At that moment, Gilgamesh, Hero King of the Sumerians, stood at the edge of death once more.
But Ethan—creator of his world, god of the sandbox—was doing something far more mundane.
He was eating lunch.
Seated outside in the dappled sunlight, Ethan enjoyed a simple countryside meal with Mia. The food was warm, rich, and comforting—nutritious without being fussy. Mia chattered beside him, trying to maintain her composure, though her flustered glances betrayed her. Teasing her was half the fun.
Ethan was content.
He was surrounded by greenery, fresh air, and a cheerful girl who brought him home-cooked food every day. It wasn't much. But for someone quietly dying of stomach cancer, it was everything.
All life ends—sooner or later.
Even the Tyranis Queen had eventually succumbed to time. At the end of her lifespan, she had cast aside her territory and desperately tried to breach the legendary realm of Eternia, in hopes of escaping her fate. But she had failed.
No creature lives forever.
Not even Ethan.
He was a sick farmer with a ticking clock inside his belly. He didn't even have the luxury of dying from old age—his cancer would claim him first.
He sighed.
"And Gilgamesh?" he thought, amused. "He got everything. Glory. Power. Legacy. Three hundred wives. The respect of an entire civilization. Honestly... I'm a little jealous."
Ethan laughed to himself.
"If I could become a Bugape... even for a day... I'd jump into the sandbox in a heartbeat. Just to taste that kind of life. Divine. Powerful. Legendary."
He set down his empty bowl and stood.
"Alright. Let's go buy that washing machine."
He ran a hand through his thick black hair, still grateful for its return.
"Hop on!" Mia beamed, patting the seat of her scooter. "I've got a bunch of questions I want to ask about college stuff. You're an alum from my department, you know!"
"Sounds good," Ethan smiled, climbing on behind her.
He didn't own a car—his savings were gone, drained by years of treatment. All he had was an old bicycle and a few hundred thousand yuan tucked away. But none of that mattered. Today, he had sunshine, a motorbike ride, and a trip into town.
They shopped leisurely.
He picked up a few appliances to modernize the house. Even a simple rural life was difficult without a washing machine and rice cooker.
All the while, he assumed Gilgamesh would meet death with dignity—just as he had before. After all, he had lived a second life most could only dream of. Surely, this time, he would accept his fate peacefully.
But Ethan had forgotten one simple truth:
Man is never satisfied.
The year was 102 of the Sumerian Dynasty.
Gilgamesh was now 142 years old.
He had lived three times longer than the average Bugape. His legend had grown beyond reckoning. But now, the first hints of decline began to show—his steps slowed, his voice weakened, and in his eyes, panic flickered.
He was afraid.
For the first time in decades, he was afraid.
Desperate to escape death once more, Gilgamesh issued a royal decree:
"Whoever finds the Great Beast of Wisdom shall be richly rewarded!"
And so began the second great search.
He summoned sages, magi, alchemists. He commanded experiments in secret arts and black magic. Entire forests were plundered. Sacred beasts were slaughtered. The once-proud Arrah were driven to the brink of extinction—sacrificed for potions and rituals.
The age of Enlightenment gave way to an age of tyranny and sorcery.
Year 113.
A court mage finally concocted a potion from the horn of an Arrah, the sap of white-bearded grass, and organs of ancient beasts.
It worked—briefly.
Gilgamesh's life was extended. But each new dose lost potency. His strength ebbed once more. Death, as always, was inevitable.
Year 145.
The Hero King sat motionless on his throne.
His hair, once bright white, now hung dull and brittle. His breath was shallow.
He meditated for three days.
Then he opened his eyes and gave a single command:
"Begin the search for my successor."
The court fell into chaos.
"The King is dying."
"The immortal Hero King is finally succumbing to age!"
But no one stepped forward.
Everyone remembered Agga of Kish—his beloved son, chosen heir... who had been murdered when Gilgamesh returned from death the first time.
No one wanted to become the next Agga.
But Gilgamesh, as cunning as he was mighty, made a proclamation that stunned the world:
"Those who seek the throne shall drink the Blood of the Conqueror. If you survive, you shall inherit my strength—and the right to rule. You may lead your followers and found a new royal city beyond Uruk."
A new kingdom.
The Blood of the Conqueror.
The news spread like wildfire.
Nobles, slaves, artisans, warriors, merchants—all surged toward Uruk. The palace gates overflowed with ambition.
Many tried.
Most died.
Only two emerged victorious:
Enkidu, a wild hunter from the forest, and
Ishtar, a barbarian warlord from the grasslands.
Each survived the Blood.
Each founded their own city.
Two new kings had risen—Conqueror Kings, worthy to inherit civilization.
Year 175.
The three great city-states coexisted in harmony. A triumvirate of rulers governed the known world. The Sumerian civilization flourished.
But Gilgamesh's end was near.
One last time, he resisted fate.
He ordered the construction of a massive temple—a monument to the Great Beast of Wisdom.
Taller than the palace, it reached toward the sky. At its center stood a colossal statue: a radiant titan holding the young Gilgamesh in his palm, cloaked in divine white light.
He brought his entire court, his people—millions—to this sacred place.
He wept openly.
"Please," he begged. "Let me see the Great Beast of Wisdom one last time... before I die."
Tears streaked his aged face as he dropped to his knees before the statue.
"Great one! Hear me! Gilgamesh longs to see you again!"
A hundred or so years had passed since that first meeting.
He had not forgotten.
And in his final hours, he prayed for a second audience.