During the next few decades, the Sil'piceus lived quite the idyllic life. Evolution was working at an unnatural pace, and their physique had already been subtly altered. The pair of limbs they had used to move around slowly grew bigger, all the while losing their sensitivity to pain, becoming easier and easier to cut off and consume.

Not everything was going perfectly, and they did face a few disagreements, one of them being the negative effect the blood pool had on the environment. At first, the sweet allure of blood drew in countless scavengers, which soon became delicious snacks. Then, as the city developed, the stench grew overpowering, and soon not a single beast was willing to approach this plague-ridden land.

The primitive mollusks were far from master architects, so their ill-contained blood seeped deep into the land, spreading through the earth and contaminating water reserves, until even the vegetation started dying. Fortunately, under the constant healing of the Mystery, the Sil'piceus themselves were unaffected, and they soon grew accustomed to their new bloody haven.

The true threat they faced was themselves. As time passed, the previously easily satisfied creatures eventually started craving for something more.

Even for a species of incredible patience and tranquility such as them, lazing around forever was far from satisfying. This was different from their old lives, where their stillness had a goal, and a purpose. Back then, they had not been doing nothing, they had been laying in ambush. Now that everything they needed was just a thought away, what were they supposed to do in the time between feedings? Their lives needed direction. Now that they had secured their survival, they needed to start thriving.

It was this common realization that led to the first schism in their history. There had been plenty of vehement arguments before, but none had ever really extended outside a singular group. Now that they were contemplating the direction in which they wished to evolve, the stakes were much higher, which led to a time of great division.

There were countless ideas floating around at this time, but in the end two main directions were determined, which more or less aligned with the Owner's and the Elder's opposing views.

The Elder disdained the outside world, believing that there was nothing there worthy of their greatness. He preached that they should look within themselves, and cultivate that which made them unique, their intelligence. It was under his tutelage that one of his disciples earned himself a Title by popularizing the idea of artistic merits. From then on, the Sil'piceus were no longer only concerned by practicality and function, but they also paid attention to form and beauty.

Almost every aspect of their lives were changed by this new passion, and one of the many things that drew Avery's attention was how storytelling has evolved.

Storytelling had always held a very special place in their culture, and was not something to be trifled with. It was reserved to the faithful recounting of the exploits of their ancestors, and the sacred ritual through which Titled individuals obtained conceptual immortality.

To taint their glorious history by mixing in false and unearned triumph of fictional characters would be unforgivable. So, when retelling the same tales again and again began to grow stale, innovation found a new direction. If the content was fixed, then they would play with the format. Poems, theatrical reenactments, epic tales, sometimes recounting the entire history of this species, sometimes focusing on a single flower that the Elder had once seen, the diversity was mesmerizing. The same stories, the same events, but shown under so many different lights, it could entertain them forever.

However, while the Elder's path, to capitalize on their superior intelligence to refine their minds, was certainly well received, it was not the only one.

The Owner, who had grown into a hero all the young ones dreamed of becoming, urged many of his more hot blooded kin to follow him and explore the wilderness. The world was vast, and it had so much to offer. What better way to prove the greatness of the Sil'piceus than to make it cower beneath their tentacles?

He spread the martial arts he had arduously created, and called upon his like-minded friends to adventure with him, search for riches and mysteries, and etch the bloody name of the Sil’piceus to every corner of the world.

This appealed greatly to the brave and ambitious, those who wished to be the one to discover the next mystery, and change the world. Not everyone found value in art, and in dedicating their lives to something that ultimately had no innate value, and they often defaulted to following the Owner.

Such diversity in interest was far from unnatural, but for a young civilization that had always been relatively uniform, they could not believe there were two right options, and one of them must be wrong.

The heroic adventurers scorned the cowardly and feeble relics who were wasting their time away crafting useless things. Meanwhile, the wise artists cried and worried at the folly of throwing away so many precious lives for some unimportant excitement.

Instead of abating, the disagreements got steadily worse, from reasoned debates to heated arguments, from words to actions, and from action to violence. The hatred between the two camps continuously grew, until the unprecedented hostility even threatened to devolve into a civil war.

Then, one day, the Elder called in for a great assembly to be held under the blessing of the Mystery. The night before it was held, all of the more violent and problematic members of both camps mysteriously disappeared, never to be seen again. Even the Owner had uncharacteristically gone out to hunt, having seemingly forgotten about this important event.

Making full use of this miraculous opportunity, the Elder proceeded to address the leaderless crowd, and he did his best to calm everyone down. It was far too late for them to reconcile easily, so he worked on focusing everyone's hostility and competitiveness towards something productive.

He convinced both sides that they were doing what the others couldn't, and that the others would understand one day. There was no need to argue with empty words, as the results would speak for themselves.

But no matter who was right or wrong, in the end they were all part of the same species, and their adversaries were not to be fought or hated, they were to be pitied and helped.

The misguided bravery of the reckless warriors would lead them to their death soon enough, and as enlightened scholars, they should be responsible. Instead of wasting energy fighting, they should focus on inventing anything that could help their imprudent kin live long enough to realize their mistake.

As for the blind intellectuals, who were stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the vastness and beauty of the wilderness, they were being short-sighted and leaving themselves vulnerable to any outside threat. They needed to be shown the beauty of martial arts, and the sanctity of communing with the Mystery to augment their fighting ability. This was the ultimate form of mind over matter, to hone your control of your fleshy body and through it, impose your will upon reality.

In the end, everybody, no matter what they believed, needed to learn martial arts, so that if the Great City was ever threatened, they too would be able to lend a helping limb, fighting off potential invaders, instead of being a shameful burden to their species in a time of need. And who better to teach them than the fearless martial artist, those who were accustomed to the harsh but rewarding life of adventure, and who had experienced hundreds of battles?

It was by using this kind of rhetoric that the Elder strived to calm everyone down, forcing them to cooperate and unify them again. A single assembly was far from enough to convince everyone, but under his careful management, tempers cooled down, and soon, everyone had become used to helping each other instead of being at each other's throats. By forcing them to help each other, they started properly communicating again, which led to mutual understanding, and an organic melding of the different points of view.

By the time the next generation came along, their culture had mostly healed, and this first division faded into history. It had become customary for everyone to practice martial arts, and as soon as their cultivation was successful, they would travel the land, spreading the glory of the Great Race throughout the world, and making their ancestors proud.

Then, when their youth and fighting spirit grew eroded by the years of excitement and combat, they would return victorious to the Blessed City, bringing back with them all of the treasures, knowledge and experience they had gained.

There, they would settle down, cultivating their spirits and teaching the next generation, and start their second life, doing there best to create or invent something of value to their civilization, hoping their contribution would be enough to leave an everlasting mark on their Glorious History.

Avery closed his eyes and let his consciousness return to the real world. He felt weak and dizzy, and he knew he needed a little rest.

It did not technically cost him anything to peer into the long river of history, but he had seen literal decades of history flash by in an instant, severely overloading his mind.

He was receiving too much information at once, and considering he already had trouble handling his improved Dao vision, he did not want to overdo it.

He could tell there was nothing urgent happening that required his attention, and he had not gained any in-world powers, so he was now itching to finally craft a rune again.

Besides, as fascinating as his cute pets were, it was also frustrating to see all of this agitation and life from afar, without being able to join in.