Rovi was also somewhat puzzled as to why the former King of Uruk remained so calm.
But although he had read works from the Nasuverse before being transported here and knew Gilgamesh's general personality, he had no way of accurately grasping the pattern of his emotional changes.
Or perhaps there was no such pattern at all—Gilgamesh, as an extremely self-centered king, perfectly embodied the words "mercurial and unpredictable."
Since he could not figure it out, Rovi had no intention of dwelling on it.
It only further strengthened his resolve to ascend to the Throne of Heroes and reclaim his power.
If he had that power, would he still be unable to see through whatever Gilgamesh was thinking?
Returning to the present, faced with Gilgamesh's coldly smiling question, Rovi merely smiled and did not continue pressing him.
He had to know when to stop.
This alone was not enough to earn him a place in history. If Gilgamesh truly flew into a rage, then he would have died for nothing...
He would also lose this hard-won opportunity to both leave his name in history and die.
In any case, he was confident that his actions had already left an extremely negative impression in Gilgamesh's mind.
That was enough.
"Hmph, nothing to say? Is that all a mere mongrel can manage?"
Gilgamesh seemed somewhat disappointed instead. "If so, then crawl beneath this king's magnificent radiance and let its brilliance illuminate every detail of your foul, maggot-like form!"
"..." Still... how did this guy manage to say things like that without feeling ashamed?
Rovi did his best to keep his expression from changing.
Gilgamesh shook his head, rather disappointed. He had thought something spectacular would happen. Was this really all there was?
"Your Majesty, it is almost time," one of the accompanying servants respectfully informed him.
The time for the ritual of sacrifice to all the gods had indeed arrived.
Rovi looked up at the sky. It was precisely noon. It was said that at this hour, the gods rose with the blazing sun to the highest point above Mesopotamia.
Holding the ritual then would best allow the gods to feel humanity's reverence.
It was time for Rovi, the one presiding over the ceremony, to take the stage—
"Great and honored gods above."
Like a master of ceremonies from later ages, Rovi selected some elegant phrases and declared loudly, "All the people and subjects of Uruk stand here in devout gratitude, offering prayers..."
The old priest listened, then glanced at Gilgamesh, who leaned against a stone pillar with an expression of contempt. He was so moved that he nearly wept.
The contrast between people was simply that obvious.
As someone equally gifted, Rovi did not possess strength or wisdom as immense as Gilgamesh's, but he was still considered the second greatest among Uruk's younger generation, surpassed only by him.
The gap was not too great, and combined with this attitude—though not devout, at least respectful—
it made the old man, who had once believed that Uruk would inevitably be abandoned by the gods and perish because of Gilgamesh's reckless behavior, feel that Uruk had hope again.
But very soon, he could no longer smile.
As Rovi finished his polished speech, the priests standing before the statues of the gods they served began to dance.
Flames were immediately lit upon the offerings, and curling smoke carried them toward the divine realm.
Next—
came the most important part: Gilgamesh, the former King of Uruk, would recite the sacrificial text.
No matter what, as the ruler of the city-state, he was the protagonist of this ceremony.
In the primitive city-state where religion and governance were one, the supreme king was the priest closest to the gods in essence, the Divine Messenger of all the gods. Before him, whether the High Priest or the priests of other gods, they were merely assistants in the ritual.
The clay tablet Rovi held in his hand, personally composed and inscribed by him, had been prepared for precisely this.
He would hand the tablet to Gilgamesh.
Then he would turn this ceremony into the oldest remonstrance unto death, one that would be remembered for ages!
"Your Majesty, please recite the sacrificial text." Under the gaze of the crowd, Rovi adjusted the hem of his hanging linen robe and extended the clay tablet toward the blond young man leaning against the stone pillar.
Although Gilgamesh was somewhat unwilling, he still raised a hand and accepted it.
"You dare make this noble king recite such disgusting words for that pack of mongrels? Under normal circumstances, such disrespect toward the radiant and magnificent king would be a crime for which you deserve death ten thousand times over!" Even so, this king apparently still intended not to yield verbally.
In truth, Gilgamesh, who held an undisguised attitude of scorn and contempt toward the gods, was not here because he revered them.
It was solely because of his mother—the All-knowing Goddess Rimat-Ninsun, one among the gods and daughter of Anu, king of the gods.
This king, who would become renowned in later ages, was a demigod born of both king and god.
Though he possessed human blood, he had the strength and wisdom of a god.
It was a bond he could never sever, and the final thread connecting the rebellious king to the gods above.
But that thread was exceedingly fragile.
At this time, when the gods could no longer descend to the earth in their true forms for some unknown reason, and Gilgamesh had not seen his mother for even longer, that connection could break at any moment.
Of course, at least for now, because of it, he could still force himself to be patient.
Gilgamesh accepted the clay tablet from Rovi with a face full of disdain. The specially made tablet, which Rovi needed both hands to hold steadily, was as light as a feather in his hand.
Beneath the radiance pouring down from the vault of heaven overhead, the king's crimson eyes fixed upon the tablet.
He opened his mouth and began to read the words inscribed upon it. "The gods in their heavenly temples look down upon the mortal world. They hold the great power of heaven and earth in their hands..."
The opening was perfectly normal.
But only the opening.
"The gods chose a king to rule humanity. They believed the king they had chosen for mankind was perfect—but what did that king do?"
"That so-called king was brutal and cold. He oppressed his subjects and turned Uruk into his personal domain, allowing no one to oppose him. He believed himself great, yet he did not know that people merely feared his strength and authority."
Gilgamesh frowned, realizing that something was wrong, and his voice grew lower and lower.
Yet he still finished reading it almost instinctively.
"The king trampled over others at will, calling every subject a mongrel. He treated everyone as slaves, yet he did not know that, by his own logic..."
"he, a mixture of god and man, was the greatest mongrel of all!"
Crack—
The clay tablet clenched in Gilgamesh's hand began to split apart beneath the pressure of his distinct-knuckled fingers, one crack after another spreading across its surface.
Though the king's voice had become extremely quiet by the end, others still heard it.
The temple fell silent in an instant.
Everyone looked at one another—or rather, their faces were filled with terror.
Only Rovi wore a delighted smile.
He was extremely satisfied with the "sacrificial text" he had inscribed.
As a transmigrator, Rovi knew that in later China, there would be a great incorruptible official and capable minister who submitted a memorial to the emperor, his superior, directly criticizing his faults—the greatest remonstrance memorial in the world.
That gentleman was Rovi's idol.
Although Rovi could not compare to him in literary talent.
For Rovi, however, what he had written was already enough.
Especially that final line—
"Calling everyone a mongrel... you think you're the only one allowed to call others mongrels?"
He had put up with him for a long time!
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