The warehouse smelled of old sweat and new resolve. Dawn light slivered through patched skylights, painting the practice mats in bands of gold and dust.
The ferret banner hung crooked on the far wall, its stitches frayed where hands had gripped it too hard. Outside, Republic City woke in a thousand small noises; inside, the Fire Ferrets moved like a single organism learning its limbs.
"Drills first," Maya said, voice crisp. She clipped a stopwatch to her wrist and the sound was a metronome. "Ten minutes of footwork, ten minutes of ring awareness, then partner sparring. No theatrics. No hero moves. We build the base."
Roku stretched, the scar along his jaw flexing like a seam. He kept his movements economical—no wasted motion, no show. "And after that?" he asked.
Maya's eyes were steady. "After that, we train the thing that lost us the match: control."
Jing tied his hair back with a strip of cloth and felt the knot like a small anchor. The alley had left a taste in his mouth—metal and old fear—and the Serpents' words had lodged like a splinter. He could feel the city's eyes in the dark places, and that made his palms itch. Training was a way to quiet the itch. It was also a way to make the past into something that could be faced without becoming it.
They moved through the drills with the kind of focus that made time thin. Footwork became a language of tiny adjustments; ring awareness was a map of how the floor could betray you. Maya's earth drills taught Jing to feel the grain of stone under his soles; Roku's fire counters taught him to read heat as a rhythm rather than a weapon. When it was his turn to lead, Jing guided a water-flow drill—soft, circular motions that taught the others to yield and redirect rather than block. Roku watched him with a look that was almost approval.
"Good," Roku said when they finished. "You're learning to be a partner."
Maya nodded. "We'll run scrimmages at noon. Invite the neighborhood teams. Let the city see us work."
By midday the practice hall filled with the city's odd assortment of fighters: kids with more bravado than skill, old pros who still loved the ring, and a few scouts who watched with the clinical interest of people who traded in talent. The Ferrets rotated through matches—short, sharp, and focused on the new rules. They practiced tagging without overcommitting, baiting without panicking, and most importantly, recovering when a plan failed.
Jing found himself in a three-minute bout against a wiry waterbender named Lian who fought like a reed in wind—flexible, deceptive, and quick to snap. Lian's style forced Jing to keep his center, to breathe through the pressure. He felt the old reflexes twitch, but he kept them folded like a blade in a sheath. When the whistle blew, he had a small, private victory: he hadn't let the past pull his hands.
After the scrimmages, the Ferrets sat on the warehouse steps and ate noodles from a steaming pot. The city's noise was a distant hum; the team's laughter was a small, stubborn fire.
"You did well," Maya told Jing, handing him a bowl. "You held your line."
He swallowed and let the warmth of the broth settle. "I didn't want to be the thing that killed my family," he said quietly. "I don't want to be that."
Roku's fingers drummed the bowl's rim. "You won't be. Not with us."
Maya's phone buzzed—an alert from a sponsor, a message from a family manager, a reminder that wealth had its own demands. She glanced at the screen and the smile thinned. "My father wants a demonstration next week," she said. "A private match for some investors. He thinks pro-bending needs polish to attract capital. He doesn't understand grit."
"Then show him grit," Roku said. "Show him the kind that wins championships."
Maya's jaw tightened. "I will. But I also need to keep the sponsors happy. Money keeps the mats and the lights. It keeps us fed."
Jing watched them trade the small calculus of survival—skill, pride, and the ledger that balanced both. He felt the flask at his hip like a secret and wondered how long he could keep the past from bleeding into the ledger.
*
That night, the city's underbelly hummed with a different rhythm. The Storm Vipers had a reputation for spectacle and trash talk, and their leader, Kaze, loved to stir trouble. They'd heard about the Ferrets' rookie prodigy and decided to test the rumor in a place where the crowd paid in coin and the rules were looser.
The Vipers' challenge came in the form of a flyer—spray-painted on a sheet of corrugated metal and nailed to the Ferrets' practice hall door. Midnight. Dockside ring. No refs. Prove you're more than a show. The message was a dare and a promise.
Maya crumpled the flyer with a practiced hand. "They want a street match," she said. "We don't do no-ref fights."
Roku's eyes narrowed. "They want to humiliate us in front of the docks. We can't let that stand."
Jing felt the old hunger flare—an animal's bright, stupid urge to answer a challenge with teeth. He tamped it down. "We don't need to prove anything to them," he said. "We need to prove it to ourselves."
Maya looked at him, then at Roku. "We'll go," she said. "But on our terms. We set the rules. We keep it clean."
They arrived at the docks under a moon that made the water look like spilled ink. The crowd was a ring of faces, lit by lanterns and the occasional flare. The Vipers were there—Kaze's grin wide, his airbender's stance loose and mocking. Rin and Daichi flanked him, water and earth respectively, each with the kind of swagger that came from winning small battles often.
The match was raw. No announcer, no judges, just the crowd's roar and the scrape of boots on metal. The Vipers fought like performers—fast, flashy, and loud. Kaze flipped and taunted, Rin used ice to make the ring treacherous, and Daichi's earth strikes were meant to intimidate. The Ferrets answered with the discipline they'd built all day: Maya's stone anchors, Roku's measured heat, Jing's water that moved like a patient river.
At one point, Kaze vaulted high and tried to land a taunting blow on Jing's shoulder. Jing's reflexes caught the motion and he bent a thin ribbon of water that wrapped Kaze's ankle mid-air, tripping him into a graceless tumble. The crowd whooped. Kaze's face flushed with a mix of anger and respect.
But the Vipers had tricks. Rin's ice shards began to glitter in the air, and one found a seam in the Ferrets' formation. Daichi slammed a slab of earth that sent a shock through the makeshift ring, and Maya's ankle slipped. For a breath, the Vipers had the upper hand.
Then Roku did something the crowd didn't expect: he stepped into the center and did not flare. He moved like a man who had been taught to hide his heat and then learned to use it as a scalpel. He redirected Kaze's momentum with a palm that felt like a shove and a caress at once, turning the airbender's flip into a spin that left him dizzy. He used heat to thin the ice under Rin's feet, making it brittle and useless. He didn't burn anyone; he simply made their tools betray them.
When the dust settled, the Vipers were breathing hard and the Ferrets were standing. The crowd cheered for the spectacle, but there was a new note in the sound—respect. Kaze spat a curse and then laughed, the sound more like a promise than a threat. "Not bad," he said. "We'll meet again."
The docks emptied with the kind of slow, satisfied shuffle that follows a good fight. The Ferrets walked back to their hall with the city's night pressing close. Jing's hands were raw from the match, but his chest felt lighter. He had not given in to the old reflexes. He had used water as a partner, not a weapon.
*
Back at the warehouse, the team sat in a circle under the ferret banner. The night had been a test and they had passed, but the Serpents' shadow still lingered like a stain.
"We bought time," Maya said. "But they'll come again. The Serpents don't forget."
Roku's fingers toyed with his scarf. "They don't have to. We'll make sure they regret the memory."
Jing looked at them—Roku's jaw, Maya's steady hands, the banner that had seen better days—and felt the first real warmth in weeks. It wasn't the heat of a flame or the comfort of a hearth. It was the warmth of being chosen.
He reached into his pocket and felt the dented flask. He didn't uncork it. He slid it back in and let the promise of water sit there, quiet and waiting.
Outside, Republic City breathed on. The Serpents watched and remembered. The game had shifted from spectacle to survival, and the rules were being rewritten in the alleys and on the mats. The Fire Ferrets had won a small victory tonight, but the season ahead would demand more than grit and practice. It would demand secrets revealed, alliances tested, and a willingness to stand in the ring when the city's hunger turned from applause to blood.
Jing closed his eyes and let the city's noise wash over him. Anchor. Tide. He opened his eyes and met Roku's. "Tomorrow," he said.
"Tomorrow," Roku echoed.
And somewhere in the dark, Nira smiled like a blade being sharpened.