The Babylonian Tribe.
In the time it took Xu Zhi to finish lunch, another ten years had passed within the sandbox.
The tribe had flourished.
Though the three witches were far weaker than Gilgamesh, they had nonetheless managed to defend their homeland from the colossal beasts. Humanity had now carved out a place for itself—no longer at the bottom of the food chain, but not yet at the top.
They couldn't repel the most terrifying monsters, but neither could any ordinary beast treat them as prey. Even the mighty ones had to pay a heavy price if they dared attack the tribe.
Women worked the fields, tending to crops under the sun.
In the distance, hunters draped in animal pelts dismembered the corpse of a slain beast.
With their safety secured, the tribe began an urgent expansion, hoping to birth more children who could inherit the power of the Evil Eye. More witches meant greater protection.
Deep in the mountains, in a secluded glen veiled by mist, the Ameya spring shimmered like something from a dream. Lush green grasses blanketed the earth, and wildflowers bloomed in abundance. Amidst the ethereal haze, three women bathed. Their skin was flawless and pale as snow, their figures graceful and divine—goddesses from myth come to life.
More than a decade had passed, and the three witches were now in their thirties.
The Bugapes rarely lived past forty. Most of their childhood friends were either dead or nearing the end. Yet the passage of time had barely touched them. They remained youthful, as lithe and radiant as teenage girls.
Gilgamesh had lived over two hundred years after absorbing a second gene. For the witches, this was just the beginning of a long and transcendent existence.
Medea, the cold and resolute witch of warfare, lounged in the crystalline waters. She stretched her smooth legs with a languid grace. "Melissa passed away last night," she murmured. "Our sister who once explored the world with us… who stood by our side in childhood, searching for a way to defeat the beasts—she's now a graying old woman."
Beside her, Cassandra gently brushed the water's surface with her fingers. She was the nurturing witch, the caretaker of livestock and herbs. Her voice was quiet, tinged with melancholy. "She died surrounded by children and grandchildren. That's a beautiful ending, really. But I've come to realize something: the world changes… yet only the bond between us three remains eternal. We alone remain untouched by time."
Circe swam closer, her eyes glittering with mischief. "Oh? The great guardian goddesses of Babylon live in such noble solitude. Are you envious of ordinary girls with husbands and children?"
Her pale fingers glided along her sisters' backs, teasing and playful. "You've never known the touch of a man. That's why you're so aloof. If you want, I can show you what it means to feel pleasure… as a woman should."
Medea and Cassandra recoiled, stepping away with wary expressions. Their voices were cold and firm.
"Circe, show some respect. We want no part in your debauchery."
Circe's smile deepened, her tone silk-soft and dangerous. "Why does it matter? I can give you what no man can—without risking his life. I'm not weak like them. Even if you lose control, I'll survive."
But her sisters didn't waver. They knew what Circe was trying to do—tempt them, corrupt them, lure them into sharing her fall.
Long ago, after witnessing Circe's descent, the two had vowed to uphold a sacred code. They created the Three Iron Laws of the Witches:
Before undergoing the trial of the Evil Eye, a witch must be chaste and swear an oath to forsake love.
After becoming a witch, carnal acts are forbidden. A witch must not approach men. If she loses her chastity, she will fall. The Lord will abandon her, and she will become a wicked witch.
A witch must never abuse her powers to harm others.
Circe had violated all three.
Once, she had a husband. Her lust consumed her, and she began to prey on the men of the tribe.
To prevent another Circe, they enforced complete separation between witches and men.
A witch's mental power was overwhelming. If she lost control during intimacy, her partner would die. Lifelong celibacy was the price of power.
Over the last decade, four new witches had emerged—born from hundreds of deaths. They followed the Iron Laws with unwavering discipline and became guardian deities to four subtribes.
It wasn't for lack of trying—many brave men had attempted to inherit the power of the Evil Eye. But the blood was fickle. Women had a far greater chance of success.
Still, one man had succeeded.
The first male wizard in history was born.
Circe was ecstatic.
By then, her name had become a whisper of death and dread. Every man she seduced died in bliss, their minds shattered by the pleasure of a single night.
Despite her attempts to restrain herself, a few men inexplicably died every month.
The wizard gave her hope. Finally, a partner strong enough to withstand her.
He lasted a full week.
Then his mind broke, and he died.
His death cast a shadow over the hearts of the men. They understood.
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 the grim truth:
They had been reduced to breeding stock.