## CHAPTER 1: DESCENT OF THE KING
The sky above the Holy Empire of Lubelius split open like a wound. Not the gentle parting of clouds before rain, but a violent tear in the fabric of reality itself. The citizens who had gathered for the Empire's grand Festival of Luminance froze mid-celebration, their faces upturned in horror and awe as golden light poured from the rift.
High Priestess Luminas Valentina, resplendent in her ceremonial regalia of white and gold, felt the divine power within her tremble. Whatever approached was beyond her comprehension—greater than any being she had encountered in her centuries of existence. Her acolytes clustered around her, seeking protection she wasn't certain she could provide.
"Your Holiness," whispered Cardinal Eubulus, his wizened face pale with fear. "Should we summon the Holy Knights?"
Before she could answer, the tear widened, and from it descended a golden platform ringed with strange, intricate symbols. Upon it stood a figure so brilliant that many in the crowd shielded their eyes or fell prostrate to the ground in terror.
He was tall, with hair like molten gold and eyes the color of blood rubies. His armor gleamed with an impossible metallic sheen, each plate engraved with patterns from a civilization no living being remembered. A crimson cloak billowed around him despite the absence of wind, and upon his head sat a crown that seemed to contain galaxies within its jewels.
Most terrifying of all were the hundreds—perhaps thousands—of spinning golden portals that surrounded him, each revealing glimpses of weapons and treasures beyond mortal imagining.
"Behold," spoke a voice that reverberated through bone and spirit alike, "the King has returned to his garden."
Luminas stepped forward, drawing on millennia of diplomatic experience even as her divine senses screamed warnings. "Visitor from beyond the veil, I am Luminas Valentina, High Priestess and ruler of the Holy Empire of Lubelius. State your purpose and identity."
The golden man's laughter held genuine amusement, but it was the laughter of someone who had just heard a child make an adorably misguided claim.
"You presume to demand identification from me? How fascinating." His eyes, which had been scanning the city's architecture with mild interest, finally deigned to look upon her. "I am Gilgamesh, King of Heroes, ruler of Uruk, and the first king of human history. Though in truth, I am something far more now."
With lazy grace, he stepped from his platform, which dissolved into motes of golden light. The moment his feet touched the marble of the central plaza, every magical ward and protective barrier in the capital city shattered with a sound like a thousand glass bells breaking at once.
"You called your empire holy," Gilgamesh continued, his voice carrying effortlessly across the now-silent plaza. "Yet I see only fear, ritual, and lies draped in silk." His eyes narrowed as he observed the trembling citizens, the ornate but empty temples, the ostentatious displays of wealth that masked fundamental weakness. "Very well. I shall be your holiness."
Cardinal Eubulus stepped forward, either through exceptional courage or exceptional foolishness. "This blasphemy will not—"
With a gesture so slight it might have been mistaken for a twitch, Gilgamesh silenced him. No violence, no visible magic—the Cardinal simply found himself unable to form words, as though language itself had been temporarily revoked from him.
"You mistake me," Gilgamesh said softly, his eyes never leaving Luminas. "I do not come to conquer. I come to reclaim what has always been mine. All realms, all kingdoms, all treasures—they belong to me by divine right. Your little empire is merely a forgotten province of my garden that requires tending."
Luminas felt something she had not experienced in thousands of years: genuine, existential fear. This being was not bluffing. Whatever he was—wherever he had come from—his power was absolute.
"What do you want from us?" she asked, choosing her words with deliberate care.
"Want? Nothing you possess holds value to me. But I find myself... curious. This realm vibrates with a different resonance than my own. The laws of magic, the nature of divinity—they have evolved along a different path." He gestured expansively. "Consider yourselves fortunate. I shall observe, and perhaps guide, rather than simply claiming this land as a trinket for my treasury."
From the crowd, a desperate voice cried out: "The Starved Ones approach from the west! Without the barriers, they'll overrun the city by nightfall!"
Murmurs of panic rippled through the crowd. The Starved Ones—soul-devouring abominations that had plagued the empire's borders for generations—were held at bay only by the now-shattered magical barriers.
Gilgamesh's expression shifted from mild amusement to irritation. "Mongrels dare to invade my garden?" He extended his hand, and from one of the golden portals, he withdrew not a weapon, but a spiral drill-like structure that seemed to defy perspective itself.
"Behold, Ea, the Sword of Rupture," he announced casually, as though introducing an old friend. "This is not a weapon for mongrels."
Without waiting for response, he turned towards the western horizon and spoke a single word in a language so ancient it made the very air shudder. The spiral structure began to rotate, faster and faster, tearing reality itself. A red light emanated from it, expanding outward in a wave that passed harmlessly through the citizens of Lubelius but continued towards the unseen threat beyond the city walls.
In the distance, inhuman screams echoed as the wave made contact with the approaching Starved Ones. Those gathered would later swear they saw the very concept of "monster" being unwritten from existence where the light touched.
When silence fell again, Gilgamesh returned the weapon to its portal with casual grace. "A minor annoyance, removed." His eyes swept over the crowd, seeing the hope kindling in their expressions. "Understand this: I do not protect you out of benevolence. I simply will not permit pests to infest what is mine."
He turned to Luminas again. "You and I shall speak at length, 'High Priestess.' I wish to understand the religious structures you have established in my absence. But for now—" he gestured, and a grand throne of gold and lapis lazuli materialized behind him, "—I shall observe."
As he seated himself with regal authority in the center of the plaza, a new age dawned for the Holy Empire of Lubelius. Whether it would bring salvation or ruin, none could say. But one thing was certain: the true King had arrived, and the world would never be the same.
## CHAPTER 2: THE GOLDEN AUDIENCE
Three days had passed since Gilgamesh's arrival, and the Holy Empire of Lubelius found itself transformed in ways both subtle and profound. The King of Heroes had commandeered the highest spire of the Grand Cathedral, converting it into his personal quarters with a mere gesture. The once-sacred chamber was now filled with treasures that defied comprehension—shifting tapestries woven from starlight, fountains flowing with what appeared to be liquid gold, and artifacts so strange they hurt to look upon directly.
The common citizens had taken to calling him the "Golden Emperor," and whispered that he was the true god the empire had always claimed to serve. Some already fashioned crude idols in his likeness, much to Gilgamesh's apparent amusement.
High Priestess Luminas stood before the massive doors to his chamber, her usual confidence shaken. She had ruled for centuries, guided the empire through wars and calamities, been worshipped as divine herself. Now she felt like a supplicant, a courtier seeking audience with the true power.
"Enter," came the command before she could even knock.
The doors swung open of their own accord, revealing Gilgamesh reclining on a chaise lounge of impossible design. He wore simpler attire today—if clothing woven from materials unknown to this world could be called "simple." A goblet of wine hovered near his hand, refilling itself whenever it emptied.
"Ah, the self-proclaimed divinity arrives," he said, his tone conversational yet laced with mockery. "Have you come to pledge proper fealty, or merely to complain about my rearrangement of your little empire?"
Luminas steeled herself. "I've come to understand your intentions, King Gilgamesh. Our people are confused, frightened. They need guidance."
"And you believe yourself qualified to interpret my will?" He sat up, suddenly serious. "Let us speak plainly, woman. You are powerful by this world's standards—a divine being of considerable strength. Yet you play at religion, manipulating faith for control rather than enlightenment."
His words struck with uncomfortable precision. For millennia, Luminas had maintained the empire's religious structure primarily as a means of social control, her own divinity more a convenient tool than a spiritual truth.
"The worship of your citizens is hollow because you have made it so," Gilgamesh continued, rising from his seat with fluid grace. "They mouth prayers they do not understand to gods they do not know."
"And you would change this?" Luminas asked carefully.
"I would restore truth." He gestured, and one wall of the chamber became transparent, offering a view of the city below. "Look there."
In the central plaza where he had first appeared, a crowd had gathered. At the center stood a young woman, her hands outstretched as golden light emanated from her palms, healing a child's broken limb.
"Three days ago, that woman had no magical ability whatsoever," Gilgamesh observed. "Now she channels divine power directly. Do you know why?"
Luminas watched in astonishment. "You've granted her power?"
"I have granted her nothing," he corrected sharply. "I merely removed the artificial constraints your religious hierarchy placed on this world's magic. In your greed to monopolize divine connection, you and your predecessors severed the natural channels between mortals and the higher realms."
He turned to face her fully, and for a moment, Luminas glimpsed something beyond the arrogant king—something vast and primordial, a being who had walked with gods and monsters when the world was young.
"I was the first human king," he said quietly. "In my original world, I stood between humanity and divinity, belonging fully to neither. I ruled as two-thirds god and one-third man, guiding my people toward independence from divine whim. Here, you have done the opposite—making humans more dependent on false gods, not less."
"What would you have me do?" Luminas asked, surprising herself with the question. She had not sought another's guidance in thousands of years.
Gilgamesh smiled, and there was unexpected kindness in it. "Learn. As I must learn the nature of this world, you must relearn the true purpose of divinity. It is not to be worshipped, but to elevate those who would worship. Gods exist to be surpassed, Luminas Valentina. That is their highest purpose."
Before she could respond, the door burst open, and Cardinal Eubulus rushed in, his ceremonial robes disheveled.
"Your Holiness—both of you—forgive the interruption," he gasped. "Delegates from the Beast Kingdom of Eurazania have arrived at our borders. Their King Carrion himself leads them!"
Gilgamesh's expression darkened slightly. "Another self-proclaimed ruler enters my garden uninvited? How tiresome."
"King Carrion is powerful," Luminas warned. "His strength rivals my own, and he commands the loyalty of the entire beastkin race."
"Does he?" Gilgamesh's smile returned, sharper now. "Then perhaps it is time for a diplomatic exchange. Prepare a suitable reception, High Priestess. I shall demonstrate the difference between a king who rules by strength alone, and the King of Kings who rules by divine right."
As Luminas hurried to make arrangements, she couldn't help but wonder if she was witnessing the prelude to catastrophe or salvation. One thing was certain—the arrival of King Carrion would test exactly what manner of ruler Gilgamesh intended to be for her world.
## CHAPTER 3: CLASH OF SOVEREIGNS
The throne room of Lubelius Palace had been transformed. Gone were the austere white marble pews and the silvery altar that had served as Luminas's seat of power. In their place stood a single massive throne of gold and lapis lazuli, elevated on a dais that seemed to float several inches above the floor. The chamber's dimensions had somehow expanded, the ceiling now so high it disappeared into shadow, while the walls gleamed with inlaid precious metals forming patterns that subtly shifted when not directly observed.
King Carrion of Eurazania entered with the confidence of a apex predator. Standing nearly eight feet tall, with the maned head of a lion and the muscular body of a warrior, he commanded respect through sheer physical presence. Behind him followed his elite guard—beastkin warriors representing the strongest bloodlines of his kingdom: tiger, wolf, bear, and eagle.
"I expected to meet with Luminas Valentina," Carrion rumbled, his voice a deep growl that reverberated through the chamber. His eyes narrowed as they fell upon Gilgamesh, who reclined on the throne with casual disregard for the impressive delegation before him. "Instead I find a stranger upon a new throne. Explain yourself, golden one."
Gilgamesh's laugh was genuine, if condescending. "The beast demands explanations from the king? How novel." He straightened slightly, though his posture remained deliberately relaxed. "I am Gilgamesh of Uruk, first king of humanity, ruler of all I survey. Luminas Valentina now serves as High Priestess under my authority, as is proper."
Carrion's fur bristled. "Lubelius has been an independent ally of Eurazania for ten thousand years. If you have deposed Luminas by force, you have violated our ancient pact."
"I have deposed no one," Gilgamesh replied dismissively. "I have merely restored proper order. The woman played at godhood when she was merely divine. I have reminded her of the difference."
At that moment, Luminas entered from a side chamber, dressed not in her usual regalia but in simpler white robes with gold trim. She bore herself with dignity, but those who knew her well could see the subtle change in her demeanor—less imperious, more contemplative.
"King Carrion," she greeted with a formal bow. "I assure you, the Empire of Lubelius remains sovereign and our alliance intact. King Gilgamesh has..." she paused, searching for the right words, "...brought his wisdom to our shores, and I have welcomed his counsel."
Carrion studied her with predator's eyes. "Is this truth or diplomatic fiction, Luminas? For ten millennia you have bowed to no one."
"And yet wisdom dictates knowing when to bend," she replied carefully. "The King of Heroes brings knowledge and power from beyond our world. I would be a fool to reject such gifts out of pride."
"Pretty words," Carrion growled, turning back to Gilgamesh. "But I did not journey here for political theater. The barriers between worlds grow thin. Creatures emerge from rifts similar to the one that brought you here—but these bear only destruction, not wisdom. The southern provinces of my kingdom burn even now from the latest incursion."
Gilgamesh's expression shifted minutely, interest kindling in his crimson eyes. "You speak of threats to my garden? Elaborate."
For the next hour, Carrion detailed the emerging crisis. Throughout the known world, rifts had begun appearing with increasing frequency over the past year. Through them came aberrations—creatures that seemed cobbled together from mismatched parts of reality, obeying no natural laws. They devoured not just flesh but concepts themselves, leaving areas where fundamental principles like gravity or time functioned erratically or ceased altogether.
"The strongest among us can destroy these beings," Carrion concluded, "but they grow more numerous by the day. If this continues, even our combined might will not be enough."
Throughout the explanation, Gilgamesh had listened with uncharacteristic silence. When Carrion finished, the King of Heroes rose from his throne and descended the steps with deliberate slowness.
"These rifts," he said thoughtfully, "mirror the disturbance that brought me here, yet differ in crucial aspects. In my world, I possessed knowledge of the multiverse's structure—the layers and branches of reality. What you describe suggests damage to those structures."
He stopped directly before Carrion, unintimidated by the beastkin's towering form. "Show me one of these aberrations. I would observe it firsthand."
The lion king's expression darkened. "That would require traveling to the frontlines of this conflict. My warriors battle them even now in the Forest of Shadows."
Gilgamesh smiled—the smile of one for whom distance held no meaning. "Distance is a concept I transcend." He snapped his fingers, and a golden portal yawned open beside him, large enough for several people to pass through. Beyond it lay not the swirling chaos one might expect of such magic, but a clear view of a burning forest where beastkin warriors battled shadowy, multi-limbed horrors.
"Shall we, King of Beasts?" Gilgamesh gestured toward the portal with mock courtesy. "Unless, of course, you fear to face these enemies alongside the true King."
Carrion's eyes widened fractionally—the closest he would come to showing surprise. "Luminas, you will join us. Your holy magic may prove useful." Before she could respond, he stepped through the portal without hesitation.
Gilgamesh's smile widened. "Courageous, if foolish. Come, Priestess. Let us see what manner of vermin infests the periphery of my domain."
As they stepped through the portal, the political tensions of the throne room gave way to the chaos of battle. The Forest of Shadows had been transformed into a nightmare landscape. Ancient trees burned with unnatural purple flame that consumed but did not reduce to ash. The ground rippled like water beneath their feet. And everywhere, beastkin warriors fought desperately against enemies that defied description.
The aberrations resembled nothing so much as living glitches in reality—parts of them appeared and disappeared at random, while others stretched into impossible geometries before snapping back. Where they touched, matter twisted or dissolved.
"These are not creatures," Gilgamesh observed with clinical detachment. "They are symptoms of a disease afflicting reality itself."
A massive aberration noticed their arrival and charged toward them, its dozens of mismatched limbs carrying it forward with unnatural speed. Carrion moved to intercept, his claws extending with golden light.
"Stand aside," Gilgamesh commanded, not raising his voice yet somehow cutting through the chaos of battle. From portals around him, weapons began to emerge—not one or two, but dozens, each unique and radiating power beyond anything this world had seen.
"Gate of Babylon," he named the technique casually, as the weapons oriented themselves toward the approaching horror. With a flick of his wrist, they launched simultaneously.
The aberration exploded into fragments of unreality, each piece dissolving before it hit the ground. But what happened next surprised even Gilgamesh—where the creature had been destroyed, the fabric of space itself seemed to heal, the rippling ground stabilizing and the unnatural flames extinguishing.
"Most interesting," Gilgamesh murmured. "My treasures do not merely destroy these abominations—they correct the fundamental damage they represent."
Luminas, who had been preparing a complex holy spell, let her magic fade unused. "You don't simply kill them. You rewrite the broken laws they embody."
"Of course," Gilgamesh replied, as though it were obvious. "My treasury contains the original forms of all human achievement—the archetypes from which all lesser versions derive. Where concepts are damaged, the originals restore proper order."
Carrion, who had redirected his attack to another aberration, called over his shoulder: "If you possess such power, golden king, why not end this battle at once?"
Gilgamesh's eyes narrowed. "You mistake me for a common soldier, beast king. I do not exert myself unnecessarily." Nevertheless, he raised his hand again, and hundreds of golden portals opened throughout the battlefield. "But I will demonstrate the difference between your strength and mine."
What followed could only be described as beautiful annihilation. From each portal emerged a different divine weapon, each finding its target with unerring accuracy. Within minutes, the forest clearing was silent, the aberrations vanquished, reality itself smoothed and restored.
The beastkin warriors stared in awe at the golden-armored figure. Some fell to their knees in spontaneous worship—an action that clearly pleased Gilgamesh, though he affected indifference.
Carrion approached slowly, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, the two kings regarded each other in silence.
"You could have done this from your throne room," Carrion finally said. "Why come personally?"
"I wished to understand the nature of the threat," Gilgamesh replied. "And to take your measure, King of Beasts. You fight well—for a mongrel."
Coming from Gilgamesh, this was high praise indeed.
"The rifts will continue to appear," Luminas interjected. "Even your treasury has limits, King of Heroes. We need a more permanent solution."
Gilgamesh turned his ruby gaze upon her. "My treasury has no limits, woman. But you are correct that a more elegant approach is warranted." He gestured, and the portal that had brought them reopened. "Return to Lubelius. I must consult certain artifacts in my collection that may shed light on this disturbance in the multiverse."
As they prepared to depart, a wounded beastkin soldier approached cautiously. "Great Golden One," she addressed Gilgamesh hesitantly, "the aberrations consumed my brother whole. Is he... can he...?"
Gilgamesh regarded her impassively for a moment. Those who knew him less might have expected cruelty or dismissal. Instead, he reached into a small portal and withdrew a crystalline vial containing swirling golden liquid.
"Your brother exists now only as scattered concept," he told her, his voice neither kind nor unkind, simply truthful. "But concepts can be reconstructed." He handed her the vial. "Pour this at the site of his consumption when the next full moon rises. What returns may not be identical to what was lost, but the essence will remain."
The soldier clutched the vial, tears streaming down her feline face.
"Thank you, my king," she whispered.
Gilgamesh did not acknowledge her gratitude, already turning away. But Luminas and Carrion exchanged glances of surprised reappraisal. Perhaps there was more to the arrogant King of Heroes than either had initially perceived.
As they stepped back through the portal to Lubelius, the political landscape had subtly shifted. Carrion now regarded Gilgamesh with cautious respect rather than suspicion. Luminas found herself genuinely curious about the knowledge this outsider king might share.
And Gilgamesh himself seemed slightly more invested in this world's fate than before—though whether from genuine concern or merely pride in his newly claimed "garden" remained to be seen.
## CHAPTER 4: COUNCIL OF ENLIGHTENMENT
The great library of Lubelius had stood for millennia, housing sacred texts and forbidden knowledge alike within its alabaster walls. Now it served as Gilgamesh's workshop, its contents reorganized according to principles only he understood. Books floated through the air, rearranging themselves on shelves that extended impossibly upward. Maps and diagrams sprawled across tables that had not existed the day before.
In the center of this scholarly maelstrom sat Gilgamesh himself, surrounded by artifacts from his treasury—strange instruments of gold and crystal, tablets inscribed with languages extinct long before this world's recorded history began, and several objects that defied description entirely, seeming to exist in more dimensions than the eye could perceive.
"The pattern becomes clear," he announced without looking up as Luminas and Carrion entered. They had been summoned unceremoniously in the middle of the night, a week after their excursion to the Forest of Shadows. "The multiverse bleeds."
Luminas approached cautiously. In the days since his arrival, she had learned that Gilgamesh's moods could shift as rapidly as desert weather—from benevolent teacher to tyrannical king in the space of a heartbeat.
"What have you discovered?" she asked.
Gilgamesh gestured to what appeared to be a three-dimensional model of intersecting planes, rendered in light rather than physical material. "In my world, I encountered entities capable of traveling between realities—beings who understood the structure of the multiverse as a sailor understands ocean currents. What they described as stable boundaries between worlds has become... porous."
"Caused by what?" Carrion demanded, his tail lashing impatiently.
Gilgamesh shot him an irritated glance. "Impatience befits you poorly, beast king. The cause appears to be both external and internal to your world." He manipulated the light model, zooming in on a particular intersection. "Here—a convergence point where multiple reality streams touch. In a stable multiverse, such points remain sealed by fundamental laws. In yours, something has been systematically weakening those laws."
"Deliberately?" Luminas asked sharply.
"Almost certainly." Gilgamesh stood, pacing around the model. "The aberrations you face are merely symptoms—reality's immune response to invasion. The true threat lies in what purposely creates these weakening points."
He waved his hand, and the model expanded to reveal a pulsing darkness that seemed to exist between the planes rather than within any of them.
"I believe your world faces an entity I encountered only in ancient texts—a Consumer of Worlds. It devours realities by first destabilizing their fundamental laws, then absorbing the resulting chaos."
Carrion growled low in his throat, an instinctive response to threat. "How do we fight such a being?"
"Not 'we,' beast king. I." Gilgamesh corrected automatically, though without his usual venom. "However, preparations must be made. The Consumer exists partially outside conventional reality, making it difficult to target directly. We must first stabilize the weakening boundaries."
"How?" Luminas asked.
For the first time since they had known him, Gilgamesh showed a flicker of uncertainty. "In my original world, such work would require divine instruments of specific make—keys forged at the dawn of creation. I possess nothing precisely equivalent in my treasury."
This admission of limitation, however slight, shocked both listeners.
"However," he continued, his confidence returning, "I believe we can create suitable replacements using artifacts and knowledge unique to this world, combined with certain treasures in my possession."
He turned to Luminas. "Your empire's founding relics—the Scepter of Sanctification and the Crown of Divine Right—were created by genuine divine power, were they not?"
Luminas hesitated. These were the most closely guarded treasures of Lubelius, their true nature known only to the High Priestess.
"Yes," she admitted finally. "They were gifts from the original Creator God before his departure from this realm. They... they're how I achieved divinity myself, over time."
"As I suspected." Gilgamesh nodded. "And you, beast king—your people guard the Primal Soil, do they not? The earth from which the first beastkin supposedly arose?"
Carrion's eyes widened. "How could you possibly know of that? It is our most sacred secret."
"There are no secrets from the King of Heroes," Gilgamesh replied simply. "I need these artifacts, plus representatives from the other major powers of this world, each bringing their own founding relics. Together, they will form the material components of my solution."
"The other nations will never agree," Luminas protested. "Some have been at war for generations. Others guard their sacred treasures more jealously than their own children."
Gilgamesh smiled—a dangerous expression on his leonine features. "Then it falls to you both to convince them. Or would you prefer I collect these items myself? I assure you, my methods of acquisition would be considerably less diplomatic."
The threat hung in the air, clear yet unstated.
"How long do we have?" Carrion asked pragmatically.
Gilgamesh considered the light model once more. "At the current rate of degradation... three weeks, perhaps four, before the boundaries weaken beyond recovery. By then, the Consumer will begin directly manifesting in your world rather than merely sending its aberrations ahead as scouts."
"Impossible," Luminas breathed. "Even with teleportation magic, contacting all major nations and convincing them to participate would take months of diplomacy."
"Then I suggest you begin immediately." Gilgamesh turned away dismissively, already returning to his studies. "Send messengers tonight. I shall prepare the ritual space."
As they left the library, Carrion and Luminas exchanged troubled glances.
"Can we trust him?" the beast king asked quietly.
Luminas considered the question carefully. "I'm not certain 'trust' applies to a being like Gilgamesh. But his interest in preserving this world seems genuine, if only because he now considers it his property."
"Property." Carrion snorted. "We trade one threat for another. What becomes of our world if he succeeds? Do we simply accept him as our emperor thereafter?"
"One crisis at a time, old friend," Luminas replied wearily. "If there is no world, sovereignty becomes rather meaningless."
---
Three days later, the first responses to their desperate summons began arriving. Some came in person, others sent representatives or merely messages. But all expressed the same mixture of disbelief, fear, and reluctance.
"The Dwarven Confederation refuses outright," reported Cardinal Eubulus, reviewing the latest communications. "They say surrendering their Forge of First Fire would destroy their civilization's foundation."
"The Elven Conclave demands proof of this threat before they will even consider revealing the location of their founding tree," added another aide.
Luminas rubbed her temples, feeling a headache building despite her divine constitution. "And what of the Eastern Empire?"
"Emperor Rudra expresses interest in meeting this 'Golden King' personally before making any commitment," Eubulus replied. "However, he has mobilized his forces—whether for defense or aggression remains unclear."
The situation seemed hopeless. Even with Carrion's support lending credibility to their warnings, most nations regarded the request as either a trick, a power grab, or the ravings of madmen.
"Perhaps if they could see the threat firsthand," Carrion suggested during their evening council. "If representatives witnessed the aberrations..."
"Too dangerous," Luminas countered. "And Gilgamesh would never agree to waste his energy transporting diplomatic observers to battle sites."
As if summoned by the mention of his name, the library doors swung open, and Gilgamesh entered. He had abandoned his golden armor for simpler attire—a white tunic with red accents, though still crafted of materials unknown to this world. Despite the casual dress, his regal bearing remained undiminished.
"Your diplomatic efforts fail," he stated without preamble. "As expected."
"Give us more time," Luminas urged. "These are ancient nations with proud histories—"
"There is no more time," Gilgamesh interrupted flatly. "The boundary degradation accelerates. I have detected a new development—a focal point forming directly beneath Lubelius itself. The Consumer has sensed my presence and redirects its attention here."
Silence fell as the implications sank in.
"Then we are doomed," Cardinal Eubulus whispered.
"No." Gilgamesh's voice cracked like a whip. "We adapt our strategy. If the world's powers will not come willingly to preserve their existence, then they must be compelled by demonstration of the alternative."
He turned to Carrion. "Your warriors are respected for their strength across this world, are they not?"
The beast king nodded cautiously.
"And you, Priestess—your holy magic is renowned even among your enemies?"
"It is," Luminas confirmed.
"Good. Then tomorrow, you both shall accompany me on a... diplomatic mission." Gilgamesh's smile held no warmth. "We will visit each major capital in turn. I will demonstrate my power, you will vouch for the threat's reality, and they will surrender their relics temporarily or face immediate consequences."
"That's not diplomacy," Carrion growled. "That's intimidation."
"Call it what you wish," Gilgamesh replied indifferently. "When a child refuses medicine that will save its life, a parent does not debate—they administer the cure regardless of protests."
"And you see yourself as our parent?" Luminas asked, unable to keep a hint of bitterness from her voice.
Gilgamesh regarded her thoughtfully. "No, Priestess. I see myself as the gardener, and your civilizations as plants requiring pruning to survive a coming frost. Some branches must be sacrificed for the whole to endure."
He turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. "Be ready at dawn. We begin with the most stubborn—the Dwarven Confederation. Their Forge of First Fire will be the cornerstone of our salvation, with or without their blessing."
After he departed, Carrion slammed a massive fist against the table, cracking the ancient wood. "He will start a world war! The dwarves will never surrender their forge!"
"Unless they believe the alternative is worse," Luminas said quietly. "And perhaps it is."
She gazed out the window at her city—at the empire she had guided for millennia. Citizens went about their evening activities, many now wearing gold accessories in homage to their new emperor. Street preachers spoke of Gilgamesh as the return of the Creator God in new form. Children played games mimicking his portal magic using painted hoops.
In just over a week, he had begun reshaping their culture. What would remain of their world once this crisis passed—assuming they survived at all?
"We have no choice but to follow his lead," she finally said. "But we must also be prepared to mitigate whatever damage his methods cause. The world must survive both the Consumer and its self-appointed savior."
Carrion nodded grimly. "Then we become the balance—neither