Ba Sing Se had changed since the war. Walls that once divided now bore murals of peace.
Dai Li agents now patrolled less like secret police and more like reluctant peacekeepers. But despite the painted smiles and blooming trade routes, shadows still lingered—especially in the lower districts, where secrets were currency and
whispers could kill.
Deep beneath the city, hidden in the old tunnels once used by the resistance, sat a single lotus tile placed atop a stone altar. The air around it shimmered faintly with heat.
A message had been left for a Fire Nation courier. Not by ink. Not by scroll. But by flame.
And now, it burned.
High above the capital, in a small enclave along the cliffs of Ember Island, Fire Lord Zuko
sat in silence as a cloaked emissary knelt before him.
The messenger's hands were scorched from
carrying the message urn all the way from Ba Sing Se.
"This was delivered three nights ago," the messenger said through gritted teeth. "From the Ba Sing
Se chapter of the White Lotus. The spirit of Shuijing River has been…
disturbed."
Zuko frowned, fingers tightening around the hilt of his sheathed sword. "Disturbed? Spirits
don't get disturbed without cause."
"They say a young man is involved. An outsider. No name on record. But… he can bend more than one
element. And the spirits say he does not belong."
Zuko stood slowly.
"You're certain?"
The messenger nodded. "He's not the Avatar. But the river spirit itself claimed he fractures balance."
For a moment, Zuko didn't speak. Then, he walked toward the window, staring out over the sea. He
remembered the storm six years ago—the final Agni Kai. The scorched sky.
The scream of lightning. The end of an era. Peace had come like a fragile ember. And now something—or someone—was breathing on it again.
"Where is the Avatar?" Zuko asked quietly.
"In the Northern AirTemple," the messenger replied.
"Rebuilding.Training the next generation. Tenzin is with him."
Zuko closed his eyes.
"Send word. Tell Aang what I've heard. No dramatics—just facts. If this man is what the spirits fear, then we need answers before there's another war."
"And if Aang sees him as a threat?" Zuko turned. For a second, the old flame in his golden eyes
flickered—the fire of a warrior, not a ruler.
"Then Aang will do what he must. And so will I."
Far from Ember Island, in a dusty field outside Shuijing, Fang Yuan stood with his hands outstretched, eyes closed, brow furrowed
He was trying again, The river had shown him something—power not of the body, but of movement.
The way water danced, slipped, adapted. The way it felt.
Earth came easily to him now. It responded to instinct. But water… water was quiet, elusive. When he'd bent it during the spirit's attack, it had been raw, reactive. He wanted more. Control. Precision.
"Okay," he muttered, kneeling by the pond. "Flow. Breath. Calm…"
He inhaled. Focused. Felt the stillness inside the surface. The tension.
A ripple.
His fingers twitched. The water shifted.Only
slightly.
His brow furrowed.
"Closer…"
The water rolled, then formed a small, wobbling sphere before collapsing again
He let out a long breath.
Behind him, Lian watched silently from the trees. She had said nothing since the spirit's visit. She no longer greeted him in town.
People had started avoiding him. Children
whispered. The elder spat when he passed.
Balance-breaker.
Shadow-born. Spirit-marked.
He was becoming a ghost while still alive.
But Fang Yuan didn't care.Not anymore.
Something had awakened in him. Something real. It wasn't madness. It wasn't delusion.It was truth.
And the world wasn't ready for it.
That night, deep within the Spirit World, ancient ones stirred.
A white fox with six tails sat atop a tree older than history, gazing into a rippling pool. In its depths, it saw a young man with black eyes and a heavy heart. It saw fire and water, stone and wind—each bending toward him like branches in a storm.
It saw the balance begin to tip.
"He is not born of Raava," whispered the fox in a language only the stars understood. "But he
bends all four. And he does not follow the path."
Beside it, a spirit in the shape of a serpent made of clouds hissed, "He has no past. No karma. He
walks like flesh, but feels like shadow. He is neither mortal nor beast.
The fox nodded slowly. "The world will not allow another Avatar."
The serpent coiled.
"Then the world must stop him."
And high above, in the infinite expanse of spirit and void, a sliver of golden light—the last echo of Raava's true presence—shuddered.
Because something had returned.
Not a being of order.
Not a force of chaos.
But a question.
A threat.
A possibility.