The City of Beginning was never quiet anymore—not truly. Day and night, the air buzzed with energy: the clang of iron against anvils, the shouts of builders and merchants, the laughter of children playing beneath the new stone arches and iron-latticed bridges. I often paused atop the Academy's high steps to take it all in. We had not just survived five years of change—we were thriving, our city's heart beating ever stronger with each passing week.
Yet, for all our growth, I sensed that something deeper was changing, not just in our buildings or our customs, but in the very fabric of human potential. The elemental awakenings had begun to outpace even my wildest predictions. Every week, new individuals crossed into the Second Realm and found themselves wielding fire, shaping water, shifting earth, or calling the winds.
It was miraculous—and it was also dangerous. Without understanding, even the greatest gift can turn to calamity. As the founder of the Academy and the self-appointed steward of this era, it was my duty to understand these powers, and to give humanity the tools not just to use them, but to master them.
I began, as always, with observation. Each elemental awakening was different, but certain patterns emerged. Most occurred at the moment of the Second Realm breakthrough, though rare prodigies showed flickers of power at the First. Fire was the most common, followed by earth, water, and finally air—the rarest, but often the most versatile in subtle ways.
In my private study, I gathered every record: firsthand accounts from those who'd awakened, notes from instructors and healers, data from the new city guard and the Adventure Guild. I pored over these reports for hours, letting my transcendent comprehension do what it did best—see patterns where others saw only noise, unravel the hidden logic in the world's unfolding mystery.
But I could not remain a distant observer. The urge to experiment with my own spirit power was irresistible. After years of perfecting my meditative methods and cultivating an unrivaled control over my dantian, I embarked on a series of trials—each focused on replicating and then mastering every elemental transformation.
I began with fire. Through deep meditation and careful intent, I compressed my spirit power, allowing it to take on the qualities of heat and brilliance. My dantian pulsed with new energy; in my palm, a flame danced, answering my will. Next, I attempted water—adjusting the flow of my spirit energy until it felt cool, fluid, and nurturing. To my astonishment, condensation formed in the air, swirling into a sphere of water that hovered and spun at my command.
I pressed onward, seeking the rhythm and steadfastness of earth. My spirit power became dense, unmoving, rooted; I could sense the vibration of stones beneath my feet and, with a gesture, lift pebbles or even shift heavier rocks. Lastly, I reached for air. It was the hardest: requiring a letting-go, a dissolution of ego, until my energy turned light and swift. The wind seemed to breathe through me, amplifying my movements, sharpening my senses, allowing me to call gentle breezes or short gusts.
Through months of focus, trial, and error, I succeeded in mastering the transformation of spirit power into all four elements. With this, I became the city's first "All-Elemental" cultivator—a path few could even attempt, and perhaps only possible for me due to the world's favor and my transcendent understanding.
I meticulously documented every process, every sensation, every difficulty and solution. My journals became tomes for the Academy—a guide not only to awakening, but to crossing the boundaries between elements. With my guidance, even those who had already awakened to one element could begin to sense the seeds of others, laying the foundation for future multi-element cultivators.
It was time to share what I had learned. I gathered the Academy's council and proposed a new structure: four dedicated departments, each devoted to the study, teaching, and advancement of one of the four great elements. Fire, water, earth, and air—each a pillar upon which civilization would stand.
We transformed the Academy's east wing into the Hall of Fire. Blacksmiths, engineers, and cultivators who wielded flame came together under one roof, experimenting with metallurgy, glassmaking, and new forms of energy. Their workshops glowed at all hours, casting a warm light over the city's night.
To the north, we established the Hall of Water. Healers, farmers, and inventors gathered to explore the mysteries of purification, irrigation, and healing arts. Their gardens and aqueducts became models for all of humanity—fields thrived, disease faded, and the city's rivers ran clear.
The Hall of Earth rose in the west, its foundation laid with stones moved by hand and spirit alike. Here, masons, miners, builders, and cultivators worked together to expand the city, mine new resources, and stabilize the growing landscape.
The Hall of Air, in the south, became the most mysterious and innovative. Here, scouts and messengers learned to harness speed and stealth; inventors began dreaming of ways to fly, to communicate across distances, to harness the winds for new crafts and even music.
Each department took on the role of both school and guild. When a person awakened to their element, they were welcomed by mentors, tested for their strengths and weaknesses, and set on a path of lifelong learning. Rivalries grew, but so did friendship—a healthy competition that pushed every art to new heights.
As more and more cultivators gained power, the city's boundaries expanded, and so did the need to explore, defend, and map the wilds. At my urging, the Academy established a Department of Adventure. Experienced hunters, scouts, and now elementalists trained together, blending tradition with new abilities. They patrolled the forest, guided expeditions, and charted the locations of spirit beasts and rare herbs.
The Adventure Department also partnered with the city guard and the emerging police force, providing elite teams who could respond to disasters, aid travelers, or defend against the unknown.
All these changes brought new life—and new challenges. The city's population swelled as word spread of the Academy's discoveries and the prosperity of our guilds and associations. Taverns overflowed; markets thrived with new inventions and crafts. Knowledge was no longer hoarded, but traded, debated, and tested.
I watched with pride as our city, once a handful of huts, now teemed with ambition. Iron tools became commonplace, then steel. New artforms emerged—sculpture, glasswork, even elemental music. Children dreamed not only of farming or smithing, but of one day joining an Academy hall or earning their place as a city protector.
But even in the light of progress, shadows sometimes gathered. I knew that great power, unless carefully guided, could lead to pride, division, or even disaster. The elders met regularly, and I made it my personal mission to ensure that every voice—powerful or humble—was heard in our councils. Laws were refined, and new positions of mediation and ombudsman were created, ensuring that grievances found peaceful resolution.
Just as I began to think we had reached a golden age, the city elders came to me with grim news. Scouts had returned from distant settlements bearing warnings: the cycle of beast attacks was returning.
Every fifty years, they said, the wild spirit beasts of the forests, mountains, and rivers gathered in a wave and swept across human lands. The elders' eyes were dark with memory—stories told by their parents and grandparents, of cities burned, fields ravaged, families torn apart.
This time, though, things were different. We were stronger, more united, and more prepared than any previous generation. Our city boasted cultivators of the Second Realm, elementalists, and a network of alliances reaching across the region. Yet, I felt the weight of responsibility settle on my shoulders anew.
The beast wave was a test—not only of our strength, but of our spirit, our unity, and our wisdom.
I met with the council and Academy leaders late into the night, laying plans for research, defense, and mutual aid. The Adventure Department dispatched scouts to study beast movements, while the four elemental halls organized training and resource stockpiles.
I looked out at the city, the lights of a thousand homes flickering in the darkness, and swore silently: we would not be caught unprepared. This would not be the end of our beginning, but the next great chapter.