Five years. In the blink of an eye, the world I'd once known as a child—one of crude huts, smoky firepits, and uncertain tomorrows—had faded, replaced by something greater than anything I could have imagined. Sometimes, I found it hard to believe that the seed of all this change had been planted by a single act: the sharing of spirit power, and the dream that humanity could reach beyond the limits of its birth.
Yet, cultivation alone could never have carried us so far. The real magic, I realized, was the willingness to work together, to share, to learn from one another. And as the years passed, I became as much a teacher and organizer as a cultivator. The village became a city—not merely in size, but in spirit.
It began with the blacksmiths. Tie Lao, ever loyal and practical, had become my closest collaborator beyond my family. With the invention of the mechanical clock, the spread of new farming tools, and the growing demand for weapons and construction, it was clear that no one smith could keep up. So I called a meeting, inviting every blacksmith, apprentice, and metalworker in the region.
"We are stronger together," I told them, my voice steady with conviction. "If we share techniques, pool our resources, and set fair prices, we can serve the whole city. No one will be left behind; no one will need to fear competition."
Some resisted, old rivalries dying hard. But most saw the wisdom in my words, and the Blacksmith Association was born. We created rules—prices, quality standards, shared apprenticeships, and regular meetings to solve disputes. The Association became a model for cooperation, lifting every member, providing the city with tools, weapons, and peace of mind.
It was not long before other craftsmen took notice.
I knew, deep in my bones, that tools alone would not change the fate of humanity. Knowledge was the key—the ability to remember, refine, and pass down wisdom. So, with the blacksmiths' help, I set about creating something entirely new for our world: a place of learning, open to all.
The Academy of Beginning started as a single hall, roofed in thatch, its floor swept daily by eager children and old men alike. But from the start, it was different. There were no rigid rules of birth or station. All who wished to learn or teach were welcome.
I gathered every scrap of knowledge from my past life—agriculture, medicine, mathematics, philosophy, invention. With the help of the smiths, I devised a method to make rough paper, so that words could endure. I wrote until my hands cramped, then recruited others to copy what I'd created, until the first library in all of humanity was born.
Subjects were divided—farming, smithing, tailoring, hunting, building, healing, numbers, reading, and the new art of cultivation. My transcendent memory allowed me to categorize and teach each field clearly. The greatest joy was watching the spark of understanding bloom in others' eyes.
As the Academy flourished, the village changed. People came from miles away, drawn by rumor and hope. They brought new skills, new perspectives. They learned, and they taught in turn.
With more people came new needs. Tailors, once scattered and secretive, formed their own association—sharing patterns, pooling wool and flax, teaching apprentices. Farmers began to organize, swapping seeds, experimenting with new crops, planning irrigation as a group. Hunters, once lone wolves, formed guilds to map the wilds and protect the city's growing food supply.
I encouraged these associations, helping to draft charters and mediate disputes. I taught them how to resolve conflict peacefully, how to ensure the weakest were never left behind. Cooperation became our city's beating heart.
But human nature is vast, and not every soul who came to the city brought goodwill. As prosperity rose, so did jealousy and greed. There were thefts, the first ever in our village. Fights broke out between newcomers and old settlers. A wave of fear spread—would our dream of unity collapse under the weight of its own success?
I acted swiftly, recalling lessons from my previous life. I met with the village elders, the heads of every association, and those I trusted most. Together, we outlined a simple system of law: the rights and duties of every citizen, the punishments for theft and violence, the steps for resolving disputes.
Most revolutionary of all, I proposed a system of police—chosen by the people, answerable to the elders and the Academy, not a single lord. Their job was not only to enforce rules, but to protect the weak and keep peace among neighbors.
The first night the city guards walked their rounds, a hush fell. The bad actors—so quick to seize on chaos—found themselves watched, their power broken. The honest people cheered, and order returned.
With every change, the city grew. New homes rose—first of wood, then of stone. Wells were dug, fields expanded, roads paved. What had been a cluster of huts became a network of neighborhoods, each with its own spirit, but bound by shared purpose.
The population soared, drawing in not only hopeful families, but skilled workers, traders, and even a few outcasts from distant clans. The Academy expanded, adding more teachers and new halls. The associations blossomed, each improving its craft and giving birth to new ones: pottery, carpentry, healing, education.
One morning, after a festival, the elders called a meeting. The central square was packed—hundreds of faces, some familiar, many new. The village head, his voice shaking with emotion, said, "This is no longer a village. We are something more. We are the beginning of a new age. Let us name this place for what it truly is: the City of Beginning."
The cheers rang out for minutes on end, echoing from the stone walls to the river's edge. I stood amid the crowd, my heart full. In that moment, I felt as if I were both child and elder, student and teacher, dreamer and architect.
At night, when the city's lanterns twinkled in the darkness, I would sometimes walk the quiet streets and listen to the new heartbeat of our world. I saw children running to school, smiths bent over new inventions, elders teaching wisdom to the young. I saw strangers welcomed, disputes settled, hands joined in work and song.
I knew there would always be hardship. I knew, too, that not every person could cultivate spirit power, that not every soul would choose kindness. But I had seen a new possibility for humanity, and I believed with all my heart that we had only just begun.
As I sat beneath the old oak—now standing alone amid the bustle of the city—I wrote new dreams into my journal, knowing that with each word, I was laying another stone on the road to a brighter future.
This was the City of Beginning. This was the spark that would ignite a thousand years of progress, and perhaps, one day, light the way for all the worlds beyond.