The weeks that followed the Fire Dragon's defeat were the most transformative in the City of Beginning's history. We had survived the impossible. Now, as the first cautious days of recovery faded into a restless, determined momentum, I could sense the city's soul shifting—like a forest after fire, burned but already sprouting new green.
In the first dawn after the dragon's fall, I stood atop the rubble of the north wall with my brothers and Tie Lao. Around us, hundreds of citizens picked through the remains of their homes, some in silence, some weeping, some already arguing over how best to clear the next pile of stone. The battered city had not been broken; it was only waiting for new purpose.
Council meetings grew longer. Instead of simply tallying the dead, we now debated where to set up the first tents, how to divide the food stores, which craftsmen would be needed to start forging bricks and mortar for a new, higher wall. The best blacksmiths—those who had survived the onslaught—bickered over blueprints for a gate that would never burn again.
Tie Lao, already back at work with a new set of crude crutches, barked orders to the stone-movers. "No slacking! Every rock you lift is a promise to the next generation!" Her stubborn spirit seemed to infect the rest; the work was never easy, but it never stopped.
By the second week, it was clear the old city's footprint was too small for what was coming. Survivors from outlying villages arrived daily—families dragging carts, scholars and traders clutching battered scrolls, even wandering healers hoping to study under Ye Qiumei's growing legend. Some came seeking safety. Others, opportunity.
It was Elder Yu who proposed the boldest idea. "Why should we rebuild the old boundaries?" she asked in council, voice strong despite her grief. "The world has changed. The City of Beginning must change with it."
So we did. The new wall's boundaries would encircle twice the area of the old city, swallowing up fields and even the burnt north woods where the dragon had fallen. Architects and earth evolvers worked side by side, sketching plans in the dirt and staking new perimeters. Farmers grumbled about their crops, but many saw promise: space for more homes, new gardens, open squares where children could play, and where the city's heart would beat brighter than ever.
Tie Lao and the blacksmiths began crafting the wall's framework with salvaged dragon bones, mixing its heat-toughened scales into the stone itself. "Let the world know," Tie Lao told every visitor who watched the work, "that this city was the first to fell a dragon. And may no one forget what we lost to win that right."
The skull of the Fire Dragon—once a symbol of terror—became our rallying point. Teams of adventurers and craftsmen spent days prying it loose from the ruined ground, cleaning it, and mounting it atop a new stone plinth at the city's northern gate. Children watched with wide eyes as the last horn was polished to a shine. Elders murmured prayers and blessings.
The monument was not just for awe or memory. It was a promise. Here, on this spot, humanity had faced its nightmare and prevailed. As word spread, the dragon's skull became a beacon—a destination for every wanderer, a story for every bard, a challenge for every would-be hero.
I stood before the skull with my mother and brothers on the day it was unveiled. "We are not slaves to fear," I declared, my voice echoing through the new stone square. "We are the makers of our own future."
The crowd cheered. Some wept openly. Tie Lao wiped her eyes with a filthy sleeve, muttering, "About time we had something to brag about."
As the city rose from the ashes, news of our victory raced across the land. Traders carried tales to distant villages: the City of Beginning had survived the beast wave, slain a dragon, and rebuilt stronger than ever. The story grew with every telling—sometimes I was described as a giant, sometimes as a sage, sometimes as a sorcerer who had summoned lightning from the heavens.
With the stories came visitors. Wandering scholars arrived, eager to witness the Academy's rebirth and to study the dragon's bones. Healers sought Ye Qiumei's guidance. Blacksmiths from a dozen villages joined Tie Lao's workshops, bringing new techniques and questions. Children came in droves, eyes wide, dreaming of becoming heroes or evolvers themselves.
The city's streets filled with new faces, new voices, new languages. There was tension at first—space was tight, food scarce, tempers frayed. But the council and guilds worked together, mediating disputes, assigning work, organizing the construction of temporary shelters beyond the new walls.
In the evenings, people gathered in the market square, sharing bread and stories, teaching songs of victory and remembrance. In those moments, I saw a new city taking shape—not just in stone, but in spirit.
By the end of the first month, it was clear: the City of Beginning was no longer just a place. It was an idea—a spark that had caught, promising hope to every human who still lived in fear of the wild, the beasts, and the unknown.
On the thirtieth night after the dragon's defeat, a festival was held around the skull monument. Lanterns floated above the walls. Musicians played, children sang, and elders led prayers for the dead and the living alike.
I stood with the council, Tie Lao at my side, Ye Qiumei holding my hand, my brothers smiling at the crowd. As the first lanterns drifted skyward, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders—a promise kept, for now.
But I knew the work was only beginning.
With every day, the world outside seemed to contract and focus on our city. It began with stragglers—solitary survivors from ruined hamlets or travelers fleeing still-hostile wilds. Soon came whole families, their possessions piled onto wagons or tied into blankets, seeking the safety of our walls. The greatest shift, however, was among the wanderers who arrived not only for sanctuary but for knowledge, power, and purpose.
The first delegation of scholars came from the distant riverside settlement of Yunshu. They arrived at sunrise, cloaked in brown and green, with packs full of ancient texts and homemade charts. At the city gate, I greeted them personally.
"We heard tales of your city's defense," their leader said, bowing deeply. "We have come not to trade but to learn."
Next were the blacksmiths of Dongjin, who marched with sturdy boots and arms like tree trunks. Led by the formidable Mistress Wang, they came with hopes of studying the dragon's bones and forging stronger weapons for the whole continent.
By the third week, the city was home to musicians, herbalists, poets, and scouts. A group of spirit evolvers—brothers and sisters who had developed strange new powers in the aftermath of the beast wave—petitioned for a place in the Academy. The stories had drawn them like moths to flame.
Accommodating this flood was a challenge of its own. Council meetings stretched into the night as we debated:
Who would be housed in the newly built neighborhoods?
How to ration food fairly until the first harvest of the expanded fields?
Which visiting healers would train under Ye Qiumei, and who would teach in turn?
Whether to grant adventurers citizenship or limit them to temporary visitor status.
In every answer, we found opportunity. The city grew richer—not in gold, but in ideas, methods, and stories. Each new arrival brought a unique tradition or technique. Some shared old folk remedies; others taught new songs or methods of bricklaying, or even unique ways of tracking the spirit beasts that still prowled the borderlands.
We set up public kitchens, expanded the academy's teaching staff, and organized "welcome days" where newcomers could meet with council members and guild leaders. At night, the city hummed with dozens of languages and dialects. Disputes flared but were quickly resolved, as the spirit of unity and shared struggle prevailed.
Amid the clamor and rebuilding, certain traditions crystalized into something more. Every dawn, a gathering was held at the Dragon Skull Monument. Here, the city's leaders would recount news, issue announcements, and let travelers offer tidings from distant lands.
Tie Lao turned these meetings into informal "challenge matches," where blacksmiths and young evolvers might display their new skills before a rapt crowd. These became sources of pride and good-natured rivalry—one smith's fire manipulation, another's earth-forging, a third's ability to temper metal with a touch.
Ye Qiumei, in her role as chief healer, started an "Open Ward" at the Academy, where healers of all elements could come together to treat the sick and wounded, exchange knowledge, and record new techniques. Every patient healed was a testament to the city's evolving power.
As for myself, I spent my days among the people—teaching children in the square, listening to newcomers' stories, learning from distant scholars, and meeting every new challenge head-on. My name became a rallying cry, a symbol for those who had once only known despair.
To commemorate the completion of the city's new wall and the mounting of the Fire Dragon's skull, the council decreed a festival: the Festival of Lanterns. It was the first time since the attack that the whole city gathered in joy rather than mourning.
As night fell, lanterns—each bearing the names of the lost and the hopes of the living—were released into the sky. The city square filled with laughter, music, and the fragrance of a hundred shared meals. Children ran in circles around the monument, clutching carved wooden dragons and singing songs of bravery.
Wanderers who had planned only to pass through found themselves weeping beside new friends. Musicians from Yunshu and Dongjin played side by side, and a chorus of a thousand voices rose into the night.
Standing before the crowd, I spoke not as a hero or a lord, but as one among many:
"This city stands because we all stood together. Let our lanterns be promises—never to let darkness return, never to forget what unity and courage can achieve."
In the months that followed, word of the City of Beginning's rebirth swept across the continent. Settlements once isolated began to send envoys, letters, and—sometimes—their bravest young men and women to study or settle.
Some brought warnings. From the west, rumors of gathering beast tribes. From the south, tales of other awakened evolvers—some helpful, some dangerous. But the mood in the city was no longer one of fear, but of readiness, curiosity, and determination.
With every sunrise, the City of Beginning felt less like a single city and more like the beating heart of a new age for all humanity. We had faced the impossible, and now we dreamed even bigger dreams.