The flow of time began to change for Ryojiro.
The days no longer felt like simple school routines; they turned into a constant cycle, almost a ritual, shaped by his older brother's words. Ever since that afternoon in the courtyard—soaked to the bone but somehow lighter, as if Ryota had pulled an invisible stone out of his chest—something had shifted inside him. A new spark, small but stubborn, had ignited, and Ryojiro clung to it as if it were the only torch capable of lighting his path in a world that constantly overwhelmed him.
In class, that change went unnoticed at first.
But as the weeks passed, the transformation became undeniable. While the other children whispered, got distracted by anything, or wrote only the bare minimum to avoid being scolded, Ryojiro sat straight-backed, eyes fixed on the teacher, his brush steady. His notes were clean, detailed, almost meticulous; his questions precise; his answers delivered with a calmness unusual for a child his age. The teachers—accustomed to seeing him insecure—began looking at him differently. Some raised their eyebrows in surprise; others gave him silent nods of approval. Master Zhi, in particular, seemed to follow every one of his interventions with analytical interest, as if trying to understand what had awakened such discipline within that boy.
In physical training, the story was the same. Ryojiro wasn't the fastest or the strongest, but he was—by far—the most persistent. If he fell, he got up immediately. If he tripped, he regained his balance without complaint. If exhaustion made his legs feel like paper, he took a deep breath and continued. His body protested, but his will did not waver. The instructors, who saw children crying, stumbling, and giving up every day during exercises that weren't even particularly harsh, began to silently respect that iron determination. The boy didn't stand out… but he never backed down.
And yet, his greatest shadow followed him everywhere: firebending.
No matter how many hours he spent practicing, no matter how many stances he repeated, no matter how strongly he imagined the pride and strength of his father or older brother, the only thing he managed to produce were weak embers. Sometimes smoke. Sometimes nothing.
That emptiness between his hands was what hurt the most. What haunted him the most. What fed Hatsuro's mockery.
"Look at him. He's not even useful to light a stove," the boy would sneer, his nasal laugh echoing through his little group.
"This is the general's son? What a shame…"
But the difference now was that Ryojiro no longer lowered his head. He no longer cried. And even though every word scraped his chest raw, he kept breathing… and tried again.
The dining hall had also become a reflection of his new life. Following Ryota's instructions—"eat twice as much as the others; you need strength, you need to grow"—Ryojiro filled his tray more than anyone his age. And he ate in silence. Alone. Without looking at anyone. Every bite was part of the same ritual that governed his days:
Study. Train. Eat. Sleep.
Repeat.
It was his mantra, his refuge, and his fuel. And even though the weight of loneliness grew heavier during those moments, he forced himself to continue.
Hatsuro, seeing that his taunts no longer provoked tears or trembling, began escalating his cruelty. First, it was small annoyances: trash "accidentally" falling near his tray; his shoes suddenly disappearing; a subtle shove in the hallway. Then came worse things. More than once, Ryojiro caught a strange smell on his tunic during class, and later found the edges burned. Tiny scorch marks, almost invisible to a distracted teacher—but painfully clear to him.
More than once, he was on the verge of telling Ryota. He knew that if he spoke, his brother would appear at the academy without hesitation and put Hatsuro in his place in a way no one would forget. But every time he dared to open his mouth, no words came out.
He didn't want to be a burden.
He didn't want to fail.
He didn't want to prove he was still weak.
The afternoons were his only escape from that silent storm. Training with Ryota in the private courtyard had become the most intense, demanding, and yet hopeful part of his day. There, between sharp strikes, endlessly corrected movements, and sweat that burned like fire on his skin, Ryojiro felt that maybe… just maybe… he could become someone worthy.
One of those afternoons, as the sun painted the walls in shades of orange, he took his stance, waiting for Ryota's signal. Ryota stood still for a few seconds. His silence tightened the air.
And then, out of nowhere, a burst of flame erupted at Ryojiro's feet.
The fire roared upward with sudden force.
But Ryojiro didn't think. His body—trained and sharpened over weeks—reacted instantly. He leaped back with clean, instinctive precision and landed firmly… without wobbling.
Ryota lowered his arm slowly, surprised.
"Impressive," he said quietly, watching him with a calculating gleam. "Your reflexes are extraordinary."
Ryojiro breathed quickly, confused.
"Really…?"
"Yes. And your focus. Your discipline." Ryota frowned slightly. "You know how to concentrate. You know how to react. That alone is real talent."
But his expression of admiration soon shifted into frustration.
"What I don't understand," he added, "is why your attacks always fall short. Your strikes are accurate, but they lack force. Or you stop right before making contact. It's like you're missing… ferocity."
Ryojiro clenched his fists, as if trying to squeeze out the answer he'd been missing his whole life. He didn't know what was wrong. He didn't know why. He only knew he was giving everything he had… and something inside still refused to ignite.
That confusion followed him through the following weeks, though something else also began to change: the faculty started to notice him. Two teachers approached him on different days to praise his effort, to tell him his consistency was admirable, his dedication an example to others. Words he had never imagined hearing. Words that warmed his chest so deeply that they almost made him forget his failures.
Everyone noticed him.
Except the firebending instructor.
That man seemed determined to remind him every day that Ryojiro was a failure in the one discipline that mattered for a son of the Fire Nation.
"If you can't produce a decent flame," he would say coldly, "at least try not to fall behind in technique."
Other times, he was harsher:
"Hatsuro does it better. Zuko does it better. Everyone does it better. What are you doing wrong, Ryojiro?"
The laughter always came from behind him.
And even though he longed to look at Zuko—to find some sort of sympathy or understanding—the boy never took his eyes off the front. Always rigid. Always distant. Always alone.
Ryojiro knew he was supposed to approach him—it was a direct order from his father—but every time he tried, an invisible barrier held him back. Zuko seemed to exist in a world apart.
A world Ryojiro had no permission to enter.
And still, he continued his cycle:
Study. Train. Eat. Sleep.
Repeat.
Until one day, in the cafeteria, everything shattered.
That midday, Ryojiro felt a little lighter. His reflexes were improving. Ryota seemed satisfied. He had even managed to keep a small ember alive a few seconds longer. It wasn't much, but for him it was enormous.
Maybe that was why he decided to try something he'd avoided for weeks: approaching Zuko.
He picked up his tray.
Took a deep breath.
Felt his heart pounding—not from fear, but from hope—and began walking.
Zuko sat as always: alone, focused, distant.
Ryojiro walked between the tables, trying to ignore the stares.
He was close.
Three more steps.
Two…
And then he felt a flash of heat at his ankle.
A small flame burst beneath him.
His body reacted—but this time, the backward jump wasn't precise. His heel hit a table leg, the tray tilted… and the food flew.
Rice fell onto his head.
Soup ran down his neck like a hot river.
The cafeteria fell silent… only to explode into laughter a second later.
Ryojiro froze. His breath broke. His hands trembled as he tried to wipe himself.
And then Hatsuro appeared, walking between the tables as if he were the director of that cruel performance.
"Look at him," he sang mockingly. "The teachers' little pet. He can't even walk straight."
The laughter reignited.
Ryojiro lowered his gaze, shame burning through his chest.
"After all," Hatsuro continued loudly, "what did you expect? The general's family is a joke."
The laughter grew strained—less confident. Among the students, only Hatsuro and Zuko had the lineage to openly mock a general without fear, even if it was just childish rivalry.
Several gazes shifted toward Zuko, who watched in silence.
Hatsuro leaned closer to Ryojiro's face, smelling the soup, savoring the moment.
"Maybe the general himself is an idiot," he whispered cruelly. "One who could only produce weak children."
Silence fell like a blow.
And Ryojiro lifted his head.
His eyes—usually timid, sad, or focused—now burned with something different.
Something dark.
Something cold.
A deep anger surfaced with a clarity so sharp that Hatsuro—despite being stronger, despite commanding flames Ryojiro had never managed to produce—took a step back without realizing it.
Because no six-year-old child should radiate that kind of danger.
But Ryojiro did.
As if, for the first time, something inside him… had awakened.