-Hey guys! This is just a side project I'm working on. It won't have a regular schedule until I finish the Twilight fanfic (or if I see it gets a lot of comments). I hope you guys can check it out!
If you want to support or read some advanced chapters +2 please follow me on: patreon.com/Jayjayempi
Ryojiro studied himself in the mirror with care. He was wearing the full uniform, freshly pressed, but the reflection revealed with cruel clarity that the fabric hung loosely on his frame. Carefully, he tugged at the shirt, trying to settle it over his shoulders, but the garment draped over him as though it belonged to someone else. Now he felt foolish for not allowing the servants to take his measurements and have a uniform tailored to him. At the time, however, his embarrassment had weighed heavily: when comparing himself to his brother, he had only felt small, weak, and inadequate.
With a heavy sigh, he left his room and walked toward the dining hall. There, his father and brother were already seated, waiting with the table set. They began breakfast in silence, facing an abundant banquet laid out with the precision of family routine. Then, Ryozan spoke in a solemn tone, his eyes fixed on the younger boy:
"Do not forget what we spoke about, Ryojiro. I expect to hear great things from you."
The boy swallowed hard and nodded timidly, unable to hold his father's gaze for long. Ryota, seated beside him, glanced at him sideways as he continued eating, offering no words.
When breakfast ended, Ryozan rose with his usual majestic bearing and departed, seemingly with important matters to attend. Ryojiro, on the other hand, stood quickly, his chest pounding with anxiety, and made his way to the exit, where the carriage already waited to take him to the academy.
Just as he was about to cross the threshold, a small flame danced before him. The spark came from his brother, who watched him with a mischievous smile.
"Try to stay positive, brother. You're good, you're just a little shy."
Ryojiro lowered his head and nodded faintly, uncomfortable with the blend of tenderness and pressure in those words. Ryota gave a brief laugh and ruffled his younger brother's hair affectionately.
"If you're worried about your firebending, we can practice later. For now, focus on everything else. Eat plenty, train hard, and study harder still. You'll see—you'll shine at the academy."
Those words ignited a spark of confidence within Ryojiro. A small but genuine smile crossed his face. He threw himself into his brother's arms, hugging him quickly and tightly, before climbing into the carriage that would carry him to the beginning of a new stage in his life.
The carriage ride through the capital of the Fire Nation felt unbearably brief to Ryojiro. His brother's words of encouragement still echoed in his mind, granting him a flicker of confidence. Yet with every street the carriage rolled along, with every crimson wall and towering spire rising on the horizon, that fragile security seemed to fade. The distant roar of the city, the smoke from the chimneys, and the ceaseless march of uniformed soldiers only reminded him of the weight of the place he was about to enter.
When the reddish walls and majestic façade of the Fire Academy for Boys appeared before his eyes, his heart lurched. The building, with its black columns and golden details, looked more like a military palace than a school. Red banners waved in the wind above, emblazoned with the insignia of a flame, as if each fold declared to the youths that this was not merely a place to train warriors, but the future pillars of the Nation.
At the grand entrance, the traffic of carriages was constant. Each one stopped in turn to unload the young prospects who would form part of the military elite of tomorrow. From the window, Ryojiro watched some step down tall and proud, their gazes filled with the certainty of noble blood. Others, younger and smaller, stumbled awkwardly, their nervous gestures betraying them as novices.
Ryojiro felt his chest tighten. Though the son of a general, he knew none of these boys. He was too young to have attended the banquets and receptions his brother frequented, and he had never been one to talk to strangers. Once again, loneliness reminded him how small he felt before the vast world opening up before him.
He stayed still inside the carriage, fingers clutching tightly at his uniform. His legs felt rooted to the floor. The coachman, watching from his seat, cleared his throat gently and gave him an encouraging nod. There was a long line of carriages waiting; he could not afford to block the entrance. Startled, Ryojiro nodded quickly and leapt down, gripping his bag as though it were a shield.
The commotion engulfed him instantly. The steps leading to the entrance teemed with older boys laughing loudly, pointing brazenly at the newcomers. Some of the youngest, heads bowed, tried to ignore the jeers, while others endured cruel laughter and biting comments. Ryojiro felt heat rush to his cheeks, a mix of shame and fear. He swallowed, straightened his back, and, though his shoulders trembled, forced himself to walk with his head held high.
To his relief, he passed unnoticed. Inside, the grand hall impressed and intimidated him alike. The polished stone floor reflected the glow of braziers lining the walls, while the echoes of countless voices soared into the vaulted ceilings. Footsteps, dragging bags, murmurs, and laughter merged into a deafening storm.
Ryojiro froze, uncertain. He thought of following some of the boys striding ahead with confidence, but reality struck: he had no idea where to go, which room was his, or how to navigate this place. Anxiety took hold. He hugged his bag tighter, searching desperately for guidance in the faces around him.
Then he noticed he was not alone. Some boys also stood idle in the center, as though awaiting instructions. What unsettled him most was that several appeared calm, even confident, as if they already knew the initial chaos was part of the process. That ease only made him feel smaller, more insignificant amid the crowd.
So lost was he in his thoughts that he did not hear the approaching footsteps until they stopped before him. A sharp cough made him snap his head up.
An elder stood there, imposing despite his lean frame. His back was straight as a spear, and a thick beard flowed down to his chest, as meticulously kept as the embroidered robe he wore. The air of authority about him was undeniable; his dark, piercing eyes swept over each boy with the precision of a warrior evaluating soldiers before battle.
With a mere tilt of his head, the elder issued a silent command. At once, the boys scattered in the hall fell into line. Ryojiro, startled, spun on his heel and hurried to the end, trying not to look like the clumsiest of them all.
The elder's gaze traveled down the line, ensuring silence reigned. When satisfied, his deep, resonant voice filled the hall, silencing even the faintest whisper.
All the youths gave a slight bow before him. Every word he spoke carried the weight of an order that could not be questioned.
"Welcome… to the Fire Academy for Boys. My name is Master Liwei, director of this institution and guardian of the values that have made our Nation great. For generations, the Fire Nation has ruled by right—not only through the might of our weapons, but through the determination of our men, the discipline in our blood, and the glory we deliver to Fire Lord Azulon.
You, young prospects, have been chosen to train here because of your exceptional lineage… because you represent the future of our Nation. Here, there will be no indulgence, no excuses. Every lesson, every exercise, every hour of training has a purpose: to make you men capable of elevating the honor of the Fire Nation and its Lord.
Remember always that serving the Nation is not a privilege… it is a sacred duty. Every flame you command, every strategy you learn, every display of strength and skill must reflect not only your talent, but the greatness of our people. You are not mere students; you are soldiers in the making, heirs to the glory that has expanded and defended our borders, and bearers of the responsibility to spread our Nation's light across the world.
Fire Lord Azulon trusts that each of you will bring honor to our banner, and that every victory, every achievement you earn will be another step in the history of the Fire Nation. Your families have placed their hopes in you to keep alive the flame of our glory. Do not fail them.
From this moment on, everything you do, everything you learn, will be judged under one standard: excellence. Those who prove themselves with courage, discipline, and loyalty will rise. Those who fail… will suffer the consequences, for in the Fire Nation there is no place for mediocrity.
Remember, boys… this is not a school. This is the first step toward the summit of your potential. Welcome to your destiny."
The echo of Master Liwei's speech lingered in the air, heavy as stone. No one dared break the silence that followed. Each boy processed it differently: some were electrified, eyes shining with excitement as though already picturing themselves in battle, clad in armor, fire blazing from their fists. Others looked on the verge of tears, trembling, wishing desperately to return to the warmth of home. The youngest, especially, seemed not to fully grasp the magnitude of his words, though the elder's severity weighed upon their shoulders.
Ryojiro felt his chest burn with a mixture of nerves and pride. It was not fire, but a determination he had never known so clearly before. The initial fear seemed to fade, replaced by a silent promise: he would not fail. He would not disappoint his father, his brother, or the Fire Nation. Even if it cost him sweat and tears, even if every day became a battle, he would prove himself worthy of being there.
When the director sensed his words had sunk in, he gave a small gesture. At once, several figures entered the hall. They were the teachers: men of strong bearing, clad in red and black robes that marked their rank within the Academy. One in particular stepped forward to stand before the group.
He was a man with straight black hair tied back in a low tail. He could not have been more than forty, yet his stern expression and the scar across one cheek made him look more hardened. His voice was firm, clear—not as solemn as the director's, but just as authoritative.
"I am Master Zhi. From this day forward, I will be your primary instructor."
With a flick of his hand, he motioned for them to follow. Still stirred by the speech, the boys fell into step at once, trailing him silently through the academy corridors. Torches lit the reddish stone walls, adorned with banners bearing the Fire Nation emblem.
After several hallways, they arrived at a chamber near the heart of the building. It was spacious, with polished wooden floors and the faint scent of incense in the air. The order and cleanliness were impeccable: desks perfectly aligned, walls bare save for a couple of banners, and a stone dais at the front. To Ryojiro, it felt austere, frugal, almost cold, yet he understood the purpose: here, there were no distractions, only discipline.
The boys took their seats quickly, barely brushing the wooden benches before settling. Master Zhi walked to the front, hands clasped behind his back, and began to speak:
"During your years of training here, you will learn far more than how to bend fire or wield a weapon. You will study history, language, mathematics, tactics, and philosophy… for an ignorant soldier is nothing but a brute rushing to die in his first battle."
His eyes scanned the room with the same severity a commander shows his troops.
"But make no mistake. You will also train in the art of Fire Nation combat, receive basic weapons instruction, and those with firebending ability will have an additional hour each day dedicated solely to mastering their control."
A nervous murmur rose among the younger boys, but Zhi cut it short with a sharp slam of his palm on the desk.
"At the end of each month, you will be evaluated in every subject. Anyone with poor results will be reported to their parents and punished immediately. The director was clear: we do not tolerate mediocrity here."
He let the words sink into the children's hearts before giving his next instruction:
"Now, one by one, you will stand, state your name aloud, and give a proper bow. We will proceed from left to right."
One after another, the boys stood. Their voices echoed across the room, each laden with pride as they named their lineage.
"I am Renji. Son of Colonel Kaeda, commander of the 14th Division."
"My name is Daichi. Son of Colonel Haruto, custodian of the Northern Fortress."
Others followed, most naming colonels among their fathers; each voice sought to project firmness, as though inherited rank were a personal standard.
Then one boy stepped forward with his chin held high and an arrogant smile. He spoke in a tone meant to dominate rather than convince.
"I am Katsuro, son of Admiral Takao. Everyone here knows what that means."
A murmur rippled through the hall. The title of admiral carried weight, and his arrogance won him little favor.
At last, it was Ryojiro's turn. He rose slowly, measuring each movement. He could feel the stares digging into his back even before he spoke. When his voice rang out—clear, though slightly trembling—the entire room held its breath.
"My name is Ryojiro. Son of General Ryozan."
The words fell with gravity. A general… the highest rank in the army, second only to the Fire Lord himself. The whispers burst forth like sparks from a brazier; some exchanged looks of awe, others of restrained respect, and more than a few lowered their gaze, as though his presence diminished them.
When the tension seemed at its peak, another boy stood. His posture was rigid, his shoulders tense, and though he tried to maintain composure, his hands trembled faintly as he lowered his gaze, then raised it again.
"I am Zuko. Son of Prince Ozai."
The silence was immediate, heavy enough to be felt in the air. Then, like a rising tide, voices began to murmur.
"Does that make him a prince…?" someone whispered.
"No. The crown prince is Lu Ten, son of General Iroh," another corrected confidently.
The words spread among the children, laden with intrigue and expectation. Some looked at him with fascination or wariness; others kept silent, afraid that any misstep might turn against them.
Ryojiro fixed his eyes on Zuko. The weight of all the lineages named hung heavily, but that last one rang differently. He remembered his father's instructions, and at the same time, the silent promise he had made himself: he would make his father proud. The first step would be to approach that boy. With a firm nod to himself, he vowed that once he found his footing in the academy, he would find a way to reach out to Zuko.