Avatar-The Mandate of Heaven

"I curse your entire line. I curse your offspring. I curse that your halls shall be drenched in the blood of your people and your kin. And the only legacy you will leave behind is that of a fool."

The incense stick burned its last length.

And with that final, quiet surrender of flame, one of the Earth Kingdom's greatest heroes breathed his last. Regrets still unresolved, spirit still burdened.

Within a humble wooden hut nestled in the Agrarian Zone, the echoes of a former general's lament could still be felt. A man who once stood proudly as a soldier, devout to the cause of his nation, now lived out his days in quiet reflection, the memories of his past glories and failures entwined in his aging mind.

He had outlived two Avatars. From a mere conscript to a revered general who commanded thousands, his rise had been swift, even as the kingdom around him crumbled. Though his homeland faltered, he remained unyielding. No inept ruler, no shifting politics could deter him from leading the proud people of the Earth Kingdom in battle against invaders from across the seas.

Battle after battle, the hated invaders suffered crushing defeats, their screams echoing as they perished in foreign lands, far from the warmth of their hearths. Gleefully, the people of this realm watched as their foes are defeated, thanks to this man who fought the Fire Nation without remorse.

Even the fall of Ba Sing Se could not quell his thirst for vengeance, and he sent more of his enemies to their graves. But the greatest of heroes are often undone by the smallest of machinations, played by a child whose broken promises would seal their fate.

The young incarnate, ever so wise and enlightened, sat at the helm of a world he could not understand. He shepherded the thieves and chastised the unfortunate. He smiled upon those who built upon stolen land, who desecrated the graves of the ancestors, yet raged against the squatters in his own precious temple.

Why must the world bend to the whims of children? Where were those so-called enlightened ones when the marauders arrived, slaughtering the innocent? While the sons and daughters of the Earth Kingdom bled under foreign blades, the self-proclaimed arbiters of balance stood by, unmoved, allowing it all to unfold.

The four temples were desecrated. The South Pole was ravaged. Land after land, once held by the Earth Kingdom, was stolen by invaders, just so a child could honor some misguided pact with a vain Firelord.

A world ruled by weakness is indeed no place for the weak. When one truly grasps the horrors of such a world, eternal silence becomes a welcome solace.

"He has passed," the nephew announced solemnly, addressing a towering man before him, a figure of formidable presence, long beard a flowing river of white.

Within the courtyard of the modest dwelling, villagers of the Agrarian Zone stood in reverent silence, mourning the loss of their neighbor, their war hero. But among them is a stark contrast thronging the space. There are also state ministers in their elaborate robes and generals from the Upper Ring, gathered to pay their final respects to the man who had defied the invaders.

From within the hut came the wailing cries of Agrarian's Zone's Xiang family, a humble household that lacks the splendor and wealth of the Upper Ring counterparts. But those sorrow signaled the long-bearded man that he was too late.

Along with many in the occupied courtyard, he removed his helmet, performing a deep bow toward the humble wooden house. Others followed his example, their silence carrying more weight than any spoken eulogy. At last, he turned to the young Xiang and spoke.

"Did the great general leave us any final words?" he asked, voice composed, betraying nothing of the unease beneath. "I sought his counsel on many matters. I had hoped he would impart more wisdom to the next generation of generals."

He waited, stroking his long beard with quiet patience. He understood the Xiang family's reluctance to speak openly with a man bearing the Liu name. History had taught them well. The Liu clan's ascent to the throne, the forging of the Earth Kingdom's first golden age, these were not achieved through benevolence alone.

There was once a battle that defined the fate of this great realm, a war of contention between the Liu and the Xiang. The greatest warrior of the era stood against a peasant scoundrel who, through wit and luck, clawed his way to power. Some say the Liu clan triumphed against impossible odds only because they possessed the greatest general of that era, an Avatar.

By extending mercy to the common folk, in stark contrast to the ruthless Xiang warlord, the Liu patriarch earned the Avatar's loyalty. With the incarnate's aid, the peasant scoundrel defeated the Xiang warlord and seized the throne, reunified the land and ruled as Earth King to the first golden age. When the task was done, the Avatar swiftly passed too, their duty to the people fulfilled.

The Xiang grandnephew hesitated, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of expectation. "It was nothing important, esteemed Grand Marshal Liu Zhiqian," he murmured at last. "But he did ask to be buried on Mount Wuyao, along with his ancestors." Then, with great reluctance, he withdrew a parchment. "And… he left this for you."

The aged general took the letter without a word. The paper was crude, its edges frayed. Yet, Liu Zhiqian knew even before unrolling it, what it was. The final testament of Ba Sing Se's last great hero of the Hundred Year War.

His eyes traced the inked words.

Whoever you wish to replace me with, they must enjoy the sight of dead sons lying in the arms of their fathers.

A shadow flickered across the Grand Marshal's face. He exhaled slowly, folding the parchment with care.

Just then, an unexpected guest arrived.

"A letter from Lady Uinyeo!" A messenger in red stumbled into the courtyard, breathless, clutching a sealed scroll. "Urgent dispatch, meant for—"

"You are late, young man," Grand Marshal Liu sighed, his voice heavy with knowing. "Just like me."

...

Despite the solemn atmosphere, the grand headquarters of Ba Sing Se's military remained an awe-inspiring sight. Towering over the city's Upper Ring, this venerable stronghold served as the seat of the Council of Five, an institution once responsible for directing the military affairs of the entire Earth Kingdom. It had been the beating heart of wartime strategy, orchestrating the nation's campaigns against the relentless Fire Nation invaders.

Long before their herculean struggle against those island barbarians, whom perhaps they should have eradicated when the Earth Kingdom stood at its zenith, the Council of Five had presided over nearly every great conflict that had scarred the continent. From bitter wars against the khaganates of the steppe to the planning of naval engagements against the corsair fleets of the Fifth Nation, it is daunting for the uninitiated to fathom how the fates of countless lives had once rested in the hands of only five people.

Though the days of commanding hundreds of thousands across multiple fronts had passed, and the Earth Kingdom now lay fractured, the institution's prestige had not been entirely diminished. For any low-ranking officer of Ba Sing Se, receiving an invitation to this illustrious hall remained an honor of the highest order. Generals tasked with humbler duties, such as guarding the walls or securing trade routes, rarely entertained dreams of ever holding a seat on the war council. At most, they might expect to command a few thousand soldiers. Yet today, several such generals, protectors of the city's outer bastions, had been summoned. They are granted the rare privilege of setting foot in the very halls that commands the might of a million soldiers.

"This place is massive," Qibi Heli remarked, unable to suppress his awe.

The masked general strode through the grand corridors, accompanied by his three most trusted officers. The halls were adorned with elaborate paintings, each depicting the Earth Kingdom's triumphs and tribulations, glorious victories immortalized in sweeping brushstrokes, their vanquished foes mere echoes on parchment.

Upon reaching the entrance that separated generals from their subordinate officers, the guards halted them, issuing a firm request. No weapons are to be carried beyond this point.

With a single hand, the masked general lifted the mighty glaive from his shoulder and handed it over. The poor guardsman nearly buckled under the weapon's sheer weight, barely managing to stabilize it as two more soldiers rushed to assist. The struggle etched discomfort onto their faces, though none dared to voice it.

His three officers bowed, stepping aside to allow their general to attend matters beyond their station. For mere border guards, being invited to the Upper Ring is a privilege in itself, courtesy to Grand Marshal Liu.

Beyond two more corridors, each flanked by heavily armored sentries sworn to protect the kingdom's highest military officials, the masked man arrived at a junction of unexpected significance.

It is the headquarter mess hall.

In a continent ravaged by war and scarcity, Ba Sing Se's armies is among the few who did not suffer from food shortages, eating better than their peers beyond the great walls. Some jested that the city's soldiers spent more time eating than training, forgetting that hungry men rarely win battles. And for those who commands these fattened fools, the fare is even finer. Officers of Ba Sing Se dined finer than minor lords from distant provinces, their proximity to wealth granting them access to cuisines no different to affluent households.

Surveying the hall, the masked general found himself uncertain of where to sit. Most of the invited officers holds lesser rank, men who would not warrant his attention. Passing by the catering tables, where roasted meats and steamed buns were laid out in abundance, his gaze fell upon a table where only two young generals sat.

Surrounded by their seniors, men twice their age, they seemed out of place, adrift in a sea of hardened veterans. The masked general considered them for a moment. In a hall filled with commanders of storied careers, youth is often a precarious burden.

And yet, youth will always have its place for any armies that wish to be the strongest.

With measured steps, he approached the table to join their company, though he harbored quiet reservations about their naivety in the matters of war. His presence alone cast a silent judgment that weighed heavily in the air.

Almost immediately, the two young generals rose from their seats, bowing respectfully to a man of equal standing within the Ba Sing Se army. Yet even among those who shared the same modest rank, commanders often assessed each other's worth not by rank alone, but by deeds on the battlefield. Officers stationed along the city's outermost defenses are naturally regarded as more seasoned and battle-hardened. But even within the border guards, a hierarchy of experience persisted. Those garrisons tasked with watching the Northern Water Tribe seldom saw combat, while others, stationed near the edges of the city, are regularly dispatched to quash roving bands of bandits. The difference in their experiences is marked, those who faced incursions from rival Earth Kingdom states like the troublesome Jian Xin and Xiao Zhong bore the grizzled, scarred visages of those who had truly seen a tiny glimpse of the real wars to come.

"General," one of the officers addressed him with courtesy, imitating the formal deference usually reserved for much higher-ranking commanders.

The Judge of Honghai remained silent, his gaze falling upon their modest plates, meager cuts of meat and bowls of thin broth. Perhaps they felt the weight of their station, or the lack of it compared to others. Humility compelled them to take less from the banquet. Regardless, their restrained portions hinted at a sense of inadequacy.

Sensing their unease, the slayer of the corsair warlord Anguta decided to break the tension in his own unorthodox manner. Without a word, he sat down. Using a deliberate flourish, the iron-clad figure withdrew a bucket of fried meat concealed beneath his cloak, placing it before them.

"Care for some?" he asked, offering a piece of the glistening fried meat, prepared in the style of Lychee Pork. Though the recipe is simple and adaptable to any meat, the gesture was unexpected, almost jarringly casual.

"You honor us with your generosity, esteemed one," the female general replied, her voice betraying polite reluctance as eyes darted to the mysterious contents of the bucket. "But we have already eaten."

A moment of silence passed, heavy with the weight of unsaid thoughts. The masked general, expression unreadable behind his steel facade, nodded slowly. "Understandable." With that, he proceeded to devour a piece of meat through the mouth slit of the mask, a peculiar sight that momentarily bewildered his companions. Awkwardly, they returned to their seats, watching as he feasted with surprising fervor. Seeking to dissolve the awkwardness, the general attempted to strike up a conversation, his tone measured and composed despite the strange scene. "I don't recall seeing either of you before. Given my years of service, I am acquainted with most who hold the position of sentinel general for the outer walls. Have you been recently promoted?"

The first officer, eager not to offend the masked warrior, introduced himself with a respectful tone. "I am Ma He, minor commander of the city's navy, serving under Admiral Ximen Gui." There was a momentary pause as he hesitated, aware of the controversial reputation of his superior. Admiral Ximen, known for surrounding himself with kinsmen and those indebted to his clan, had created an inner circle rife with nepotism. Although the Council of Five was expected to convene today, it was no surprise that the admiral had chosen to abstain from attending, leaving some subordinates to represent him.

The Judge of Honghai listened, gnawing through the meat and bone with grim efficiency, before turning his helmeted gaze to the second officer. "And you?"

The woman, introduced as Liu Sanniang, is the youngest officer in the hall. Her rise through the ranks had been swift, but not without complication. Before military career, she had studied in the United Republic. But like many women of noble birth, she is pressured into marriage, a burden only compounded by her status as a legitimate daughter of the only relevant Liu clan. However, being the youngest child, she had thus far managed to evade such obligations, though the societal pressure loomed ever closer, threatening to entangle her future.

"One need not dwell too much on inexperience," the masked general remarked, his words slightly muffled by the mouthful of fried meat. "If the legs of a table do not lament their inadequacy, neither should you two. Though it was I who slew the corsair warlord all those years ago, such a victory could never have manifested without those who labored in its design. If the sons and daughters of the Earth Kingdom stand united, no adversary is insurmountable."

His words, albeit unconventional, did bolster their confidence somewhat, though it was evident that these two still had a long road ahead in their careers. Whatever inspiration the masked general's speech may have instilled was soon tempered by his insistence on once again offering them a share of his fried meat, an offer once again declined with polite restraint.

Before they could resume their meal of roasted duck, no doubt inferior to the famed dishes of Jin's Benevolent Eatery, movement at the far end of the great mess hall stole their attention. The massive double doors, imposing and adorned with intricate carvings, began to part. A hush settled over the assembled generals as three armored figures entered, flanked by guards clad in the rich green and gold of Ba Sing Se's elite retinue.

Though their attire bore the standard design of Ba Sing Se generals, a style left largely unchanged since the Hundred Years War, their presence alone commanded immediate reverence. Chairs scraped against the stone floor as officers of lower rank abandoned their meals, rising swiftly to bow in solemn deference. Few among them had ever dreamed of stepping into the city's great war chamber, let alone standing in the presence of the council's highest military minds.

Between the wheelchair-bound Sun Bin and the ever-reckless Tian Ji, the figure at the center drew the most attention.

He is a man of towering stature, an anomaly among his peers, with an illustrious white beard cascading past the waist of his armor. Though age had touched him, it had failed to rob him of his vigor. This is the great steward of Ba Sing Se's military might, a man whose competence had done justice to the legacy of the peasant scoundrel who had once ushered the Earth Kingdom into its first golden age.

"Greetings, Grand Marshal!" the gathered generals chanted in unison, their voices a chorus of disciplined reverence. More than fifty officers stood before him, though many more could have been summoned. It was likely that those present had been chosen for particular qualities, traits deemed valuable for the challenges to come.

General Liu acknowledged their bows with a measured nod. "Your duties weigh heavy upon you, leaving little time for occasions such as this." His voice carried across the hall with the steady assurance of a man accustomed to command. "Yet I hope that your presence today will serve a greater purpose, that together, we might forge better strategies that will safeguard the continued existence of Ba Sing Se."

With little further ceremony, the three senior generals led the assembled officers through the corridors of the fortress, descending into a vast chamber beneath the Council of Five's war room.

The hall they entered is an ode to warfare, its stone walls adorned with masterful depictions of history's great battles. Intricate maps, stratagems, and contingency plans were etched into the very rock, a testament to generations of military foresight. Yet before any discussion could commence, General Liu beckoned them toward an opulent display, where something far more visceral than ink and parchment awaited.

Set upon a gilded rack, two golden chui, spherical war maces, stood in austere majesty. Forged from the melted blades and armor of fallen Fire Nation generals, the steel bore a faint greenish sheen, an eerie hue that hinted at something beyond mere craftsmanship. Ornamental tassels, woven from the topknots of slain enemies, adorned their hilts.

It is said that the original bearer of this legendary arsenal reveled in the chaos of battle, a relentless warrior intoxicated by the dance of steel and stone. If any Earthbender is capable of wielding such devastating instruments, whispers abound that their raw, unbridled might could surpass even the Avatars themselves, rending mountains asunder and reshaping the very bones of the earth.

But at last, the original wielder wasn't blessed with any bending. The mighty hero has no heirs, no one to inherit the legacy.

A hush fell over the hall as General Liu spoke. "Though we no longer struggle against the Fire Nation, we must never forget the sacrifices of those who came before us. Even when the world faltered, when lesser nations bowed, the Earth Kingdom stood unbroken. None can deny the courage of our ancestors." He gestured to the fearsome weapons, once in the hands of someone who swore to reclaim the nation's robbed lands and honor. "The Twin Azure Maces, instruments of General Xiang Ji. These very weapons laid waste to our foes, claiming the lives of countless invaders. Even we, generals of Ba Sing Se, have much to learn from his legacy."

Yet history was not so kind to the Earth Kingdom. Once a mighty empire, it had withered into a shadow of its former self, fractured by corruption, riddled with discord, and feeble despite the looming specter of annihilation. A succession of ineffectual monarchs and indifferent Avatars had left the realm vulnerable, and now, the nation lay in ruin. Its vast expanse, once a testament to unyielding strength, is now a bloodstained battleground where kin turned against kin, drenching the land in crimson as the kingdom devoured itself.

With solemn reverence, the assembled generals bowed their heads before the legendary weapons, paying tribute to the hero who once wielded them. As seasoned officers, they are no strangers to the lessons of history. Time and again, the mightiest commanders had not fallen on the battlefield but to the treacherous coils of court intrigue. A single inept sovereign could turn a campaign of conquest into a catastrophe that doomed an entire realm. While the Earth Kingdom's armies bled and perished against the relentless advance of the Fire Nation, scheming eunuchs and sycophantic ministers whispered poison into the ears of impressionable monarchs, lulling them into indulgence and apathy, blind to the kingdom's slow unraveling.

Such a fate, they silently vowed, would never come to pass in this city. Even as war engulfed the continent, even as the Earth Kingdom was torn asunder, Ba Sing Se had yet to unleash its full might. A million-strong army lay in wait, its talons sharpened and unused.

And so, the three council members initiated the true purpose of this gathering. Beyond the glamour of battle, true military might are forged in foresight. A competent army did not merely react, it anticipated, devising stratagems for even the most improbable of scenarios.

Yet to the masked general, such discussions of theory and preparation felt cumbersome. He is a man who found greater satisfaction in the weight of a glaive than in the weight of words. Strategy had its place, but sometimes he preferred to let steel do the talking.

...

The gathering of generals is indeed formidable, a confluence of varied expertise and specialties, each offering unique perspectives on how best to fortify Ba Sing Se's defenses. The grand hall, with its towering ceilings and austere stone pillars, is dominated by a sprawling map etched into the very floor, an intricate representation of the entire known world. Every major city, port, mountain range, and significant landmark had been meticulously crafted into wooden models, their precise locations plotted with near-obsessive accuracy.

The largest depictions are predictably the capital cities. The map, a masterful tapestry of pigments, delineates each nation in its traditional hue, a silent testament to their sovereignty. Yet, upon the vast mainland, every independent state is distinguished by a unique shade of green, a necessity in charting the ever-shifting mosaic of borders. Artists frequently return to amend these demarcations, their careful brushstrokes bearing witness to the ceaseless tides of conquest and diplomacy. Even more impressive are the exquisite dioramas, meticulously sculpted to honor settlements of significance, each capital city beyond the sea rendered with an artisan's devotion to verisimilitude.

For the Fire Nation, the miniature of Hari Bulkan is striking in its precision, the royal city nestled within the caldera of a dormant volcano, a mirror to its formidable real-world counterpart. The Air Nomad temples, at least the four principal sanctuaries, stand in delicate relief, their likenesses crafted from the accounts of the itinerant Master Xuan Zang, whose chronicles remain the most authoritative about those towering structures. A touch of humor is evident in the depiction of the Northern Water Tribe's capital, Agna Qel'a, which gleams with an exaggerated grandeur that diminishes the standing of its lesser cousin in the Sole Pole, Wolf's Cove. The meagre portrayal of the Southern Water Tribe is a subtle detail that betrays the designer's political inclinations.

And then, there is the Earth Kingdom, or what little remains of its once-unified dominion. The fragmented successor states are marked by a profusion of miniature capitals, most of them former provincial seats, now transformed into the thrones of governors. Each diorama bears its own distinct character, lending the entire map an uncanny resemblance to an elaborate board game, where the pieces shift with each turn of fate.

The miniature of a golden pavilion labeled with coin emblem banners, took inspiration from the city's royal palace itself. It stood in the center of the might walls, sheer immensity dwarfing the borders of neighboring successive states. It is these walls that General Liu now focused on as he began to expound upon the intricacies of the city's defenses.

"Jian Xin and Xiao Zhong may be smaller in size," General Liu remarked, his voice carrying the weight of tempered caution. "But they are no less valiant. We may mock their fractured states and revel in our privilege, but to underestimate their armies and ambition would reserve our own mausoleums of shame."

Though Ba Sing Se's army is the most numerous in the northern reaches of this war-torn continent, it remained largely untested in the grand scheme of things. In comparison to the likes of Omashu and other rising powers across the shattered Earth Kingdom, the city is never truly at war since the Earth Kingdom's fracture. As the Grand Marshal meticulously outlined potential vulnerabilities in their defenses, the assembled officers huddled around the great map's corner, listening intently as he implored them to view Ba Sing Se's great walls not only as shields against external enemies but also as barriers to contain the threats lurking within the city itself.

The discussion soon shifted as Generals Sun Bin and Tian Ji took over. They, more than anyone, understood the finer points of the city's outer defenses, having frequently inspected the sentry lines firsthand. Their insights, though technical, is invaluable, delving into the minutiae of fortifications, troop placements, and supply lines. Above all, they do not shy from discussing the grave scenario of the great wall being breached.

Meanwhile, Grand Marshal Liu's attention was drawn to a lone figure moving around the perimeter of the hall aimlessly. The masked general wandered the circumference of the massive map, his steps slow, occasionally pausing to study particular regions in silence. When he halted before a section painted entirely in grey, a shadow passed over his features, as though lost in thought.

"You seem preoccupied," the Grand Marshal observed as he approached, his voice laced with curiosity. "While the others debate the finer points of Ba Sing Se's defenses, your mind appears elsewhere."

Though the map depicted the entire world, the generals present is only concerned with threats close to home, which made the masked general's attention to distant lands all the more curious.

"Memories of youth," the Judge of Honghai replied. "And dreams for the future."

Intrigued, Grand Marshal Liu invited him for a stroll along the edges of the map, their boots clicking softly against the polished floor. Together, they inspected the vast artwork commissioned by the head of the military, a marvel of craftsmanship. The artists had spared no effort, depicting every significant feature of the world in astonishing detail. Mountains rose in jagged ridges, forests sprawled in rich green swathes, and even the tiniest, most inconsequential isles were not forgotten. Kyoshi Island, for instance, even received its own tiny green dot off the mainland's coast.

With an air of practiced inevitability, the elder statesman commences the discussion with trifling matters, his words meandering far from the subject of Ba Sing Se's defenses. Eloquence is not his forte, the speech is plain, spat from a soldier's tongue untampered by scholarly refinement.

"You are not a young man anymore," the Grand Marshal remarked with a benevolent candor. "Our martial prowess as Earthbenders may be at its peak, but even the strongest must think of the future. Lady Rong, I hear, is an intelligent and cultured woman, unmarried and at an age not unlike your own. The Rong family would surely welcome a hero of your renown into their fold."

There is more to this suggestion than mere matrimonial meddling. The state, as a matter of unspoken policy, favors generals with families and kin bound to the heart of the regime. Tethered close to its enforcers, it therefore discourages treachery or defection. The Judge of Honghai, unencumbered by familial obligations, is an anomaly. A general who is unbound and unmoored, is more than capable of vanishing into another state just as he had done so many times before.

"Lao Liu," the masked general addressed the Grand Marshal with an air of casual familiarity. "You know well that I have no interest in such matters. What is already dead cannot give life, and I have long made peace with the fact that my lineage will end with me."

For a man who had long forsaken the comforts of hearth and flesh, who no longer sought even the company of courtesans, only an ambition worthy of the heavens could surpass those worldly inclinations. Yet, the threat of Ba Sing Se generals defecting to a rival state is a matter of legitimate concern. Without kin tethered to the city, nothing bound him to its fate should the tides of war shift unfavorably.

Dismissing the trivialities of matchmaking, the two men turned their attention to matters of true consequence, the specter of war looming over Ba Sing Se. Although the city enjoys peace, save for minor skirmishes that often costs thousands of lives, it is unwise to bank on this environment during an era of constant warring.

"Who do you deem the strongest among the warring states under heaven?" Grand Marshal Liu inquired as they strode across the vast map, careful to avoid trampling the fragile dioramas beneath their boots. "Since the last Avatar was kind enough to gift the Earth Kingdom this grand game, surely there must be some potential victors?"

It was a tasteless jest, one that disregarded the unending ocean of corpses, lives sacrificed at the whims of distant rulers. Yet, the masked general, ever earnest in duty, did not let the cynicism sour his response.

"Many contenders come to mind," he admitted. "Some thrive on the brilliance of their commanders, others peddle false hope while grinding their people into dust. As always, the size of their domain remains the clearest measure of their strength."

Their path led them to a diorama unlike any other, a city that stretched toward the heavens with defiant grandeur. None other than Omashu, the seat of the lesser kings, a bastion of power that had rivaled Ba Sing Se for millennia. Though the two cities had always existed in a state of veiled contention, it is only now in this new age of fracture and ambition, that open war seemed possible.

"They were audacious, especially a decade ago," the Grand Marshal mused, his mind still razor-sharp despite the weight of his years. "Under the reign of their current Sage King, Omashu crushed a coalition of ten neighboring states, reducing them all to vassals. Perhaps in this area, Ba Sing Se can learn a trick or two."

The rivalry between Ba Sing Se and Omashu had long been reduced to caricature, one wielding inexhaustible numbers and food, the other an unparalleled scholarly tradition. But reality is more nuanced, a fusion of both narratives. There was a reason Omashu commanded dominion over the southern continent. Its lavish patronage lured wandering scholars, while its armies, despite a governance favoring intellectuals over soldiers, remained formidable under the leadership of exceptional generals.

Some attributed this synthesis of wisdom and warfare to the legacy of Queen Guo Xun, whose reign transformed Omashu into the preeminent haven of Earth Sages. These esteemed scholars, no longer mere keepers of knowledge, stood as monarchs' counselors, ministers, and strategists, dispensing sagacious counsel on all matters of power. It was through them that Omashu's rulers shaped policy, forged alliances, and when necessary, waged war with the precision of a well-versed tactician.

"That city's vast congregation of pompous old men is nothing to fear," declared the Judge of Honghai without hesitation, barely veiled the contempt. There was a flicker of something darker beneath his words. It was resentment, perhaps, or the bitterness of one who deemed Omashu's rulers to be the butchers of history's greatest warriors. "But should war ever bring us to their gates, I ask only one thing, never place me in the path of the man who could have taken Omashu's throne."

While the peasantry of the northern Earth Kingdom revered the general who had shattered the corsair horde that once threatened to plunder the Western Air Temple, the masked man himself found little glory in that battle. Despite his reputation as one of the era's greatest commanders, he harbored no illusions. There exist generals in the southern parts of the fractured realm whose feats surpassed his own, though their triumphs had been buried beneath the intrigues of silver-tongued courtiers. Or worst, some of them are already killed by blades stabbed from behind.

A decade past, a grand coalition of ten warring states had descended upon Omashu, each vying to sack its treasures and seize control of its position as a heart of trade. Their armies, numbering in the hundreds of thousands, assailed the city on four fronts. Against such overwhelming force, Omashu not only withstood the assault but annihilated the invading hosts, sending the shattered remnants of the coalition into desperate retreat.

The commander who had delivered Omashu from ruin saw the moment for what it was, an opportunity to drive his enemies to defeat. With his legions at his back, he sought to pursue the routed foes into their own lands, to exact justice for the peasants who had suffered in the wake of the invasion, and to forever break the power of those who had wished to see Omashu reduced to cinders. But at the crucial hour, the current Sage King, swayed by the counsel of his idealistic ministers, chose the path of benevolence, or folly.

Surrounded by a retinue of Earth Sages, the monarch heeded their wisdom, electing to spare the coalition's rulers and subjugate them not through force of arms, but through the power of ancient virtue and moral suasion. The general, on the cusp of final victory, was summoned to court before he could land the decisive blow. Through emissaries adorned in the vestments of scholarship, the Sage King proclaimed his decree, the once-hostile states were to be granted noble titles and transformed into a protective ring of vassals encircling Omashu. The countryside, left unguarded, bore the brunt of the coalition's desperation. Peasants were slaughtered, their homes reduced to smoldering ruins. Countless women and children were captured, their fates worst than death.

Yet within the grand palace halls, ministers and courtiers lauded the Sage King's magnanimity, declaring it yet another triumph of scholarly wisdom over military expediency. If reports were correct, it seems the Omashu general who saved the city have fallen out of favor with the sovereign and the sages. Understandably, it's difficult to watch the rulers feast in celebration while the peasantry is still in their captor's hands.

"Let the pedantic scholars and their gelded eunuchs wage war, and not even an army a million strong could save them from their own folly," muttered the Judge of Honghai. "An Earth Sage who truly cares for the poor, now that would be a sight to behold."

"Do not be so quick to dismiss them, young one," the Grand Marshal advised, though the masked general is only 'young' when measured against his weary counterparts, their hair long since streaked with white by the burdens of command. "We should be grateful that a power rivaling Ba Sing Se is kept at bay by rivers and mountains. I can only pray that the proud sons of the Earth Kingdom's greatest cities never march against one another."

Although the Grand Marshal had subtly conveyed his ambition by commissioning a massive map that encompassed the entirety of the Earth Kingdom's former dominion, now a land awash in the blood of millions, it did not mean that all potential adversaries were to be viewed with disdain. After all, within this very hall and among Ba Sing Se's highest ranks, stood commanders whose lineage traced beyond the city's impenetrable walls. Unlike the pampered scions of local noble houses, these talents had clawed their way to prominence, many of them refugees from fractured states or opportunists who had seized their fate. It is no surprise, that they also hold the majority of seats on the Council of Five.

"While Omashu commands many vassals, its domain is but a single city," the Grand Marshal observed, his gaze lingering over the diorama's towering spires. "Their subjects' loyalty is naturally dubious. And should war come, where will they find food if their farmlands remain so woefully unguarded?"

Though Ba Sing Se reigned supreme in the north, Omashu's scholarly renown allowed it to wield considerable influence over the war-torn south. Thanks to the foresight of Queen Guo Xun, Omashu had become a beacon for wandering scholars seeking patronage, drawn by the city's generous stipends and the monarchy's unwavering deference to the wisdom of its learned men. Even now, civil administrators often overrule their military counterparts, their decisions carrying greater weight despite holding equivalent titles.

"Do you want to hear something amusing?" The Judge of Honghai's voice carried an air of wry reflection, despite his status being far beneath that of Grand Marshal Liu. "Had I been born in Queen Guo Xun's time, perhaps I would not be standing here at all."

Instead of irritation, the supreme commander of Ba Sing Se's forces let out a quiet chuckle. Of course, Queen Guo Xun had been a ruler of remarkable vision, so much so that surpassing the likes of King Jia Lun had been a trivial feat.

"I wouldn't have that luxury," the Grand Marshal replied, a rare, wistful smile crossing his face. "The Liu clan planted its roots in this city, whether for better or worse."

They moved on, leaving behind Omashu's miniature, Ba Sing Se's longest-standing rival. Though the reign of the benevolent Queen Guo Xun had long since faded into history, one could only wonder how much of her legacy had been reshaped by the hands that now wielded power.

Yet for all the considerations of war and rivalry, those within this war council knew one thing. Despite the chaos gripping the continent, an all-out war between the Earth Kingdom's two greatest cities remained, for now, an unlikely prospect. The Sage King and his retinue of ministers are likely far more secure in preserving the status quo, unwilling to gamble their stability on reckless adventurism against a peer power.

But Ba Sing Se would not be so fortunate with another contender.

An unexpected challenger, once a mere upstart, had now carved a formidable dominion along the eastern fringes of the warring continent. From the twilight of the previous Avatar's reign to the present era of chaos, a once-obscure city perched upon a lonely hill had spent the past twenty years expanding with relentless aggression, annihilating rival states and brutalizing their people. Their armies seemed invincible, ever-growing, and insatiable in their hunger for conquest. No longer content with sacking and pillaging their neighbors, they had turned their gaze outward, subjugating the barbarian tribes that lurked beyond their borders. Their domain swelling with each ruthless campaign.

Though many within Ba Sing Se's war councils still viewed Omashu as their chief rival, none could afford to dismiss this burgeoning power as they had two decades prior.

The mighty state of Quanqiu, named after the hill upon which its capital was founded, had become the specter of terror in the east. Unlike the ancient hegemons of Ba Sing Se and Omashu, which had spent millennia cultivating their strength, Quanqiu had risen in mere decades, transforming from a single city into a relentless war machine that had wiped entire states off the map. Their conquests were swift and merciless. Just recently, they had brutally sacked yet another enemy capital, an achievement made all the more alarming by their newfound naval prowess, demonstrated in a decisive battle that left Ba Sing Se's upper echelons in quiet dread.

"Not even I foresaw such a meteoric rise," the Grand Marshal admitted with a weary sigh. "When Sun Bin first spoke to me of this young king of Quanqiu, I dismissed the notion of any true threat from the east. My own hubris blinded me." He folded his arms, gaze darkening as he surveyed the vast map. "Twenty years ago, Quanqiu teetered on the brink of annihilation, nearly consumed by a larger state. Ten years ago, they had consolidated most of the lands east of the Si Wong Desert, subjugating nearby Si Wong tribes. And just last week, they expanded their territory by more than a tenth, securing access to the very rivers that lead to Ba Sing Se's walls."

Had Quanqiu been nothing more than a band of opportunistic raiders, some transient nomad khanate or a self-proclaimed dynasty led by an overly ambitious warlord, it would have been of little concern. But this was no fleeting rebellion, no transient flame destined to burn out. This is something far more threatening. Not only had Quanqiu defied all expectations by rising from obscurity to become a force capable of challenging both Ba Sing Se and Omashu at the same time, but its ruler's ambitions were no secret. Many states had once scoffed at the idea of an Earth Kingdom reunified under a new imperial dynasty. Those same states now lay in ruin, their rulers slain, their cities razed, their people slaughtered by Quanqiu's merciless legions. Though the Si Wong Desert have somewhat served as a natural barrier, it had failed to contain the ambitions of Quanqiu's king. His armies had surged forth like a tidal wave, showing no mercy, not even to women and children.

And now, that tide was drawing ever closer, inching ever more towards Ba Sing Se.

But what truly caused all this farce lies at the heart of this grand upheaval. It is nonother Quanqiu's current ruler, a man many consider to be the antithesis of Omashu's elderly Sage King.

Youthful, ambitious, and utterly ruthless toward the subjects of his foes, the King of Quanqiu's holds nothing but disdain for the intricacies of scholarly governance. To him, military might be the sole measure of a state's strength. As both a reformer and a builder of a growing empire, he has systematically purged his domain of Earth Sages. Those he does not execute through live burials, were exiled. Any traces of the analects or histories of neighboring states were scorched into ashes.

Yet what truly sets him apart, and perhaps what makes his rise all the more audacious, is the lineage he so boldly claims. He asserts himself to be the direct descendant of Chin the Conqueror. An assertion that despite fierce skepticism from the elders of Chin Village, is not entirely implausible given his burgeoning empire.

Proclaiming to the world that he alone will pacify the fractured continent and restore order through conquest, he has also declared his own dynasty, staking legitimacy upon the specter of Chin. Naturally, the claim has been met with objections, especially from those who revile and venerate the memory of the tyrant. Many whisper that he is nothing more than a bastard child, a pretender seizing upon a convenient myth.

But no one doubts his abilities.

"If this young king is anything like his so-called ancestor, then Ba Sing Se must prepare," the Grand Marshal stated gravely. "Whenever such figures emerge from our lands, it seems only the Avatar can decide the outcome."

Any scholar of history would be unnerved by the uncanny parallels between Chin's meteoric rise and Quanqiu's rapid conquests and rapid expansion. In his time, Chin had swept across the entire Earth Kingdom like a storm, subjugating nearly all its states save for Ba Sing Se and a distant peninsula that just so happened to shelter the Avatar. Without an incarnate currently presiding over the world to oppose him, many wonder who now could truly challenge the ambitions of Quanqiu's ruler? Not even Ba Sing Se and Omashu, for all their might, could confidently claim to stand against this new warlord. Even the bold and venturesome United Republic, whose armies and garrisons sprawl across the fractured realm like carrion flies upon a decaying carcass, would not dare to provoke this ascendant power over the trivial matter of inherited power.

Yet while the Grand Marshal regarded Quanqiu with wary respect, the Judge of Honghai, his face concealed behind an unyielding mask of metal, looked upon the diorama of the Quanqiu capital with nothing but contempt. The miniature city, a dark pavilion flanked by two stone wolves at its gates, seemed almost sinister in its quiet menace.

"I heard he was a mere stable boy," the Judge of Honghai belittled. "From raising ostrich horses to ruling a kingdom. Impressive, perhaps. But to proclaim oneself as the legitimate heir of the tyrant without a shred of physical proof? That is asinine."

"Well, he isn't the only one risen from obscure background," said the grand Marshal.

Among the gathered generals, many are aware of this masked figure's many eccentricities. Unflattering rumors, often circulated by those aligned with Admiral Ximen Gui, spoke of his reliance on steppe barbarians, his alleged harem of concubines following the brothel ban, and other scandalous indulgences. Yet among his many peculiar fixations, none is more obvious than his obsession with Chin's long-lost sword, a relic also sought after by Ba Sing Se's royal palace museum, much to both side's apparent displeasure.

But right now, he has no time for unflattering rumors. The Judge of Honghai's towards this young Quanqiu disdain ran deeper than mere questions of legitimacy. The King of Quanqiu had openly declared his intent to be the sole ruler of the fractured Earth Kingdom, and unlike the bickering statesmen of Omashu or the cautious generals of Ba Sing Se, he had acted upon that ambition with terrifying efficiency. The Quanqiu armies had consumed nearly all the states east of the Si Wong Desert, swallowing them whole.

And in doing so, he had outstripped even Chin the Conqueror in sheer cruelty.

Brazenly proclaiming himself the savior of the Earth Kingdom while permitting his generals to wage war and pillage neighboring states at will, the King of Quanqiu's only true worth lay in the deadliness of his military. Many in Ba Sing Se and Omashu would gladly see the upstart king's body sealed within a lavish mausoleum, yet the numerous failed assassination attempts had done much to dampen such expectations.

"I have an extensive list of monarchs I'd like to turn into fine drinking cups," the masked figure muttered, though by now, such remarks had long lost their novelty. "Of the two, this young king of Quanqiu would be one. Perhaps I shall make one of my old apprentices watch."

"No need to say that part out loud," sighed the Grand Marshal, once again confronted with the fractured mental state of this low-ranked general. The fact that such a man was even allowed to lead an army of thousands spoke volumes about the peculiar circumstances surrounding his rise. If not for his decisive beheading of a notorious pirate warlord, the Judge of Honghai would never have made it this far in the military hierarchy. "Indulge such thoughts in private, please. Besides, two names hardly make for an extensive list."

Yet regardless of personal sentiments, conflict with Quanqiu is a grim prospect, far more destructive than any total war with Jian Xin or Xiao Zhong. However hypocritical or complacent the young Quanqiu king might be regarding the slaughter of the common folk, there is no shortage of capable soldiers or generals under his command.

But there was a reason the Grand Marshal had summoned the Judge of Honghai, a low-ranked general, despite his spectacular victory outside the Western Air Temple. He is a wanderer, a man who had traveled far and wide, gathering knowledge that most in the city could never obtain. While most monarchs and lords doubted the loyalty of a warrior who abandoned masters as frequently as he gained them, such men often proved more valuable than a hundred thousand troops.

And finally, after an onslaught of grotesque remarks upon the young Quanqiu king, the Judge of Honghai produced something of actual value.

"Behold," he said, gesturing toward an unmarked point upon the massive map sprawled before them. Nestled amidst the jagged mountains separating the Si Wong Desert from Quanqiu's expanding domain, the location was previously undocumented. "Here lies the bastion that shields the child-king's domain from the barbarian hordes that crawl forth from the sands."

Though the grand map is richly detailed, its accuracy relied on a constant influx of travelers, merchants, spies, and wayfarers who had set foot in both bustling capitals and forgotten hinterlands. In this instance, the masked general had provided something most lords and scholars had overlooked, a fortification of great significance. It is also why Quanqiu is also shielded from other inland armies, controlled by a single flow.

Han Gu Pass.

"I have seen it," the general continued. "It may not stand as high as Ba Sing Se's walls, but its thickness is twice of that."

Geography had blessed Quanqiu with natural defenses, sheltering it behind the impassable Si Wong Desert and formidable mountain ranges. Any land-based invasion would require overcoming these colossal obstacles, rendering traditional warfare nearly impossible.

And so, the question remained, what force could truly threaten the young conqueror's ambition?

The answer, perhaps, lay not in armies, nor in siege engines, but within the endless sands themselves. Anything that can distract the Quanqiu and dissuade them from even considering conflict with Ba Sing Se is more than enough.

The Grand Marshal turned toward the masked general once more. "And tell me, what else lurks in the wastes that even he fears?"

"I have never set foot in the Si Wong," said the Judge of Honghai, voice low and contemplative. "But I know this, it is a graveyard of empires, a tomb to lost civilizations and forgotten dynasties."

To even the most learned scholars of the Earth Kingdom, the Si Wong Desert remains a profound enigma, a land draped in secrecy and intrigue. Its forbidding, uncharted expanse has baffled cartographers for centuries, most maps depict it as an indistinct void, a barren swath with few details to speak of. With its sparse settlements and the inhospitable Sandbender nomads who roam its vastness, the only semblance of government authority is an inconsequential military outpost known as Fort Bosco.

Though no known ancient cities as prestigious as Ba Sing Se and Omashu stand to mark its history, there is a widely accepted belief that the Si Wong once cradled ancient civilizations, peoples whose ways were vastly different from those of the Earth Kingdom's forebears. During the nation's first golden age, there were even rumored interactions with a civilization famed for its marble structures and its soldiers, who fought in tight fish-scale formations. Alas, those interactions ended in conflict, a war sparked by a trifling dispute over the purchase of ostrich horses.

Whatever remnants of these ancient empires that may still linger in the Si Wong are now buried beneath the relentless sands or reduced to nameless ruins, their identities lost to time. Perhaps the only living heirs that truly honors this forgotten legacy are the people of Liqian, who claim to be the successors of an empire once thought to rival even the grandeur of the Ba Sing Se royal court.

"To be perfectly candid," admitted Grand Marshal Liu. "The Si Wong is the one place on the map where my confidence falters. The desert is like a great tomb, consuming whole armies with its winds and beasts. If a denizen of that desert begins to ramble, their words may either hold the weight of ancient wisdom or be the slurred murmurs of a drunkard who has indulged too deeply in cactus wine."

The very thought of colossal beasts swimming through the sand dunes is enough to unsettle even the most seasoned generals. Beyond the terrifying Sand Sharks that prowl the desert, rumors among beetle-headed merchants speak of even greater horrors. Enormous worms, dwelling far beneath the surface, feeding upon their own kin in a grotesque cycle of survival. Some obscure prophecies, etched upon ancient pottery shards, even depict the worms as the harbingers of doom for those lost empires, vast enough to devour entire cities in a single, ravenous gulp.

Yet, as the saying goes, it is likely nothing more than an exaggeration, stories used by Sandbenders to frighten their children to behave.

For all its perils, however, the Si Wong desert has a peculiar reputation as a sanctuary. During the reign of the previous Avatar, it became a haven for the remnants of Kuvira's legions, who fled into its hostile embrace, finding refuge amidst the shifting dunes. Despite the desert's own brutal inhabitants, warlords who fight bitterly over the scarcity of resources, the Si Wong still draws in those seeking to escape, whether from the law or from war itself. Even the United Republic, embroiled in its ongoing conflict with the Green Ribbon Rebellion, has been drawn into this desolate conflict, its forces now struggling to maintain a foothold in the wasteland.

While I do not believe the remnants of Kuvira's yoke have any genuine hope of resurrecting their lost empire, they should not be underestimated," the Judge of Honghai remarked, considerably less contemptuous now when speaking of Omashu and Quanqiu. His gaze turned toward the map, as if weighing the desert's silence. "If my deductions are accurate, the most prominent among these remnants is a leader known only as the Warden. She is more than capable of uniting the scattered enclaves of Kuvira's legions, and I dare assert that her cunning may surpass even that of the Great Uniter herself. Though their numbers are few, each soldier of theirs is worth more than three of ours. And should any of them survive the trials of the Si Wong desert, they could very well present a formidable obstacle."

Grand Marshal Liu's eyes lingered upon the solitary diorama depicting the Si Wong Desert, its depiction so stark and plain that even the craftsman had seemed to give it little care. The minuscule Fort Bosco, perched inconspicuously upon the desert's edge, lacked any grandeur, its humble form barely worthy of representation. Admittedly, they have no knowledge of who governs this desolate stretch of barren sand, for not even the formidable might of the United Republic's expeditionary force seems capable of subduing the fiercely resistant locals.

"I am grateful for your insight today," the Grand Marshal continued, his voice tinged with reluctant respect. "Though I had hoped for more... even something as simple as understanding the bastion's thickness is valuable enough to validate your presence here." They turned to leave, walking through the map.

They went on to discuss other contenders, dozens of petty states, each embroiled in constant squabbles over land, rivers, and mountains. It was a horrifying thought, the knowledge that when the cartographers came to update this map, tens of thousands would have perished. Yet amidst this ceaseless carnage, there would be no reprieve. In fact, many young boys still dreamed of becoming great generals, eager to carve their names into the annals of history with the false allure of honor and glory.

"I must confess," said the masked general, his voice carrying an unexpected touch of amusement. "There is a certain enjoyment in shattering the dreams of ambitious youths. Many of them aspire to greatness, intoxicated by the belief in honor and glory. But it is we, men like ourselves, who must teach them, forcefully dismantling their illusions. Who would have thought that a simple painter would come to revel in the destruction of such naive hopes?"

The Grand Marshal's brow furrowed at the general's words, a note of unease creeping into his voice. "If only they need not die needlessly," he cautioned. For such behavior, even amongst Admiral Ximen Gui's infamous cohorts, is a rare tendency. He paused for a moment, as if trying to collect his thoughts. "When the previous Avatar was around—"

"The realm was set aflame," the Judge of Honghai interjected suddenly, forgetting the vast difference of their respective ranks. They both halted, standing beside the gleaming diorama of Zaofu, a city sculpted into the shape of a metallic lotus. "Respectable Grand Marshal, I refuse to believe that someone of your perceptiveness would entertain the notion that a brute, one who cares more for pleasures than the fate of nations, could ever make a credible arbiter of peace. The same goes for the retinue, composed of a halfwit, a doormat and a glorified chauffeur, all toying with the lives of millions while styling themselves as anything other than a mere harem. If an Avatar, possessing the power of all four elements, could not defeat mortals who possess less, then how can anyone seriously expect them to confront those who fashion themselves after Tyrant Chin?"

The aged Grand Marshal dismissed the notion with a chuckle, his mirth sparked by the ridiculous analogy, likely a concoction of unreliable gossip spread by those intent on tarnishing the reputation of the previous Avatar. Yet, amidst his amusement over the absurdity of the former Avatar and her companions, a truth lingered. A warrior does not necessarily make for a competent statesman, nor does one accustomed to the rigors of battle possess the slightest understanding of governance. This truth became painfully apparent during the Battle of Heaven and Earth, a legendary duel in which both the Avatar and her challenger perished. The loss, however monumental in its symbolism, held little weight in the grand scheme of restoring this mess of a realm. The only incarnate capable of correcting the vast missteps of the Earth Kingdom warring states would need to surpass the cunning and diplomatic Avatar Szeto, an iconic figure whose legacy is still revered by scholars to this day.

"Unlike many who cling to the outdated traditions, I see hope in those willing to fill the Avatar's shoes," remarked the Judge of Honghai, his words almost treasonous in their audacity, a challenge to the most sacred figure in the world. "Had our people not grown complacent, depending on a deity who continually fails us three times in a row, perhaps we wouldn't find ourselves in this pitiful state. When our leaders redrew the maps under the Avatar's blessing, dooming us to slaughter one another, where was the incarnate? Like a child playing hero, she stood by, watching as our nation crumbled, oblivious to the weight of responsibility or the consequences of a homeland that isn't their own." He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle, before voicing the grievance likely felt by all who dared to question the world's unyielding veneration of this living deity. "If the Avatar were nothing more than a Fire Nation noble, a common Air Nomad child, or merely the daughter of an exiled Northern Water Tribe prince, would anyone so much as spare a glance? Would such figures garner any attention if they wielded only one element, rather than all four? Why must the Earth Kingdom allow these distant and foreign figures to shape the fate of our lands? For all I care, they fall short of the wisdom carried by Szeto, the benevolence imparted by Yang Chen, and they certainly fail to embody the flawed yet formidable strength of Kyoshi herself."

The Grand Marshal raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. "You wandered from one master to the next. Why? Surely, you don't wish to serve the wicked."

"But neither will I serve the weak-willed," the masked figure added sharply. "Like late General Xiang Ji, I will not shackle myself to the whims of lesser men. And do not expect me to embody the so-called loyalty that the Earth Sages so freely preach."

The last statement struck a nerve, one that the Grand Marshal could not easily dismiss. Fortunately, the two were far enough from the others, engrossed in their own affairs that no one would overhear the passing of a hero, the last Earth Kingdom veteran in the city who had fought in the Hundred Year War. Despite his legendary reputation, the fate of Xiang Ji was hardly a dignified end.

While paranoid kings might have ordered the arrest and execution of the Judge of Honghai for his flagrant disloyalty, such matters held little concern for the Grand Marshal. As the descendant of the peasant scoundrel who had founded the Earth Kingdom's first golden age, the senior commander understood that it was benevolence, not fear, that had won his family the throne. Though the Liu clan had long since fallen from power, the current rulers would not forget the reason their ancestor had triumphed over the greatest warrior of that era.

"As the head of Ba Sing Se's military," the Grand Marshal said, his tone firm. "I always welcome those with talent to serve the city, regardless of their origins." He emphasized the point, confidence unshaken. "You may have fled from one master to another, each one unable to fulfill your ambitions. We may look down on the Avatars for their many flaws, but in the end, we are but mortals, limited in what we can achieve."

The Judge of Honghai said nothing, perhaps recognizing the futility of arguing against what he saw as blind veneration of a flawed deity. Coincidentally, amidst the grand walls adorned with murals of the most significant battles, one piece stood at the center, a depiction of the duel that had marked the end of an era.

Gazing through the metal mask, the Judge was reminded of that fateful day, when the forces of nature themselves had seemed to tremble at the violent clash of two indomitable wills. Neither had yielded, and both were extinguished in the fire of their own ambition.

A soft sigh escaped the Grand Marshal's lips, as he believed the discussion concerning the strongest states capable of challenging Ba Sing Se had come to a close. It was then that he was struck by the masked figure's unusual behavior, how the obsessive weapon collector had not sought to claim the Twin Azure Maces, despite having correctly deduced that General Xiang Ji had passed.

With a respectful bow, the Judge of Honghai excused himself. While the Grand Marshal might show more leniency toward the Avatar's role as the keeper of peace, the grizzled old commander understood well that those subordinates who lacked the penchant for sycophantic flattery often proved to be the far more capable generals than privileged scions. Although this collection of generals may not always be derived from within the city walls, they may be ones who could truly uphold the will of Ba Sing Se.

The sound of a faint crack echoed, causing the Grand Marshal to turn back, just as he was about to rejoin the main gathering. The ironclad figure, in his clumsiness, stepped on a miniature city, much to the dismay of a nearby craftsman who had been working on a renovation.

"This is the fifth time this week!" the poor man groaned, his face contorted in frustration while surveying the damage to the painstakingly crafted diorama.

"These wooden models may not be expensive," the Grand Marshal reminded him. "But they are not easily made."

The Judge of Honghai bowed again, stepping away to allow the craftsman to repair the broken diorama. But before he fully exited, the masked figure uttered one last remark.

"In discussing the cardinal hegemons of this fractured realm, Lao Liu, it seems you've overlooked one."

The Grand Marshal, unamused by the cryptic nature of the statement, ordered the craftsman to make a new miniature city to replace the one that had been crushed. His eyes then caught something odd, the pavilion design of the city, a curious mix of green and red that deliberately deviates from traditional Earth Kingdom architecture.

"Ah yes," the grizzled Grand Marshal murmured, a wistful note in his voice. "This was where it all began."

Yu Dao, a city in the western reaches of the continent, its landscape still stained a dull grey from the consequence of the Hundred Year War. It was no accident that officers had 'accidentally' trampled this particular miniature, an insatiable yearning to pay a little visit to this settlement of rascals.

End of Chapter Notes:

-The Twin Azure Mace is a reference to an artifact relevant to an episode of the series Justice Bao 1993.