What Could Lead to a Failed "Performance"?
What circumstances cause the role‐play to fail? The simplest answer is: he dies.
There are two ways that can happen. One, he's murdered during his performance. Two, he simply grows old, falls ill, and dies before reaching 100%.
Does failure mean he truly dies for good? No. The system will transport him into the next role. His next incarnation's era will change, but which new figure he becomes—that remains a mystery. The system doesn't explain until he either fails or succeeds. Or perhaps he'll learn more once he awakens in his next life.
Were his current murders—poisoning Uruk's two power bodies—dictated by the system's storyline? Not at all. He chose it himself. Even if the system supplies a narrative, strict adherence is impossible; deviations always happen.
Why Do Deviations Occur?
Deviations stem from nuances of speech, behavior, and timing.
For example, the system's log might note: "One day, Gilgamesh went hunting and clashed with someone." But it doesn't specify which day, how serious the clash was, or what exactly transpired. He must fill in those gaps himself, which is risky.
What if the original conflict only left resentful feelings, but his version goes too far—maybe the other party now wants to kill him? That mismatch is a deviation.
Faced with such uncertainties, he took the calculated risk of orchestrating the poisoning himself.
What Kind of World Is This?
Is this an ordinary world? No—it's one teeming with real gods.
Does that mean he's landed in the Type-Moon universe and will become a heroic spirit? If it were purely Type-Moon, these system rewards would seem redundant.
A sudden clamor pulls him back to the present: Grand Priest Anu has arrived.
The Grand Priest Arrives
At the palace doors stands Anu, renowned for communing with the gods. He halts, horrified at the carnage. His eyes travel to the throne, where the young king props his chin on one hand, watching him with morbid curiosity. A chill zips up Anu's spine.
This child-king—once harmless and helpless—now sits serenely amid slaughter. The realization strikes: he alone must be responsible.
King Gilgamesh's eyes glitter as he casually explains, "They were too troublesome. They wanted to treat me like a puppet, so I cursed them to death."
A cold blue flame flickers at his side, lending an otherworldly dread. Anu breaks out in a cold sweat—this boy wields powers beyond comprehension. Cursing people to death? Actual magic?
The king looks down on Anu and asks, "Lord Anu, you wouldn't harbor the same thoughts as those fools, would you?"
"N-no!" Anu stammers, terrified of being next.
"That's good," the boy sighs, smiling.
In a distant realm, footsteps echo—brisk yet measured. The source is a stern woman whose raven-black hair is pinned with a wing-shaped ornament. She wears no makeup, yet her sharp features and knight-style gown mark her as battle-hardened.
She is Brunhilde, the eldest of the thirteen Valkyrie sisters. Close behind her scurries a lithe girl of about thirteen or fourteen, with pale lavender hair and wide emerald eyes. This is Grea, the youngest Valkyrie.
They approach a grand, solemn hall: the Valhalla Council Chamber.
"Lady Brunhilde…" Grea murmurs, clutching her small fist to her chest in anxiety. She fears her revered sister is about to overstep.
After all, the Valhalla Council is strictly for full gods—semi-divine Valkyries have no place inside. Today's millennial meeting will decide humanity's fate, and Brunhilde seems determined to intervene.
Inside the chamber, an ancient, gaunt figure presides. Clad in a white robe and as frail as a breeze might knock him over, he is none other than Zeus, chief of the Greek pantheon.
"Fellow gods," he begins, "a thousand years have passed since our last gathering. Let us commence the Human Fate Council!"
He narrows his heavily-browed eyes. "Shall humanity be granted another millennium? Or shall they be ended?"
Every thousand years, all the gods vote to determine whether humans may continue or be wiped from the world—godly judgment can be as lethal as meteor strikes or nuclear war.
"Please share your votes."
Lazily reclining, Shiva—the Hindu god of creation and destruction—yawns and raises a placard marked with an ×: strike them down. He deems humanity unrepentant and worthy of complete destruction.
A sultry voice follows. Aphrodite, goddess of beauty, agrees: humans have sullied the world.
One by one, the gods align against mankind—calling humans pests, accursed, beyond salvation. None step forward to defend them.
Zeus hefts his judgment hammer. "It seems the verdict is unanimous—"
"Wait!" Brunhilde's thunderous voice cuts through. She strides forward, undaunted by divine rebukes.
She invokes Article 62, Clause 15 of the Valhalla Charter: a special provision for a one-on-one conflict—thirteen gods versus thirteen humans in single combat. If humans win seven matches first, they earn another thousand-year reprieve.
Her challenge goads the pantheon: if they won't face humanity, are they afraid to lose?
Incensed, the gods accept. They will let her assemble thirteen human champions. Brunhilde's first choice is already clear: the one blessed by God—Adam.
But as she passes the Babylonian gods' enclave, she overhears a secret none of the gods know: someone once succeeded in slaying a god. And not just any god…
Human history… someone actually killed a god? Impossible, or so Brunhilde thought. If this is inconceivable, why did she propose the "Twilight of the Gods" duel in the first place?