Lightning was never going to be difficult.
From the moment I first studied its theory months ago, I already understood the flaw in how this world approached it. The Fire Nation treated lightning as something sacred—an art of emotional emptiness, separation, and restraint.
They were right.
But they were also incomplete.
Lightning wasn't just calm.
It was precision.
Perfect alignment between intent, chi flow, and execution. A single mistake caused backlash. A single hesitation caused failure.
For most benders, that margin was unbearable.
For me?
It was trivial.
I stood alone in the reinforced training chamber beneath Wan Shi Tong's library, stone walls etched with containment seals the owl spirit himself had approved. Even he had insisted on precautions once I told him what I was about to attempt.
I inhaled.
Then exhaled.
Chi split instantly—positive and negative—flowing through my meridians in flawless symmetry. There was no strain. No buildup. No wasted motion.
Lightning formed.
A sharp crack split the air as a bolt snapped from my fingertips and dissipated harmlessly into the far wall's grounding stone.
I frowned slightly.
"…Too slow."
Again.
This time, I adjusted the internal routing—shortened the pathway, reduced dispersion, compressed output.
Lightning formed in under a second.
Clean. Silent. Perfect.
Wan Shi Tong watched from above, his golden eyes unreadable.
Lightning bending, once mastered, wasn't destructive by default.
It was surgical.
And once I realized that, something else clicked.
The techniques surfaced naturally—memories of another world overlaying this one. Systems translating themselves seamlessly.
"Let's try something different."
I channeled lightning not outward—but into my hand.
The energy condensed violently, screaming as it was forced into cohesion rather than release. My arm vibrated with contained power, blue-white arcs snapping across my skin without harming me.
Chidori.
I moved.
In an instant, I crossed the chamber, lightning-wrapped hand slamming into a stone pillar. The impact didn't explode—it pierced. The stone collapsed inward, reduced to slag from the inside out.
I withdrew my hand slowly.
No backlash.
No instability.
"Functional," I said calmly.
Next came refinement.
I shaped the lightning into dozens of needle-thin projectiles, launching them simultaneously with pinpoint accuracy.
Chidori Senbon.
They struck the far wall and embedded themselves deeply before discharging, leaving behind perfectly spaced, cauterized holes.
Finally—
I reached for my blade.
Lightning flowed along the metal as if it belonged there, stabilizing into a humming edge of condensed electricity. The sword didn't melt. It didn't resist.
It adapted.
Chidori Katana.
I swung once.
The air screamed.
The stone floor split cleanly, the cut so precise it looked as though reality itself had been parted.
I dispelled the technique and stood still, breathing evenly.
Lightning wasn't an extension of fire.
Fire was a primitive precursor to lightning.
And I had surpassed it.
I could now generate lightning almost instantly—less than a second from intent to release. Faster than thought. Faster than reaction.
Most lightning benders needed minutes of preparation.
I needed a decision.
Wan Shi Tong finally spoke.
"You are not merely bending," he said quietly. "You are rewriting."
I glanced upward.
"Every system can be optimized," I replied. "This one was overdue."
Deep within the Spirit World, thunder rolled without clouds.
And somewhere far away—
A certain glowing spirit of light felt something cold brush against her awareness.