"Seven days. God made the world in only seven days!"
Gilgamesh stood still, eyes wide with disbelief. Then he laughed—loud, unhinged, bitter. Tears streamed down his face as something deep inside him cracked.
Crack.
His pride—his legacy—shattered like glass.
"Seven days..." he murmured. The laughter faded, replaced by the dull haze of death. As his mind unraveled, it returned to a childhood memory: standing atop the palm of a god, gazing up with innocent awe.
"What is civilization?"
He had asked.
.
"Civilization is fire. Civilization is knowledge. Civilization is order. Civilization is the greatest weapon an intelligent species can wield."
.
"A shield? Something to protect ourselves with?"
.
Hahahahaha!
The dying king erupted in laughter again—mad, resounding, eternal. It echoed across the world: over wind-swept hills, over snow-capped peaks, through rushing rivers and whispering forests, through golden wheat fields and the vast steppes beyond.
In the royal city, in nomadic villages, in distant mountains—every Sumerian paused. They looked skyward, stunned, as though they had all heard the echo of their king's final, defiant laugh. A wordless grief overcame them. From lips cracked with sorrow, they sang a mournful dirge no one had a name for.
The Hero King, Gilgamesh, had died at the gates of Uruk.
Xu Zhi watched from above, eyes dim with regret.
"I never wanted to fight you," he said softly. "I always told you the truth. I really don't have the Treasure of Immortality. Why couldn't you believe me?"
"The king is dead!"
"Our Hero King challenged the Creator—and fell!"
"We have lost!"
Panic swept the land. The soldiers scattered like leaves in a storm.
Xu Zhi didn't pursue them. Where could they run? To the edge of the world?
"Unbelievable… this is… unbelievable…"
Akkad, the royal historian, stood atop Uruk's high walls, trembling. Cold sweat drenched his robes. He had just finished documenting the battle against the Wise Beast. Now, with shaking hands, he turned the page.
He had to record the truth—for future generations.
In the Epic of Genesis, he wrote:
The Great Beast of Wisdom was none other than the Creator God. In his arrogance, Gilgamesh pointed his sword at divinity. He sought God's blood to gain eternal life. The Creator, seeing sin in the hearts of man, unleashed judgment upon the Sumerian people—a Great Flood to end their age.
Wails rose across the city.
Men and women, maddened by despair, collapsed to their knees in the muddy streets. Some laughed. Others screamed. Many simply wept.
"God says the world is filled with sin!"
"Repent! Fall to your knees and repent!"
"The Great Flood is coming!"
Terror spread like wildfire. The air itself seemed to tremble with dread.
Then, through the chaos, a young man in a black turban stepped forward. He carried a bundle wrapped in blood-soaked cloth and laid it at Xu Zhi's feet. Gently, reverently, he unwrapped it—revealing a severed head.
"Great Beast of Wisdom," he said, voice low and shaking. "The King of the Forest, Enkidu, begs for your mercy."
Xu Zhi's eyes widened slightly.
So that was why only two kings had come to challenge him. Enkidu had been absent.
Utnapishtim, the man before him, fell prostrate on the ground. His voice trembled as he spoke:
"We are not all savages. My teacher, Enkidu, defied the king's command and chose death over injustice. He would not raise his sword against the one who gifted us civilization. Please... not all of us are guilty of sin. Show mercy to the innocent."
Xu Zhi sighed.
He had never intended to destroy them all. But their arrogance, their recklessness... they had brought this upon themselves.
"You may cut down the Divine Tree," he said at last. "Use its wood to build a great ark. Gather seeds and breeding pairs of every living creature. The remaining space is for your people. Once you're ready, the flood will come."
He turned and walked away.
Behind him, the survivors fell to their knees—not in fear, but in stunned gratitude.
"We may have lost, but it's not the end."
"The Creator has shown mercy."
"It's thanks to Enkidu. He proved we have virtue."
"Praise Enkidu!"
"Praise the King of the Forest!"
Akkad wept as he watched Xu Zhi's fading silhouette. Clutching his quill with reverence, he wrote in the Epic of Genesis:
The benevolence of Enkidu moved the heart of the Creator. He stayed His hand, allowing a remnant to survive. Utnapishtim was chosen to build the Ark and carry forth the seeds of a new world.
.
Back in the real world, Xu Zhi walked into his courtyard.
He wiped dust from the high-pressure water gun in the corner—something he'd once bought with Chen Xi on a whim, never imagining it would become the instrument of a biblical flood.
Ten minutes passed outside.
Inside the sandbox, one hundred and twenty days flew by.
The Sumerians worked tirelessly. The Divine Tree was felled. A colossal ark rose from its remains. They gathered seeds, young beasts, and scrolls of written knowledge—everything they could save of their world.
Xu Zhi lifted the water gun.
"Time to clean up."
A jet of high-pressure water surged into the sandbox.
Trees snapped and fell. The royal city crumbled in an instant. Animals bolted in panic, only to be swept away by the roaring flood. The land was consumed by whitewater, the sky itself dyed in foaming spray.
God saw the sins of man and unleashed a flood to cleanse the earth.
On the ark, Utnapishtim and his people huddled together. Above them, the heavens cracked open.
White torrents poured from the clouds like rivers from a broken dam. The deluge fell without mercy.
Everything—everything—was drowned.
Only the ark remained, adrift in a vast, endless sea.
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