"But more of them are coming!"
A hunter's shout shattered the stillness as he pointed toward the far edge of the black swamp. From the mire, more grotesque eyeball monsters crawled forward—frail bodies dragged by slick, writhing tentacles.
They were slow. Weak.
And utterly terrifying.
Once their gaze locked on you, escape became a fantasy.
"Even if it costs us our lives," Medea said through clenched teeth, "we kill at least one!"
She charged.
Stone spear in hand, the bravest warrior of the tribe struck without hesitation.
Boom!
The eye burst like an overripe fruit. A shrill, infant-like wail ripped through the air as the creature collapsed into a pool of foul, viscous fluid. The stench burned the nose. Slime splattered across Medea's face, sticky and acrid.
"Take it!" she barked, wrenching free a slime-coated tentacle.
She turned to retreat—
Too late.
Seven or eight Evil Eyes had already closed in.
Medea's expression hardened.
"Follow me. We cut our way out."
What followed was slaughter.
Nearly thirty of the tribe's finest had entered the swamp. By sunset, only three walked out.
They had lingered too long. Misjudged the enemy.
Blood paid the difference.
"They're gone," Medea whispered.
Proud. Unyielding. She wept openly.
Beside her stood two survivors, broken and bleeding. The meaning was unavoidable.
The tribe was dying.
Years of famine and beasts had already reduced them to barely a thousand. Of those, only a hundred healthy men remained.
Now, a third were dead.
Extinction loomed close enough to breathe.
"Our end was always coming," Medea murmured, staring at the twitching tentacle in her grip. "At least this time… we made it mean something."
The blood within the limb pulsed faintly, glowing with an unnatural light.
For generations, warriors had tried to consume the blood of mighty beasts, chasing the legend of Gilgamesh—seeking the power that once protected their people.
All had failed. All had died screaming.
Only the mythical Blood of the Conqueror had ever worked.
"Maybe this," Medea whispered, "can become a second."
---
When she returned, her father nearly collapsed.
"Have you lost your mind?!"
The chieftain rose from his carved seat, black pelt draped over his shoulders, fury shaking his frame.
"I'm not mad," Medea replied calmly. "We can't wait for extinction. We gamble everything—or we vanish."
She raised the pulsing blood.
"We will create a second Hero King."
"That's impossible," he spat. "Only the gods' elixir grants such power. That thing is corruption. Even if it works, the heavens will punish us."
"Power isn't good or evil," Medea said quietly. "Gilgamesh had holy strength—and still defied the gods. Corruption can protect just as well, if wielded by the right will."
She stepped closer.
"That creature is weaker than us. And yet it kills effortlessly. If we can take that power—"
"You dare—!"
The chieftain faltered.
His grandfather, Utnapishtim, had saved their people once, guiding them through the Flood. Now the fate of civilization rested in his hands.
Ideals meant nothing if the tribe died.
He exhaled.
"We don't have enough men left."
"No," Medea agreed. "So we won't use men."
Silence.
"We have women. Children. The old. For years, the men protected us. Now it's our turn."
She met his gaze, unflinching.
"If many of us die, we lighten the tribe's burden. That may not be loss—only necessity."
The tent was deathly quiet.
---
That night, beneath a pale moon, the tribe gathered. Torches flickered in the wind. Medea stood atop a stone platform.
Her voice thundered.
"If you refuse to fade into history—
If you dream of restoring Sumerian glory—
If you wish for a second Hero King—
Then stand and fight!"
Women clutched their children. No one spoke.
They all understood.
This was a suicide ritual.
Few slept.
At dawn, wives kissed husbands goodbye. Children cried as their mothers turned away.
Then they marched.
Blood soaked the ground.
One by one, the women drank the Evil Eye's blood. Screams tore the sky. Bodies collapsed.
When it ended, four hundred lay dead.
Three remained standing.
Medea.
Circe.
Cassandra.
Centuries later, their image would be carved into stone: three women amid a sea of corpses, holding a blazing torch. Behind them—death. Before them—the future.
The mural would be called The Three Witches.
It marked the rebirth of a dying people.
---
In the days that followed, the tribe changed.
Their minds evolved. Psychic powers awakened—mental interference, heightened perception, eerie foresight.
They became the tribe's shield.
But power demanded payment.
Their psychic waves were unstable. Intimacy with men shattered minds.
They remained celibate.
Medea, Witch of War, led hunts with spear and staff.
Cassandra, Witch of Spring, healed the sick and guided the people.
And Circe—
Once married, she had killed her husband in a moment of pleasure.
Desire still burned.
She lured men into her tent with psychic charm. Many never returned—minds broken, lives drained.
Whispers turned to fear.
No one dared stop her.
She cursed those who resisted. Hair fell out. Eyes hollowed. Sanity cracked.
Circe became a nightmare.
Even Medea and Cassandra could not move against her. They needed her power too much.
Under the witches' shadow, women rose. Men learned fear.
Thus began the Age of Witches.
And the ancient record, The Spear of Witchcraft, inscribed:
> "From aberrant blood came salvation.
Medea, Witch of War, who led with flame and spear.
Circe, Witch of Ruin, who cursed with lust and shadow.
Cassandra, Witch of Spring, who guarded life and hope."