Chapter 66: Zuko versus Jet
Zuko stopped a few paces from Jet, the air between them shimmering with residual heat. His ropes, scorched and brittle, had fallen away unnoticed during the short, brutal display of his power, leaving him unencumbered. His posture was deceptively calm, a relaxed readiness that spoke of absolute control, but his golden eyes were keen, sharp as honed blades, assessing Jet with an unnerving intensity.
He began to walk, slow and deliberate, a soft rustle of leaves beneath his boots the only sound besides Jet's ragged breathing. He moved in a lazy circle around the young man, a predator scenting its prey, his form silhouetted against the smoldering backdrop of the forest. His voice, when it came, was a low, even murmur, devoid of anger, yet laced with an almost chilling smugness.
"You know, Jet," Zuko began, his gaze sweeping over the fallen Freedom Fighters, then back to the defiant figure before him. "I used to be… a fan." He paused, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. "Not in the way you might think, of course. Not of your cause. But of you."
Jet's eyes narrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing his face, momentarily eclipsing the fury. He shifted his weight, his grip tightening on his hook swords, trying to make sense of the strange words. His allies, scattered and groaning, stirred faintly at Zuko's bizarre confession, murmurs of disbelief rising from the dirt where they lay. Rin and Lee exchanged wide-eyed glances, while even Azula, though gagged, raised an eyebrow, a spark of interest in her calculating gaze.
Zuko's slow walk continued, completing a full circle before he stopped directly in front of Jet again, his eyes locking with the younger man's. "The straw of grass in your mouth," he continued, his voice almost nostalgic, yet still dangerously calm. "The unique hook swords, always gleaming. The… charisma. The way people followed you, believed in you, despite your… questionable methods." He tilted his head slightly, a thoughtful expression on his face. "You were a symbol, for a time. A rebellion in miniature."
Jet stared, his brow furrowed, a mixture of shock and suspicion warring in his expression. No one, let alone a Fire Nation prince, had ever spoken to him like this. It was unsettling, disorienting.
Zuko's voice dropped, becoming a little softer, almost conspiratorial. "You're supposed to have a horrible and stupid ending, Jet." His gaze was unwavering, piercing. "Trapped. Manipulated. Left to die alone in an underground tunnel, under a broken city. A forgotten casualty of a war you barely understood." He took a single, deliberate step closer. "But I can give you a better one."
The words struck Jet like a physical blow. His eyes widened, his jaw slackening slightly. "What are you talking about?" he demanded, his voice hoarse, laced with a new kind of fear, one born of the unknown. "How do you know all that? What 'ending'? Who are you?" He gripped his swords tighter, the familiar weight a small comfort against the sudden, chilling pronouncements. "Explain yourself, Fire Nation scum!"
Zuko merely smirked, a faint, unsettling curve of his lips. He said nothing further, letting the cryptic words hang in the heavy air, a new layer of dread added to the scent of smoke and fear.
Before Jet could press him, a sharp, sudden exhale of fire ripped through the air. Azula, with a fierce snarl, had freed herself. Her bindings, though thick and numerous, had been incinerated by a focused, explosive breath, leaving her hands free. She flicked a wrist, and the smoldering remnants of rope fell to the ground. Her eyes, identical to Zuko's in color, but radiating a colder, more cruel light, fixed on her brother.
"Playing master recruiter, Zuko?" Her voice dripped with scorn, cutting through the tension like a razor. She stepped forward, her movements predatorily graceful, unhampered by her previous captivity. "You think he's worth saving?" She gestured disdainfully at Jet with a flick of her fingers, as if brushing away a fly. "He's a street rat with cheap swords. Kill him and be done with it. You're softening."
Without waiting for a response, Azula raised her hand. A concussive stream of pure, blistering blue fire erupted from her palm, shooting forth with the speed of an arrow, aimed directly at Jet's chest. The air shrieked as it passed, superheated and vibrating with destructive energy.
Jet, despite his shock and fatigue, reacted with an animalistic quickness. He was already in motion before the fire fully manifested, an almost impossible blur of limbs and steel. He twisted, flipping backward over a fallen log, the blue inferno missing him by mere inches, obliterating the log where he'd stood, sending splinters and scorched earth exploding outwards. He didn't stop. He rolled, somersaulted, and then sprung off the trunk of a gnarled oak, using its rough bark to launch himself into the air. His hook swords flashed, cutting through drooping branches as he went, creating new paths, new angles of evasion. He was a whirlwind of motion, a fleeting shadow darting through the trees.
The concussive fire followed, a terrifying blue serpent of destruction. Where it touched, the world dissolved. Trees cracked and exploded into fragments of wood and steam; the ground erupted in geysers of dirt and pebbles, leaving smoking craters. A thick cloud of dust and acrid smoke billowed through the clearing, making the air hazy, obscuring sight and sound.
Zuko watched, his expression unreadable as Jet weaved through the destruction, his agility almost supernatural. Then, his eyes, golden fire themselves, finally settled on Azula. His aura, which had been controlled and precise, flared outwards, not in a visible burst of flame, but as an invisible, suffocating pressure that seemed to drain the very oxygen from the air. It was a primal, ancient force, a silent roar of dominance that vibrated deep in the bones. Even Azula, for all her unwavering confidence, felt it – a cold tendril of something akin to caution tightening around her chest, a faint surprise on her face at the sheer, unadulterated power emanating from her brother.
Zuko's voice was a low growl, barely a whisper, yet it cut through the lingering echoes of Azula's fire like a blade through silk. "That won't be happening again."
Azula's eyes narrowed, a challenge sparking within them, but she held her ground, sensing the shift in the very atmosphere around Zuko. The air itself seemed to crackle with his barely restrained force. For now, she retreated a step, content to watch the inevitable clash.
Jet, having successfully evaded Azula's attack, landed lightly on a moss-covered boulder, his chest heaving, his hook swords held ready. He had no time to question Azula's inexplicable presence or his own close call. His eyes were fixed on Zuko, who now stood before him, a storm in waiting.
"So, you want to play, Fire Prince?" Jet snarled, his voice tinged with a desperate edge but still defiant. "Then let's play." With a guttural yell, he launched himself forward, a blur of motion, his hook swords singing as they cut through the air.
Jet's opening assault was a controlled frenzy, driven by pure, honed instinct. He charged in low, an almost animalistic crouch, one hook sword sweeping out in a wide, deceiving arc aimed to catch Zuko's ankles and instantly unbalance him. Simultaneously, the other hook sword, held higher, slashed in a rapid, vertical trajectory, seeking to rip through Zuko's torso. He didn't just run; he flowed, his body twisting and flipping even as he advanced, adding unpredictable shifts to his attack. He bounced off a low-hanging branch, gaining a split-second of aerial advantage, trying to overwhelm Zuko with sheer speed and the deceptive angles of his blades.
Zuko met the onslaught with a calm that bordered on unnerving. His response was immediate and fluid, fire bending as if it were an extension of his very will, a tangible part of his body. As Jet's low blade swept, Zuko lifted his foot in a swift, defensive kick, a stream of fire bursting from his heel, not directly at Jet, but creating a momentary wall of heat and light that deflected the hook sword's trajectory just enough to save his leg. Before Jet's high slash could connect, Zuko twisted his torso, letting the blade skim past his armored bracer with a shower of sparks, simultaneously thrusting his left fist forward. A focused burst of orange-red flame erupted, not a wide arc but a concentrated spearhead of heat, aimed directly at Jet's center mass.
Jet, incredibly, anticipated the counter. He arched his back, twisting in mid-air, allowing the fiery spear to whistle past his chest. As he landed, his right hook sword whipped out, aiming to disarm Zuko, but Zuko's left arm snapped up, his forearm guard taking the impact with a metallic clang. Sparks flew anew, reflecting in Zuko's impassive eyes. With a swift, internal shift of his chi, Zuko's right hand produced a rapid whip of fire, a crackling, serpentine lash that curved around Jet's guard, seeking to wrap around his weapon arm or entangle his legs. The fire snarled and snapped, alive and hungry, an extension of Zuko's controlled intent.
Jet was forced to disengage, leaping back with a grunt. He landed, skidding slightly, and instantly spun into a wide overhead slash with both swords, aiming to cleave Zuko in half. Zuko ducked under the combined attack with practiced ease, the twin blades whistling inches above his head. As Jet's momentum carried him slightly forward, Zuko pivoted, a palm strike bursting with flame erupting from his hand, aimed at Jet's exposed side. Jet, again, rolled with the impact, deflecting the worst of the heat, his body a blur as he tumbled away. But he wasn't finished. He kicked outwards, sending a spray of dirt, dust, and scorched leaves into Zuko's face, hoping to blind him, even for a second.
As the grit hit Zuko's eyes, Jet used the momentary distraction, lunging through the haze. His left hook sword shot out, the curved blade aiming to hook around Zuko's neck, while his right arm came around with a powerful elbow strike. Zuko, however, was already reacting. Even with his vision momentarily obscured, his internal senses were sharp. He spun on his heel, a controlled whirlwind, and as he turned, flames trailed from his outflung leg like a fiery crescent moon, not only clearing the dirt from his eyes but forcing Jet to pull back his hook sword to avoid getting his hand incinerated. The elbow strike glanced off Zuko's shoulder armor with a dull thud.
Jet, retreating slightly, didn't hesitate. He was a master of guerrilla tactics, using the environment as readily as his blades. He launched himself onto a thick, low-hanging vine, swinging upwards with explosive power, his lean frame propelling him through the branches. He used the canopy to his advantage, swinging from one thick branch to another, a furious arboreal phantom. He struck from above, dropping down with both hook swords aimed in a downward crisscross, trying to catch Zuko off guard.
Zuko, however, was not easily surprised. He stood his ground, a calm, almost arrogant figure amidst Jet's frantic movements. Every time Jet swooped or lunged close, Zuko responded with wide, sweeping arcs of fire, creating a defensive perimeter of heat that forced Jet to veer away, denying him solid footing or a clear line of attack. Zuko's firebending was precise, rhythmic, always measured, yet it carried an undeniable weight, a physical presence that pressed down on Jet with every beat. The intensity of the heat radiating from Zuko and his bending began to actively dry the air around them, turning the forest floor into a desiccated, crackling expanse. Jet felt the change acutely; sweat plastered his hair to his temples, stinging his eyes, and his movements, though still agile, began to feel heavier, each breath a little harder to draw.
Jet grew more desperate, his attacks becoming wilder, less calculated, relying more on raw speed and ferocity. He was a cornered animal, fighting for his life. Zuko, in contrast, grew even more composed, his posture straightening slightly, a hint of something resembling disdain in his eyes.
"You fight well," Zuko said, his voice a mocking whisper that cut through Jet's labored breathing. "For a boy with toys."
Jet snarled, the insult igniting a fresh surge of fury. "I'll never kneel to Fire Nation scum!" he spat, his voice raw with hatred. He tightened his grip on his hook swords, his muscles straining, and launched into his most committed attack yet. With a primal roar, he swung both hook swords in a powerful, desperate crisscross, a tearing, cleaving motion aimed directly at Zuko's chest, hoping to slice through armored and flesh alike.
Zuko met the wild, desperate charge with an unyielding stance. As the twin blades converged on him, he didn't dodge. Instead, he lunged into the attack, his hands erupting with a controlled, concussive blast of fire that slammed into the flat of Jet's blades, not to melt them, but to throw them off course with overwhelming force. The impact vibrated through Jet's arms, threatening to rip the swords from his grasp, sending a jolt up to his shoulders. He stumbled back, fighting to regain his footing, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and wild.
Zuko, having deflected the attack, stood poised, a faint plume of smoke curling from his scorched gauntlets. Jet, panting heavily, glared back, his blades still clutched in his shaking hands. Between them, the air was thick with the scent of ozone and effort, firelight dancing on polished steel, two warriors locked in a silent, tense standoff, the battle for another moment frozen in time.
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