The Wind Hall was unlike any other place in the Azure Cloud Sect.
The Scripture Pavilion was closed and dim, its scrolls jealously guarded behind lacquered doors. The Armory smelled of oil and steel, narrow-eyed stewards glaring at anyone who lingered too long. Even the elders' Cloud Pavilion had an air of solemn walls and coiled qi, where voices echoed like they feared waking the heavens.
But the Wind Hall was open.
Its walls were lattices of pale wood, more air than structure, and the roof curved upward like a bird's wings poised for flight. Between each beam hung bronze and bone chimes tuned to different notes, singing whenever the mountain breeze wandered through. The floor was polished smooth, a surface of dark stone inlaid with spirals that traced the paths of airflow. Sunlight spilled freely inside, painting the hall in gold.
Aang stood barefoot at the center, robe tugged by the breeze, listening to the chimes. They reminded him faintly of the Air Temples back in his first life, where monks placed bells at cliff edges to let the wind compose hymns. Here, though, the notes were sharper, intentional—tuned by cultivators who treated wind not as a friend but as a blade to be honed.
Instructor Mei
A voice cut through the music. "So. You are the outer disciple who brushed Wind Intent."
The speaker was a woman, slender but sharp-eyed, her dark hair bound in a silver clasp shaped like a feather. She wore the azure robe of a Foundation Establishment cultivator, her qi calm but dense, like a lake perfectly still yet miles deep. Instructor Mei—Aang recognized her name from Feng Mu's memories, whispered by the other outer disciples with equal parts fear and admiration.
She circled him once, her eyes like knives measuring grain. "It should not be possible. Intent is the echo of decades, not days. And yet Elder Han swears you called it."
Aang inclined his head, expression mild. "I only breathed. The wind came."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Show me."
The Trial of Wind
Aang closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply, steady and unhurried, guiding the qi into the cyclone spinning in his dantian. The spiral whirled smoother now, its petals unfolding like wings. He did not force the breath; he invited it.
Then, gently, he exhaled.
Air rushed through the hall, weaving among the chimes until they sang in sudden harmony, a soft chorus rising around him. The wind circled once, lifting his robe, teasing his hair, then subsided, leaving a silence brighter than before.
Instructor Mei's brows rose despite herself. "Trace indeed."
She folded her arms, sleeve whispering against stone. "Listen well. If you wish to stand in the sect as more than a curiosity, you must grow. Cultivation, technique, and intent—none may be neglected. Begin with the Azure Cyclone Scripture. Sit."
Breaking Open the Cyclone
He obeyed, lowering himself cross-legged onto the inlaid spirals of the floor. Mei's voice guided him, clipped but clear.
"Draw qi through the breath. Do not seize it; shape the vessel instead. Guide it down to the Sea of Qi, circle the Heavenly Pivot, then trace the twelve meridians. Again. Again. Do not stop until the vessel breaks and reforms."
Hours slipped by. The breeze played with the chimes, marking time in scattered melodies. Sweat rolled down Aang's back, soaking his rough disciple robe. The cyclone inside him pressed harder with each cycle, swelling, grinding against the walls of his dantian.
Most would have forced, clawed, pushed until the dam shattered. Aang instead softened, yielding at each point of resistance, coaxing the qi as he once coaxed stubborn winds on the open sky.
At last, with a sensation like a locked door creaking open, the pressure burst. The cyclone spun freer, petals multiplying, current smoothing into a true spiral.
The second layer of Qi Condensation.
The flow did not stop. Riding the momentum, qi surged again, pressing deeper, higher, carving new paths. Pain seared along his spine, but he breathed through it, loosening rather than gripping. The third layer cracked open like dawn breaking through cloud.
A shiver ran through him. The world felt sharper—the scent of pine in the wind, the faint hum of qi in every stone of the hall, even the brush of sunlight on his skin. His limbs felt lighter, as if each joint had been freshly oiled, yet rooted more firmly to the earth.
When he opened his eyes, Instructor Mei was staring, her expression unreadable.
"Three layers," she murmured. "In a single sitting. Your foundation is unnaturally clean. Either fortune smiles upon you… or the heavens mock us by birthing a monster in disciple's flesh."
She turned sharply away. "Enough. Leave. Return tomorrow at dawn."
Whispers on the Mountain
By nightfall, the entire sect knew.
Disciples whispered in the mess hall, glancing over their bowls of spirit rice.
"Three layers in one day? Lies."
"No, I saw Instructor Mei's face myself—she would not lie."
"Then he cheats. No one rises that quickly."
"Or worse—he is no man at all. Some demon wearing skin, planted to devour our sect from within."
Zhang Wei, still limping from his beating at the spirit beast's claws, fanned the rumors with venom. "He was a waste for ten years. How does a man rise from mud to clouds overnight? Think, brothers. Something unnatural walks among us."
Suspicion spread as fast as awe. Some disciples muttered admiration, others envy, but many more began to watch Aang with the eyes of wolves circling prey.
A Thought of Balance
That night, alone in the barracks after the others had muttered themselves to uneasy sleep, Aang sat on his straw mat. The cyclone in his dantian purred contentedly, stronger now, spinning with quiet confidence. His breath came easy. Yet his heart was unsettled.
Wind answered him freely, like an old friend. But when he shaped the mudras of water, when he planted his feet as earth demanded, when he tried to coax a spark into flame—nothing. Silence.
He remembered Elder Han's explanation of intent: The sword sharper when the swordsman knows what a sword means.
His eyes widened slightly. Could that be it?
Perhaps the reason his other elements slept was not because they were stolen, but because this world demanded a new resonance. To call water here, he would need to embody its patience, its inevitability. To call fire, he must grasp both its fury and its warmth. To call earth, he must wear its endurance until it sank into his bones.
Maybe intent was the bridge—the path to awaken what was locked.
The realization settled in him with the weight of stone. For the first time since arriving in this world, he felt the faint glimmer of a road back to balance.
Instructor Mei's Warning
The next day, as he left the Wind Hall after another morning of cyclone practice, Instructor Mei stopped him at the threshold.
"The elders are watching you," she said quietly, so only he could hear. "They do not trust miracles. Some see a weapon. Some see a threat. If you stumble, you will be crushed before you can rise."
Her eyes softened, only slightly. "Do not let the wind carry you so far upward that you forget the ground still waits below."
Aang bowed, accepting the warning. But as he walked down the mountain path, he felt the breeze curl around him, playful, protective, insistent.
He smiled faintly. "The ground waits, yes. But so does the sky."
Storm on the Horizon
By evening, storm clouds had gathered over Azure Cloud Mountain. The wind howled louder than usual, rattling shutters, setting the Wind Hall's chimes into a chorus like battle drums. Disciples muttered of omens, of heaven's displeasure.
Aang sat cross-legged in his quarters, cyclone steady in his belly, the thought of balance rooted in his mind. Wind had answered. If intent was the key, perhaps the others waited for him in silence, testing his patience until he proved worthy.
He closed his eyes, letting the storm's howls seep into his bones.
One step at a time. First air. Then water, fire, earth. Balance will return. I will find it.
Outside, lightning split the sky.