The Rebuilding Begins. Plans were set into motion:
Stone and timber teams organized by Tie Lao and Hu Shan.
Food and water committees led by Lian and the academy teachers.
Orphan fosterage coordinated by Elder Yu and the healers.
Dragon salvage and study led by blacksmiths and scholars.
I established a new guard rotation—every able-bodied evolver would patrol until the wall was rebuilt.
A festival was planned, not of celebration but of remembrance—so that every child would know their city's story, and every fallen defender would be honored.
That night, after tending the last of the wounded, I sat alone atop the broken north wall, looking at the stars through drifting smoke. My mother joined me, her presence calm as a mountain.
"Do you regret it, Caiqian?" she asked softly.
I shook my head. "No. Even with all the pain, I'd do it again. But I wish I could have saved more."
She took my hand, her Life element soothing my battered spirit. "You gave us hope. You gave us a chance. No one can ask for more."
As the stars brightened above the ruined city, I felt something new—an ember of peace, and the certainty that we would rebuild, no matter how long it took.
Within a fortnight, the first stones of the new wall were set, the dragon's bones built into its foundations. New associations sprang up for rebuilding, for healing, for teaching. People from nearby villages came to help, some to stay, drawn by the city's legend.
The City of Beginning would never be the same. But it would endure, stronger for every scar.
And as dawn rose on the fifteenth day, I stood with my family, my friends, and my people—scarred but unbroken, ready to greet the new day together.
In the quiet chaos that followed the battle's end, rumors began to spread—rumors of a gentle green glow in the darkness, of pain fading in an instant, of wounds closing as if by magic. At first, I thought it exhaustion or wishful thinking, but everywhere I turned, survivors spoke in reverence of my mother.
It was only when I saw it with my own eyes, in the overcrowded infirmary, that I truly understood.
Ye Qiumei, my mother—once a simple housewife, her spirit power always gentle, her hands most skilled with needle and thread—knelt beside a dying blacksmith, his body broken and spirit dim. Her eyes were calm, full of fierce love and determination. She pressed her palms to his chest and exhaled softly.
From her hands, a light unlike any other suffused the air—a radiance not fiery or blinding, but gentle, luminous, almost tangible. It was the pure green of spring's first bud, the color of new leaves in morning rain. The air filled with the scent of growth, renewal, and hope.
I watched in awe as the blacksmith's ragged breathing steadied, his bleeding ceased, shattered bones realigned. Color returned to his face. In minutes, he opened his eyes, as if awakening from a nightmare.
Around her, the wounded and dying reached out in silent supplication. My mother moved from bed to bed, giving everything she had, not faltering even as sweat poured down her brow and her own spirit energy dimmed.
Word spread like wildfire—Ye Qiumei had awakened the Life element, a spirit affinity unknown even in legend. Unlike water or earth, which could only soothe or mend the surface, Life element touched the root of wounds. Broken limbs knit in hours. Burns faded to pale scars. Lungs pierced by shrapnel drew breath again.
The most miraculous cases became the talk of the city:
An old hunter whose legs had been crushed was able to stand, then walk, then run within days.
Children blinded by smoke saw again, their vision clear and true.
Even pain and grief seemed eased by her presence; the despair that haunted the infirmary was replaced by the quiet, stubborn optimism that tomorrow could be better.
She never called attention to herself. If praised, she would only say, "The city gave me this gift so I could give it back."
Inspired by her example, other healers found their powers changing. Some water evolvers' spirit energy grew tinged with green; some earth evolvers felt their touch speed the growth of plants or strengthen flesh. My mother taught them patiently, her voice always soft but her will unbreakable.
With her help, the number of deaths from wounds fell drastically. Of the thousand-plus wounded, hundreds who would have perished in previous attacks survived. Many who had lost limbs or suffered crippling injuries found themselves walking, working, or even laughing within the week.
I watched as families wept in gratitude, as men and women returned to help in the rebuilding who should by rights have been bedridden. Some called her a saint, others a miracle worker. To me, she was simply Mother—stronger than steel, gentler than spring rain.
And in her healing, I saw the city's spirit renewed—not just surviving, but truly beginning again.