Imp to Demon King: A Journey of Conquest -
Chapter 471: The First Heartbreak 4
Chapter 471: The First Heartbreak 4
The moment of recognition died like starlight swallowed by storm clouds, and with its passing, Enkidu’s features twisted into something that barely resembled the friend Gilgamesh had loved beyond life itself. Marduk’s corruption flowed through him like molten gold, and when he moved, it was with the savage unpredictability of the wilderness unleashed—no longer the noble wild man who had learned civilisation through friendship, but something feral and divine and utterly merciless.
"Then die, fool king," Enkidu snarled, launching himself forward with the explosive force of an avalanche. His fists, now wreathed in divine power that crackled like lightning, moved in patterns that had no regard for honor or restraint—this was the fighting style of apex predators, of creatures that killed not for sport but for survival, brutal and efficient and absolutely without mercy.
The first blow caught Gilgamesh across the jaw with the force of a meteor strike. The king of Uruk staggered, blood streaming from his mouth in a crimson arc that painted the volcanic glass beneath their feet. The taste of copper and divine fury filled his mouth, but even as his vision blurred, he brought his golden axe up in a desperate parry.
The second blow hammered into his ribs before he could fully recover. Enkidu’s knuckles, enhanced by Marduk’s power, struck like the horns of the Bull of Heaven—but where that legendary beast had been clumsy in its divine rage, Enkidu moved with the fluid precision of a wolf pack leader, each strike calculated to cause maximum damage while setting up the next attack.
Gilgamesh felt ribs crack under the impact, the sound like shattering pottery in the silence between his heartbeats. Pain exploded through his chest as he stumbled backwards, his free hand instinctively moving to his side where fire bloomed beneath his skin. Blood seeped between his fingers, warm and red and achingly mortal against the cosmic forces swirling around them.
"You always were too slow," Enkidu taunted, his voice distorted by divine corruption until it was barely recognisable. "Too civilised. Too soft from sitting on your golden throne while real warriors fought and died." He pressed his advantage, his movements flowing from high to low, left to right, never attacking from the same angle twice.
A brutal uppercut caught Gilgamesh beneath the chin, snapping his head back with vertebrae-threatening force. Stars exploded across his vision as he tasted fresh blood, his tongue finding the ragged edge where his teeth had cut into his cheek. The blow lifted him off his feet for a heartbeat that lasted eternity, and when he crashed back down, volcanic glass shattered beneath his weight.
"Fight back!" Enkidu roared, grabbing Gilgamesh by the throat and lifting him until his feet dangled above the ground. Divine fingers pressed against windpipe with the pressure of stone, cutting off air with casual brutality. "Show me the king who slew Humbaba! Where is the hero who bound the Bull of Heaven? Or are you nothing but a weeping child playing with his father’s weapons?"
Gilgamesh’s axe swept up in a desperate arc, not aimed to kill but to break the chokehold. The golden blade caught Enkidu across the forearm, parting divine-enhanced skin just enough to make him release his grip. But even as Gilgamesh gasped for air, fighting to fill his burning lungs, Enkidu’s other hand swept across his face with claws extended—five parallel furrows opened from temple to jaw, blood flowing freely down the left side of his face until it dripped from his beard like crimson rain.
"There," Enkidu said with satisfaction, examining the blood on his fingertips as if it were wine. "Now you look like you’ve been in a real fight. How does it feel, brother, to bleed like the mortals you rule?"
The word ’brother’ hit harder than any physical blow. Gilgamesh touched his torn face, feeling the warm wetness of his own mortality, and for a moment his resolve wavered like a candle flame in hurricane winds. This was his dearest friend—the other half of his soul—and every strike was delivered with intimate knowledge of exactly where it would hurt most. Enkidu knew his fighting style, knew his weaknesses, knew precisely how to turn his own emotions against him.
Another savage combination sent Gilgamesh reeling backwards. A left hook to his already damaged ribs made him double over with a cry of pain that was torn from his throat despite every effort to remain silent. Before he could straighten, an elbow strike caught him between the shoulder blades, driving him to his knees on the razor-sharp volcanic glass. The impact sent new fire through his damaged ribs, each breath now a conscious effort that reminded him of his limitations.
Enkidu’s knee came up toward his face like a battering ram, and Gilgamesh barely managed to get his axe shaft across to block it. The impact sent shock waves up his arms, but it was the follow-up that truly devastated him—Enkidu’s hands locked together and hammered down between his shoulder blades like a stone maul, driving him fully against the unforgiving ground.
Glass bit into his palms as he tried to push himself up. Blood from his facial wounds dripped steadily onto the black stone, each drop a small defeat that fed Marduk’s corruption. His body screamed protests from a dozen different injuries—the cracked ribs that sent lightning through his chest with every breath, the torn throat that made swallowing agony, the parallel cuts that burned like brands across his face.
"Look at you," Enkidu laughed, and the sound was like breaking glass, like dying dreams, like every friendship that had ever ended in betrayal. "The great Gilgamesh, first among heroes, reduced to bleeding on his belly like a common criminal. Is this the king who thought he could challenge the gods? Is this the friend who promised he would never let me down?"
Each word was a precision strike aimed at the heart rather than the body. Enkidu placed his foot on Gilgamesh’s back, pressing down until the king’s chest was ground against the volcanic glass, until breathing became a choice between pain and suffocation.
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