I spent six months at the Southern Air Temple.
Six months of isolation, discipline, and relentless self-improvement.
Firebending came first.
The basics fell away quickly—breathing, stances, and forms refined until there was no wasted movement. Each strike flowed into the next with lethal efficiency, fire responding instantly to my will. I didn't just practice techniques; I dissected them, breaking each motion down to its purpose and rebuilding it into something cleaner.
More efficient.
More deadly.
By the end of the first month, I had already mastered every foundational firebending form recorded in the scrolls. By the third, I was deep into advanced applications—compressed flames, sustained jets, directional control, and heat manipulation precise enough to scorch without igniting.
Lightning remained theoretical—for now—but I understood it.
Completely.
The Fire Nation treated lightning as a divine art.
To me, it was simply physics guided by chi.
Between training sessions, I turned my attention to the Air Nomads' knowledge.
I wasn't supposed to have access to it.
That didn't stop me.
I explored the temple's hidden chambers, ancient libraries, and sealed meditation halls, taking scrolls that hadn't been touched in generations. Most of it wasn't combat-oriented—no techniques, no flashy power.
Just spirituality.
Breath.
Balance.
Connection.
Normally, it would have been useless to someone like me.
But I wasn't normal.
With my bloodline and my eyes, spiritual awareness came naturally. Meditation didn't feel abstract or symbolic—it was literal. When I sat and slowed my breathing, the world peeled back. The line between physical and spiritual thinned until I could feel something vast watching me in return.
The Spirit World.
Not clearly. Not fully.
But enough.
I practiced daily—hours spent motionless, surrounded by wind and silence. I learned to quiet my thoughts, to sense the flow of energy beyond my body, to recognize spirits without seeing them.
Sometimes, I felt eyes on me.
Ancient ones.
Curious ones.
I didn't fear them.
They didn't approach.
By the end of six months, something changed.
Fire no longer felt external.
It wasn't something I summoned or commanded—it was simply there, an extension of my intent. My chi reserves had grown dense and deep, vast enough that exhaustion became a foreign concept.
And my eyes—
They awakened further.
The Sharingan sharpened my perception beyond the physical, allowing me to see the structure of bending itself: the way chi moved, where it pooled, where it fractured. I could see mistakes before they happened.
I could see potential.
I stood at the edge of the temple, wind tugging at my clothes, clouds rolling endlessly beneath me.
Six months was enough.
I had mastered what this place could offer.
The world beyond the mountains was waiting.
And I was finally ready to step into it.