Finding them took years.
Not because the world was vast—though it was—but because the qualities I required were rare even among humanity's most exceptional. Power was common. Talent was common. Ambition was common.
What I needed was something else.
I needed humans who would not break.
Not under fear.Not under awe.Not under death.
The first requirement was simple: they could not be benders.
Benders gravitated toward the Avatar instinctively. Even those who opposed them still thought in the same language—power meeting power, dominance answered with dominance. Worse, bending techniques reflected easily against the Avatar. Every lesson learned by a bender could be turned back upon them.
Non-benders were different.
They fought asymmetrically.
Unpredictably.
They survived by adaptation rather than force.
The second requirement was harder.
An iron will.
Not stubbornness. Not pride. But the kind of resolve that persisted beyond exhaustion, beyond pain, beyond the certainty of loss. Humans who would continue forward even knowing they might fail. Even knowing they might die.
Even knowing they might be erased from history.
The third requirement varied.
Skill with weapons. Tactical intelligence. An instinctive understanding of movement, timing, or perception. Something that could be refined into a counterbalance against overwhelming elemental power.
I searched quietly.
Across frozen coastlines where survival itself forged resilience.Through volcanic regions where life demanded defiance.Among windswept plateaus where isolation sharpened discipline.And along rivers where patience was learned alongside danger.
Eventually—
I found four.
They never met each other.
Not yet.
Each belonged to a different culture, shaped by different conditions, yet bound by the same unyielding core. None of them bowed when they felt my presence. None of them fled. None of them begged.
They endured.
That was enough.
I gave each of them a medallion.
Simple in form. Heavy in meaning.
Each necklace bore four symbols—representations of fire, air, earth, and water as they were understood in that era. To them, these were the current symbols. To me, they were already ancient. I remembered what they would one day become.
Time makes everything confusing that way.
The symbols were arranged in a circle.
Not randomly.
They followed the cycle.
Fire to Air.Air to Earth.Earth to Water.Water to Fire.
Each medallion was identical except for which symbol rested at the top. That position marked where the current Avatar stood in the cycle at the time of the bearer's induction.
When the Avatar reincarnated, the medallions would be turned.
Not magically.
Ritually.
Continuity mattered.
I did not tell them everything.
I taught them instead.
First—chi blocking.
Not the crude disruption practiced by later generations, but a refined system derived from anatomical precision and spiritual resonance. Temporary. Reversible. Devastating against even elite benders.
Second—martial disciplines modeled after bending styles.
Water's adaptability.Earth's rooted stability.Fire's controlled aggression.Air's evasive flow.
They learned to fight like benders without ever bending. To anticipate elemental movement instinctively. To stand where an Avatar would not expect resistance.
Third—anti-Avatar engagement doctrine.
How to survive against overwhelming force. How to disengage. How to attack indirectly. How to recognize when an Avatar was entering the State—and what that meant.
And finally—
The most dangerous lesson.
The severance.
I taught them how to disrupt the Avatar State—but not why it worked. Only the timing. The posture. The precise convergence of action required in the brief instant where synchronization peaked and became vulnerable.
They were warned.
This technique was not to be used lightly.
Not out of fear—but out of responsibility.
When their training was complete, I gave them a name.
Not an order.
Not a cult.
A designation.
Paragon.
The Paragon of the Water Tribe.The Paragon of the Earth Kingdom.The Paragon of the Fire Nation.The Paragon of the Air Nomads.
Not rulers.
Not heroes.
Failsafes.
They would live normal lives when possible. Teach only when necessary. Act only when balance was truly threatened.
And if they died—
Others would be chosen.
The title would endure.
I watched them depart in different directions, carrying knowledge that should never have existed—and yet now had to.
For the first time since the Avatar Cycle began, the world possessed a quiet counterweight.
Not to Raava.
Not to the Avatar.
But to unchecked power.
I returned to my library, documenting everything with careful precision.
And as I closed the final record, I allowed myself a rare, private thought:
"This," I murmured, "should keep things interesting."