The Sword of Damocles: Legacy of a King
As Gilgamesh neared the end of his life, nearing the twilight of his Bugapes lifespan, he sought to defy the inevitable. Using the Blood of the Conqueror, he restored his body, defying time itself and gaining a second lease on life. The Hero King, once again infused with vitality, rose to lead his tribe on a path of unyielding conquests.
Another decade passed.
The tribe, now several generations removed from its humble beginnings, had evolved. Their wooden huts, once symbols of their resilience, had begun to decay, slowly succumbing to the ravages of time. Under Gilgamesh's leadership, the Sumerians embarked on a new chapter in their history, building houses from stone—marking their entry into the Stone Age.
Gilgamesh, having assimilated termite genes, possessed strength beyond comprehension. He could uproot ancient trees with ease and leap seven to eight meters in a single bound. His might was such that mountains seemed to bow before him.
After three more years, Gilgamesh's ambition turned to the greatest challenge of his era: the mighty Fenba, the legendary behemoth. It was said that no creature could match its size or power, but Gilgamesh, ever driven by his thirst for greatness, would not be deterred.
The battle between Gilgamesh and Fenba raged for three days and nights, shaking the very earth beneath them. Valleys collapsed, and the beasts of the forest fled in terror. When the dust settled, Gilgamesh stood victorious, his bloodied form a testament to the brutal clash. In one hand, he gripped the Sword of Damocles, and in the other, he dragged the immense corpse of Fenba—its body the size of a small mountain.
His tribesmen watched in awe, their pride swelling as they gazed upon the strength of their king. With one hand, Gilgamesh had moved Fenba's colossal body, and the bards wasted no time in immortalizing his triumph in song. He was not just a king; he was a living legend.
"I will build a kingdom," Gilgamesh declared as he returned home, his voice carrying the weight of destiny.
History, as it often does, would be written by the victors. The tale of Gilgamesh's heroism, his defeat of Fenba, and the founding of the Sumerian dynasty would be immortalized in the Book of Genesis. Yet, the darker truths—the ones that shamed him—would remain buried in the annals of history. The murder of his own son, Agga of Kish, would never be recorded. Only his valor would survive.
The middle part of the Sumerian Epic, as it would later be known, recounted:
"Gilgamesh drank the Blood of the Conqueror, slew the legendary beast Fenba with his holy sword, and founded the Sumerian dynasty. Moving giant boulders, he built Uruk City and established the first city-state in history."
Years flowed like an unbroken river, and Gilgamesh's legacy grew ever more monumental.
Now, he was not just a king, but the father of civilization itself. He perfected currency, refined language, and constructed cities. But his rule, though marked by brilliance, was also one of ruthless tyranny. The Sumerians were divided into rigid classes, and slavery became the bedrock upon which his empire stood. Thousands of warriors were trained, sent far and wide to explore the unknown corners of the earth.
Eighty-seven years into the Sumerian dynasty, Gilgamesh had lived for 127 years. The population of Uruk had swelled to tens of millions, and slaves were traded like cattle. The Colosseum—an arena of death—had been built, where nobles entertained themselves by watching slaves fight against great beasts.
In the dimly lit royal palace of Uruk, the air was thick with the scent of power. The ceiling arched high, adorned with intricate carvings. Soft light spilled from the white wall lamps, casting shadows on the stone pillars that stood tall like sentinels. The floor was covered by a carpet made from the fur of a formidable beast, a symbol of Gilgamesh's dominance.
On a throne made of the bones of Fenba, the mighty king sat. His face, as flawless as ever, reflected no trace of age. In his hand, he grasped the legendary Sword of Damocles—never once allowing it to leave his side.
"Great King of Sumer, Lord of the City! Your Majesty, King Gilgamesh!!!" Dionysius, one of the royal ministers, bowed deeply, his voice filled with reverence. "We have finished exploring the entire world."
Gilgamesh, reclining languidly on his throne, gazed into the distance. His features, chiseled and beautiful as a statue, remained unchanged by the passage of time. "What is our world like?" he asked, his voice calm and steady.
Dionysius, who had spent years mapping the lands, gestured grandly, speaking with the passion of a man who had seen the world unfold before him. "Our world is made up of a round sky and a square earth. The sky is an infinite arc, and the ground forms a perfect square. At its heart is a vast ocean, surrounded by mountains and rivers. This world stretches beyond comprehension. Even if you ride the fastest Finchra beast in a straight line, it will take more than twenty years to reach the end."
Gilgamesh pondered the words for a moment before nodding. "All right, stand down," he commanded, his voice tinged with a quiet finality.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Dionysius replied, bowing once more before retreating from the throne room.
Yet, as he left, he paused and looked back at his king, awe and admiration still radiating from his eyes. Gilgamesh had shaped civilization with his own hands, elevating his people from their primitive beginnings to a glorious empire. He had introduced agriculture, built cities, and founded the era of city-states.
More than thirty years ago, Dionysius had been a young warrior, eager and full of promise. Summoned by Gilgamesh, he had been tasked with mapping the lands. Now, he was but an old man, his body worn and frail, but His Majesty remained unchanged, untouched by time.
"What a great monarch," Dionysius whispered to himself, trembling with reverence.
Gilgamesh, however, remained in the palace, his mind turning inward. He had not displayed his full power in over a century. How much stronger had he become in that time? Was there no limit to his strength?
In the silence of the palace, the king's thoughts turned to the Sword of Damocles—his most treasured possession. The blade gleamed coldly in the light. Its origins, its purpose, and its power all eluded him. He had searched the world, yet the mystery of the sword remained unsolved.
"I have mastered the power of the Torch and the Blood of the Conqueror," Gilgamesh murmured to himself, his fingers brushing the hilt of the sword, "but this... this I do not understand. What is it made of? Is it the bone of some great beast? Or is it the creation of civilization itself?"
The Sword of Damocles was a symbol of his power, but it was also a constant reminder of his limitations. He had come to realize that his world was not the real world. There were no ores, no metals—no copper, no iron. The land was barren, nothing but earth and stone. This was a world suspended in time, trapped in a primitive state.
The blade, though powerful, was a mystery—one he could never quite solve. And yet, as he stared at it, he felt a deep unease. It was as if the sword were a sword hanging over his head, its tip always poised to strike.
"The power of civilization is truly fascinating," he said, his voice tinged with both admiration and fear.
The years had fallen away, and for a moment, he was once again that young man, granted a glimpse of the world by the great colossus of white light. It was a moment that had changed everything, and still, after all this time, the vision haunted him.
"I wish to see it again," he whispered, his eyes distant. "The future... the Great Beast of Wisdom... I want to see you again."
But Gilgamesh knew, deep down, that time was running out. The Blood of the Conqueror had lost its power. He could feel the end of his journey approaching, yet still, he yearned for more. A third life. A third chance to shape the world. Would it come?
As the Sword of Damocles glinted in his hand, it seemed to promise only one thing: that nothing, not even immortality, could escape the passage of time.