Chapter 67: Zuko versus Jet (II)
The brief lull shattered with Zuko's next breath. The stillness that had defined him through the initial skirmish, the almost casual parrying of Jet's desperate attacks, vanished. A deeper crimson light, like embers stirring within a forge, ignited in his scarred eye. His posture, which moments ago had been composed and almost aloof, now coiled, tightening like a predator ready to spring. A low, guttural growl, barely perceptible, rumbled in his throat, a sound of primal intent, distinct from any words he might have uttered.
Then, he moved.
It wasn't just speed; it was an acceleration of being. His feet, previously planted with deliberate precision, now became blurs of motion, a rapid-fire rhythm of steps that covered ground with impossible swiftness. He didn't just run; he flowed, his body a sleek, burning arrow. One moment he was ten feet from Jet, the next he was closing the distance, a whirlwind of motion. Jet, poised for an attack, barely registered the shift before Zuko was upon him, not with a direct lunge, but with an intricate dance of footwork, a sidestep here, a pivot there, each movement gaining ground, flanking, feinting.
Fire erupted from Zuko, not in simple bursts, but in a symphony of controlled fury. From his right palm, a serpentine whip of flame lashed out, coiling and snapping with an intelligence of its own, lunging for Jet's lead arm. As Jet instinctively pulled his hook sword back to parry, a second, wider arc of fire burst from Zuko's left heel, sweeping low, aiming to destabilize his footing. Jet, caught between the two attacks, leapt backwards, his body twisting mid-air with acrobatic grace, barely avoiding the fiery whip that scorched the air where his arm had been and the fiery sweep that would have tripped him.
But Zuko was already there. His movements were no longer just about offensive strikes; they were a complex, fluid expression of his entire being. As Jet landed, Zuko was already spinning, his silhouette momentarily wreathed in a halo of crimson light. With the spin, fire didn't just follow; it extended, a fiery cloak that widened into searing, claw-like talons of energy that raked towards Jet. Jet's eyes, usually keen and calculating, widened in genuine surprise. He was fast, perhaps faster than any non-bender Zuko had faced, but Zuko was now everywhere at once.
He ducked under one fiery claw, another flashed past his ear, the heat searing his hair. He tried to counter with a swift, desperate slash of his left hook sword, but Zuko's right hand was already coming up, not to block, but to unleash a torrent of flame that erupted from his palm like a miniature sun, forcing Jet to shield his face, momentarily blinded by the intense glare. In that split second, Zuko's left leg snapped out, a kick charged with raw fire, the flame lashing out like a whip, forcing Jet to abandon his guard and throw himself backwards to avoid the burning impact.
Jet's breathing hitched, his previous confidence replaced by a stark, growing panic. His blade work, normally fluid and precise, became jerky, frantic. He spun his hook swords in desperate, blurring defenses, trying to ward off the incessant, multi-angled attacks. Fire erupted from Zuko's mouth now, a focused, almost guttural roar of flame that painted the air crimson, forcing Jet to roll across the forest floor, his uniform singed, the smell of burnt cloth filling his nostrils.
Zuko was no longer just matching Jet; he was overwhelming him. His footwork was a blur of calculated chaos, his body a conduit for the element. When he spun, fire spun with him, a vortex of heat. When he kicked, fire lashed out, long and hungry, like a viper's tongue. When he flipped over a low branch, a trail of fiery wings seemed to sprout from his back, propelling him forward, closing the distance once more. Jet, for the first time, looked truly afraid. He could hardly predict where the next attack would come from, nor could he find a moment to breathe, to formulate a counter or an escape. His dodges were no longer confident, strategic retreats, but desperate, almost clumsy attempts to avoid incineration. His blades, once his proud extensions, now seemed to barely scrape against the edge of the inferno, offering increasingly futile protection.
The air around them vibrated with the raw power Zuko was unleashing. The dried leaves on the forest floor crackled and some spontaneously combusted, adding the scent of woodsmoke to the ozone. Jet felt the heat not just on his skin, but deep in his bones, an oppressive weight that threatened to buckle his knees. Each time he parried or dodged, he saw Zuko not just as a skilled opponent, but as a force of nature, an elemental tempest incarnate, and the realization hit him: he was not fighting a human anymore, he was fighting a living, breathing flame.
Zuko saw the terror flicker in Jet's eyes, the moment the young man's spirit began to waver, and he pressed his advantage with merciless precision. This was no longer a duel of honor, but a brutal, surgical takedown.
Jet, desperate, blindly swung his right hook sword in a wide, sweeping arc, aiming to create distance, to gain a moment of respite. But Zuko anticipated it. With a movement too fast for the eye to truly follow, Zuko ducked under the blade, his body low, almost scraping the earth. As he came up, his shoulder slammed into Jet's chest with the force of a battering ram. The impact drove the breath from Jet's lungs in a pained gasp, sending him staggering back several paces, off-balance.
Jet, however, was resilient. He twisted, attempting a desperate backflip to escape, to regain his footing and composure. But Zuko was on him instantly, a fiery shadow. Before Jet's feet even touched the ground, Zuko was there, flames licking at his heels, denying him any chance to recover.
Then, the rhythm began. Zuko's attacks became a savage, relentless drumbeat. His fists, each one sheathed in searing flame, hammered towards Jet. The first flaming punch landed square on Jet's forearm, which he had instinctively thrown up to guard. The impact was not just physical; it scorched the cloth of his sleeve, leaving an angry red welt beneath, forcing a grunt of pain from Jet's lips. Before Jet could even fully process the hit, Zuko's left fist, equally ablaze, struck his side, tearing through his tunic with a searing caress, singeing skin, making the air heavier with the smell of burnt hair and desperation.
Jet reeled, his guard faltering, but he tried to bring his remaining hook sword up. Zuko was too fast. A flaming knee drove into Jet's thigh, causing his leg to buckle. Each impact was not just a strike, but a searing brand, a message of absolute dominance. Jet stumbled, his vision blurring, the heat from Zuko's fists radiating through every point of contact. He tried to pivot, tried to create space, but Zuko was omnipresent, a relentless fire-storm. Flaming fists slammed into his shoulders, his chest, his arms, a blur of crimson and orange that forced Jet into a purely defensive crouch, his hook swords flailing wildly, barely deflecting the worst of the blows.
In a final act of defiance, Jet wound up for a desperate, wild upward slash with his remaining hook sword, a desperate gamble for Zuko's midsection. It was a raw, untrained strike, born of panic. As the blade arced upwards, Zuko moved. His left hand shot out like a viper, his gauntleted fingers clamping around Jet's wrist mid-swing with an iron grip. Fire, as if in recognition of its master's intent, blazed up Zuko's arm, not consuming Jet, but searing his skin, the intense heat scorching his hand, forcing a choked scream from his throat. The pain was unbearable, immediate, and utterly debilitating. Jet's grip on the hook sword faltered, his muscles spasming, and with a metallic clatter, the weapon clanged to the hardened earth, spinning away, a defeated silver crescent.
As Jet reeled, his sword gone, Zuko didn't hesitate. With a primal roar, he gathered all his intent, all his power into his right palm. A concussive blast of fire, denser and hotter than anything he had unleashed before, surged from his hand. He slammed the fiery palm into Jet's stomach, not just pushing, but blasting him. The force was immense, explosive. Jet's eyes bulged, a silent gasp escaping his lips as he was lifted clean off his feet, propelled backwards by the sheer kinetic energy of the firebender's strike. He flew through the air, a ragdoll, before slamming into the dirt with a sickening thud, impacting hard enough to create a distinct crater in the scorched earth where he landed, winded, broken, and utterly defeated.
He lay there, gasping for air, his body bruised and burned, his mind reeling. Before he could even twitch, before he could muster a single thought of regaining his feet, Zuko was standing over him. His scarred face, etched with a grim determination, loomed above. A focused, scorching flame, no larger than his palm, but radiating an unbearable intensity, hovered just inches from Jet's throat, its heat so potent that Jet could feel the skin beginning to crackle, the scent of burning flesh already reaching his nostrils.
Jet's eyes, wide with pain and humiliation, met Zuko's. He tried to speak, but only a ragged, desperate wheeze escaped. The flame pulsed, a silent threat, a promise of excruciating agony if he dared resist. His body screamed in protest, every muscle screaming for release. With a final, crushing wave of despair, Jet closed his eyes, a single, bitter tear tracking a path through the grime on his cheek. He couldn't fight anymore. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe under the weight of the prince's absolute power. He was beaten. Surrender was the only option. The fire, still held steady, flickered, seeming to acknowledge his internal capitulation.
Zuko stood tall, his chest heaving, steam rising faintly from his scorched gauntlets, mingling with the smoke that curled from patches on Jet's uniform. His own skin bore a few minor scrapes, and a thin line of blood trickled from a shallow cut on his cheek where Jet's last desperate slash had grazed him, but his stance was unwavering, his gaze steady. Jet lay sprawled in the crater, his body a map of bruising and burns, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. His two hook swords lay several feet away, reflecting the flickering firelight, stark symbols of his defeat.
Moments later, Fire Nation soldiers, having finally managed to free themselves from the vines and regain their formation, rushed forward, their faces a mix of awe and grim satisfaction. They quickly bound Jet's wrists and ankles with sturdy ropes, pulling him roughly to his feet. Even then, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and grime, Jet glared up at Zuko with a fierce, youthful defiance that refused to be extinguished. He spat a mouthful of blood and dirt onto the scorched ground at Zuko's feet, his eyes burning with hatred. He would not beg. He would not give Zuko the satisfaction.
But Zuko merely regarded him for a long moment, his gaze unreadable, cold. There was no triumph in his expression, no gloating. Just a detached acknowledgement of a task completed. Then, with a slow, deliberate turn, he walked away, his dominance absolute, leaving Jet to the grim ministrations of the soldiers.
As Zuko moved towards the group of his soldiers still struggling with the remaining vine bindings, a murmur of awe rippled through the onlookers. Rin, his face smudged with dirt but his eyes shining, nudged Lee subtly, his voice hushed.
"Did you see that, Lee?" Rin whispered, a tremor of disbelief in his tone. "Months ago, I thought Prince Zuko was a reckless boy, capable of grand gestures, yes, like the miniature sun at Nan-Hai, or those tidal flames... but this... this precise brutality, the speed, the agility... he moved like an elemental spirit itself." He shook his head, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow, though he hadn't fought. "I thought I knew the limits of firebending. He's mastering things I never thought possible, not with such speed."
Lee, ever the pragmatist, watched Zuko systematically free his men with focused bursts of fire that vaporized the vines, his expression thoughtful, almost clinical. "Sergeant, his growth is exponential. We've seen him command overwhelming, wide-scale attacks, yes, but this level of precision in close-quarters, the way his fire coils and snaps, it's… unnerving. It's no longer about sheer power, but absolute control, a perfect integration of mind and body and element." He paused, his gaze fixed on the prince's retreating back. "If he continues at this rate, it won't be long before he rivals the Fire Lord himself. He's no longer just the Fire Prince in title. He's becoming it in truth."
Rin let out a low, almost involuntary breath. "That… that both inspires me and terrifies me, Lee." He watched Zuko, his prince, his general, move amongst the cheering soldiers, a hero in their eyes. The sheer, untamed power he had just witnessed was a beacon, but also a chilling testament to the unpredictable might of the royal bloodline.
Unseen, standing partially obscured by the dense foliage at the forest's edge, Azula had overheard every hushed word. A disdainful, almost sneering look played across her perfect features as she watched Rin and Lee speak of her brother's growing power with reverence, their voices laced with a fear they were barely trying to conceal. Their awe grated on her, a discordant note in her carefully constructed symphony of control.
She watched as Zuko, amidst the shouts of praise from his freed soldiers, turned to accept their salutes, his head held high, a figure of undeniable authority and nascent power. Jet, bruised and bound, lay defiant at his feet, but his impotence was clear. The shouts of "Long live Prince Zuko!" echoed through the trees.
Azula's smile, which had been a thin, cruel slash across her lips, vanished. Her golden eyes narrowed, losing their casual contempt, hardening into something cold and calculating. The more he grew, the more formidable he became, the harder he would be to control, to manipulate, to eventually, perhaps, remove. The thought, a venomous seed, blossomed in her mind. Perhaps, she mused, her hand unconsciously flexing, she would have to act sooner rather than later. The jungle around her seemed to darken, even as the setting sun cast long, fiery shadows. Unseen, unheard, Azula began to plan.
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