Soul Land: Origin of Humanity

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Ye Caiqian—God of Humanity, bearer of memory, watcher through the ages—sat within the tranquil silence of his divine domain, his thoughts adrift in the endless current of time. The immortal light outside his palace was always gentle, the mountains and forests he had shaped unchanged by wind or storm. Yet within his heart, a new restlessness grew. What had become of the seeds he once planted in the Douluo world? Were the trees of knowledge and innovation still flourishing, or had weeds crept in, choking their roots?

He focused his divine sight, stretching his consciousness through the Book of Wisdom—now a genuine divine artifact linking heaven and earth, thought and memory. Within its pages, thousands of years of accumulated data awaited. With a mere thought, he opened vistas of memory, seeing the evolution of institutions he had built with his own hands: the Research University of Beginning, and the Library of Wisdom.

First, Caiqian turned his attention to the Research University, the cradle of scientific spirit and elemental mastery.

In the beginning, its halls had been simple—water, fire, wind, earth, light, darkness, space, and life—each a center for cultivating knowledge and elemental understanding. Now, centuries later, the university had grown beyond anything he could have imagined. New branches had sprouted: the Hall of Thunder, where storm tamers and lightning scholars probed the secrets of electricity; and the Hall of the Holy Element, a revolutionary merger of the light and life disciplines, home to healers, scholars of purity, and those who sought to transcend the boundaries between flesh and spirit.

The campus itself was now a sprawling city within a city, filled with countless students, teachers, researchers, and visitors from every walk of life. Students arrived from distant lands, drawn by stories of legendary breakthroughs and the promise of advancement—both in cultivation and intellect. Here, innovation was more than a word; it was a way of life.

The university's founding philosophy—never to involve itself in politics or worldly power—remained intact. Its primary mission was knowledge for its own sake, and for the elevation of all humanity.

But not all was idyllic. With success came problems.

The Book of Wisdom revealed to Caiqian a crisis that had arisen three centuries after his ascension. As more and more students graduated, it became clear that the university could not provide positions for all of them. Worse, some ambitious or unscrupulous graduates began to claim false credentials, using the university's reputation for personal gain—or even for schemes of power and wealth among the uneducated masses.

In those days, confusion and resentment grew among the people. Some saw university-trained scholars as potential meddlers in politics; others, as saviors to be trusted without question. Rumors spread like wildfire. The university's leadership convened in secret to find a solution, consulting the Book of Wisdom and recalling the precedent set by Caiqian himself centuries before: the separation of research and practical application, embodied in the story of the one near-hall-master who had been allowed to create a new, independent organization.

Drawing on this wisdom, the university's leaders founded a new body—the Institute of Knowledge and Research.

The Institute was a semi-independent organization, formally allied with the university but distinct in mission and management. Its role was clear:

To manage all branch libraries and repositories of knowledge across human settlements,

To offer official accreditation and career tracks for researchers,

To protect the university's reputation and prevent "bad actors" from misusing its name.

Membership in the Institute became the bridge between the academy's rarefied halls and the wider world of applied science and invention.

Caiqian observed, with a swell of pride, the meticulous hierarchy they established:

Research Apprentice: Any university student who joined the Institute, given foundational responsibilities and ongoing training.

Research Master: A graduate who made a noteworthy contribution to a field of study or the public good.

Research Grandmaster: One whose work solved a major problem or advanced an entire area of human endeavor.

Research Saint: Those rare individuals whose breakthroughs changed the fate of all humanity—solving pandemics, ending plagues, or discovering new elements.

Rishi: The apex of the profession, a title reserved for up to seven living researchers at a time, each having altered the course of history itself.

The rules were strict: for a Research Grandmaster to become a Saint, their achievement had to benefit every corner of civilization; to become a Rishi, it must echo through generations, not just years. If a new Rishi arose, the oldest would retire to preserve the sanctity of the role.

Caiqian marveled at the new culture that blossomed. Young researchers aspired not only to greatness but to service. The Institute provided mobility and security—a way to seek new environments, new problems, and new solutions without being bound to the politics or traditions of a single city.

Research Saints became celebrities. Some were healers who cured once-incurable diseases; others were engineers who designed irrigation systems, or inventors who created tools to resist beast waves. The stories of their struggles and triumphs inspired plays, poems, and tales told around every fire.

With financial incentives and clear career paths, the age-old image of the "starving scholar" faded. Now, research was not only a calling, but a respected—and sustainable—way of life.

Meanwhile, the Institute's decentralized network ensured that the university itself remained above the fray of politics, its name never sullied by association with the ambitions of individuals. Even when local factions sought to sway researchers, the code was clear: "If you wish to serve humanity outside our laws, found your own house—but leave the legacy of Beginning untouched."

The Institute's headquarters, in the City of Beginning, became a beacon for knowledge-seekers. Even the avatar of Caiqian, residing in the Temple of Humanity, blessed its doors and welcomed the curious, the humble, and the bold.

Caiqian turned his attention next to the Library of Wisdom, that sacred vault of learning whose roots had once seemed so fragile.

Now, it was known throughout Douluo as the Knowledge Bank. The system was elegant: any family, guild, sect, or clan could submit their accumulated wisdom to the Library. Their contributions were stored, sealed, and cross-referenced in the Book of Wisdom, with security ensured by divine law and cutting-edge magic. Badges, bloodline verifications, and genealogical proofs guarded secrets against theft or loss.

The Knowledge Bank, far from a mere depository, had become the very foundation of cultural memory.

Every city and town boasted a branch, staffed by custodians trained to guide, organize, and preserve the torrent of knowledge pouring in from every direction.

Clan histories, martial techniques, recipes, poems, and songs—all were accepted, catalogued, and made accessible according to the wishes of the donors.

In exchange for a fee, clans could guarantee that their wisdom would survive even if their bloodlines perished in war or diaspora.

More importantly, a sacred trust had evolved:

The Library, and its Book of Wisdom, were forbidden from interfering in the outside world—never to take sides in feuds, politics, or wars. When knowledge was judged by its guardians to serve all humanity, it could be made public, but never to the detriment of any one family or sect.

The entire structure ran on a system of merit, humility, and law—a beacon of neutrality, a fortress of memory.

From his divine vantage, Caiqian saw that the two great institutions had become bulwarks against the temptations of power.

Whenever a new element—a charismatic leader, an ambitious master—sought to draw the organizations into politics or war, the answer was always the same: "Go, found your own path. But these houses remain untouched."

This culture of separation was so well-established that it had become an unspoken law, a tradition handed down through generations of researchers and librarians.

Bad actors were isolated, denied authority, and quickly forgotten.

Innovators were celebrated, nurtured, and held as examples for all to see.

The Book of Wisdom, as ever, watched over it all—an immortal witness, recording every change, every crisis, every renewal.

As Ye Caiqian finished his survey, he smiled. The seeds he had planted, so many centuries ago, had become mighty forests—flexible, resilient, and alive. He saw a new generation of Rishis debating philosophy in sunlit gardens, young apprentices racing to deliver new findings, and elderly librarians passing on the sacred trust to their heirs.

He also saw the emergence of new halls in the Research University:

The Hall of Thunder, where storms were tamed and the mysteries of electricity explored;

The Hall of the Holy Element, where healers, life-masters, and light-masters forged a new synthesis of body and spirit.

Everywhere, the dream of knowledge, once so fragile, burned bright.

And Ye Caiqian, the God of Humanity, let his spirit rest in contentment—knowing that, even as empires rose and fell, the legacy of wisdom would endure.

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