The lower streets of Ba Sing Sei are quiet at this hour, save for the distant hiss of lanterns dimming and the occasional clatter of refuse stirred by wind. A mother walks alone through the merchant quarter, her twin sons trailing behind her like small shadows. She clutches their hands tightly, the sleeves of her too-thin robe pulled down over her wrists to guard against the cold. She had saved enough for a single loaf. One loaf. Until the man in golden silk brushed past her. Her coin purse vanished. So did her chance to feed her children. She begged the bakery. Pleaded. But the man behind the counter only shook his head. Now, she walks home with empty hands and twin sons who are too quiet, too tired to cry. Then... a sound. A voice. Muffled, deep. Then a scream. A crack. The distinct sound of bone striking stone.

She freezes, pulling her boys behind her into a recessed doorway. Her heart races. One of the boys whimpers. The other clutches a doll, a crude figure of a man with a painted blue face and a white smile. Six red strings arc from its back like the arms of a spider. In the darkness, more footsteps echo off the buildings. Heavy. Uneven. Then silence. The fog begins to roll in, a light chill, the scent of river water is carried by the mist. And from the fog... a shape. It glides like mist, cloak dragging against stone, no footsteps audible despite its approach. She sees blue and white, the faint gleam of a smiling mask, and for a terrifying moment, she thinks she's next. She clutches her boys behind her, shielding them with her body and tensing her eyes... but no words, no strike, nothing comes. Instead, as she turns to look at the spirit that had appeared it steps back and drops to a knee. Kneeling before a beggar woman as if she was a queen.

The Blue Spirit reaches into his cloak and produces a small bindle. The scent of warm bread, melted butter, honey and sugar lifts from the cloth. The Blue Spirit unties the bindle revealing its contents. She stares in awe at what he pulls from the cloth, two pastries wrapped in paper, drizzled in honey and dusted with sugar, a still warm golden loaf of bread, cheese, dried meat, fresh fruit and a small piece of paper. Timidly she takes the offering, watching as The Blue Spirit keeps its head bowed to her. He only lifts his head when he hears the young boys open the paper and gasp at what it concealed. The spirit returns to his full height, meeting the woman's gaze as she looks at him in awe and confusion. The Blue Spirit lifts a hand and reveals a last gift. A coin purse, so heavy that it threatens to split the seams of the leather bag. Her hand shakes and trembles as she takes the bag, its weight almost pulling her off her feet. As she recovers from accepting the impossibly heavy bag of coins, The Blue Spirit is gone. The only evidence he was ever there is the scent of river water and a single white lotus petal left at her feet. She finds the small folded parchment, unfolding it and finding a single sentence written on the page.

"Head to The Jasmine Dragon, Upper Ring, Order The Spirit's Brew." 

She doesn't notice the small white petal, and her sons don't either. They don't see when it is lifted by the wind and carried into the night sky vanishing into the darkness. It dances through the slums, gliding over rooftops and cracked stone, slipping between the bars of an alleyway gate, dipping past broken lanterns and forgotten shoes. The petal drifts lazily, spinning and fluttering in the wind as it begins to descend, slow and weightless, until the wind dies and the petal falls. It weaves through the splintered roof of an abandoned warehouse, once used as a place where fine silks, baubles, jewelry, precious stones and metals were once traded. A place where light shone at all hours a day and gold flowed through there like a river... but that light has long since died. The petal lands in silence, drifting into a shallow puddle on the cracked floor. Not water. Blood. The white is stained red instantly. Crimson creeps up its edges like a wound blooming in silence. Around it, chains rattle. Boots scrape. Voices mutter threats and deals behind closed doors. None of them see the mist begin to seep in under the door.

The air hangs thick with the musk of old incense and sweat, mingled with the tang of iron and salt, the scent of blood both dried and fresh. Flickering lamps burn low on the walls, bathing the stone interior in bruised amber light. Silk banners, once imported from the Western Archipelago, now hang faded and threadbare, stained with soot and oil smoke. Smuggled Fire Nation liquor sloshes in cracked glass decanters. Spices long since outlawed for their alchemical properties are stored in clay pots sealed with wax and branded with dragon's tongues. Rare pelts and ivory gleam from crates, still slick with fresh blood. Jewelry lies in tangled clumps on dusty tables, some clearly torn from the hands and necks of nobles or corpses. Stolen earth kingdom armor, freshly looted, lies folded beside gagged children huddled in cages. A chorus of groans, whimpers, and soft coughs rises from the southern end of the room, where a row of iron bars holds dozens, perhaps more, of men, women, and children. Some are too dazed to speak. Others whisper prayers to spirits long thought silent.

Even in this place of unimaginable suffering, a man— No... a monster strides through it basking in the pain. Fat, decadently so, garbed in expensive silks of purple, emerald and gold. Fingers jingle with stolen jewelry, rings of jade, sapphire, diamond and topaz clink together as he gestures. His hair is lacquered in a topknot styled like a noble, but the sneer on his face betrays something far lower. In his hand he holds a curved fan of turtle-shell, not to cool himself but to signal orders. A flick of it brings pain. A snap of it buys silence. He strides the floor like a lord in his keep, weaving through his wares. A nobleman's signet ring dangles from a cord around his neck like a trophy. His laughter echoes harsh and low, cracking through the tension like a whip. Beside him walk two guards, each draped in mismatched armor scavenged from border raids. Earth Kingdom, Fire Nation it doesn't matter here. Loyalty is bought and paid in flesh and coin... minted in suffering.

Above the denizens and their slaves, the mist bleeds in through the windows, slithers underneath the doors, seeps between beams and pierces through gaps where wood was nailed together. The temperature drops, and a chill wafts through the warehouse like the first hiss before winter's snarling grasp. Not one of the beasts noticed when a lantern went out, none of them saw the petal stained in blood. But one man did. Shackled and bruised, beaten within an inch of his life just for asking for a crust of bread. With what little energy he has he shields his family, a son and wife chained together, chained with him. Locked in a cage meant for vicious beasts, but the innocent find themselves trapped while the beasts walk free. The shackled man lifts his head, looking towards the door where the mist crawls along the ground, prowling, hunting. One by one each lantern goes out, the darkness creeping in as slowly as the fog prowls.

The air falls silent, still, the trickling rain drops that had just started to fall halt in place. Even in the darkness, the shackled man sees it, a water droplet that had pierced through a hole in the roof; levitates in mid air as if it was frozen in time. A single flash of lightning arcs across the sky, and the light flickers over a form standing in front of the massive doors. Then it ignites. Blue fire explodes across its form, burning bright blue white against the black cloak that covers it. Six tentacles of blood leech out from its back forming pointed spearheads, scythes and blades out of crimson ice. Its hands grip a pair of twin swords, one ignited in orange-gold flames, the other shrouded in the freezing fog.

From behind the bars of the cage, the man shields his son's eyes as if on instinct. He doesn't think, his hand simply moves, covering the boy's face like a reflex born of a thousand small terrors. The moment his palm touches bruised skin, all hell breaks loose. It starts with the kingpin, the fat bastard dressed in sin and greed. The ground quakes, the wind shifts and then, he's yanked from his feet by an invisible force. Not thrown. Dragged. As if the very earth and air have turned against him, come alive to deliver judgment. He scrabbles against the blood-slick floorboards, his fingers clawing for purchase, nails peeling away in ragged curls. The scream never makes it to his throat; fear steals it. He reaches for anything. The wall. A table covered in stolen goods. A guard's boot. But nothing stops him from being pulled into the waiting embrace of The Blue Spirit. And then, like a tailor's scissors through silk... A single clean stroke. A wet, final thud. His head is gone.

The guards react far too late, they brandish weapons, raise stones, and lift bows to try to retaliate. They never stood a chance. The closest charges with a halberd, roaring in anger and fear and he is the next to fall. The Blue Spirit doesn't even look at him, a tentacle from his back snaps forwards like the strike of a viper and stakes the thug through the heart. Across the room, men fire their bows, the stone tipped arrows whistle through the air towards the demon that walks on fog. None of them connect, none of them even get close. They halt mid air, floating like the stagnant water droplets, they float for a moment before rotating. Betraying the men that had fired them. The arrows scream back towards their archers, each striking the archer down in the same manner. Piercing right between the eyes of each man. They all fall silent without so much as a whimper. And then... the carnage begins in earnest.

One is ripped in half like wet parchment, pulled apart by the bleeding tendrils. Another is crushed beneath a pillar of stone hurled from the far end of the warehouse. A third explodes in a blossom of fire, reduced to ash and bone fragments. The air fills with screams, not of rage, but of pure terror. Monsters plead. Monsters run. Monsters weep. None of it matters. They all die. And the ones who remain, the ones who watched others bleed and suffer for years without blinking can't bear to look. Even the prisoners, those shackled souls who've lived among horror, cannot stomach what they hear. Some sob. Some whisper prayers. Some simply go silent. The man in the cage closes his eyes. Not in prayer. Not in fear. Just... to endure. But the sounds don't stop. Screams, raw and guttural. Bones breaking, like branches underfoot. Thuds, wet and final. A limb striking a cage wall. The sizzle of fire on flesh. Then, eventually... Nothing. Only the sound of the wind moving through shattered windows. Only the faint creak of a chain swinging, forgotten. No bodies. No Survivors. Only the imprisoned who witnessed the spirit's wrath will tell of it.

They don't dare speak at first. Not even the sobbing resumes. The cage door stands open, its lock bisected, the metal still glowing faintly from the heat of the cut. One prisoner, an older woman with her face half-swollen from a beating, stumbles forward, cradling her ribs. And then... the mist parts. The Blue Spirit is still there. No longer a storm of fire and blood, but still impossibly tall, draped in a long, wet cloak streaked with crimson. His twin swords, stained and steaming, are slowly returned to their sheaths with a quiet, deliberate rhythm. The claws of crimson ice retract into nothingness, and the crackling blue fire that once danced across his form dies away in a whisper. Above him, the frozen droplets of rain begin to move again. Only they don't fall. They swirl impossibly around his form. Like stars plucked from the heavens, glowing faintly as they orbit him in silence. With a quiet lift of his hand, the droplets flow outward, moving of their own accord, each one drawn to a wound, a bruise, a break.

The man in the cage gasps as one touches his shoulder and the pain vanishes. Others blink in awe as their injuries fade. Cracked bones realign, cuts mend, and bruises evaporate into golden warmth. Even the mother's cough vanishes with a quiet breath. A child whose eyes were swollen shut opens them for the first time in days and sees the world anew. Then, just as silently, the droplets split once more razor-thin edges of water now humming with intent. They slide through the iron bars, carving through steel as though it were parchment, and the cages collapse like spiderwebs touched by flame. The captives stare in stunned silence. Free. Whole. Alive. No one can find the words to speak to it, some still believing that this was just a hallucination. The Blue Spirit doesn't wait for them to thank him, he merely lifts a single hand and points. Not at the door, not at the mist but at the piles of gold, the jewels, the smuggled goods and spoils of cruelty that litter the warehouse floor. He allows the rain to fall naturally once more, the soft droplets touching their skin like an inviting kiss. The Blue Spirit raises his hands and claps them together. He bows to those he saved, then pulls his arms inward, folding them over his chest. He rises to his full height then tilts backwards, leaning over and falling perfectly flat into the mist. But there is no sound, the mist merely parts and the spirit vanishes into the aether.

Only a message is left, burned into the floor where the blood of the innocent once flowed.

"The Chains You Shackle The Innocent With... Will Be Your Noose."