The Babylonian tribe.
By the time Felix finished his lunch, another ten years had passed inside the sandbox.
The tribe had flourished.
Though the three witches were far weaker than Gilgamesh had been, they were still powerful enough to defend their homeland from most colossal beasts. Humanity had finally carved out a foothold in this brutal world—no longer at the very bottom of the food chain, yet still far from standing at its peak.
They could not repel the most terrifying monsters, but neither could ordinary beasts treat them as prey. Even the strongest predators would pay a heavy price if they dared attack the tribe.
Women worked the fields beneath the sun, tending crops with practiced hands. In the distance, hunters draped in animal pelts dismantled the corpse of a fallen beast, preparing meat and bones for use.
With safety finally secured, the tribe began to expand urgently. Children were born in greater numbers, each carrying the hope of inheriting the power of the Evil Eye. More witches meant greater protection. Survival demanded it.
Deep in the mountains, hidden within a mist-veiled valley, lay the Ameya Spring.
Crystal-clear water shimmered like a dream. Lush grass carpeted the earth, and wildflowers bloomed in riotous color. Within the hazy steam of the spring, three women bathed.
Their skin was pale as snow, flawless and radiant. Their figures were graceful, their presence otherworldly—like goddesses stepped out of ancient myth.
More than a decade had passed. The three witches were now in their thirties.
Among the Bugapes, few lived past forty. Most of their childhood companions were already dead or withering with age. Yet time barely touched the witches. They remained youthful, slender, and radiant—no different from girls in their prime.
Gilgamesh had lived more than two hundred years after absorbing a second gene.
For the witches, this was only the beginning.
Medea, the Witch of War, reclined in the clear waters. Her expression was cold and resolute as ever as she stretched her long legs lazily.
"Melissa passed away last night," she said quietly. "Our sister who once explored the world with us… who searched for ways to defeat the beasts at our side. She grew old. She died."
Beside her, Cassandra gently traced ripples across the water's surface. The Witch of Spring lowered her eyes, her voice soft and heavy with sorrow.
"She died surrounded by children and grandchildren. That's a good ending."
She paused.
"But the world keeps changing… and only the three of us remain unchanged. Time passes everyone by—except us."
Circe drifted closer through the water, her eyes glinting with amusement.
"Oh?" she laughed softly. "The noble guardian goddesses of Babylon, lamenting mortal lives. Are you jealous of ordinary women? Of husbands and children?"
Her pale fingers slid teasingly across their backs.
"You've never known a man's touch. That's why you're so distant. If you want… I can teach you what pleasure truly feels like."
Medea and Cassandra immediately withdrew, faces hardening.
"Circe," Medea said coldly, "show restraint. We want nothing to do with your depravity."
Circe's smile only deepened, dangerous and indulgent.
"Why pretend?" she replied softly. "I can give you pleasure without risking a man's life. I'm not weak like them. Even if you lose control, I'll survive."
Her sisters did not answer.
They knew what she was doing—tempting them, trying to drag them down the same path she had fallen into.
Long ago, after witnessing Circe's descent, Medea and Cassandra had established the Three Iron Laws of the Witches:
Before undergoing the trial of the Evil Eye, a witch must remain chaste and swear to abandon romantic love.
After becoming a witch, carnal acts are forbidden. A witch must not approach men. If she breaks this vow, she will fall, be abandoned by the Lord, and become a wicked witch.
A witch must never abuse her powers to harm others.
Circe had broken all three.
Once, she had a husband. Consumed by desire, she began preying on the men of the tribe. To prevent another Circe from being born, strict separation between witches and men was enforced.
A witch's mental power was overwhelming. If she lost control during intimacy, her partner would die.
Celibacy was the price of power.
Over the past decade, four new witches had emerged—born from hundreds of deaths. They obeyed the Iron Laws without question and became guardian deities of four sub-tribes.
It wasn't for lack of effort. Many brave men had tried to inherit the power of the Evil Eye.
They all failed.
The blood was fickle. Women had a far higher chance of success.
Still, one man succeeded.
The first wizard in history was born.
Circe was ecstatic.
By then, her name had become a whisper of fear. Every man she seduced died in bliss, his mind shattered in a single night. Even when she tried to restrain herself, men continued to die—one or two every month.
The wizard gave her hope.
At last, someone who could endure her.
He lasted one week.
Then his mind collapsed. He died.
His death crushed the last illusions of the men.
They understood the truth.
They had lost their place.
Their strength was no longer enough. Their dreams of protecting the tribe were over.
That day, the warriors of Babylon accepted a grim reality:
They had been reduced to breeding stock.