Uruk Version of Public Order

Rovi was also somewhat puzzled as to why the former King of Uruk remained so calm.

But even though he had read works from the Nasuverse before his transmigration and knew roughly what Gilgamesh was like, he still couldn't accurately grasp the pattern of his emotional shifts.

Or perhaps there was no such thing—Gilgamesh, as an extremely self-centered king, perfectly embodied the phrase "moody and unpredictable."

So, unable to figure it out, Rovi decided not to dwell on it.

This only strengthened his resolve to ascend to the Throne of Heroes and reclaim his own power.

If he had that power, would he still fail to see through what Gilgamesh was thinking?

Returning to the present, facing Gilgamesh's sneering interrogation, Rovi merely smiled and didn't continue to push back.

He had to learn when to stop.

At this level alone, it wasn't enough to secure his place in history. If Gilgamesh flew into a full rage, he would die for nothing...

The hard-won opportunity—one that could both etch his name in the annals of history and allow him to die—would be lost.

Anyway, he was confident that his actions had already left a very negative impression in Gilgamesh's heart.

That was enough.

"Hmph, nothing to say now? A mere mongrel, is this all you amount to?"

Gilgamesh, on the contrary, seemed somewhat disappointed: "If that's the case, then crawl for now beneath this king's magnificent radiance, and let that brilliance expose your maggot-like, foul shadow down to the last detail!"

"..." Though... how did this guy manage to speak like that without feeling any shame?

Rovi struggled to keep his facial expression still.

Gilgamesh shook his head, quite disappointed. He had thought there might be some grand spectacle, but was this all there was?

"My king, the time is almost upon us." A servant accompanying him reported respectfully.

The time for the grand ritual of offering sacrifices to all the gods had indeed arrived.

Rovi glanced at the sky. It was exactly noon. It was said that at this hour, the gods would ascend with the scorching sun to the highest point of Mesopotamia.

Holding the ritual at this time was the best way to make the gods feel the reverence of humanity.

Now it was Rovi's turn to take the stage as the master of ceremonies for the sacrifice—

"Great and revered gods above."

Like a master of ceremonies from later ages, Rovi picked some flowery words and declared loudly: "We, the countless subjects of Uruk, are here in devout gratitude, praying..."

The old priest listened, then glanced at Gilgamesh, who was leaning disdainfully against a stone pillar, and was so moved he almost cried.

The contrast between people was just this stark.

As another highly gifted individual, although Rovi didn't possess power and wisdom as formidable as Gilgamesh's, he was still second only to him among Uruk's younger generation.

The gap wasn't too large, and coupled with this attitude—not exactly devout but at least respectful—

This made the old man, who had previously believed that Uruk would be abandoned by the gods and destroyed because of Gilgamesh's reckless behavior, feel that Uruk might yet be saved.

But soon, he couldn't smile anymore.

As Rovi finished reciting his flowery speech, the many priests standing before the statues of the gods they served began to dance.

Flames were then lit upon the offerings, and curling smoke carried them up to the divine realm.

Next—

Was the most crucial part: Gilgamesh, as the King of Uruk, reciting the prayer text.

After all, as the ruler of the city-state, he was the true protagonist of this ceremony.

In the primitive fusion of city-state politics and religion, the supreme king was the priest closest to the gods, the Divine Messenger. Before him, whether the High Priest or the priests of other gods, they were merely assistant celebrants.

The stone tablet Rovi held in his hand, which he had personally inscribed, was prepared precisely for this.

He was to hand the tablet over to Gilgamesh.

And then, turn this ceremony into a deathbed remonstrance that would echo through the ages!

"My king, please recite the prayer." Under the gaze of the multitude, Rovi flicked his drooping linen robe and extended the clay tablet in his hand toward the golden-haired youth leaning against the stone pillar before him.

Though somewhat reluctant, Gilgamesh still raised his hand and took it.

"How dare you make this noble king recite such nauseating words for that group of mongrels? If this were any other time, as punishment for the crime of disrespecting the radiant and great king, you would all be guilty of ten thousand deaths!" However, it seemed this king still adhered to the principle of never admitting defeat with his words.

In truth, the reason Gilgamesh—who held undisguised contempt and disdain for the gods—appeared here was not out of any reverence for the divine.

It was solely because of his mother—one among the gods, the daughter of the god-king Anu, the All-knowing Goddess, Rimat-Ninsun.

This king, famous in later ages, was a demigod born from a king and a goddess.

Though he had human blood, he possessed the power and wisdom of a god.

This was a bond he could never sever, and the last thread connecting the rebellious king to the gods of heaven.

But this thread was very fragile.

At a time when the gods could no longer descend to the earth in their true forms, and Gilgamesh had long since stopped seeing his mother, this bond could snap at any moment.

Of course, at least for now, because of it, he could still muster some patience.

Gilgamesh took the clay tablet from Rovi with undisguised disdain—the special tablet that required both of Rovi's hands to hold steady felt as light as a feather in his grasp.

Beneath the dome light hanging overhead, the King's vermilion eyes fixed on the tablet.

He opened his mouth and began to read aloud the words inscribed upon it: "The myriad gods look down upon the mortal world from their heavenly temples, holding in their hands the great power of the sky and the earth..."

The opening was perfectly normal.

But only the opening.

"The gods chose a king to rule over humanity for them. They believed the king they had chosen for mankind was perfect—but how did that king act?"

"That so-called king was cruel and cold-hearted. He oppressed his subjects, turning Uruk into his own personal fiefdom, allowing no one to oppose him. He thought himself great, not knowing that people only feared his strength and authority."

Gilgamesh's brow furrowed. He sensed something was wrong, and his voice grew quieter and quieter.

Yet he still read on, almost unconsciously.

"The king trampled others at will, calling all his subjects mongrels. He treated everyone as his slaves, not realizing that, by his own logic..."

"He who is mixed with god and man is the greatest mongrel of all!"

Crack—

The clay tablet clenched in Gilgamesh's hand, under the pressing force of those knobby fingers, began to show crack after crack.

Though by the end the King's reading voice had dropped very low, it was still heard by those nearby.

The temple fell into an instant silence.

Everyone exchanged glances—or rather, their faces were full of fear.

Only Rovi smiled, thoroughly pleased.

He was very satisfied with this "sacrificial text" he had inscribed.

As a transmigrator, Rovi knew that in later ages, in Huaxia, there would be a great upright official, a capable minister, who submitted to his emperor a memorial that directly pointed out his faults—the number one memorial under heaven.

That gentleman was Rovi's idol.

Though Rovi couldn't match him in literary talent.

Still, for his purposes, what he had written here was enough.

Especially that last line—

"Going around calling everyone mongrels... are you the only one allowed to curse others as mongrels?"

He had been holding that in for a long time!