era of witches

"More of them are closing in!"

A hunter's voice rang out from the edge of the black swamp as he pointed toward the slithering mass beyond. Dozens of tentacled, one-eyed monstrosities were creeping closer, dragging themselves through the sludge on slimy limbs.

Though their movements were slow and almost pathetic, the power they possessed was terrifying. If you let yourself be surrounded—

"Even if it costs us our lives, we must bring one of them down!"

Medea didn't hesitate. Spear in hand, she charged forward like a storm breaking against the stillness.

Boom!

Her stone spear struck home, piercing the grotesquely large eye of one of the creatures. With a sound like a newborn's shriek twisted into agony, the monster erupted in a spray of thick, black ichor. It coated her face, the stench unbearable.

"Grab it! Take the corpse!" Medea shouted, yanking the slimy tendrils in one hand.

But she was already too deep.

Seven... eight more Evil Eyes surrounded her, closing in with eerie silence. She narrowed her eyes.

"Follow me! We fight our way out!"

The battle that followed was carnage.

The tribe's finest warriors—nearly thirty of them—fought with savage desperation. But it wasn't enough. Their moment of hesitation, their delay... it had doomed them.

One by one, the warriors fell beneath the hypnotic gaze and lashing tentacles.

In the end, only three survivors escaped the swamp alive.

Medea was one of them.

Despite her strength, her tears ran freely as she looked at the bloodied corpses of her comrades and the two exhausted warriors who stood beside her.

Over the past few years, they had already lost most of the tribe's men to famine, disease, and hunting the beasts of the wild. Out of nearly a thousand people, barely a hundred healthy males remained. And now, they had lost a third of them in one day.

The tribe was on the brink of extinction.

---

Medea looked at the mangled corpse of the Evil Eye she'd dragged with her.

"We were going to die eventually... it was only a matter of time. At least this way, we wagered it all." Her voice trembled with exhaustion and grim resolve. "I pray this blood was worth the cost."

For years, warriors had consumed the blood of beasts in hopes of awakening powers like those of the Hero King Gilgamesh. None had survived. Only those blessed with the Blood of the Conqueror, the divine elixir, had succeeded.

But maybe... maybe these aberrant monsters were different.

Maybe their blood carried the spark of something new.

"Perhaps," she whispered, "this will be our second chance."

---

When Medea returned to the tribe, dragging the monster's corpse, her father—the chieftain—nearly collapsed from the sight.

"Have you gone mad?!" he roared, leaping from his high chair of furs. "Do you understand what you've done?!"

Medea stood tall in the center of the tent, mud and blood caked across her arms. "I'm not mad," she said evenly. "We're out of time. Waiting will kill us just as surely. It's time to act. It's time to create a second Hero King, even if we must walk through hell to do it."

The chieftain's fists clenched. "That creature... that thing is not from God. It's abominable. Even if we could take its power, the gods would curse us for it!"

Medea stepped forward, her voice low and firm. "Power is neither holy nor wicked. Only those who wield it decide what it becomes. Gilgamesh held divine power, and he defied the gods themselves. If evil power can be turned to good—if it can save our people—then I will take it."

She pointed to the Evil Eye corpse. "That thing was weak. Fragile. But it killed us—us, the hunters of the tribe—with barely a thought. That power... is unnatural. And if something so pitiful can gain strength that rivals gods, then so can we."

"Medea, enough!" her father snapped.

But his anger faltered.

He looked at her—this girl who now stood in the center of the tent like a warrior queen—and he wavered.

He was no fool. The fate of the tribe, of their entire civilization, hung by a thread.

His grandfather, Utnapishtim, had led their ancestors through the Great Flood. Had built Noah's Ark. Had brought survivors to dry land.

Now, as the current chieftain, the torch had been passed to him. He had sworn to protect them. And if doing that meant making impossible choices... so be it.

"Even if I agree," he said hoarsely, "we don't have enough men left to risk this. They're too few—and too vital."

Medea took a long breath.

"Then we will not ask the men to bear this burden."

Her voice echoed like prophecy.

"The time has come for the women of our tribe to take up the sword of sacrifice. Men have protected us for generations. Now, we must protect them. If our deaths ensure the tribe's future... then so be it."

Silence filled the tent.

Outside, a cold wind stirred the trees.

---

That night, the tribe gathered beneath flickering torches. Medea stood high above them, her figure framed in firelight.

"If you don't want to go extinct..." she called out, her voice like thunder, "If you still dream of restoring our glory... If you wish to see another Hero King rise... then come forward!

"Let us carve a new age from blood and ash. As Gilgamesh once said—mankind's struggle against nature is a saga of passion and courage. Let this day be written into history!"

Below her, the tribe listened in solemn silence.

Mothers clutched sickly children. Widows stood tall. The young looked toward the fire, their eyes glistening with tears they refused to shed.

They all knew the truth: few, if any, would survive.

But they stepped forward anyway.

---

The next morning, dozens of women embraced their families. Their children cried, and their husbands wept silently, knowing they could do nothing to stop what was coming.

That day, the blood-soaked trial began.

One by one, the women drank from the Evil Eye's ichor.

And one by one, they fell.

The ground ran slick with blood. Screams echoed across the valley.

Four hundred women died in agony, twisted by power they couldn't contain.

But three survived.

Medea.

Circe.

Cassandra.

Their names would be etched into eternity.

---

In time, the tribesmen carved their image into ancient stone.

Three women stood tall amid a field of corpses, their torches blazing against the night. Blood at their feet, light in their eyes. That sacred mural came to be known as:

The Three Witches.

It was the day Babylon changed forever.

The torch of civilization had passed.

From death, a new world had been born.

---

Medea—the Witch of War—became the tribe's sword. She fought at the frontlines, her psychic abilities turning monsters to cowards.

Cassandra—the Witch of Spring—became the healer. She taught medicine, raised livestock, and nurtured life.

Circe—the Witch of Ruin—fell into darkness. Once a married woman, she killed her husband in the throes of passion, unable to control her psychic waves. She became addicted to the pleasure, seducing men into her tent at night, then shattering their minds.

Soon, men began dying under mysterious circumstances.

The tribe whispered her name with dread. Circe. The cursed. The temptress. The nightmare.

Those who resisted her fell ill. Their eyes dimmed. Their hair thinned. She placed curses upon them with but a glance.

And yet, the tribe could not kill her.

They needed her power.

And so, the Age of Witches began.

Women ruled.

Men bowed.

Mystery, fear, and reverence surrounded the three.

And etched into legend was the prophecy of their rise:

---

The Spear of Witchcraft

The Babylonian tribe, shattered by beasts, turned to the cursed blood of the Evil Eye. And from that sacrifice rose three:

Medea, the Witch of War, who led men into battle.

Cassandra, the Witch of Spring, who healed the land.

Circe, the Witch of Ruin, who sowed terror and desire.

From blood came power. From pain, a new era. Thus began the reign of the witches.