Chapter Two – The Golden King
The air inside the chamber was thick with an ancient power, one that had been undisturbed for millennia. It felt heavy, pressing against the skin, an unseen force that made even breathing feel momentous.
Frieren's gaze remained fixed on the figure lying on the stone platform. His golden eyes, sharp and unwavering, stared back at her—at all of them.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then, slowly, the man sat up.
His every movement was unhurried, graceful yet effortless, as though he were simply reclaiming his place in the world rather than waking from a deep slumber. His long, golden hair cascaded over his shoulders, untouched by time. His attire, an intricate weave of gold and red, shone as if newly crafted, its patterns reminiscent of elven royalty from ages past.
His gaze swept over them—Frieren, Fern, Stark. Not with hostility, but with a quiet understanding, as if he had already grasped who they were before they had even spoken.
Then, he spoke.
"…You are not of my era."
His voice was deep and resonant, carrying the weight of centuries, yet smooth as flowing water.
Frieren tilted her head slightly. "Your era?"
He looked past her, his golden eyes scanning the chamber, then beyond—toward the ruins of the once-grand elven city. A flicker of something crossed his face. Recognition, perhaps. Or maybe… nostalgia.
"So much has changed," he murmured, almost to himself. "Then it is as I suspected… Time has abandoned me."
Fern took a cautious step forward. "Who are you?"
The man turned his gaze upon her. It was not a threatening look, but there was something immense behind those eyes—something that made it clear he was not an ordinary being.
"I was once known as Gilgamesh," he said. "King of Uruk. Ruler of the Golden Age." His lips curved slightly, a touch of amusement or perhaps irony. "Though I doubt such a title holds meaning in this era."
Frieren blinked. Gilgamesh.
The name was ancient—older than even the first recorded histories of humanity. A ruler of a lost civilization, spoken of in only the most obscure of elven texts. But those stories were myths, fragments of a forgotten past.
And yet… here he was.
Stark, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke. "So… you're saying you've been asleep this whole time?"
Gilgamesh gave a slow nod. "A choice I made long ago. To step away from a world that had become… uninteresting."
Stark frowned. "And now?"
Gilgamesh's gaze lingered on them for a moment before he exhaled, almost like a sigh. "Now, it seems, I have awakened. And the world before me is unfamiliar."
Frieren studied him carefully. He was different from other elves she had met. He carried himself like a being who had seen everything, who had lived through countless cycles of history and had simply grown tired.
Yet there was something else.
Something deeper.
She turned toward the exit. "We're leaving."
Fern and Stark looked at her in surprise.
"But—" Fern started.
Frieren glanced over her shoulder at Gilgamesh. "Are you coming?"
The ancient king blinked at her, then let out a quiet chuckle.
"Interesting," he mused. "You are unlike most who have stood before me."
With an ease that belied his immense presence, Gilgamesh rose to his feet. He stretched slightly, as if shaking off the remnants of time itself, then stepped forward.
"Very well," he said. "Lead the way."
Fern exchanged glances with Stark, then sighed. "Just like that?"
Frieren nodded. "Just like that."
And so, the golden king took his first steps into a world that had long forgotten him.