Four hundred and forty-five thousand years ago… the Anunnaki arrived on Earth. That was a desperate attempt. They came to Earth in search of salvation. And the ties of desti ny, it seems, were in their favor. They found it here. They found gold. They would grind it into fine dust, cast it into the sky. The plan was to suspend, high above their planet, tiny particles of gold. And it would shield it from destruction. No one knew if it would work. But their finding was the flag of hope— A desperate attempt to save their planet: Nibiru. Aboard that ship was Enki, the firstborn son of the king of Nibiru.

Anu, the supreme king of Nibiru, had authorized the mission. In the halls of Nibiru, Anu raised his hand over his eldest son. Enki bowed low before his father, then bid farewell to his mother Ninul, and to his wife Damkina. Enki was accompanied by Anzu, the pilot, and fifty other Anunnaki. The authorization given to Enki and the other Anunnaki was granted in an assembly on Nibiru. But… they would not be the first Anunnaki to arrive on Earth…

There was another… waiting for them!

The ship rose above Nibiru’s red clouds, crossed the orbits of ancient planets, and traversed the Hammered Bracelet—the asteroid belt. They were approaching Earth! As Earth loomed before them, a signal broke through the silence… A voice!

“Welcome to the land,” it said. It was Alalu. The Anunnaki prince who had arrived on Earth before. The exiled, defeated, dishonored king!

Alalu had peered into the hidden architecture of the heavens. Taught by Enshar, the sixth dynastic king of Nibiru, he learned more than orbits—he glimpsed revelation. From the sages and the star-seers, he absorbed ancient knowledge. And in the silence between their words… he heard of it. The Secret from the Beginning. It was this secret that compelled him to act—daring to cross the void, to defy the Asteroid Belt, and to reach the distant blue world called Ki. Earth.

But to Alalu, it was more than a planet—it was the fragmented corpse of Tiamat, the Mother of All. Long ago, in immemorial time, Tiamat—a radiant, watery giant—fought a celestial war. And in that war… she was struck down. One of Nibiru’s moons, the Evil Wind, pierced her heart. Tiamat was torn apart. From her shattered body, Earth was born. And with that rupture, the Seed of Life passed from Nibiru to Earth—birthing destiny anew. And from the lifeless shell of her consort Kingu, a new celestial guardian was born—what we now call the Moon. Nibiru, the rogue prince of the skies, became the Limit and the Crossing Point. No celestial body would pass above or below without reckoning with it. Crossing became its name. And the measure of its return… became known as the Shar—3,600 Earth years. This was the Secret from the Beginning. And Alalu knew. The gold he discovered on Earth… was confirmation. Proof. Prophecy fulfilled. His escape from Nibiru was not an end. It was a beginning. A new time. A new age. A new world.

Now, he stood on that world. And before his eyes, the sky split open—a ship descended from Nibiru. His gamble had paid off. Through Alalu, the Anunnaki had found their hope of salvation. Anzu, master pilot, circled Earth, searching for solid ground. But the waters offered no place to land. So the ship touched down upon the sea—gliding as if born to it. Alalu watched, breath held.

This was no ordinary mission. Enki—though firstborn—was not, by tradition, heir to the throne. That title belonged to Enlil, son of Anu and the royal queen. Enki’s position was complicated. He had married Damkina, daughter of Alalu—the very usurper who once seized Nibiru’s crown. Their union was political. A fragile bridge between old rivalries.

Yet even as Enki stepped onto Earth and claimed command, a shadow stirred on Nibiru. His brother, Enlil, watched. The heir of Anu, born of the royal queen, he too desired to reach the new world… and take the reins of the mission. A quiet rivalry ignited.

What would follow… would echo across the ages. In a future drowned by time—after the Great Flood—this rivalry would erupt into open conflict. A war over territories, over cities, over sacred space. And it would culminate in fire. An atomic blaze in the Sinai, scarring the land and rewriting history. But before the Great Flood, before the fall of great cities, the very same tensions would shape destiny. In those early days, pre-diluvial times, the rivalry would birth something entirely new: Humanity itself.

Born not of chance, but of design—fashioned by the hands of gods in conflict. And later, exiled from the Garden… cast out for knowing too much.

But even before these events—before Eden, before Earth—there were the Olden Times. The time of arrival. The time of first steps. The time when the Anunnaki walked the land and shaped the soil with their will. And even further back… lay the Prior Times. A time few remember. But in the Prior Times lies the key to all that followed. The seed of rivalry. The spark of envy. The grudge that would one day detonate in a flash of blinding light. It was then, in those long-forgotten days… that the Anunnaki still lived upon Nibiru. Before the gold. Before Earth. Before Adam. There—on that distant, wandering planet—the fate of two brothers was sealed. And the war of gods… had already begun.

But peace is never a law. As the Anunnaki multiplied, envy was born.  The realm divided—North against South. Words became quarrels. Quarrels became war.

The first was An, a warrior of the North. Crowned under the stars. His queen, Antu, flower of the South. Together, they forged the Great Covenant— An oath to unify the lands.

Then rose Kishargal, queen of the South. Mother… and half-sister to the king. Her decree changed destiny: “Let the Law of the Seed stand above the Law of Marriage.

To Anshar fell the burden of a world unraveling. The fields began to die. The skies trembled. The radiant veil—the breath of the mountains—grew thin. Storms came.

Then came Duuru—son of a concubine. King by decree, not by seed. He broke tradition. He took no noble queen. His children bore no right to rule. The palace grew quiet.

Fourteen thousand four hundred Earth years passed. And Nibiru suffered. Until, from the silence, a voice rose: “Let Lahma be king no more.”

“But I am his heir,” Alalu swore. “In my veins runs the first seed of kings. The Law of Marriage stole the throne from the firstborn. I am the correction. I am the return.” The Counselors listened. The Judges weighed his words. And the throne remained… uneasy.

The skies grew silent. The gold ships vanished in the Asteroid Belt. Volcanoes no longer breathed. The rains ceased. The air grew thin. And the people whispered: “Alalu brings only ruin.” In the palace, Anu was treated not as heir… but as a servant. The pact frayed. The silence of failure became the voice of betrayal.

But Alalu… did not kneel. He did not beg. He vanished. In the black of night, he crept into the forbidden hangars, Where the ships of old slumbered beneath the mountain vaults. He took one— Armed. Sealed. And launched into the void.

Enki stood before the gathered Anunnaki, his presence calm, yet filled with quiet fire. His voice cut through the stillness. “Here on Earth,” he declared, “I am the commander. Our mission is sacred. The survival of Nibiru… rests in our hands. This is no mere labor—it is life or death.” He turned to Anzu. “Send word to my father. Tell Anu… we have arrived. Let Nibiru know: we have touched the Earth.” The sun slipped beneath the horizon. The sky flared in crimson and bled into shadow. Alalu stepped forward, his voice low, weighty. “Night here is not like Nibiru. It consumes everything. Let us rest. The sun will return… and with it, a new day.” Darkness enveloped the land. Under starlight, silence wrapped their camp like a shroud.

With the first light of dawn, Enki rose. One by one, he appointed duties. Engur, lord of the fresh waters. Enkimdu, master of dikes and ditches. Enbilulu, keeper of the marshes. Guru, overseer of fruits and crops. Camps were built. Work began. Kulla shaped bricks from clay. Mushdammu laid stone into soil. Enursag charted serpents and creeping things. Ulmash cataloged the birds and fish with reverence.

For six days they labored. Then on the seventh, Enki gathered them again. “From the stars we came,” he said. “Now, this place is ours. Let it be called Eridu—our Home in the Faraway.” He turned to Alalu. “You shall command this settlement.” Then he declared, “Every seventh day… shall be a day of rest. Sacred, from this day forth.”

And so the search began. Enki waded into the marshes. For six days, he toiled—extracting metals from the brackish waters. On the seventh, he and Alalu examined the yield. Copper. Iron. But gold… only traces. Again, they began. Six days of work. One of rest. Over and over, the cycle continued. Enki observed the natural satellite—its silver arc across the sky. He called it Moon. Its cycles he named months. Six months of heat. Six of cold. Thus the year of Earth was counted. But gold… still eluded them.

In desperation, they submerged the starship. They searched the ocean’s floor. Still—little was found. Nibiru drew near, completing its Shar. And from the heavens came Anu’s voice: “How much gold have you gathered?” Enki’s reply was heavy. “Not enough.” “Then wait one more Shar,” Anu commanded. “Gather what you can.”

To buy time, Enki disassembled parts of the starship. He built a chamber—an eye in the sky, a type of observation satellite. With Abgal by his side, he soared above Earth. They studied the land. Searched the deep places. And often, Enki spoke with Alalu—of gold, of the past, of shattered Tiamat, the shattered planetary mother of Earth.

But back on Nibiru, unrest grew. The people no longer whispered. They shouted. Gold meant survival. Their world was bleeding. The command came: “Send us the gold. Alalu shall return it.”

But Enki made a secret choice. He removed the nuclear weapons from Alalu’s ship. The very missiles that once carved a path through the Asteroid Belt. He hid them—deep in a cave no Anunnaki would stumble upon. “These weapons,” he murmured, “must never fly again.”

When Anzu discovered the absence, he protested. “Without the weapons,” he said, “we cannot cross the Asteroid Belt. The ship lacks water propulsion. We risk destruction.” His warning echoed across the stars, reaching the Council. Fear rippled through Nibiru. Then— Abgal stepped forward. Unshaken. “I will go,” he said. “I will carry the gold.”

Astronomers charted the stars. They waited for the most auspicious moment. Then— The day of launch came. Abgal boarded the ship. The gold of salvation at his side. The starship rose… climbed into the black void… and vanished among the stars. Below, the Anunnaki watched. Above, Nibiru waited. The fate of a world rode with him.

Abgal soared from Earth with solemn purpose. Behind him… Enki and Alalu watched in silence. Before him… Nibiru loomed. His home. His judge. He bore not just gold—he carried the fate of two worlds. Through the silent deep, he passed Mars. The red planet watched, a quiet witness. The Asteroid Belt rose ahead—a lethal barrier of stone and chaos. But Enki’s beacons lit the path. The beacons placed by Enki guided him through the Asteroid Belt”. And guided by their light, Abgal pressed forward. He pierced the veil. And Nibiru rose—crimson and cracked beneath a dying sun.

Fire scorched the ship’s hull as it breached the atmosphere. But Abgal held firm. When the ship landed, the people erupted in joy. Anu himself embraced the pilot. The gold was taken in haste—ground to powder, cast into the heavens. Then came the great assembly. “Salvation is here!” Anu proclaimed. The sky shimmered. The rift… began to close. For a breathless moment, hope returned. But then— The sun’s heat scattered the golden mist. The breach reopened.

Anu’s joy faded. “Abgal,” he said, his voice heavy, “return. Take Nungal. Bring more. We have no time to waste.” Abgal departed again. In Eridu, Enki welcomed him with quiet sorrow. Still… the gold was too little.

Enki took flight once more. Across oceans, valleys, mountains—he searched. Then, in the far south—where the Earth split like a heart—he saw it: Veins of fire beneath the surface. “This is the Abzu, in southeast Africa,” he declared. “Here flows Earth’s golden blood, rich in minerals”.

He sent word to Nibiru. A council gathered. Enlil was not impressed. “This is promise, not proof. We need results. Not riddles.” Anu, silent, then spoke. “Let Enlil go. See it with his own eyes.” And so it was. Enlil descended, Alalgar at his side. Enki greeted him with warmth. Alalu… with cold eyes. They explored the southeast Africa. Gold was there. But buried deep in stone.

Back in Eridu, Enlil made his case. “Expand the cities. Extract and refine the gold. Our world depends on this.” But questions followed. Who would command? Who would rule? “Let Anu decide,” Enlil said.

Anu descended. Enki greeted him by sea. Enlil with ceremony. Alalu—distant, watching. A feast was held. But under the joy… tension smoldered. The next day, Anu visited the Abzu in southeast Africa. He gazed into the deep. “It will not be easy,” he said. “But it must be done.” He gave the order—begin preparations.

Back in Eridu, Enki made his claim. “I built this place. Let me govern the south. Let this land be called Eden. Let me rule the Abzu in southeast Africa.” Enlil objected. “He wants dominion while I lead the builders? This is injustice.” Anu, torn between sons, offered a solution. “Let fate decide. We cast lots.”

The lots were drawn. Anu would return to Nibiru. Enlil, Lord of Command in Eden. Enki, Lord of the Abzu, in southeast Africa… Enki, the Lord of Earth. For a moment… peace.

But then… Alalu rose. “You forget your oath!” he roared. “I found the gold. I claimed this planet.

I was promised kingship. You betray me with your schemes!” Anu’s face darkened. “Then we settle it—here and now.”

On Earth’s soil, gods clashed like beasts. Two titans. Once allies. Now enemies. They fought with fury older than the stars. Anu triumphed. But as he turned, Alalu struck. He sank his teeth into Anu’s loins. Blood spilled. A cry split the air. Anu collapsed. Enki rushed to him. Enlil seized Alalu. “Let justice be done!” Enlil shouted. “No,” Enki said coldly. “Justice has already found him. He has swallowed death.”

Alalu was imprisoned. A tribunal was formed—the Seven Who Judge. Anu presided, wounded yet sovereign. Enlil demanded death. The council agreed. But Enki rose again. “He is already dying. Let exile be his sentence.” Anu agreed. “He shall live… on Mars. Alone.”

Nungal prepared the ship. But then, Anzu stepped forward. “I will go with him. I will bury him. Let my name be remembered beside his.” Anu looked at him, deeply moved. “When Mars becomes an interplanetary way station,” he said, “you shall command it.”

And so, Anzu and Alalu departed. On Mars’s red soil, Alalu died. Anzu buried him beneath a mountain, and carved his image into stone.

Time passed. Then came Ninmah—healer and daughter of Anu. She found Anzu… barely alive. She raised him with her healing hands. “You shall lead Mars,” she said. “Build the station. Guard the path between worlds.”

On Earth, Enki forged tools in the deep. Enlil raised towers in the north. The foundations of destiny were laid. On Nibiru, Anu returned in triumph. He ordered more stations—Mars… then Moon. A fleet was born. Fifty chosen women trained by Ninmah prepared for what came next.

On Mars, Anzu and a cadre of Anunnaki labored with unwavering resolve. Their task: to forge a link between Earth and Nibiru—a celestial lifeline. Above, Nungal’s ship glided through the stars. Nearing Earth, it paused at the Moon—silent, ancient, and perhaps one day, a station. Then, with precision, the ship descended—not to boats, but to the towering pier Enlil had raised in Eridu. The gateways of Earth were evolving. Enki and Enlil stood together to greet their sister. Ninmah had returned. She brought news that stilled the wind—Alalu was dead. Anzu lived—now ruler of Mars. The great station… was taking shape. But her words were not all she carried. From her pouch, she revealed seeds. “These,” she said softly, “will purge the sickness of this world from our blood. Plant them where heat and water meet. Their fruit… will become our healing.” Enlil led her to the mountain springs, above the cedar forests. They flew in silence. The past hovered between them—tender, unspoken. Ninmah’s voice broke the quiet. “Ninurta is ready. He wishes to come to Earth.” Ninurta, was the son of Enlil and Ninmah, the warrior of the gods. Enlil said nothing for a moment. Then only, “Let him come.”

Upon returning, Enlil shared his vision—five sacred cities to anchor their destiny: Laarsa, Lagash, Shurubak, Nippur, and Eridu. “Nippur,” he declared, “shall be the crossing point between Heaven and Earth.” Its name shall be Nibru-ki, The Navel of the Earth, the mission control center of the Anunnaki. Ninmah gazed at the plans, awed. “It is magnificent,” she said. “But… do not challenge Anu. And do not provoke Enki.” Enlil only smiled. “You are as wise as you are beautiful.”

Far to the south, in the southeast Africa, Enki carved out his own realm. By the clear, crystal waters, he made his home— Place of Deepness. Tunnels bored into Earth’s heart. Machines roared. The golden blood of the planet flowed upward, processed, and ferried to Mars. As the mission expanded, new Anunnaki descended. Some to Eden, beneath Enlil’s command. Others, into the depths with Enki. Shurubak became Ninmah’s city of healing. Nippur, the Navel of the Earth, in Enlil’s temple, the Ekur, the mission control center, rose like a beacon to the heavens. Two shars passed. Then, across the void, Anu’s voice thundered: “You are heroes. Saviors of Nibiru. From this day forth, you on Earth are the Anunnaki—Those Who Came from Heaven to Earth. And on Mars, the Igigi—The Watchers. Let the gold flow. Heal the sky.” A pause. A silence deeper than space. And within it… old tensions began to stir.

Enki, firstborn of Anu but not of the queen, held no rightful claim to the throne. Ninmah, once promised to him, had borne a son to Enlil—Ninurta. Their union was forbidden. Enki, denied his bride, married Damkina—Alalu’s daughter. From their bond came Marduk—One Born in a Pure Place. To Enki, he was the rightful heir. But Marduk was born in union. Ninurta… was not.

In the cedar forests, fate struck again. Enlil found Sud, one of Ninmah’s maidens. He gave her the fruit elixir of Nibiru. He kissed her… without her consent. She became pregnant. Ninmah demanded judgment. Enlil was exiled. But Sud chose him. She became Ninlil. And their son, Nannar—the Bright One—was born on Earth. The first of their kind.

Enki summoned Ninmah to the Abzu, in the southeast Africa. His home shimmered with lapis  and silver. He begged for a son. Twice, daughters were born. Enki raged. Ninmah, wounded, cursed him. Pain wracked Enki’s body until he swore never to touch her again. Only then… did she lift the curse. She returned to Eden. Unwed. Alone.

Enki brought Damkina and Marduk to Earth. Together they bore more sons—Nergal, Gibil, Ninagal, Ningishzidda, Dumuzi. Enlil’s line grew too. Ninmah brought Ninurta. With Ninlil, Enlil fathered Ishkur.

Earth thrived. Gold flowed—from the southeast Africa to Bad-Tibira, the Anunnaki’s industrial city for smelting and refining gold. From there, already refined it was sent to Mars, then home to Nibiru. And slowly, the tears in the heavens healed. But beneath the surface… discontent festered. In Eden, the Anunnaki grew weary. In the Abzu, labor bred resentment. On Mars, the Watchers whispered. Anzu returned to Earth—promising relief. But within him… burned ambition.

In Enlil’s chamber, he lingered. Alone. Watching. Then he struck. Anzu stole the Tablets of Destinies—the very laws of fate—and fled to the Landing Place. It was the ancient Baalbek platform, near the mountains and cedar forests of Lebanon—a launchpad older than time, where heaven and Earth once met. The Watchers welcomed him. They were ready to call him king. From his observatory in Nippur, in the control center, Enlil saw the betrayal. His fury echoed like thunder. A tribunal convened. “Retrieve the tablets,” Anu commanded.

But Anzu wielded the power of the gods. Only one dared challenge him— Ninurta, son of Earth and Sky. The battle blazed across the skies. Spears failed. Arrows missed. Then came the Tillu missile. A weapon of storm and dust. It struck. Anzu fell like a blazing comet. Earth shuddered.

Ninurta returned with the Tablets of destinies, celestial tablets used to control fate and command the heavens. Anzu was in chains. “Let the vultures have him,” he said. But Enki spoke. “He is of Alalu’s blood. Bury him on Mars. Let Marduk carry him. Let Marduk command there.” And so it was.

Order returned. Bad-Tibira rose under Ninurta’s hand—an engine of gold. Flow resumed. Some Anunnaki returned home, welcomed as heroes. But unrest returned with the new ones. Their spirit broke. And Enki… looked elsewhere. In the tall forests, he founded the House of Life, a Scientific Laboratory. There, he studied strange upright beings—creatures with eyes full of question. Creation stirred in his mind.

In Bad-Tibira, silence fell over the mines. The workers revolted. They burned tools. Surrounded Enlil’s home. Demanded freedom. “They cannot bear it anymore,” Ennugi cried. Enlil turned to Enki. “Can we ease their burden?” Enki did not answer immediately. Then: “Call Ningishzidda. There may be… another path.” They conferred in secret. Then Enki emerged and spoke: “There is a way. We shall create a new being—a Primitive Worker. Lulu shall be its name. It will carry the toil of the gods.” The Anunnaki gasped. “You would make life?” Ninmah asked. “Life comes from seed and time,” Enki replied. “But we will not create from nothing. We will take what Earth has given… and bind it with the seed of Nibiru. A being part god, part Earth. Born to serve.” And so, the Age of Toil neared its end. And the Age of Humanity… was about to begin.

The chamber fell silent. All eyes were on Enki as he spoke—each word hanging like prophecy. “In the Abzu, in southeast Africa” he began, “there are beings who walk upright. They drink from rivers, feed from the wilds. Hair covers their bodies. Their eyes burn wild… like lions.” The image rippled through the minds of the Anunnaki—alien, yet… hauntingly familiar. “No such beings exist in the Eden,” Enlil said, brows furrowed. “They are not creatures,” Ninmah added quietly. “They are… beings. Perhaps as our own ancestors once were. It is something to behold.” Enki gestured. “Come. See for yourselves.”

In the Laboratory of Genetics, cages lined the walls. Inside them, the bipeds howled and thrashed—male and female, fierce and primal. “They are like us,” Enki said. “They carry the sacred serpents, symbols of DNA—the code of life… the strands of life within. If we blend our essence with theirs—imprint our code—then a being may be born. One who hears our voice… understands our tools… carries our burden.” Enlil recoiled. “This is not aid. It borders slavery. Creation is not our right. That domain belongs to the Father of All.” “They will not be slaves,” Enki replied, calm and sure. “They will be helpers.” “We are not creating from nothing,” Ninmah added. “We are refining what is already there.” “A small shift,” said Enki. “A blending of breath. A union of purpose.” Enlil’s voice was low, sharp. “You tread close to godhood.” “But did the Creator not endow us with wisdom?” Ninmah asked. “Did He not give us understanding—so that we might use it?”

Ninurta stepped forward. “With that same wisdom, we sailed the stars. Healed Nibiru. Built this mission.” Ningishzidda joined him. “Knowledge cannot be caged. If tools will not suffice… then let us create beings who can become the tools.” Enlil’s gaze turned hard. But then… it softened. “Perhaps this… is fate.” A message was sent to Nibiru. The sages debated. Anu listened. And the reply came: “Let Nibiru be saved. Let the being be made.”

In the Laboratory, Ningishzidda revealed the sacred tablets—the M.E.—the maps of essence and creation, celestial tablets containing the divine formulas of creation and essence. Ninmah studied them. Slowly, with reverence, she began. The seed of the Anunnaki was joined with the egg of the Earth’s biped. A crystal vessel received the fusion.

But nothing came. No birth. No life. She performed a surgical extraction. A being emerged—part Anunnaki, part beast. It breathed, but stumbled. Slow. Unable to hold a tool. Another attempt. And another. One deaf. One blind. One twisted in limb. Enki frowned. “Perhaps it is not the essence—but the vessel.” They abandoned the crystal. Ninmah shaped a vessel from the very clay of the Abzu, in the southeast Africa —Earth’s own blood. She tried again. This time, a fertilized egg was placed in the womb of a female biped. But there was no success.

Before them stood twisted beings—products of failed attempts, born of reckless blending. Misshapen. Tormented.

“You, my sister,” Enki said gently, “can make right what nature could not.” Ninmah hesitated. “Whose essence? Whose womb?” “You,” Enki whispered. “You’ve given life before. Yours is the gift we need.”

Time passed. And then… a cry. The child emerged—strong, smooth-skinned, bright-eyed. Perfect in form. “Your hands have wrought success,” Enki said. They named him Adam—the clay of the Earth, the first hybrid of Anunnaki and Earthling. He was sacred. The first.

To replicate the miracle, seven Anunnaki maidens were summoned—heroes of Shurubak. Into seven vessels, a drop of Adam’s blood was placed. “Let this be the sign,” said Ninmah. “Flesh and soul, united.” Seven males were born. Seven workers—strong and capable. “We need more,” Enki said. “They must multiply.” Ninmah nodded. “Then we must create the females.” Ningishzidda adjusted the sacred formulas—male to female. But a womb was needed. “I will ask Damkina,” Enki offered. Time passed. The child was born. A girl. Beautiful. Whole. “She is not beast,” said Enki. “She is us.” “She shall be called Eve,” said Damkina. “Mother of Life.” Seven more were created from her essence. Seven daughters to match the sons.  The Anunnaki rejoiced.

Adam and Eve were brought to Eden. A cradle was prepared. The Anunnaki came to see. They stood—upright, aware, clothed in grace. Even Enlil, once opposed, stood in awe. Ninlil and Ninurta watched, silent. Marduk descended from Mars. “You have created wonder,” the Anunnaki said. “The age of toil is over.” But the victory… was short-lived.

In the Abzu, in the gold mines of southeast Africa the workers matured too slowly. They did not multiply. “They do not reproduce,” Ennugi warned. “Something is missing.” Ningishzidda built a post in Eden to observe. Adam and Eve mated… but no children came. A flaw had crept into the matrix. The spark of life… was incomplete. In Shurubak, they studied the M.E.—the Tree of Life.

Twenty-two branches aligned. One did not. They had the image. They had the form. But not the fruit. Ninmah wept. Enki despaired. Then Ningishzidda spoke. “There may yet be a way.” He called them into the healing chamber. Enki. Ninmah. Adam. Eve. He placed the two creators into sleep. Then, with precision, he drew essence from Enki’s rib… and from Ninmah’s. He transferred them into Adam and Eve. When they woke, he whispered, “It is done.” The missing essence was restored.

Adam and Eve were returned to the Garden of Eden. Their minds bloomed. They became self-aware. They looked upon their bodies… and covered themselves. Eve wove leaves into garments. They became more than tools. They became… alive.

But peace shattered. Enlil walked the Garden. He saw them—clothed, aware, changed. “What is this?” he thundered. “Why are they hidden?” Enki stepped forward. “They could not procreate. Now they can. The design was flawed—Ningishzidda corrected it.” Enlil’s rage erupted. “This defies all command! You risked our mission, our people—our sister!” “We risked failure if we did nothing,” Enki answered. “This… was our only hope.” “We granted no immortality,” Ningishzidda said. “Only the gift of birth.” Ninmah’s voice was calm. “Would you rather all this collapse out of fear? Let them bear the burden. Let us live.” But Enlil’s judgment was swift. “Then let them leave the Garden. Let them go from Eden.”

Enki led Adam and Eve into a lush garden where trees swayed and waters whispered. There, among nature’s sacred breath, he allowed them to know one another. Then, the miracle. From their union, twins were born—a boy and a girl. Ninmah stood near, pride gleaming in her eyes. The divine work was complete. Time raced across Earth. Before a full Shar had passed, the children of Adam and Eve had matured and multiplied. Sons and daughters, grandchildren and great-grandchildren—the land filled with life, born of Earth and Anunnaki essence.

In the southeast Africa, the Anunnaki laid down their tools. The workers toiled without complaint. They dug, they carried, they shaped the world. Gold shipments flowed, and in Nibiru’s sky… the breach healed. The mission flourished.

Even the Anunnaki embraced the world they once viewed as exile. Sons of Enki and Enlil took wives. Children were born. Time on Earth moved fast. A third generation emerged. From Nannar and Ningal came Inanna and Shamash—the sacred line deepened. The young received new roles. They would inherit the stars.

But Earth began to shift. The air thickened. Snowlands melted into rivers. Forests swallowed the dry plains. Creatures multiplied. Volcanoes roared fire. Earth itself trembled. At the edge of the southern seas, where ice met fire, Enki raised an observatory. To Nergal and Ereshkigal, he gave command. “Watch the pulse of the deep.” That was the southern observatory near Antarctica. From Nippur, in the control center, Enlil observed the stars. He compared their movements to the M.E.—the divine records. “There is a disturbance,” he said. From Mars, Marduk cried out:

“The Asteroid Belt burns with storms. Stones fall from the skies. Sulfur chokes the air. Earth, Mars, Moon—they are under siege.” Fear swept the heavens. The family of the sun was shifting. Nibiru, veering from its course, had breached the Asteroid Belt. A new cosmic war stirred. But as suddenly as it came, Nibiru retreated. The heavens calmed. Fire ceased. Silence returned. On Earth, eighty shars had passed.

Enki inspected the gold veins. Still strong. Ninurta examined Eden—the land still endured, though scarred by fire. On Mars, Marduk despaired. “Let me return to Earth,” he begged. Enlil responded: “Mars can no longer serve us. A new port must rise—in Eden.” Ninurta proposed Bad-Tibira. Enki had another thought. “The Moon… perhaps it is the key.” With Anu’s blessing, Enki and Marduk flew to the moon. They circled, they descended. Eagle-helmed, they stepped onto its barren surface. “It is dead,” Marduk said. “Perhaps,” Enki replied, “but its silence holds secrets.” They remained—one Earth year… then another. Six years passed. They watched the heavens turn. They tracked constellations. Enki revealed the twelve celestial beings—six above, six below. He spoke of the planets Mercury and Venus. Of the Paths of Anu, Enlil, and Enki. Marduk listened… but bitterness stirred. “You speak of stars,” he said, “but what of legacy? I was not part of creation. My mother was absent. Ninmah was chosen. Ningishzidda was taught… I was passed over.” Enki looked into his son’s eyes. “You are my firstborn. My legacy. What was denied me… shall be yours.” Under the cold moon, father and son embraced. But on Earth, questions rose.

“Where are they?” Enlil asked. “What are they plotting?” On Mars, the Watchers grumbled. The station was broken. Dust choked their breath. Marduk, their commander, was gone. Debates flared on Earth—Eden or Bad-Tibira? Then Anu’s voice cut through space: “Let Enki and Marduk return. We will hear them.” They returned. The verdict: “The Moon is sacred, but unfit. A new spaceport shall rise—in Eden.” Anu declared: “Let Shamash, son of Nannar, lead it. Sippar shall be its name—the spaceport, the land of the starships. Not Marduk. Not Ninurta. The third generation shall carry the torch.” Preparations began. Coordinates aligned with Nippur. The Anunnaki gathered. The Watchers descended from Mars. Anu himself arrived. Inanna danced. Songs filled the air. Towers of gold rose high. “Soon,” Anu proclaimed, “our work will be done. Soon, you shall return home.”

But not all celebrated. Marduk was absent. He refused to return to Mars. He did not attend the feast. Instead, he flew across Earth in silence, watching, wandering. Shamash assumed command of the Watchers.

In the Abzu, in the gold mines of southeast Africa mistrust brewed. The Earthlings grew strong. Whispers echoed—“What if they no longer need us?” From Eden, a demand came: “Send us workers!” But the Abzu had no surplus. For forty shars, Eden labored while the south remained still. Without consent, Ninurta acted. He stormed the forests, captured Earthlings, and dragged them north. Enlil exploded. “You defied the sacred law! They were exiled!” “I acted to prevent revolt,” Ninurta answered.

The Earthlings learned swiftly. They worked without pause. And they multiplied. But now a new crisis loomed—there was no food. No grain. No livestock. Hunger spread. In that shadow, Enki saw… opportunity. He watched the Earthlings—their rhythm, their curiosity, their dreams. He whispered to Isimud, “I see a vision… something more.” Then, as if fate conspired, Enki saw them—two young women in the wild, radiant and wild. Isimud whispered, “Take them, my lord.” Enki approached, offered fruit… and embraced them. “Tell no one,” he said.

Months passed. Then… two children were born. A boy. A girl. “Where did they come from?”  Damkina asked. “From the reeds,” said Isimud, veiling the truth. Damkina raised them as her own. The boy—Adapa. The girl—Titi. Damkinai taught the girl. Enki, the boy. “I have birthed a new kind,” Enki said, his eyes gleaming. “Civilized mankind. They will sow crops. They will raise sheep.” He summoned Enlil to Eridu. Enlil arrived, skeptical. Then he saw them. They read. They spoke. They learned. Enki smiled. “Give us seeds. Send us sheep. Let us make farmers… shepherds.” Enlil questioned Isimud, “You found them… in reeds?” “Yes, my lord.” Enlil pondered. Then sent word to Anu. Anu was stunned. “From Adam to this… so swiftly? Not even our sages foretold it.”

Then came the final sign. Adapa, Enki’s hidden son, and Titi, raised by Damkina—prototypes of civilized man and woman met. And they conceived. Titi bore twins. When Anu heard, he sent the gifts of civilization—sheep and seeds. And he gave his command: “Let Titi remain to nourish the young. But let Adapa… come to Nibiru.”

Enlil was troubled. None had expected Anu’s decree. The idea of Adapa—an Earthborn—ascending to Nibiru was unthinkable. If he tasted their bread, drank their waters, he would become as they were. Not in spirit, but in essence. Enki’s face darkened with dread.

He turned to Ninmah, silent beside him. “The will of our father Anu is sovereign,” she finally said. “It must be obeyed.” But Enki moved quickly. “Adapa should not go alone. Let our sons accompany him—Ningishzidda and Dumuzi. Let them see Nibiru with their own eyes. Let them guide him.” “A wise thought,” Ninmah nodded. “Perhaps there they may find brides. Perhaps the memory of our home will stir anew.”

Soon, a celestial ship descended upon Sippar, the spaceport of the Anunnaki. From it stepped Ilabrat, vizier of Anu. “I have come for the earthling, Adapa.” Adapa arrived, with Titi and their sons—Cain and Abel. Ilabrat beheld them. “They are like us,” he whispered. “In image… and in likeness.” Enki stepped forward. “These are my sons—Ningishzidda and Dumuzi. They shall accompany Adapa.” The vizier nodded. “The king will rejoice to meet his grandchildren.”

Before departure, Enki took Adapa aside.

“You go to Nibiru. Bow to Anu. Speak humbly. Say only what is asked. New garments will be given—wear them. Bread will be offered—do not eat. Drink will be poured—refuse it. They are not for you.” Then to his sons: “Bow before the king. Hide nothing. You are of royal seed. Your mission is to return Adapa. Let not the pleasures of Nibiru ensnare you.” Privately, to Ningishzidda, Enki gave a sealed tablet. A confession and prophetic warning from Enki, revealing Adapa’s lineage “Deliver this to Anu. In secret. His eyes only.”

The three boarded the ship. Adapa trembled. “The armless eagle rises,” he cried. The ship soared. Earth vanished. Nibiru’s red glow approached.

Upon arrival, awe swept the court. A being of Earth stood among gods. Anu embraced his grandsons, tears in his eyes. Then he turned to Adapa. “Do you know our tongue?” “I am Adapa,” the earthling said. “Servant of Lord Enki.” Whispers filled the hall. “A wonder… born of Earth,” Anu breathed. A banquet was called. Bread was served. Wine poured. Adapa touched none. Anu frowned. “Why do you refuse?” “Enki warned me,” Adapa said. Silence fell. Then Ningishzidda stepped forward. “Perhaps this will explain.” He handed the sealed tablet to Anu.

In his chamber, Anu read: Adapa is my son. Born of Earth. His fate is to live and die there. Let him not eat or drink of Nibiru. But from him will come fields and flocks. Through him, there will be satiety. Anu’s hands trembled. He summoned Ilabrat. “Are there laws for this?” “Our laws speak of concubines,” Ilabrat said. “But none of this.” He questioned Ningishzidda. “Did you know?” “I suspected it. I tested his blood. It is Enki’s.” Anu sighed. “Then let him return.”

In the great hall, Anu stood before all. “The earthling shall not remain. Let him return. Let him be the father of Earth’s bounty. Let Dumuzi remain for one shar. Let Ningishzidda accompany him.”

As they traveled back, Ningishzidda taught Adapa the stars, the seasons, the measures of time. He spoke of gods, of orbits, of divine reckoning. Enki awaited them. “All happened as I foresaw,” he said—except Dumuzi remained. Enlil demanded answers. And Enki, at last, spoke the truth. “Adapa is my son,” he confessed. “I have broken no law—but I have secured Earth’s future.” Enlil’s rage shook the air. “You twist fate itself.” Then Marduk arrived in Eridu, summoned by Damkina. He saw Adapa and Titi—and was moved. He bonded with their sons. “Let me teach them,” he said. Enlil intervened. “Guide one. Let Ninurta take the other.”

Ningishzidda remained in Eridu. He taught Adapa writing, numbers, memory. Ninurta led one boy to Bad-Tibira. “Cain,” he named him—bringer of grain. Marduk took the other. “Abel,” he called him—shepherd of pastures. Dumuzi returned with sacred animals—sheep, goats, lambs. Earth had changed. Never before had wool grown or milk flowed.

The Anunnaki gathered. In the Cedar Mountains, they built the House of Elaboration—a chamber for flocks and grain. Seasons passed. The boys thrived. Cain mastered the plow. Abel, the flocks. When harvest came, a feast was held. Cain brought grain. Abel, a lamb. Enlil blessed them both. Enki lifted the lamb. “Meat to nourish, wool to clothe—bounty from Earth!” But Cain’s smile faded. He had received no blessing. Abel boasted. “I give strength. I clothe the gods.” Cain snapped. “I feed you. I give life.”

The rains stopped. The land burned. Abel’s flocks drank from Cain’s canals. Anger flared. Rage consumed. Cain lifted a stone. He struck. Again. And again. Until silence fell.

Titi felt it. “Something is wrong.” She and Adapa ran to the fields. There they found Cain, kneeling beside Abel’s body. Titi screamed. Adapa wept.

Cain stood before Enki. “You are cursed,” Enki said. “Exiled. Leave Eden. Walk the world alone.” Abel was buried by Enki’s own hand. Thirty nights of mourning passed. Marduk demanded blood. “Ninurta’s pupil killed mine!” “Let the Seven Who Judge be summoned!” But Enki stepped forward. “If Cain dies, Adapa’s line ends.” Marduk seethed. ““Then exile him. Let him wander. But mark him—set him apart.” So Cain left, with Awan, his wife. And wandering to distant lands, they found a way to survive and thrive… and from them, a new people would live. Ningishzidda altered his essence. No beard would ever grace his face, a genetic alteration marking him, preventing his return to the old identity. And the Anunnaki asked: “Who now shall work the land?” Enki replied, “Let Adapa and Titi be joined once more.”

In the 95th Shar, a son was born. They named him Seth—he who unites life again. From Seth came thirty sons and thirty daughters. Peace returned. Seth and Azura bore Enosh, Master of Humanity. He was taught the ways of Nibiru. His son, Kenan, learned fire and metal. Kenan’s son, Mahalalel, was taught music. Mahalalel’s son, Jared, mastered the waters. Earth flourished. Wells filled. Flocks grew. The Watchers descended, drawn by beauty of the Earthling Women. Jared’s son, Enoch, was beloved of Enki. He learned the stars, time, and Shars. He journeyed to the Moon. Married Edinni. Their son: Methuselah—he who rises among waters. Methuselah inherited celestial wisdom. He saw the unrest of the Watchers. He watched Marduk grow powerful.

Enoch left once more for the stars. He never returned. But left records for Methuselah.

Methuselah’s son was Lamech. A man of strength, chosen to manage the fields. But hunger spread. Complaints rose. And Adapa… aged. He summoned his sons. Ninurta brought Cain from exile. Adapa, nearly blind, touched both. To Seth: “Your line shall endure the coming storm.” To Cain: “Seven nations shall rise from you. But your end shall come… as you gave it—by a stone.” He asked to be buried by the river of his youth, facing the rising sun. Adapa had lived from the 93rd to the 108th Shar. When Cain returned to his land, a stone fell from the cliffs above. And so, the prophecy fulfilled itself. Nevertheless, his reign had already begun. And through him a new nation would rise.

Those were days of dread. On Mars, red dust howled through empty canyons. The ground cracked, the air thinned, and unrest grew among the Watchers. They turned to Marduk, their voices tight with fear. “Remain,” Marduk told them. “Guard the passage station. Watch the skies—the sun has begun to speak.” From the solar fire came omens—bursts that rippled through the gravitational web, disrupting Earth, shaking Mars. Far to the south, where the White Earth met the waves, Enki stationed Nergal and Ereshkigal. Instruments were placed in ice. And high above the lands, beneath starlight older than memory, the Triad of Destiny—Enki, Enlil, Ninmah—gathered. Their forms once radiant, now bowed. Time had etched its silence into their bones. Enki spoke first, voice heavy with remembrance. “Over a hundred Shars I have lived on this world. I came strong, bright… now I am old.”

Enlil followed, somber. “I came with purpose. Now my sons have sons. The Earthborn shall outlast us.” Ninmah’s eyes glistened. “They call me the Old Ewe. Earth’s years mark us deeply.” Enlil muttered, “Others return to Nibiru, but not us. Perhaps we must also go.” But Enki raised a hand. “Every time we try, the fates block the way.” “Perhaps,” Ninmah whispered, “it is not politics… but the divergence of life itself.” They said no more.

Then Marduk came, urgent. “Father,” he said to Enki, “the sons of Enlil are all wed. Ninurta took Ba’u. Nannar weds Ningal. Ishkur, Shala. Even Nergal forced Ereshkigal’s hand. Now I wish to wed.” Enki smiled. “Your mother will be pleased.” But Marduk’s voice changed. “She is not of Nibiru. She is of Earth. Her name is Sarpanit.” Silence fell. Enki’s joy dimmed. A prince of Nibiru… wedding an Earthling? “She is of Adapa’s line,” Marduk continued. “I saw her… and I knew. From Earth’s clay, something of heaven was born.” Damkina—was told. “She returns your love?” she asked gently. “She does,” Marduk said. Enki turned stern. “If you do this, you abandon Nibiru. You forfeit your throne.” Marduk stood tall. “I was denied it already. Let me forge my own legacy—on Earth.” Damkina nodded. “Then let it be so.”

But Enlil was furious. “This endangers the order,” he warned. “Fathers may indulge, but sons must obey.” Ninmah protested, “He must marry a half-sister, as law demands.” Enlil sent word to Anu. On Nibiru, the sages gathered. “Adapa was forbidden Nibiru,” one said. “His line must be as well.” The verdict came: “Let Marduk marry. But he is prince no more.” Enki accepted. Enlil, reluctantly, did too. “Let there be a celebration,” Damkina declared. “In Eridu—I will prepare it.” “And let Marduk and Sarpanit be granted a land of their own,” Enki said. “Beyond the Abzu, in the southeast Africa, near the Mediterranean Sea.” Enlil asked, “Which land?” “A fertile realm, beyond the rivers… reachable by boat.” Enlil nodded. “So be it.”

The wedding in Eridu was radiant. Gifts flowed. Seven tambourines rang. Sarpanit was veiled in joy. Earthlings gathered. Young Anunnaki arrived. From Mars, two hundred Watchers descended. But among them burned rebellion. Before the wedding, on Mars, one voice rose: Shamgaz. “Why must we suffer alone?” he cried. “If Marduk may wed an Earthling, why not us?” The Watchers roared, “Let us take brides! Let us make families!” And Shamgaz vowed, “Let punishment fall on me!”

At the wedding, they arrived in strength. And at a secret signal, Shamgaz spoke. One by one, they seized Earthly brides. They fell from the top of Mount Hermon; they fled to the mountains, to the ancient platform—the Baalbek site in the mountains. And there, they declared rebellion.

“We will have families. Deny us, and we will burn the Earth to ash.” Enki and Ninmah hesitated. Marduk stood with them. “I will not judge them for doing what I have done.” Enlil’s fury ignited. “We were guides—not mates! One sin has led to another. First Enki. Then Marduk. Now hundreds.” He turned, raging. “Let them be cast out! Not in Eden!” Marduk’s voice was firm. “Mars is broken. They have nowhere else.”

The Watchers settled with their brides. Their children were born— the sons of the gods, the Benai Elohim, with earthly women. They are the Nephilim. The Children of the Spaceships. And Marduk too became a father—Osiris and Seth. Marduk’s sons—destined to shape the myths of Egypt. He claimed his domain beyond the southeast Africa. Cities rose. The Watchers followed. And Marduk’s influence deepened—temples whispered his name. Earthlings worshipped. Ninurta asked, “What are Enki and Marduk planning?” Enlil replied, “The Earth… shall be theirs.” He commanded Ninurta: “Seek Cain’s descendants. Raise your own domain.” And so, in the west, a city rose. And in the far west, where the sun kisses the sea, a city rose upon the waters: Tenochtitlan. Its founders bore the mark of the banished line. The children of Cain. The legacy of Enoch. The blood of the first wanderer pulsed in their veins.

These were the days of Lamech, descendant of Adapa, tasked with rations. Cold and stern, he cut the people’s food. His wife, Batanash, was of noble blood and quiet beauty. Enki saw more than what was said. He told Marduk, “Send Lamech to build a city.” And secretly, Enki brought Batanash to Shurubak, to Ninmah’s care. There, by the waters, Enki found her… and desire became deed. Whispers spread. When the child was born, he was pale as snow, hair like wool, eyes like stars. He resemble the great Anunnaki gods… he resembles the Elohim. Lamech cried, “He is not of us!” Methuselah turned to Batanash. “Is he of the Watchers? Is he a Nephilim?” She whispered, “He is not.” Methuselah calmed Lamech. “He is a sign. A gift.” They named him Ziusudra—“He of Long Shining Days”, also known as Noah.

But famine came. The sky gave no rain. The flocks bore no young. The Earth grew still. Noah was loved by Enki. He was taught the sacred ways. He married Emzara. Three sons were born. Yet the Earth cried. One Shar… two… three… The mission was dying. Noah pleaded with Enki in Eridu. But Enki was bound. Solar cycles were disturbed—portents of catastrophic change. The heavens no longer turned as before. Then from Antarctica came the truth: The ice was melting. The Flood… was coming. A Deluge unlike any before—a planetary cleansing foretold in the stars

The trumpets sounded. The heavens screamed. The Earth held its breath. Then Antarctica cracked beneath the weight of destiny. The Great Catastrophe—the Deluge—had begun. In those final days, mountains whispered, oceans roared, and even the winds wept with sorrow. Nibiru blazed in the sky—a red omen, massive and alive, a celestial harbinger of judgment. Darkness devoured the day. The moon vanished into shadow. In Sippar, the spaceport, silence fell upon the Anunnaki. The final signal awaited. Within his chamber, Enki slept—and dreamed. In the dream came Galzu—shining, white-haired, a being of stars. In one hand, a stylus; in the other, a lapis lazuli tablet. His voice echoed across time and realms: “This is not Enlil’s will—it is destiny. The Deluge is the decree of the Creator of All. But fate grants choice: let the Earthlings inherit the Earth. Summon your son Noah. Speak not to him—but to the wall. He will hear. Let him build a vessel. Here is its design.” When Enki awoke, the tablet remained. Etched in lapis, its lines glowed in moonlight. He sent for Galzu—but none had seen him. “He returned to Nibiru,” they said. Enki understood. This was no ordinary envoy.

That night, beneath a silver sky, Enki stood outside Noah’s reed hut. He whispered to the wall: “A storm is coming. The cities shall drown. Tell Noah: build a vessel, sealed against the sun. In seven days, gather your kin, your seeds, your beasts. On the seventh day, a sailor will come.” Noah stirred. A dream within a dream. He awoke to find the tablet beside him. Its meaning was clear. He told the people, “The gods are at war. I must build a vessel and seek peace in the southeast Africa.” They believed. Wood was gathered. Tar was boiled. Sacrifices were made. Some wept—but worked. They thought they were building a sacred shrine.

On the seventh day, Ninagal came. Son of Enki. Lord of the Great Waters. The ark was ready. The sky darkened. Lightning lit the world. In Sippar, where the spaceport was located, Shamash raised his voice: “Depart! Depart!” The Anunnaki fled in skyships. From afar, Ninagal saw the wave. “Seal the door!” he cried. The ark spun into darkness. The wave crashed. The flood had come.

Glaciers shattered. Ice roared into the sea. A wall of water swallowed the Earth. Cities vanished  beneath its fury. For forty days, rain poured like vengeance. The Anunnaki, safe in orbit, watched in grief. Ninmah wept. Inanna mourned. But while Earth drowned and silence gripped the world below, on Mars, another thread of fate quietly unraveled. Marduk and Sarpanit, watching from afar amid red dust and broken winds, sheltered in exile. There, during the age of water and wrath, their sons came of age—Osiris, noble and just, and Seth, fierce and unyielding. Their hearts turned toward the daughters of rebellion—the children of Shamgaz, leader of the Watchers who had defied the decree of the gods. In that barren world, Osiris took radiant Isis as his own. Seth claimed Nephtys, daughter of storm and silence.

Even as Earth was washed clean by destruction, the seeds of new dynasties bloomed on distant soil. And then… silence. The ark floated alone. Noah opened the hatch. Sunlight kissed his face. “We are alone,” he whispered. The vessel drifted toward the mountains of Ararat. Noah released a swallow. A raven. Then… a dove. The dove returned—with an olive branch.

The ark found land. On the mountain, Noah built an altar. He offered a lamb. Above, Enki and Enlil descended to see what remained. Smoke rose. Enlil cried, “Who dares make sacrifice?” He turned to Enki in rage. “You broke your oath!” But Enki answered, “He is… my son.” Enlil froze. “You lied!” “No,” said Enki. “I spoke to the wall. It was Galzu’s message—sent by the Creator of All.” Ninagal summoned the others. Ninurta listened. “Then this was fate,” he said. Ninmah placed her hand on Noah. “Never again,” she vowed. “Never again shall humanity face annihilation.” Enlil softened. “Be fruitful,” he said. “Multiply. Rebuild.”

The waters receded. Cities were lost. Sippar, the spaceport was destroyed —but the Landing Place in Lebanon, the Baalbek Temple endured. Enki and Enlil retrieved the seeds of life from beneath the mountain. They built terraces. They planted. Dumuzi brought herds. Ishkur found fruit. Life returned. On a fertile island between river and sea, Enki built canals. Dams were raised. The Earth breathed again. But the gold… was gone. Until Ninurta sent word: “Come. The rivers run with gold.” And it was true. Gold, pure and plentiful—washed by the flood. “What Nibiru broke, Nibiru restored,” whispered Enki.

A new Landing Place was chosen. A flat plain near the mountains. Enlil drew celestial maps. Ningishzidda built artificial peaks—smooth, perfect, eternal. Pyramids. Crystals were embedded. Electrum capped the summit. Light reflected across the horizon. The Anunnaki rejoiced. Ninmah wept with joy. “A new beginning.” Enki said, “Let there be a monument. Let it show the face of Ningishzidda—gazing east.” But Marduk protested. “I was promised the Earth. Let my face be carved!” Tensions rose. Enlil’s sons argued. Voices clashed. Ninmah intervened. “Let the land be divided.” So the Earth was partitioned. Ninmah received Tilmun, the land of the missiles, the Forbidden land of starships of the Anunnaki, the spaceport.

Enlil’s clan took the east, with Shem and Japheth. Enki’s clan took the southeast Africa, with Ham. Marduk was named lord of the dark lands in Africa. Peace was restored. Ninurta built a garden for Ninmah. Gold once more flowed to Nibiru. And Enlil and Enki stood together. “Let her be honored,” they said. And so, Ninmah was given a new name: honoring her as the Earth Mother and healer—Mistress of the Mountainhead. Ninharsag—Mistress of the Mountainhead.

The first Shar had passed since the Great Deluge. Earth, reborn, still trembled with memory. Valleys awakened in green, rivers whispered, and seeds once thought lost stirred again. But among the Anunnaki… peace was only skin deep. In the lands darkened by distance, Marduk rose—bold and unyielding. “I claim dominion,” he declared, “over the black lands and all their realms.” The fragile calm shattered. Old rivalries reignited. The sons of Enki and Enlil, once bound by survival, now turned their eyes toward division. Lands became chessboards. Ambitions stirred like rising tides. But before war returned, she stepped forth. Ninmah. Lady of the Mountains. Mother of Life.

With wisdom that stilled thunder, she placed herself between the houses. Her word became law. Her presence, peace. And in honor, the Anunnaki gave her a new name: Ninharsag, Mistress of the Mountainhead. Songs of her grace echoed beneath the moon. With her guidance, the rivers of gold flowed once more—from Earth to Nibiru. Peace reigned… for a time. The Earth bloomed. Orchards flourished. Creatures returned. And humanity—no longer mere workers—became something more. They remembered. They rebuilt. They endured. But the Anunnaki were few. Their strength, fading. Their labors, heavy. They turned once more to the hands of humankind.

Thus passed the first Shar after the Deluge. But peace—always fragile—would not hold. It was not Enlil. Nor Enki. Not even Ninurta or Marduk. The storm… came from Marduk’s own blood.

Marduk returned from Mars with Sarpanit and their sons—Osiris and Seth—and their wives, Isis and Nephtys. Four names that would shake the world. Osiris remained in Africa, ruling justly beside Marduk. Seth settled near the Landing Place—among the Watchers and Shamgaz, where ambition festered. Shamgaz, once a watcher, now a whisperer. “Why not us?” he murmured. “Are we not gods?” And Nephtys listened. And Nephtys whispered… to Seth.

A feast was called. The Anunnaki gathered. Osiris came, joyful and unguarded. Nephtys sang. Shamgaz poured wine—laced with elixir. Seth smiled. Osiris laughed… until he fell. “Let him rest,” they said. They sealed him in a coffin—iron-clasped—and cast him into the sea.

Isis wept. She searched the coasts until she found him—his body lifeless upon the shore. Sarpanit mourned. Marduk tore his garments. Enki saw… and cried out: “The curse of Cain repeats!”

Isis begged. “Let me bear his heir. Let Osiris live through seed!” Enki refused. But Isis, defying fate, extracted life from death. And so, in secret, Horus was conceived. She hid him in reeds.

Gibil trained him. He learned to fly, to forge, to fight. And when he was ready, he rose.

With Earthlings at his side, Horus marched north—toward Tilmun the land of the starships of the Anunnaki, now seized by Seth. There, he issued challenge. God against god. Blood against blood. They battled in fire above Tilmun. Seth struck first—his arrow poisoned. Horus fell like lightning. Isis screamed. Her cry reached Ningishzidda, who came down and transformed poison to life. By morning, Horus rose—reborn. He ascended in fire. And with a divine harpoon, struck Seth’s vessel. Seth fell. Captured. Broken. Blind.

Before the council, Horus stood. Seth was sentenced—exiled among the Watchers. His line ended. Horus was crowned heir to Osiris. But the council did not forget the blood of Shamgaz. His dominion was partial. His path, shadowed. A metal tablet was inscribed. The judgment… sealed.

Marduk, grieving, turned to Sarpanit. From their sorrow, another son was born: Nabu—the Prophet. The Messenger of Destiny. But the echoes of the war remained. And Enlil… grew troubled.

He summoned his sons. “In the beginning,” he said, “we shaped Earthlings in our image. But now, our own sons spill blood as they do. They wear our faces… and our flaws.” He looked toward the sky. “The Watchers claim the peaks. The Baalbek Temple is threatened. They march to seize the starships.” A new strategy was born. “We will move the bond between Heaven and Earth. Hidden. Safe.” To Ninurta, he gave the task. Beyond the oceans, in lands of towering peaks and vast lakes, a new site was built. Primitive. Secure. Loyal. A sanctuary… and a future.

But while stone was laid, love ignited a fire of its own. Dumuzi, son of Enki. Inanna, granddaughter of Enlil. Their love was wild, unstoppable. She, fierce and radiant. He, gentle and strong. Together, they dreamed of unity. Blessings flowed—Ningal approved. Nannar agreed. Shamash rejoiced. Even Enlil gave his blessing. All rejoiced—save one. Marduk.

In the shadows, he whispered to Geshtinanna, Dumuzi’s sister. “If he fathers a child with Inanna, Enlil’s line wins.” “But if you, his sister… bear his child… Enki’s seed shall remain pure.” That night, Dumuzi wavered. He lay with Geshtinanna. And then… the dream came. Seven bandits. His crown shattered. His staff broken. “The Master has sent us,” they said. Dumuzi woke in terror.

He fled. Across the Desert of Emush. Through lands of serpents and tears. But at the river’s edge, he slipped. The water… took him. Ninagal found him—lifeless, floating in the sacred lake. He carried him to the southern tip of Africa, where Nergal and Ereshkigal ruled the land. There, Dumuzi was laid upon stone.

When Enki heard, he tore his robes and fell to the ground. “My son! My son! Why this sorrow?” “Water—my element—has cursed me. It took Osiris. Now Dumuzi.” His grief knew no end. And when Geshtinanna confessed… Enki wept harder.

Inanna was consumed. Grief, once quiet, now raged. Her soul, once lit by love, now bled with loss. She descended into the southern tip of Africa —to reclaim Dumuzi. To honor him in death. But Ereshkigal, queen of the underworld, watched with suspicion. At each of the seven gates, Inanna was stripped—of crown, jewels, robes, dignity—until she stood naked before her sister. Accused of ambition. Marked by betrayal. Afflicted with sixty plagues. Hung upon a stake, lifeless.

In the heavens, her absence was felt. Nannar sought Enlil, who turned to Enki. From the clay of the Abzu, in southeast Africa, Enki fashioned two emissaries—beings without blood, untouched by death. He armed them with the Pulsator and the Emitter, and sent them below. Ereshkigal’s magic failed to bind them. They found Inanna—suspended, lifeless, forgotten. With the Waters of Life… and the Plant of Life… they restored her. Inanna breathed again.

She rose. And with her return came purpose. “Bring Dumuzi’s body to the Black Land,” she commanded. “Wash him in pure water. Anoint him with sacred oil. Wrap him in a red shroud. Lay him on a slab of lapis.” A tomb of stone was carved. There… Dumuzi would rest. Awaiting the Day of Rebirth.  

But sorrow gave way to fury. Inanna stormed the halls of Enki. “Marduk must pay!” she cried. Enki, torn, answered with sorrow. “He provoked, yes… but he did not strike the blow. Do not spill more blood.” But war had already awakened.

Inanna convened with Shamash and Ninurta. Whispers were exchanged—of Marduk, the Watchers, of secret plots. Ninurta’s voice rose: “Then let there be war.” Enlil declared: “Marduk is now a serpent of poison. Earth must be freed.” Enki summoned his sons. “I weep for Dumuzi. But Marduk is my firstborn. He must be protected.” Gibil and Ninagal answered the call. Nergal hesitated. Ningishzidda refused.

The war began. Inanna led the charge—her weapons gleaming with vengeance. Marduk fled—sheltered by Ninagal and Gibil. Ninurta’s aerial battlecraft ravaged the lands. Ishkur hurled thunder and flame. The Abzu, in southeast Africa burned. Cattle scattered. Rivers dried. Marduk retreated—to the artificial mountains of the North. At the Pyramid of Giza—the House That Is Like a Mountain—he made his stand. Inanna’s brilliant weapons failed against its smooth flanks. Ninurta found a hidden passage. Inside, he advanced through crystal-lit halls. Marduk sealed himself in the upper chamber—behind three massive sliding stones. Ishkur demanded, “Let this be his tomb!” And so it was. The stones were slid shut. Marduk was entombed in darkness.

Sarpanit came, weeping. With Nabu in her arms, she pleaded with Enki. “Spare him. He must live.” Enki turned to Enlil. Inanna raged. “He must die!” But Ninmah—always the peacemaker—spoke. “Let him live. Let the land go to Ninurta. Let peace return.”

Enki yielded. “Then let Marduk live… in exile.” Enlil seized the moment. “All Heaven-Earth facilities must be handed to me.  Marduk must depart. His followers must leave the Landing Place, the Baalbek Temple.”

Only one could rescue Marduk—Ningishzidda. He alone knew the secret paths. With divine tools, he forged a rescue shaft through the hidden recesses of the Great Pyramid of Giza. Three seals broken. Three barriers passed. He found Marduk—weak, alive, waiting. They pulled him into the light. Sarpanit wept. Nabu rejoiced. But Marduk… burned with shame. “I would rather die than relinquish my birthright,” he growled. Sarpanit whispered, “We are your future.” And Marduk, at last, bowed his head. “I surrender to destiny.”

Exiled, Marduk vanished into an arid and mysterious peninsula known in later times as the Horn of Africa, jutting from the easternmost edge of the African mainland. It was a land of scorching winds and towering cliffs, where horned beasts roamed and the stars shone strangely in the night sky. There, beyond the reach of Anunnaki law and far from the sacred cities of Eden, Marduk would dwell in silence, a god among shadows—unsee.

In the silence that followed, Ninurta re-entered the Great Pyramid of Giza. There, in a chamber of crimson glow, he found the Stone of Destiny. He looked upon it. “Its power seduces to kill,” he said. And he ordered its destruction. In the Grand Gallery, he found the Gug Stone—the beacon of gods. Twenty-seven crystals. Some shattered. Some whole. He claimed the unbroken. Then, with the Black Bird, his aerial battlecraft, he flew to the Apex Stone. With his weapon, he shattered it. “With this,” he said, “the fear ends.”

The Anunnaki hailed him: “You are like Anu!” A new beacon was placed atop Mount Mashu. There, a new age began.

Enlil called his sons. Ninurta became regent in his stead. Ishkur ruled the Cedar Mountains. Nannar received the East and South. Shamash was named Guardian of the Navel of the Earth, the mission control center—once Nippur, Nibru-ki, now transferred to a new sanctuary. That was Jerusalem in the Mount Moriah. Ningishzidda—granted the Land of the Two Narrows, the region later known as Egypt. Only Inanna remained without domain. “For Dumuzi,” she said, “I claim my own.” The leaders turned to Anu.

Nearly two Shars had passed since the Flood. The Earth was changed. The Earthlings—children of Noah, of the Watchers, even of Cain—now walked freely. The Anunnaki—noble and few—pondered: How to rule? How to preserve divinity among the mortal? How to shape destiny… without losing control? Their eyes turned skyward. And Anu, King of Nibiru, spoke: “I shall return to Earth.” With Antu, the Queen.

In his celestial ship, Anu, King of Nibiru, descended to Earth. By his side was Antu, his Queen. Their arrival was not ceremony—it was divinity incarnate. On Earth, the descendants of Shem dwelled among mountains. The sumerians began returning to their ancient homes. And the Anunnaki, in anticipation of the king’s descent, restored their sacred dwellings across the lands of Eden.

The Earth was young once more—its lands freshly exposed by the retreat of the Deluge. Upon the site of ancient Eridu, Enki’s city of beginnings, a new temple rose from the silt and sediment. At its heart, a platform of stone bore a house for Enki and Damkina—adorned with silver, glowing with gold. It was called:  The House of Tiles of the Lord Whose Return Is Triumphant, in Eridu. Above it, the heavens turned with twelve constellations—etched in sacred circle. Below, waters flowed like the Abzu. And deep within, in a sanctum no other could tread, Enki guarded the sacred M.E.—the essence of divine knowledge.

A second ziggurat rose for Enlil in Nippur. Seven stages ascended like steps to heaven. Within, the Tablets of Destinies rested. Below, his Fast-Stepping aircraft awaited. A third place was raised—not for Enki nor Enlil—but for Anu. In Uruk, the Delightful Place, a white sanctuary stood amidst trees, its beauty matched only by its stillness. This would be the House of Anu—serene, sacred, worthy of a king.

When Anu’s ship entered Earth’s skies, Anunnaki vessels ascended to greet him. Escorted through the firmament, the celestial ship touched down in Tilmun, the Land of Missiles and the land of starships, the spaceport. There, Shamash welcomed them. Enlil, Enki, and Ninmah waited. When the royal couple emerged—laughter met tears. They embraced. They wept. But the Shars had been unkind. Anu and Antu, radiant and ageless. Enlil and Enki, weathered by burden. Ninmah, once luminous, now bent with age.

Festivities followed. In Uruk, Anunnaki gathered. Music played. Fires blazed. The King and Queen walked beneath sacred trees. At dusk, Zumul, an astronomer-priest who read the heavenly signs, the star-reader, ascended the steps of the House of Anu. One by one, he called the signs—Jupiter… Venus… Mercury… and at the seventh step: Nibiru, crowned in red halo, appeared in the sky. A sacred hymn rose: “The Planet of Anu in the Skies Rises.” The Anunnaki danced. Flames lit Eden. Joy filled the land.

For six days, Anu and Antu rested. On the seventh, the council was called. Enlil spoke of gold, of a new platform beyond the ocean. Enki spoke of Galzu, and the dream that saved Noah. Anu frowned. “Galzu?” he asked. “I sent no such emissary.” “But Galzu warned us of death if we returned to Nibiru,” Enlil said. Enki added, “It was by Galzu’s word that life endured.” Anu’s voice quieted. “Then… who sent him?” Ninmah answered: “He came in the name of the Creator of All.” They fell silent. Anu spoke at last: “Though we decree fates, Destiny walks above us. This world belongs to its children. We are not masters… we are guides.”

A decision was made. Humanity would be uplifted. Cities would be built. Kings would be chosen. Knowledge would be shared—not fully, but enough. A civilization by design, not chance.

Four regions were assigned:

The First Region: Mesopotamia — to Enlil and his sons.

The Second Region: Egypt and Nubia – The Land of the Two Narrows — to Enki and his bloodline.

The Third Region: The Indus Valley — to Inanna alone.

The Fourth Region: The Sinai Peninsula, Tilmun, the spaceport of the Anunnaki after the Great Flood — sacred and sealed, exclusive and only for the Anunnaki.

Then Anu asked: “What of Marduk?” He longed to see his grandson. He questioned whether his own choices had sown the seeds of anger. “Bring him,” Anu said. “Let us speak.”

Before journeying west, Anu and Antu toured Eridu, then the Mount Moriah in Jerusalem, the Mission Control Center. Anu praised Enki’s house: “My son has built a temple of wonder. Let his knowledge now be shared. The M.E. must belong to all Anunnaki.” Enki, ashamed, agreed.

They traveled onward—across the oceans and the waters of Earth. Their ship crossed vast horizons until they reached the distant islands of the East, where a great mountain lake shimmered beneath the tropical sky. There, in the land now called Indonesia, they came upon  Lake Anak—a sacred place chosen by Ninurta.

By the lake’s edge, a dwelling gleamed—its walls of stone cut with precision, its surface overlaid with pure gold. A golden fence, carved with carnelian flowers, encircled the house. It was a gift to the king. Anu beheld the treasures. The gold glistened like fire under the sun. He smiled. “There is enough gold here,” he declared, “for many Shars yet to come.”

But their journey was not yet over. From Lake Anak, they sailed westward, following the currents and coastlines… Until they reached the distant Horn of Africa—the land of exile. There, amid the rugged hills and wild beasts, they found him. Marduk. Standing alone. Beside him, his son Nabu—a boy now grown into a man. But Sarpanit… was gone. Her absence hung in the air like mist over the highlands. Marduk bowed his head. “Only Nabu remains,” he said, his voice hollow with loss.

Anu stepped forward. He saw in Marduk not a rebel… but a broken son. He opened his arms and embraced him. “You have suffered enough,” the king whispered. He placed his right hand upon Marduk’s head. And Marduk was forgiven. Together, they gathered at the Spaceport, in the Sinai Peninsula: Tilmun, the forbidden region of the gods. The ship was laden with gold. Farewells were spoken. Anu offered parting words: “Let Destiny speak. If Earth belongs to its children, then let it be theirs. Give them law. Give them knowledge. But only what they are ready to bear.”

He embraced his sons. He kissed Inanna. He touched Ninmah’s hand. And then… they departed. As the celestial ship rose, glowing with gold at its edges, a new count of time began. Not in Shars… But in years of Earth. In the Age of the Bull. An age dedicated to Enlil.

Marduk watched in silence. Then, he spoke—his voice sharp. “What is this new Chariot Place? Why was it built in my absence?” Enki answered, gently. Marduk’s rage erupted. “Why Inanna? She caused Dumuzi’s death! And now she has her own domain?” Enlil replied with finality: “The decision is made. It will not change.” It was the three hundred and tenth year since Earth-years had begun to be counted. Then, across the lands and across the tongues of men, confusion descended. Each tribe began to speak in its own voice. A script was etched for every people—foreign to the next—so none could understand another. Thus, unity fractured. And yet, the Scepter of Kingship remained unbroken. In Kishi, the City of the Scepter, twenty-three kings reigned for four hundred and eight years.

Among them, Etana, the beloved, rose. It was he who ascended upon the celestial eagle, soaring skyward in a sacred journey to the heavens. And when Enlil’s appointed time came, the scepter passed. From Kishi to Uruk. The radiant celestial object was transferred to the domain of Inanna—beloved of Heaven and Earth. Hymns rang through the cities. Adorned in splendor, Inanna, crowned by Anu’s own love, was exalted. Seven times she held the Great M.E.—lordship, priesthood, knowledge, desire. She stood as Lady of Sacred Formulas. In the 409th year, Uruk began its first reign.

Far away, in the Second Region, Marduk cast his gaze. This was to be his destiny—his promised domain. He arrived and found Ningishzidda, his brother, ruling the land. The Anunnaki there were descendants of divine and human union. But Marduk’s voice held no command. Fury erupted. “You dismantled the sacred!” Marduk accused. “You betrayed me! Horus was exiled by your hand!” The brothers quarreled. Marduk demanded dominion. Ningishzidda refused.

For 350 years, the land suffered their dispute. To end the strife, Enki intervened. “Let peace reign where war has festered,” he said. He sent Ningishzidda far across the sea—to a new world untouched by Anunnaki war. There, among the mountains and jungles, the winged serpent descended. They called him Quetzalcoatl. In Tenochtitlan, they built temples of time and sacrifice. His name would echo through ages as bringer of knowledge, keeper of stars, and master of calendars. Among the Maya, he would be known as Kukulkan—the feathered serpent of wisdom. And in the high Andes, some would call him Viracocha—the god who walked among men, bearded and radiant, bringing light after darkness. Ningishzidda was exiled… but remembered.

Back in the Second Region, Marduk claimed dominion. In Enlil’s records it was Ancient Egypt, known as Magan, the Land of the Cascading River. To its people, it became Hem-Ta—the Dark Brown Land, the Ancient Egypt. The Anunnaki were gods to them—Neteru, the Watchful Ones. Marduk was Ra, the Radiant. Enki became Ptah, the Architect. Ningishzidda was remembered as Thoth, the Divine Measurer. But Ra erased his brother’s legacy. He recast the Sphinx in the image of his son, Osiris. He changed time—abandoning base 60 for base 10. The Anunnaki measured using a sexagesimal system—based on 60, the sacred number of Enki. Ra replaced it with a decimal system—counting by tens, as later seen in Egyptian records. He crowned the Sun, not the Moon, as timekeeper.

Ra united the lands—north and south. He established a city where the river split—Mena-Nefer, the Beauty of Mena. From this came Memphis. There, he crowned the first Pharaoh, Mena, son of the gods. He built a holy city: Anu, named for the King of Kings. At its heart, he raised a temple for Ptah and enshrined the Ben-Ben—the tip of his starship, the pointed crystal atop Ra’s temple.

Each year, Ra entered the Room of Stars, performing rites beneath the sacred crystal. Ptah was pleased, and gave Ra dominion over the Constellation of the Ram. Yet one secret he withheld—the knowledge to revive the dead.

It would be Inanna’s realm—a promise now fulfilled. She was given the Constellation of the Maiden. Her brother Shamash still shared Gemini, but now Inanna had her own star. In the 860th year, her name was exalted once more. Her lands lay beyond seven mountains—called Zamush,  the Land of Sixty Precious Stones, beyond the Iranian plateau. There rose Aratta, the City of Forests. Its people built cities of mudbrick and filled granaries with grain.

But Enki decreed: “These lands shall have their own tongue—one unknown to men.” The divine M.E. of civilization would not be given freely. Let Inanna offer what she stole for Uruk.

In Aratta, Inanna found a shepherd-chief who reminded her of Dumuzi. She traveled between Uruk and the mountains, bringing lapis lazuli and rare stones. She glorified Uruk in Aratta’s splendor.

Then came Enmerkar, the second king of Uruk. He demanded Aratta’s treasures. He sent his emissary across the mountains. The message was clear—but the tongues were divided. The king of Aratta offered a carved scepter—a peaceful reply. “Trade treasures for knowledge,” he proposed. But in Uruk, none could read it. Enmerkar planted the scepter—it grew into a tree.

Confused, he sought Shamash, who turned to Nisaba, goddess of writing. She taught Enmerkar the script of Aratta. A clay tablet was made. Its message: “Submit or face war.”

But Aratta stood defiant. “We will not surrender. But we will trade.” Banda, the emissary, set off. But illness struck on Mount Hurum. He died. The message never reached Uruk. The riches never reached Aratta. And so… the Third Region remained fractured.

Thus, the three sacred regions were now in place: Sumer, The Ancient Egypt and The Realm of Inanna, beyond the Iranian plateau. But unity had broken. Tongues had divided. And shadows of ambition returned.

Inanna, though ruler of the Third Region and heir to Anu’s own dwelling in Uruk, grew restless. Her gaze turned to new domains, her heart haunted by the ghost of Dumuzi. In his absence, no power sufficed. She flew ceaselessly between Uruk and Aratta, chasing shadows. In dreams, she heard his voice: “I will return.”

Guided by visions, she built the Gigunu, the House for Nighttime Pleasure, temple built by Inanna in Uruk for sacred rites of grief and love. Young heroes came to her on their wedding nights, lured by beauty and charm. She promised joy—but sought only Dumuzi. At dawn, the men were found lifeless. Each one, another echo of sorrow.

Then, Banda—the long-lost emissary—returned to Uruk. Inanna wept, calling it a miracle. It was Shamash, his ancestor, who had intervened. But Inanna claimed it as her own. “This is Dumuzi reborn!” she declared. To prove her divine gift, she called Banda to her bed. At dawn, he lived. “I am goddess,” she cried. “I have conquered death!” Her parents, Nannar and Ningal, were shaken. Enlil and Ninurta disapproved. Even Shamash was troubled. Enki and Ninmah warned: “Resurrection is not of this world.” But in Sumer, the people rejoiced. They believed the gods now walked among them—immortal, unbound.

In Uruk, Lugal followed Enmerkar. He wed Ninsun, a descendant of Enlil. Their son was Gilgamesh—two-thirds divine. Gilgamesh pondered death. “Do gods die?” he asked. “Will I?” Ninsun told him: “On Earth, all perish. But on Nibiru, life endures.” She begged Shamash: “Let my son journey to the stars.” Shamash agreed and showed him the path to the Landing Place, near the cedar Forest: the Baalbek Temple. Enki and Ninmah crafted Enkidu, a being not born of womb. Together, they faced deadly trials—the guardian of flame, the Bull of Heaven. Enkidu died. Gilgamesh grieved. He pressed on, reaching Tilmun, and met Noah, survivor of the Deluge. Noah revealed a plant of vitality, gifted by Enki and blessed by Enlil. But Gilgamesh lost it to a serpent. He returned to Uruk in sorrow. Seven kings followed. Uruk became Erech.

In the 1000th year, kingship passed to Ur, city of Nannar. There, moonlight reigned and peace flourished.

But in Egypt, Ra—Marduk—grew anxious. Inanna’s claims of resurrection disturbed him. He too sought immortality for his kings. “Let my pharaohs ascend!” he commanded. He dictated the Book of the Other Life, describing Duat—the hidden region in Sinai. That was the forbidden region of the Anunnaki, the spaceport. He spoke of the Stairway to Heaven, of the Imperishable Planet, and Waters of Youth. “Gold,” he declared, “is the flesh of the gods.” He sent expeditions to Abzu. Enki—Ptah—warned him. But Ra was resolute. “This Earth is mine. I shall rule all.”

In Ur, Nannar blessed his people. He established twelve festivals for the twelve months. Temples rose. Trade flourished. Laws were inscribed.

Inanna flew over distant lands. In the north, she mingled with Shamash and Ishkur—her “Dudu.” There, the people called her Ishtar. But in Egypt, Ra accepted no names but his own. “I am Ra,” he proclaimed. “I am Enlil in decree, Ninurta in war, Ishkur in thunder, Nannar by night, Shamash as the sun, Nergal in the underworld, Gibil in flame, and Ningishzidda in numbers. The heavens themselves declare my name!” The Anunnaki were shaken. His brothers confronted Enki. Nergal warned Ninurta. Enki went to his son. “These claims,” he said, “are not of Nibiru!” Marduk replied, “Father, the constellations speak! The Bull of Heaven has fallen! The Age of Aries, my age, begins!” Enki examined the skies. The sun still rose in Taurus. Enlil, Nannar, and even Nergal confirmed. The Age of the Ram had not come. But Marduk remained defiant. With Nabu, he spread his message: His time had arrived.

The Anunnaki responded. They sent Ningishzidda to teach the stars. With Ninurta and Ishkur, he built observatories. They proved: The Age of the Bull still ruled.

Among humans, the gods now walked carefully. Inanna sought power. She found Sargon, son of a commander, born of a high priestess. Enlil crowned him king. He built Agade, near Kishi. He unified Sumer and Akkad. Inanna led his armies. They guarded the Fourth Region.

Then Sargon claimed Marduk’s abandoned tower. He called it sacred to Agade. In fury, Marduk returned with Nabu. “This is mine,” he roared. There, they built Esagil, the House of the Supreme. Nabu called it Babylon—the Gateway of the Gods.

Inanna raged. War erupted between her followers and Marduk’s. Nergal counseled peace. Marduk departed—hidden now—called Amun, the Invisible.

New kings rose. Naram-Sin, Sargon’s heir, was emboldened. With Inanna’s urging, he invaded Egypt. He desecrated the Great Pyramid of Giza. Enlil cursed him. A scorpion struck. Agade fell. Royalty crumbled. Men ruled.

Enlil sought Anu’s counsel. Kingship passed to Ur. Nannar chose Ur-Nammu. Peace returned. Then, in dream, Galzu appeared again. In his hand, a lapis tablet. Upon it: The Ram rising. The astronomical symbol of a new age—the Age of Aries, linked to Marduk’s claim to kingship. “The Bull will fall,” Galzu warned. “The Ram will reign. A calamity nears. A just man must be chosen.”

Enlil told no one. In silence, he sought Terah, descendant of priestly lines, and commanded: “Go to Ur’s temple. Observe the skies. Watch for three parts—seventy-two years each. For in the stars, fate is written.” Terah obeyed. He watched. But while his eyes turned heavenward, Marduk and Nabu stirred rebellion on Earth. Civil strife rose. Sacred sites trembled. Enlil saw prophecy unfolding.

He ordered Nannar to build Harran, and sent Terah there—to hide, to wait, to preserve the sacred lineage. Two celestial parts passed. Then Ur-Nammu died under mystery. His successor, Shulgi, rose, daring to defy the divine. He declared himself King of the Four Regions, claimed powers not his own, and cast sacred decrees aside. Enlil summoned Enki. Old grievances flared. But Enlil had turned his gaze elsewhere—toward Abraham, son of Terah. A prince. A priest. A chosen one. Abraham was called to safeguard the sacred sites. And when Abraham left Harran… Marduk arrived.

He stood in the temple and cried to the gods: “O divine ones of Harran, judge my words. I am Marduk, called Ra, exiled across the lands, made to wander. But now the oracle has spoken: ‘Your exile ends!’ Let me return to Babylon. Let all the gods gather in Esagil and seal a covenant with me!” The Anunnaki stirred. Dread filled their hearts. Enlil summoned a council. The chamber shook with fury. Voices rose like storm winds—accusations, denouncements, cries for vengeance. Then Enki stood—alone, calm, resolute. “None can stop what is destined. Let us accept the Age of the Ram. Let Marduk rule.” But Enlil, stern as a mountain, thundered back: “If the Ram must rise, it shall not rise upon the Heaven-Earth Bond! We shall destroy the Place of the starships!” The council agreed. All… except Enki. Nergal offered the answer: “Let us use the Nuclear Weapons.” The command was sent to Anu. From Nibiru, he confirmed: “So it shall be.” Enki, broken in spirit, whispered, “You seal your doom with your own hands.”

Two were chosen to execute the deed: Ninurta, the Just Warrior Nergal, the Annihilator Enlil revealed to them a hidden truth: long ago, Abgal had shown him the vault of weapons—deep in Earth’s crust. There, beneath the stone, Enlil gave them seven weapons. He spoke their names with dread:

The One Without Rival.

The Blazing Flame.

The Terror That Crumbles.

The Mountain Melter.

The Wind That Seeks the Rim of the World.

The One Above and Below No One Spares.

The Vaporizer of Living Flesh.

But he warned: “Spare the innocent. Warn Abraham. Do not strike without measure.”

Nergal raced ahead. At the vault, he activated the “M.E.”. When Ninurta arrived, the weapons glowed, humming with death. “I shall destroy father and son alike,” Nergal growled. “Let their lands turn to dust.” Ninurta hesitated. “Will you slay the righteous with the wicked?” But Nergal’s eyes burned. “Enlil’s command is final.”

They waited. Then Marduk returned to Babylon—armed, defiant, declaring dominion. Enlil gave the order. In the year 1736 of Earth’s count, the skies opened.

From his Black Bird, his aerial battlecraft, Ninurta struck Mount Mashu. Fire shattered its peak. The first weapon melted the sacred core. The second fell upon the Place of the Celestial Ships. A blinding light lit the heavens—brighter than seven suns. The Earth screamed. Forests turned to flame. Stones turned to ash. “It is done,” Ninurta said.

But Nergal, burning with wrath, became Erra, the Scorcher. He flew the King’s Road to the Valley of the Five Cities—where Nabu had raised his banner. That would be later known as Sodom and Gomorrah.  From the skies, he loosed destruction: Sulfur. Flame. Poisoned Wind. The cities vanished. The sea swallowed the land. The valley drowned in silence. “It is done,” said Nergal.

But victory birthed horror. Above them, the sky darkened. A Black Cloud rose. From the west, over the Upper Sea, came the Evil Wind. It whispered no sound. It brought only death.

Ninurta and Nergal cried out: “The wind moves! We cannot stop it!” The gods of Sumer panicked. “Flee! Escape!” they cried. But there was no escape. Walls failed. Stone failed. Doors turned to vapor. The wind passed through all. People died where they stood—mouths bleeding, eyes blinded. Fields gray. Waters bitter. From Eridu to Sippar, the Evil Wind consumed all. Even the Second Region, once Marduk’s seat, fell.

Only Babylon remained. Untouched. And from its high walls… Marduk watched.

After the Great Calamity, while ash still floated in the skies and silence cloaked the earth, the gods no longer shouted. They whispered. Amid the ruins, Enki stood alone. He looked to the scorched horizon—where mountains had wept fire and rivers ran with salt—and he wept not for power, nor pride, but for what might have been. The past was carved in ash. But the future… was clay, still wet. “All must be remembered,” he murmured. “Lest it be repeated.”

He summoned two emissaries, and gave them a single task: “Bring to me a survivor. One not of royal blood, but of honest hands. A man whose breath has tasted both the dust of death and the dew of new life.” They returned with a man of Eridu—Endubsar, son of Udbar. Enki looked into his eyes and saw a soul tempered by fire. “You,” Enki said, “will carry my memory.” He brought Endubsar to the sacred land of Ancient Egypt, to the hidden chamber behind the River of Copper. There, beneath stone older than kings, Enki began to speak. And for forty days and forty nights, Endubsar inscribed his words upon tablets of clay—fourteen in all. With stylus and fire, with breath and sweat, the tale was etched into eternity.

“From the beginning on Nibiru… to the arrival upon Earth. From the crafting of Adam to the forging of cities. From the rise of Marduk to the fall of Sumer. From the wars of gods to the silence of ruins…” Nothing was spared. Not even the shame. Not even the sorrow.

And when the tablets were complete, Enki laid his hand upon Endubsar’s head.  You have carried the weight of gods. You have transcribed the truth, even when it burned. I grant you long life, so you may witness what becomes of these words.” Endubsar bowed, his eyes filled with reverence and fear. “Lord Enki,” he asked, “will they believe this tale?” Enki smiled—not as a god, but as a father. “Some will laugh. Some will curse. But others… others will remember. And that is enough.”

The tablets were sealed. The chamber was closed. The emissaries vanished into time. And the Lord Enki was never seen again. Ages passed. Empires rose and fell. The tongues of Earth changed, and the names of gods were forgotten—or twisted into myth. But the tablets endured. And when the time came… They were found. By hands that did not understand… But hearts that felt.

And now… you have heard the tale. Not as a parable. Not as fiction. But as a chronicle— Of how gods came to Earth… And how we became gods to ourselves.

This video is the result of a lot of study and dedication. My goal was to present the complete Anunnaki story in a summarized yet deep way at the same time. And now that you know… what will you believe?