Gcm
The King Beneath Falling Leaves
Chapter 1: An Unexpected Discovery
The northern forests were quiet this time of year. Most birds had already migrated south, leaving only the whisper of crisp leaves and the occasional call of hardier creatures to break the stillness. Frieren knelt by a fallen log, her delicate fingers working methodically to collect samples of residual mana that had crystallized in the autumn soil. Her silver-white hair, tied into twin tails that hung nearly to her waist, occasionally caught the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy.
"Master Flamme," she called, her voice soft yet carrying clearly through the still air. "This pattern is unlike anything in your compendium."
Several yards away, Flamme looked up from her own investigation. The renowned human mage straightened, brushing forest debris from her loose-fitting tunic. The thick orange braid that hung to her knees swayed gently as she moved toward her apprentice, gold bracelets jingling softly at her wrists.
"Show me," Flamme said, crouching beside Frieren. Her amber eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she examined the glittering particles embedded in the soil.
Frieren, despite being nearly eighty years old, still deferred to her master with the respect of a novice. In elf terms, she was barely more than a child, and Flamme's reputation as one of Serie's greatest apprentices commanded natural deference.
"It has divine properties," Frieren observed, "but the signature doesn't match any of the pantheons we've studied."
Flamme nodded, the red teardrop jewel at her throat catching the light as she leaned closer. "It's old. Older than any divine mana I've encountered." She touched the soil gently, her fingertips glowing faintly as she tested the magical residue. "And strong. Whatever passed through here carried power that rivals the gods themselves."
Both mages fell silent, absorbing the implications. The Northern Forests were known for unusual magical phenomena—echoes of the ancient Creation War still resonated in this region—but this was different. This was recent. Purposeful.
"Should we report this to the Guild?" Frieren asked, already reaching for her documentation supplies.
Flamme didn't answer immediately. The human mage tilted her head slightly, as if listening to something beyond normal hearing. "Do you feel that?"
Frieren paused, extending her magical senses as Flamme had taught her. At first, there was nothing—just the ambient mana of the forest, the faint currents of elemental energy that flowed through all living things. Then, gradually, she became aware of something else: a rhythm, like a heartbeat, pulsing beneath the ordinary magical background.
"It's coming from the east," Frieren said, rising to her feet.
Flamme nodded, already gathering her equipment. "Let's follow it. Whatever left these traces may still be nearby."
They moved through the forest with practiced efficiency, two figures in contrasting yet complementary motion. Flamme walked with confident strides, her sandaled feet finding sure purchase on the uneven ground, while Frieren moved with the lighter step typical of elves, seeming to disturb not even the fallen leaves beneath her. Despite their physical differences—Flamme's human vitality compared to Frieren's elven grace—they shared a common focus, their magical senses aligned toward the mysterious pulse.
The terrain grew steeper, forcing them to navigate around ancient tree roots and moss-covered boulders. The pulse grew stronger with each step, until it became almost tangible—a pressure against their magical awareness that made ordinary spellcraft feel difficult, as if the very fabric of magic was being warped.
"Master," Frieren said quietly, "I've never sensed anything like this before."
Flamme's expression remained calm, but Frieren noticed the slight tension in her shoulders. "Nor have I, my apprentice. Not in three hundred years of study."
That admission gave Frieren pause. Flamme rarely acknowledged limits to her experience or knowledge.
They crested a small rise and stopped abruptly. Before them lay a perfect circle of disturbed earth, perhaps thirty paces across. The trees surrounding it bent outward, as if blown back by an explosive force, yet none were broken or uprooted. At the center of this depression lay a figure.
Even from a distance, there was nothing ordinary about the being. He—for the form appeared masculine—was clad in armor of fractured gold that seemed to absorb and reflect light in impossible ways. His posture was one of casual repose rather than injury, as if he had chosen to rest precisely where he lay. Above him, suspended in midair, hung an array of weapons—swords, spears, axes, and other implements of war whose designs defied conventional understanding.
"That's not elven... or human," Flamme muttered, her right hand instinctively reaching for her staff.
Frieren nodded quietly. "He feels like a god. But angry."
They approached with caution, each step measured and silent. As they drew closer, the magical pressure intensified until breathing itself seemed to require effort. The weapons floating above the prone figure rotated slowly, their points shifting to track the mages' movement without any visible cause.
Ten paces from the center, Flamme stopped and raised a hand in silent command for Frieren to do the same. The apprentice obeyed instantly, her green eyes wide as she observed the figure more clearly.
He was beautiful in a way that transcended conventional standards—features too perfect to be merely handsome, skin with a subtle golden sheen that suggested divinity rather than humanity. His hair, splayed beneath him on the disturbed earth, was the color of burnished gold, and even in apparent sleep, his expression carried an unmistakable arrogance.
"Should we—" Frieren began in a whisper.
Before she could finish, the figure's eyes snapped open. Crimson irises, startling in their intensity, focused immediately on the two mages. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then, with a fluid grace that belied his armored attire, the being rose to his feet. The weapons above him shifted, forming a deadly crown that emphasized his already considerable height.
"Who dares rattle a king from his slumber?" The voice carried no trace of grogginess or disorientation, only imperial command.
Flamme, to Frieren's quiet admiration, showed no outward sign of intimidation. The human mage stood her ground, her posture relaxed yet alert. "And who are you?" she asked, her tone suggesting genuine curiosity rather than challenge.
The golden figure's expression flickered between surprise and offense at being questioned rather than immediately obeyed. He drew himself up to his full height, and the very air around him seemed to shimmer with power.
"Gilgamesh, King of Heroes. Supreme of all creation." His eyes narrowed as he regarded Flamme with growing displeasure. "And you, woman—have five seconds to explain this world's relevance to me."
Frieren felt a chill run through her that had nothing to do with the autumn air. There was something in his voice—a weight of authority, an assumption of absolute dominion—that suggested this was no mere boast. The being called Gilgamesh spoke as one accustomed to having reality itself bend to his declarations.
Flamme, however, remained unruffled. "This world has existed for millennia without requiring your approval, Your Majesty." Her tone was respectful yet unyielding. "I am Flamme of the Mage Guild, and this is my apprentice, Frieren."
Gilgamesh's attention shifted to Frieren, crimson eyes assessing her with cold calculation. The young elf fought the urge to step back, forcing herself to meet his gaze steadily despite the instinctive fear his presence evoked.
"An elf," he observed. "Your kind at least understands the significance of time. Perhaps you can better explain how I came to be in this..." He gestured dismissively at the forest around them. "...provincial realm."
"We don't know," Frieren answered honestly. "We were investigating unusual mana signatures when we found you."
"Investigating?" Gilgamesh repeated, his tone suggesting the word itself was beneath him. "Like common scavengers picking through remnants of true power." He turned away from them, surveying the forest with evident disdain. "I've been hurled into countless worthless dimensions. This one appears no different."
Frieren exchanged a glance with her master. Dimensions? The implications were staggering—beings that could travel between worlds existed only in theoretical magical treatises.
"If you find our world so beneath you," Frieren ventured carefully, "why not simply leave?"
The King of Heroes fixed his crimson gaze on her again, his expression sharpening with interest for the first time. "Leave? Do you imagine I arrived by choice, apprentice? Some fool has tampered with forces beyond comprehension and torn me from my throne." His eyes narrowed. "Though I suspect even had I chosen to visit, this backwater dimension would have no knowledge of my greatness."
He strode forward suddenly, moving past the mages to stand at the edge of the crater. The trees seemed to bend further away from him as he passed, and Frieren noted with fascination that his armored feet left no imprint on the soft forest floor.
"Tell me, mage," he directed at Flamme without turning, "does this world know the name Gilgamesh?"
Flamme considered the question carefully before answering. "I've traveled much of the known world and studied the oldest texts. I've never encountered that name." She paused, then added, "Though there are always mysteries beyond current knowledge."
Gilgamesh stood perfectly still, his back to them, the floating weapons above him rotating slowly like a contemplative constellation. Then, with a gesture that seemed almost casual, he summoned a golden goblet from nowhere and sipped from it.
"Unacceptable," he pronounced finally. The word hung in the air like a death sentence.
Frieren felt Flamme tense beside her, the master mage's hand shifting subtly in preparation for defensive spellcraft. But Gilgamesh merely turned back to face them, his expression now one of aristocratic boredom rather than active hostility.
"You will escort me to the nearest center of civilization," he declared. "I require information about this realm before deciding its fate."
Flamme raised an eyebrow. "Its fate?"
"Naturally." Gilgamesh's smile was cold and magnificent. "I must determine if anything here merits preservation when I depart. Most worlds don't."
The casual cruelty of the statement hung between them, all the more terrifying for how matter-of-factly it was delivered. Frieren realized with growing unease that the being before them didn't merely possess god-like power—he possessed god-like disregard for anything he deemed beneath his interest.
"The city of Aurelis lies five days' journey east," Flamme said after a moment. "It houses the Grand Library and the headquarters of the Mage Guild. If you seek knowledge of our world, there is no better place to begin."
Gilgamesh considered this, then nodded regally. "It will suffice as a starting point. We depart immediately."
"The day grows late," Flamme observed, gesturing to the lengthening shadows. "These forests are dangerous after dark, even for ones of power. It would be wiser to make camp and begin fresh in the morning."
For a moment, it seemed the King of Heroes would dismiss this counsel out of hand. His expression darkened, and several of his floating weapons edged forward menacingly. Then, surprisingly, he laughed—a sound of genuine amusement that transformed his face into something almost approachable.
"Even in strange worlds, some constants remain. Mortals and their fear of darkness." He waved a hand dismissively. "Very well, mage. We shall observe your cautious traditions. Prepare a camp worthy of royal presence."
As Gilgamesh strode away to examine a nearby clearing, Frieren moved closer to her master.
"Should we be helping him?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "His power is immense, but his intentions seem..."
"Dangerous," Flamme finished quietly. "Yes. Which is precisely why we must stay with him." Her amber eyes followed the golden figure as he casually summoned another goblet of wine from nowhere. "Better to guide such power than leave it to wander unchecked."
Frieren nodded slowly, understanding the wisdom in her master's words even as she felt a prickle of apprehension. They had stumbled upon something beyond ordinary comprehension—a being who claimed dominion over creation itself and spoke of destroying worlds as casually as one might discuss the weather.
"What do you think he is?" she asked softly.
Flamme watched as Gilgamesh gestured imperiously at the forest, causing a small pavilion of golden silk to materialize from thin air. "I don't know," she admitted. "But I intend to find out before he decides the fate of our world."
Chapter 2: First Night
As darkness fell over the northern forest, Frieren busied herself preparing their camp. She worked methodically, setting protective wards in a wide circle while Flamme gathered wood for a fire. The familiar routines of travel helped steady her nerves, though she couldn't help glancing occasionally at their unusual companion.
Gilgamesh had created his own accommodations with casual displays of power that made her most complex spells seem childish by comparison. His pavilion gleamed with golden light from within, furnished with luxuries that had simply appeared at his command—silken cushions, ornate tables laden with food and drink, even what appeared to be a bathing pool steaming gently in one corner.
"Your apprentice continues to stare," Gilgamesh remarked as Flamme approached the fire Frieren had just kindled. "Has she never seen true nobility before?"
Flamme settled cross-legged by the flames, her expression thoughtful as she warmed her hands. "Frieren studies everything with such attention. It's what makes her an excellent mage." She glanced up at him. "Though I admit, your abilities are unlike any magic system documented in our world."
"Of course they are," Gilgamesh replied, emerging from his pavilion with a golden goblet in hand. "What you call 'magic' is merely the fumbling attempt of lesser beings to mimic divine authority. I need no incantations or formulas. I command, and reality obeys."
Instead of taking offense, Flamme nodded thoughtfully. "There are old theories about the nature of divine will versus mortal spellcraft. The idea that gods simply impose their desire upon reality, while mortals must negotiate with it through ritual and formula."
This observation seemed to please the King of Heroes. He approached their fire and, with surprising graciousness, seated himself upon a cushion that materialized beneath him.
"Your understanding exceeds most mortals I've encountered," he allowed, taking a sip from his goblet. "Perhaps this escort duty won't be entirely tedious."
Frieren, finishing the last of her protective wards, joined them at the fire. She noted how Gilgamesh's armor had been replaced by more casual attire—though "casual" in his case meant elaborate robes threaded with gold and gemstones that would have bankrupted a small kingdom.
"May I ask a question, Your Majesty?" she ventured.
Gilgamesh raised an eyebrow, his crimson eyes reflecting the firelight. "You may. Though I reserve the right to find it too trivial to answer."
Frieren nodded, accepting the condition. "You spoke of being 'hurled into countless dimensions.' Does that mean you regularly travel between worlds?"
"Not by choice," he replied, his expression darkening slightly. "My legend is so vast, my power so singular, that I've become a focal point for cosmic disturbances. When fools meddle with forces beyond their comprehension—which they invariably do—I am often displaced as a result." He swirled the wine in his goblet contemplatively. "Though usually, I find myself in worlds that at least recognize my name."
"Your name carries great significance where you come from?" Flamme asked.
Gilgamesh laughed, the sound simultaneously beautiful and terrifying. "Significance? I am Gilgamesh, the first hero, the original king from whom all concepts of rulership derive. My epic is the foundation stone of human literature. My deeds set the standard by which all subsequent heroes are measured." His eyes narrowed. "Which is why I find it so... insulting that this world exists in ignorance of me."
There was something in his tone—a genuine offense beneath the arrogance—that Frieren found almost relatable. As an elf, she understood the fear of being forgotten, of having one's existence erased by time. For Gilgamesh, it seemed, being unknown was not merely an insult to his pride but a violation of natural law.
"Our world has its own pantheon and legendary heroes," Flamme said, her tone diplomatic. "But its history may have developed along different lines than yours."
"Clearly," Gilgamesh sniffed, though he seemed somewhat mollified by her explanation. "And what passes for heroism in this realm? What legends do your people celebrate?"
Flamme began recounting some of the famous epics—the tale of the First Hero who drove back the primordial demons, the Seven Sages who established the foundations of magic, the God-Emperor's thousand-year reign. As she spoke, Frieren noticed Gilgamesh's expression shifting between disdain and grudging interest.
"Your legends lack proper grandeur," he declared when she finished. "Too much emphasis on collective achievement, too little on singular greatness."
"Perhaps that reflects our world's values," Frieren suggested quietly.
Gilgamesh turned his crimson gaze to her. "Explain."
Frieren hesitated, unused to being the center of attention. "In our history, even the greatest heroes ultimately needed allies. The First Hero had his companions, the Sages worked as a council, and even the God-Emperor relied on his twelve divine generals."
"Weakness masquerading as wisdom," Gilgamesh pronounced, though without the biting edge his earlier dismissals had carried. "A truly great king stands alone at the pinnacle. Allies are tools, not necessities."
"And yet," Flamme observed mildly, "you mentioned a friend earlier. One whose death drove you to challenge the underworld."
The change in Gilgamesh was immediate and striking. The air around him seemed to chill, and several of his floating weapons partially materialized before vanishing again. His expression hardened into something ancient and pained.
"Enkidu was not merely an ally," he said, his voice unusually quiet. "He was my equal—the only one in all creation. His existence was the sole check on my absolute authority, the only being I acknowledged as worthy of standing beside Gilgamesh."
For the first time since they'd encountered him, the King of Heroes sounded almost human in his grief. It lasted only a moment before his imperial demeanor reasserted itself, but Frieren had seen enough to recognize that beneath the divine arrogance lay genuine emotional depth.
"I apologize if I touched on a painful subject," Flamme said gently.
Gilgamesh waved away her concern with regal dismissiveness. "Ancient history. Literally. I have lived many lifetimes since then." He drained his goblet, which immediately refilled itself. "Now, tell me of these demons you mentioned. In my experience, such creatures make useful benchmarks for a world's overall quality."
As Flamme described the demon hordes that periodically threatened civilization, Frieren found herself studying Gilgamesh with new interest. The brief glimpse of vulnerability had transformed him in her perception from a merely dangerous entity to a complex being with his own history and wounds.
Their conversation continued as the night deepened around them. Gilgamesh questioned them extensively about the world's geography, its political structures, its magical systems, and its treasures. His queries were pointed and intelligent, suggesting a mind accustomed to assessing new realms with strategic precision.
When the topic turned to elves and their lifespan, Gilgamesh focused his attention on Frieren.
"You're young for your kind," he stated rather than asked. "What age have you reached?"
"Eighty years," Frieren answered.
Gilgamesh laughed. "A mere infant! Yet already concerned with memory and legacy, I see it in your eyes." He leaned forward slightly. "Tell me, infant elf, what drives one who has centuries ahead to study the magic of destruction?"
Frieren blinked in surprise. She hadn't mentioned her specialization.
"I can smell it on you," Gilgamesh explained, noticing her confusion. "The magic of ending. It has a particular... resonance."
"Protection," Frieren said after a moment. "To destroy that which threatens what I value."
"A defensive justification for offensive power," Gilgamesh mused. "Common enough. But insufficient." He gestured with his goblet toward her. "You seek mastery over ending because you fear it. All long-lived races do. The longer your potential existence, the more terrifying its cessation becomes."
The insight was uncomfortably accurate. Frieren glanced at Flamme, who was watching the exchange with careful attention but making no move to intervene.
"There is wisdom in acknowledging mortality," Frieren countered quietly. "Even for those with extended lifespans."
"Wisdom?" Gilgamesh repeated, his tone somewhere between amusement and genuine curiosity. "Perhaps. I rejected immortality when it was offered to me, you know. Found it... lacking in proper dramatic structure." He smiled, a private joke playing across his features. "But understanding endings is not the same as fearing them, little mage. I have died and returned across countless cycles. Death and I are old acquaintances."
This casual reference to his own mortality and apparent resurrection should have seemed like mere boasting, yet something in his tone made Frieren believe him. The being before them had indeed experienced death and somehow transcended it—not through immortality but through some more complex relationship with existence itself.
Their philosophical exchange might have continued, but Gilgamesh suddenly stiffened, his attention shifting to the forest beyond their camp. The weapons above him, which had been floating in a dormant pattern, suddenly oriented themselves toward the north.
"We have visitors," he announced, rising to his feet with fluid grace. His casual attire shimmered and transformed back into golden armor. "Unwelcome ones."
Frieren felt it a moment later—the unmistakable cold pressure of demonic energy approaching through the trees. She reached for her staff, already calculating which defensive spells would be most effective.
"A hunting pack," she informed Flamme, who had also risen to her feet. "Twenty, perhaps thirty signatures."
"They're drawn to power," Flamme explained, looking toward Gilgamesh. "And right now, you're radiating more magical energy than anything these forests have seen in centuries."
Rather than seeming concerned, Gilgamesh appeared almost pleased by this development. "Good," he declared, stepping beyond the boundary of Frieren's protective wards. "I've been curious about the quality of opponents this world might offer."
"Wait!" Frieren called, alarmed. Even for a being of his apparent power, facing a demon pack alone seemed reckless. "These creatures are dangerous. They consume magical energy and grow stronger from it."
Gilgamesh looked back at her, his expression one of amused indulgence. "You mistake me, apprentice. I am not in danger." His smile was terrifying in its confidence. "They are."
The first demon burst from the treeline—a massive, twisted thing with too many limbs and eyes that glowed with malevolent hunger. It charged toward Gilgamesh with supernatural speed, only to freeze mid-leap as it registered what stood before it. The creature's momentum carried it forward another pace before it desperately tried to reverse course.
Too late.
A single golden weapon shot from behind Gilgamesh, impaling the demon through its center mass with such force that the creature disintegrated into dark mist without even a death cry.
More demons emerged from the forest, their initial bloodlust giving way to visible confusion and then terror as they beheld the golden king. Some actually turned to flee—behavior Frieren had never witnessed in nearly a century of encountering the creatures.
"How disappointing," Gilgamesh sighed, as if he'd been promised entertainment and received tedium instead. "These are the demons that plague your world? Mongrels without dignity or courage."
One larger demon, apparently braver or more foolish than its kin, charged forward with a guttural roar. In response, Gilgamesh merely raised a hand. The air behind him tore open, revealing a golden treasury from which dozens of weapons emerged—each one radiating power that made Frieren's magical senses reel.
"Gate of Babylon," he announced without emotion, and the weapons launched forward in a deadly rain.
Not only the charging demon but every creature within fifty paces was pierced, shredded, and reduced to nothing in an instant. The forest fell silent save for the whisper of leaves disturbed by the sudden violence. Where a pack of demons had stood, nothing remained but faint wisps of dark essence dissipating into the night air.
Gilgamesh turned back to the mages, his expression one of profound disappointment. "Is this truly the caliber of opponent your world offers? Even the weakest divine beasts of my era would have provided more sport."
Frieren stared at the scene in astonishment. She had seen powerful mages battle demons before—had participated in such conflicts herself—but never had she witnessed such effortless dominance. The most dangerous predators of the northern forests had been eliminated with less effort than a human might expend swatting insects.
"Those were mid-tier demons," Flamme explained, her calm voice belying the watchful intensity in her eyes. "Had you ventured into their territory rather than them coming to us, you would have faced their elders—creatures that have challenged armies and legendary heroes alike."
"Then perhaps we should seek out these elders," Gilgamesh replied, his interest momentarily piqued. "I find myself in need of exercise after my... displacement."
"We're traveling to Aurelis for information, not to hunt demons," Flamme reminded him. "Though I suspect many creatures will find us along the way, drawn to your presence."
The King of Heroes considered this, then nodded magnanimously. "Very well. Your plan has merit—for now. First, I shall learn what passes for civilization in this realm. Then I will determine whether anything here deserves preservation when I depart."
As he returned to his makeshift throne by the campfire, Frieren exchanged a glance with her master. Both recognized the danger and opportunity before them—a being of immense power, bound by nothing but his own whim, who viewed their entire world as little more than a curiosity to be judged.
"He's not bluffing, is he?" Frieren whispered.
Flamme shook her head slightly. "No. Whatever else he may be, the King of Heroes does not strike me as one who makes idle threats." She watched as Gilgamesh summoned another goblet of wine, his expression once again settling into aristocratic boredom. "But neither is he in a hurry to render judgment. That gives us time."
"Time for what?"
A small smile touched Flamme's lips. "Time to show him that our world, for all its flaws, has value even by the standards of a self-proclaimed god-king."
As they settled back around the fire, Frieren found herself studying Gilgamesh with new eyes. Beneath the arrogance and casual displays of world-ending power, she sensed something almost familiar—a solitude that mirrored the isolation she sometimes felt as an elf among shorter-lived beings. The difference was that while her solitude stemmed from outliving those around her, his seemed to arise from having never found equals to begin with.
"Your world has adequate wine, at least," Gilgamesh declared, breaking the contemplative silence. "Though nothing to rival the vintages in my treasury."
"Our northern vintners would be honored by even such faint praise from royalty," Flamme replied diplomatically.
Gilgamesh laughed, the sound surprisingly genuine. "You have a courtier's tongue when needed, mage. A useful skill." He gestured toward her with his goblet. "Tell me of this Mage Guild of yours. What passes for magical achievement in a world without proper divine guidance?"
As Flamme began explaining the structure and history of magical development, Frieren realized that the night's events had subtly altered the dynamic between them. Gilgamesh still positioned himself as superior—that, she suspected, would never change—but there was a new note of something like respect in his interactions with Flamme. The master mage had neither cowered before his power nor foolishly challenged it, instead navigating his massive ego with the same quiet competence she brought to all things.
The night deepened around them, stars wheeling overhead in patterns familiar to Frieren yet, she realized, completely foreign to their guest from another dimension. She wondered how many night skies he had gazed upon in his apparently endless existence, how many worlds he had judged and found wanting, and whether theirs would ultimately meet the same fate.
Chapter 3: The Road to Aurelis
Morning arrived with birdsong and mist rising from the forest floor. Frieren awoke to find Flamme already moving about the camp, her efficient preparations for the day's journey as much a ritual as any formal spell. Of their imperious guest, there was no immediate sign, though his golden pavilion still stood in stark contrast to the natural surroundings.
"Has he left?" Frieren asked softly, gathering her traveling cloak.
Flamme shook her head, the gold choker at her throat catching the early light. "Bathing, I believe. His pavilion contains luxuries I've only seen in royal palaces."
As if summoned by their discussion, the entrance to the pavilion parted and Gilgamesh emerged. His golden armor had been replaced by what appeared to be traveling attire, though even this was more elaborate than ceremonial robes Frieren had seen worn by kings. His crimson eyes surveyed the simple breakfast Flamme had prepared with poorly concealed skepticism.
"You expect the King of Heroes to break his fast with... trail rations?" he inquired, one eyebrow raised imperiously.
Rather than responding directly, Flamme continued her preparations. "We have dried fruit, smoked venison, and herbal tea. All quite fresh and of good quality."
Gilgamesh made a sound of aristocratic displeasure but approached nonetheless. With a casual gesture, he summoned a small golden table and chair, seating himself with the air of a monarch granting an audience. Another wave of his hand, and fine porcelain dinnerware appeared before him.
"I shall supplement your... provisions," he announced, and with yet another gesture, an array of foods materialized on his table—fresh breads, exotic fruits, and meats prepared in styles Frieren had never seen before. The aroma alone made the simple trail rations seem paltry by comparison.
After a moment of consideration, Gilgamesh extended a hand toward the mages. "You may partake," he offered magnanimously. "Consider it payment for your guide services."
Frieren glanced at Flamme, who nodded slightly, before accepting a piece of strange golden fruit from one of Gilgamesh's platters. The taste was unlike anything she had experienced—sweet yet complex, with undertones of spices she couldn't identify.
"It's excellent," she acknowledged honestly. "What is it called?"
"That," Gilgamesh informed her with evident satisfaction, "is sunset fruit from the hanging gardens of Babylon—the greatest wonder of my world. It grew only in the royal enclosure and was reserved exclusively for divine palates." He sampled a piece himself, closing his eyes briefly in appreciation. "Even the gods themselves would scheme for a taste."
As they ate, Gilgamesh asked pointed questions about the journey ahead—the terrain they would traverse, potential dangers, and the political structure of the lands they would pass through. His inquiries revealed a strategic mind accustomed to assessing territories with a conqueror's eye.
"And this Council of Aurelis," he asked, accepting a cup of Flamme's herbal tea with surprising graciousness, "they command respect through what authority? Divine mandate? Military might? Ancestral claim?"
"Knowledge, primarily," Flamme replied. "Aurelis was founded as a center of learning. Its council consists of scholars, mages, and representatives from the major trade guilds. They govern through consensus, with decisions based on research and debate rather than decree."
Gilgamesh scoffed. "Government by committee? Inefficient and uninspiring." He waved a dismissive hand. "Great achievements require singular vision, not compromise."
"Yet their system has maintained peace and prosperity for over five centuries," Frieren pointed out quietly. "Few monarchies in our world can claim such stability."
The King of Heroes fixed her with a measuring look. "Stability is not greatness, young elf. It is merely the absence of catastrophe." His expression grew distant, almost reflective. "My Uruk knew both unprecedented glory and terrible devastation. But it was never... mediocre."
This glimpse into his values was revealing. For Gilgamesh, it seemed, greatness was inseparable from extremes—brilliant achievement necessarily balanced by the risk of spectacular failure. Moderation and sustainability, virtues highly prized in their world's older civilizations, were to him signs of lesser ambition.
As they finished their meal and prepared to depart, Gilgamesh's pavilion and furnishings vanished with a casual wave of his hand, leaving no trace that they had ever existed. Frieren noticed, however, that he cast one last look at the clearing where they had encountered the demon pack, his expression suggesting mild disappointment at the ease of the previous night's battle.
The golden king had tasted something of their world's dangers and found them wanting. Frieren could only hope that this wouldn't influence his eventual judgment on whether their reality deserved continued existence.
They set out eastward, following game trails that would eventually connect with the main road to Aurelis. Flamme took the lead, her knowledge of the region guiding their path, while Frieren walked beside Gilgamesh. This arrangement had not been explicitly agreed upon, but it emerged naturally—Flamme's confidence placing her at the front, while Frieren's scholarly curiosity drew her to
Chapter 3: The Road to Aurelis (Continued)
...the conversation with the enigmatic king. Despite his arrogance, Frieren found herself drawn to his encyclopedic knowledge of magic and artifacts that defied her understanding.
"These plants," Gilgamesh remarked, gesturing to purple-veined leaves growing in clusters along their path, "contain properties similar to the restorative herbs of Dilmun. Your healers use them?"
"Yes," Frieren nodded, impressed by his observation. "Though we call them Twilight Ferns. They're rare ingredients for regeneration potions."
"Primitive applications," Gilgamesh scoffed, though his tone lacked its earlier edge. "In my world, such plants were cultivated to create elixirs that could restore severed limbs in moments."
Their path narrowed, forcing them to walk closer together. As they navigated a particularly dense section of underbrush, Frieren stumbled on an exposed root. With reflexes that seemed impossible for someone in armor, Gilgamesh's hand shot out, steadying her by the waist. The contact lasted only a moment, but Frieren felt an unexpected warmth from his touch, despite the golden armor he wore.
"Your grace lacks refinement, apprentice," he observed, his crimson eyes meeting hers with amused condescension.
"My apologies, Your Majesty," Frieren replied, withdrawing from his touch with what she hoped was dignified composure. "Terrain magic is not my specialty."
"Clearly." His lips curved into a half-smile that somehow managed to be both mocking and charming.
By midday, they emerged from the dense forest onto a well-traveled road. The change in surroundings brought a corresponding shift in the dynamics of their small group. Travelers—merchants with laden carts, pilgrims on foot, and the occasional mounted soldier—now populated their path, each turning to stare at the golden figure striding confidently between the two mages.
Gilgamesh made no effort to diminish his aura of authority or alter his appearance to blend with local customs. If anything, he seemed to relish the attention, his posture becoming more regal with each passing mile.
"Your peasantry gawks without restraint," he observed loudly enough for nearby travelers to hear. "Have they never seen true royalty?"
"Most haven't," Flamme replied diplomatically. "And technically, these are free citizens, not peasants. This region follows republican governance."
"Republic?" Gilgamesh's expression shifted to one of amused disdain. "Another experiment in mediocrity masquerading as enlightenment. Such systems inevitably collapse without the guiding hand of a supreme ruler."
A merchant leading a caravan of exotic goods approached them, his eyes widening at the sight of Gilgamesh. Rather than being intimidated, however, the man—heavyset with a prosperous appearance—offered a deep bow.
"Forgive my intrusion, noble lord," he said, addressing Gilgamesh directly. "But I've traveled the Eastern Realms extensively, and your attire resembles nothing in the known world. Might I inquire as to its origin? I would pay handsomely for similar craftsmanship."
Gilgamesh regarded the merchant with the bemused expression of a lion observing a particularly audacious mouse. "You presume to purchase the armor of a king? With what? Copper coins and baubles?" He laughed, though not unkindly. "This armor is divine in origin, forged in the fires of creation itself. No craftsman in your world could replicate even its simplest aspect."
Rather than being offended, the merchant's eyes gleamed with increased interest. "Divine origin? Fascinating! I deal in artifacts of unusual provenance. Perhaps there are other items in your collection that might be suitable for trade? I have connections to collectors across the continent who would—"
"Enough," Gilgamesh cut him off, though his expression betrayed more amusement than anger. "Your entrepreneurial spirit is... not entirely without merit. But nothing in my treasury is available for mere commercial exchange."
As they continued past the merchant, who bowed repeatedly in their wake, Frieren noticed Flamme watching the interaction with careful attention.
"He's the third person today who's approached you directly," her master observed. "Word of your presence is spreading faster than our travel."
"Of course it is," Gilgamesh replied with imperial smugness. "True greatness cannot be concealed. It leaves an impression upon the fabric of reality itself."
Their path soon brought them to a crossroads where a substantial inn stood serving travelers. The structure was built of sturdy timber and stone, with a thatched roof and cheerful smoke rising from multiple chimneys. A painted sign depicting a crowned stag hung above the entrance.
"The Royal Hart," Flamme announced. "One of the better establishments in this region. We should rest here before continuing."
Gilgamesh surveyed the building with obvious skepticism. "This is what passes for distinguished accommodation? It's hardly better than a stable."
"It has clean beds, hot food, and secure walls," Flamme replied evenly. "Unless you prefer to conjure your pavilion in the middle of a public thoroughfare?"
The golden king made a sound of aristocratic displeasure but followed them toward the inn nonetheless. "I shall observe how the common folk of this world seek comfort and sustenance. Consider it research."
The innkeeper, a tall woman with graying hair tied in a practical knot, greeted them as they entered. Her practiced smile faltered momentarily as she took in Gilgamesh's appearance, but professional composure quickly reasserted itself.
"Welcome to the Royal Hart," she said with a small curtsey. "How may I serve such distinguished travelers?"
"We require your finest accommodations," Gilgamesh declared before either mage could speak. "Food and drink worthy of noble guests, and privacy from the gawking masses."
The innkeeper nodded, unruffled by his imperious tone. "Of course, my lord. We have a private dining room and our best suite available. The Blue Chamber has its own bathing facilities and a view of the eastern hills."
"One room?" Frieren questioned, glancing between Flamme and Gilgamesh.
"The suite contains three separate sleeping chambers around a common area," the innkeeper clarified. "Perfect for a lord and his... companions."
Gilgamesh smiled at the assumption. "Appropriate. Though these are not mere companions but representatives of this realm's magical authority. They shall be treated with corresponding respect."
The innkeeper bowed again. "Certainly, my lord. Might I ask under what name I should register your party?"
"Gilgamesh," he pronounced with practiced grandeur. "King of Heroes, Supreme Ruler of Uruk, Slayer of Humbaba and the Bull of Heaven."
To her credit, the innkeeper's expression revealed only mild surprise as she noted this elaborate title in her ledger. "And your companions?"
"Flamme of the Mage Guild," the master mage supplied. "And my apprentice, Frieren."
"Welcome to all," the innkeeper said smoothly. "Tela will show you to your suite, and refreshments will be sent up directly. Would you prefer to dine in your chambers or in our private dining room this evening?"
Before Gilgamesh could make another extravagant demand, Flamme interjected. "The dining room would be lovely. We've been traveling in isolation and could benefit from observing local conditions."
The king shot her a look that suggested he recognized her diplomatic maneuvering but, surprisingly, offered no objection. They were led upstairs by a young serving girl whose wide eyes kept darting to Gilgamesh's golden armor with undisguised wonder.
The suite proved more impressive than its exterior suggested. Spacious rooms with polished wooden floors were arranged around a central sitting area furnished with comfortable chairs and a small fireplace. Large windows offered views of the surrounding countryside, and fresh flowers had been placed in ceramic vases throughout.
"This exceeds my expectations," Gilgamesh admitted as he surveyed the largest chamber, which had clearly been designated as his. "Though still primitive by the standards of Uruk."
"The bath chamber is through here, my lord," Tela said, opening a door to reveal a surprisingly modern bathing room with a large copper tub. "Shall I have hot water brought up immediately?"
"Yes," Gilgamesh replied, his tone suggesting such service was merely his due. "And wine. The finest this establishment possesses."
As the serving girl hurried off to fulfill these requests, Frieren caught Flamme's eye. Both mages recognized the subtle change in their companion's demeanor—a slight softening of his imperial hauteur, a hint of approval in his assessment of their world's comforts.
It was a small victory, but perhaps meaningful in their quest to convince the King of Heroes that their reality deserved continued existence.
Chapter 4: Unexpected Encounters
Dinner at the Royal Hart proved more eventful than anticipated. The private dining room, while modest by royal standards, offered excellent fare and attentive service. Gilgamesh, after initial complaints about the "primitive presentation," found the local cuisine surprisingly palatable.
"This venison is adequately prepared," he pronounced after sampling the main course. "Though it would benefit from spices unknown to your world."
The innkeeper herself served them, clearly recognizing the unusual nature of her guests. Her name, they learned, was Merea, and she had managed the Royal Hart for nearly twenty years.
"We rarely host mages of such distinction," she said to Flamme while refilling their wine glasses. "And never... well..." She glanced at Gilgamesh, seemingly at a loss for how to categorize him.
"Kings?" Gilgamesh supplied with a smirk.
"Individuals of your particular presence, my lord," Merea finished diplomatically. "The Royal Hart has sheltered nobility before, but none who carried quite your... aura."
Gilgamesh seemed pleased by this observation. "A perceptive assessment. Your establishment, while unquestionably provincial, shows attention to quality that would not be entirely out of place in lesser palaces of my realm."
Coming from him, this qualified as effusive praise. Merea recognized it as such, bowing deeply before withdrawing to oversee the preparation of their dessert course.
"You're becoming more diplomatic," Flamme observed once they were alone. "I believe that's the first genuine compliment you've offered since your arrival."
Gilgamesh swirled the wine in his goblet—one he had materialized from his treasury after declaring the inn's glassware "inadequate for royal lips."
"I am capable of acknowledging merit where it exists," he replied. "Though such instances are rare in most worlds I encounter."
Their conversation was interrupted by a commotion from the main dining hall—raised voices, followed by the sound of something heavy being overturned. Frieren tensed, her magical senses detecting the sudden spike of hostile intent beyond their door.
"Trouble," she said quietly, reaching for her staff.
The door to their private dining room burst open as a serving boy tumbled through, clearly pushed from behind. He scrambled to his feet and backed away as five figures entered—men in worn leather armor bearing the insignia of a mercenary company. Their leader, a broad-shouldered individual with a patchwork of battle scars across his face, surveyed the room with calculated menace.
"Well, well," he drawled, hand resting on the pommel of a notched sword. "The rumors were true. A 'golden lord' traveling with mage women, flashing wealth beyond reason." His eyes fixed on Gilgamesh. "Those are some fancy trinkets you're wearing, friend."
Frieren and Flamme had both risen, their stances shifting subtly into defensive positions. Gilgamesh, however, remained seated, regarding the intruders with the mild annoyance one might direct at insects that had interrupted a pleasant meal.
"Your establishment has a vermin problem," he remarked to no one in particular, taking another sip of his wine.
The mercenary leader's face darkened at the dismissal. "I don't think you understand the situation, golden boy. This is a toll collection. You pay, we leave. You resist..." He drew his sword partially from its scabbard. "Things get messy."
Flamme stepped forward, her voice calm but carrying unmistakable authority. "I am Flamme of the Mage Guild, traveling on official business. Interference with guild representatives carries serious consequences."
This gave the mercenaries brief pause, but their leader rallied quickly. "The guild is three days' travel from here, witch. And accidents happen on the road all the time."
Throughout this exchange, Gilgamesh's expression had shifted from annoyed to amused. He set down his goblet with deliberate care and finally deigned to look directly at the mercenary leader.
"You interrupt a king's meal," he stated, his voice soft yet somehow filling the room, "barge into his presence uninvited, and then presume to threaten him?" He laughed, the sound both beautiful and terrifying. "Your audacity almost merits reward."
"Last chance," the mercenary growled, drawing his sword fully now. "Valuables on the table, or blood on the floor."
Gilgamesh sighed dramatically. "Blood it is, then."
Before anyone could move, golden ripples appeared in the air around the room. From each emerged the hilt of a different weapon—swords, spears, axes, all hovering with their points directed at the intruders.
The mercenaries froze, their expressions shifting from confidence to confusion to fear in rapid succession. Their leader took an involuntary step backward, his sword wavering.
"What... what kind of magic is this?" he demanded, his bravado crumbling.
Gilgamesh rose languidly to his feet, his movements unhurried and precise. "Not magic, mongrel. Divine authority." He made a small gesture with one hand, and one of the floating weapons—a simple but elegantly crafted dagger—shot forward.
It moved so quickly that Frieren barely tracked its path before it pinned the mercenary leader's sleeve to the wooden doorframe behind him, missing his flesh by mere millimeters. The man stared at the dagger, then at Gilgamesh, genuine terror blooming in his eyes.
"That," Gilgamesh informed him pleasantly, "was mercy. The next will not be." More weapons materialized around him, their golden glow casting dramatic shadows across his features. "You have three heartbeats to remove yourselves from my sight."
The mercenaries broke, scrambling over each other in their haste to retreat. Their leader, after a panicked moment struggling to free his sleeve, tore the fabric and fled after his men, leaving the dagger still embedded in the wood.
As the sound of their departure faded, Merea appeared in the doorway, a heavy rolling pin clutched in her hands like a weapon. She surveyed the scene with wide eyes.
"My lord, are you—" she began, then stopped as she noticed the dagger quivering in the doorframe and the distinct lack of casualties. "You... spared them?"
Gilgamesh retrieved his wine goblet, his expression reverting to aristocratic boredom. "Killing vermin during dinner would spoil the taste," he remarked. "And their terror will spread tales of my presence far more effectively than their corpses."
Frieren found herself studying the King of Heroes with renewed interest. His response had been calculated rather than merely vengeful—a display of power designed to serve a specific purpose rather than indulge base impulse. It suggested a strategic mind behind the imperious façade.
"They were fools to threaten you," Flamme observed, returning to her seat with composed dignity. "But their kind rarely possess wisdom."
"Wisdom is not a prerequisite for utility," Gilgamesh replied. "Even mongrels have their purpose in the natural order." He turned to Merea, who still stood clutching her rolling pin. "Your dessert course is delayed, innkeeper. This displeases me."
This imperial complaint, delivered after so casually thwarting an armed robbery, startled a laugh from Merea. "Of course, my lord. Berry tarts and sweet cream forthwith."
As she hurried off, visibly relieved and somewhat amazed, Frieren caught Gilgamesh watching her retreat with an expression that might almost have been approval.
"Your servants show spirit, at least," he commented. "That one would have defended her establishment with a cooking implement against armed men. Admirable, if foolish."
"Not all strength comes from weapons or magic," Flamme noted.
Gilgamesh's crimson eyes shifted to her. "True. The will to stand against superior force has its own power." A smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Such defiance would have earned execution in many courts, including my own... but also respect."
The remainder of their meal passed without further incident, though word of the confrontation had clearly spread throughout the inn. Staff appeared with almost comical promptness at the slightest indication of need, and Frieren noticed several guests in the hallway craning their necks for a glimpse of the "golden lord" who had routed a notorious mercenary band without shedding blood.
Later, as they retired to their suite, Frieren found herself alone with Gilgamesh for a moment while Flamme consulted with Merea about their departure arrangements for the morning.
"You could have killed them easily," she observed, curious about his restraint.
Gilgamesh, who had been examining the craftsmanship of a small wooden sculpture displayed in their common room, glanced at her with mild interest. "Of course. But death from my hand is an honor those curs had not earned." He set down the figurine. "Besides, I am still evaluating this world. Its inhabitants, even the lowliest, are data points in that assessment."
"So it was scientific curiosity that stayed your hand?" Frieren asked, not entirely convinced.
The King of Heroes laughed. "You seek to understand my motivations, infant elf? An ambitious undertaking." He moved closer, his supernatural presence suddenly more pronounced in the confined space. "Perhaps I simply preferred not to upset my companions during dinner."
Frieren felt her heartbeat quicken at his proximity. There was something undeniably magnetic about him—a gravitational pull that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with his absolute confidence in his own supremacy.
"We appreciate the consideration," she managed, maintaining her composure.
Gilgamesh studied her face with unsettling intensity. "Your master navigates my presence with practiced diplomacy, but you..." He reached out suddenly, brushing a strand of silver hair away from her face. "You observe with genuine curiosity rather than mere caution. Interesting."
Frieren stepped back, unsure how to respond to this assessment or the unexpected touch. She was saved from formulating a reply by Flamme's return.
"Our departure is arranged for first light," her master announced, either not noticing or choosing to ignore the tension in the room. "Merea has prepared provisions and offered a local guide who knows the faster paths to Aurelis."
Gilgamesh turned away from Frieren, his attention shifting to Flamme with fluid ease. "A guide? Unnecessary. Between your knowledge and my authority, additional accompaniment would be superfluous."
"The northern route passes through territories recently troubled by unusual demonic activity," Flamme explained. "Local insight could prove valuable."
"Demons?" Gilgamesh's expression brightened with predatory interest. "Perhaps this journey will provide entertainment after all." He waved a hand dismissively. "Very well. This guide may join us, provided they do not slow our progress or presume excessive familiarity."
As they retired to their separate chambers, Frieren found herself reflecting on the complex being they had committed to escorting. Arrogant and imperious, yes, but also observant and strategic. His casual display of power against the mercenaries had demonstrated both overwhelming strength and surprising restraint.
Most concerning of all, however, was her own reaction to him. Despite his outrageous claims and dismissive attitude, there was something compelling about Gilgamesh that transcended mere intimidation. He exuded a primal authority that seemed to resonate on levels beyond conscious thought—an echoing recognition of something fundamental and magnificent.
She would need to guard against such fascination, Frieren reminded herself as she prepared for sleep. Their mission was to guide him, learn from him if possible, and ultimately convince him that their world deserved continued existence—not to be drawn into the gravitational well of his charisma.
Still, as she drifted toward sleep, her thoughts returned to that brief moment when he had touched her hair, and the strange intensity in those crimson eyes as they assessed her with ancient, knowing intelligence.
Chapter 5: The Northern Route
Dawn broke with unexpected clarity, the previous day's scattered clouds giving way to crisp autumn sunshine. Frieren, always an early riser, found their promised guide already waiting in the inn's common room—a young woman with practical leather armor and a shock of vivid red hair cut short for travel.
"You must be the mage," the woman said, rising from her seat by the hearth. "I'm Serra, hunter and path-finder." She extended a calloused hand. "Merea said you needed guidance through the northern passes."
Frieren accepted the handshake, noting the strength in the woman's grip and the intelligence in her green eyes. "I'm Frieren, apprentice to Flamme. Thank you for agreeing to assist us."
Serra shrugged with casual confidence. "Good coin for work I'd be doing anyway. I was headed north to check on reports of unusual creature movements." Her expression grew curious. "Merea also mentioned something about a... golden lord? Said he scared off Karth's entire mercenary band without lifting a finger."
Before Frieren could respond, the common room fell suddenly silent. She turned to see Gilgamesh descending the stairs, his armor gleaming in the morning light streaming through the windows. He had dispensed with some of the more elaborate elements of his regalia, yet still projected an aura of unmistakable majesty.
Serra stared openly, her professional demeanor momentarily abandoned in the face of such an unexpected sight.
"So the tales weren't exaggerated," she murmured, her voice pitched for Frieren's ears alone. "He really does shine like the sun."
Gilgamesh surveyed the common room with imperial detachment before his gaze settled on Frieren and her companion. He approached with measured steps, each movement displaying the casual grace of absolute authority.
"Is this the guide?" he inquired, looking Serra up and down with evaluative scrutiny.
To her credit, Serra met his gaze directly, offering a bow that was respectful without being servile. "Serra of the Northern Ranges, my lord. I know every path and pass between here and Aurelis."
A faint smile touched Gilgamesh's lips. "At least you address royalty appropriately." He glanced at Frieren. "Where is your master? Daylight wanes while we linger in this establishment."
"Completing our arrangements with the innkeeper," Frieren explained. "She'll join us momentarily."
As if summoned by her words, Flamme emerged from a side room, her traveling cloak already secured around her shoulders. She nodded to Serra in greeting before addressing Gilgamesh.
"The northern route offers greater privacy but potentially more danger," she informed him. "With Serra's guidance, we should reach Aurelis in three days instead of five."
"Efficiency pleases me," Gilgamesh declared. "Though I remain unconvinced that any danger in this realm could pose legitimate threat to the King of Heroes."
Serra's eyebrows rose at this pronouncement, but she masked her reaction quickly. "The danger isn't from brigands or ordinary beasts, my lord. The northern forests have seen strange disturbances lately—creatures acting against their nature, unusual gatherings of demonic entities."
"Fascinating," Gilgamesh replied, his interest visibly piqued. "Perhaps this journey will offer worthy challenge after all."
They departed shortly thereafter, Serra leading them along lesser-known paths that paralleled the main road before diverging northward into more rugged terrain. The hunter moved with confident familiarity through the landscape, occasionally pointing out features of interest or warning of potential hazards.
Gilgamesh, contrary to Frieren's expectations, seemed content to follow Serra's lead, though he maintained an air of indulgent amusement rather than genuine deference. He asked pointed questions about the territories they traversed, revealing a strategic mind accustomed to assessing lands with a conqueror's eye.
By midday, they had left the well-traveled areas behind, entering a region of steep hills and ancient, gnarled forests. The path narrowed, forcing them to walk in single file along precipitous ridgelines that offered spectacular views of the valley below.
"The old texts call this the Serpent's Spine," Flamme explained as they paused to rest near a particularly impressive overlook. "Legend says it was formed when a divine serpent was turned to stone for defying the creator gods."
"Plausible," Gilgamesh remarked, surveying the undulating ridgeline with experienced assessment. "In my world, many geographic features were the petrified remains of divine or semi-divine entities." He pointed to a distant peak. "That formation resembles the aftermath of a battle I once witnessed between two lesser deities."
Serra, who had been checking their path ahead, returned with a troubled expression. "We may have a problem," she announced without preamble. "Fresh tracks ahead—not normal wildlife. The pattern suggests Shadowbeasts."
"Shadowbeasts?" Gilgamesh inquired, his tone suggesting mild curiosity rather than concern.
"Predators that hunt in the boundaries between worlds," Flamme explained. "They're drawn to magical energy and usually avoid populated areas. For a pack to be this far south is... concerning."
Serra nodded grimly. "They shouldn't be here, especially not in daylight hours. Something's disrupted their normal behavior."
Gilgamesh's expression shifted from boredom to interest. "These creatures exist between realms? Show me."
The guide hesitated, glancing at Flamme for direction. The master mage considered briefly before nodding.
"We can observe from the safety of the ridge," she decided. "If they're truly Shadowbeasts, understanding their presence here could be valuable information for the Guild."
Serra led them forward with increased caution, staying low and moving silently along the rocky path. After several hundred paces, she raised a hand for them to stop, then gestured toward a shadowed declivity below their position.
At first, Frieren saw nothing unusual—just a rocky hollow surrounded by twisted trees. Then she noticed how the shadows moved against the wind, flowing with deliberate purpose rather than merely responding to the swaying branches.
As her eyes adjusted, shapes became visible within those living shadows—sleek, predatory forms that seemed to phase between solidity and incorporeality. They moved with disturbing grace, their bodies composed of darkness given temporary substance.
"Five individuals," Serra whispered. "A small hunting pack."
Gilgamesh observed the creatures with evident fascination. "Interesting. They possess characteristics similar to certain void entities in my world, though less sophisticated in construction." He turned to Flamme. "These beasts pose threat to ordinary travelers?"
"Significant threat," she confirmed. "They feed on both flesh and magical essence. Even experienced mages approach them with caution."
A slow, anticipatory smile spread across Gilgamesh's face. "Then they may provide suitable sport."
Before anyone could protest, he stepped forward to the edge of the ridge, his golden armor catching the sunlight in a brilliant flash. The effect was immediate—all five Shadowbeasts froze, their amorphous heads tilting upward in perfect unison.
"Your world's predators lack proper respect," Gilgamesh declared loudly, his voice echoing across the valley. "Come. Test yourselves against a true king."
The Shadowbeasts responded with unnatural speed, flowing up the steep slope like living ink, covering ground that should have taken minutes to traverse in mere seconds. Serra cursed, drawing twin short swords from sheaths at her back, while Flamme and Frieren readied defensive spells.
"Stand aside," Gilgamesh commanded, not looking back at his companions. "This hunt is mine alone."
The first Shadowbeast launched itself at him with jaws that materialized from darkness—fangs of void energy capable of shearing through armor and bone alike. Gilgamesh didn't even bother to summon a weapon. He simply caught the creature by what passed for its throat, his armored hand glowing with golden energy that caused the shadowy substance to hiss and steam upon contact.
"Disappointing," he pronounced, then hurled the creature with casual strength against a nearby boulder. The impact would have pulverized ordinary flesh, but the Shadowbeast simply flowed around the obstacle, reforming with only slight diminishment to its mass.
The remaining four attacked simultaneously, approaching from different angles with predatory coordination. Now Gilgamesh deigned to summon his weapons, golden portals opening around him as multiple blades emerged, each radiating power that made Frieren's magical senses prickle with warning.
What followed was less a battle than a demonstration. The King of Heroes moved with supernatural grace, each motion precise and devastatingly effective. The floating weapons responded to his will without apparent direction, intercepting the Shadowbeasts' attacks while Gilgamesh himself engaged the apparent leader of the pack.
"Your kind might have posed moderate challenge to lesser heroes," he informed the creature as he drove a glowing spear through its midsection, pinning it to the ground. The Shadowbeast writhed, its substance trying to flow around the weapon but seemingly unable to break contact with the golden metal.
The other beasts, witnessing their leader's predicament, attempted to retreat—flowing back toward the shadows of the valley with desperate speed. Gilgamesh merely laughed, and with a gesture, more weapons rained down from portals above them. Each strike landed with perfect precision, not merely wounding but somehow anchoring the creatures in place, forcing their shadowy forms into temporary solidity.
"Master," Frieren whispered to Flamme, "those weapons... they're affecting the Shadowbeasts' dimensional properties somehow."
Flamme nodded, her expression one of scholarly fascination despite the danger. "He's not just damaging them physically. He's disrupting the magical foundations of their existence."
Within moments, all five Shadowbeasts were immobilized, their dark essences pinned by gleaming golden weapons to various surfaces around the ridge. They struggled silently, their forms fluctuating between solidity and vapor but unable to escape.
Gilgamesh surveyed his handiwork with the satisfied expression of a collector arranging prized specimens. "Primitive interdimensional entities," he assessed. "Barely worthy of inclusion in my bestiary." He turned to Serra, who was staring at the scene with undisguised astonishment. "Are these the most dangerous predators your northern regions offer?"
The guide swallowed visibly before responding. "They're... they're among the most feared, yes. Most hunting parties would consider one Shadowbeast a serious threat. Five would be..." She gestured helplessly at the immobilized creatures. "No one fights five and lives."
"Hmm." Gilgamesh sounded genuinely disappointed. "Then your world's apex predators lack proper majesty." He turned to Flamme. "These creatures serve some ecological purpose, I assume?"
The master mage nodded slowly. "They help maintain boundaries between dimensional planes. Their feeding habits, while dangerous to travelers, prevent more catastrophic breaches."
"Then I shall leave them their function, if not their dignity." With a casual wave of his hand, the golden weapons pinning the Shadowbeasts began to dissolve, their substance flowing back into the portals from which they had emerged. The creatures, once released, did not attack again but instead fled immediately, flowing down the slope with such speed that they seemed to vanish almost instantly into the shadows below.
Serra expelled a breath she'd apparently been holding. "I've been tracking game in these mountains for fifteen years," she said, her voice slightly unsteady, "and I've never seen anything like that. Those beasts never retreat—they fight to the death."
"They recognized the absolute nature of defeat," Gilgamesh explained with imperial certainty. "Even primitive entities possess basic survival instinct when confronted with overwhelming superiority."
Frieren studied the King of Heroes with renewed interest. His display of power had been impressive, certainly, but what fascinated her more was his unexpected restraint. He could have easily destroyed the Shadowbeasts completely, yet had chosen to merely defeat and release them after learning of their ecological role.
It suggested a more complex approach to dominion than mere destruction—a philosophy of rule that incorporated understanding before judgment. This, perhaps, offered hope for their world's eventual assessment.
"We should continue," Flamme suggested, breaking the moment of contemplation. "Those creatures will avoid us now, but their presence here remains concerning. Something has disrupted normal patterns."
Serra nodded in agreement, though her gaze kept returning to Gilgamesh with poorly disguised awe. "The path ahead crosses several territories normally kept in balance by different predator species. If the Shadowbeasts have been displaced, we may encounter other disruptions."
"Excellent," Gilgamesh declared, his previous disappointment apparently forgotten. "Perhaps your world will offer worthy challenge yet."
As they resumed their journey, Frieren noticed a subtle shift in their group dynamic. Serra, who had initially regarded their golden companion with professional wariness, now watched him with undisguised fascination, occasionally asking questions about his weapons and fighting technique. Gilgamesh, seemingly pleased by her recognition of his superiority, answered with uncharacteristic patience, though his explanations remained laced with references to concepts and materials unknown in their world.
Flamme, ever observant, caught Frieren's eye and raised a knowing eyebrow. The message was clear—their group was developing a pattern familiar throughout history: extraordinary power drawing others into its orbit. Whether this would ultimately help or hinder their mission remained to be seen.
By late afternoon, they reached a plateau where the path widened enough to make camp. Serra selected a defensible position near a small spring, efficiently establishing a perimeter while Flamme prepared protective wards. Frieren gathered firewood, using minor wind magic to collect fallen branches from the slopes below.
Gilgamesh, predictably, contributed by summoning his elaborate pavilion, which now featured an expanded dining area with cushioned seating around a low table.
"Your camping arrangements are primitive," he announced, gesturing toward the simple bedrolls Serra had unpacked. "As my temporary