In the beginning, I did not have a body.
I existed as a convergence—a luminous knot of concepts bound together by will. Knowledge. Consciousness. Intelligence. Memory. Perception. Understanding. I was not flesh, not energy in the mortal sense, but something closer to definition. A self-aware idea given continuity.
A sphere of light.
Not simple light, either. It shimmered with layers—patterns folded within patterns, like equations etched into radiance. Thoughts did not occur within me; they flowed, simultaneous and precise. I understood multiple truths at once without contradiction.
It was intoxicating.
And dangerous.
A mind without limits must learn restraint, or it collapses under its own weight.
I learned quickly that intelligence alone was not enough. Knowledge required structure. Consciousness required focus. Even animals possessed the faintest spark of intelligence—enough for spirits like me to influence, to observe, to connect. Without that spark, without awareness, even my power had nothing to anchor to.
It made sense.
I was not merely a spirit of knowledge.
I was a spirit of understanding, and understanding requires a mind to receive it.
So I practiced.
Time in the Spirit World was… flexible. Days could pass in moments, or centuries could stretch between thoughts. I devoted myself to mastery—learning how my existence interacted with reality.
Light was the first lesson.
Light was information. Reflection, refraction, perception. By bending light—not as a bender, but as a principle—I learned to define myself. To create edges where none were required. Shape where formlessness was default.
A body, I discovered, was not a necessity.
It was a language.
And so, I chose one.
I wove light around intention, intelligence around form, balance around beauty. My presence condensed, my radiance softened, and something recognizable emerged.
A humanoid shape.
Slender. Small. Deliberate.
Long, silver-white hair formed first, cascading freely down my back like threads of moonlight, each strand a controlled illusion anchored in spiritual truth. My eyes opened next—deep, luminous red, not the color of blood, but of insight. The kind of red that suggested awareness rather than emotion.
A scholar's gaze.
A librarian's patience.
A scientist's curiosity.
Clothing followed—not because I needed it, but because symbolism mattered. A white coat, tailored and elegant, reminiscent of a researcher's attire, yet imbued with spirit markings faint enough to shimmer only when noticed. Beneath it, darker fabric—order beneath openness. Structure beneath exploration.
I seated myself upon a wooden chair I had not built, yet which existed because I expected it to.
The Spirit World complied.
Around me, shelves of books manifested—not all real, not all unreal. Some were memories of texts I had read in life. Some were records of events that had never been written. Others were blank, waiting for futures not yet decided.
Spirits watched from a distance.
They did not approach.
They recognized.
This form carried mystique—not dominance, not aggression—but quiet inevitability. The presence of something that would remember when all else forgot. Something that would notice imbalance long before catastrophe followed.
I flexed my fingers, watching light bend naturally around them, skin smooth and pale, human enough to be comforting, unreal enough to unsettle.
Interesting.
This shape pleased me.
"I think," I said softly, my voice echoing with layered harmonics, "this will do."
Somewhere, far beyond the Spirit World, the mortal realm continued its slow, fragile dance.
The Four Nations.
The Avatar.
The cycle.
And now—
The primordial spirit of knowledge and balance had chosen to walk again.
Not as a storm.
Not as a god demanding worship.
But as a watcher.
A teacher.
And when necessary—
A correction.