Chapter 32: Resources of the Order
Smoke drifted across the broken battlefield like the breath of a dying dragon.
Zuko's chest heaved as he lay on his side, his palm pressed to the blood-caked ground. Every inhale burned, every rib screamed. His good eye squinted through the ash, and there like a hallucination painted by the spirits stood General Iroh, flame-wreathed and unbending, a calm storm in human form.
The soft hum of power still glowed around the old general's outstretched palm.
Across from him, King Bumi cracked his knuckles and let out a low, guttural chuckle.
"Well, well," Bumi muttered, his voice echoing like a cracked boulder. "Look who crawled out of retirement."
Iroh didn't flinch. "This doesn't need to continue. Call off your forces. End this madness."
Bumi's laughter burst from his throat, loud and wild. "Oh, I see. Now it's madness," he bellowed. "Where was your voice of reason when the Fire Nation was leveling cities? Killing children? Taking names off the maps?"
His words slammed into the open air like falling stones. The battlefield, for a moment, held its breath.
"The world has been begging the Fire Nation to stop for a hundred years, Iroh. Now the shoe's on the other foot, and you don't like the fit?"
Iroh said nothing.
Bumi's smile faded into something darker. "You can't stop this. The Fire Nation will pay for its bloodshed, starting with your nephew."
"I won't let you," Iroh said calmly.
From the ground, Zuko coughed and forced himself to speak. "Uncle…" he rasped. "What… where did you come from?"
Iroh didn't answer.
The ash swirled again.
***
[Five Days Earlier — Fire Nation Capital
Jade Serpent District, Lower Caldera Alley]
The tavern was old. Not just by Fire Nation standards, it felt old, like the kind of place that had refused to die with the times. The woodwork was dark with soot and age. Lanterns swung gently from iron chains, their flames flickering inside thick red paper. The scent of smoke mixed with the scent of toasted sesame oil and boiled pork, drifting like incense across the warm air.
A small crowd of locals and travelers murmured around their tables, sipping from lacquered cups, passing dice back and forth across uneven wooden boards. Laughter rose and fell in unpredictable waves.
But in one quiet corner, the Dragon of the West sat alone.
General Iroh, now dressed plainly in traveling robes and a simple dark sash, cradled a hot cup of jasmine tea between his calloused fingers. Steam curled upward from the cup like a dancer.
Before him sat a pai sho board, tiles laid out in early formation, a solo practice game, by the look of it. But the fire in his gaze wasn't on the board. It was turned inward.
Zuko.
That night, days ago now, when his nephew disappeared from the capital without a word. Two dozen ships, hundreds of men, and no official declaration. Not even a notice to Kuvak. Not even Iroh himself.
Why?
The tea soothed his throat, but not the tightness in his chest. He knew that look in Zuko's eyes during their last conversation. The boy had plans. Dangerous ones.
"I wonder," Iroh muttered under his breath, placing a tile gently in the lotus position. "What kind of future are you chasing, my dear boy?"
A shadow passed over the table.
"Up for a game?" a voice asked.
Iroh looked up and smiled. The man who stood before him was ancient, even older than Iroh himself, and that was saying something. Wrinkled skin folded over his cheeks like parchment, and his beard, long and stark white, was braided twice and looped around his collar. He wore Fire Nation robes from a bygone age, deep crimson with an embroidered black sun stitched over the heart.
"By all means," Iroh said, gesturing to the empty seat. "I am always open to learning from my elders."
The old man chuckled with gravel in his throat. "I may be old, Iroh, but I can still discipline you for that attitude."
"Discipline and tea are both better when served warm," Iroh replied with a bow of his head.
The man chuckled again and sat across from him.
Their hands moved almost immediately, reaching into the soft cloth pouches on either side of the board. One by one, they placed their opening tiles, slow at first, respectful.
But it didn't stay that way.
The game between them evolved with terrifying speed. Red and white tiles were laid in cascading flurries, the pieces clicking into place like falling rain. A small crowd began to gather, at first just a pair of younger soldiers who recognized Iroh, then two older men from the tea table, and then a few foreign merchants who didn't even know the game but could sense the tension in the air.
The match was alive.
Each move was bold, almost theatrical in its precision. Every time Iroh's fingers hovered over a tile, the old man would smile faintly, anticipating his thoughts and every time he placed a tile, the old man would answer with a counter so profound it left murmurs in the crowd.
"White lotus in the dragon's mouth…"
"An open hawk? In this tempo?"
They whispered, not daring to breathe too loud.
The tiles formed patterns that told a story, a duel, a dance, a war of philosophy. Iroh's hand hesitated twice, even three times, as the pressure mounted. The old man across from him never blinked.
Then, at last, the final move was placed. A quiet, unassuming tile. Dead center.
Iroh leaned back, stroking his beard.
"I concede," Iroh admitted.
The last tile still gleamed faintly under the tavern lanterns, casting a long shadow across the center of the board. Then, like an exhaled breath, the crowd that had gathered to witness the titanic match between the two ancient minds drifted away, murmuring among themselves.
The air returned to the ordinary, the dusty scent of woodsmoke and stewed pork settling back in.
For a while, neither man spoke.
Steam curled from the rim of Iroh's fresh cup of jasmine tea. He lifted it with reverent fingers and took a slow sip, letting the warmth bloom through his chest like spring in an old garden.
The man across from him, his long white beard still looped neatly into his sash, reached forward and touched the final tile on the board with the tip of his index finger. His face was unreadable, deep lines etched by decades of war, peace, and everything in between.
"It has been a long time since I last came close to losing a match, Iroh," the old man finally said, his voice dry as papyrus. "It is good to know you are still you."
Iroh inclined his head with a half-smile. "Master Rui. That means more coming from you than any medal or title I've ever been given."
The smile faded almost instantly.
"I'm not here for tea and flattery," Rui said bluntly. "I've been made aware of your recent activities. Activities involving mobilization of Order resources."
Iroh did not flinch. He gently placed his cup back on the wooden saucer, folded his hands over his stomach, and leaned back slightly. The lantern light above caught the faint grey of his temples.
"Master Rui," Iroh said slowly, "I am the Grand Lotus. The Council vested me with that title. I have acted within the authority and rights given to me. My decisions…"
"Indeed," Rui interrupted, his tone razor-thin. "The Council has granted you that title. But as you just saw with our little match…" he tapped the board gently " that is not the highest authority of the Order."
There was no venom in his words, only the deep, dry certainty of a man who'd lived long enough to see kingdoms rise and fall.
Iroh stiffened. Tension hummed quietly between the two elder men.
"The White Lotus was created to be more than what separates the Four Nations," Master Rui continued, his eyes sharp beneath his heavy brows. "It was never meant to serve kings or lords or nations. And certainly not bloodlines."
"I am well aware of the founding principles of the Order," Iroh replied. "It was forged to protect knowledge, spirit, balance. I haven't forgotten our vows, Master Rui."
Rui gave a soft, almost imperceptible snort.
"Then you understand why your actions raise concern. You mobilized agents. You intercepted reports from Kuvak's fleet. You diverted a White Lotus ship to Nan-Hai."
"I did what needed to be done," Iroh said flatly, "because I trust my instincts, and I trust my nephew. He has changed, more than most can see. There are... forces at play. And I believe those forces are in direct contradiction to the balance the Order was founded to maintain. Nearly ten thousand years ago."
The silence returned briefly. Then Rui smiled, a thin, lopsided twitch of the mouth that could have meant anything.
"I know who you are, my young disciple," Rui said. "Don't forget, it was I who taught you everything. The forms. The breath cycles. The Dragon's Spine movement. I made you the Dragon of the West."
Iroh said nothing. He knew better than to argue.
"And," Rui added with the sharpness of an old blade, "I know about the secret you keep about the Twin Masters of our ancestors, the Sun People."
The blood in Iroh's face receded slightly. His eyes narrowed.
"That... has nothing to do with this," he said quietly.
"Everything is connected," Rui said, and then sipped from his own cup of tea a waitress just brought. The way he drank was different, like someone re-reading a sacred text.
Iroh exhaled slowly. "So this was just a test," he said. "To see if I still have the discipline."
"No," Rui said. "I already knew you did. This…" he gestured broadly to the table, the tavern, the world "…was to remind you that no one man commands the Order. Not even the Grand Lotus, not even I."
Iroh nodded.
"I apologize for the insinuation," he said softly. "But you must understand. I didn't act out of ambition. I acted out of fear. I feel… that Zuko is standing in the eye of a coming storm."
"Good," Rui said. "Because you're right."
Iroh raised an eyebrow. Rui leaned forward now, his voice hushed.
"I came here myself, because something has emerged. A shadow moving in antithesis to us."
"A rival order?" Iroh asked.
"Yes. Something not as old but no less powerful than us."
He paused, then continued: "They are hidden. Even we, with our reach and knowledge, know almost nothing about them. They exist in whispers. Their roots go deep, even here, in the Fire Nation capital."
Iroh's voice dropped an octave. "What are they after?"
"Zuko. The throne. The Fire Nation itself. Maybe more."
That silence returned again, but this time, it felt colder. Heavier. Like something hanging over both men.
"That's not the reason I came to talk to you myself, though," Rui finally said, sipping once more.
Iroh tilted his head.
"The recent movements of your nephew... have attracted the attention of one of our highest-ranking members. Someone who hasn't moved in decades."
"Who?" Iroh asked.
Rui's eyes gleamed.
"The Mad King."
Iroh's face didn't change, but the silence was telling. The lantern above their heads crackled faintly, casting long, dancing shadows across the lines of the Pai Sho board between them.
Iroh set his cup down with a soft clink.
"Why now?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. "After all these years of silence… why now?"
Rui's fingers brushed his beard in slow contemplation. His eyes, once sharp and narrow, seemed to gaze far beyond the walls of the little tavern.
"I am not sure," he admitted. "But I believe something in the world… has shifted. A new ripple in the pond. Something or someone has become a kind of trigger."
He looked Iroh directly in the eye.
"The sudden changes we've been witnessing, the movements, the strategies, the premature plays, they're not coincidences. Someone disturbed the balance, and now the older forces are waking."
"You mean…" Iroh said, lowering his voice. "The Mad King is going into action because of this recent trail of events."
"I mean," Rui said grimly, "he is serious. More serious than any of us have seen him in decades."
"So he's going after Zuko?" Iroh asked flatly.
Rui nodded once, but slowly.
"Yes. Not as a member of the Order, though. This… this is not our business. That is why I came to you personally. He's not wearing our symbol. He's moving under his authority as an Earth Kingdom king. You will find no record or acknowledgement from Ba Sing Se. He is acting without the authority of the Earth King."
He sipped again.
"But as always, he has a following. And he has power. Earthbenders. Mercenaries. Idealists. Assassins. You name it. He has returned to his tactics in the old days when he was going toe-to-toe with your father."
Iroh leaned forward, voice calm but cutting. "Then there will be no issue if I act not as the Grand Lotus… but as a general of the Fire Nation."
There was a pause. Rui gave a small exhale, not quite a sigh, not quite a breath.
"Two high-ranking members of the Order going head-to-head," he murmured. "The war has been forcing that of us for a century now. I'm afraid it won't be the last time either."
He raised his gaze, and for the first time all night, his expression softened into something almost, almost like regret.
"And I'm scared to admit it won't be the last."
Then Rui pushed his chair back, slow and deliberate. The wood creaked under his weight. The sound of the tavern returned, cups clinking, dice rolling, hushed laughter but the space between them remained heavy.
He placed both hands on the table and leaned forward just slightly.
"Just be warned, Iroh."
His voice was cold now.
"Do not mistake your allegiance to the Fire Nation… for the love for your nephew."
With that, Rui turned and walked away.
He didn't say goodbye.
Iroh remained seated for a long time after. The steam from his cup had vanished, the jasmine now lukewarm. His eyes stayed on the Pai Sho board, on the tiles that told stories, revealed destinies, and sometimes warned of doom.
And as the old general finally stood and adjusted his robe, he knew: the game had changed again.
***
[Back in the Present]
Smoke still curled in the air like the aftertaste of fire and blood. Rubble glowed red where molten stone had licked it, and the scent of singed cloth mixed with scorched metal. The battlefield had quieted but it was not peace. It was the calm before a second storm.
Zuko stared, barely standing, pain radiating through every cracked rib and torn muscle in his body. His golden eyes fixed forward in disbelief, his voice raw:
"Uncle…?"
The silhouette of General Iroh stood between him and the oncoming doom, King Bumi, muscles tensed, robes discarded, bare chest rising and falling slowly, as if measuring the wind.
Iroh didn't look back. His eyes never left the mad monarch across from him. His feet shifted only slightly as he spoke, his voice a calm, unshakable river.
"King Bumi… end this. You've proven your might. This war doesn't need two old men trading blows. Not today."
A dry cackle echoed across the field like stone cracking under pressure.
Bumi grinned with wide teeth, shoulders slack, lips twitching with amusement.
"Oh, Iroh. I haven't waited nearly two decades for a scolding. No no no. Now is the time for action. The world has spun long enough in Fire Nation hands… and I'm tired of watching."
His bare feet shifted across the ground, toes curling slightly into the dirt. He raised one arm lazily, then dropped into a stance so sharp it looked like his bones might snap into place. A single stone under his heel cracked, his power brimming just beneath the skin.
Iroh's face showed no anger. Only resignation.
"I do not wish to fight you," he said softly.
"But you will," Bumi said.
The earth groaned.
Then, in an instant, it began.
Bumi's heel struck the ground with a seismic boom. A slab of rock the size of a rhinoceros beetle erupted upward like a fist from the underworld and shot toward Iroh.
But the Dragon of the West had already moved.
With a wide, sweeping arc of his right arm, Iroh unleashed a torrent of flame, not just fire, but a burning wall, ten feet high, that roared forward like a dragon's breath and split the rock mid-air. The sheer pressure of heat melted its edges, carving it in half before it even reached him.
The air hissed as vapor hissed from the scorched stone.
Bumi laughed again, delighted.
"Oh, you haven't lost a single flicker, Iroh."
Iroh's eyes narrowed.
"You either," he replied. "How is it that you still move like this? You must be over one hundred and ten."
"One hundred and twelve," Bumi grinned, "but who's counting?"
He stomped both feet and vanished. The ground under Iroh cracked, and four stone spires shot up like spears. But Iroh pivoted, spinning on his heel, his right leg sweeping outward, and from his foot came a fiery ring that collided with the earth spikes mid-air, exploding them into burning gravel.
A flash of lightning flickered in his palm for an instant but he let it fade. Not yet.
Bumi clapped both hands together with childish glee and then shot a boulder the size of a tank toward him.
Iroh caught it with fire.
It wasn't a parry.
It wasn't a dodge.
The fire wrapped the boulder in a spiraling blaze that twisted it mid-air, redirected it, and sent it crashing into the remains of a shattered tower.
The resulting shockwave knocked several soldiers from both sides off their feet.
Zuko watched from behind a ruined barricade, bloody and dazed. His mouth slightly open. These weren't benders. These weren't generals.
These were monsters of war.
Iroh stepped forward, fire trailing in lazy embers from his fingers. His breath was steady, but his stance lower, rooted.
Across from him, Bumi cracked his knuckles and took a wide, squat stance again, arms coiled and ready to break mountains.
They paused. A mutual understanding passed between them, warriors respecting the battlefield, the old rules of strength and grit.
"I suppose neither of us has lost our step in old age," Iroh said.
"Speak for yourself," Bumi grinned. "I'm just warming up."
They both exhaled.
Then, they took their stances.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
The battle of legends was about to begin.
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