"But more of them are coming!"
A hunter's voice broke the silence as he pointed toward the far side of the black swamp. More of the grotesque, tentacled eyeball monsters crept forward, their slimy appendages dragging their frail bodies across the muck.
Though physically weak and agonizingly slow, these aberrations wielded a terrifying, incomprehensible power. Once surrounded, escape was all but impossible.
"Even if it costs us our lives—we must kill at least one!"
Medea surged forward, stone spear in hand. The bravest warrior in the tribe, she didn't hesitate. She struck with full force.
Boom!
The monstrous eye exploded on impact. A sharp, infantile wail—like a baby's scream—ripped through the air as the beast burst into a puddle of viscous, stinking fluid. The stench was unbearable. It splattered across Medea's face, sticky and acidic.
"Take it away!" she barked, yanking the corpse's slime-covered tentacle. She turned to retreat—but it was too late.
Seven or eight more Evil Eyes had already surrounded her.
Her expression twisted.
"Follow me! We kill our way out!"
What followed was a brutal massacre.
Nearly thirty of the tribe's finest warriors had marched into the swamp. By the time the sun set, only three remained.
They had lingered too long, misjudging the enemy. Now, the price was blood.
"All of them… they're gone."
Medea, proud and unshakable, wept openly. She looked at the two bloodied survivors beside her and knew what this meant.
The tribe was dying.
Years of fighting beasts and starvation had thinned their numbers. Out of nearly a thousand tribespeople, only a hundred healthy males remained. The rest were old, infirm, or wounded.
And now—a third of those men were dead.
Extinction loomed.
"Our doom was always coming," Medea muttered, staring down at the twitching tentacle in her hand. "At least this time, we made it count."
The Evil Eye's blood glowed faintly, pulsing with unnatural power.
For generations, warriors had tried to consume the blood of mighty beasts, seeking the divine might of the Hero King Gilgamesh—hoping to protect the tribe.
All had failed. They died in agony. Only the mythical Blood of the Conqueror, gifted by the gods, had ever worked.
"Maybe this," she whispered, "this corrupted blood… maybe it can become our second Conqueror's Blood."
When Medea returned, her father nearly collapsed.
"Have you lost your mind?! Do you know what you've done?!"
The chieftain, a broad-shouldered man in black pelt, rose from his carved chair, trembling with fury.
"I'm not mad," Medea said calmly. She stood straight, facing the storm. "We can't afford to wait for death. It's time we bet everything."
She held the beast's pulsing blood aloft.
"We must create a second Hero King. Someone who will lead us out of the abyss."
"That's impossible."
The chieftain's voice was low and bitter. "Only the gods' elixir can grant such power. And that thing…" He gestured at the tentacle with revulsion. "That thing is vile. Even if it works, it will bring divine wrath."
"Power is not good or evil," Medea said, her tone darkening. "Gilgamesh had holy power, but he used it to rebel against the gods. Even corrupted strength can be used for good, if guided by the right heart."
She took a step forward.
"This creature is weaker than us—yet it holds unimaginable power. If we can harness it..."
"You dare—!"
The chieftain staggered back, caught between fury and despair.
This decision would define an era. His grandfather, Utnapishtim, had saved the tribe with Noah's Ark, guiding survivors into a new age. Now, that torch of civilization burned in his own trembling hands.
But he knew the truth: ideals were meaningless if the tribe ceased to exist.
He exhaled slowly.
"But we don't have enough people left," he said. "Not enough to risk such a gamble."
"Yes," Medea admitted, "we can't afford to lose more men. But we have women. Children. The elderly. For years, the men protected us. Now, it's our turn."
She looked him in the eyes, voice steady.
"If many of us die, we become less of a burden. Perhaps that's not a loss—but a necessity. This time, we sacrifice ourselves."
The tent fell silent.
By nightfall, the entire tribe gathered beneath the pale moon, torches burning in the wind. Medea stood atop a stone platform.
Her voice rang out like thunder:
"If you don't want to vanish into history—!"
"If you dream of restoring Sumerian glory—!"
"If you wish for a second Hero King to rise—!"
"Then fight! Let history remember this day!"
Her words echoed through the dark. Women clutched their sickly children. No one spoke.
They all knew the truth: this was a suicide mission.
Most of them didn't sleep that night.
The next morning, they kissed their husbands goodbye. Their children wept.
And then, they marched to the site of the test.
They had nothing left but themselves.
If no one could protect them—then they would protect themselves.
The field ran red with blood and pain. One after another, the women drank the Evil Eye's blood. Screams tore through the air. Body after body crumpled.
In the end, four hundred lay dead.
Only three survived.
Medea. Circe. Cassandra.
Centuries later, their legend would be carved into ancient stone.
Three women, standing tall in a sea of corpses, holding aloft a blazing torch. Behind them: endless bodies. Before them: the future.
That mural would be named The Three Witches.
It marked the rebirth of a dying people.
In the days that followed, the witches led the tribe into a new era.
Their minds evolved. They gained psychic powers—mental interference, heightened perception, and eerie insight.
They became the tribe's greatest defense against the beasts.
But power came at a cost.
Their mental waves were unstable. Were they to lie with a man, the ecstasy could shatter his mind.
They remained celibate.
Medea, the Witch of War, wielded her wooden staff in battle, leading hunts and defending the people.
Cassandra, the Witch of Spring, healed the sick, cultivated herbs, and guided the tribe's women and children.
And then there was Circe.
Once married, she had accidentally killed her husband in a moment of pleasure. Now, she craved intimacy she could no longer safely experience.
She began to use her psychic charm to lure men into her tent. Many died—drained of life, their minds fractured beyond repair.
Whispers turned to curses.
But no one dared move against her.
She cursed any man who defied her. Their eyes hollowed. Their hair fell out. Their minds cracked.
Circe became a figure of dread.
Neither Medea nor Cassandra could stop her. They needed her power too desperately.
Under Circe's shadow, women's status began to rise. Men feared the witches—symbols of power, mystery, and fear.
Thus began the Age of Witches.
And the ancient record, The Spear of Witchcraft, inscribed:
"The Babylonian tribe, decimated by beasts, turned to the blood of aberrations. From death came the three witches: Medea, the Witch of War, who led with fire and spear. Circe, the Witch of Ruin, who cursed with lust and shadow. Cassandra, the Witch of Spring, who nurtured life and guarded hope."