Noatak's POV
The first thing he noticed was the cold.
Not the kind that bit into your skin, but a quiet chill that hung in the air, clean and sharp, almost peaceful.
The world around him was a blur of soft blue light and muffled voices. His body felt strange — heavy, tiny, weak.
And then came the thought.
What the fuck.
The sound of his own cry followed right after, but the thought stayed, cutting through the confusion.
He blinked hard, trying to focus. Above him, a woman with dark hair and warm eyes — his mother, he guessed — smiled down, whispering something soft he didn't understand.
He tried to move his hands, but they were too small. His fingers just curled uselessly.
Everything felt wrong. His body wasn't his. His voice wasn't his.
And then, as the warmth of his mother's arms surrounded him, it hit him.
He remembered that name. Noatak.
That wasn't just some random name. It belonged to someone — a character.
A villain.
The realization came like a slap. He wasn't just any baby.
He was that baby. Noatak — the future Amon.
The first villain Korra would face.
He remembered watching The Legend of Korra years ago, maybe once, maybe twice, when he was still alive — wherever, or whenever, that was.
He hadn't thought about it in ages. But the memory of Amon stuck with him. The mask. The voice. The ideology. The death.
A tragic life with a tragic end.
And now, somehow, he was inside it.
His breathing hitched. He wanted to laugh, or cry, or scream — but all that came out was another helpless wail.
The woman — Nora — held him closer, rocking gently, whispering soft words to calm him.
He looked up at her, then past her, where another figure stood — tall, broad, silent.
The man's expression was unreadable, but his presence filled the small room.
Kanon. His father.
But even as the name surfaced, another replaced it.
Yakone.
The moment he saw the man's face clearly, he knew.
It was the same face from the show's flashbacks — slightly older, less polished, but unmistakable.
The cold eyes. The quiet intensity.
His father was Yakone. The former crime lord. The bloodbender.
"Oh, come on…" he thought, blinking up at the man. "You've got to be kidding me."
Everything matched. The setting, the people, the atmosphere. This wasn't a dream.
Somehow, he'd been reborn into The Legend of Korra.
Except there was a problem.
He couldn't remember much about it.
He knew bits and pieces — the pro-bending arena, the Equalists, Korra herself — but the details were fuzzy.
He'd never watched Avatar: The Last Airbender, so half of this world's history was a blank.
The spirits, the bending tribes, the old wars — all of it gone.
The only clear memories he had were from the shows he used to binge — Attack on Titan, Hunter x Hunter, random episodes of One Punch Man. None of that was useful here.
He tried to think harder, but his mind started to blur again. The exhaustion of being newly born was catching up to him.
The warmth of his mother's chest, the faint lullaby in her voice, the soft rhythm of her heartbeat — it all pulled him back into sleep.
Before the darkness took him, one last thought drifted through his mind.
"Alright, fine. I'm Noatak now. But if I'm gonna survive this world… I'm not dying like that again."
The baby's eyes closed, and the room fell quiet.
The moonlight filtered through the ice window, resting gently on his face.
Outside, the wind whispered through the frozen canals — a calm night in the Northern Water Tribe, completely unaware that the soul of another world had just taken root in one of its newborns.
…
Konan's POV
Three years.
It had been three years since the night Noatak was born — three quiet, strange, unexpectedly peaceful years.
Kanon — once Yakone — had lived under this false name long enough that it almost felt real now.
He had a home carved into the middle tiers of the Northern Water Tribe, a modest life, a wife who smiled at him like he wasn't a man built on lies.
And a son who watched the world with eyes too sharp for his age.
He sometimes forgot who he used to be.
Sometimes.
For a while, Kanon told himself it didn't matter anymore.
He had Nora, and for the first time in his life, someone looked at him without fear.
She believed he was a quiet man from a faraway village. She believed in him — and that was dangerous.
Because the more he lived as Kanon, the more he started believing it too.
He built ice walls with the neighbors, fixed broken fishing nets, carved glaciers with the locals.
He even laughed sometimes — a real laugh, not the calculated kind he used to use to manipulate people.
He almost convinced himself that this simple life could be enough.
Then came Noatak.
At first, Kanon thought his son was just unusually quiet — alert, yes, but normal enough. Then the small things started happening.
The way the baby's eyes followed people around the room, not with curiosity but calculation.
The way he learned to balance, walk, and talk faster than any other child in the tribe.
The way he sometimes looked at Kanon with a stare far too knowing for a three-year-old.
He'd seen ambition before — greed, anger, fear — but this was something different.
There were nights when Kanon would wake up and find Noatak already awake, sitting up in his crib, just watching the moonlight pour in through the ice window.
Not moving, not blinking. Just staring, calm and patient, like someone much older trapped in a small body.
At one point, Kanon had almost convinced himself the child was cursed.
He'd gone to the tribe's shamans — quietly, without Nora knowing — and asked if there was something wrong.
They checked. They meditated. They said there was nothing unusual about the boy's spirit.
"Your son," the elder told him, "is touched by the moon. His path will be great, but dangerous. You should be proud."
Proud.
That word echoed in Kanon's head for days.
After that, the doubt started to fade. The fear turned into something else — something familiar.
Ambition.
Maybe this child wasn't cursed. Maybe he was chosen.
The boy's intelligence, his calmness, even his quiet detachment — all of it made Kanon think of the power he once held.
Maybe it hadn't died with him. Maybe it was waiting to be reborn in his bloodline.
And in that moment, his hesitation began to crumble.
He'd spent years pretending to be a humble man, living like he could forget what the Avatar took from him.
But now, with Noatak's strange brilliance growing clearer each day, Kanon started to believe he'd been given a second chance — not to find peace, but to rebuild what he'd lost.
Still, as the thought hardened into resolve, the world reminded him how fragile everything was.
It happened one evening when he was reviewing a set of old carvings by the canal.
One of Nora's sisters came running toward him, her breath fogging the air.
"Kanon! It's time — she's in labor!"
The words hit him like cold water.
For a moment, he froze, as if torn between two lives — the man who plotted revenge, and the man who loved his wife.
But the choice didn't take long. He dropped everything and ran.
By the time he reached the house, the shaman and the midwife were already there. Nora was lying on the bed, pale but smiling through the pain.
The air was heavy with heat and spirit water, candles flickering around the room.
Kanon knelt beside her, holding her hand, feeling that same helplessness he'd felt three years ago.
He'd seen people die, but childbirth — that was different. It demanded trust. Faith.
He didn't pray often, but that night, he did. Quietly.
Noatak, meanwhile, was staying with Nora's family.
The hours passed slowly. Then, as the moon reached its highest point, the sound came — the cry of another child, sharp and strong.
The midwife smiled. "It's a boy."
Kanon looked down at the tiny, wrinkled face. Another son. Another chance.
He felt something strange inside him — not joy exactly, not yet — but possibility.
As Nora drifted into sleep, exhausted but safe, Kanon stood by the window. The moonlight spilled across the floor, cool and white.
He thought about Noatak, about this newborn child, about the life he'd built on lies and the future he was planning in secret.
Two sons now. Two chances to finish what he'd started.
And for the first time in years, the old Yakone smiled — not the warm smile of Kanon, the husband, but the cold, patient grin of a man who'd just seen the first pieces of his empire fall back into place.