The Power of Creation
Copyright© 2026 by Vasantrutu
Chapter 7: Base Creation
The moment she saw my face, she stopped in her tracks.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, and she sighed even before speaking.
“Now what have you done, Rowan?”
I blinked at her and replied with a single, useless sound. “Huh?”
It took me a moment to realize what she meant. When it finally clicked, I scratched my head and explained—slowly and carefully—everything I had experimented with, what had succeeded, and what had gone completely out of control.
For a brief moment, she just stared at me.
Then she sighed again, longer this time, and shook her head.
“Why am I not amazed?” she muttered, as if she had expected nothing less.
Without another word, she took the lizard-like creature she had hunted earlier and walked toward the river. I followed her with my eyes as she gutted and cleaned it with practiced efficiency. After that, she slid it onto a long wooden skewer and set it over the fire to roast.
As the meat slowly cooked, filling the air with a rich, savory scent, she began describing what she had found during her scouting—animal tracks, edible plants, signs of minor beasts, and areas she marked as dangerous.
When she was satisfied, she handed me half of the roasted meat and sat down beside me. While chewing, she glanced at me sideways.
“So,” she said casually, “what is this test you said you need my help with?”
I pointed past her shoulder toward a patch of ground near the riverbank.
“That flower,” I said. “The elder called it Lucy. According to the notes, the entire flower has to be pulled out of the soil—roots and all—without touching the petals, and with minimal force. Otherwise, it becomes useless.”
She turned around, walked over, crouched down—and plucked the flower cleanly from the soil in one smooth motion.
Like it was child’s play.
I nodded to myself and stepped forward to try.
My first attempt failed immediately. I used too much force, and the moment the stem strained, the flower withered and crumbled into dust.
I took a breath and tried again, moving slower this time—but my finger brushed one of the petals.
The flower withered instantly.
Both attempts failed.
When we finished eating, she looked at the remains of the flowers and asked, “So what exactly are those things?”
“Oh,” I said casually, “they’re used to make higher-grade healing potions.”
She had just taken a sip of water.
The moment my words registered, she snorted—spraying water straight out of her nose and into the fire. The flames hissed loudly, and the sight was so unexpected that I burst out laughing.
She glared at me.
“It’s not funny!”
Between laughs, I tried to catch my breath. “I’m sorry—really.”
She wiped her face and continued sharply, “Do you have any idea what flowers like that are worth? They’re treasures to the village!”
That finally sobered me up. I straightened and bowed my head slightly.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think it through.”
She huffed, turned away, and then suddenly froze.
Her eyes darted around as she began spotting Elder Lucy flowers—one here, another there, then another behind a tree. Her body stiffened, and she started shaking like a leaf caught in a storm.
I quickly raised my hands.
“Calm down, sister. We still have four more days. And I’ll help you look for more—properly this time.”
She turned to me slowly, eyes sharp.
“You’d better, smarty pants.”
With that, she stomped over to her tent and disappeared inside, leaving me by the dying fire—smiling faintly, equal parts amused and determined.
Instead of going to sleep, I chose to meditate.
My body was tired, but my mind was restless. Too many things had changed in too short a time, and I needed answers. Once I slipped into meditation, my awareness naturally drifted inward—toward my skill slot orbs.
One of them was quiet.
Silent, heavy, as if it were in a deep and undisturbed slumber.
The other, however, pulsed with life.
Drawn by instinct, I approached the vibrant one—the evolved orb.
The moment I entered it, I felt the difference.
Where there had once been an endless black void, there was now a vast, colorful sky, stretching in all directions. The darkness had not vanished—it had transformed. It felt alive, responsive, and deeply connected to me.
Floating beneath that sky was my island.
No—my domain.
Before, it had been little more than a reflection on water, a faint image that felt distant and unreal. Now it was fully formed, solid, and unmistakably real, albeit at a miniature scale.
I drifted closer and noticed more.
The familiar door was still there—the entrance to the small storage space gifted to me by my sister. Its presence felt stable, anchored, as though it had become a permanent part of this place.
But that wasn’t all.
Nearby, two distinct platforms floated in the air.
On the first platform lay neatly arranged ores, tools, and fragments of rock—pickaxes, chisels, and samples of various metals. I didn’t need deep analysis to understand what it represented.
Advanced mining.
Not just the knowledge—but its essence, preserved and organized.
On the second platform were vessels of many kinds: cauldrons, flasks, glass bottles, measuring tools, and unfamiliar apparatuses. They were arranged carefully, almost reverently.
Alchemy.
Its principles, methods, and understanding given form.
I lingered only briefly on them.
My attention was fully captured by the island.
Turning toward it, I moved closer—and immediately noticed the difference.
The structure was no longer symbolic.
It was lifelike.
The terrain had texture. The slopes had depth. The forests swayed gently, even though there was no wind I could feel. The lake reflected the sky perfectly, and the mountain rose proudly at the center.
Then I saw it.
Movement.
Tiny figures—animals, birds, even insects—moving naturally across the land.
Alive.
My breath caught.
It was as if I were watching a living map ... or a security feed.
I froze.
That word echoed in my thoughts.
Security footage.
I frowned slightly. Where had that come from?
A fragment of my previous life surfaced—screens, cameras, surveillance. I shook my head lightly, dismissing it. Old memories had a habit of appearing uninvited.
Still, the realization remained.
I could see everything.
Every movement. Every creature. Every change.
This wasn’t just a spatial domain.
It was awareness.
I hovered there in silence, the weight of it settling over me, and finally asked myself the most important question of all.
What can I do to make this place secure?
Another memory surfaced in my mind—but this time, instead of irritation, I felt joy.
It was from a game I had played extensively in my previous life: Age of Empires. A game where I had built kingdoms, raised walls, defended borders, and learned—through countless defeats—that territory meant nothing without preparation.
I pushed the memory aside before it could drag me deeper. Right now, it wasn’t nostalgia that mattered.
It was application.
My focus returned to the island within my spatial domain.
The land was circular, just as the priest’s mark had suggested. If I wanted to secure it properly, the first step was obvious—clear the ground. No wall could be raised while trees, roots, and uneven terrain stood in the way.
I directed my thoughts toward the island.
Uproot the trees. Stack them together.
The response was immediate.
One by one, trees tore themselves free from the soil. Roots snapped cleanly without resistance, earth falling away as if gravity itself had momentarily forgotten them. The trunks floated through the air and gently settled into a growing pile at the edge of the clearing.
My breath caught.
This wasn’t imagination.
This was control.
Encouraged, I expanded my intent. I didn’t simply want a small clearing—I wanted a ring. A deliberate one.
In my past life, walls were never built flush against cities. There was always space. Space to see enemies. Space to react. Space to breathe.
I remembered another lesson—one from this world.
I could only detect presence once someone entered my domain.
That meant the wall itself could not be the first line of warning.
If I wanted time—time to speak, to threaten, to prepare, or to fight—I needed distance.
Three hundred meters would be the minimum.
But minimums were dangerous.
I chose five hundred meters.
As my decision settled, the island responded.
Trees farther out began to rise, uprooting themselves in widening circles. The motion was smooth, deliberate, almost respectful. There was no chaos—only intent made manifest.
I watched, silent and awed, as an unmistakable pattern emerged.
A perfectly cleared ring, five hundred meters thick, encircling the heart of my land.
When the last tree settled into the stacked clearing, the movement stopped.
I exhaled slowly.
From above, the result was unmistakable.
A vast untouched wilderness beyond.
Then a clean, empty belt of land—my warning zone.
And at its inner edge, the untouched heart of my future domain.
Only then did I smile.
For the next phase, I considered removing the soil entirely. The terrain was uneven, broken by roots and subtle rises—but the question stopped me.
Where would I even put all that earth?
Instead of removing it, I chose a different solution.
Compression.
If the land could not be cleared, then it would be pressed into submission.
The moment the decision settled in my mind, the ground responded.
At first, the earth merely shifted. Small bumps flattened, shallow dips filled themselves. Then something stranger happened—the soil began to sink, as if gravity itself had intensified only within that ring. It wasn’t violent. It was methodical. Controlled.
Soon, the entire cleared band—five hundred meters thick—had become a smooth, even stretch of land.
Not dirt.
Compacted earth, dense and solid, closer to stone than soil.
But perfection always reveals flaws.
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