The morning after the council, the City of Beginning was already humming with new purpose. As the first rays of sunlight gilded the rooftops, I heard the forges come alive, their deep roars echoing across the streets. Bells rang from the Adventure Guild tower, summoning volunteers and expedition teams. I watched, heart pounding, as the city transformed overnight—every man, woman, and child waking with a sense of mission.
But beneath this surge of resolve, there was another, quieter current—anxiety. No one spoke of it openly, but I saw it in the tight lines around people's mouths, in the way parents lingered when sending their children to the Academy, in the hurried blessings traded before a day's work. The beast wave was no longer an abstract fear. It was coming, and now every heartbeat counted.
The Adventure Guild moved swiftly. Scouts and elementalists scoured the hills and rivers beyond the city, seeking the key ingredients for cement. The search was no simple feat: limestone veins lay hidden beneath ancient soil, clay deposits concealed in tangled forests, gypsum outcrops weathered and half-buried.
Three weeks passed with little more than rumors and hope. Then, at dawn, a runner burst into the council hall, breathless and grinning."We found it, Ye Caiqian! Limestone, thick as a man is tall. Clay and gypsum too—enough to build ten cities, the miners say!"
That morning, I joined the first expedition to the mines. We walked for hours through damp, tangled underbrush, past groves where spirit birds called warnings from the branches. At the base of a rocky ridge, sunlight gleamed on pale stone. I knelt, broke off a chunk, and tasted the dust. The bite of lime was unmistakable.
I closed my eyes, and for a moment, the weight of possibility nearly overwhelmed me. This was it. The moment when humanity would leap forward—not just to survive the beast wave, but to build a foundation for centuries to come.
We wasted no time. Every available cart and laborer was pressed into service. Earth elementalists cleared the overburden, shaping ramps and tunnels with precision. Fire elementalists lit furnaces to test lime's purity; water users managed dust and runoff, preventing contamination of the river.
The first shipments of stone and clay rolled into the city, greeted by cheers. I could see it in people's eyes—a fierce, defiant pride. Even children joined in, carrying baskets of pebbles and singing work songs that echoed off the rising walls.
The old quarry became a camp of tents and kilns, smiths and alchemists laboring in shifts. At night, the fires of a hundred small forges burned like a constellation in the darkness. I stayed with them as often as I could, learning every stage, listening for new ideas, pushing for greater efficiency.
Making cement, I quickly learned, was as much art as science—especially in this world where every innovation was being attempted for the first time. My transcendent comprehension became my greatest ally.
First, the limestone was crushed and mixed with clay and small amounts of gypsum.
The mixture was loaded into large clay-lined kilns, which the fire elementalists heated with uncanny precision—at times, their flames reached colors so hot they dazzled the eyes.
The material "clinkered"—fusing into rough, pebble-like nodules—then was ground to powder by millstones carved from the hardest granite.
Water elementalists aided the mixing, testing for the perfect consistency and curing speed.
There were failures, of course. Early batches cracked or crumbled, others set too fast or too slow. But every mistake was a lesson. I filled notebook after notebook with diagrams and notes, adjusting ratios, refining kiln temperatures, even devising new grinding methods. When the first block of true hydraulic cement cured—hard as steel, resistant to both wind and rain—I nearly wept.
The pace of work was staggering. It was not just craftsmen and laborers who toiled—scholars from the Academy, healers, tailors, and even retired elders volunteered for shifts. Taverns sent kettles of soup to the walls; merchants offered bonuses for every wagonload of stone delivered.
I watched children play at "wall building," stacking pebbles along the alleys and painting them with symbols for luck. On rest days, musicians from the Air Hall led songs from the scaffoldings, their notes carried far by gentle breezes.
Sometimes I would walk the market at sunset, listening to the talk:
"They say the new cement blocks are strong enough to turn a beast's claws…"
"My son wants to join the wall-raising crew when he turns eight."
"Old Tian nearly burned down his beard trying to light the kiln. Bless the fire users!"
Every citizen felt the sense of shared destiny. Even as the work was hard, no one shrank from it. There was a pride here—an unspoken oath that, no matter the odds, they would not abandon each other.
Every day, I was everywhere—consulting with foremen, teaching at the Academy, refining cement formulas, and organizing night drills. My energy seemed endless, but at times, in the rare quiet hours, doubt crept in.
Was it enough? Could a wall of stone and cement truly turn back the wild tide? Would the new forges hold? Would the city stay united if the beasts breached the gates? I worried for my family, my friends, for the smallest children practicing with wooden spears. I saw their faith in me, and at times, it felt unbearably heavy.
I remembered the first council meeting, Tie Lao's challenge: "Ye Caiqian, you built this city. But can you save it?"
I forced myself to hold that question in my mind—not as a burden, but as a spur. To lead was to doubt, but it was also to hope.
The wall itself was a marvel. Fifteen meters high, thick as a man is tall, it ran unbroken around the city's ever-expanding borders. Every twenty paces, a watchtower rose, manned by archers and elementalists, each ready for the first sign of attack.
There were four main gates, each named by direction—North, East, South, and West. They were double-reinforced with steel, set with runes of protection crafted by the Academy's finest. Each gatehouse held its own small arsenal and a team of high-realm defenders: at least one Third Realm evolver, and squads of Seconds.
Traps and alarms lined the fields beyond—spikes, pits, barriers of sharpened stone. Scouts and adventure teams patrolled day and night, their reports keeping the city's defenses fluid and adaptable.
The cement revolution did not stop at the wall. New roads and aqueducts took shape; wells and granaries were lined and sealed. Builders and masons experimented with arches, domes, even the first two-story houses. "With this cement," one architect boasted, "we'll build a city that will last a thousand years!"
As the months slipped by, the wall stood as more than a physical barrier—it was a symbol. I often walked atop it at sunset, watching the city lights flicker to life below and the wild darken at its edge. At fourteen and a half, I had grown taller and stronger, my spirit power refined through four evolutions, mastery of all elements at my fingertips.
I felt the stirrings of adulthood in my heart. The city I'd helped shape had become more than home—it was a promise, a challenge, a living testament to what humans could accomplish when united by hope.
But I also knew that the true test lay ahead. The beast wave would not be turned aside by cement and stone alone. It would take courage, sacrifice, and wisdom. And in the deep hours of the night, as I lay awake, I steeled myself for the role I must play—not just as a leader, but as a shield and sword for all I loved.
As winter's bite faded, the city was transformed. Drills and alarms became routine; every family knew where to run, whom to follow, and how to defend. Food stores were full, water was secure, and weapons gleamed in the torchlight.
The Adventure Guild's scouts reported increased beast activity. At the first sign of a gathering pack, bells rang and archers took their stations. Earth elementalists practiced raising barricades; fire users stood ready to ignite oil pits or signal for help.
But the greatest change was not in weapons or walls—it was in spirit. The City of Beginning was no longer a scattered collection of survivors. It was a people, united by vision and shared struggle, ready to face whatever the world would hurl against them.
The night before the year turned, I stood atop the highest watchtower, gazing across the city I loved. The wall stretched away into the darkness, a line of hope against the endless wild.
The wind was sharp. Below, I saw the guards at their posts, saw the windows aglow with hearth fires, heard distant music drifting from the Academy's halls.
I thought of the years behind me—the accident that brought me here, the rebirth in my mother's womb, the dreams of a world remade. I thought of my family, my brothers now Third Realm evolvers, my parents still watching over me, still believing.
And I thought of what lay ahead.
Let the beast wave come, I vowed silently. We are ready. This city—these people—will endure. And if destiny wills, we will be the light that guides humanity into a new age.