The wind rolled gently over the charred remains of the once-living forest, but to Lee, it no longer felt dead. It whispered. And he listened.
Three years had passed since his rebirth into this world. Three years since he first reached out and touched the trembling edge of spirit power. Now, at age nine, Lee Wunshin was no longer a boy learning tricks in the dark. He was a silent storm building beneath the surface of the world.
The fear aura he'd inherited from Hei Bai had matured. What began as a clumsy wave of dread had sharpened into something elegant, invisible — a scalpel rather than a hammer. It no longer sent animals screaming. Now, it guided their fear like a needle through flesh.
When he practiced alone, he would release pulses of fear, then anchor his senses to them, tracking the reactions of nearby creatures. He could feel their heartbeats stutter. Their legs freeze. Their eyes widen. The aura didn't just inspire fear now.
It let him taste it.
By day, he kept his mask polished. A respectful, slightly eccentric village boy who often vanished to "clear his head" in the woods. His parents didn't question it anymore. The village didn't either. They assumed he was touched by spirits. Which — in a way — was true.
By night, Lee experimented with spiritual energy extraction.
He had begun sketching seals into the ground using powdered bone, soot, and thread. Symbols arranged in odd spirals. Ancient techniques reverse-engineered from oral tales and real-world logic.
He named it threading — spiritual splicing. When he lured in a weak spirit, rather than fully consume it, he began pulling threads of its essence into himself — emotions, instincts, micro-abilities — like a craftsman weaving a new tapestry of power.
Some spirits brought fear. Some brought silence. One, a mist-like owl-wisp, brought night vision — a dull but useful effect that sharpened his sight in dim places.
It was delicate work. Too much pressure, and the spirit shattered. Too little, and it escaped.
But Lee was learning. Fast.
One morning, after sealing and absorbing a restless streamling spirit — a twisting blue line of fluid thought that drifted between stones — he sat at the river's edge, panting.
The spirit had given him intuition. Not in the magical sense, but a subconscious pattern recognition, like a faint second pulse of thought that tickled him when something felt off.
It was... useful.
He reached into the water and stared at his reflection. Still a child's face. Soft. Pretty even. No one would ever expect this face to house the storm building behind his smile.
His thoughts drifted.
The Avatar.
Aang.
If he remembered correctly, it had been nine years since he was born. That gave him six years until the Avatar returned, assuming the cycle hadn't changed.
He frowned.
Something was bothering him.
The world's energy had shifted subtly. Not loudly — no comet in the sky or sudden quake — but spiritually. The realm beyond was stirring. Some spirits were becoming erratic. Tensions felt higher. Imbalances sharper.
Maybe it was early ripples. Maybe the Avatar was waking.
"I need to accelerate," he murmured.
He needed more spirits. More control. More influence.
He needed a way to steal the essence of stronger beings — not just through slow threading, but something faster, something aggressive. He began outlining a theoretical method: compression seals combined with fear-induced compliance, followed by energetic compression into soul crystal form.
Crude, but possible.
Back in the village, he tried something new.
He placed his hand on a fruit cart during market day. Focused. A faint ripple passed through the air. The old merchant nearby paused, confused, then looked around, rubbing his arms.
Lee smiled gently and asked for a discount. He got it.
It was working.
His fear aura — even in non-lethal doses — could distort decision-making. A small edge. But multiplied?
It could become influence.
That night, he walked back into the forest — alone.
The deeper part. Where spirits didn't just drift. They waited.
He'd sensed one there for weeks. A stronger one. It hadn't revealed itself — not fully. But he felt its presence. Patient. Like something watching the stars, knowing eventually one would fall.
Lee stood beneath a twisted pine.
"I'm not afraid," he said to the shadows. "I'm prepared."
No reply.
He pressed his hand to the bark and whispered words of invitation.
The shadows stirred. Not a roar. Not a growl.
But a laugh.
Something intelligent.
Lee's eyes narrowed.
Finally.
A new test.
The spirits were evolving. And so was he.
He looked up at the forest canopy — at the crescent moon above the trees — and grinned.
"Let's dance, then."
Because Ashen Hellflame was no longer crawling.
He was beginning to run.