightmare.
Ophis's limitless power could shield them—she could blunt nature's fury through sheer force. Yet the constant storms still crippled their crops and fields.
But these weren't ordinary tempests. They were nature's retaliation—the earth itself striking back against the destruction wrought by humankind.
It was a war between humanity and the natural world. Whether humans could overcome it would depend on how they faced this trial.
Ophis could sense where the calamity began.
If she went there, perhaps the cause would reveal itself.
At the very least, she could confront its source.
Only one thing held her back—the being standing quietly beside her.
Enkidu, who cherished humanity, loved nature even more.
"Ah… you're right," Enkidu murmured with a bitter smile.
While Ophis could only sense the general direction, Enkidu knew exactly who was responsible.
Her eyes turned toward the distant cedar forest—her birthplace. A faint sorrow flickered in them.
"Why would you do this… my friend…?"
"Enkidu?"
Ophis's voice drew her back.
"Ah…"
"Enkidu, you've seemed distracted all day."
Ophis lowered her head briefly, thinking, then looked up again.
"Are you troubled?"
"That's…"
"If it troubles you, I could simply ignore it."
To Ophis, Enkidu's smile mattered more than all of Uruk combined.
"That won't do, Ophis."
Enkidu's familiar warmth returned to her expression as she shook her head gently.
"You must remember—you're the king. You can't turn away from your responsibilities."
"I see… If that's what you wish, Enkidu…"
Enkidu sighed inwardly.
Though Ophis had changed—softened, even—she now seemed to lean on her far too much.
And that dependence… wasn't necessarily good.
Still, now wasn't the time to address it.
"For now, shall we investigate?" she said, clearing her thoughts.
"Mhm."
Expressionless as always, Ophis nodded in agreement.
...
Branches cracked sharply underfoot as two figures—one tall, one smaller—moved in silence through the ancient forest.
Three days had passed since they left Uruk.
The journey was long; for ordinary humans, it would have taken months.
Neither traveler was particularly impatient, but at Enkidu's urging, they moved swiftly. Without Ophis's barrier, Uruk would not endure for long.
Now, they had reached the heart of the cedar forest—the dwelling of Humbaba.
Throughout the journey, Enkidu—usually so warm and bright—had worn a rare, solemn expression and spoken little. Ophis, true to her nature, made no attempt to start conversation either.
Still, she preferred Enkidu when she smiled.
In her fragmented knowledge of mythology, Ophis recalled the tale of Gilgamesh and Enkidu joining forces to slay Humbaba—a symbolic victory of humanity over nature.
No—humanity had never truly conquered nature, not in a few thousand years. More accurately, it marked the first victory of mankind over the divine spirits of nature—a declaration that humanity would no longer live solely under the gods' rule, but begin carving its own path.
Yet Enkidu would never willingly support such a thing.
She was nature's beloved child, the gods' creation, the Chain linking humanity and divinity. Logically, she had no reason to aid humans in defying nature or the gods.
If she had any reason at all, it would be found only in her feelings for Ophis.
Ironically, Ophis's position was the opposite.
As a dragon, she had no innate compassion for humanity. Even now, her fascination was born from curiosity, not empathy.
Just as humans who took a keen interest in animals often ended up dissecting them—or at least came dangerously close to doing so.
Of course, Ophis wasn't nearly bored enough to dissect humans.
Even so, dragons rarely felt affection even toward their own kind, much less outsiders.
Still, as the King of Uruk, Ophis bore the responsibility of resolving this crisis.
Each of them had half a reason to act—and half a reason not to.
But Ophis, whose only persistent urge was to someday fire a few hundred magic cannons at Great Red, rarely acted on her own. Thus, her decision was simple: she would do whatever Enkidu chose to do.
While Ophis pondered in silence, Enkidu was lost in thought as well.
She knew the monster Humbaba well.
Before she had gained reason—back when she was still half-wild—the one who had spent the most time with her, aside from the divine priestess, had been Humbaba.
They had run together across the plains, shared food, and slept side by side.
When Enkidu's awareness outgrew her instincts, she had planted her favorite flowers where they often rested and asked Humbaba to care for them before she left.
Enkidu was the kind to declare friendship unilaterally. Her dearest friend was now Ophis—but her very first friend had been Humbaba.
Proof, perhaps, of an old truth: childhood friends always lose to those who arrive later.
What she couldn't understand was why Humbaba had brought such ruin.
Enkidu did love nature more than humanity, but her love was for the earth itself. To use disasters from the heavens to punish the life upon it—humans, beasts, and plants alike—was senseless destruction.
"ROOOAAAAAR───!"
Before she could think further, a thunderous roar split the forest.
The air convulsed, shockwaves ripping through the trees as a wall of giant trunks surged toward them like a crashing tide.