Rowe had no experiential knowledge of what death truly felt like; after all, he had never genuinely crossed that final threshold. But in this suspended moment, standing at the edge of the manifested Underworld, he felt its aura wash over him—a sensation of profound cold and absolute desolation. Yet, to his surprise, it wasn't terrifying. Instead, it was like a spectral hand gently brushing against his cheek, a touch so soothing it instilled a deep, primal impulse to simply let go and rest. Eternal slumber was, after all, one of the most fundamental forms of passing. This gentle ushering into oblivion was also the primary duty Ereshkigal, the Goddess of the Underworld, performed within her realm: guiding the souls of the deceased to their final, peaceful rest.
The wind of the Underworld brought precisely this gentle, insidious harm to all living things. It did not rend or tear; it simply whispered promises of an end to all struggle and pain.
Although Rowe, having fully merged with the 'Key of the Heavens,' possessed the inherent ability to exist without suppression in any environment, theoretically rendering him immune to such passive erosion, he had 'learned from past mistakes.' The catastrophic fusion during the battle with Gilgamesh and Enkidu had taught him, through brutal experience, how to consciously activate and, more importantly, deactivate his abilities. Now, he deliberately willed his divine protection to fall silent. He allowed his mortal essence to become fully vulnerable, opening himself completely to this aura of eternal slumber.
Of course, this level of exposure alone wasn't enough to make Rowe succumb completely. For him, physical death was always just a transition, a necessary step to reach the Throne of Heroes, never a true finality. So, the moment his palm parted the deep, chilling currents of deathly energy, he steadied his resolve and took another step forward… directly toward the shimmering, veiled silhouette of Ereshkigal.
His steps were unnervingly firm, his eyes showing no trace of the fear or hesitation that should have been there. Even as the cold wind of the Kur began its work, peeling away the vitality from his skin and decaying his youthful appearance, causing him to age decades in a handful of heartbeats—transforming from a vibrant young man into a withered, elderly figure on the very brink of death—his determination did not falter.
But… I meant what I said! My words were not a jest!
His actions made his meaning self-evident.
If you wish to leave, you may. But please, take me with you! Thank you!
The truth was—
I want to die!
Rowe would never let slip such a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. He would march directly into the arms of death itself if that's what it took.
Thus, under this unwavering demeanor and resolute gaze, Ereshkigal, who had now fully taken control of the body after Ishtar's conscious withdrawal, couldn't help but tremble internally.
Why… why is he doing this?
Even while facing true death, enduring the relentless erosion of the Underworld's aura, and overcoming the primal fear all life holds for its end… does he still wish to see me? Me, who has been abandoned and forgotten by the gods and mortals alike?
The Goddess of the Underworld raised a hand to her face, her mind a whirlpool of emotions too complex to articulate. If Rowe could have perceived her thoughts at this moment, he would have immediately retorted: 'No, you've misunderstood completely. I'm just a smooth-talker; you don't actually occupy my heart.'
But unfortunately, Rowe possessed no ability to read the mind of a Goddess of the Underworld, nor could he decipher Ereshkigal's inner turmoil through the layers of obfuscating black wind that now surrounded her. And so, Ereshkigal profoundly misunderstood his motives.
Her emotions were in turmoil. A part of her was deeply moved, yet she felt she still could not, should not, meet him properly. Through the fragmented memories Ishtar had left for her within this shared vessel, she already knew Rowe's identity. He was the youngest high priest of Uruk, a prodigy in the service of the gods. He was the appointed adjutant to the King of Uruk himself. He was young, but he had already achieved a prominent position in the world of the living. He was radiant, touched by destiny.
He was everything she was not. Death was solitary, silent, and inauspicious. Ereshkigal could not bear the thought of him losing all of that—his youth, his position, his very life—because of her, a goddess of endings.
However, what the lonely Goddess of the Underworld could never have guessed was that Rowe was actually… thoroughly enjoying the process. The sensation brought by the wind of the Underworld wasn't one of pain. The further he advanced, the more a profound, welcoming drowsiness seeped into his living body. He knew with certainty that if he continued, he would inevitably die before he even got close enough to touch her. To die without any pain or struggle—wasn't that the very dream he had always harbored?
The opportunity was too rare to waste. Rowe's steps became even more determined, his will an unbreakable spear pointed toward his own demise. And with every step he took, Ereshkigal's heart wavered all the more.
Stop. Please, stop!
Why go to such lengths?
She knew that if Rowe stopped now, the erosion would cease. His body, sustained by the latent power of the Key, would even begin to recover its youth. Having been accompanied only by silent, placid spirits for millennia, Ereshkigal was, perhaps paradoxically, the gentlest of all the gods toward the living. Even in her unadulterated, purely divine state, she treated every soul with kindness, be it in life or in death. She never intended to harm Rowe.
Yet, she had never expected anyone to go to such self-destructive lengths for her sake. Beneath her worry bloomed a fragile, unfamiliar touch of emotion. No one had ever done this for her. No one had ever shown such blatant disregard for death itself, just to draw closer to her.
'He's quite remarkable, isn't he?'
The Goddess of the Underworld heard a voice very similar to her own, yet laced with a different kind of pride. It was Ishtar, communicating from the shared space within their consciousness. "Although he's an utter fool… this level of dedication is exceptionally rare. Even the most devout believers rarely disregard the finality of death for the sake of their god." A pause, then the conclusion, delivered with a mix of annoyance and awe. "He must truly be infatuated with you, Ereshkigal."
Ereshkigal needed no convincing. The evidence was walking toward her, aging with every step. Just from the young priest's unwavering actions, she could feel the raw, undeniable intensity of his proclaimed 'devotion.' Avoiding him now felt not only impossible but profoundly cowardly.
What should I do?
"Stop squirming! You're the Mistress of the Underworld, for heaven's sake!" Ishtar's disdainful voice echoed in her mind, though it carried an undeniable, almost sour hint of envy. "Show some of that decisive courage you had when you killed me—Ereshkigal!"
The memory, a painful scar on their shared history, surfaced. Ereshkigal had once slain Ishtar. The Venus Goddess had trespassed into the Kur, initially intending to visit her sister who had newly become bound to the underworld. But a tragic misunderstanding, born of poor communication and divine pride, had led to a confrontation within Ereshkigal's domain, where the Goddess of the Underworld's power was absolute. Ishtar fell, only to be later resurrected by their father, the sky god Anu. The incident had left a permanent shadow on Ishtar, a resentment and fear that kept her from ever setting foot in the underworld again.
The Ereshkigal who had acted then had been decisive, formidable, and unyielding.
That time…
Yes. Back then, wasn't I yearning for someone, for companionship?
Why, then, should I shy away from it now when it finally stands before me?
The realization struck Ereshkigal with the force of a divine epiphany. The loneliness that had defined her eons of rule was the very reason she should not reject this brave, if foolish, mortal.
'Thank you… Ishtar.'
'Hmph, it's nothing. Consider it a minor compensation for my harsh words to you back then,' Ishtar retorted, her tone attempting its usual haughtiness but failing to mask a thread of genuine sentiment. 'For this goddess, offering advice is a trivial matter!'
As this internal exchange concluded, Ereshkigal raised her head. Her resolve solidified. Her crimson eyes, now burning with a newfound determination, pierced through the shroud of black wind and swirling underworld soil, locking onto the man who continued his slow, arduous approach. His body was a testament to his ordeal—bent, withered, and aged far beyond his years—yet his steps remained unnervingly steady, each one a declaration of his intent.
Rowe, in turn, saw the twin points of crimson light glowing in the darkness ahead. He saw the goddess's gaze fixed upon him. Seeing his own body so withered and aged filled him with exhilaration. Finally, I am going to die! he thought, his heart soaring with morbid triumph.
But in the very next second, his victory was stolen. The oppressive darkness before him suddenly vanished, retracting as if it had never been. The goddess who had been hidden behind it now stood fully revealed.
Golden hair cascaded like a waterfall of sunlight in the gloom. A vibrant red cloak fluttered around a graceful, delicate form. Fair, shapely legs supported her posture, and form-fitting black fabric accentuated the soft curve of her hips, her slender waist, and the gentle swell of her chest. Sharing the same vessel, her appearance was naturally identical to Ishtar's, but the aura she projected was entirely different—profound, gentle, and carrying a quiet solemnity that promised eternal peace. She was a girl so serene she seemed to still the very air around her.
However, Rowe felt no tranquility in that moment; he felt only profound bewilderment and a surge of panic.
What are you doing?!
My body… how is it recovering?!
He could feel the decay reversing, the years sloughing away as the underworld's erosive aura was forcibly withdrawn from him.
Bring it back! Give me back the aura of the Kur!
His internal pleas were cut short as Ereshkigal stepped forward and did the unthinkable. She opened her arms and embraced him.
A sudden, overwhelming softness enveloped him. The gentle, lonely girl, who symbolized the end of all things, nestled herself into his chest, her arms wrapping around him as if she were embracing her entire world after an eternity of solitude.
In that moment, the Goddess of Death, who had known only the silence of departed souls, finally found the courage to embrace the one living being who had shown no fear of her domain. And Rowe, the would-be martyr, found his perfect death once again slipping through his fingers, replaced by the warm, confounding reality of a divine hug.