Rovi was honestly a bit puzzled by how calm the King of Uruk remained.
Even though he'd watched the Nasuverse series before transmigrating and thought he had a sense of Gilgamesh's character, there was simply no way to truly grasp the patterns of this king's emotions.
Or maybe there were no patterns to begin with—Gilgamesh, the epitome of self-indulgence, fit the phrase "capricious and unpredictable" perfectly.
Unable to make sense of it, Rovi decided not to dwell on it.
If anything, it just solidified his determination to ascend to the Throne of Heroes and reclaim his power.
With that kind of power, there's no way Gilgamesh could hide his thoughts from me.
Turning his attention back to the present—facing Gilgamesh's cold sneer and pointed question—Rovi only smiled, choosing not to push further.
Know when to pull back.
Provoking things any further wouldn't be enough to secure his place in history, and if Gilgamesh flew into a real rage now, Rovi's death would be wasted...
This was a hard-won opportunity—one that could earn him both lasting fame and a glorious death. He couldn't afford to throw it away.
He was confident that, at the very least, his antics had already left a negative enough impression in Gilgamesh's mind.
That was enough for now.
"Hmph, gone quiet already? Is that all there is to you, mongrel?" Gilgamesh actually seemed disappointed. "Fine then. Just grovel in the radiance of my greatness. Let that dazzling light illuminate every filthy inch of your worm-like existence!"
...Seriously, how does he say stuff like that without feeling a hint of shame?
Rovi worked hard to keep his face expressionless.
Gilgamesh shook his head, thoroughly unimpressed. He'd expected something entertaining, but it seemed that was all there was.
"My king, it's time," a servant at his side reminded him quietly.
The moment for the collective ritual honoring all the gods had arrived.
Rovi glanced up at the sky—high noon. They said that at this hour, the gods themselves ascended to the highest point in the Mesopotamian heavens with the blazing sun.
It was the most sacred time, the moment when the gods could most keenly feel the devotion of humanity.
Time for the lead priest—Rovi himself—to step forward.
"O great and honored gods above,"
Taking up the role of master of ceremonies, Rovi intoned with a clear, ceremonial voice, stringing together flowery praise: "We, the people of Uruk, offer our sincerest gratitude and prayers here today..."
The old High Priest, listening as he watched Gilgamesh lounge in open disdain against a stone pillar, felt moved to tears.
The contrast between people really is something.
Rovi, for all his talents, wasn't quite as powerful or wise as Gilgamesh, but he was recognized as the second most gifted among Uruk's younger generation.
The gap wasn't insurmountable. And with at least a basic respectfulness in his attitude—however lacking in true piety—it was a world of difference.
For a while now, the old priest had feared that Gilgamesh's wildness would see Uruk abandoned and destroyed by the gods. Now, watching Rovi, he felt hope for the city's future stir again.
But that hope was short-lived.
As soon as Rovi finished his impressive introduction, the priests before each of their gods' statues began their ceremonial dance.
Flames were kindled among the offerings, incense smoke drifting up toward the heavens.
And now—
The real highlight: it was time for Gilgamesh, King of Uruk, to recite the ritual text.
No matter what else, as the city's ruler, he was the true focus of the festival.
In this ancient city-state, where government and religion were one, the king was the highest priest, the gods' own emissary. Compared to him, the High Priest and all the other clergy were mere attendants.
The clay tablet Rovi had created and inscribed by hand was meant for just this moment.
He would hand it over to Gilgamesh.
And turn this entire festival into a death-defying act for the ages—a petition that would go down in history as the boldest remonstrance ever made.
"My king, please read the ritual text," Rovi said, flicking the sleeve of his linen robe and presenting the tablet to the golden-haired youth still leaning on his pillar.
Gilgamesh accepted it, not without reluctance.
"You actually dare to have this exalted king recite such nauseating drivel for the sake of those worthless mongrels? On any other day, such disrespect would mean death for all of you!" Even so, he still wouldn't let anyone get the last word.
In truth, Gilgamesh's blatant contempt for the gods wasn't because of any real reverence.
He was here for only one reason: his mother—one of the gods herself, daughter of Anu the sky king, the omniscient goddess Ninsun.
This king so famous in later eras was born of both king and goddess, a true demigod.
Human in blood, divine in wisdom and strength.
That was a bond he could never truly break—one slender thread that still connected the rebellious king to the heavens above.
But it was a tenuous tie at best.
Now, when the gods could no longer descend to the world in person, and Gilgamesh hadn't seen his mother in ages, even that last thread seemed ready to snap.
For now, though, it was enough to keep him here.
Gilgamesh took the clay tablet from Rovi's hands with visible disdain. The tablet that required Rovi's full effort to hold was feather-light in the king's grip.
Standing beneath the shafts of sunlight from above, the king's crimson eyes flicked over the carved script.
He began to read aloud: "The gods gaze down from their heavenly temple, wielding dominion over sky and earth..."
At first, everything seemed normal.
But only at first.
"The gods chose a king to rule over mankind, believing their choice perfect. But how has that king acted?"
"The so-called king is cruel, harsh. He oppresses his people, treating Uruk as his own private domain, tolerating no dissent. He thinks himself great, but he doesn't see that the people only fear his strength and authority."
Gilgamesh's brow furrowed—something was wrong. His voice grew quieter.
But he finished reading, almost involuntarily.
"The king tramples others as he pleases, calls all his subjects 'mongrels,' treats everyone as a slave. But by his own logic..."
"A king who is half-god, half-man—he is the greatest mongrel of all!"
CRACK—
The tablet in Gilgamesh's hand split, deep fractures spiderwebbing beneath his fingers as he clenched it tight.
Though his voice had dropped to a murmur by the end, the last words still reached every ear in the temple.
For a heartbeat, the entire hall was silent.
Priests, servants, everyone exchanged terrified glances.
Except for Rovi, who was beaming with satisfaction.
He was genuinely proud of his "ritual text."
As a transmigrator, Rovi knew that in later generations of China, there would be a legendary official who once submitted a fearless memorial to the emperor, speaking the truth about his failings.
That man was Rovi's idol.
Rovi could never match him in eloquence.
But for Rovi, what he'd written here was enough.
Especially that last line—
You go around calling everyone a mongrel... But who's really the mongrel here?
I've been holding that in for a long time!