“I transmigrated into the Nasuverse and earned the Root’s recognition. As long as I die in an unnatural way, I can ascend to the Throne of Heroes and become its master. An existence stronger and freer than even the Seven Grand Servants.”
“So for that, I started courting death like my life depended on it. Which is funny, because it did.”
“I cursed Gilgamesh to his face in public. I challenged the supposedly omnipotent Zeus in Greece. I straight up abducted Scathach Skadi in the far north. I declared in Israel that Solomon was a demon god, not a son of God. And in Britain, I very foolishly took Morgan’s side…”
“But why am I still alive?”
1994, Fuyuki.
Rowe, a man whose name has been carved into history a little too many times, the third friend of the Oldest King, the first Grand Vizier of Mesopotamia, a favorite of the Greek gods, the King of Giants in the north, the divine incarnation who awakened Solomon’s humanity in Israel, and an aide to the Prince Consort in Camelot…
He looked young, but his eyes were old enough to scare time itself.
Sitting on Fuyuki Bridge, he sighed at the man in front of him.
“Tell me honestly. Where did it all go wrong?”
“Better yet, kill me and let me ascend to the Throne of Heroes. Please.”
Kiritsugu Emiya lit a cigarette.
He glanced at Artoria lifting her holy lance, at Gilgamesh’s Gate of Babylon blooming open behind her, and at the crimson spearhead stretching out from the Land of Shadows.
The hand holding his cigarette trembled a little.
<><><><><><>
Chapter 1: The Priest in the Temple
Night blanketed the ancient Uruk City State, and the stars shimmered like countless observing eyes, gazing upon the towering walls below.
At the city’s heart, inside a side chamber of the great temple dedicated to the gods—
A bonfire crackled softly, casting warm light against the clay walls.
Beside it sat a black haired, black eyed young man: Rowe.
He held a flat clay tablet in his left hand and a carving knife in his right, carefully etching characters into the surface.
“Rowe, thank you for carving the sacrificial text for tomorrow’s ritual.”
The deep, hoarse voice came from the old priest beside him, a man whose age clung to his bones like dust to stone. “My eyes fail me now. I am old. Soon, the position of High Priest must fall to you.”
The words had the familiar tone of a superior giving vague promises, but Rowe knew the old man wasn’t lying.
The priest truly was frail, and his body could no longer withstand the responsibilities of Uruk’s most important religious office.
And Rowe, one of the few young assistants in the temple who could write clearly and remember every divine epithet, was the only viable successor.
Otherwise, the old priest would never have entrusted him with the preparation of such an important sacrificial tablet after merely a few meetings.
This was no ordinary task.
This was a handover.
Rowe looked up at once, replying respectfully, “Please rest assured. It’s my duty.”
“A fine young man,” the elder murmured.
He rose unsteadily, his thin frame swaying beneath the ceremonial linen robe. His beard and hair, an entangled white knot, trembled with each breath.
“You may continue. I won’t disturb you further. Rest early, tomorrow, you’ll be presiding over the ceremony in my place.”
“If only the King possessed half of your composure…” the old priest added with a sigh as he shuffled toward the doorway.
Of course, even he knew such a wish was impossible.
All of Uruk knew their king, Gilgamesh, arrogant, unrestrained, and utterly fearless in his disdain toward gods and mortals alike.
The priest’s relief and regret came from his dimming eyes, eyes too weak to see what Rowe was actually carving.
He had no idea the young man was about to commit a grand act of folly.
Rowe wasn’t carving a sacrificial text.
He was carving a memorial tablet, a subject’s admonition to his king.
Every line overflowed with Rowe’s lament for Uruk, his sympathy for its suffering people, and his blistering condemnation of Gilgamesh, that young tyrant.
It was not disrespectful.
It was outright suicidal.
But Rowe did not intend to perform rituals today.
He simply wanted to die.
Yes, die.
For Rowe already knew what Uruk he had fallen into.
This wasn’t the Mesopotamia from school history books.
This was the Nasuverse’s Uruk.
A world where everything begins in the Root, the Akasha, and to which everything eventually returns.
When he transmigrated, Rowe passed through the Root. His consciousness, blurred by the turbulence of time and space, had briefly touched omniscience.
Within that infinite sea of information, he understood everything he needed:
This world was the Nasuverse.
And beyond the Root, along the only path he would pass to descend into the world, lay a majestic structure,
The Throne of Heroes.
A grand archive recording every hero across all parallel human histories.
At the moment his soul separated from the Root, Rowe knew the truth with clarity sharper than any blade:
His material body would never withstand the power he held within the Root.
So he anchored it somewhere else.
As he passed the Throne, he carved into it a seat, a highest throne, a position above all recorded heroes, meant for himself alone.
His personal cheat.
“As long as I leave my name in human history,” Rowe whispered, staring at the tablet, “and die an unnatural death, not suicide, then I’ll be acknowledged by the Throne and drawn back to it.”
“And once I return, I’ll reclaim the authority I left behind… the power that rightfully belongs to me.”
When that happens, the Throne of Heroes would no longer be his cage.
It would be his domain.
This was the real reason he carved this inflammatory tablet, why he was carefully orchestrating his own glorious, unnatural death.
The first man in Uruk’s history to openly insult his king?
That would certainly leave a mark in human order.
He only had to die immediately after. Naturally, violently, undeniably.
But he needed to be cautious.
He couldn’t speak of this to anyone.
The Counter Force, Alaya and Gaia, would crush his plan in an instant if they discovered it.
And to ensure his real self entered the Throne, without substitution, distortion, or a bizarre fictional double hijacking his place, he needed to die immediately after his deed.
No suicide.
Therefore, the insult needed to be sufficiently provoking.
Ideally catastrophic.
He picked up the carving knife again, examining every stroke by firelight.
Time slipped by.
Outside, the night slowly faded.
Dawn’s pale glow crept across the horizon.
Uruk stirred awake.
A temple acolyte shook Rowe gently. “Priest Rowe! The Old Priest requests your presence in the Pantheon. The ceremony is about to begin!”
Rowe blinked, realizing the sun was already up.
“I understand.”
Clutching the stone tablet firmly with both hands, he nodded.
“I’ll go now.”