The Legacy of Yangchen

When playing the game, sometimes you didn’t want your opponent to respect you as smart, rational, and clever. Sometimes you wanted the opponent to believe you were completely unstable and utterly reckless.

The wise could be counted on to do what was wise; there was no predicting the actions of a buffoon.

The true problem with the world lies deep inside humanity itself, and despite your best efforts it will never be fixed. Mankind is a poor investment. A barren field. The less you do for it, the better.

That was the trouble with younger siblings, wasn’t it? Tell them to do one thing and they’d immediately do the opposite, was how the complaint usually went.

Love could sometimes be a weakness. Mercy could sometimes be cruel.

Yangchen stared at her before bursting into laughter. Chaisee startled backward. Yangchen’s shrill howls bounced and redoubled inside the small enclosure. Regrets? Threatening the Avatar with regrets was like trying to drown a fish.

The common misconception about meditation was that you were supposed to completely erase the slate of your mind. Untrue. Thoughts were allowed to come and go. The duty of the meditator was to observe them until they passed, proving you and your mind’s chatter were not one and the same.

Rejection of peace was a story immemorial. The Four Nations were always trying their level best to march off a cliff. And here she was, the latest Avatar attempting to drag them back from the edge. None of her past lives had succeeded in curbing the self-destructive nature of humanity.

Yangchen had swum the tides of grief before. It didn't matter how much you begged for relief. It didn't matter how nakedly you showed your weakness. The world, the work, would flay its due from your hide, ripping off long bloody strips. It would attach sticks to you like a puppet and force you to keep up the motions. As long as your outline was visible against the light, then good enough.

That was the trouble with older siblings. They were full of it and made everything up as they went along, just like normal people.

To the paranoid, facts seemed like threats.

Raitei stared blankly over the horizon. “The initial breakthrough only comes if you really, truly believe you’re going to die.

You're hesitating," she said when Yangchen didn't answer. "Hesitation gets people killed." Throughout her lives, Yangchen had heard the adage more times than she could count. Mostly from weaklings pretending to be strong. Children who thought they were adults. Amateur historians who divided the actions of her predecessors into good and bad with a dull cleaver, hacking merrily away without much thought, really praising themselves with each blow.

Gone was the stifling humidity of the coast, replaced by a warm, pliant breeze. The ocean rolled and foamed beneath them, a layer of confection spread as far as the eye could see. The only thing ruining the flight was the company.

She gave her hand a twist, and the wall locked itself into a spiral as tight as the petals of a flower in the cold.