I awoke in the muted gray of a city's mourning, senses muddled by pain and exhaustion. Sunlight filtered through a haze of smoke, fractured by the charred skeletons of what had once been homes, towers, and the proud north wall. For a while, I drifted in a half-world between waking and dream, listening to the hum of voices around me—sobs, prayers, the whispered names of the missing.
I was alive, though every muscle screamed, and my spirit energy felt thin as mist. My dantian ached, flickering on the edge of emptiness. Yet I could sense a thread of warmth winding through my core—a soft, cool pulse, not my own.
Mother's hands cupped my face. "Ye Caiqian, you must rest. The city needs you, but you need healing more." Her spirit energy—gentle, green, and impossibly soothing—flowed into my wounds. It was like the memory of childhood: cool water on a fevered brow, the hush of her lullabies when thunder made me flinch. Only now her spirit power felt new—transformed, deeper than water or air. It was the Life element, never seen before in this world.
I struggled to sit up, ignoring the waves of pain. My brothers' faces, haggard but whole, came into view. Around them, the core leaders of the City of Beginning gathered: Tie Lao with her blood-crusted hammer, Council Elder Yu, Lian the healer, Hu Shan the guild chief, and a dozen others. Grief lay over them like a shroud, but beneath it flickered hope.
"Report," I rasped. "How bad is it?"
Ye Xuan met my eyes, voice hollow. "As of sunrise, we have counted 1,083 wounded. Two hundred thirty-two confirmed dead." He paused, swallowing, "Sixty-seven missing, most presumed lost in the collapse of the north quarter."
Lian, who held a sheaf of blood-spattered lists, continued, "Nearly one in four homes destroyed. The market square is gone. The library and Academy buildings are heavily damaged. Half the north wall has collapsed entirely—the rest is too unstable to approach. Every major avenue north of Sun Square is impassable."
Council Elder Yu spoke next, her voice low: "Thirty-seven children are orphaned. The infirmary overflowed; many wounded are lying in alleyways. Food stores in the north burned. We have three days' supply left unless we reopen the east granaries."
Tie Lao, stoic but her eyes rimmed red, added, "The smithies took heavy losses—ten of our best blacksmiths dead, most forges unusable. Tools are scarce. The clean-up will take months—maybe years. But…" She straightened, voice sharpening, "We still have hands, and we still have will."
I closed my eyes, fighting tears. I had seen war and suffering in another life, but never as a leader—never when every loss felt like a personal wound.
Once I could stand, I insisted on seeing for myself. Leaning on Ye Rong's shoulder, I moved through the city's remains. Every block told its own story: a shattered cart beside a burned-out bakery, a line of corpses laid reverently with coins over their eyes, mothers sifting rubble for lost keepsakes. Healers and water evolvers knelt over the wounded, their spirit energy flickering with fatigue.
Near the old gate, I found Tie Lao coordinating a line of survivors forming a human chain, passing stones and timbers from hand to hand. "Every brick we clear, every plank we salvage, we bring the city back to life," she said. Even wounded, she wielded her hammer and voice with equal force.
In the ruins of the market, Lian and her team tended to burns and broken limbs. "We lost four healers," she told me quietly. "But more awakened spirit power overnight. Some even show signs of new elements—strange, green healing light, and others that seem to mend wood or purify air."
A boy approached me—a child I recognized from the school. "My mother's gone," he whispered, eyes dry with shock. "Will you find her?" I knelt, putting a hand on his head. "We'll look together, and you're not alone. We'll be family until you're strong again."
For every tale of loss, there was another of survival—a woman carrying her injured neighbor to safety, hunters risking their lives to recover the trapped, smiths forging makeshift shovels from scrap metal.
By afternoon, the council hall was full—wounded, dirty, but determined. I sat with the elders and guild leaders, the city's fate heavy on my shoulders.
Elder Yu, face shadowed by grief, recited the final numbers:
Population before attack: 4,500
Dead/missing: nearly 300
Severely injured: 200+
Homeless: over 1,100
Structures destroyed: 321 homes, 44 businesses, 7 public buildings
Food lost: half the northern granaries, most markets and stores in the north
"Never in our city's memory has there been such loss," she finished, tears glinting. "But never such heroism, either."
Hu Shan, voice low but fierce, added, "In the outer districts, adventurers and hunters stopped the worst of the beast tide. Without that, the toll would be double."
A silence fell, broken only by the scrape of Lian's quill. I looked around, meeting each gaze.
"We rebuild," I said finally. "We honor the dead, we shelter the living, and we prepare so this can never happen again."
Tie Lao grunted, "We'll need stone, timber, food. I can salvage some forges, but we'll need the smiths from the east village. The wall must be our first task—without it, we're open to every stray beast."
"We must take care of the children first," Lian urged. "Many are alone. They must be fed, housed, given a reason to hope."
Elder Yu nodded. "And every family with extra food or space will share. That's our law now."
After the meeting, I walked the city, speaking with survivors. Some cried, some raged, some only stared. I wept with them, remembering names and faces.
I helped bury a dozen fallen defenders, repeating their names aloud so they would not be forgotten. At the orphan shelter, I spent an hour telling stories, promising every child that their pain would one day become strength.
In the wreck of the Academy, the teachers who survived vowed to rebuild. "Knowledge brought us this far," Master Zhong said. "We'll write the tale of this day so our children remember both the loss and the hope."
My mother, Ye Qiumei, moved through the wounded like an angel. Her hands glowed with the Life element—knitting wounds, mending broken bones, even soothing pain of the heart. "She saved three lives that would have been lost," Lian told me, awe in her voice.
A new rumor spread: a green light seen over the infirmary, a healing power that could even cure old ailments. Other healers watched, learning what they could, their spirit power subtly changing.
That evening, as I walked the city's burned edge, I composed the final tally with the scribes:
Dead (named and mourned): 232
Missing (presumed lost): 67
Wounded: 1,083
Homeless: 1,117
Children orphaned: 37
Structures lost: 372
Every name was written, every loss recorded on the city's rolls. Every night, we read twenty names aloud at the square—so no one would be forgotten.
The Fire Dragon's body lay half-buried in the ruins of the north quarter, still warm to the touch days later. Adventurers and smiths gathered samples, awed by its massive scales, teeth, and the core of cooled magma in its heart. "With this," Tie Lao said, "we'll forge new tools, new weapons—gifts from the city's greatest foe."
A group of scholars and spirit evolvers proposed a memorial: to preserve the dragon's skull as a monument on the rebuilt north wall. The people agreed—a reminder that even the greatest calamity could be overcome.
By the third day, the city's rhythm returned—slow, battered, but real. The orphaned children were taken in by families, the wounded received healing, food was rationed and shared. Water evolvers and earth evolvers cleared streets, fire evolvers melted rubble for salvage. Scouts and hunters fanned out to bring news and supplies from neighboring villages, who sent food and medicine as tribute for the city's stand.
Each night, as the stars returned, the city gathered in the square. We wept and remembered. We shared bread and song. My mother and the new Life element healers moved among the sick, spreading light and hope.
I spent hours with the wounded and grieving, speaking softly, listening to their pain. "We go on," I told them. "This city is not its walls, but its people."
In the week after the battle, I called the city together at the ruins of the market square. Standing where so many had fallen, I spoke:
"We have lost much—homes, friends, family. We have seen what no city should ever see. Yet here we stand, together. The City of Beginning will rise again.We will remember every name, honor every sacrifice, and build not just walls but a new future.For the children who lost parents, for the wounded and the strong, for every soul who fought, we will live, rebuild, and dream.This city will become more than what it was. Because of all of you, we have shown the world what it means to be human."
The crowd—scarred, dirty, still reeling—rose and applauded, some with tears, some with cheers, but all with hope.