I remained with the dragons longer than I needed to.
Weeks passed beneath the mountains—weeks of refinement rather than revelation. Ran and Shaw did not teach through instruction. They taught through presence. Every movement of their bodies rewrote my understanding of fire: how even stillness could radiate heat, how restraint carried more meaning than release.
The Sun Warriors, too, had much to offer.
Their techniques were ancient—older than conquest, older than the Fire Nation itself. Their fire did not roar; it breathed. I learned how to temper my lightning with warmth, how to coil flame inward rather than expel it outward. These were not battlefield techniques.
They were survival techniques.
When I finally left, I did so quietly, carrying the dragon egg secured against my body, wrapped in layered cloth and chi-stabilizing seals of my own design. Its presence was constant now—not demanding, not draining—but aware.
I headed east.
Toward the Earth Kingdom.
Despite what I had mastered, I was not omnipotent.
Flight consumed chi—little, but consistently. Sustaining it for days would be inefficient. And though I could exist without food or water, choosing to do so dulled the senses. Eating anchored me. Drinking reminded me I still possessed a body.
So I traveled as humans did.
By road.
By village.
By chance.
That chance proved… remarkable.
The town was unremarkable—dusty roads, simple wooden buildings, the kind that existed by necessity rather than ambition. I had just finished a modest meal when I felt it.
Not chi.
Intent.
Sharp. Focused. Disciplined.
Steel.
A man sat outside the local inn, calmly sharpening a sword that had never known rust. His posture was relaxed, but his awareness extended outward like a drawn blade. He did not look at me—
—but he knew I was there.
Piandao.
The Swordmaster.
I approached without ceremony and stopped a respectful distance away.
"You don't move like a bender," he said without looking up.
"I don't fight like one either," I replied.
That earned his attention.
His eyes lifted—calm, assessing, unafraid. He did not ask who I was. Men like him did not waste time on titles.
"You carry weight," he said. "Not physical."
"I'm looking to learn how to fight without relying on bending."
That made him smile faintly.
"Everyone says that," he replied. "Few mean it."
I met his gaze fully then—no Sharingan, no spiritual pressure. Just a person.
"I mean it."
Silence followed.
Then Piandao stood.
"Eat," he said. "Rest. We'll see tomorrow whether steel has anything to teach you."
Training with Piandao was unlike anything I had experienced.
He stripped everything away.
No bending.
No chi sensing.
No enhancements.
Just balance.
Grip.
Timing.
He corrected my stance with the blunt edge of his blade, struck my wrist when I overcommitted, and punished even the smallest reliance on instinct over discipline.
"You think too fast," he said once, circling me. "Power isn't speed. It's control over when you act."
Days turned into weeks.
I learned footwork that conserved energy, angles that turned defense into inevitability, and patience that waited for mistakes rather than forcing openings. Piandao didn't care how strong I was.
He cared how clean I was.
"You don't fight like someone afraid to die," he said one evening as the sun dipped low. "That's dangerous."
"I'm not afraid of death," I answered honestly.
He nodded. "Then learn to respect it."
By the end of my time with him, I could fight effectively without bending, without chi enhancement—just steel and precision. My movements were quieter. Smaller. Deadlier.
Before we parted, Piandao handed me a sword.
Not ornate.
Not legendary.
Perfectly balanced.
"Steel doesn't care who you are," he said. "Remember that."
I did.
As I left the town and resumed my journey toward the Earth Kingdom, I felt something rare.
Not power.
Not ambition.
Readiness.
The world ahead was changing.
And for once—
I was prepared to meet it without burning it down first.