With each passing month, the City of Beginning transformed beyond recognition. The new walls, so recently a symbol of victory, now pressed against a teeming multitude. Survivors, artisans, scholars, families, and adventurers streamed in from every horizon. What began as a beacon for a battered humanity was becoming a victim of its own promise.
Where once I had known every face, now I was greeted daily by a flood of strangers—voices in unfamiliar dialects, laughter and arguments mingling in a dozen tongues, lines of wagons stretching back to the gates. Markets overflowed, the orphanage swelled, and every guild or association found itself overwhelmed by requests for training, aid, or simple guidance.
Our population had doubled, then tripled. In the space of a year, more than twelve thousand souls called our city home. Festivals grew grander, markets richer—but beneath the joy, cracks appeared: disputes over food and land, overcrowded streets, frustration in council meetings as problems multiplied faster than solutions.
Tie Lao, who bore the city's burdens like another hammer, spoke the simple truth over a mug of barley beer one night: "We built this place to nurture humanity, but if we try to shelter all the world here, we'll choke on our own success."
The city's council hall, once a room for calm debate, now felt more like a storm. Merchant guilds quarreled with farmers over stall space. Healer Lian pleaded for more beds in the infirmary. Adventure Guild leaders demanded a better system to match evolver tiers with beast-hunting tasks. Petitions stacked up—grievances, suggestions, complaints—higher than the city's best grain towers.
I watched the arguments swirl, tempers rise, hands slam tables. All around me, the city's best and brightest fought to solve problems that grew faster than the solutions we could craft.
At last, I rose and raised my hand for silence.
"We are not failing. We are succeeding too well. The City of Beginning was never meant to hold all of humanity. If we want civilization to flourish, we must plant new seeds beyond these walls."
My words settled heavily over the chamber. Some leaders frowned, fearing the loss of control. Others—Tie Lao, Hu Shan—nodded, recognizing truth.
I continued, "We must plan for the future—not just of this city, but for many cities. Each with its own strength, its own heart. We must survey the land, choose the best locations, and train new leaders and builders to carry our knowledge outward."
Hu Shan, never one to shrink from risk, grinned. "An adventurer's heart is always drawn to new horizons. I say we begin at once."
Elder Yu, her hand trembling, asked the question that weighed on every elder's heart: "But how do we keep peace and ensure the mistakes of the past are not repeated?"
It was a fair worry. I remembered the rise and fall of civilizations in another world—how ambition could build and destroy, how knowledge could be both gift and poison. But to stand still was to suffocate. I promised, "We will plant not just cities, but wisdom and justice. We will train not just warriors, but leaders and healers."
Thus, in the city's central square beneath banners of green and gold, the first "Pioneer Corps" assembled. They were a motley crowd—hunters, blacksmith apprentices, healers, young mothers, ambitious teens, spirit evolvers and ordinary folk alike. All were chosen for their courage, their will to build something greater than themselves.
I, Ye Caiqian, took personal charge of their earliest lessons. Every morning before sunrise, I walked among the rows, correcting stances for earth evolvers raising walls, guiding fire users lighting controlled forges, and teaching the first classes in mediation, law, and the importance of fairness.
"Remember," I said as dawn colored the rooftops, "you are not conquerors, but planters of seeds. Each decision must consider not just today, but the generations that follow. Fairness, order, compassion—these are the foundation stones of every city."
The Pioneer teams rotated through drills—digging irrigation, designing homestead lotteries, writing charters with scribes' guidance. At night, we debated justice, compromise, and the weight of leadership.
Tie Lao led smithing classes, teaching every pioneer to mend a plow or shoe a horse. Hu Shan ran "beast emergencies," testing teamwork and quick thinking. Healer Lian drilled teams in basic medicine—staunching wounds, purifying water, caring for the spirit as well as the body.
In a single season, the Pioneer Corps became a community—ready to carry our city's dream into the wild.
The Library's construction gripped the city's imagination. Every morning, citizens queued to haul stone, hew timber, or shape bronze plates for the archives. Artists competed to carve scenes of humanity's triumphs and lessons into the entryway's lintel. Each night, I heard their songs echo from scaffolding as the walls rose higher.
Inside, scribes and students bustled over parchment and paper, cataloguing every book, tale, and technique the city could spare. Elder Yu led a group of orphans in copying folk stories; the children's laughter drifted through the unfinished halls.
Tie Lao and the blacksmiths contributed dragon-bone beams, engraved with runes—part ward, part promise. Water evolvers dug a spring-fed well so no scribe would ever thirst.
At the Library's heart was its Hall of Questions, open to all. Here, children debated which beast made the best companion; farmers puzzled over seasons; merchants sought wisdom in resolving disputes. Ye Qiumei, my mother, led healing circles in the Library gardens, blending Life and Water techniques to restore not just bodies, but spirits.
When the roof was finally set, the entire city gathered for music, stories, and lanterns—each bearing a wish for knowledge, justice, or peace.
Yet even as the city cheered, doubt crept in. Many nights I wandered the Library's upper chamber, looking out at torches flickering along new streets, at laughter from distant kitchens, the clang of hammers, the soft hush of a lullaby.
Am I right to send knowledge beyond these walls? I wondered. Will these new leaders honor what we teach? Will wisdom truly guide them—or will power corrupt, as it always threatens? Will these seeds of civilization bear fruit, or become weeds, choking hope in their pride?
Memories from my past world haunted me—empires rising, ideals twisted into chains, the suffering of innocents in the name of progress. Sometimes, I longed to keep every lesson close, to guide each city personally, to be certain. But I knew such control would doom all I built the moment I was gone.
In those darkest hours, I visited the Hall of Questions, sitting among the children and elders. Their wonder, their hope, their relentless curiosity reminded me: humanity is not one person or city. It is the shared dream of all who seek light in the darkness.
As dawn crept over the horizon, I always returned to my chamber with renewed resolve. I must sow seeds, not chains. Let wisdom be free. Let humanity rise on its own legs.
With new resolve, I oversaw the final touches on the Library—its mission clear: to gather, preserve, and freely share all human knowledge. Its doors would remain open to all, its scribes sworn to neutrality.The Library's first collections were vast:
The Beast Materials Codex
The Laws and Customs of the City of Beginning
Manuals for every known elemental cultivation and affinity
Folk tales, maps, histories from every corner of the growing city
I personally inscribed my notes on Universal Affinity Physique and Physique Cultivation onto bronze plates to last the ages.
As the Library's lanterns were lit, I addressed the city:
"This Library belongs to all who seek wisdom, justice, and hope. From this foundation, humanity will grow—not as one city, but as a hundred, each rooted in knowledge and courage."
That night, lanterns blazed in every window—a signal to the world that the age of darkness was ending.
Months later, as the first Pioneer teams set out for the four chosen sites, I stood atop the Library's high balcony, heart swelling with pride and worry.
Would everything go as planned? Of course not. But with every law written, every lesson taught, every child learning to ask questions, the path grew brighter.
I closed my eyes and felt the city's spirit pulse—hope, unity, the hunger to build.Let this be the beginning, not just of our city, but of a new age for all humanity.