Night had fallen, and the sky was draped in a tapestry of stars—each one glittering like an unblinking eye, gazing down on the towering city-state of Uruk.
At the same time, in the heart of the city, within a side chamber of the temple dedicated solely to the gods—
By the flickering light of the brazier, Rovi, who looked like a black-haired, black-eyed youth, was carefully holding a smooth clay tablet meant for recording notes.
With painstaking precision, he carved characters into it with a small knife.
"Rovi, thank you for the trouble of carving out the prayer for tomorrow's ritual."
Beside him, an old man spoke in a raspy, deep voice—aged as the man himself: "I'm getting on in years. My eyes are failing me. Soon, the role of High Priest will be yours to bear."
It sounded, on the surface, like the kind of empty promise a superior would make to keep someone motivated. But Rovi knew the old man was speaking the truth.
He really was old now, and his body was no longer fit to carry the heavy burden of Uruk's most important priesthood for much longer.
And as one of the few young people in the temple, able to read and write, and with every god's name and title committed to memory, Rovi really was the only candidate to succeed him.
If not, the old priest would never have entrusted him with something as crucial as carving the text for tomorrow's great ritual—especially after only a handful of encounters.
In the year since he'd transmigrated here, Rovi had demonstrated plenty of talent, but because of his lack of seniority, he was hardly the most outstanding among all the assistants and acolytes. This kind of responsibility should never have fallen to him.
It was a clear signal.
So, hearing the old man's words, Rovi immediately looked up and replied, meeting the other's gaze. "You can rest assured. This is what I'm supposed to do."
"Such a fine young man," the old priest sighed, then staggered to his feet. Beneath the linen robes unique to his rank, his body was nothing but skin and bones, swaying unsteadily. His beard and hair trembled as he moved.
"You keep at it. I won't disturb you anymore. Get some rest—the festival will need you to stand in for me tomorrow."
"If only the King could be as steady as you..." He muttered regretfully as he made his way to the door, the words filled with a mixture of longing and resignation.
But even he knew it was impossible.
Everyone in this country knew what kind of person ruled Uruk these days—Gilgamesh, the current king, wild and unrestrained, arrogant and willful. He didn't just speak his mind to his own people; even facing the gods themselves, he dared to voice his disdain and dissatisfaction without a hint of fear.
Of course, the old priest's sense of comfort and resignation came from age and failing sight. He couldn't make out what Rovi was actually carving into the clay tablet—he had no idea what this young man was truly planning—
What Rovi was writing was not a prayer for the gods.
It was a petition, advice to the king, written in the voice of a loyal subject.
And every word was steeped in his regret for Uruk, his sympathy for its people, and his unvarnished condemnation of Gilgamesh, that young and tyrannical king... not quite disrespectful, but definitely not polite.
Rovi had no desire to take part in rituals to appease the gods.
What he really wanted was to curse out that so-called king, who strutted around all day looking down on everyone.
If I do this, my name should at least make it into the annals of humanity. Then, if I die, it counts, right?
Guilt gnawed at him for deceiving the old priest, but once he'd seen the old man safely out of the room, Rovi turned back to the stone tablet by the fire. Reading over what he'd carved, he couldn't help but let out a low chuckle.
He wasn't doing this for the sake of the country or the people; as a transmigrator, he hadn't even been here long enough to develop that kind of attachment.
The truth was, he just wanted to die.
—Yes.
This was a city-state on the Mesopotamian plains.
But Rovi, who'd already laid eyes on the golden-haired, dazzlingly beautiful god-king Gilgamesh, knew that this was not the Uruk from the history books, but the Uruk of the Nasuverse.
In this world, everything originates from the Root, and all things return to the Root.
The Root is both the beginning and the end.
To enter or leave this world, one must pass through the Root.
So when he transmigrated here, it was only natural that he'd crossed the Root as well.
But he hadn't just passed through.
His consciousness had been scattered and confused by the turbulence of space-time, but in the Root, he'd glimpsed countless things.
The Root is both everything and nothing.
While there, one could touch the essence of all knowledge.
So, even in his muddled state, Rovi understood: this was the Nasuverse. And he saw, on the other side of the Root—the path he was about to take into this world—something grand and mysterious: the Throne.
A sliver of the record tape that held all phenomena—the Throne of Heroes.
Inscribed on the Throne were all the heroes of human history, from ancient times to the present, from every parallel world that had branched from human progress. Their legends were all recorded there.
As he was about to leave the Root and plunge into the Nasuverse, Rovi—briefly near-omniscient and omnipotent—knew full well he could not bring the Root's power with him. His new mortal body could never withstand that immense force and knowledge.
So, he left it behind.
He carved all his power and knowledge into the Throne of Heroes as he passed.
And at the very summit of the Throne, he carved out a seat—a place at the pinnacle of human history, a seat that only he could claim.
That was his cheat as a transmigrator—a 'golden finger' to call his own.
It's a shame about all that power, but as long as I can make a name for myself in human history, and then die—just not by my own hand—I can get recognized by the Throne, and make it back there...
Claim that seat, and take back everything that's rightfully mine...
With that kind of power, the Throne could no longer bind him—it would become his domain.
That's why he was writing this petition—deliberately, methodically, risking everything just for this one shot at dying a famous, spectacular death.
As the first person in history to curse out a tyrant king as a subject, Rovi was sure he'd be remembered by human history.
Once he died, the Throne would be his. It was only logical.
But he needed to be careful.
He couldn't let anyone find out—after all, in this world, the Counter Force, the will of the world itself, was always watching. If they caught on, it might become impossible for him to die the way he needed.
And to make sure that he was the one who made it to the Throne—not some pretender or an invented legend—Rovi had to die at the height of his infamy, right after sealing his legacy. But he couldn't take his own life.
So, with all these requirements in mind, Rovi forced himself to check his work again...
I need to make sure I cursed him thoroughly enough.
I have to get that king so furious he loses all control.
Can't let anything slip through the cracks.
With that in mind, Rovi picked up his knife and sat down by the fire, painstakingly checking every word he'd carved.
...
Time passed.
Outside the window, the darkness began to give way, a faint light creeping over the horizon.
Dawn was breaking.
The once-quiet city of Uruk began to stir, shadows moving between its mud-brick streets.
Rovi swayed a little, shaken from his intense focus on the tablet by a push from behind.
"Rovi, Priest!" A young attendant from the temple called him, voice respectful. "The old priest is asking for you at the Pantheon. The ceremony is about to start!"
Only then did Rovi realize that daylight had already come.
"I understand." Clutching the tablet tightly in both hands, Rovi nodded. "I'll be right there."
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T/N: im pretty sure i've read this fic before but I think it was MTL'd