Creator of Infinite Realms

Back inside his house, Xu Zhi went straight to the kitchen and lit the stove, preparing water for a calming pot of tea. Outside, in his modest orchard, the seeds of civilization had finally taken root.

He held particularly high hopes for these hairy, primitive creatures—so robustly built, somewhat resembling Westerners in physique—that he'd even entrusted their leader with the name "Gilgamesh," after the legendary Western king. Moreover, he had also granted Gilgamesh the second treasure he'd failed to integrate during earlier tests—the potent white ant essence. Clearly, Xu Zhi's expectations for this fledgling civilization were anything but trivial.

Their ultimate rise or fall now hinged entirely on Gilgamesh himself.

With this task concluded, Xu Zhi settled into a comfortably lazy routine. He stretched out leisurely in a chair at his doorway, gazing idly across his wide orchard. "I've cleared nearly a hundred acres for my sandbox, but there's still over a dozen untouched acres left," he mused. "Perhaps it's time to clean them up as well."

Why not? Even without an immediate purpose, reclaiming the land could be good exercise.

Boom, boom, boom!

Before long, an energetic knocking pulled him from his thoughts. Shirtless, covered in sweat from swinging his hoe, Xu Zhi laid down the tool and walked over. Opening the door revealed Chen Xi holding a big basket of food. Peering into the yard with keen curiosity, she seemed surprised. "Whoa, Xu Zhi! You're actually farming?"

Xu Zhi casually wiped his forehead with a towel and smiled lightly. "Just getting a bit of exercise, keeping myself busy. It's nothing special." Of course, Chen Xi saw nothing peculiar—the hive's invisible psychic barrier ensured the miniature world in the orchard remained hidden. To her, Xu Zhi was merely tilling ordinary soil.

Chen Xi marveled openly, shaking her head in astonishment. "Unbelievable! An elite graduate who worked at a multinational, who used to earn a six-figure salary, is now happily farming back home after being diagnosed with terminal cancer."

She scratched her head, eyes unconsciously drifting down to Xu Zhi's toned, muscular frame glistening in sweat. Blushing faintly, she quickly handed him the food basket. "Here, I brought you lunch! Hey, you sure you don't need help? My mom often asks me to help plant seedlings. You've inherited over a hundred acres of orchard—how can you manage that alone?"

"I'll be fine," Xu Zhi chuckled, shaking his head gently. "It's really not that hard—just tidying up a bit and planting some intriguing seeds. Who knows, maybe they'll yield something fascinating."

Chen Xi nodded thoughtfully, exhaling as if reassured. "Well, just tell me whenever you want some homemade cooking! Mom and I will gladly help!"

She turned to leave but stopped to cast one last glance over her shoulder—suddenly delivering a strike to his pride: "Honestly, it's weird. You looked so feeble before, pale and balding, yet now you're suddenly glowing and healthy again. Maybe it's your last burst of energy before...you know, before you pass away? Don't worry, I'll look after you!"

Xu Zhi's eyebrow twitched.

So just because my hair regrew, I'm now close to death?

"Good grief," Xu Zhi grumbled softly. "She treats every meal as if it's my last supper. This girl is something else—I only have mid-stage cancer…"

Shaking his head with a wry smile, Xu Zhi opened the basket. Inside was a simple, homemade meal: scrambled eggs, lightly sautéed carrots, and stir-fried greens mixed with tender strips of meat. Nothing fancy, yet the comforting fragrance wafted up invitingly.

A familiar taste, filled with hometown warmth.

Delicious. Absolutely delicious.

"This girl really does cook well. Maybe in her eyes, I'm nothing more than a hopeless patient to be pitied—someone she must nourish in his final days," Xu Zhi mused with amused resignation, sprawling contentedly in the yard, savoring the warm sun and a full stomach.

Later, he returned to his chores around the orchard. By evening, dirt and sweat coated him thoroughly, and after a refreshing rinse, he washed his clothes in a basin, wringing them dry before hanging them on the clothesline. "Perhaps it's finally time to buy a washing machine," he muttered, glancing thoughtfully at his damp clothes.

The next day, Chen Xi arrived again—clearly enjoying the routine of delivering meals. Though she insisted on treating him like a dying patient, Xu Zhi had no intention of turning away good food. Living as a humble farmer, with an enthusiastic neighbor offering tasty meals out of sheer compassion, felt oddly comforting.

A simple life—plowing fields, planting seeds, living quietly beneath drifting clouds—it was peaceful, pastoral, almost poetic.

Yet while his days flowed slowly, like leisurely strolls through fields, time raced forward inside his sandbox. A single day in his world equaled a full century for the insect apes. With lifespans averaging forty or fifty years, they'd already passed through two generations in the blink of his eye.

Xu Zhi wondered idly: What had become of Gilgamesh, the proud inheritor of the flame of civilization? Was the young hero already gone, fallen victim to old age?

Surprisingly, Gilgamesh yet lived, defying Xu Zhi's expectations. Through careful observation, Xu Zhi meticulously recorded their history:

In the first decade after Xu Zhi's departure, Gilgamesh led his struggling tribe to safety. Fire became their first true miracle—cooking food, fending off nocturnal beasts, and bringing warmth. It marked the dawn of their primitive civilization. Armed with the indomitable Sword of Damocles, Gilgamesh bravely slew countless vicious beasts known as Dora, ensuring survival and emboldening his tribe.

By the second decade, Gilgamesh—now in his thirties—had grown into a powerful, imposing figure revered as the Hero King. He tamed the earth through fire, introduced primitive agriculture, and even devised a simple cuneiform script. Proud and dictatorial, Gilgamesh gathered 131 beautiful wives, fathering many children whose strength and intelligence matched his own.

But among the insect apes, a lifespan of forty years rendered Gilgamesh already aged in his thirties. The once-mighty hero felt mortality weighing upon him.

Inside a large wooden dwelling warmed by a fire's gentle crackling, Gilgamesh sat quietly, gazing into flickering flames. He murmured softly, "This fire...bestowed by that great celestial giant… Such beauty, like fluttering petals."

Around him stood the grim trophies of a lifetime—mounted skulls of slain beasts, fierce creatures whose bones bore witness to his heroic conquests.

He had lived proudly, grandly, fulfilling every youthful dream. He had even passed leadership peacefully to his son, Aga of Kish—a noble, wise ruler destined to safeguard their budding civilization.

Yet at this moment, death's shadow loomed close. Gilgamesh held the vessel filled with the final treasure given by the giant—the Blood of Power. "Only the bravest may drink and survive, to be reborn stronger than before…" he whispered gravely. "Am I truly the bravest?"

Memories surged; tears brimmed. With trembling resolve, he cut into his flesh and let the blood seep in.

Agony erupted within him—a searing, unimaginable pain far surpassing any battle wound. Writhing in torment, he endured, and when it finally subsided, he rose transformed. His dark fur fell away, replaced by smooth, luminous skin, white as snow. Hairless now, his appearance resembled an exquisite statue carved from alabaster—a being divine and perfect.

"This strength…" Gilgamesh breathed in wonder. With a casual gesture, he shattered the sturdy armrest of his throne.

Outside, his son Aga proudly held aloft the Sword of Damocles, accepting the tribe's acclaim as their new leader. Beloved and benevolent, Aga was everything Gilgamesh's younger self was not. Aware of his shortcomings, Gilgamesh had willingly handed over the reins—but now, everything had changed.

Emerging from the shadows, Gilgamesh declared coldly, "I have returned. The throne belongs to me alone."

On that tragic day, the Sumerian tribe witnessed the unspeakable horror: the Hero King slew his own son, reclaiming power in blood and beginning his second life.

Xu Zhi closed his notebook, gazing silently toward the distant orchard. In his small courtyard beneath tranquil skies, he felt a subtle, inexplicable sorrow—the knowledge that even heroes, in their quest for greatness, could falter so cruelly.

"Gilgamesh…" he murmured quietly, his voice tinged with regret. "Is this the civilization you truly wished to build?"