"Your Highnesses…"
A young witch stood trembling beside them, tears streaming down her face. She understood what this moment meant—why the two legendary guardian goddesses of Babylon had come to the Temple of Wisdom at the very end of their lives.
"Lilith," Medea said gently, "you are the kingdom's next ruler. You must not cry."
Her voice was soft, steady. Draped in a black robe etched with glowing blue runes, the Witch of War stood before the towering statue of the God of Wisdom, her posture calm and dignified.
"O Great God of Wisdom… in the end, we have failed you," Medea said quietly. "We foolish mortals could not take that final step. We could not glimpse the ultimate mystery of alchemy, nor open the Gate of Truth."
"O thrice-exalted Hermes… we have failed."
Beside her, Cassandra wore a sorrowful yet gentle smile. Pale sunlight washed over her features as she lifted her eyes toward the sky.
"The end is near. So many years have passed," she murmured. "The three witches you once taught—each walked her own path. And now, we've reached our journey's end. Circe… I suppose you're no different. What a pity we won't see each other again."
A sudden shout broke the stillness.
"Reporting!"
A palace guard hurried forward, kneeling as he presented a parchment made of treated hide.
Medea accepted it, unfolding it slowly. The tension in her brow eased, replaced by a wistful smile.
"She couldn't forget us in the end," she said softly. "Look… Circe wrote us a letter."
"Oh, Circe…"
Cassandra took the letter, her expression complicated. As she read, she could almost see that familiar mischievous smile. Pain stirred in her chest. For centuries, they had been sisters-in-arms.
"So… it's your time too, huh?"
Outside the Temple of Wisdom, the vast stone plaza of the Babylonian Royal Palace was packed with countless citizens. Thousands knelt, weeping openly.
"The three god-queens… they're leaving this world!"
The news spread like wildfire. All of Babylon plunged into mourning. White silk hung from every doorway, and ancient funeral songs echoed through the streets.
Children gathered into choirs, their clear voices singing laments passed down through generations.
They sang of the Three Witches.
Though their martial might could not rival the Hero King Gilgamesh, in the hearts of the people, their deeds were divine.
They were the angels who had guided humanity.
Medea, the Witch of War—who led armies to victory in an age of chaos.
Cassandra, the Witch of Spring—who nurtured life, healed the sick, and protected livestock.
And Circe, the renegade Witch of Ruin—bringer of curses and calamity, yet also a pioneer who had etched her name into history with undeniable achievements.
Circe did not return for the end. Instead, she sent only a letter.
"If Circe had come back," someone whispered, "she would have stood proudly beside her sisters in the royal palace. No one would've dared raise a hand against her. She deserved that honor."
The crowd fell silent.
Even those who had once feared or hated Circe could not deny her greatness now.
Her sins could not outweigh her legacy.
The Three Witches had risen from a time of blood and fire.
They were the sole survivors of a catastrophe that wiped out every other woman in their tribe. When extinction loomed, they stepped forward.
They faced the tribe's greatest trial together—the monstrous Baboko. In that savage battle, Medea transcended herself, conceiving Heaven's Hammer between life and death, a spell that slew the beast in a single blow and reshaped history.
They laid the foundations of Meditation, Magic, and Alchemy.
They compiled sacred tomes—A Beginner's Guide to Meditation and Magic and The Occult Gate of Truth—forever changing the course of human knowledge.
They led humanity to tame forests, hunt beasts, and carve civilization from wilderness.
Their accomplishments were countless.
They ushered in the age of magic. They raised humanity from prey to predator, from scattered tribes to a mighty kingdom. They defied fate, challenged nature, and reached for the divine.
Some claimed they were no less than Gilgamesh himself.
And yet—even they could not escape the end.
"You must not grieve for us," Medea said softly.
"Humans cannot escape aging, illness, and death," Cassandra added. "We are no different."
The two witches exchanged a final smile.
Beneath the colossal statue of Hermes, they raised their eyes to the endless blue sky. Crystal tears shimmered on their cheeks.
"If only we could see the God of Wisdom one last time before we die," Medea whispered. "Then we would have no regrets."
"We came here only to apologize," Cassandra said gently. "We could not complete alchemy. We failed your expectations."
"O God… will you come to us one final time? Or do you fear that we seek to slay the divine?"
At that moment, Felix sat quietly at the doorway of his home, lunchbox in hand.
He chewed on a carrot and sighed.
"You've done more than enough," he murmured. "You're exceptional. You moved the hearts of mortals and pioneered an entire era."
"If not for you, I wouldn't even be able to cultivate right now. I'm the incompetent one here—not you."
"You shouldn't die believing yourselves fools."
No one was truly unfeeling.
Not Gilgamesh. Not the witches who defied heaven.
And not Felix.
He wanted to meet them one last time—but he couldn't. To enter the sandbox again as the Beast of Wisdom would require shutting it down and evolving a new species. Hours he didn't have.
"Since I can't meet you before the end…"
He closed his lunchbox.
"Then let me do this much."
Felix picked up a watering can. A few drops of rose oil stained the water crimson.
With deliberate grace, he sprinkled it across the land.
"By my will—at the moment of the Three Witches' passing—let blood rain from the heavens, let the scent of flowers fill the air, and let the entire world weep!"
BOOM!
His voice thundered across the world.
The divine proclamation echoed through the sky and pierced every heart in Babylon.
"This… this is!?"
"A miracle!"
"It's the voice of the Great God of Wisdom—Mercury!"
Medea turned her tear-filled face skyward.
Pitter-patter.
Crimson rain fell from the heavens. The air filled with the fragrance of roses.
"The rain… it smells sweet."
Medea and Cassandra stood beneath the falling blood-rain, serene smiles on their faces. A gentle happiness bloomed within them.
Felix bent down, plucked a flower, and etched letters into its stem with a knife, his movements precise beyond human skill.
With a flick of his wrist—
WHOOSH!
The flower shot forward like a spear, flying over ten meters before landing at the center of the plaza.
"By my will—at the moment of their passing, a great flower shall descend from the heavens to honor the glory of the Three Witches!"
BOOM!
The sky cracked open.
From the sea of clouds, a colossal flower—hundreds of meters tall—descended and took root in the plaza, rivaling the royal palace itself.
"A flower… that big!?"
Newly initiated witches stared in awe.
Medea and Cassandra, lovers of beauty, wept openly.
Even knowing the vastness of divine power, this gesture pierced their hearts.
"God of Wisdom," they whispered, "we would serve you for all eternity… but we are about to die."
"I cannot save you from death," Felix said softly. "Only you can do that. This is all I can give."
He turned on his phone.
Click.
Beethoven's Symphony of Fate began to play.
"Just as the Creator once answered Gilgamesh's final questions… I will grant you the same."
"By my will—at the hour of their death—let heaven sing a requiem, and let all the world mourn their passing!"
The skies trembled.
The world shuddered.
And the symphony echoed across the land.
"This… this is the music of heaven!"
"What a divine melody… like a river pouring from the sky!"
The majestic music swept through Babylon—struggle, defiance, triumph.
A requiem for heroes.