Chapter Text
Once upon a time, an Avatar named Korra broke the connection with Raava's past incarnations and started a new cycle of Avatars. Korra was the first to open a portal between the human and spirit worlds. Since then, much has happened and changed... But sooner or later, the balance is lost, and the world awaits the next Avatar. However, what if the Avatar... is never found?
The morning light that filtered through the clouds of dust over Ba Sing Se was dim and cheerless. It wasn't that the sun was shining less brightly, but rather that the city had learned to ignore it. It was consumed by its own rhythm, the rumble of cars on the new pavements, and the quiet, persistent hum of anxiety that had been in the air for the past few years.
Chris Dreamurr walked through the Lower Ring Market, carrying a bundle of fresh bread. He was sixteen years old, and he knew every stone of the road. The familiar faces of the salespeople nodded at him, and their eyes held the same familiar question.
"Chris, son!" called Mrs. Chen, who was arranging bundles of dried sealskin on the counter. "Have you heard from your brother? How is our Azriel doing with the nomads?"
"Not yet, Aunt Chen," Chris replied politely, trying to keep his voice steady. "But in his last letter, he wrote that he was learning to control the air currents in the highlands."
"Oh, what a talented young man!" — the saleswoman shook her head, and her gaze involuntarily slid over Chris's hands, over his usual, unmarked clothes. The look quickly, almost guiltily, recoiled. — well... Give my regards to Toriel. Let him come in, new tea has been brought from the Republican city.
"A talented guy." Chris had heard this phrase since the day his older brother, Azriel, accidentally stirred up a whirlwind of pillow feathers in the room when he was seven years old. In their family of monsters, where magic was as natural as breathing, Azriel was a source of pride. And Chris... Chris was Chris. Quiet. Observant. Human.
He wasn't abandoned. Never. Toriel, his foster mother, with her warm, furry hands and purring voice, would ask him every evening how his day had been. She would stroke his head when he stayed up late reading. But there was a special, distant sadness in her eyes when she looked at the portrait of Azriel above the fireplace. A sadness for something that was clear. For the magic that lived within her own son. Chris wasn't jealous. He understood. He was just different. Different in a world where "different" often meant "superfluous."
He turned down the alley leading to their house when his gaze caught movement against the wall. Not rats—shadows. A long, elongated shadow from a drainpipe suddenly twitched, separating from its owner and writhing across the stone in the opposite direction. Chris froze. It wasn't the first time he had seen this. In recent months, small anomalies have become part of the landscape: a pebble rolling up a slope, a puddle suddenly freezing in the middle of summer, a whisper from an empty well.
People said that the spirits were "playing around." Without the Avatar, who had served as a bridge and judge for centuries, they had become restless, easily offended, and unpredictable. A Wind spirit might take offense at a laundry line and cause a hurricane in the neighborhood. An Earth spirit might become angry at a new construction project and cause a crack in the foundation. They were bored. They were lonely. And they didn't know how else to remind the world that had forgotten to listen to them.
The shadow by the drain stopped for a moment, as if it could feel his eyes on it. Then it disappeared. Chris sighed and continued on his way.
At home, the air smelled of cinnamon and warm dough.
"Chris, is that you?" – Toriel's voice came from the kitchen. "Come and help me knead the dough, it's being stubborn today."
As Chris entered the kitchen, he saw a wooden spoon for mixing dough jump out of a bowl on its own and plop to the floor. Toriel was looking at it not with fear, but with tired annoyance.
"Again. It's been like this all day. Either a cup will move on its own, or a curtain will flap like a sail. The spirits are in a bad mood today."
"Maybe it's just the wind?" Chris suggested uncertainly, raising his spoon.
Toriel looked at him with infinite tenderness and sadness.
"Oh, honey. If it was just the wind..." She took his chin in her hand and gently lifted it. "How's your day? Did old Chen ask about Azriel again?"
"Yea"
"Don't pay any attention. She's kind, but her thoughts run along the same tracks as a train to Republican City. Will you tell me something interesting from your books over dinner?"
Her support was a warm cloak that still left him chilled. It was a shield against the world, but not against his own thoughts.
That evening, as Toriel dozed by the fireplace, Chris went up to his room. He pulled an old notebook out from under his bed. These weren't diary entries. These were notes. Observations. "The 3rd day of the Dragon month: the spirit in the fountain in Lotus-Eater Square did not spray above the knee today. Old Man Li threw a coin into the water and asked for good luck. The spirit spat the coin back in his face. Li left upset. The spirit then laughed for an hour like ripples on the water." "Day 10: The shadows at Ping's butcher shop repeat the movements of the customers, but with a delay of three seconds. They seem to be learning."
He studied them. I was trying to understand the logic. The books talked about great spirits — about the Mother-Swell, about the Old Man-Stone, about the Lord of the Sky. But there were others here in the city. Small, moody, lonely. How is he.
He had just closed the notebook when he heard the first scream. It was sharp, full of real, animal terror. Then another one. Chris ran to the window.
Outside, in the light of a streetlamp, a figure was thrashing about. It was the baker, Feng, a jovial, portly man. But now he was beating his hands against his own body, against his broad shadow, which refused to obey him. The shadow was living its own life: it wrapped around his legs, trying to trip him, and lashed his cheeks with dark, cold tendrils. Feng was screaming, and people were gathering around with torches and sticks, shouting at the spirit, threatening it, and begging it.
It wasn't a prank anymore. It was an attack.
Chris's heart started racing. He could see a pattern. The Mocking Spirit (he had already given it a name in his mind) didn't choose random people. It chose those who were particularly angry or depressed in recent days. Feng had just had a fight with a flour supplier and had been grumbling all day. The spirit fed on this negative energy and then... it had fun.
Chris grabbed his jacket and ran outside without hesitation. He didn't know what he would do. He didn't have any magic. But he did have observations. And a sudden, intense determination to put an end to it. At least for one baker.
He didn't know that on the same night, across the neighborhood, a girl named Susie had run away from her forge, breaking another anvil in a fit of rage. And on the deserted road to the city gates, a young nomad was walking with a staff on which bells tinkled softly, and his eyes were filled with anxiety. He was searching for something very important. Or very dangerous. Or both.
The great Ba Sing Se held his breath. And the balance continued to swing like a pendulum over an abyss.
***
Chris stood in the shadows of the alley, watching. His fingers nervously fiddled with the rough fabric of his jacket, but his mind worked with a cold, almost mechanical precision. He saw not just chaos, but a pattern, a dance with strict, albeit insane, rules.
The Mocking Spirit was like a huge, spreading shadow on the ground, capable of condensing into tentacles, faces, and hands. It did not touch the old man Lo, who was sitting quietly on the porch, humming an old song. However, it fiercely attacked a young merchant who had been loudly arguing with his wife an hour earlier. The Spirit wrapped itself around him, tickling him with icy touches, causing him to writhe in hysterics. The conclusion was that it fed on negativity, fresh and loud. He also avoided the burning braziers near the kebab shop. The flames? A possible weakness.
Chris acted almost automatically. He jumped out of hiding, ran up to a man shaking with fear, who was clutching, but not lighting, a pitch torch.
"Give it to me" his voice sounded unexpectedly firm.
The man, without thinking, shoved the torch at him. Chris struck it against a stone wall. Shhh, shhh! A tongue of flame lit up his concentrated face.
He stepped forward to meet the spirit, holding the torch out in front of him like a sword.
The shadow that had been playing with the merchant jerked as if it had been struck. It recoiled, cowering. For a moment, there was a hint of fear in its shapeless form. A whisper of hope passed through the crowd.
And then the spirit laughed. The sound was like the creaking of rusted hinges and breaking glass. It did not attack the flames. Instead, it retreated. Dark tentacles, thin as smoke, slipped out from under the merchant's shadow and wrapped around Chris's ankles. An icy burn pierced his skin through the fabric. Chris gasped in surprise and pain, and his legs buckled. He fell heavily to one knee, but he held up his hand with the crackling torch, away from the shadow. He wouldn't let it be extinguished!
"Hold him! Fire!" someone in the crowd shouted. Several men with sticks and burning brands rushed forward, distracting the spirit. The shadow hissed and retreated from Chris, amusing itself with the new game of dodging blows.
Chris limped to his feet. His legs burned with cold. He saw the spirit wriggle away into the dark gap between two dilapidated buildings, towards the most remote slums of the Lower Ring. Instinct, sharp and inexplicable, screamed at him not to let it go, not to let it escape.
He took a step forward. And in that moment, the space in front of him flared up.
A ball of fire, white-hot, roared past his face, scorching his eyelashes. The air snapped shut like a blow. The ball crashed into the wall just where the shadow had flashed, showering the stones with a burst of sparks. The spirit, already almost gone, materialized for a moment, taking on a clear, grotesque form on the wall—a comedy mask from an old theater, with a huge, mocking smile. The mask blinked and disappeared into the darkness.
"That 'prankster' is mine, small!"
The voice was low, hoarse with rage and tension. Chris turned.
At the other end of the alley, in a cloud of steam rising from her skin, stood a girl. She was tall, powerful, with purple skin and ruffled dark hair, matted with water. She was literally dripping. A simple work-jumper clung to her muscular shoulders, smoking. She was breathing heavily, and with each exhalation, a short cloud of steam escaped from her clenched fists. His eyes, yellow as brimstone, burned with pure, undiluted malice. She wasn't looking at Chris, but into the darkness where the spirit had disappeared.
"He beat me out of the well, you creeping bastard!" She hissed, more to herself than to anyone. "Let's see how you dodge now."..
She spread her arms wide, and a new ball of fire grew between her palms, hissing as it evaporated the last of the water. It wasn't a ball, but something angular and jagged, like a broken piece of brick. She threw it into the darkness without aiming, as if releasing her anger. Then she threw another one.
And she took off. Her powerful legs, encased in heavy boots, splashed through the puddles. She ran down the alley, into the mouth of the slums, like a torpedo on the trail of its prey.
Chris stood with his back against the wall, the torch in his hand flickering and crackling. The ice in his veins had been replaced by a strange, tingling heat. He saw more than just a fire mage. He saw a storm in the form of a girl. A rage that was blind, but also... directed. Fierce, but his own.
He watched her go, until her figure faded into the darkness, swallowed up by the flickering lights of her distant city. The sound of her voice still echoed in his ears. And something stirred in his chest, beneath his ribs. Not fear. Anticipation.
An adventure had just taken shape. And this shape was unstoppable.