In the battles of the years to come, Gilgamesh—hailed by his men as the "Lord Commander"—would personally lead the Immortal Battalion to shatter Imperial lines again and again, cementing his fearsome reputation as a force of cosmic gravity.
In time, a piece of music would be composed to praise his majesty on the battlefield, a melody that would be handed down as Babylonia's military anthem for ten thousand years and beyond: the Golden King's Song.
____________________
"Attack!"
With that brief, undeniable command, Gilgamesh took the lead. He spurred his horse toward the Imperial lines, followed closely by his loyal, black-armored knights of the Immortal Battalion, who charged alongside their King without a shadow of hesitation.
"Dammit! Does that man have a death wish?!"
The Imperial officers at the front were stunned to see a few dozen riders charging directly into their forest of halberds and power-spears. They had all heard of Gilgamesh's ferocious name, but they never expected such a blunt, frontal assault. He wasn't bothering with flanking maneuvers or skirmishes; he was striking straight at the heart of the Imperial camp.
For a moment, the government ranks fell into an uproar, and their once-orderly formation began to buckle under the sheer audacity of the move.
"The opening is here! Kill!"
Seeing the chaos caused by his unexpected maneuver, Gilgamesh let out a roar. He spurred his horse harder, eyes locked onto the great banner that marked the High Prefect's position. He knew the commander leading this army was right there. If he could take that head, the enemy's morale would shatter, and the crisis would be resolved.
Meanwhile, the riders of the Immortal Battalion began slamming into the soldiers blocking Gilgamesh's path. They slaughtered in grim silence, carving a highway of blood through the ranks for their lord.
"I see. The King leading those few dozen riders in such a reckless charge... it looks like a mere display of bravado, but it is actually a calculated move."
Standing atop the camp gates watching from afar, Enkidu-Sa nodded slowly as he analyzed the scene.
"Hah, Enkidu-Sa, it seems you know a thing or two about this!" Siduri said with a surprised smile. "Father had exactly that in mind. He spent a lot of time thinking while he was bedridden recovering from his wounds after the last time he charged a formation. That's likely when this strategy took shape."
"Use the orthodox to engage, and the extraordinary to win," Enkidu-Sa replied. "Those are the six words of wisdom my mentor taught us regarding troop deployment. To win a battle, you must first have the strength to meet your opponent as an equal, and then add a strategy born of wisdom. Right now, your army appears weak. That is why the King chose the 'extraordinary,' using this gambit to snatch victory."
"Heh, you're becoming more of a mystery to me, scholar! But you're making sense," Siduri laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Now, let's wait for Father to return in glory."
The two turned back to the battlefield outside the gates, where Gilgamesh was already executing his plan.
"What is this rebel doing?!" the High Prefect screamed from his command post. "Does he really think he can punch through our entire formation alone?!"
To his horror, Gilgamesh appeared to be doing exactly that. As he galloped forward, his blade rose and fell; the Imperial soldiers dropped like wheat during harvest, their bodies crushed under the weight of the warhorses.
"Kill! The target is the Great Banner! Follow me!"
With eyes wide with fury, Gilgamesh raised his blade tip to the sky. The Immortal Battalion successfully broke through wave after wave of soldiers, regrouping at his side as they pierced the inner sanctum of the legion.
"How is this possible? Even the Hross wouldn't dare do this! And yet this Gilgamesh does it with ease! Who—what—is he?!" The High Prefect stared, mouth agape, at his broken infantry lines. He had heard the stories but had dismissed them as the excuses of cowards. Now he realized his mistake was catastrophic. Gilgamesh was almost upon him.
"Where is my Personal Guard?! Protect me!"
Abandoning all dignity, the High Prefect screamed for his Retainers—the elite "Iron Teeth" guards. These were the best-equipped men in the army, paid for by the High Prefect himself, the ultimate backbone of the command.
The Retainers spurred their horses forward, attempting to intercept the golden blur.
"Hmph. Mere guards think they can stop me?!" Gilgamesh sneered. He didn't slow down, and the Immortals charged with him.
The Retainers attempted a counter-charge, hoping the impact of cavalry on cavalry would halt the enemy. What followed was a one-sided slaughter. Gilgamesh cut down the elite guards one by one with almost no effort; they could not stop him, only delay him for a heartbeat. The Immortal Battalion engaged the remaining guards in a bloody melee to cover their leader's final sprint.
"It's over!"
Seeing Gilgamesh close the distance, the High Prefect broke into a cold sweat. He donned his helmet and mounted his horse, determined to at least die with some scrap of honor.
"So, you wish to die fighting? I'm feeling magnanimous, so I shall grant it," Gilgamesh muttered. He swung his heavy blade.
The High Prefect raised his spear to parry, but it was futile. He was cleaved from his horse in a single strike.
With the commander dead, Gilgamesh rode straight for the Great Banner and swung again. The flagpole snapped, and the Imperial banner collapsed into the dirt.