As Gilgamesh approached the natural end of a Bugape's lifespan, he refused to accept it.
Using the Blood of the Conqueror, he repaired his decaying body, forcefully overturning the limits of time and seizing a second life. The Hero King—reborn and brimming with vitality—rose once more and led his people down a road of relentless conquest.
Another decade passed.
The tribe had changed.
Generations removed from their primitive origins, the old wooden huts that once symbolized survival began to rot and collapse under time's erosion. Under Gilgamesh's command, the Sumerians abandoned wood and began building with stone.
They entered the Stone Age.
After assimilating the termite genes, Gilgamesh possessed terrifying strength. He could tear ancient trees from the ground with his bare hands and leap seven or eight meters in a single bound. Even mountains seemed to bow beneath his presence.
Three years later, his ambition turned toward the greatest challenge of the age—
Fenba, the legendary behemoth.
It was said that no creature could rival Fenba in size or might. Gilgamesh disagreed.
Their battle raged for three days and three nights. The earth split. Valleys collapsed. Beasts fled in terror as the world itself seemed to scream.
When the dust finally settled, Gilgamesh stood victorious.
Blood soaked his body. In one hand, he held the Sword of Damocles. In the other, he dragged Fenba's corpse—its colossal body as large as a mountain ridge.
The tribe watched in stunned silence.
Their king had moved a mountain with one hand.
Bards immediately immortalized the feat in song.
He was no longer merely a king.
He was a living legend.
"I will build a kingdom," Gilgamesh declared upon his return. His voice carried destiny itself.
History, as always, was written by the victors.
Gilgamesh's triumph over Fenba and the founding of the Sumerian dynasty were recorded in the Book of Genesis. The shameful truths—the murder of his own son, Agga of Kish—were erased entirely.
Only glory endured.
The Epic later recorded:
"Gilgamesh drank the Blood of the Conqueror, slew the sacred beast Fenba with a holy sword, and founded the Sumerian dynasty. He moved mountains, raised Uruk City, and established the first city-state in history."
Years flowed on like an unbroken river.
Gilgamesh became more than a king.
He became the Father of Civilization.
He perfected currency, standardized language, and built cities. Yet brilliance came hand-in-hand with cruelty. Society fractured into rigid classes. Slavery became the empire's foundation. Thousands of warriors were trained and sent to explore the edges of the world.
Eighty-seven years into the dynasty—
Gilgamesh had lived 127 years.
Uruk's population reached tens of millions. Slaves were traded like livestock. The Colosseum rose—an arena where nobles watched slaves fight monstrous beasts for entertainment.
Within Uruk's royal palace, the air reeked of authority.
Stone pillars towered beneath a vaulted ceiling carved with ancient symbols. Soft white wall lamps cast cold light across the chamber. The floor was layered with a carpet woven from the fur of a fearsome beast.
Upon a throne fashioned from Fenba's bones, Gilgamesh sat.
His face was flawless—untouched by time.
In his grasp was the Sword of Damocles. It had never once left his side.
"Great King of Sumer! Lord of the City!"
A minister knelt deeply. "Your Majesty—King Gilgamesh!"
The speaker was Dionysius, one of Uruk's senior ministers.
"We have completed the exploration of the entire world."
Gilgamesh reclined lazily, his gaze distant. "Describe it."
Dionysius straightened, speaking with the fervor of a man who had seen it all.
"The world is shaped by a round sky and a square earth. At its center lies a vast ocean, surrounded by mountains and rivers. Even riding the fastest Finchra beast without rest, it would take more than twenty years to reach the edge."
Gilgamesh nodded. "Very well. You may withdraw."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
As Dionysius departed, he glanced back, awe flooding his aged eyes.
Decades ago, he had been a young warrior summoned by the king to chart the land. Now, he was frail and bent with age.
Yet Gilgamesh remained unchanged.
"What a great monarch…" Dionysius whispered.
Left alone, Gilgamesh fell into silence.
He had not unleashed his full strength in over a century. How powerful had he truly become? Was there any limit left to reach?
His gaze drifted to the Sword of Damocles.
Cold. Silent. Unfathomable.
"I understand the Torch," he murmured. "And the Blood of the Conqueror…"
His fingers brushed the hilt.
"But you… what are you?"
The world held no metal—no copper, no iron, no ore of any kind. This land was primitive, suspended in an eternal Stone Age.
Yet this blade existed.
Unbreakable. Perfect.
A mystery he could never solve.
And as he stared at it, unease crept into his heart—like a sword hanging above his own head.
"The power of civilization…" Gilgamesh whispered. "It is both magnificent… and terrifying."
For a fleeting moment, he remembered—
The towering colossus of white light.
The Great Beast of Wisdom.
The hand that had lifted him beyond the sky.
"I want to see you again," he said softly. "The future… I want to see it."
But he knew.
The Blood of the Conqueror was fading.
Death was coming.
Would there be a third life?
Another miracle?
The Sword of Damocles gleamed coldly in his grasp.
Its answer was silent—but unmistakable.
Nothing, not even kings or gods, could escape time.