"More of those creatures are approaching us!" someone shouted, staring out across the black marsh. Dozens of Big‑Eye tentacle monsters crawled forward on sluggish, gelatinous limbs. Their movement was absurdly slow—but their uncanny power was terrifying. Once surrounded by those bloodshot eyes, escape was nearly impossible.
"Even if it costs us our lives, we must kill one!" Medeia roared, seizing her white stone spear. In a flash, she charged straight into the swamp.
Thud!
Her spear struck true. With a shrill, rasping cry that resembled a newborn's wail, the fragile eyeball exploded in a gush of foul, viscous fluid, splattering Medeia's face with gore.
"Take it!" she barked, clutching the writhing tentacle corpse in one hand. But when she looked up, seven more Eldritch Eyes had encircled her. Her face drained of color.
"Follow me—fight our way out!" she commanded.
What followed was a massacre. Nearly thirty of the tribe's strongest hunters had advanced into the swamp—and nearly all perished. Though they could have fled, hesitation allowed the hypnotic monsters to close in. Only three survivors managed to stagger out of the cursed marsh, their hearts pounding with terror.
"They're all dead…" Medeia's stoic façade shattered as tears streamed down her cheeks. She gazed at the two remaining warriors beside her, fully comprehending the cost. Over centuries, countless male fighters had died hunting beasts and seeking food. Of a tribe once numbering nearly a thousand strong men, only a hundred remained—and now a third of those had been lost in a single afternoon.
"We are on the brink of extinction," Medeia whispered. Yet in that moment, determination hardened within her. Holding the grotesque corpse before her, she thought, If this monster's blood can grant power—maybe it can save us…
For generations, tribesmen had risked their lives drinking the blood of slain giants, hoping to inherit Gilgamesh's strength. All had died in agony—save only those rare "divine blood" beings granted by godlike design. Perhaps the corrupt blood of these Eldritch Eyes might be a new source of power.
When Medeia and her two companions returned to the camp, the chieftain sat collapsed on his hide throne, trembling with despair.
"You are mad! Do you know what you've done?!" he bellowed.
"I am not mad," Medeia replied, voice low but fierce. "We have no other path. Better to fight for survival than await oblivion. We must create the next hero‑king—someone to restore our civilization's glory. That is the only way our kind endures."
The chieftain shook his head bitterly. "Only the legendary divine blood can grant true power. And this abomination's blood—filthy, brutal—would surely invoke the god's wrath."
"Power knows no morality," Medeia countered, her tone husky with conviction. She looked down at her father. "Even divine blood can corrupt, turning heroes into tyrants who challenge the Creator. But this creature's power, though born of darkness, could protect us if wielded wisely. It is unlike any giant‑beast blood we've ever known."
"You—Medeia—you are fearless!" the chieftain rasped, torn between horror and awe.
He inhaled raggedly, weighing his daughter's audacious proposal. His decision would seal the tribe's fate.
After a long silence, he lowered his head and wept. "But we have no more strong men to test this blood," he choked out. Generations of sacrificial hunts had decimated their numbers. Brave warriors had died in agony, leaving behind a dwindling tribe—still too weak to rebuild.
Medeia met his grief with resolute calm. "Then let the women volunteer. Men have always protected us. Now it is our turn to step forward—even if it means death. We will shrink our burdened tribe, yes—but in doing so, we kindle a new hope."
Her words hung heavy in the still air. By dawn, torches blazed atop the camp's high platform as Medeia summoned the entire tribe.
"If we refuse to perish!" she cried, voice echoing across the assembly."If we seek to reclaim the glory of Sumer!""If we wish for a new hero‑king to guide our people!"
She raised her voice again, steady and defiant: "Death will not crush our spirit! Gilgamesh taught us that humanity's struggle against nature is a history of courage and song—that is why we record history. Today, history will record our courage!"
Below her, hundreds of women stood in solemn silence, clutching children and spouses. All knew the near certainty of doom. That night, countless farewells were whispered as wives and mothers resolved to volunteer.
By morning, over four hundred bodies lay scattered across the swamp's edge—horrific testament to their sacrifice. Only three survived the bloodletting: Medeia herself and two other women named Cersei and Cassandra. These three would be immortalized on Babylon's ancient stone murals.
In those sacred depictions—later revered as The Three Witches—the trio stands triumphant amid a sea of corpses, each holding aloft a blazing torch. They became the bearers of civilization's flame.
Thus began Babylon's Witch Era. Medeia, the War Witch, wielded raw psychic power to guide warriors in battle against giant beasts. Cassandra, the Spring Witch, tended to her people with herbcraft and healing, shepherding livestock and healing the sick. Cersei, the Curse Witch, embodied dark seduction: her hypnotic gaze lured men to their doom in moments of passion, making her both feared and reviled.
Though many sought to eliminate Cersei's tyranny, her unique power was indispensable for the tribe's survival. Women's status soared; the Three Witches were simultaneously worshipped and feared—symbols of strength, mystery, and awe.
From that day forth, Babylon's destiny was shaped by three extraordinary women—guardians of their tribe, wielders of dark and wondrous power, and the architects of a new age.