It is strange to think how much can change in five years. Once, a season passing seemed an eternity—a year, the span of a lifetime. Now, looking back, the memories are both near and impossibly distant, as if the boy I was then had already faded into legend.
Five years ago, I first gathered my family in our courtyard and showed them the truth of spirit energy. Five years ago, I watched my brothers gasp in wonder as their bodies quickened and strengthened, watched my mother's eyes fill with tears as pain faded from her joints, watched my father's face set in a new kind of resolve. That night, with the firelight dancing on our faces, we made a pact: we would become strong, not only to protect ourselves, but to lift our village—and humanity itself—out of darkness and into a new dawn.
I have kept that promise. But the journey has not been simple, nor was it ever meant to be.
From the day I unlocked all twelve meridians and evolved for the first time, I understood that cultivation was not just a question of strength or endurance. It was a test of patience, curiosity, discipline, and a kind of stubborn hope. I learned quickly that spirit power, like a river, never ran in a straight line. There were rapids, slow bends, and hidden eddies. There were days when progress came in a flash, and weeks when even a step forward seemed impossible.
I shared every insight with my family, then with the village, and finally with all who came seeking wisdom. At first, almost everyone made progress. Children, especially, took to spirit power as if it were as natural as breathing. I watched wide-eyed boys and girls giggle as their aches faded and their stamina soared. Men and women found new life in their limbs, clarity in their minds, and a deep, abiding peace in the quiet of meditation.
But as time passed and more villagers joined us, I discovered something unexpected—something that would haunt me for months. Not everyone could sense spirit power. Some, no matter how diligently they followed my instructions, felt nothing at all. I watched friends and neighbors sit in meditation, breath steady, posture perfect, only to open their eyes with confusion or frustration. It was as if they were missing a sense, a kind of spiritual blindness.
I spent many nights pondering this mystery. I tried every approach: shifting breathing techniques, altering postures, guiding their hands to my own dantian, even sharing a wisp of my own spirit energy. A few, with effort, could borrow the feeling for a moment—but as soon as I let go, the power faded, slipping through their fingers like mist.
It was then I realized that spirit sensitivity was not universal. Some humans, perhaps most, were simply not born with the "organ" that could perceive and draw in spirit power. Whether this was a quirk of birth or a deeper law of nature, I could not say. I saw disappointment, even jealousy, in some eyes. But I also saw determination. Those who could not cultivate turned their attention to other pursuits—craft, art, invention, and governance—finding their own ways to contribute to our community's growth.
For those who could cultivate, the journey was as exhilarating as it was arduous. I watched as my brothers advanced quickly, their bodies changing, their confidence growing with each passing month. I carefully documented every stage, refining the method so that each generation would find the path smoother than the last.
It was after my second breakthrough—what I would come to call my "second evolution"—that the true pattern emerged. I had spent months circulating spirit energy, refining it, feeling the pressure build until, one night, it burst through a barrier deep within my core. My dantian expanded, the energy within it compressing, transforming. My senses sharpened; my strength grew tenfold. It was like being born anew.
I studied the process with relentless curiosity. Each evolution required not only accumulation, but also an act of insight—a leap of understanding, a willingness to let go of old limits. As I evolved a third time, the process grew more profound. I felt my body change in ways I could barely describe, my mind opening to levels of perception I had only dreamed of before. It was not just power; it was wisdom, clarity, and a sense of connection to the world itself.
This led to the first true system of cultivation for humanity, one I formalized and taught to all who could walk the path. Each major breakthrough was marked as an "evolution," a clear, measurable leap. The system was simple: the number of times a person evolved became their title and their status.
Those who had undergone their first transformation were called "First Realm Evolvers."
After the second breakthrough, they became "Second Realm Evolvers."
With each further leap, the number grew, a testament to progress and achievement.
I, Ye Caiqian, became the "Third Realm Evolver," the only one of my generation. My brothers, Ye Xuan and Ye Rong, reached the second realm, strong enough to face wild beasts, to heal from wounds that would cripple lesser men, to sense the ebb and flow of luck itself. Most villagers who could cultivate remained at the first realm—content with the improvement, wary of pushing beyond their limits. But I saw the hunger in some, the hope for something greater. I knew that, as time passed and our understanding grew, new generations would surpass us all.
Teaching became my calling. Each morning, I gathered those with talent in the village square, guiding them through meditation, energy circulation, and the subtle signs of progress. I wrote manuals—first on bark, then, as technology advanced, on crude paper I invented myself. I mapped out the meridian system, described every sensation and potential hazard, and encouraged every cultivator to listen to their own body first and foremost.
With time, we found that six years of age was the most natural starting point for new cultivators. At that age, the body had developed enough to handle the strain of energy flow, but the spirit remained flexible, the mind open to new sensations. I watched as cohorts of children reached their sixth year, eager to begin, their eyes bright with hope and excitement.
Not all succeeded. Even among the young, there were those who could not sense spirit power. Some wept with frustration; others accepted it with dignity, finding new dreams to chase. I mourned for them, but celebrated every small victory. Cultivation was not the only path to greatness.
For myself, the five years were a whirlwind of effort and change. My third evolution brought power beyond any hunter or warrior. I could leap the width of a river, run for hours without tiring, sense the approach of storms or wild beasts long before others could. My mind, once so easily scattered by doubt or distraction, now hummed with focus. I found myself understanding the world on a level that was both exhilarating and intimidating.
Yet I never let pride take root. Every step forward was a reminder of responsibility—a call to lift others up, to guide them past dangers, to share every insight. I saw the way my brothers looked to me for guidance, the way the village elders listened to my words, the way children repeated my lessons in their games.
I formalized everything I had learned, creating a "Simple Cultivation System" for the village: meditation, energy circulation, safe postures, the signs of progress and danger, and the importance of patience. I taught that one must never rush an evolution, that the body and spirit would choose their own pace. Those who forced progress suffered setbacks—pain, exhaustion, or even injury. But those who followed the method advanced steadily, each step building on the last.
Sometimes, late at night, I would sit atop the tallest hill and watch the lights of the growing village below. I saw the fruit of our efforts everywhere: children laughing, old wounds healed, traders and hunters returning with pride. I saw new homes rising, new families joining us, the rhythm of life stronger and more hopeful than ever before.
I also saw the limits of spirit power. No matter how hard I tried, some people could not walk this path. I accepted this, knowing that destiny had chosen another road for them. And so, I taught them other skills—blacksmithing, medicine, law, invention—ensuring that every person could contribute, every dream could find a place in our new world.
The journey was not without pain. I lost friends to illness, to accident, to the dangers that still stalked the wilderness beyond our walls. I felt the weight of leadership, the loneliness that comes with being first. But I never doubted the path I had chosen. Every morning, as I meditated and felt the spirit energy swirl through my dantian, I thanked the world for its trust, and vowed to honor it in all I did.
Now, at the end of these five years, I stand at a new threshold. My cultivation has reached heights I could barely imagine as a child. My family has grown strong, our village has blossomed, and the path of spirit power is open to all who can walk it.
But I know, with the certainty of one who has seen the tides of destiny turn, that this is only the beginning. There are greater challenges ahead—new realms to explore, new mysteries to unravel, new generations to guide.
As I prepare to share the next stage of knowledge with the world, I feel a sense of hope, purpose, and gratitude that fills every breath.
This, I think, is what it means to truly evolve—not just as an individual, but as a people, as a civilization, as a world.