Why here, of all places? Why the world of Avatar?
To be honest, I barely remember it. Barely is an understatement—I only recall the broad outlines of a story I somehow know. Though "somehow" is obvious: from my previous life, of course. Those colorful fragments that popped into my head were enough to understand that I live in the Fire Nation. There's also the Earth Kingdom and the Water Tribes.
The first are stuck in something like China's Middle Ages with a slight magic upgrade, while the second never even crawled out of a tribal system. And that's in a nation where industrialization is already in full swing. Sure, they still haven't ditched monarchy or autocracy for some reason, but still! It's better than living in some water tribe, smearing animal fat on everything to keep warm, and entertaining yourself with hunting or fishing. Or hunting. Or fishing. You get the idea.
But it's still not the standard of living I was used to! I can't really recall it, but there's a clear feeling that a lot of things here might disgust me. Or maybe not. Who knows what the rules and culture are really like.
Why couldn't I have ended up in…
Never mind, I can't remember the names right now either, but I'm absolutely certain there are far more pleasant places to exist.
Well, anyway, it's time to figure out what to do and, most importantly, how to survive. The answer, as always, is simple—solve problems as they come. And first, I need to learn to read and speak, especially since my family has a library. After that, I'll deal with the bigger questions. Maybe I'll just lie low. Somehow I'll slip through the cracks. That's what I always did, even if I don't remember it.
So first, learn more about the world around me, which means listening and reading. The local language was complicated, but I was understanding it better and better, memorizing it. A child's brain absorbs information insanely fast, and all the nannies had to do was talk for me to quickly pick up words. Strange feeling.
"Young master Akimaru, I've told you a hundred times—everything in its own time. You'll go to school, and they'll teach you to read there," the nanny said to yet another request of mine to teach me literacy.
Yes, my name is Akimaru. Aki for short. Without thinking too hard, they named me after the season I was born in and took some derivative. So now I'm Akimaru. Akimaru, son of Jiro. Yep, no family name. They have a weird attitude about that here—namely, the highest aristocracy has neither second names nor surnames. They have a certain phonetic pattern in the name; it's not always a direct sequence, but that's still how people from specific aristocratic families are recognized. For extra certainty, they mention the father's name so everyone understands that this particular sour face combined with the name isn't a coincidence. It's hard to explain, but the locals accept and understand the concept.
Notably, my name lacks the required phonetics. That's even a little funny—did my father decide in childhood that I was defective, or after that local ritual decide I wouldn't get the "family" name?
So many questions and so few answers so far.
The main thing is that the ritual wasn't about my bending. Yes, as a person isekai'd into Avatar, I'm hoping at least for firebending. But something gives me a subtle feeling that those damned candles they kept placing around me weren't just for show.
Though am I really an isekai protagonist? I was born here, after all. And an isekai usually means you crash-land into an adult body, successfully evicting the previous owner. That didn't happen here, so I guess I'm a reincarnator.
And if I really don't have bending in this world… might as well jump straight into a volcano. Or hide somewhere and wait for the global mess to pass.
"School is still a long way off! And I want to read now," I snapped out of my thoughts and kept trying to persuade the nanny. I really wanted to read books.
*
By age five, I had finally mastered spoken language completely and even learned to read slowly. No, the nanny never gave in, but apparently she complained about my persistence to my parents. And complained hard. Because they seemingly had no choice but to invite some tutor who spent ages painstakingly explaining the local writing system to me.
They really didn't have much choice. Scolding me for thirst for knowledge wasn't an option. Despite their more-than-cold attitude toward me, they were at least trying to take care of me somehow. The nannies proved that.
My musings were interrupted by a knock at my door. As usual, I was sitting at the desk writing—either practicing calligraphy or taking notes. Basically all I'd been doing for a long time.
My room wasn't huge, but not small either. Ornate bed, desk buried under homework from my tutor, my own notes (which I kept in the language from my previous world), and books. There was also a door to the bathroom—yes, a decent toilet and even a shower (metal, not ceramic)—and a door to a half-empty wardrobe.
Without waiting for an answer, a young woman entered the room. For some reason they call her my mother. I call her "the woman who gave birth to me." At least in my head. In my entire conscious life, aside from maybe the first few months, I hadn't seen even minimal empathy from her. Sometimes she spent time with me, but it felt more like "sat in my room and did her own thing."
"Akimaru, you remember we're all having dinner together tonight and you have to be there?" she said primly and importantly, casting barely noticeable glances at what I was doing.
And as always, I was writing various conclusions about my surroundings. Not about people—too much honor to waste paper on that arrogant chunk of humanity—but about technology and whatever I could recall from Avatar.
For example, right now I was finishing notes about the Avatar himself:
"The Avatar—bald guy with arrows. Can enter a rage state where his eyes and tattoos glow and his power multiplies many times over. Doesn't seem to control it.
Supposedly the main peacemaker of all nations and tribes, but who knows.
Main goal—world peace (ironic), finale—overthrow the Fire Lord.
Appeared after a hundred years frozen in an iceberg (When?)."
Something like that. And a decent chunk of this note was helped along by books; the more I read about the Avatar, the more I remembered from my previous life.
The key question at the end: when will the Avatar awaken from his sleep? After all, everything happening in this world revolves around that monk in my head.
Yeah, dilemma. If I remembered more, maybe I could match the dates somehow, but what's not there isn't there.
Damn, how I wish I could just remember everything at once. I definitely had a normal family, some friends. Maybe even a wife or girlfriend. I loved someone, and maybe someone loved me. Probably had a job, maybe even a hobby. And I remember nothing. Absolutely nothing. It pisses me off incredibly. I want to know at least something. Anything is better than this. The world is interesting, sure, but only from the outside. I really don't want to go up against a bender with lifetimes of experience or the Fire Lord and his army. And avoiding conflict? Something tells me that as the fifth son of the third wife—i.e., the second son of the clan head's brother—and some kind of "wrong," they'll send me far away to fight and defend the family honor. And they won't grieve much if I perish.
Maybe I'm exaggerating, but their behavior suggests exactly that. They really don't give a damn about me.
"Of course I remember," I nodded without looking up from my work. At that, my mother simply left the room, closing the door behind her. Hmm, maybe there are advantages to this kind of "family" for someone like me. Maybe they even outweigh the downsides.
Tonight we have some important family dinner. Agni knows what they want to announce (found it in books—local equivalent of "God"). But this buzzing isn't for nothing. Though probably nothing terrible. If I play the idiot who can't think at all, I'd assume they've picked a wife for me. But if I use my brain a little, it's clear they wouldn't tell a five-year-old something like that. Even if they did pick someone, they'd probably discuss it among themselves first and only later introduce me to the fiancée.
Most likely the importance of the gathering concerns everyone except me. Maybe they'll announce school. Which isn't exactly a big secret—I'm almost six. Local kids start school at that age. And I'm no exception, except my school will be more elite. Or, if I'm lucky, the most elite.
Anyway, I figured out their attempts at steampunk. Well, "figured out" is a strong word—I started observing, examining, remembering. Turns out the system works precisely because of ma-a-agic. More precisely, firebenders (not everyone, but a very decent percentage of Fire Nation citizens) use their flames to ignite a special boiler in the basement, maintaining strong, hot fire for a while. Ten to fifteen minutes was enough, then regular fire could keep it going. That quickly vaporized huge amounts of water. Steam traveled through pipes wherever needed and powered various mechanisms—from toilet flushes to the kitchen.
And they don't care about efficiency at all. Like, why bother that losses outweigh benefits? Just blast more fire. Where that fire even comes from is unclear. Firebenders don't eat or drink more, their metabolism is completely ordinary. Yet they produce energy from somewhere. If the laws of physics aren't different here, then according to the first law of thermodynamics, energy only changes form—it doesn't appear from nowhere or disappear.