The dawn bell tolled across Azure Cloud Mountain, its iron voice steady as ever. Yet in the barracks of the outer sect, whispers stirred louder than any bell.
"Feng Mu drove away the spirit beast."
"They say he used no weapon, no talisman—only the wind itself."
"Impossible. He was a waste for ten years. It must be some elder's secret favor."
Aang ignored the talk as best he could. He sat cross-legged on his mat, cyclone humming in his dantian, the memory of last night's battle fresh as a bruise. Each breath brought the faintest trace of the wolf's growl, the ripple of qi through the terraces, the way the air had responded to him—naturally, eagerly, as though it had been waiting all along.
The Call to the Elders
By midday, a summons arrived. An inner disciple in blue robes appeared at the barracks door, expression carved from stone.
"Feng Mu. The elders require your presence in the Cloud Pavilion."
The Cloud Pavilion stood at the heart of the sect, its jade tiles gleaming like frozen waves. Within its hall sat three elders of Azure Cloud, each radiating the weight of Foundation Establishment—qi dense and unmoving, like boulders that had rested for centuries.
Aang bowed low, hands folded, as custom demanded.
Elder Han, who had first recognized his qi in the fields, was among them. His white brows swept the floor as he studied Aang. "We are told you repelled a spirit beast last night. Speak truly. How?"
"I breathed," Aang said simply. "And the wind answered."
The three elders exchanged glances. Elder Lin, a stern man with thunder-shaped scars on his arms, leaned forward. "Do you understand what you speak of, boy? That was not mere qi manipulation. What you displayed was the faint trace of Wind Intent."
The Nature of Intent
Aang tilted his head. "Intent?"
Elder Han stroked his beard. "Cultivation shapes the body and guides qi. Techniques wield that qi into forms—blades, shields, storms. But intent is different. It is not just power; it is resonance. The sword is sharper when the heart of the swordsman knows what a sword means. Water flows truer when the cultivator embodies its patience, its inevitability."
Elder Lin added, "There are many paths—Sword Intent, Fist Intent, Fire Intent, Water Intent, Wind Intent. To touch intent is to step beyond ordinary techniques. It is to wield the world's truth itself."
He raised a finger. Sparks leapt from his nail, but they did not scatter like simple lightning. They cut the air in a perfect straight line, sizzling a mark into the jade floor. "This is not lightning alone. This is Thunder Intent. Without it, my strike would scorch. With it, it severs."
The room was silent. The weight of what he said pressed like the sky before a storm.
Levels of Intent
Elder Han continued, voice grave:
"Trace of Intent—the faintest brush, often accidental. A cultivator's qi resonates with the truth of an element, and power multiplies."
"Lesser Intent—deliberate grasping. Techniques flow with greater force, sharper, faster, more enduring."
"Greater Intent—rare. Here the cultivator embodies the essence fully; one move can crush dozens."
"Perfect Intent—the path to legends. At this level, intent becomes domain, bending heaven and earth itself. A sword slash that divides seas, a fist that breaks mountains, a wind that never dies."
They all looked at Aang. "And you," Han said slowly, "touched a Trace of Wind Intent last night."
The Elders' Suspicion
The words fell like stones into still water. Even Aang, who had once been the Avatar, felt their weight. Wind Intent… is that what the world calls my harmony with the air?
Elder Lin's eyes narrowed. "Yet you were a waste for ten years. How does one leap from emptiness to intent overnight?"
The third elder, Madam Su, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. Her voice was calm, melodic, but carried the edge of suspicion. "Perhaps this disciple is no waste, but a spy. Many sects covet our Cloud arts. A sudden awakening… too convenient."
Aang bowed again, neither defensive nor arrogant. "I have no explanation that would satisfy you. I can only say the wind has always been with me. Perhaps it waited for the right dawn."
The elders studied him long. Han's brows twitched upward, the faintest smile hiding in the folds of his face. "Whatever the cause, the fact remains—this boy has touched intent. That cannot be ignored."
A Fork in the Path
Madam Su waved her sleeve. "Then let him be tested. Place him in the Wind Hall for instruction. If he falters, the truth will show. If he endures… then perhaps the sect gains another pillar."
Lin snorted but did not object. Han nodded.
The decision was sealed. Aang had stepped from obscurity to the center of the sect's gaze. Not as an Avatar, not as the last Airbender, but as a disciple carrying Wind Intent.
As he left the Cloud Pavilion, the mountain breeze curled around him, playful, curious, proud.
Aang breathed deeply, cyclone humming within, and thought: They see intent as power. For me, it is simply listening. If this is only the Trace, then what lies at Perfect Intent?
The wind answered with a whisper only he could hear: Freedom.