Fate/My Villain Simulations

On Mount Mashu, the gods convened for a crucial meeting.

"Is it truly acceptable to assign a divine position to a mere half-blooded mortal?" A god's voice, filled with indignation, broke the silence. "We cannot continue to give in to Ishtar's demands. To elevate someone with such a mixed lineage to divine status—what does that say about our dignity?"

Burning with anger, the first god scoffed, "A mortal ascending to godhood? It's nothing short of a farce."

"But what are our options?" A voice, cold and detached, interrupted the furious god. "Can any of you truly oppose Ishtar? The only opinion that matters here is hers. Whether or not we recognize this mortal as a god is irrelevant—what matters is whether Ishtar approves. And I ask you: who among us dares to stand in her way?"

There were indeed gods capable of opposing Ishtar. One god alone might not stand a chance against her at the height of her power, but a small coalition of two, three, or even four gods could undoubtedly pose a threat.

But who would be brave—or foolish—enough to take that risk?

Would it be the Sun God or the Moon God? Both wielded immense celestial powers, nearly matching Ishtar's own. But those two were her brothers.

Even if there were grounds for discontent, they were family. How could they bring themselves to oppose their sister without justification, especially knowing that they might not even be able to defeat her? Such an act would be not only humiliating but also dangerous.

The weaker gods, the majority of the assembly, knew full well they stood no chance against Ishtar's divine might. The thought of challenging her was as naive as it was reckless.

None of the gods moved to defy Ishtar's will. The cold voice had spoken the truth.

The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of the situation settling over the gathering.

"Besides," the voice continued, breaking the stillness, "there are clear benefits to this decision. For one, it serves to appease Ishtar. If anyone can calm her fury, we should be thankful to them."

Though reluctant to admit it, the gods nodded in quiet agreement.

"Furthermore, this new god shows more courage than any we have seen in recent times. Not only does he stand against Gilgamesh, but he is also committed to upholding Ishtar's faith. Compared to Gilgamesh, who mocks us and shows no respect, this new figure aligns much more closely with the divine ideals we need. Gilgamesh himself could be considered a demigod, so why not accept someone who already worships a god and has ascended to that status?" the voice continued with calculated precision.

"But we already have the Heavenly Anvil in place," a god interjected, clearly concerned. "It's Gilgamesh—he's the one we've been preparing for all this time. Surely you're not suggesting we throw all of that away?"

After all, the entire scheme to place Gilgamesh on the throne, alongside countless other plans, had been carefully crafted to ensure that he could conquer the mortal world as a god.

Even now, recalling those plans, the gods couldn't help but feel a cold shiver run down their spines.

"So this... this demigod named Susa has disrupted our carefully laid plans?" Another god questioned, a hint of irritation in his tone.

"So what?" The cold voice remained calm and unaffected. "In fact, this works in our favor. It makes Ishtar more malleable. That impulsive goddess would do anything for the boy. Furthermore, I believe Gilgamesh now requires a worthy challenger. Someone to question his authority, to challenge him on equal footing. This boy... Susa, he may be the perfect candidate."

The voice continued with sharp logic. "There is no one more valuable to us than this boy. He is trusted by Ishtar; he can stand against Gilgamesh, and—most crucially—he can serve as a tool for us gods."

"But for now, he remains far too weak." A god countered, "Despite his efforts and the divine power bestowed upon him by Ishtar, Susa is still, fundamentally, a mortal. His body remains frail, and compared to the likes of Gilgamesh, he's far behind in every regard."

Despite his perseverance, the truth could not be ignored. Susa was no god—he was simply a mortal with divine gifts, trying to keep pace with those far beyond his reach.

If one looked past his remarkable appearance, little else was extraordinary about him.

Even with the infusion of divine power from the main god, Susa remained little more than a mere fusion of mortal flesh and a fraction of divine energy.

In stark contrast, Gilgamesh's lineage was nothing short of legendary. His mother, the Lady of the Wild Bull, was a renowned main god—a figure of immense power who not only gave birth to Gilgamesh but was also said to have been the creator of soap itself.

In other words, one could argue that Gilgamesh was a mixture of divine blood and... soap.

On top of that, Gilgamesh's paternal heritage had long been the most illustrious among mortals. His father had even ascended to godhood after death, further elevating the prestige of his bloodline.

Thus, Gilgamesh's ancestry could be likened to that of a demigod, bolstered by divine blood coursing through his veins.

When it came to divine genealogy, Susa was undeniably at the very bottom of the heavenly hierarchy.

At least, that was how the gods viewed him.

But in the end, weakness was not necessarily a disadvantage. "If he fails this time, we can always give him more power. We could forge a contract with him, turning him into a tool to challenge Gilgamesh," one god reasoned.

"If Gilgamesh represents the Heavenly Anvil, then that thing, Susa..."

The voice trailed off as another god finished the thought. "Let's call him the Heavenly Hammer."

"The Heavenly Hammer," the first god echoed, the name settling in like a final decree. "To strike the disobedient Heavenly Anvil. To secure the unstable Heavenly Lock. To crush anyone who dares to disrespect the gods. In my eyes, no one in this age is better suited for that role than him."

[Ⅲ. Hammer Incarnation: You have a natural affinity for hammers, or perhaps you are simply the spirit of the hammer itself. You can wield any hammer-shaped weapon with ease, unlocking its ultimate potential.]

---

In the Palace

Gilgamesh had already sensed the approach from afar.

Though Susa's power was not as great as that of many other gods, he was still a divine presence. For Gilgamesh, as the ruler of the mortal realm, the approach of any god could not go unnoticed. It was only a matter of time before he recognized that someone was approaching the city-state.

However, Gilgamesh remained unruffled. He remained seated in the palace, watching the dancers' graceful movements and listening to the musicians' praises, his demeanor as composed as ever.

It wasn't until Susa stopped outside the city gates that Gilgamesh finally rose from his seat, the sound of his movement almost imperceptible against the backdrop of the festivities.

"Gilgamesh!!"

Susa's voice rang out, precise and piercing, reaching the palace and resonating through the city. It was loud enough for everyone to hear, drawing the attention of all within earshot.

The gods, the servants, and even the dancers and musicians all turned their ears to listen.

Gilgamesh, too, could not ignore it.

"I declare that your days of indulging in pleasure and exploiting the people have come to an end!"

The sun in the west was beginning to dip below the horizon, whereas Susa's words held an air of finality, like a harbinger of doom. It felt like the world itself was shifting on its axis, the end of an era for those who had taken too much, for those who had sinned.

But only Susa understood the actual weight of his own declaration.

From the gods to the people of the city, Gilgamesh heard the challenge—a mocking tone laced with defiance. His expression hardened as he stood, the sound of his boots echoing through the hall. He strode deliberately out of the palace, his presence like the calm before a storm.

He stepped onto the statues adorning the palace's rooftop, towering over the city below. With his arms crossed over his chest, his voice rang out.

"Who do you think you are? Which mongrel dares to challenge me like this? Ah, it's this pitiful little insect. Weren't you taken by that foolish woman, Ishtar, not long ago? Now, you look more like a mere half-breed than ever."

Gilgamesh was still Gilgamesh—unbowed, unbroken, and as arrogant as ever.

When dealing with those he deemed unworthy of his attention, Gilgamesh's words could be as filthy and scornful as anyone could imagine.

But Susa didn't care in the slightest.

"Your words are meaningless."

Susa's expression was as cold as ice, carrying the hardened demeanor of a villain who had long since abandoned compassion. He had come here with a purpose—and he would not be swayed by the taunts of a man like Gilgamesh.

Before arriving, Susa had even prepared a black robe for the occasion. It suited him well, representing his evil demeanor.

However, among all this, he was completely unaware of the gods' meeting on Mount Mashu, aside from Ishtar's presence. Had he known about it, the combination of his Heavenly Hammer persona and the black robe might have been a bit too symbolic—perhaps even overly theatrical.

"Now that I'm here, everything must be accounted for," Susa declared with a smirk.

"You've always oppressed the people of this city-state. The streets have been littered with the bodies of those who starved to death, those who worked themselves to death in your construction projects, those who succumbed to the unforgiving heat, and those who perished from the cold, having lost everything and everyone they loved."

He stepped forward, his eyes unwavering. "Yet you have shown no mercy for them. Instead, you have relentlessly exploited and oppressed them. So, I've come to an end to all of that.

And as for your treatment of Ishtar—your humiliation of her, your disregard for her—how can I regard you as anything other than the scrum you are? You are the enemy of the goddess and a tyrant in the eyes of the people. For that, you will be punished like never before."

Susa's words were harsh, filled with the cold resolve of someone prepared to bring change by force.

"I will ensure that you can no longer live a life built on cruelty."

At that moment, Susa knew exactly how history would paint him. He was ready to play the villain in the grand myths. He would be compared to the Heavenly Bull— a force of destruction in the saga of Gilgamesh and Enkidu. The Bull's arrival severed their bond, leading to Enkidu's death and breaking readers' hearts everywhere with the sorrow of that doomed friendship.

Susa, too, was determined to ruin Gilgamesh's life.

It felt like the stories of old—where the protagonist, living peacefully with a beloved childhood friend, suddenly had their world shattered by the brutal intrusion of a goblin or a monster. That moment of quiet happiness was destroyed in an instant, the protagonist helpless as their friend was taken away, their life drained in an agonizing instant.

Or like the protagonist, surrounded by a loving family, suddenly torn from their peace by the cruel hands of a school bully—tied to a chair and forced to watch as their loved ones were killed, one by one.

Yes.

What Susa was doing now was exactly like that. He was intruding on Gilgamesh's carefully crafted life, ready to shatter it all for the sake of the people.

Susa was fully aware of the weight of his actions. His gaze grew more defiant, more unwavering, as he locked eyes with Gilgamesh, whose smirk only seemed to deepen.

Gilgamesh sneered, utterly unconcerned by Susa's words. "You talk a great deal, but it all comes down to this: it's all for your precious goddess. These accusations you throw at me are nothing more than your own personal grievances. Haven't you done the same things?"

He took a step forward, his tone mocking and calm. "You're just looking for an excuse to act. If you truly believe I've done something wrong, then tell me—if you defeat me, what will you do?"

Gilgamesh's challenge struck a chord with the gods present. His words were laced with the confidence of a ruler unshaken by the weight of criticism.

Exploitation and oppression.

As the son of a god, Gilgamesh had absorbed much from the divine beings around him. The pride, the sense of superiority over humanity—this was a trait shared by almost every god of his stature.

Ishtar, too, held this arrogance, but with her newfound allegiance to Susa, she could no longer flaunt it as freely. If things had been different, if she had not been bound to Susa, surely her demeanor would have been less restrained.

Susa paused for a moment, considering his words.

He had originally planned to claim that his actions were for the equality of all people. But after some thought, he realized that such a statement would sound too idealistic—too noble. It wouldn't fit the image of a villain. It was more the sort of thing a sage would say.

Yeah, villains had to be more ruthless.

"Of course, I'm doing this for the slaves. What's wrong with that?"

He let out a wicked laugh. It was a sound that didn't belong to his appearance, something unnerving, foreign, and sinister. The people below him froze, their fear evident. Was this the true nature of Susa, the priest? Or was this simply how all gods were—distant, cold, cruel?

The people, their minds numbed by fear, had little time to contemplate further. In an instant, their hopes for Susa shifted—now, they found themselves supporting Gilgamesh.

When faced with the unfamiliar, people naturally gravitated toward what they knew. The people had been Gilgamesh's slaves for so long that they had grown accustomed to him as their master.

Susa, for all his power and divine backing, did not yet command their loyalty. He believed his laughter had struck the right note—a villainous tone that would terrify and shock the masses.

If this was not villainous, then what would it be? Villains, after all, laughed in such a way.

With that thought, Susa continued,

"For my goddess, I will usher in the most brutal rule. One, I will turn all these so-called humans into our slaves, our dogs. Two, they'll work eight hours a day, with only three meals a day and a glass of milk only in the morning, and three, they'll have just one hour for lunch."

The crowd below held its collective breath.

Za f*ck? Work for eight hours a day—was this even real?

Most of the people in the city, if they weren't craftsmen, were farmers. They worked tirelessly to build Gilgamesh's grand palace and tended to their own duties—whether hunting, farming, or any other form of labor.

The concept of an eight-hour workday was almost foreign. If it existed at all, it was a rarity, something only the most privileged might ever experience.

Gilgamesh's eyes widened in disbelief as he stared at Susa, stunned by his words.

As for the boy, Susa, unflinching, continued his grim proposal, "Four, wages will only increase every four months. Five, extra labor can only earn three times the usual wage. Six, after work, everyone must exercise for an hour, and seven, there will be only one day of rest each week for worshipping the goddess."

The crowd shuddered at the implications. This was terrifying!

It was a vision of a future that seemed even more oppressive than their current existence. Eight hours of work a day, with just one hour for lunch and only one milk break in the morning? The requirement to exercise after work?

Such a system would break the very spirit of the people.

The tools for early construction were often forged through forced labor, even in prisons. The thought of enduring such a regime—where every moment of life was controlled and dictated by the whims of the gods—was nothing short of horrifying.

But it was the final decree that truly struck fear into their hearts: Only one day of rest each week for the worship of the goddess.

For many of the devout followers, this was an unthinkable demand. Such a rule would undoubtedly spark holy wars in the years to come. This was a time when gods truly existed and when their will could shape reality itself.

The very idea of being forced to work after hours was an affront to the laborers—the working class, who already gave all they had to their masters.

At the same time, denying rest to worship the goddess would alienate the nobles, who held their own sacred traditions.

It was a recipe for discord, a power struggle that would eventually consume the city-state. Offending so many people would inevitably breed widespread opposition and disdain.

A villain.

Susa now fully saw himself as the villain!

Though there was still an unsettling feeling gnawing at him, his instincts told him that this, this harsh decree, was the cruelest rule he could impose. It seemed as though some strange forces had subtly influenced his actions during his simulations, pushing him toward this path.

But it didn't matter anymore.

Now that the words had left his lips, he had to observe the reactions around him.

He was confident that, deep within their hearts, the people were already beginning to fear his proclamation.

They would come to see him as the dark king—the looming tyrant—while Gilgamesh remained the true ruler of the land. as time passed, the stories of future generations would only paint him darker, more monstrous.

Eventually, his name would be whispered in fear across the lands, and he would inherit the vast, boundless spiritual power akin to a star system the size of the Fairy Star.

What would the goddess of Venus or the moon goddess amount to then? Before such a vast cosmic presence, they would be nothing but insignificant blips—mere droplets in an endless ocean.

The gods of this land, these so-called deities, were nothing but petty beings compared to what lay beyond.

In time, whatever he desired would be his to claim. The power to do as he pleased, unhindered by the confines of mortal life, would be his. No longer would he be bound by the limitations he had known.

Susa's mind spun with thoughts of grandeur and domination until he suddenly snapped his eyes open in a sudden rush: He could see him holding Holy Grail like a cup of wine and tossing dog biscuits at Gilgamesh.

Just as Susa was falling deeper into his role as the villain, Gilgamesh stood motionless, utterly baffeled and confused.

He regarded Susa with a sharp, calculating gaze before lowering his eyes to the streets of his city-state.

What had once been a bustling thoroughfare was now eerily empty. The crowds had dispersed, and many people were retreating into their homes, uncertain of what to do.

A few people could be seen taking their laundry from the clotheslines here and there as though preparing to leave Uruk.

This all brought a wave of frustration that swept through Gilgamesh.

"You damn mongrel!"

A loud thud rang out as Gilgamesh clenched his fist, the fury rising in him like an unstoppable tide.

"Are you mocking me?"

Susa tilted his head slightly, his expression innocent. "Mocking you? When did I mock you?"

Gilgamesh, his anger bubbling over, snapped, "Just now! You were mocking me!"

The golden mane atop his head flared with the intensity of his rage. He was furious—not just at the implications of Susa's words, but at how Susa so calmly brushed it off.

Gilgamesh had endured mockery, insults, and slights for so long, and now, Susa, with his cold demeanor, was pretending that none of it had ever happened?! The audacity!

Who in their right mind would call it enslavement to give someone three meals a day and expect them to work eight hours?

For this era, wasn't that simply the way of life? It might be harsh, but it was also a reality.

It might be enslavement for the priests, the nobility—the elite—but for ordinary folk, was such an arrangement truly an oppression?

Susa's words, framing it as enslavement while ignoring the blatant provocation in his tone, only served to stoke Gilgamesh's anger.

Wasn't this deliberate mockery?

And as the son of a god, Gilgamesh couldn't, in good faith, believe that any gods would stoop so low as to enforce such a rule.

It was a mockery, a joke. A cruel joke intended for fools.

However, Gilgamesh couldn't ignore that the people below—those very same fools—seemed to be starting to believe it.

Their faith, once so loyal to Gilgamesh, had begun to waver. How foolish they were to place their trust in these arrogant, pompous gods. If the gods were truly as powerful as they claimed, then why had they never enacted such a change before? Why had they never put in place a rule to truly benefit the people?

This promise Susa spoke of—this hollow, grandiose declaration of divine rule—was nothing but a blatant lie. A farce, a scheme to manipulate the people into believing in his power.

Gilgamesh could hardly believe it. He could only see Susa's words as mockery—nothing more. After all, unlike the past, this version of Susa was far more direct and brazen, now a servant of Ishtar. A god would never utter such words. What kind of mentality did it take to speak with such boldness?

These words weren't the words of a god.

Gilgamesh's eyes burned with fury as he glared at Susa. His anger was palpable.

"You can deny it all you want, but it won't change the truth. A mongrel remains a mongrel, all words and no substance. But it doesn't matter. I'll beat the truth out of you, one lie at a time."

With a swift motion, Gilgamesh summoned his longsword. Though the Gate of Babylon, his personal vault of treasures, was not available to him at this moment, he could still summon his weapons from the void. Many gods could. It was nothing more than a simple manipulation of magic, a skill learned over centuries of rule.

With the blade now pointed at Susa, Gilgamesh's words cut sharper than his sword. "Didn't you want to kill me earlier? Fine, I'll give you a chance. Just the two of us, no interference. Let's see who truly comes out victorious."

Susa nodded, but a small, happy smile almost flew away.

In truth, he wanted Gilgamesh to win. He did not fear death—in fact, he embraced the idea. If Gilgamesh killed him, his name would be remembered in the annals of mythology. History would twist his story into that of the villain, the tragic antihero who fought for something larger than himself. His fall would immortalize him.

But, of course, he couldn't show it, not on the surface. He had to act as though he was genuinely preparing for battle, even if he hoped for defeat.

What if someone saw through his ruse? If Gilgamesh sensed he was throwing the fight, there would be no hesitation in ending him right then and there. Even history might not be kind enough to cleanse his reputation.

Instead, Susa pondered a version of his story in which his honor remained intact. Perhaps, in time, the narrative would shift. He would be remembered as a charming young man tragically imprisoned by Ishtar, humiliated and subjected to endless torment, and eventually forced to throw the fight for the sake of her honor. Gilgamesh would be the one to strike him down, the King of Heroes, ending his life with dignity.

This tragic persona would be remembered as one who fought not just for himself but for the people, rebelling against an unjust king. Even as a god, he would never forget his true identity—as a son of man.

In that final moment, when Gilgamesh struck him down, Susa died as a man, acknowledging the King of Heroes as his superior. The tragedy of this made him an eternal figure, a martyr for those who followed.

Gilgamesh, too, might even marvel at the grandeur of such a life. Had their paths crossed under different circumstances, perhaps they could have been allies—friends, even. But that was the setting of Susa's story.

For now, Susa refused to let things play out that way. He would fight, not to lose, but to put on a grand performance. He would ensure that everyone—Gilgamesh, the gods, and the people—saw this as a true battle to the death. There would be no question that he fought with honor, even as the tragedy unfolded.

"Let's take this somewhere else," Susa suggested, "Somewhere more remote, where no one will be watching."

Gilgamesh was shocked when he heard Susa's words. If it were a heartless god, could he say such words?