Chapter 38: The Group Separates
The air inside the ruined carpentry shop hung thick with dust and tension. Slanted beams of sunlight carved through the gaping holes in the walls, catching on drifting motes of splintered wood and powdered stone. A saw blade wobbled uselessly on the floor, its sharp ring long since faded.
Yogan groaned softly beneath a collapsed shelf, his chest rising with shallow, gritty breaths. His robes were torn at the sleeves, one shoulder exposed and bloodied. As he shifted to rise, bits of ceiling plaster fell from his hair. His limbs ached. His ribs pulsed with dull agony.
He pushed himself upright with a cough, wincing, and stared across the wreckage.
Shisui stood just beyond a pile of broken chairs, relaxed, almost casual. One sword rested on his shoulder. The other dangled by his side, idly turning in his fingers.
"Still breathing," Shisui said flatly. "I'll give you that."
Yogan climbed to his feet, staggered once, then steadied. His hand went to his side, where a fresh bruise was forming above his hip.
"You're an airbender," he said quietly. "That blast, it wasn't just some trick."
Shisui tilted his head, as if mildly surprised. "Hmph. Took you that long?"
He raised one hand, fingers loose, open, and moved it through the air with eerie precision. A gust stirred the debris behind him, lifting a curl of sawdust into a spiral. He snapped his wrist, and it dispersed.
Yogan's eyes narrowed. "You could've led with that before trying to kill my friend."
Shisui's smirk twisted. "And miss the fun?"
He stepped forward, dragging the tip of one blade along the ground. "I was raised in a temple. Not yours, obviously. A smaller outpost of the airbenders. A mountain temple to the west. Same robes. Same chants. Same little bald monks trying to pretend we're still safe under some Lion Turtle's shell."
Yogan said nothing, chest still heaving.
"I left," Shisui continued. "Me and another airbender. One of the better ones, actually. We got sick of it. The pretending. The peace games. The purity crap. I wanted more. So I took it."
Yogan's voice was low but firm. "That 'crap' is how we survive."
Shisui laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "Survive? Is that what you call this? Scraping out a passive existence in cold caves and wind temples while the rest of the world feasts, fights, lives and fucks?"
Yogan clenched his fists. "The elders teach us harmony, discipline. Because we can't afford to be like the others. Power without balance is what destroyed the world in the first place."
"Oh, don't worry." Shisui's tone darkened. "I know exactly who destroyed the world. That idiot Wan."
The room seemed to fall still.
Yogan's face tightened.
Shisui continued, voice sharp. "He unshackled humanity from the Lion Turtles. Said we should be free. Let the spirits run wild. Made everyone think they had the right to do anything with power." He snorted. "And we've been bleeding for it ever since."
"Wan gave us choice," Yogan replied. "You don't get to twist that."
"Choice?" Shisui sneered. "Don't kid yourself. He gave mankind fire, and then stood back and watched as we burned everything to the ground."
"You're not the first to say this," Yogan muttered. "My brother said the same thing when he tried to overthrow the elders. Said we were weak. That airbenders needed to stop hiding and fight like everyone else."
Shisui's eyes flickered. "Renji."
"You know his name?" Yogan asked, stunned.
"Hard not to," Shisui said. "He made ripples. And you say he's your brother. The brat almost made me proud, hearing someone finally stood up to those bald cowards. I thought maybe things were finally shifting. A new kind of airbender. One that mattered."
Yogan stepped forward. "He betrayed everything we stand for. Trained children to fight. Murdered elders. Turned power into domination."
"And what have the elders done with their power?" Shisui snapped. "Hid it. Starved it. Pretended they were above the rest of the world. Seeking their supposed spiritual enlightenment. Well, newsflash, boy: the world doesn't want monks anymore. It wants warriors. Mercenaries. Monsters, if needed. That's how you stay alive."
"No," Yogan said firmly. "That's how you stay empty."
A long silence fell between them. The broken shop around them creaked in the breeze.
Shisui's voice dropped, colder now. "The airbenders won't survive the next age. You mark my words. Your elders cling to old ways in a world that's ready to tear itself apart. They think humility and robes will keep them safe when the fire returns. All over the continent, nations started forming. Cities emerged and the world is still growing everyday."
Yogan took a slow breath. "The fire has returned. And we're still here."
"Barely," Shisui said. "When was the last time your kind held a city? A kingdom? You don't own land. You don't raise armies. You just float. Like leaves waiting for the wind to pick a direction. You might as well be a bunch of stupid animals waiting to be slaughtered."
"Maybe we don't need armies to matter."
"Tell that to the people I've killed," Shisui said, voice quiet now. "Tell it to the young and promising airbenders that died during that same bandit attack at the Air Temple. Of the airbenders I myself have killed. Because you know what I see in their eyes when the end comes? They always hope someone stronger is coming. No one ever hopes for the peaceful option."
Yogan's jaw tightened. "That's because killers like you poison the world."
"Correction," Shisui said, raising a blade. "Killers like me understand the world the world and what needs to be done."
Yogan shifted into a stance again. "And people like me are here to remind it what it could be."
They stood there in the wrecked carpentry shop, surrounded by broken furniture and blood-slicked boards, two airbenders from the same root, branches grown in opposite directions.
Shisui's eyes narrowed.
Yogan's breath deepened.
Neither moved yet, but the wind was rising again.
Outside, the sky darkened with gathering clouds.
The dust settled.
Neither moved.
Then the floor cracked.
Yogan's feet were gone from the ground, blasted back by a sudden shockwave of air that erupted from Shisui's palm like a cannon. He flew through the air and smashed against the far wall of the ruined carpentry shop, the impact splitting the old boards and drawing a violent gasp from his lungs.
Before he could recover, Shisui was already there, his heel lashing out in a wicked roundhouse kick. A coiling vortex followed the arc of his leg, air compressed into a razor-thin crescent that sliced across Yogan's chest like a blade.
Yogan stumbled, blood streaking his robes in a wet burst.
"You don't even have your tattoos, boy," Shisui growled, circling him. "What are you, some half-baked wind priest with delusions of greatness?"
Yogan lifted one arm, air wrapping around his forearm like a brace. "I don't need tattoos to stand for the teachings."
"Oh?" Shisui smirked, driving both fists forward. Two compressed bursts of air roared toward Yogan, ripping up the shop floorboards as they flew.
Yogan bent low and spun, air swirling in a sphere around him, deflecting the blasts. He leapt and rebounded off a shattered beam, landing on a crate and hurling a spiraling gale downward.
Shisui met it with a wall of compressed wind, palm raised. The two forces clashed midair, twisted and then detonated.
BOOM.
The shockwave shattered every window still intact, sending shards of glass raining over the street.
They met in the center of the chaos.
Palm against palm. Kick against kick.
Shisui was faster.
Every blow of his carried violence. Every strike was meant to maim.
He ducked under one of Yogan's open-palm counters and drove an elbow into his gut, but it wasn't flesh that struck. A compacted ball of air blasted into Yogan's stomach, launching him into the ceiling. Wood split above, and he crashed back down like a ragdoll.
Yogan coughed.
Blood hit the floor in red splashes.
"You're slow," Shisui spat. "Too slow. You left the temple too early, didn't you?"
Yogan pulled himself up, one leg shaking under him. His lip was split. His brow bled freely now, coating his cheek.
"I left... with someone," he muttered.
"Oh?"
Yogan's eyes narrowed. "Her name was Nara."
Shisui froze, just briefly, but the hate that followed was volcanic.
"Nara," he whispered. "That whore still walks the earth?"
Yogan's fists clenched. "Say that again."
"She ran with that idiot Wan, didn't she?" Shisui hissed. "Spouting his garbage. I remember her. Smug. Righteous. Thought she could bend more than wind with her words. One day, I'll break her. I swear it."
He stepped forward, blades of wind beginning to form around his arms like sickles. "But I'll settle for gutting her little apprentice first."
He hurled both arms forward.
Not just blasts.
Needles of pressurized air, ten of them, darted toward Yogan's chest, each one spinning and sharp enough to puncture steel.
Yogan bent the wall behind him and slammed his foot into the floor, launching himself forward. The first three grazed his robes, slicing fabric. The next two tore lines of blood across his left arm and ribs.
He screamed and kept going.
Yogan spun and sent a burst of air in a compressed ring, horizontal and wide. It shattered part of the ceiling as it swept across the room.
Shisui bent through it. His body flowed like a whip, using air to deaden the force and pass through. He flipped, landed behind Yogan, and raked his fingers through the air in a brutal tearing motion.
The wind became a spiral, gripping Yogan like a vice and twisting him sideways, CRACK, his shoulder dislocated again as he smashed into a pillar. He cried out and collapsed on one knee.
"Still standing?" Shisui jeered. "Your master must be proud."
Yogan growled, blood running from his nose now. "I don't... need her pride."
He pushed himself up. "I just need the wind."
He slammed his fists together.
The air collapsed inward.
Every loose board. Every chair. Every splinter and grain of dust lifted slightly, trembling. The walls groaned. The ground cracked.
Shisui blinked. "What,"
Yogan exploded forward.
This time it was different.
A burst of raw force sent him flying like a spear, feet first, and his heel caught Shisui in the chest, sending the assassin flying back through the shopfront.
He landed in the street beyond, skidding through dirt, breaking a vendor's cart in half.
Shisui coughed.
Blood.
He looked up, and there was Yogan, backlit by the sun.
"I'm not finished," Yogan said, voice shaking with pain, but burning with fire beneath it.
Shisui stood again, one knee buckling, ribs clearly broken.
He inhaled, and began to spin his arms, slowly.
Wind gathered.
But not like the elders taught.
This wasn't balance.
It was a storm.
Shisui bent the air into scythes, rotating beside him like twin buzzsaws. He launched them toward Yogan.
Yogan dodged the first, but the second clipped his thigh. Blood sprayed.
Shisui charged.
He drove a cyclone into Yogan's chest, sending the boy tumbling down the street.
Yogan hit the ground. Rolled. Came up with a cough that turned red on the cobblestones.
"You'll die like the others who believed in peace," Shisui said coldly.
Yogan lifted his head, chest heaving.
"You're wrong," he whispered.
Shisui raised both arms, and summoned a wall of compressed air, aiming to crush Yogan from both sides.
Yogan lifted both arms, too slow…
The walls closed in.
CRACK.
And everything went white.
Yogan pushed himself up on his palms.
Barely.
Blood slid from his chin, thick and metallic in his mouth. His chest was painted red, his own ribs visible beneath torn muscle, every breath a spike of fire. His robe hung in tatters, one sleeve burned clean off by friction and wind.
Shisui stood above him, arms loose, his posture relaxed, but his fingers sharp with tension.
"I warned you," he said calmly, stepping closer, boots crunching glass.
Yogan tried to rise, but his knees buckled. He collapsed again, face-first into the stone.
"People like you don't belong in this world anymore," Shisui murmured, circling him like a crow. "You're part of a dream that should've died with the Lion Turtles."
Yogan didn't move.
Shisui knelt beside him and grabbed a fistful of his hair, lifting his face off the ground.
"Look at you. Broken. Beaten. You still think there's balance in this world?" He flung Yogan's head back to the stone with a *crack*.
Yogan's vision blurred.
His blood pooled around his lips.
But even through the pain, even as another wave of wind struck his side, shattering the stone and tearing another scream from his throat, his mind still worked.
Maybe he's right.
The thought horrified him.
But it was there.
Maybe... the world really doesn't want peace anymore. Maybe Renji was right. Maybe even Shisui has a point. The people who win… are the ones who take. Who don't ask permission.
But…
That wasn't the full truth either.
He thought of Wan. The man in the swamp. His predecessor. The one who took Raava into himself and began the cycle.
'Wan was right to stop the spirits. To choose peace.'
'But Wan had also failed.'
He let the world spiral.
He let pride outweigh wisdom.
Just like Renji.
Just like Shisui.
'They all had a truth. And none of them knew how to carry it.'
Yogan blinked against the blood.
The stone felt cold beneath his face.
'I'm the one who inherits it all,' he realized.
'Wan's burdens. Renji's rage. The world's broken pieces.'
He saw villages.
Cities.
Tribes kneeling before him.
Wars waiting for his word.
Entire nations asking what to do.
'One day', he thought, 'this will be me. One day, I will have to decide who eats, who rules, who dies. Like Wan did.'
His hands curled slowly.
He wasn't ready for that.
Not yet.
But this?
This moment?
This, he could still change.
He heard Shisui inhale.
Felt the wind tighten around his body like a coiled storm.
He could feel the scythe forming again, compressed wind, sharpened with fury.
Shisui's voice was like thunder now. "It's time you learned what the new world really looks like."
The wind screamed.
Yogan's eyes snapped open.
He reached out, not with air.
But with water.
A vase on the windowsill exploded. Liquid surged into the air, snaking into his palm like it had been waiting.
He swung his arm just as the wind scythe came down.
A wall of ice erupted, thick and blue, the edges fractal and jagged.
CRACK.
The wind scythe smashed against it, and split apart, steam billowing from the impact, tiny needles of frost scattering into the sunlight.
Shisui froze.
Yogan's hand dropped, melting the ice with a twitch.
The water obeyed.
He lifted his arm again.
The water twisted…
And then…
SNAP!
A whip of water lashed out, too fast, too sudden.
It caught Shisui across the chest with a wet, meaty crack, throwing his thin frame backward and tearing blood into the open air. His maskless face twisted in surprise, eyes wide, body contorted by the force of the strike.
He hit the ground and skidded, a red trail streaking behind him.
Yogan remained on one knee, arm shaking, breath ragged, but eyes burning.
"I'm not done," he whispered.
The water whip fell from Yogan's hand in broken tendrils, splattering onto the stone floor like blood.
He collapsed forward, one palm to the ground, gasping, his lungs burning as if every breath was a betrayal of the pain in his ribs. The taste of iron filled his mouth. His wrist spasmed from strain, the water already slipping from his control. It trembled in the air, sluggish, barely coiled.
Across the ruined alley, Shisui rose slowly, steam lifting off his body where the whip had struck. A red welt stretched across his chest, searing through his robes. His mouth curled not into rage, but something more dangerous, curiosity.
"You're… waterbending," he said, voice edged with confusion. "That's not, possible."
Yogan didn't answer.
He stood again, bare foot grinding against the stone, his fingers curled in a rough approximation of the water whip form Rilo had shown him on their way to Shuihan. But it trembled. The lines were wrong. The current wanted to break away. It didn't listen like air did.
Shisui stepped forward slowly, his breath visible now in the rising cold. "You shouldn't be able to do that."
"I shouldn't be many things," Yogan said, lifting his other hand, and pulling the air into motion.
A gust burst around his legs, spiraling upward, lifting his torn cloak like a banner in the wind.
The fight resumed.
Shisui dashed forward, spinning low with a scything kick. A current of air swept beneath him, slicing toward Yogan's feet.
Yogan jumped, not up, but forward, and twisted midair, using airbending to corkscrew past Shisui. His fingers sliced outward as he passed, sending sharp shears of wind at Shisui's back.
Shisui bent to counter, one palm flat, the other open, and parried the wind away with an elegant spiral. He turned and hurled a slicing vortex, shaped like a wheel, toward Yogan's chest.
Yogan slammed his foot down and summoned a burst of water from the cobblestones, somewhere it had pooled from a broken jug, barely enough. He flung it up clumsily to intercept the vortex.
The vortex sliced through the water like a blade, soaking Yogan as he stumbled back.
His waterbending faltered. He couldn't keep the motion clean.
But the air?
He twisted his wrist, turned his hips, and launched a crushing downburst that slammed Shisui to his knees.
Shisui rolled, dirt flying behind him, and snarled, "That's not possible. That's not how it works."
Yogan didn't wait.
He launched forward, air surging beneath his soles, arms spread wide. One arm swung high, the other low. A double spiral of wind exploded from both directions, crashing into Shisui like twin hammers.
The assassin flew backward, hit a wall, and bounced.
Yogan rushed him, calling again to the puddle behind him, water rising into a loose whip, shaking violently, as if unsure it wanted to obey.
He lashed with it once, it missed. Too slow. Too shallow.
Shisui ducked beneath the arc and drove a punch upward, air compressed at his knuckles like a lance.
It struck Yogan in the chest, he flew back, slammed into the side of a merchant stall and crushed it under his weight.
Still…
He rose.
Chest heaving.
Blood dripping from a split in his side.
But his eyes locked on Shisui, and he stepped again into the airbender stance.
Wide feet. One hand behind. One hand curled, circling, drawing the wind like a thread from the world.
"Who are you?" Shisui spat, face twitching with rage and something deeper, fear.
Yogan's reply came softly.
"The next in line."
He threw his hand forward.
A blast of air erupted, massive, rolling, like the spine of a dragon.
Shisui tried to leap, the wind caught him midair and hurled him sideways, smashing him into a brick wall. Blood sprayed as he collapsed to the street, coughing violently.
Yogan stalked forward, bent low, pulling the water back from the gutter now. It slithered toward him, coiling at his side.
But it buckled mid-formation.
He gritted his teeth and forced the whip back into shape, just long enough to send it crashing toward Shisui again.
Shisui raised both arms and broke it with a shockwave, but the moment's hesitation cost him.
Yogan twisted with his entire body and summoned a typhoon spiral, a contained, whirling ring of air that struck Shisui full in the gut and lifted him off his feet. He spun through the air like a ragdoll and smashed down through a stall roof.
Dust.
Silence.
Yogan dropped to his knees, arms shaking. He couldn't feel his fingers. His leg was cut to the bone. His lungs wanted to shut down.
But he stood again.
And looked across the wreckage.
Where Shisui had landed…
Empty.
Only broken wood.
No body.
"No…" Yogan staggered forward. "No no no…"
He reached the hole, blood spattered across the broken beams.
But no Shisui.
He was gone.
Vanished.
Yogan stood there, surrounded by ruin, his chest pulsing with agony, wind still stirring around his ankles like it didn't know if it should carry him or let him fall.
And still the water trembled, waiting for his command.
Yogan stumbled back into the street, one hand clutching his side where the torn flesh pulsed with raw heat. The other arm hung limp at his side, the fingers still twitching from where the water had refused to hold. His vision blurred, but the path was clear, straight back through shattered carts, torn awnings, and splintered rooftops.
The wind around him had calmed now. Obedient. Quiet.
He hated how much it felt like pity.
He limped around the corner.
They were all there, Mariko still kneeling over Gan Ye, who now lay against a tilted support beam, unconscious but breathing. His brow was damp with sweat, the blood matted in his hair. His shirt had been torn open for bandaging. Someone, maybe Mariko, had wrapped his shoulder and side in fresh cloth. He looked more stable now, but fragile, like a cracked pot glued together.
Rilo stood near them, arms crossed, but his posture snapped upright the moment he saw Yogan dragging himself around the corner.
"Yogan," he said sharply.
Mariko turned, eyes wide. "Spirits, Yogan, you're…"
"Bleeding?" Yogan rasped. "Yeah. A lot."
His steps faltered.
Rilo caught him just before he collapsed. "Easy. Sit, sit down, you idiot." He guided Yogan gently down to the stone steps beside the inn. "You're not dying, but you sure tried your best."
Yogan winced as his weight settled. He leaned back, blinking up at the sky. "I've had worse."
"You've had worse last week," Rilo muttered.
Mariko rushed over and pressed a damp cloth to the worst of the cuts on his shoulder. "We saw… we saw wind, and ice, and then nothing. Is it over? Please tell me it's over."
Yogan shook his head, jaw tightening.
"He's gone."
Mariko's hands froze. "Gone?"
"Vanished," Yogan said. "There was no body. Just blood. Debris. He should've been there. The guy was an airbender, with the twisted mentality like my brother but who has lost all his inhibitions taught by the elders."
"Was it… did you kill him?" she asked.
Yogan didn't answer at first. The silence told its own story.
"I don't think that was the kind of man who dies easy," he said finally.
Rilo frowned. "And if he's what you say… an airbender, trained and twisted like that…"
Yogan's eyes drifted to the rooftops. "He'll be back."
Rilo didn't argue.
Instead, he pulled a water pouch from his belt and handed it to Yogan, who drank it in three gulps.
"Your side's bleeding badly," Rilo said, inspecting the torn robes. "That's a deep gash."
"Nothing vital."
"That's not how blood loss works."
Yogan laughed weakly. "We can't all be healers."
Mariko, still pale, sat beside him. Her voice was quiet. "You… used waterbending."
Yogan nodded. "Barely. I lost control three times."
"But you did it."
Yogan stared at his hands, torn knuckles, swollen fingers.
"I don't think it matters how well I did," he said. "What matters is that he saw it."
Rilo crouched beside him. "You think that's why he ran?"
Yogan shook his head. "No. He was winning. I think…"
He trailed off.
"I think seeing me bend water, that was the first time he felt afraid."
A long silence followed.
Wind stirred the bloodstained street around them, cold and hollow.
Yogan closed his eyes and let the silence hold him.
But deep inside, the truth stirred like water refusing to freeze:
He was the second Avatar.
And the world was watching.
The sky had lit up completely by the time they were all moved.
A pair of Shuihan carts arrived, half-torn, but still usable, and Gan Ye, still unconscious and pale, was gently lifted and loaded into one. His father, Jian Ye, watched with a stone face as the guards hoisted the boy's limp form, wrapped in gauze and soaked bandages. He gave no speech. No order. Only a sharp nod before the cart wheels began to roll, escorted by crimson-and-black-cloaked soldiers toward a private estate on the southern edge of the city.
"Special healer," Rilo muttered as he watched the cart disappear around the bend. "Old bastard has one stashed like a secret weapon."
"Of course he does," Yogan said through clenched teeth. "Gods forbid we all get treated equally."
Rilo smirked and gestured toward a small hut beside the canal. "That's where we go, 'common hero.' Limp that way, please."
---
Inside, the space smelled of incense and boiled roots. The light was low, the walls made of dark wood, and steam curled in corners. A few lanterns swung gently overhead, and a single large mat had been laid on the floor where Keru was already lying shirtless, bandaged from shoulder to waist. His eyes were closed, but he wasn't asleep. His breath was even but tight. Controlled.
Yogan sat down beside him, groaning as Rilo knelt and placed a bowl of water between them.
"You know," Yogan mumbled, "you're better with that water when you're healing than when you're fighting."
"Don't insult me while I'm saving your life," Rilo said flatly.
Yogan chuckled, and hissed when Rilo pressed a cold, glowing hand to the wound near his ribs. "Ffff-Spirits!"
Mariko was already inside, curled near the window, hands fidgeting in her lap. Haru stood behind her, arms crossed, one brow raised as if trying not to say anything stupid. Kenshiro was half-reclined on a pile of cushions, sipping something herbal with his feet bandaged and ankles crossed.
The room fell into a lull, until the door creaked open.
An old woman with a spine like a sickle and hands like hammers walked in. Her shawl dragged behind her like a tail, and she squinted at Rilo.
"Water'll only close the skin. Those bones are still rattling like dice in a cup," she rasped.
Rilo gave a slight bow. "Yes, Madam Ki."
"Out of the way." She elbowed past him and bent over Yogan, poking his arm, shoulder, ribs, knee—all with merciless precision.
Each touch sent a shock of pain through him.
"Broken here, cracked there. Ha. And you think you're ready for war," she scoffed, then moved on to Keru, shaking her head the moment she saw the bruises on his side.
"Sweet child," she muttered to him, "you shouldn't be alive."
"I get that a lot," Keru mumbled.
As Ki got to work with poultices and tight bindings, the others slowly leaned into the heavy quiet.
Haru broke it.
"So…" He glanced at Yogan. "Who the hell was that?"
"No idea," Yogan said, still wincing. "He called himself Shisui. Airbender. Trained, but... wrong."
"He was after Mariko," Rilo said. "Didn't even try to finish Yogan at first. Didn't care about me. Just walked straight for her."
They all turned to look.
Mariko looked like a ghost, her face pale, her eyes sunken. She didn't cry. Not now. But she didn't deny it either.
"It was me," she said quietly. "He was there for me. It's all my fault."
Yogan rolled his eyes. "Yes, we know."
"Absolutely your fault," Kenshiro chimed in, raising his cup. "We all almost died. Gan Ye might be dead. Definitely your fault."
Mariko flinched. "Don't joke…"
"Who's joking?" Haru asked, deadpan.
"You all suck," Mariko muttered.
"We *almost* did," Yogan said. "Then I remembered waterbending."
Rilo snorted. "Barely."
Mariko leaned back, eyes on the ceiling. "I just… I didn't think Shen would go that far. I mean, I betrayed him, yes. But he raised me. Took me in when I ran from Zhen. I was supposed to help him grow influence through Daiyo using his Black Dust Triads."
"And instead you tried to blackmail my family," Yogan said.
"I was desperate," she snapped.
"You faked rape," Kenshiro added cheerfully.
"That was Shen's idea!"
"You still went along with it. Worse you tried to hijacked his plan for your own plans and tried to make Yogan marry you."
Mariko buried her face in her hands. "Spirits, I'm horrible."
"Little bit," Keru grunted from the mat.
"I never thought he'd send a killer!" she protested. "He didn't even care about Daiyo anymore. I thought, once we failed, it'd be over. I thought he'd move on to another city, another plan!"
Haru's voice was quiet. "He did move on. To revenge."
Yogan's brow furrowed. "Wait…"
They all looked at him.
"I think Shen didn't care about me defeating him," Yogan said slowly. "Or Rilo escaping. Or Keru ruining the operation. I think… he cared about Mariko turning on him."
Mariko looked away.
"I think to him," Yogan continued, "that betrayal was louder than any battlefield loss."
The room quieted again.
Outside, the canal water lapped gently against the edge of the healer's dock.
Inside, old bones were wrapped, wounds cooled, and a truth hung heavy in the air:
The war with Shen had already begun.
And none of them were ready.
The moon was rising by the time the pain dulled enough for Yogan to breathe without gritting his teeth. The healer's hut was warm with low firelight, the incense now faded into a faint trace of ash and cinnamon. Everyone remained seated or reclined where they had collapsed, blanketed in a strange, hushed peace, the kind that settles in after bloodshed, where exhaustion drowns fear, and silence feels like mercy.
The steam from Madam Ki's kettle hissed softly in the corner, the only sound beside the creaking of the wood and the occasional grunt from Keru as he shifted against his bandaged ribs.
Yogan sat cross-legged now, sipping lukewarm tea, sweat beading across his temples.
Mariko's voice broke the quiet.
"We'll be heading back to the capital."
Everyone looked up.
She sat straighter now, hands clasped in her lap, fingers twisting into the fabric of her robe. Her voice had weight to it. Not fear, but resolution.
"I'll let Keru rest tonight, but by morning, we're going back. Lord Jian Ye declared independence. Shuihan's lost. That alone is bad enough, but add in the assassination attempt, the collapsed treaty, and the city aligning with pirates out of desperation…" She shook her head slowly. "There's nothing left to salvage."
Yogan said nothing, but his eyes flicked to Rilo.
Mariko's voice stayed calm. "This mission was a failure. And we need to answer for it."
Yogan leaned back. "You sure Shen won't just have you killed the moment you step through the gates?"
"Maybe," she admitted. "But that doesn't change what I owe. Shen was grooming me for power. He taught me how to use people. How to exploit. And I let him. I let myself be a tool. But if I'm going to be anything else, anything at all, I have to face what I've done."
She paused, her voice cracking.
"…And what I failed to do."
Kenshiro groaned from the pillows. "Wow. Look at you. Conscience and everything. Almost like you're a real person."
She shot him a glare. "Bite me."
"No thanks," he said. "I've seen what happens to people who try."
A dry chuckle passed through the room.
Keru, despite his heavy eyelids, added softly, "You're right, though."
They all looked at him.
"I'm coming with you," he said to Mariko. "We finish what we started."
Mariko looked at him with wide eyes, surprise breaking through her practiced mask. She started to speak, but he cut her off with a glance.
"You don't get to do this alone," he said. "Not anymore."
For a moment, her eyes shone. She blinked it away.
Then Haru sat forward, arms resting on his knees. "Well. That's two departures in the morning."
He looked over at Yogan and Rilo.
"Guess that makes three."
Yogan tilted his head. "You're leaving?"
"I told you," Haru said. "I came this far to get away from my responsibilities and maybe punch a few people. Both were accomplished. But tomorrow... I'm heading home. The village still needs me. My father's still dying, and..."
He trailed off for a moment.
"Talia's right," he said at last. "We abandoned them once. I'm not going to do it again."
Yogan nodded, his expression unreadable.
"You sure?" Kenshiro asked. "We could still use a big guy with fists made of bricks."
"You'll manage," Haru smirked. "You always do. Or you'll die. Either way, it'll be exciting."
The warmth in the room didn't fade. It shifted. Settled into something heavier.
That's what it felt like.
Not celebration. Not mourning.
Just change.
Rilo stood slowly, walking over to the low table and pouring more tea. His movements were slower than usual, shoulders stiff, knuckles bruised, but measured, as if everything inside him had already accepted what came next.
He poured one cup. Then another.
Then said quietly, "Then I suppose this is the end for us."
All eyes turned.
He placed a hand on Yogan's shoulder as he passed, then leaned against the doorframe, silhouetted by the soft moonlight from outside.
"Tomorrow," he continued, "me, Yogan, Talia, Lian, Moi, and Kenshiro… we sail south. We already arranged a small merchant vessel that'll take us halfway, then we follow the coast."
Kenshiro raised his hand lazily. "I hate boats."
"You'll hate dying in this city more," Rilo said without looking back.
Mariko frowned. "So you've decided. No more detours. You're chasing Kezin now."
Yogan answered. "I was always chasing Kezin."
Rilo nodded. "And now we have his trail."
The fire crackled softly.
Keru turned his head, voice slow and deliberate. "South is dangerous."
"I hope so," Yogan said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Otherwise, I might start thinking I've recovered."
Mariko stood, arms folded tightly. "I still think we should all go together."
"You need to go back to Zhen," Yogan said gently. "They won't listen to anyone else. Not after this."
She looked down. "And if they don't listen?"
"Then we'll all meet again anyway," Rilo said. "But on less friendly terms."
Kenshiro raised his cup. "To less friendly terms."
They clinked it against the edge of the table.
The room went quiet again.
And this time… it felt like a farewell.
Not a final one.
But close enough.
Outside, the wind whispered against the wooden walls.
And the water beyond the canals waited.
***
Far above the lantern glow and muddy canals, the rooftops of Shuihan cut black lines against the night sky. Wind coiled between the gables and banners, slipping between shingles like breath between teeth.
Two shadows stood atop the tiled ridgeline of the governor's hall. Still. Quiet. Watching.
Below, the streets were busy with restoration. City guards moved in formation, clearing debris from the pirate attack and the assassin attack. Market stalls were being reassembled, wood patched and cloth re-strung. Civilians worked shoulder to shoulder, brushing away soot from walls, replacing broken lanterns, and sweeping blood into the gutter.
And at the center of it all, in the warm distance of torchlight, Yogan, still seated beside his allies in the healer's hut. Laughing weakly. Alive.
One of the shadows shifted.
A voice, female, calm, sharp.
"Well… it appears Yogan has really improved."
The other figure stepped forward, the black hem of his robe fluttering in the wind. His voice was low, measured, and deep, like the calm before a landslide.
"Unlocking a second element… has people whispering his name beside the great warrior Wan."
The woman scoffed softly. "So far, it's only two elements, master."
"And what's stopping him from three?" the man countered. "Or four?"
He folded his arms.
"It was obvious. Obvious to Kezin that day we fought. Obvious to Monk Nara. Whether anyone wants to say it aloud or not…"
He paused.
"…There's a very real, very likely chance my brother is the successor of the great warrior Wan."
Silence.
The wind picked up, lifting the edge of the woman's hood.
She turned her head toward him. "What does this mean for our plans, sire?"
The man stared down at the flickering lights of Shuihan.
At the boy below. The fool turned flame.
"It changes nothing."
His voice was final.
"All these years, he was a failure. A joke. A bender who couldn't even stay sober at a festival. And now?"
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
"Now he's dripping with power. Celebrated. Chosen. So what?"
His hands curled into loose fists at his sides.
"It doesn't change anything for us. Let him wear it like a mask. Let him gather kingdoms and heroes like toys. We will do what we always planned."
He glanced once more at the healer's hut.
"And we will use him for our gain."
A moment passed.
Then, without sound, the two figures stepped backward into shadow…
…and vanished into the wind.