Iroh POV: Updated
When Raiden reached his third year, I knew—it was time. The lad had grown with unusual swiftness, his mind and body developing in tandem like rare synchronous flames. Those eyes of his—sharp as polished obsidian—they held something ancient. No ordinary child, this one. You could see it plain as day in his bearing—the way he stood, watched, listened. Like a veteran soldier in a child's form, assessing rather than merely seeing.
"Today, little dragon," I said, my lips curving into a smile that warmed my weathered face. I presented him with a staff—oak, polished until it gleamed, sized perfectly for his small grasp. "We begin the path that will shape your destiny. Remember always: body and mind must flow together as one river. Like tea leaves and water—separate, they accomplish little. Together, they create something magnificent."
The boy's fingers closed around the wood with surprising strength. His eyes—ah, how they kindled with an inner light! "What will we do, Uncle Iroh?" His voice carried none of childhood's uncertainty—steady as a mountain stream, it was.
I lowered myself beside him, my hand finding his shoulder. "We start with the vessel itself—your body. A teapot with cracks cannot hold even the finest jasmine, hmm? So too must your physical form be prepared before the greater work begins. This is true whether one wields flame, water, stone, or wind."
And so we began. Simple tasks, yet fundamental: running circuits through the garden while cherry blossoms drifted like pink snow; balancing atop narrow bamboo while morning dew still clung to the grass below; learning the first positions with his staff while sunlight stretched our shadows across the courtyard. Despite his tender years, Raiden showed remarkable persistence. Even when exhaustion made his small frame tremble, when sweat beaded on his brow like morning mist, he continued until I commanded rest.
"Patience, Raiden," I counseled, guiding him to rest beneath a magnolia heavy with blossoms. "The candle that burns too quickly gives light for only a moment. The flame must be tended, not consumed. Even the fiercest dragon must sleep."
He nodded—such a solemn gesture from one so small—and accepted the tea I offered. "Yes, Uncle," he replied, his voice soft but firm as steel beneath silk.
After many moons of training, when twilight painted the sky in hues no artist could capture, we sat beside the koi pond. Raiden's muscles ached from the day's exertions, yet his spirit remained bright as the fireflies now dancing above the water. The moment seemed ripe for deeper teachings.
"Tell me, Raiden," I began, my voice gentle as evening wind through willow leaves, "why must we understand all elements, not merely fire? Why does a firebender study water's flow or earth's steadfastness?"
He gazed upward, his young face thoughtful in the gathering darkness. "Because... they speak to one another?" he ventured, drawing his knees close as if to embrace the question itself.
"Ah!" My fingers stroked my beard as pleasure warmed my chest. "Precisely so. Each element carries wisdom beyond its physical form. The ancient ones knew this truth before they bent their first flame or raised their first stone."
I lifted a smooth pebble from beside us and cast it into the still waters. Ripples spread outward like thoughts from a contemplative mind. "Air—freedom's element. The nomads who bend it seek harmony, movement, evasion. Air teaches us to adapt when rigidity would break us. It reminds us to remain unburdened, even when life grows heavy. Though unseen, it sustains all life with each breath."
My fingertip traced the ripples as they transformed against the pond's edge. "Water—the element of change. Those who bend it understand transformation, flowing between states as easily as thought. Water shows us how to redirect force rather than oppose it directly. Sometimes victory comes not from standing firm, but from yielding only to strike from unexpected directions."
Earth came next—I scooped a handful of soil, letting it filter between my fingers like moments through time. "Earth—stability's foundation. Its benders are rooted, powerful, unyielding when necessary. Earth teaches perseverance when storms rage around us. It reminds us that principles must remain unmoved, yet still nurture new growth, as soil cradles the smallest seed."
Finally, I summoned a small flame to dance upon my palm, its light catching in Raiden's attentive gaze. "And fire—our element. Energy and determination incarnate. We who bend it channel passion, directness, force. Yet fire also creates, warms, illuminates the darkness. Unlike its siblings, fire must be generated from within—from breath and spirit. This makes it uniquely powerful... and dangerous without wisdom to guide it."
Raiden watched the flame with rapt attention, shadows playing across features too thoughtful for his years. "So each element teaches something different?" His small hand hovered near the fire, feeling its warmth without touching its danger.
I closed my fingers, extinguishing the light as stars emerged above us. "Indeed, young nephew. Mastering bending isn't merely controlling elements—it's embodying their wisdom. Balance comes from understanding all four elements. Just as the perfect tea requires earth to grow the leaf, water to extract its essence, fire to release its potential, and air to carry its fragrance to the senses—so too does the balanced spirit require all elements' teachings."
Raiden Pov:
Training with Uncle was like trying to grasp smoke with bare hands—exhilarating yet maddening. His teachings came wrapped in strange parables about tea leaves and mountain streams that left me blinking in confusion, only to suddenly make perfect sense when I least expected it. Some mornings I'd wake with his riddle from three days prior suddenly clear as spring water in my mind, the metaphors unfolding like origami in my thoughts, revealing their hidden wisdom when I'd nearly given up understanding them.
As I practiced my forms beneath the dappled shadows of our garden, something stirred within me—a curious warmth that pulsed in rhythm with my heartbeat. Not painful, but... insistent. Like an unopened gift demanding attention. Each day it grew stronger, a sensation both foreign and somehow familiar, as though my body remembered something my mind had forgotten. It reminded me of chakra from my past life, yet distinctly different—more primal, more connected to my breath than my spiritual energy.
That particular afternoon, sunlight spilled through the canopy in golden ribbons, casting shifting patterns across the worn stone path. Sweat trickled down my temple as I moved through the thirty-second form Uncle had drilled into me until my muscles remembered the pattern better than my thoughts did. The staff's polished surface felt cool against my palms as I swung it in the prescribed arc, the wood smooth from countless hours of practice, my calluses meeting its familiar grain with practiced precision—
Then it happened.
Heat rushed through my arms like summer wind, gathering at my fingertips with an intensity that made my skin tingle. The wooden staff grew suddenly warm, almost vibrating with energy, and there—dancing at its tip like a living thing—flickered a small flame no larger than a firefly's glow. My breath caught in my throat, memories of another lifetime's jutsu flashing behind my eyes. The tiny fire wavered, responding to my surprise as though connected to my very thoughts, shrinking when I gasped, growing when I focused.
"Uncle!" My voice cracked like thin ice, excitement making my words stumble over themselves. I held the staff perfectly still, afraid the slightest movement might extinguish this miracle, this tangible proof that I could bend elements in this world too. "Fire! Look!"
Uncle Iroh set his teacup down with deliberate care, the porcelain making a soft clink against the stone table. He approached without hurry, yet I could see the spark in his eyes—pride mingled with something deeper, a knowing glance that suggested he'd been waiting for this moment. That familiar half-smile I'd come to treasure spread across his face as he knelt beside me, his solid frame settling with surprising grace, the scent of jasmine tea still clinging to his robes.
"So the dragon wakes," he said, his voice rich as honey-sweetened tea. "Your inner fire has found its voice. Tell me, young one—what does it feel like within you?"
I lowered the staff slightly, watching how the flame danced with each subtle movement, bending and swaying like it was performing its own secret kata. The question made me pause, searching for words to capture the strange sensation flowing through my veins, so different from chakra manipulation I once knew.
"It feels... hungry," I finally answered, my gaze fixed on the flickering light. "Like it's been sleeping forever and now wants to stretch. It wants to grow and breathe and dance." I looked up, suddenly uncertain, aware of how childish my description might sound to a master. "Is that... right?"
"A most excellent observation," he nodded, eyes crinkling at their corners like weathered parchment. "Fire is indeed alive—it hungers, it breathes, it dances. Unlike earth or water that simply exist, fire must be constantly fed and tended. It creates warmth and light, yet unchecked, it devours all in its path. This duality is its greatest lesson." His hand found my shoulder, warm and reassuring. "Now we begin the true work of shaping what lives within you."
The days that followed unfolded in new patterns, each one bringing fresh challenges and discoveries. Each dawn found us seated facing the rising sun, breathing in measured counts as Uncle taught me to feel the energy flowing through my body's channels—what he called chi paths but reminded me so much of chakra networks I once manipulated with ease. During midday, when the sun stood highest, he showed me how to direct my breath and movement to coax flames from my fingertips—tiny wisps at first, then gradually stronger, more controlled bursts that danced and twisted at my command.
"Remember always," he would remind me as I practiced, his voice steady as a metronome, "the breath becomes energy in the body. The energy extends beyond your limbs and becomes fire. The two are not separate, but one continuous flow, like a river that never ends but simply changes form."
Each tiny success filled my chest with pride—holding a flame steady for ten breaths, then twenty, then a hundred. The warmth in my palms becoming an extension of my will, responding to the subtlest shifts in my intention. Yet I also learned humility through singed fingertips and scorched practice mats, the smell of burnt cotton and hair becoming all too familiar. Once, in my eagerness to create a larger flame, I sent fire shooting wildly upward, singeing my own eyebrow and nearly setting a nearby tree branch ablaze. Uncle's laughter rolled through the garden like summer thunder, echoing off the stone walls.
"Patience is the companion of wisdom," he chuckled, dampening a cloth to press against my forehead where the heat had left a reddened mark. "Fire responds to emotion as readily as to intent. Master yourself, and the flame will follow. Remember that fire without control is just destruction waiting to happen."
From the shadows of our house, my mother watched my progress with those penetrating violet eyes that seemed to see beyond the present moment. Her eyes held pride, yes, but something else lurked behind them—concern perhaps, or memories I couldn't yet understand. I sometimes caught her fingers tracing old scars on her arms when she thought I wasn't looking, her expression distant as though revisiting ancient wounds. But with Uncle's steady hand guiding me—his gentle corrections and measured praise becoming the heartbeat of my days—I felt anchored in this new world of flame and breath that had awakened within me, a power both familiar and strange, connecting me to this world in ways I was only beginning to comprehend.
Tomoya POV: Updated
As Raiden's abilities began to manifest, I observed his development with careful attention. His chakra network, still forming like delicate frost patterns on winter glass, approached completion with each passing day. By his third year and half, I could sense the energy within him more clearly—like watching an underground spring gradually finding its way to the surface. The pulses of chakra now emanated from his core in distinct patterns, flowing through his meridians with growing confidence. The time had come to guide him in the ancient arts of our bloodline.
"Raiden, come with me," I called softly one morning as he completed his training with Iroh. Sunlight filtered through cherry blossoms overhead, painting the garden stones with dappled gold. He approached with measured steps, his small face flushed from exertion yet his eyes bright with that eager intelligence that never failed to stir something long-forgotten within my ancient heart.
"Yes, Mother?" He stood before me with a formal bow—one of Iroh's many influences. The gesture, so solemn from one so small, brought an unbidden smile to my lips. I knelt before him, brushing a strand of raven-black hair—so like my own—from his forehead.
"Your chakra has matured sufficiently for us to begin the next phase of your education," I explained, keeping my tone gentle yet precise. "I shall teach you to sense and direct it—a skill that will serve countless purposes, from combat to healing to perceiving truths hidden from ordinary sight. This knowledge has flowed through our clan's veins since before the founding of hidden villages."
He nodded, eyes shining like polished obsidian. "I'll work hard, Mother! Will I learn to do what you can do?"
"In time," I answered, feeling both pride and that familiar twinge of maternal concern. "Perhaps even more."
We began with the foundation of all chakra work—meditation. Seated upon cushions in the garden's quietest corner, surrounded by the subtle fragrance of jasmine and the distant chorus of songbirds, I guided him through the process of stilling his restless mind. I demonstrated the proper mudra, fingers interlaced in patterns older than most civilizations.
"Chakra is the living energy that flows through all parts of you," I explained, watching his small face furrow in concentration. "It binds your physical form to your spiritual essence—like two rivers merging to form something greater than either alone. Close your eyes and feel it pulsing beneath your skin, following the pathways I've shown in the ancient scrolls."
Initially, he struggled as all children do—his youthful energy rebelling against stillness. His legs would twitch impatiently, and occasionally one eye would open to check if I was observing his efforts. But with each passing day, the fidgeting lessened. Soon, he began to sense what had always been there—the gentle current of his own life force.
"I feel something, Mother," he whispered one afternoon, voice filled with quiet wonder, eyes remaining closed. "It's like... a river of stars flowing through secret paths inside me."
"Good," I replied, unexpected warmth blooming in my chest at his description—so similar to how I had first perceived chakra when the Great Spirit granted me understanding of its nature. "Now we shape that river. Focus on directing it, as one might guide water through channels in a garden. Imagine those stars flowing where your will commands."
I studied my son's face intently—the gentle curve of his cheek still holding childhood's softness despite his intense concentration. His resemblance to his father became most apparent in these moments of focus—the same determined set of his jaw, the same slight furrow between his brows. Yet there was something uniquely Raiden in the way his fingers trembled slightly with anticipation.
"The ancient texts describe chakra as possessing dual nature," I continued, keeping my voice in the low, melodic register I had perfected over centuries. "It can be unyielding as mountain stone or adaptable as morning mist. Your challenge lies in finding balance—commanding without forcing, guiding without breaking."
I extended my hand, palm upward, allowing my own chakra to become faintly visible—a subtle violet-blue luminescence that danced across my skin like moonlight on still water. A simple demonstration, but one I knew would captivate him. The art of chakra manipulation had been among the Great Spirit's most precious gifts to me, knowledge I could now pass to my son.
"Feel the pathways within," I instructed softly, "and imagine opening the gates that contain your energy. Not all at once—gently, as one might open a screen to admit the first breath of spring."
His brow furrowed with concentration, and I sensed the subtle shifts in his chakra as he attempted to direct it. Sometimes it would spike erratically like a startled bird; other times barely stir at all. But each day brought measurable improvement.
To refine his control further, I introduced a traditional exercise. I instructed a servant to bring fresh water from the mountain spring in a shallow ceramic basin. Placing it before us on the wooden veranda, I explained, "Coat one finger with chakra and place it in the water. Your goal is to keep your finger dry while creating as few ripples as possible. This is how Uchiha children have learned control since before the clan wars."
Raiden's face set with determination, his small finger trembling slightly as he attempted to envelop his finger with chakra. His first attempts ended predictably—wet fingers and frustrated sighs. But he persisted with a stubbornness that reminded me of myself in ways both comforting and concerning. Days passed, and gradually, he mastered the technique, his finger emerging from the water completely dry, the surface barely disturbed.
"Excellent," I said, allowing myself the rare indulgence of stroking his hair with genuine affection. "You honor our lineage with your progress. Now for the next challenge: envelop your entire hand in chakra, submerge it, then attempt to withdraw it while holding the water suspended—contained by nothing but your chakra control."
His eyes widened at this, but he nodded resolutely. "Like holding water without a vessel?"
"Precisely," I confirmed, pleased by his quick understanding.
This exercise tested both his patience and precision. For weeks, water splashed across our training area, but gradually, he learned to hold small amounts, then larger ones, his concentration improving with each attempt until he could lift a perfect sphere of water, suspended by his chakra alone.
Our lessons continued through changing seasons. Raiden's progress was remarkable; he quickly learned to direct his chakra with precision that belied his years, using it to enhance his physical movements and sustain his bending techniques. I observed with quiet satisfaction as he began combining Iroh's elemental teachings with my chakra instruction, creating something uniquely his own.
When I judged him ready, I introduced the fundamentals of ninjutsu, beginning with basic hand seals and elemental manipulation. I guided his small fingers through the precise positions—Tiger, Snake, Ram—teaching him the ancient forms that would channel his chakra into techniques of power and purpose.
"Remember always, Raiden," I told him as he successfully manifested his first controlled fireball jutsu, the flame dancing above his palm like a living creature, "Power is merely a tool, not an end. Wield it with wisdom and purpose."
He nodded solemnly, the flickering light casting shadows across his young face, illuminating eyes that held understanding beyond their years.
"I will, Mother. I promise," he replied, extinguishing the flame with a controlled closing of his hand. "I want to protect, not destroy. As you've taught me."
My heart—which had witnessed centuries of human folly—swelled with both pride and that eternal maternal concern. For all my long existence, nothing had prepared me for the complex emotions of guiding this remarkable child—my son, my legacy, perhaps someday my redemption.
Iroh's POV: Updated
There is a quiet kind of joy that comes not from triumph, nor from reaching journey's end, but from witnessing growth unfold like a rare flower turning toward the sun.
Raiden was that kind of joy.
Each movement of his small hands, every breath drawn with measured intention, echoed disciplines that took most practitioners decades to refine. Yet what truly distinguished him was not his swift mastery, but the absence of that prideful shadow that so often clings to exceptional talent like morning mist to mountain valleys. Where others might have grown arrogant, he remained humble—a quality as rare among prodigies as lotus blossoms in winter.
He remained, first and foremost, a child. A boy who still paused his training to help Tomoya sort medicinal herbs, carefully separating the bitter roots from sweet-smelling leaves with focused concentration. A child who listened to my meandering philosophies about the different souls of jasmine and oolong teas—how one whispers while the other sings—as though each word might reveal the universe's hidden patterns. His eyes would widen then, dark as midnight but filled with stars of curiosity. But when he trained—when his chakra pathways aligned and elements answered his call—he transformed into something else entirely. A glimpse of what harmony between power and wisdom might truly mean, a balance many spend lifetimes seeking yet never find.
That particular evening, the setting sun had painted our modest garden in the kind of golden light that makes one forget the world beyond its walls—amber warmth brushing against stone paths, mountain shadows stretching like the fingers of ancient spirits bidding farewell to day. The air itself seemed to breathe with contentment, carrying the scent of earth warmed by a day's worth of sunlight.
"Uncle Iroh!" His voice carried across the garden, unburdened and bright as polished copper. "I've been practicing something special!" There was that delightful eagerness in his tone that reminded me how, despite his extraordinary abilities, he was still a boy seeking approval, still finding joy in small victories.
He stood barefoot on the smooth stones, balanced in that peculiar way children have—as though certain the earth will hold them gently if approached with respect. The stones beneath his feet had been worn smooth by generations of practice, yet they seemed especially receptive to his touch. In his outstretched palm, a flame blossomed—not wild or hungry, but controlled. Deliberate as a master's brushstroke. It neither flickered with uncertainty nor roared with excess—it simply existed, perfectly in tune with his breath.
With movements delicate as falling cherry blossoms, his wrist turned, fingers tracing invisible patterns in the air. The flame responded—not with reluctance, but eager cooperation—coiling upward and taking shape. Not into something crude or fierce, but into a dragon. Small, exquisite, sinuous. It wove through the evening air with elegant purpose, its scales shifting between hues of gold and crimson, tiny eyes gleaming with what seemed like thoughtful awareness. The creature's body undulated with the gentle rhythm of Raiden's breathing, a living extension of his will yet somehow possessing its own spirit.
I chuckled softly—not from surprise, but from genuine delight. My old heart swelled with a pride that went beyond mere satisfaction with a student's progress. "Magnificent," I said, my weathered hands coming together in appreciative applause. "You honor fire's true nature—not by commanding it, but by inviting it to dance with you. That is the secret few firebenders ever truly grasp."
He smiled, cheeks flushed with the quiet pride of craftsmanship rather than vanity. The flame-dragon performed one final graceful arc above our heads, scattering golden embers that dissolved like whispered secrets into the gathering dusk. Each spark seemed to carry a fragment of light into the deepening shadows, defying darkness for just a moment longer.
"Thank you for teaching me, Uncle," he said, his voice softer now, carrying the weight of sincere gratitude. In those few words, I heard echoes of all our mornings spent in meditation, afternoons of patient correction, evenings of philosophical discussion over steaming cups of tea.
My hand found his shoulder. Beneath the simple linen of his training clothes, I could feel the strength he had earned through countless mornings of dedication—still growing, still finding its true form. The muscle and sinew beneath my palm told stories of persistence that went far beyond natural talent.
"No, young dragon," I replied gently. "It is you who have reminded this old man of what matters. That power alone leaves no lasting legacy. That even in this fractured world, it remains possible to shape fire into something that illuminates rather than consumes." I squeezed his shoulder gently, feeling the weight of my own past—of battles fought and lives taken in the name of conquest—lift slightly in the presence of this child who represented a different path.
The kettle began its familiar song from within our home—the call to our nightly ritual of tea and contemplation. The high, sweet whistle drifted through the open door, promising comfort and conversation as darkness settled around us. Yet I lingered a moment longer beneath the deepening indigo sky now adorned with the first hesitant stars. I allowed myself to savor this perfect stillness: Raiden's steady breathing beside me, the fading light casting long shadows across our garden, and the gentle breeze carrying the mingled scents of night-blooming jasmine and promise.
He was not merely a prodigy of rare talent.
He was living proof that true legacy need not be written in conquest or carved in monuments, but in moments of quiet brilliance. In instances like this—where strength bowed to compassion, and fire, for once, warmed without burning. In the way his young hands could create beauty where others might have forged only weapons, I saw hope for a world I had once helped to damage, and now wished desperately to heal.
Tomoya POV: Updated
There is a particular quality to nighttime that transcends mere absence of day—a sacred hush that settles over the world like fine silk, not empty but full of unspoken promise. The moon's pale light filtered through our home's rice paper screens, casting delicate patterns across the tatami—ghostly calligraphy written in silver and shadow.
And there, cradled in this gentle illumination, lay Raiden.
His breathing formed a rhythm ancient as ocean tides—steady, certain, undisturbed. Moonlight softened the lines of his face, features that, though still rounded with childhood, already hinted at what time would eventually reveal. The intensity he carried when awake—that peculiar weight behind his eyes that spoke of knowing too much too soon—had melted away in sleep. What remained was simply a child, unburdened by destiny or bloodline or the thousand expectations that daylight would bring. A fleeting glimpse of what might have been in simpler circumstances.
I did not disturb this moment with words. Some truths require silence to be properly heard.
Instead, I knelt beside his futon, my movement careful as a shadow's passing. My hand extended toward him, fingers hovering just above the dark strands of hair spread across his pillow. Not quite touching—never quite touching—as though something so ordinary might somehow break this fragile peace. The hesitation was not born of uncertainty, but reverence. After centuries of wandering—of blood and atonement and memories that refused to fade into merciful darkness—this small being had become the fixed point around which my existence now orbited.
He was more than merely my son.
He was my anchor in a world I had drifted through for longer than most kingdoms had stood.
Moonlight shifted then, catching the faintest shimmer of chakra beneath his skin—that luminous inheritance flowing through veins too small to bear such weight. Uchiha. Senju. Uzumaki. Three rivers of power converging in one small vessel. I had witnessed firsthand the price such legacies demanded of their bearers. But unlike those who came before, Raiden would not face that burden without shelter.
Not as I once had.
I released a breath held too long, drawing back my hand to instead adjust the blanket covering his small frame. I tucked the edges with careful precision, as though this simple cloth might somehow shield him from the world that waited beyond our walls.
Then I closed my eyes and lowered my head—not in prayer to any particular deity, but in acknowledgment of something deeper. A covenant with the night itself. With the moon. With the quiet that witnessed without judgment.
A vow formed in that silence, unspoken yet binding as blood.
That I would protect him with every fragment of strength these centuries had granted me.
That I would teach him to wield power not as a weapon but as a lantern—illuminating rather than destroying.
That I would ensure—through whatever means necessary—that no matter how vast or difficult his path might become, he would never walk it as I once did.
Alone.