Morning came slowly to the town of Dalu, the haze of dust and smoke from early fires curling into the pale dawn. Merchants stirred from their wooden homes. The clang of pots and the shuffle of tired feet broke the fragile silence. In the eastern quarter, where stone met dirt and children ran barefoot chasing smoke trails, no one noticed the figure that sat alone on the roof of an old warehouse.
Fang Yuan watched the sunrise in silence. His legs hung over the edge, swinging lightly in rhythm with the breeze. Beneath him, the town moved with the sluggish life of people who survived, not lived. This wasn't a place of heroes or villains. It was a place of compromise.
He had spent the night there—unseen, undisturbed. Sleep had come in shallow bursts, broken by the chill of the wind and the dull ache of bruises earned in yesterday's alleyway brawl. He had eaten nothing since.
But he had gained something more valuable.
Control.
It wasn't bending. Not yet. But the sensation of heat, of that strange breath that had stirred within him when he faced the firebender... it lingered. Like something ancient waiting to be remembered. He knew what it was now—the whisper of chi. Not bending in the traditional sense, but the pure thread beneath it.
In his old world, chi was a theory. Meditation, energy flow, martial arts philosophy. Here, it was real. Tangible. And if he could feel it, he could master it.
His stomach rumbled again. Survival first.
He climbed down the side of the warehouse, slipping through the shadows like a breath of smoke. A group of dockhands hauled crates at the loading yard nearby. He kept his head down and drifted past.
The town market had begun to stir. New faces had arrived with carts of dry herbs and foreign grains. Some spoke in the clipped dialect of the north; others bore sea-stained cloaks from the southern waters. It reminded Fang Yuan that even small towns had arteries that connected them to the rest of the world. And in those veins, word traveled.
"You again?" said a familiar voice.
Fang Yuan turned.
It was the same vendor woman from yesterday—the one who sold rice balls. She eyed him with suspicion, though her expression lacked the venom it held before.
"Still no coin, I take it."
"Still hungry," he answered with a ghost of a smile.
She sighed. "You're either stubborn or stupid. Or both."
"Persistent," he offered.
She hesitated, then reached into her basket and handed him a smaller rice ball, wrapped in half a leaf. "You get one. And don't come back until you have copper."
He took it without a word, nodding once in silent thanks. It tasted better than anything he remembered from his old life.
Elsewhere in Dalu, deep beneath a butcher shop where blood stained the floorboards, a meeting was taking place. The scarred man with the neck tattoos—leader of a small local gang called the Gray Feathers—stood beside a narrow table.
Opposite him sat a woman dressed in layered silks, her face hidden behind a porcelain mask shaped like a smiling fox. Two guards flanked her, silent as stone.
"You said he wasn't a bender," she said.
"He didn't use bending," the gang leader replied. "But he beat three boys. Fast. Precise. Like he knew what they were going to do before they did it."
"Trained?"
"Possibly. Not local. Doesn't talk much."
The masked woman reached into her sleeve and slid a parchment onto the table. On it was an ink drawing—not of Fang Yuan, but of a figure cloaked in black flames. Symbolic.
"There are whispers in the Spirit Realm," she said softly. "Of a disruption. Something new. Something old."
The gang leader frowned. "So? what does that have to do with the current matter?"
"I'm just saying ."
She stood. Her guards followed. "Watch him. Do not engage. Not yet."
And with that, she vanished into the alleys like smoke.
Fang Yuan sat in the shade of an abandoned stall, chewing the last of his rice ball slowly. Nearby, a group of children practiced their bending with uneven control—a small rock levitated, then dropped. A thin stream of water danced before falling flat. None of them paid him any mind.
He observed. That was always his greatest skill. In his old life, he had watched people the same way: quietly, thoroughly. He learned their rhythms, their flaws. The same patterns applied here.
Bending was powerful, yes. But it was tied to movement, breath, intent—all of it grounded in chi.
If I can feel it... I can learn to guide it.
But not now. Not here. Dalu was too loud. Too watched. He needed space.
As he stood to leave, something brushed against his senses.
Not sight.
Not sound.
A presence.
He turned subtly, scanning the crowd. A man at a stall selling fish. A young girl laughing. A group of soldiers moving through the square. Normal. All of it too normal.
But he felt it—eyes. Somewhere, someone was watching. Not with curiosity. With purpose.
Fang Yuan stepped into the side streets, weaving through laundry lines and cracked stone paths. He didn't run. Running drew attention.
When he reached a quiet well in the town's southern quarter, he stopped. Listened.
Nothing.
He leaned against the stone well and exhaled slowly.
A bird cried above. The wind stirred the flags.
Then:
"You hide your chi well."
The voice came from behind him. Old. Deep. He turned quickly—an old man stood a few paces away, wrapped in a dusty cloak, his beard streaked with silver.
"I don't know what you mean," Fang Yuan replied evenly.
"You will. In time."
The man smiled—not kindly, not cruelly. Just... knowingly.
And then he turned and walked away.
Fang Yuan didn't follow.
'I think I'm getting used to these mysterious spirits appearing in front of me every time'
****************
By evening, the town had settled into a lull. Lights flickered in windows. Doors closed. Dogs barked at distant things. Fang Yuan found himself on the outskirts of Dalu again, near the hills he had descended two days ago.
He sat by a shallow stream, washing dust from his face, his mind quiet.
The world was shifting.
He had not sought enemies. He had not proclaimed himself a threat.
But already, they were watching.
And somewhere, in the cracks between the spirit world and the mortal one, something was listening.
Fang Yuan did not fear it.
He would face it. In time.
But for now, he closed his eyes and breathed.
Chi flowed.
And the earth, beneath the skin of the world, seemed to breathe back.