Firebending training began three days later.
No ceremony. No encouragement.
Only expectation.
The training hall was vast and open, its stone floor scorched black by decades of failure and ambition. Masters waited for me in disciplined silence—men hardened by war, women who had broken prodigies twice my age.
They looked at me and saw a child.
I let them.
"Begin with breath," Master Huo said, arms folded. His tone was patient in the way adults reserve for inevitable disappointment. "Fire comes from—"
"The stomach," I finished calmly. "Fueled by will. Shaped by breath. Controlled by focus."
Silence.
Huo blinked. "Who told you that?"
"No one," I replied. "It's obvious."
That earned me a few narrowed eyes.
Good.
They positioned me in the center of the floor. The stance was familiar—Azula's body remembered it instinctively. I inhaled slowly, deeply, letting heat pool beneath my ribs.
But this time, I didn't just breathe.
I measured.
Firebending relied on chi—aggression given form. Chakra flowed alongside it now, perfectly synchronized. I could feel the Fire Nation system straining slightly, adjusting to something foreign but compatible.
Like iron learning to conduct lightning.
"Release," Huo commanded.
I extended my hand.
A normal child would have produced sparks.
I produced blue fire.
Not wild. Not explosive.
A thin, perfectly controlled stream—hotter than anything a five-year-old should be capable of. The air distorted instantly. Stone cracked where the flame touched, leaving a clean, glowing scar.
The instructors froze.
I extinguished the fire immediately, lowering my hand without shaking. My breathing hadn't changed.
"I can do more," I said quietly. "But that would damage the floor."
No pride.
No excitement.
Just information.
Master Huo swallowed. "Again. With more power."
A mistake.
This time, I allowed myself a fraction more output. The flame expanded—not outward, but denser. Blue-white at its core. The heat pressed against the walls, forcing the instructors back a step.
One of them staggered.
Another whispered, "That's impossible…"
I felt it then—their fear.
Subtle. Controlled. Deliciously quiet.
I turned my head slightly, eyes glowing faintly red as the Sharingan traced micro-movements: elevated heart rates, tightened muscles, hesitation patterns. I catalogued everything.
"Stop," Huo snapped, voice tight.
I did.
Instantly.
The fire vanished as if it had never existed.
No smoke.
No embers.
Nothing.
The silence afterward was deafening.
"You're pushing her too hard," one instructor said uneasily. "She's five."
I looked at him.
Just a look.
Not threatening. Not angry.
Simply aware.
He broke eye contact first.
"I don't feel tired," I said. "And I haven't lost control."
True.
Sidious's discipline anchored my will. Itachi's restraint tempered my instincts. Azula's hunger sharpened everything into purpose.
I wasn't burning fuel.
I was optimizing it.
"Test her forms," another instructor said. "Precision drills."
They lined up targets—moving dummies, rotating shields, narrow apertures meant to teach restraint.
I passed all of them.
Perfectly.
Not a single wasted movement. Not a flicker of imbalance. Fire struck exactly where intended, never more, never less. When asked to hold a flame steady, I did—unblinking—for nearly a minute.
Children weren't supposed to do that.
They stopped correcting me halfway through.
By the end of the session, none of them stood close anymore.
As they whispered among themselves, I caught fragments.
"She's watching us…"
"That look—did you see her eyes?"
"This isn't talent. It's something else."
I sat quietly on the stone floor, hands folded in my lap, posture immaculate.
Terrifying them openly would have been inefficient.
Instead, I let them realize.
That I didn't get frustrated.
That I didn't tire.
That I didn't smile.
That when one instructor burned his hand demonstrating a technique, I watched—not with concern, not with glee—
—but with calm, focused interest.
As if memorizing the moment.
When Fire Lord Ozai arrived later that day, the instructors bowed deeply.
"She exceeds expectations," Master Huo said carefully. "By a wide margin."
Ozai's gaze settled on me.
I met it evenly.
No defiance.
No warmth.
Only certainty.
"Good," he said at last. "Increase the difficulty."
The instructors hesitated.
Just for a moment.
Ozai noticed.
And smiled.
As they escorted me from the hall, I felt something solidify inside me—not triumph, not joy.
Momentum.
Fear was already taking root.Soon, obedience would follow.
And this was only the beginning.