I began with water.
Among the four elements, it was the most deceptive. Flexible. Adaptive. Gentle on the surface—relentless beneath it. Waterbending wasn't about force or speed, but timing. Yielding at the exact moment pressure peaked, then redirecting everything back at the source.
Wan Shi Tong observed me for a while after granting access to the library.
Eventually, he led me to an empty chamber deep within the structure—vast, circular, and reinforced with ancient stone. No shelves. No scrolls. Just smooth walls and a shallow pool fed by a subterranean source.
"You may train here," he said flatly. "So long as none of my knowledge is damaged."
"That won't be a problem," I replied.
He left without another word.
I stepped into the pool.
Cold water wrapped around my ankles as I closed my eyes and extended my awareness. Unlike fire or air, water didn't respond to will alone—it demanded empathy. I let my breathing slow, matching the subtle rhythm of the liquid around me.
Then I moved.
The water followed.
At first, the basics. Circular motions. Pull and release. Redirection. The scrolls provided structure, but my understanding went far beyond imitation. I saw how chi flowed through water, how momentum could be borrowed rather than generated.
Within days, I no longer needed the scrolls.
Water whirled around me in smooth, continuous arcs—never breaking, never splashing unnecessarily. I practiced compression, separation, temperature control. I learned how little energy was truly required to manipulate massive volumes when movement was optimized.
Weeks passed.
Then months.
Time in the library was strange—isolated, quiet, and endlessly productive. Wan Shi Tong rarely interfered. When he did observe me, his expression grew increasingly unreadable.
By the end of the first month, I had surpassed most trained waterbenders.
By the second, I had mastered techniques considered expert-level—whips, blades, rapid freezing, instant redirection, and fine control precise enough to suspend droplets in perfect stillness.
I stood at the center of the chamber, water orbiting me in layered rings—some liquid, some ice, some vapor—each responding instantly to my thoughts.
I lowered my hands.
Everything settled.
Two months.
That was all it took.
Not because water was easy—but because my mind was built for systems. Patterns. Optimization. Indra Ōtsutsuki's talent wasn't about raw power; it was about understanding how power worked, then reshaping it.
Water had simply accepted the inevitable.
I exhaled slowly.
"One element left," I murmured.
Somewhere above, Wan Shi Tong watched in silence—already aware that letting me into his library might change far more than he had intended.