When Gilgamesh reached the end of his natural lifespan, he did what no other Bugape dared: he drank the Blood of the Conqueror and was reborn.
The Hero King returned—stronger, fiercer, more determined than ever.
Ten more years passed.
Generations came and went. The old wooden huts of the tribe slowly decayed and fell into disrepair. Under Gilgamesh's rule, the Bugapes—now proudly called Sumerians—began building stone dwellings. It marked the dawn of the Stone Age.
Empowered by termite genes, Gilgamesh could uproot ancient trees with his bare hands and leap eight meters in a single bound. His strength defied reason. He could move boulders, reshape terrain, and crush beasts like insects.
Three years later, he challenged the most feared beast in the known world—Fenba, the colossal mountain-sized creature spoken of only in whispers and songs.
Their battle lasted three days and three nights.
Valleys split. Mountains cracked. The land itself groaned beneath their might. Beasts fled in terror as titans clashed.
When the dust settled, Gilgamesh emerged alone, bloodied but unbroken. In one hand, he held the Sword of Damocles, its edge stained red. In the other, he dragged Fenba's corpse—the size of a hill—behind him like a trophy.
His people fell to their knees in awe.
Songs were composed. Statues erected. For them, he was no longer just a king—he was myth made flesh. The strongest Hero King in history.
"I will build a kingdom," he said, standing before his people, his voice ringing like iron on stone.
History, of course, remembers what it chooses. Gilgamesh omitted the bloody truth of his son's death from the official record. He immortalized only his glory in the Book of Genesis.
The middle chapters of the Sumerian Epic proclaimed:
> "Gilgamesh drank the Blood of the Conqueror, slew the divine beast Fenba with his holy sword, and founded the Sumerian dynasty. With strength enough to move mountains, he built Uruk City and established the first city-state in history."
---
Time marched on.
Gilgamesh turned his gaze from conquest to civilization.
He was tireless—brilliant, magnetic, merciless.
He introduced currency. Standardized language. Built roads, walls, and temples. He also enforced brutal class divisions and legalized slavery. Wealth flowed to the top. Soldiers were trained. Explorers dispatched to chart the far corners of the land.
By the eighty-seventh year of the Sumerian dynasty, Gilgamesh was 127 years old.
And yet, he remained ageless.
In the heart of the city of Uruk, his palace loomed—an architectural marvel. Massive columns carved with golden laurels supported a ceiling of arched stone. Soft white lamps lined the walls. A blood-red carpet, woven from the fur of slain beasts, stretched from the gates to the throne.
There, seated in silent majesty, was Gilgamesh.
Handsome. Imposing. Eternal.
The Sword of Damocles never left his side.
One of his ministers, the now-aged Dionysius, approached. He knelt, his hands shaking slightly.
"Your Majesty, King of Sumer, Lord of Uruk," he said, voice reverent. "We have completed the grand expedition. The world has been mapped."
Gilgamesh tilted his head slightly, his golden eyes half-lidded.
"Then tell me—what is our world like?"
Dionysius straightened and gestured grandly. "The sky arches like a great dome. The earth is a perfect square. A vast ocean lies at its center, surrounded by endless rivers, mountains, and plains. Even riding the swiftest Finchra beast at full gallop, it would take over twenty years to cross this land from end to end."
Gilgamesh was silent.
Then, softly: "You may go."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Dionysius bowed again. He turned to leave—but stopped at the doorway. The old man turned, eyes clouded with age but shining with awe.
Thirty years ago, when he had been a youthful warrior, Gilgamesh had summoned him and entrusted him with the task of mapping the known world. Now, after a lifetime of toil, he returned—frail, near death.
But the king... had not aged a day.
"What a monarch," Dionysius whispered.
---
When the throne room emptied, Gilgamesh sat in silence.
He slowly unsheathed the Sword of Damocles, its blade glinting coldly in the lamp-light. His fingers traced its edge as one might touch the cheek of a lover.
"The Torch. The Blood. I understand them now," he murmured. "But this sword… this one thing remains a mystery."
He leaned back, gaze distant.
"What is it made of? Is it the bone of a divine beast? A relic of some forgotten god? Or is it... a product of civilization?"
He would never know.
His world was not like the real one.
There were no metal veins beneath the soil. No copper. No iron. Xu Zhi had never buried minerals into the sandbox. The land was, at its core, just farmland.
There was no metal in their world.
The shining blade in his hand—the only one of its kind—remained a thing of legend. Irreplicable. Mysterious.
"We've explored the ends of the earth," he whispered. "And yet... we've never found the home of the Great Beast of Wisdom."
He had never seen the divine colossus again.
---
That sword—so sharp, so glorious—had built a kingdom. It had given birth to civilization.
But its mystery haunted him.
He had only scratched the surface of what true civilization could become. The sword reminded him of how far they had to go. How little they still understood.
In truth, the sword hung over his head like its namesake—an ever-present threat. A reminder.
He had built an empire upon its gift, but it was also a burden. A warning.
The power of civilization was not free.
---
Gilgamesh sat alone on his throne.
Outside, torches flickered in the halls. The sound of guards marching echoed faintly in the distance.
His gaze turned inward, to memory.
He remembered the forest.
He remembered the titan cloaked in divine light.
The being that lifted him into the sky.
That offered him a view of the world—and the Three Treasures that would shape history.
"I've lived two lifetimes," he murmured, eyes heavy. "But now, the Blood no longer works. Its power has faded. And yet... I want more. I want to see the world's future. I want to see the Great Beast of Wisdom again."
His voice was soft.
Almost childlike.