Why here? Why the world of Avatar?
Honestly? I remember it... vaguely. Not just vaguely, more like flashes—broad strokes of a story that feels oddly familiar, like something I once knew.
From where exactly? A past life, I suppose.
These vibrant snippets that pop into my head are just enough to let me know that I'm in the Fire Nation.
There's also the Earth Kingdom and the Water Tribes, of course.
The Fire Nation feels like medieval China with a magical upgrade.
The Earth Kingdom's got its rocky stubbornness, and the Water Tribes? Straight-up tribal life.
While my people have already jumped on the industrialization train, everyone else seems happy skinning seals and smearing blubber just to keep warm.
Fishing, hunting, repeat. No thanks.
It's not exactly the standard of living I'm used to. I can't remember it clearly, but I know I'm not built for tribal mud huts and animal fat.
I might not even like the customs here. Actually, I might straight-up hate them.
Who knows? Not me.
Why couldn't I have ended up somewhere else?
I don't remember the names, but there's this gut feeling—other worlds, better suited for me, exist.
But hey, whining won't help. Time to figure things out, and more importantly—what the hell should I do?
The answer's the same as always: deal with problems as they come. Step one? Learn to speak and read.
Thankfully, we've got a library. After that, tackle the world's bigger issues. Maybe even lay low.
That's worked before, I think. I don't exactly remember it, but it feels right.
So, phase one: gather intel. That means listening and reading.
The language's a pain, but my young brain is like a sponge.
Every time a nanny talks, I pick up new words. It's... strange. Like I've done this before.
"Mr. Takeshi, I've told you—there's a time for everything. You'll learn to read at school," said the nanny, clearly annoyed by my latest plea.
Right. Takeshi. That's my name now. Call me Takeshi, if you want.
The name's a seasonal pun, combined with some fancy suffix.
Takeshi, son of Kaito.
No last name. Apparently, that's how the aristocracy rolls here—no middle names, no surnames, just a specific sound pattern in their names.
An odd local tradition, but it somehow helps people identify noble bloodlines. If you're extra special, they tack on your father's name for "authenticity."
Funnily enough, my name doesn't carry the "right" phonetics. Maybe my old man took one look at me and thought, "Nope, not one of us." Or maybe some ritual decided it.
Who knows?
So many questions. So few answers.
And the biggest question of all? Magic. I better have firebending. Anything less and I might just dive into a volcano.
Or crawl into a hole and wait for a global catastrophe to sort things out.
Wait—am I a time traveler or a reincarnator? Pretty sure I was born here, which rules out hijacking someone else's life. No dramatic possession scene.
Just me. So... reincarnation, then?
"School's still far off! But I want to read now!" I snapped back, dragging myself out of my thoughts and resuming my campaign to wear down the nanny.
The hunger for books was real.
By the time I turned five, I'd conquered spoken language and even managed to read—slowly, but steadily.
No, the nanny never gave in.
She probably tattled to my parents about my disturbing thirst for knowledge.
Loudly.
Because not long after, I found myself saddled with a private tutor who droned on and on about the local script.
To be fair, they didn't have many options. Scolding a child for wanting to read isn't exactly a good look.
Even if they weren't particularly fond of me, they had to do something.
So they threw a tutor at the problem.
Typical.
A knock pulled me out of my writing trance.
I was, as usual, seated at my desk, scribbling.
Sometimes calligraphy, sometimes notes—basically all I did lately.
The room wasn't huge, but it wasn't tiny either.
A bed with over-the-top decorations, a desk buried under assignments and personal musings, books everywhere.
There was even a proper bathroom with a metal shower and flushable toilet.
A dressing room too, though barely used.
The door creaked open without waiting for permission.
In stepped the woman people called my mother. I preferred "the woman who gave birth to me."
Empathy? Never heard of it.
The most she's ever done is sit in my room and ignore me while doing her own thing.
"Takeshi, remember, we're dining together this evening. Your presence is expected," she said, all regal and icy, her eyes flicking across my desk.
As usual, I was jotting down my observations.
Not about people—please, they're not worth the ink—but about tech and whatever I could remember about the Avatar world.
Take today's note:
"Avatar: bald guy with arrows. Gets angry, glows, powers spike. Doesn't seem to be able control it.
World's 'peacemaker'—maybe.
Main job: beat the Fire Lord. Woke up after a hundred years in an iceberg (I think?)."
That's it.
Not much to go on, but it's what I've got.
I'm piecing together fragments from a past life.
Some come back when I read certain things.
But the biggest mystery?
When does he wake up?
Everything in this world seems to revolve around that bald monk.
Damn, how I want to remember everything at once.
I definitely had a normal family, some friends.
Maybe even a wife or girlfriend. I loved someone, and maybe they loved me. Most likely, I had a job, maybe even some kind of hobby.
But I don't remember anything. Nothing at all. It's just incredibly infuriating.
And I really want to know at least something.
Anything is better than this.
The world is, of course, interesting, but only if you judge from the outside.
Somehow I don't want to confront either a mage who has experience for a bunch of lives, or a fire lord with his army.
Or get involved in a conflict? Something still tells me that as the fifth son of the third wife, well, that is, the second son of the headman's brother, and also some kind of weird one, they'll send me far away and for a long time.
To fight and defend the honor of the family.
And they won't grieve too much if I disappear.
Maybe I'm embellishing, of course, but their behavior does suggest some such thoughts.
There's only this gnawing emptiness where it all used to be.
And now? He's a political pawn in a backwater nation with fire-wielding psychos and aristocrats who wouldn't blink if I vanished.
"Of course I remember," Takeshi muttered, eyes still on my notes.
She left without another word.
Door closed.
Silence.
Maybe this cold, dysfunctional family has its perks.
Fewer attachments.
More freedom.
That's something, right?