Chapter 16 — The Council of the Gods?
The instant Brünnhilde felt the gaze fall upon her, her body reacted before thought—battle-honed instincts surged to the surface, shielding her form. It was pure reflex, born from years of sensing danger before it struck.
"Really now," came a light, amused voice. "So tense already? If anyone should be flinching here, it's me."
Seated like he owned the room, the King of Uruk—Gilgamesh—emerged from his summoning with nonchalance, his casual tone nearly playful. His posture was relaxed, even languid. Yet beneath the surface, Brünnhilde felt the sharp edge of his intent, like a blade cloaked in velvet.
"You startled me, you know," he added, almost wistfully. "Materializing here like that… gave me quite a fright."
A fright? She couldn't see a trace of it.
"What's wrong?" he teased. "Checking to see if I've brought any dangerous artifacts? Afraid I might suddenly decide to kill you on the spot?"
He lowered himself into an office chair, one leg crossed over the other, his arms draped languidly. It was a picture of arrogant ease.
Too confident, she thought. Or perhaps simply too powerful to care.
"…To be honest, I am afraid you might."
"Oh dear," he chuckled. "You've painted me as a bloodthirsty murderer."
There was a sharp glint in his eyes as he sized her up, intrigued by her candor. The woman before him wasn't some delicate emissary—she radiated the steel-touched grace of a warrior born in war. A Valkyrie, perhaps?
A god? Now that was interesting.
He hadn't expected to be summoned mid-transition into his next role, so yes—it had been a jolt. His system pinged with a notification:
"Role transition interrupted. Resume from checkpoint?"
He didn't respond. Not yet. This summoning didn't reek of hostility; no ceremonial aggression, no divine wrath. Which made the cautious greeting even more telling.
He turned toward the child peeking at him from the doorway. She flinched and sucked on her fingers the moment their eyes met.
His gaze returned to Brünnhilde.
"You're a god?" he asked, his crimson eyes flashing with quiet menace. "I sensed something watching. That was you two, wasn't it?"
Brünnhilde's breath caught. The sheer pressure behind his gaze made her sweat—it felt less like a human looking at her and more like a divine force judging her soul.
"I beg your pardon, King of Uruk. We didn't mean to spy. The truth is… humanity faces an unprecedented crisis, and we came seeking your aid."
"Oh?" His lips curled with interest.
"All of humanity, you say? On the brink of extinction?" His voice dripped with amusement.
"But you still haven't answered my question."
"My apologies," she said, bowing slightly. "I am Brünnhilde, eldest of the Norse Valkyries."
"Norse Valkyries?" he echoed, the smile in his voice deepening. "What business do Nordic myths have with me?"
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "And this crisis… Are you saying the gods themselves can't handle it?"
"No. Quite the opposite," she said darkly. "The gods are the cause."
His amusement paused. That revelation was unexpected.
Brünnhilde's tone grew somber. "Once every thousand years, the gods convene the Valhalla Evaluation Council to determine whether humanity deserves to continue. In our current era—AD 20XX—they reached a unanimous decision."
She took a breath. "Humanity will face the End."
Gilgamesh listened, impassive, as if she were recounting bedtime tales. Then, after a beat, he yawned—and dropped a bombshell.
"To be honest, I might vote for human extinction myself."
She stared, stunned.
Chapter 17 — He Proposes the Council of the Gods
Gilgamesh's voice turned cold.
"For centuries I tried guiding humanity toward greatness—only to watch them plunge themselves into wars, again and again. They've laid waste to this world in their thirst for conquest and progress. Their innovation bred destruction. Their ambition poisoned the seas and devoured the forests. Now, Earth chokes on their excess."
He leaned back, folding his arms.
"In truth, humans have become the cancer of this planet."
The weight of disappointment in his tone felt like a tired parent watching a child ruin everything they were given. He spoke not as a tyrant, but as someone who had once hoped.
"You give a child love, knowledge, and a future… And in the end, they spit on it. You want to believe they'll change, but they don't. You want to believe they'll grow, but they rot."
Brünnhilde was shaken. This man—the god-slaying King of Uruk—was siding with the gods?
But just as despair began to creep in, his aura changed.
Gilgamesh rose. His voice sharpened like a blade.
"Yet... only humans should decide humanity's fate. Not the gods. They have no right."
Brünnhilde's breath caught. His presence—his pressure—it surged with power.
"They claim they guided humanity with love. But was it love? Or just boredom? A game they grew tired of?"
His laughter echoed, full of disdain. "Some gods may care. But the rest? They treat existence like a toy."
Then came something unexpected. His character card—previously locked—was now fully unlocked.
So this was the future. The timeline where Gilgamesh lived again. She, a god of the past, had summoned him forward.
That meant his powers were now hers to call upon. But if he resumed his role-play, he might vanish from this era forever. And worse… encounter another version of himself.
Such a meeting could lead to consequences. Catastrophic ones.
He opened a book at random—and found a message from himself:
"If we meet, one of us may be consumed. History might change. Gilgamesh may never awaken. The cards may remain sealed."
The text faded from the page, vanishing like a mirage. Left by his future self. A warning.
He looked up.
"So… What is it you want me to do?"
Brünnhilde stood firm.
"I want you to participate in Ragnarök."
That drew his interest.
To stop the gods from casually erasing humanity, she had invoked Article 62, Clause 15 of the Valhalla Constitution—a rarely used stipulation allowing a one-on-one tournament between thirteen gods and thirteen humans.
If humanity secured seven wins, they would survive until the next Council of Humanity's Fate.
Gilgamesh's eyes gleamed.
"How generous. A few wins, and humanity earns another millennium. You know what? I think it's time for a Council of the Gods' Fate."
Brünnhilde's eyes widened. The audacity of it.
But before the conversation could deepen, the door burst open—kicked open.
A petite girl named Gray stumbled from the impact, falling to the floor.
And in strode a swaggering figure—wings spread, attire garish—a man with the air of trouble.
Brünnhilde's fists clenched.
"Incubus Injobas," she muttered.
The lewd dream demon strolled in, flipping his hair and feigning concern. "Why put yourself in danger for humans? The gods aren't worth it."
Then he saw Gilgamesh.
"You're planning a Council of the Gods? Hah! Brünnhilde, your taste in allies is garbage."
His insult rang out, but Gilgamesh didn't flinch. Didn't frown. He smiled.
Like a king amused by a jester.
Injobas faltered.
That serene contempt—it was worse than fury.