I woke up to silence.
Not the uncomfortable, artificial silence of a hospital room—but the vast, natural stillness of a place untouched by civilization. Cold stone pressed against my back, and thin mountain air filled my lungs as I inhaled sharply.
I was alive.
I sat up immediately.
White stone pillars rose around me, ancient and weathered, carved with flowing air nomad symbols. Torn banners fluttered faintly in the wind, and distant clouds drifted below the temple's edge.
"…The Southern Air Temple," I muttered.
That alone told me how serious this was. I wasn't placed randomly. This was deliberate—isolated, spiritually dense, and far from prying eyes.
Then I noticed them.
Scrolls.
Dozens of them, laid out neatly nearby, bound in red cord and stamped with Fire Nation script. Each radiated faint heat, as if the knowledge within still burned.
Firebending techniques.
Basic forms. Breathing patterns. Stances. Advanced applications. Lightning theory.
And beside them—
My breath caught.
Leaning against a stone pillar was a massive war fan—the Uchiha Gunbai, its surface dark and faintly reflective, power humming beneath its stillness. Nearby, embedded point-first into the stone, was a blade I recognized instantly.
The Sword of Totsuka.
And resting behind it, as if shielding both weapons from the world, was the Yata Mirror, its surface shifting subtly no matter how I looked at it.
I stared for several seconds.
"…Well," I said slowly, a faint smile forming, "that god really did give me some gifts."
I didn't hesitate.
The moment my hand touched the Sword of Totsuka, my vision flared crimson.
Power didn't enter me.
It returned.
The blade dissolved into pure chakra-like energy, flowing into my core as if it had always belonged there. The Yata Mirror followed, melting into radiant force that wrapped around something deep inside me.
My soul accepted them.
I felt it then—towering, skeletal, and unfinished.
My Susanoo.
Not manifested. Not active. But present. The Sword and Mirror fused seamlessly into it, becoming eternal aspects of my spiritual construct rather than external tools.
Permanent.
Unbreakable.
I exhaled slowly.
"…Good."
Only then did I turn to the scrolls.
I sat cross-legged and began reading.
Firebending, at its core, was not about rage—as the Fire Nation had twisted it into. It was breath. Heat. Life. Expansion. Control.
I absorbed the information frighteningly fast.
Ten minutes.
That's all it took to understand the fundamentals—not memorize them, but internalize them. The movements aligned themselves naturally in my mind, each stance flowing into the next with mathematical elegance.
My body followed instinctively.
I stood.
Adjusted my footing.
Inhaled.
I felt it then.
Chi—vast, dense, and obedient—circulating through my body. It wasn't wild or unstable. It moved like a trained army, responding instantly to my intent.
I thrust my palm forward.
Flame ignited.
Not a spark.
Not a flicker.
A controlled, roaring burst of fire erupted from my hand, stopping exactly where I willed it to stop.
I stared at it, unblinking.
"…So this is firebending."
I repeated the motion. Cleaner. Stronger. Less wasted energy.
Again.
Again.
Within minutes, I was chaining movements together—punch, sweep, kick—each strike producing fire that burned bright and precise. My breathing never faltered. My chi never thinned.
Lightning theory floated effortlessly into my awareness, patterns already forming despite knowing my body wasn't ready yet.
Not yet.
But soon.
I lowered my hands, fire fading obediently into nothing.
Ten years.
Ten years before the Avatar awakens.
Ten years before the world starts moving again.
I looked out over the clouds, eyes narrowing.
"By the time the story begins," I murmured, "I won't be part of it."
The mountain wind howled softly around me.
"I'll be the one rewriting it."