The Bloody Memoir
It was written by the eldest hunter, his crimson blood staining the pages as his hands bled upon his wings. He filled 500 pages, chronicling every event in his life—every adventure, each with a known beginning and an unknown end. Yet, the words would not appear unless the designated person progressed accordingly. With every step forward, the memoir would begin to bleed crimson, and this sanguine flow would not cease until the book was opened.
The jester read ten pages of the Bloody Memoir, uncovering the existence of two figures.
The first: Gilgamesh the Sacred Terror—the demon cloaked in the guise of an angel, the supreme manipulator, the first betrayer, the second avenger, the third harbinger of misfortune. The Mover of Worlds, Creator of Illusory Realms—the fearless, the cunning trickster, "Mister Glitch." He soared with the wings of a devil yet adorned them as those of a fallen angel.
The second: The Devil Dwelling Within the Devil's Shrine—the ruler beside the ruler, the thief of rest from the eyes of kings and emperors, the conqueror of all realms. The First Sin of the Thousand Forgotten Worlds, ruler over 400 realms between the branch and the trunk, and thirteen sacred worlds. He who hears the cries of the crimson child. He who stabbed the king's shrine with his first sword. The First Conqueror of the War of Heaven. Deimos, the Crimson Ruler, standing alongside the Sovereign of Servanius Crown.
Yet, despite the meticulous descriptions of Gilgamesh within the Bloody Memoir, the jester had been deceived by the fearless, ill-fated trickster. The words within the pages were too much for his primitive mind to bear. Just ten pages—only ten pages—were enough to drive the jester to press the muzzle of a gun against his own head, gently squeezing the trigger and firing a bullet into the very mind that had led him into the depths of the Unknown Realms—The Age of Hades. If the remaining pages were to reveal themselves, what fate awaited the jester? Would he shatter the core of worlds in his madness, or… something far worse?
Gilgamesh, his voice laced with derision and mockery, spoke to the broken jester with sharp finality:
"Weren't you warned not to trust anyone, hunter Gehrman?"
His laughter, twisted and piercing, echoed through the crimson abyss, clawing at the very core of the jester's sanity.
Stunned—his every expression frozen in disbelief—Gehrman's eyes widened in a shock-drenched horror, locked onto the terrifying form of Gilgamesh. His lips quivered as he stammered:
"Are you truly the First Brave, Gilgamesh? I read the memoir carefully—every detail, every word, every deception. How was I fooled by you?"
He stood alone in the void, yearning for a distant salvation. Darkness embraced him from all sides, save for a single radiant light—revealing the form of The Brave One.
Gilgamesh reached out, grasping the jester's shoulder, his grin merging with the eternal abyss as he whispered:
"Everyone has their own path… and I have more than just one, Gehrman. Or should I say, 'Writer'? You carry far too many sins upon your shoulders. You must correct them. Or… will you simply repeat your mistakes?"
The only light in the void vanished. The jester glanced around, seeing nothing but endless nothingness. Then—Gilgamesh emerged from behind him, seizing his head, twisting him to face him directly. That same devious, knowing smirk never wavered. The Master of Manipulation spoke once more:
"It seems you are lost, but the lost never find their way."
A short pause. Silence wrapped around the moment, yet Gilgamesh's words sliced through it with precision, forcing the jester to rethink his battle against the unknown.
"Gilgamesh is not necessarily Gilgamesh."
Sometimes, silence is the first choice. Acknowledging another's power is not disgraceful—it is merely the limit you cannot surpass. The Hanging Gardens will never be yours, and you shall never be enigmatic.
Gilgamesh's voice stripped Gehrman of all significance, reducing him to nothing more than a mere grain of rice in an eternal cosmos. He displayed the power of the great ones—not as the branch or the trunk upon which worlds relied, but as something lost in the endless void.
The black expanse of space split apart, revealing the jester within the cosmos. Around him, 100 planets drifted. Above them, a crimson moon bled into the stars. The jester stood amidst the infinite, realizing his insignificance—a single grain among countless, struggling to complete the first sequence.
The void trembled. A colossal palace appeared, held in place by grasping hands from above and below the cosmic abyss. The jester now stood within it.
Distant whispers filled the air—children weeping, voices screaming, unintelligible words dripping with madness. From an unknown place, Gilgamesh spoke. His voice carried two layers—the first, the voice of creation, the second, the voice of the ancients. He had done this deliberately—if he spoke solely in the tongue of the great ones, the jester would understand nothing.
"Try to survive your sins, Gehrman. Try to rid yourself of them. Look upon this palace—you built it yourself. So, why don't we play a game? A game of chase? Run like a rat, and I shall hunt you like a cat. What do you say?"
Panic seized the jester. He ran blindly, desperately, through the palace—a fortress constructed in the heart of the eternal void. He had no idea where the exit lay.
The palace was vast, with twelve rooms below and thirty-three above—not including the hidden chambers concealed within. These were no ordinary rooms. According to legend, within the Second Book, buried deep within a cosmic stone, it was written:
"To follow in secret, to tread within the corridor, shall be futile. You will find yourself where you first began. Stones stacked upon stone, branches gathered in one chamber, the trunk in another. Is he the bearer of worlds?"
The jester gripped the handle of an enormous door. Strange Etruscan inscriptions were etched into it, each sentence ending in dripping blood. He turned the handle.
Behind the door—stood Gilgamesh the Mad.
Smirking, he leaned in.
"My, my… it seems you've chosen the wrong door, Writer."
The jester, now frantic, rushed to open another. Then another. And another. The second, the third, the fourth—until at last, he reached the penultimate door.
Beyond it—was an eternal void, devoured by a creeping, crimson entity. The sight alone shattered his already fragile mind. He slammed the door shut.
One door remained.
The Jester pushed open the door, his hands trembling slightly as thoughts collided and merged within his mind. The moment the door fully opened, he was met with a sight that sent a cold shiver down his spine—Gilgamesh stood before him, wearing that same infuriating smile.
Without warning, Gilgamesh seized the Jester by the throat, lifting him effortlessly into the air through dimensional manipulation. His grip was firm, suffocating, his voice laced with cruel amusement.
"What is this weakness that engulfs you, Germain? Are you truly the great Germain, the one who wrote 500 pages? I never expected you to be in such a pitiful state, O Ancient Hunter."
With a smirk, Gilgamesh released him, only to strike his chest with such force that he was thrown to the ground twice over. The Jester gasped, clutching his ribs, feeling as though he were hanging by a thread, on the brink of collapse. As he lay there, he spoke not to Gilgamesh, but to himself, to the shattered remnants of his pride.
'What is this weakness consuming me, drowning me from head to toe, paralyzing every sense as if I am no longer myself? I am the detective who never errs, the mind that unraveled mysteries and solved the most intricate of cases.
How have I fallen to such depths in these realms? And at the hands of a man—no, a creature—who seems plucked from ancient legends? What is this sorcery that ensnares me? Where is my wisdom, my insight that once cut through darkness like a blade? I have seen horrors beyond comprehension, yet this… this defies all reason.'
Gilgamesh vanished before his crimson-stained eyes. As the Jester gathered his strength to rise, he noticed a radiant light at the end of the corridor. He staggered forward, confusion clouding his every step.
'When will this nightmare end?'
Reaching out, he pushed open the door.
Suddenly, he found himself standing in a hospital drenched in blood. Severed limbs lay scattered, heads impaled on spears, the air thick with the guttural growls of unseen monstrosities feasting in the shadows. The entire room reeked of decay and destruction. Amidst the carnage, a single voice echoed repeatedly—a whisper, a chant, a command.
"Death."
The voice belonged to Gilgamesh. It reverberated from every direction, filling the air like an omen.
"Do you know why I placed you here?" Gilgamesh's voice slithered into the Jester's ears. "Because this is who you are. Your true nature dwells in the abyss of eternal madness. This cycle will never end. The asylum is the first step toward ruin. Do you know how many mothers sell their children to asylums for a handful of coins? Just as you sold yourself to them… 'Writer.'"
Gilgamesh's laughter echoed, sharp and unrelenting. "Do you like my gift? Turn around, and see for yourself. Hahahahaha!"
The Jester hesitated, his breath caught in his throat. Slowly, he turned—only to be met with the grotesque sight of a towering figure drenched in blood. The creature's jagged teeth gleamed like those of a great white shark, its crimson eyes locked onto him with murderous intent. It was devouring a human head, yet even as it feasted, its hunger remained insatiable.
Gilgamesh's voice, now eerily calm, explained:
"This poor soul, twisted into a monstrous form, was once a man. All for a few worthless coins. They call themselves guardians, protectors… but they are nothing more than butchers who delight in tormenting the insane."
The beast lunged.
The Jester ran.
His heart pounded violently, his mind racing for an escape. He overturned beds, threw debris in the creature's path, but nothing slowed its advance.
Ahead of him loomed a massive door, inscribed with a single word: EXIT.
Salvation.
Or so he thought.
He reached for the handle, but the door did not budge. Behind him, the creature's breath grew heavier, closer. The floor trembled beneath its monstrous steps. Just as its clawed hand reached out to crush him, the world twisted.
Gilgamesh materialized from the void, standing before the Jester like a phantom of inevitability.
The Jester collapsed to his knees, drained, trembling under the weight of dread. Gilgamesh knelt beside him, gently lifting his chin as if uncovering a long-buried truth. His voice was soft, yet it cut deeper than any blade.
"Now, Germain, tell me—who is your true master?"
Summoning every ounce of defiance, the Jester rose to his feet. His hands clenched into fists. With all the fury he could muster, he seized Gilgamesh by the throat, his voice ringing through the shattered asylum.
"You coward! Do you even know who you're speaking to? I am the writer, you son of a whore!"
Yet before he could strike, Gilgamesh vanished, his laughter lingering like an unshakable nightmare.
"Now, you begin to understand, Writer. Now, you see who you truly are. Do not place your hand in ice, lest it freezes you. Each moment calls for a different reaction, and at last, you have chosen the right one."
Then, silence.
The Jester opened his eyes.
He was sitting at his desk.
Before him lay the Bloody Memoir, glowing with an unnatural radiance. The room was eerily quiet, the weight of something unknown pressing against his chest. He exhaled sharply, his voice a mere whisper.
"What was that journey? And why does the memoir shine in these strange colors?"
With cautious fingers, he flipped open the pages.
New words bled onto the parchment, forming sentences that seemed less like writing and more like a summons from another realm.
'If you wish to cross between worlds, you must say:
Between sky and earth, I wish to pass.
Between sky and earth, I alone reign.
Between sky and earth, I am the greatest.'
A chill ran through his spine. These words—were they an invitation? Or a curse?
Before he could ponder further, a voice shattered the silence behind him.
"You've finally returned, Jester."