Ethan looked down at the fallen king, his expression unreadable.
Gilgamesh had lost. But through the entire battle—bloody, broken, and overmatched—he had never once shown fear.
He was a contradiction: noble and cruel, brilliant and violent. A man of immense charisma and impossible ambition. Ethan couldn't help but feel a strange sense of regret.
But there was nothing he could do.
Gilgamesh hadn't ascended. He hadn't unlocked his full genetic potential. He could never accept a third gene. His life had reached its end.
Ethan had come to witness his final moments.
He hadn't expected a fight.
---
Nearby, Ishtar lay on the ground, blood on her lips. Her breath was ragged, but her eyes were steady as they gazed up at Ethan.
She didn't flinch.
She had come prepared to die. Sumerian warriors weren't afraid of death.
She laughed quietly to herself.
"So this is the gap between us. What kind of being did we think we could defeat?"
"Do you regret it now?" Ethan asked, his voice calm, but heavy.
Gilgamesh coughed, then smiled through the blood.
"We made our choice."
He said nothing more.
The war was over.
The Sumerian civilization had fallen.
They had challenged a force they couldn't understand—and they had been crushed.
Ethan looked over the battlefield. Soldiers were fleeing in panic. Screams, laughter, and weeping echoed through the ruins of Uruk. Madness was spreading.
He sighed.
"I never wanted to interfere in the lives of so many people… or the fate of an entire civilization."
His eyes drifted back to Gilgamesh—this once-youthful rebel, this tiny Bugape who had once shouted up at the sky and mocked his creator.
Back then, Ethan had joked that their kind seemed selfish and violent.
Now it didn't feel like a joke anymore.
---
"So this is the end?"
Gilgamesh had pulled himself into a sitting position, despite the broken bones and internal bleeding.
"We destroyed so many species… are you here now to do the same to us?"
Even now, facing death, the king didn't beg.
He had never begged.
Not once in his life.
"You ignored my warnings," Ethan replied.
"You wiped out too many species, damaged the ecosystem beyond repair. I can't let you keep multiplying. I have to stop you."
Gilgamesh gave a strained laugh.
"Then… answer my final questions."
A silence fell.
The battlefield quieted.
Ethan stood motionless, outlined in gold above the wreckage. Then his voice rolled across the world:
"Ask."
Everything stopped.
Soldiers froze. Civilians looked to the sky. Even Ishtar, barely conscious, smiled faintly at the sound of that voice.
"You'll answer my questions again?" Gilgamesh whispered.
Then came his first question:
"How will you destroy us?"
Ethan paused.
"I'll use water," he said at last.
"A massive flood. I'll wash away your cities, your armies, your culture. Nothing will remain."
The silence deepened.
A flood?
Could such a thing even be done?
People stared up in horror. The idea didn't sound like an act of war—it sounded like a final sentence.
---
"Second question," Gilgamesh said, his voice rough.
"Why couldn't I find you? Why do you hide? Where did you come from? Why give us civilization—only to stop us from using it?"
"You said all life was equal. Then tell me: what is this world to you?"
Ethan looked down at him—this aging warrior who had shaped a nation.
"This land is something I created. Every tree, every river, every creature… it all came from my hands. That's why every being here—man or beast—is equal. Because you all belong to this world I made."
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then Gilgamesh laughed.
Quietly at first. Then louder. Bitter. Wild.
"I thought I was the creator," he choked out.
"I wrote the Genesis scrolls. I thought I built a civilization from nothing. I thought I was the one who gave meaning to this world."
He laughed harder, shaking with it.
"But all this time… it wasn't me. It was you."
---
At last, his laughter faded.
And he asked:
"One final question. How long did it take you… to create this world?"
Ethan hesitated.
He remembered the week he spent after chemotherapy—barely able to stand, shaping the sandbox one shovel at a time.
He gave the honest answer:
"Seven days."