John Wick in Avatar the Last Airbender

The mountain peak stretched high above the clouds, untouched by war, a temporary haven for the weary and the broken. The night air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and fresh foliage.

The remnants of the Air Nomads; both benders and non-benders alike, moved with quiet efficiency, their hands swift and practiced in gathering what they needed to survive. Foraging, hunting, surviving in the wilderness; these were not skills taught out of necessity, but out of tradition.

The Air Nomads had always wandered, relying on the land and sky to provide for them, never tying themselves to material things. Even now, even in the wake of the devastation, their instincts remained. Fruits, roots, fresh water from a nearby stream.

A small fire was lit in the shadow of an overhanging rock, hidden from sight, the flames low and flickering. Kalsang sat slightly apart from the group, his back resting against a boulder, his breathing slow and even. His body ached, exhaustion threading through his limbs.

Even airbenders had limits, and tonight, he had tested his own. Two hundred soldiers. It was not the number that weighed on him. He had fought worse odds before, faced down death in a thousand different ways.

What pressed against his mind, heavy and suffocating, was the knowledge that it had not been enough. Not enough to save them. The temple still burned in his memory. He could still hear the screams, the roaring fire, the crackling of stone and wood collapsing beneath the weight of destruction.

And then, the silence. The kind that settled into the bones and never left. Kalsang inhaled slowly, exhaling just as deliberately. Across from him, the survivors huddled close, their voices quiet, their movements practiced.

Even the children, their faces still streaked with the remnants of dried tears, carried themselves with a resilience that should not have been needed at their age. They ate well that night, bellies full despite the devastation that trailed behind them. Not a single complaint, not a single wasted scrap.

The Air Nomads had been taught self-sufficiency from birth, the ability to live off the land, to move without burden. Even now, after everything, those teachings remained. As the fire flickered, low and steady, sleep began to claim them one by one.

Kalsang watched over them, his mind restless even as his body begged for rest. The wind stirred around him, whispering through the trees, carrying with it the unspoken question that none of them had dared to voice.

'What now?' His fingers curled slightly, pressing into the earth beneath him. For now, they would sleep. And when morning came, they would move again.

Because the future did not wait.

It had to be taken.

One by one, the few able-bodied airbenders took turns to stay watch, and as the moon climbed high into the night sky, it was finally John's turn to sleep.

Unfortunately, sleep eluded him.

Kalsang's senses sharpened the moment he opened his eyes.

But something was wrong. The scent of damp earth and the distant crackle of the fire were gone. The cool mountain air had vanished. Instead, an eerie stillness settled around him, thick and unnatural.

Wisps of mist curled around his limbs, drifting without direction, weightless, unbound. The very air itself felt different; too light, too empty, yet impossibly vast. He did not need to question where he was.

The Spirit World.

A place where time and space did not move as mortals understood them. A place where the living and the dead were separated by nothing more than a breath. Kalsang exhaled slowly, his breath dispersing into the mist like it had no place here.

His body tensed instinctively. He had been here before when he had successfully mastered his own form of airbending before he began teaching Aang. The rules of this realm had not changed. Nothing was ever what it seemed.

And if he was here, then someone, or something, wanted him to be.

The silence was suffocating. Then, the fog shifted. A presence, subtle at first, but growing stronger. A faint pressure pressed against the edges of his mind, like unseen eyes watching from just beyond the mist.

Kalsang's stance adjusted, his weight cantered, prepared for whatever came next. A voice, soft yet resonant, wove through the fog like a whisper carried by the wind, "You walk a path not meant for you."

Kalsang's eyes narrowed. From the mist, a shape began to form. Not quite solid, not entirely formless. A figure cloaked in flowing robes, its features obscured, yet unmistakably human. Its voice was neither kind nor cruel.

It simply was.

"You are an anomaly," it continued, "A soul that should not be."

Kalsang remained still, his breath steady, "And yet, here I am."

The figure regarded him for a long moment before speaking again, "Do you understand what you have done?"

His jaw tightened, "I did what had to be done."

The mist swirled, as if the very air was considering his answer, "You have stained the wind with blood."

Kalsang's expression did not change, "Blood was already in the air. I simply returned it."

A deep, rumbling sigh echoed through the space. The presence around him shifted; neither angered nor satisfied, but contemplative, "You have forced the wind to carry a weight it was never meant to bear," the voice said, "The path of air is lightness, detachment, freedom."

Kalsang's voice was quiet, but firm, "The wind does not only carry."

Silence.

Then, he took a step forward. The fog did not resist him.

"Who are you?" he asked.

For a moment, the figure flickered, as though uncertain of its own form. Then, slowly, it solidified, just enough for Kalsang to see the faint outlines of tattoos, spiralling in patterns across the figure's hands and forehead.

An airbender. An old one. One who had been here long before him.

"We have watched you," the spirit said, its voice carrying the weight of many lifetimes, "We have felt your presence ripple through the balance of this world."

Kalsang met its gaze, unflinching, "Then you know why I did what I did."

The figure was silent. Then, in a voice barely more than a whisper, it spoke, "The wind remembers, Kalsang."