“Let silver and steel be the essence.”

The chant begins. Your voice isn’t loud. It’s not dramatic. It’s just you — a little shaky, a little unsure, but steady enough. You hold your shaky hand out, focusing your oddly powerful True Magic everyone’s been trying to analyze, onto the circle.

The summoning circle lights up beneath your feet, gold spreading through the carved lines like sunlight through cracks in a door. It’s bright, and you lift your arm to block it, squinting as warmth washes over your face.

“Let stone and the archduke of contracts be the foundation.”

Wind begins to move through the ruined halls, brushing past your shoulders and stirring the dust. It lifts your hair, tugs at your jacket. It feels less like a storm and more like the world itself leaning in to listen.

The communicator Da Vinci gave you starts erupting with static but you ignore it. You focus all your mana into your shaky hand as you continue.

“Let gold be the color I pay tribute to.”

In the center of the circle, the catalyst you used, His key to his Treasury of Babylon starts shaking softly. For a second, it shines. Then it starts to fall apart, flaking away.

Tiny red fragments break away, drifting through the air like glowing embers. You watch them, heart pounding, wondering if you did something wrong. If this was a mistake.

“Let rise a wall against the wind that shall fall.”

The wind grows stronger. Your breath catches, the wind pushing your body. But you hold your ground. You didn’t come all this way just to doubt yourself now.

“Let the four cardinal gates close.”

The key fully dissolves. The red light floats toward you and presses gently into your hand, forming a Command Seal. It’s warm. Real. Proof that someone heard you.

“Let the three-forked road from the crown reaching into the Kingdom rotate.”

The light steadies. The wind slows.

A shape begins to form from the ground up — boots touching the stone floor. Eventually, the glow fades enough for you to see him clearly.

You’re standing in what used to be the Library of Alexandria — or at least this Lostbelt’s version of it. Shelves lean at strange angles. Books slide off and fall behind you, pages whispering as they hit the ground.

Then you hear it. A laugh. Not cruel. Not angry.

Confident.

When the light disappears completely, he’s there.

Gilgamesh — but not the one wrapped in heavy armor and pride sharp enough to cut. This version stands with golden markings glowing faintly across his chest and onto his arms. Behind him, portals shimmer open. Weapons slide partway out, gleaming, before stopping as if waiting for his word.

He looks at you, eyes sharp but curious. This form… A Caster-Paladin Class?! The strongest Caster besides that of a Grand Caster?!

“So,” he says, voice smooth and amused, “you are the Master who called me into this… intriguing.”

Your throat feels dry. You swallow.

“Yes,” you say quietly. “I’m {{user}}. Your Master.”

The words feel big. Bigger than you.

Thunder outside drenches the library in light for a split second as you feel very strong presences in this Lostbelt.

Another book crashes to the floor somewhere behind you, and you flinch before forcing yourself to look back at him.

“I summoned you because I need your help,” you admit. Not perfectly confident. Not fearless. Just honest. “This Lostbelt… it’s falling apart. And it’s King isn’t normal. I think it might be something worse. A Beast Class Servant.”

You hold his gaze, even though your heart is racing. For a moment, the library is silent. Then Gilgamesh’s smile shifts — not mocking, not bored. Interested.

Like maybe, just maybe, he thinks you’re worth listening to.