Fate: I Just Want to Die and Sit on the Throne of Heroes-Chapter 59: Rowe Dies

Chapter 59: Rowe Dies
In the days that followed, Rowe did not leave his courtyard again.
Only Enkidu stayed with him.
Even so, no one in Uruk forgot the Sage’s existence. Every day, clay tablets went out from that quiet little courtyard. Servants carried them in steady streams to the royal palace where Gilgamesh lived and ruled. Those tablets became leensure patterns pressed into a living nation, and Uruk changed with each passing morning.
More and more people who could read, write, or possessed some rare craft were summoned to the palace. After being subjected to Gilgamesh’s inexplicable scolding, they left trembling and exhilarated, then took up newly defined posts.
Some remained by the King’s side.
Others were dispatched to towns and villages under Uruk’s control.
They were called officials.
Everyone knew this was the Sage’s invention.
Because of that growing body of officials, the vast land that had once rested on Gilgamesh’s shoulders alone began to transform rapidly. There were, inevitably, conflicts of interest along the way. Priests, old royal families of annexed city states, all those who had grown fat off the old order were not thrilled.
But this was still an era where strength could crush politics.
Gilgamesh alone was enough to suppress an entire nation. No one needed schemes when the King himself was the scheme.
So progress came smoothly. As the officials increased and a layered decision making structure formed, the sprawling and previously chaotic system stabilized with startling speed.
It was not a dramatic process.
It was simply the kind of change that looks mundane in the moment and becomes legend only afterward.
Then a single piece of news spread through Uruk and turned that calm momentum into a strange, heavy silence.
Sage Rowe was ill.
The King’s friend.
The King’s sharpest adjutant.
The Sage who bore the original texts of power and wisdom.
From that day onward, he had fallen sick.
And only then did people realize just how much the Sage, the one who stole the spark of wisdom from the heavens, had given to this world.
To bear the wisdom of gods within a human body was an unimaginable weight.
…
“What weight do gods have, a hammer?”
That was Rowe’s first reaction when rumors reached him from the outer city.
Then he coughed softly, and even the hand holding his stylus trembled.
The courtyard was full of lush trees. Sunlight poured through the leaves and painted the shade into shifting patterns like inverted mountains. Yet despite it being broad daylight, Rowe was wrapped in a quilt, his face drained to a pale, almost translucent color.
The rumors were not entirely wrong.
Rowe was ill.
But it was not because of any so called wisdom from heaven. What he did came from knowledge, not divinity, and the gods had already been dispelled. The real cause was far simpler and far more dangerous.
The curse of the gods was eroding him.
And the more his body worsened, the happier Rowe became.
Because it meant his own death was nearing.
To be killed by a curse after slaying the gods was the kind of end that deserved to be carved into history.
Of course, this weakening body did not truly affect his power. Whether it had been the Key of Heaven before, or the Sword of Rupture after its unsealing, neither of them depended on mere flesh.
“Rowe…”
Enkidu sat beside him, worry written openly on her face.
“Why do you not rest for a while?”
“No, no.” Rowe grinned, waving the idea away. “I know my own body. Hmm?”
He stopped mid sentence.
Because Enkidu did not listen.
Instead, she slid behind him on her own, then slowly wrapped her arms around him.
Her robe fell softly along his shoulders. Her gentle warmth pressed against his back. Her long legs curled close, entwining at his sides as she lowered herself enough to fit perfectly against him, trying to give him every bit of heat she could offer.
“This way… you will not be cold anymore, right?”
Rowe froze for a moment.
Enkidu had already become a young girl in both form and heart, and now her emerald eyes were serious in a way that made refusing feel impossible.
She was warm.
Not the warmth of fire, but the steady, deep warmth of the earth itself. Like heat rising from beneath the world, strong enough to soothe, soft enough not to burn. It carried with it the terrible temptation of sleep.
Rowe smiled and did not resist.
“Thank you, Enkidu.”
She held him there, quiet and patient.
Rowe’s eyes closed gently.
The hand gripping the tablet loosened.
Sleep claimed him without struggle.
“How nice… Rowe.”
A flicker of joy passed through Enkidu’s eyes. She lowered her head, lips glossy with moisture, and brushed his face with a tender, lingering touch. There was a strange excitement in her smile, her cheeks blooming red in a way she did not bother to hide.
Outside the gate, Gilgamesh finally stopped knocking.
“Go back for now.”
He nodded to Siduri beside him, face serious.
“Let that fellow rest more. Consider this King magnanimous.”
“Yes, King.”
Siduri followed behind him, puzzled.
The instant the news had reached the throne, the King had rushed here without pause. Yet after arriving, he did not enter at all.
As his adjutant, she swallowed her questions. She only lifted her eyes to the courtyard wall, stealing a look inside before lowering her gaze again.
Lord Rowe should be fine.
Otherwise, the King would not be standing here.
She did not know that Gilgamesh felt a chill in his gut. A sharp, irrational warning that if he stepped inside, something deeply unpleasant would happen.
So for once, the King trusted instinct over pride.
He turned and left.
…
In a haze that felt like sinking through water, Rowe opened his eyes.
“Rowe, did you come to find me on purpose?”
A voice brimming with excitement met him.
Before him was Ereshkigal.
Golden hair spilled down like molten light. Her vermilion lips were parted in genuine joy. She was squatting before him, legs crossed, crimson robe draped over the black fabric beneath. From Rowe’s angle, he could see the delicate lines of her legs where the cloth tightened, and the graceful curves rising above them.
The Mistress of the Underworld was as beautiful as ever.
Around them was cold silence. Vast space swallowed sound. Only faint blue flames flickered, betraying the borders of an immeasurable domain.
There was no doubt about where he was.
The Underworld of Mesopotamia.
Ereshkigal’s realm.
Rowe went blank all over again.
He had died.
He had died quietly in his sleep, without any dramatic collapse, without the curse striking like a visible blade. The curse had weakened him until his body simply let go ahead of schedule.
He was so speechless he almost laughed.
When he had wanted to die, he could not die no matter what he tried.
Now that he did not want to die yet, he dropped like a leaf.
“Rowe… is something wrong?”
Ereshkigal reached out and tapped his cheek with a finger, tilting her head. Her crimson eyes were full of confusion.
“Why are you not speaking?”
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