Chapter 474: Hand Me Your Throne 1
The binding of Enkidu had cost more than Gilgamesh’s blood—it had cost precious time and momentum. Even as the wild man knelt cradled in earth and light, his divine corruption flickering like dying embers, the contractor armies pressed their advantage with the ruthless efficiency of predators sensing wounded prey.
StarGazer’s remaining Taoist immortals had regrouped, their celestial techniques painting aurora across the hellish sky as they advanced in perfect formation. Pharaoh’s bronze-armored warriors moved like clockwork soldiers, their enchanted weapons gleaming with the authority of ages. LonelyWolf’s Babylonian cavalry thundered across the volcanic plain, their mounts’ hooves striking sparks from obsidian stone.
Gilgamesh struggled to his feet, every movement sending fresh fire through his cracked ribs. Blood still seeped from the parallel furrows across his face, and his damaged throat made each breath a conscious effort. But his golden axe remained steady in his grip, even as his body screamed its protests.
"Gilgamesh," Zane called out, his dark wings beating as he landed nearby, his twin blades dripping with the essence of fallen immortals. "We need to fall back. The binding worked, but we’re outnumbered three to one, and you can barely stand."
Gawain’s solar radiance had begun to wane as clouds of ash and divine power obscured the hellish sun. His strikes against the Egyptian forces were still devastating, but the light of Galatine flickered with exhaustion. "He’s right," the knight panted, parrying a bronze khopesh with effort that would have been effortless minutes before. "We’ve accomplished what we came for—Enkidu is free of Marduk’s direct control. We live to fight another day."
Morwen’s bone-lyre sang a covering melody, her music turning the advancing armies’ coordination into confusion, but even her ancient power had limits. The Furies themselves, primordial though they were, found their fury wearing thin against the endless waves of divinely-enhanced mortals.
"Retreat," Gilgamesh commanded, his voice rough with damage but carrying absolute authority. "We withdraw to Atlantis. The binding will hold—my brother is safe for now."
The champions of Adam began their fighting withdrawal, each step purchased with blood and determination. They moved like a wounded but unbroken beast, still dangerous despite their injuries, covering each other as they fell back toward the portal that would return them to Atlantis.
Behind them, the contractor armies howled their victory to the hellish sky, but it was a hollow triumph. They had won the field, but their target had been saved—and every soul touched by Morwen’s music, freed by the Furies’ justice, or shown choice by Zane’s rebellion would remember what liberation felt like.
The greatest battles, after all, were not always won on the field of combat.