"Now, introduce yourself," the teacher said dryly as my father (I'll fucking remember this) practically shoved me into the classroom.
"Akimaru, son of Jiro," I said, joining my hands in the traditional gesture—fist against palm.
"Pleased to meet you, Akimaru," the teacher nodded curtly. "You may take your seat in the third row."
That was literally the second desk from the front. I had planned to quietly slip to the back and stay there without causing trouble. Oh well.
"Now, children. Let us recite the Oath of the Fire Nation."
Every single child stood up as one and turned toward the opposite wall, where a huge portrait of Azulon hung.
"I will give my life for my people," the students began, bowing in the traditional manner.
"I will fight bare-handed for the Fire Lord." Damn, do I really have to memorize this crap? It doesn't even rhyme!
For another couple of minutes they chanted the oath while I just moved my lips, occasionally saying something when the lines repeated. You know that feeling when you know the chorus but not the verses? Same here.
After this far-from-cheerful ritual, the kids sat down and stared at the teacher. She nodded primly and began:
"Today we start with a philosophy test. Write this down. A Fire Nation warrior had his weapon stolen by enemies. As we know, enemies always lie. The captured enemy claimed that he was the one who stole the weapon. Is he guilty of the theft?"
Holy shit. What the hell is this? Where's the "four apples minus two equals how many apples left"? What is this?
I might have underestimated the school. Second year, and already these kinds of problems. Even I would have to scratch my head for five minutes before answering. And that's not bragging—remember, I'm a reincarnator, an adult mind with presumably some education.
Though maybe I'm overreacting a little. This kind of problem doesn't actually require much arithmetic or solving skill. It's pure logic with a dash of propaganda. So: we know the enemy always lies. If he really did steal the weapon, then he told the truth—which can't happen. Therefore he didn't steal it and lied.
"Next, write this down… You'll solve it later. First copy it. Three Fire Nation warriors came to the Fire Lord asking him to decide which of them is the strongest.
The first warrior said: "I am the strongest."
The second warrior said: "The first is not the strongest."
The third warrior said: "I am the strongest."
The first warrior said: "The third warrior is not the strongest."
The second warrior said: "I am the strongest."
The Fire Lord assumed that all statements of the strongest warrior are true, and all statements of the other two are false. Did the Fire Lord determine who is the strongest?"
Okay… the problems really are childish. At least it's a bit more fun than basic math examples.
"That's all. You have half an hour to solve these so I can make sure you haven't completely melted your brains over the summer," the charming woman said. "Then we'll have the lesson."
Writing down the answers took me no more than a couple of minutes. Most of the time was spent on the writing itself—I'm still only practicing calligraphy.
Then I just sat silently. I didn't want to hand it in or announce I was done. The kids around me were still children, not teenagers, so trouble could be avoided. No need to stir things up. After all, a year's age difference isn't that huge.
In some schools six- and seven-year-olds study together and it's fine. The problem here is that I'm the only six-year-old. And a very recent six at that. Everyone else is seven, some even eight. If you say that's not critical, I'll look at you in a few years. Thirteen and fifteen—that's already a big difference in my book.
But whatever.
The plan was going smoothly. I sat there watching the gloomy and desperate faces of the other kids, but apparently I got too carried away.
"Akimaru," a voice sounded right next to me while I was turned to look at another stupid face. "I see you have nothing to do? Perhaps your parents were too hasty putting you straight into second year." With those words the hag snatched the paper on which my answers and workings were written (almost) calligraphically. "Let's see if you managed to do anything at all?"
Fucking bitch. I take back my words—teaching is the last thing she's good at. If all teachers here are like this, no wonder every firebender in canon had issues. You'd graduate with so many complexes you'd be better off staying stupid.
"Hmm, all correct," the teacher stated, trying to hide her surprise. "Why didn't you hand it in as soon as you finished?"
"I was double-checking," I said with an open smile.
You old hag. May they always give you sour milk for your nastiness. May they put salt in your tea instead of sugar for the rest of your life. Whatever.
"No wonder your parents put you straight into second year. Perhaps even higher—your logic and calligraphy are excellent for your age… unlike some," the teacher actually bestowed what in her mind passed for praise.
And now I could literally feel several glares burning into my back. And I had a strong feeling one of them was my cousin, whom the old bat had so pointedly alluded to. He's a terrible student.
Well then, let's see how things go in this wonderful kingdom of incompetent—or maybe very competent?—pedagogy. After all, the Fire Nation and humanism are rather different concepts. This might be the school's deliberate approach: if you show off, prove you deserve it.
After a while the teacher walked between the rows collecting papers, sometimes ripping them out of hands—someone was still trying to add something.
Ji's sheet was covered in ink blots and clearly had almost no answers. Whatever was there was hardly correct. Same with a few others sitting at the back. They had a little clique going on.
Nothing serious, just kids, but they were already capable of ganging up on peers.
During the break after the math lesson that did happen (where I listened to what column multiplication is), those kids decided to approach me. They formed a small procession in front of my desk. Chan stepped forward as the obvious ringleader and started spouting nonsense:
"Hey, newbie," said a rather sturdy boy whose face was already starting to show some pretty features. "I'm Chan, son of Chan." Now it made sense—he was probably the local "authority." After all, above Admiral Chan there's only the royal family. "Why didn't you stand up to greet your brother when the lesson ended?"
"Why would I?" I asked, shifting my gaze to Ji, who was smirking slyly.
"Because I said so," Chan instantly flared up, even stomping his foot.
Clear. Mastering firebending—transition to active fire use in kata. Unstable behavior, mood swings. At least that's what the books say. Though something tells me it's more the fact of using bending itself. Plus a slight sense of impunity.
Or maybe just regular kid mood swings.
De jure, all aristocrats have equal rights—if I punch him in the eye, we'll be judged equally. De facto—he's the son of Admiral Chan, and I'm the second son of the brother of a mid-tier aristocratic clan head. And the main heir behind Chan, who apparently also decided to humiliate me a bit.
Simple conclusion: hitting is not an option. And who said I could win anyway? They've been trained; I haven't.
"Well, people say all kinds of things," I shrugged. "Do I have to obey everyone now?"
"You have to greet your future clan head properly," Chan kept pushing. "He is your future superior, after all."
"First, the key word is 'future'—right now our rights and duties are equal. Second, that's family business," I continued with the same light smile.
"Do what I said!" Chan slammed both hands on my desk.
"No."
"Better watch your back," the kid growled through clenched teeth.
And this is our future… Somehow I'm getting the feeling his father isn't much better and views this as "let him learn to manage people."
"You shouldn't have done that," whispered the chubby boy sitting next to me. "That's Chan, son of the Admiral Chan."
"So what, am I supposed to bow at his feet now?" I snorted. "Let him catch me first. Name's Aki, by the way."
"I already figured," the boy whispered, suppressing a chuckle. "I'm Yoshi. And that second one, Ji—is he your brother?"
"Cousin. Yeah, but it doesn't really matter. Family relations were never particularly warm."
"Uh-huh," Yoshi nodded sadly, apparently remembering his own family.
"Anyway, I think I'll go check out the yard," I stood up, easily ending the conversation.
"Are you crazy? That's exactly where Chan will be waiting," Yoshi's eyes widened, clearly speaking from experience.
"Let him wait," I smiled.
For some reason I had this strange confidence in myself. Logically it was stupid—older kids who train could easily beat me up, and no adult mind would help—but the moment I stepped outside, some feeling settled inside me and still hasn't left. All problems seemed trivial. Even if they beat me up—so what? For some reason Chan's pressure triggered some kind of incomprehensible detachment in me.
With those thoughts I walked into the local "teen garden." A garden in the crater of an extinct volcano, of course purely symbolic, but that's what they called the school's outdoor recreation area. And naturally, Chan, Ji, and a couple more guys were waiting. They immediately surrounded me.
"So, now you'll greet your future clan head and his friends properly?" the kid named Chan smiled nastily.
"Nope," I answered innocently, mentally taking their words and the fact that I was about to get beaten extremely lightly. From the outside it probably looked like I was "daydreaming."
"Fine, your fault," Chan lunged at me, trying to land a hit.
And missed. And again. And again. I easily dodged every blow, simply shifting slightly off the trajectory. I didn't even touch Chan or really move much. The attacks were so clearly telegraphed that dodging was trivial. In fact, I wasn't even trying—I was still somehow detached, watching everything as if from afar, even though it was me acting.
At some point it became downright boring. I was so utterly indifferent to everything that words can't describe it. Absolute lack of emotions and even a speck of interest in life. Out of a desire to end this boring activity faster, ideas started popping into my head about how to kill Chan so he'd leave me alone.
And that's when I realized something was wrong. Despite that realization, the indifference didn't lift, and it was genuinely terrifying—yet still completely indifferent. What the hell? I kept dodging the already tired Chan.
I urgently started trying to recall anything that would spark emotion. What kind of nonsense was this? Listing more and more of my life, I realized with horror—that I felt no horror—that nothing in this life particularly touched me.
So the world decided to "rebirth" me again or what?
A bit early—I still haven't found out what my previous life was! And right after that thought I felt a spark of interest and resentment. I was deeply offended that I'd forgotten, and incredibly curious about what exactly I'd forgotten.
From the emotions that surged, something like a corset around my chest suddenly loosened, and I could breathe deeply, savoring the sweet smell of oxygen. The world regained color; the grayness melted away in an instant; the chirping of some stray bird reached my ears, as did the excited noise of the crowd watching the kids.