"Leave us alone!"
Nearly a century of war had reaped a heavy toll on The Earth Kingdom. Whatever food and resources could be spared had been snapped up for the war effort, slowly but surely bringing poverty and famine to the land.
With times so desperate, and most of the strong young men and women recruited for the front lines, crime flourished like rot across the continent.
Travelling along the roads was just asking for trouble, but some people didn't have a choice. Caravans of refugees fleeing the towns recently conquered by the Fire Nation made easy prey for the bandit gangs.
Seven men dressed in rags and furs, each brandishing a rusty yet sharp sword, surrounded an old wooden wagon pulled by an aged ox. Inside, two girls no older than ten huddled fearfully into their mother's sides, her arms cradling them protectively as she prayed to whatever spirits might be listening for aid.
The father stood by the ox, a pitchfork in hand and whatever courage he could muster gripping his chest, trying to scare the bandits off. Yet one scrawny farmer could do little to intimidate seven armed thugs.
"Lookie here lads. We've got ourselves a fighter." One of the bandits; the largest of the group with an old, mis-sized earth army chest plate strapped to his torso, laughed mockingly. "What are you gonna do, little guy?"
The way the pitchfork shook in his hands betrayed that the farmer was a stranger to violence. When he couldn't so much as stammer together a reply, the bandit shot him an ugly sneer. "Pathetic. Don't know what I expected from a coward who isn't serving in the army."
"I- I don't see you on the frontlines." The farmer stammered back.
All traces of humour washed off the bandit's expression, replaced by pure, murderous intent. "What was that!" He hissed. "What are you trying to imply, little man?!"
"That-... That you're the real coward!" The farmer replied, shoving his fear down as best he could and standing up to the thugs.
"Times are hard for all of us, you know! We're all having to tighten our belts and give what we can to the war effort! We're all hungry! But we grit our teeth and do our best to make do!" For a moment his trembling stopped, his anger igniting a desperate resolve, and he glared with true outrage at the leader.
"But people like you, who turn on and steal from their fellow countrymen, rather than face the difficult work head on, drag the Earth Kingdom down! You're all a group of leeches in human skin!"
The lesser bandits seemed momentarily taken aback by the display of courage, but not the leader. He stormed forwards, raising his crude blade high above his head and letting out a vicious, wordless snarl.
The farmer raised his pitchfork to block, yet even he knew the simple tool would do little to stop the weight of hard metal. He heard his wife scream with terror as the sword came swinging down and closed his eyes, bracing himself for the pain.
Yet it never came.
Metal rang out against metal as the crude sword was intercepted by another, and the bandit leader's shocked grunt trailed off into a high-pitched wheeze as a foot crashed between his legs.
He keeled over in pain, and a second later found his face planted directly into the dirt as a heavy weight perched upon his back and pushed him further down.
The remaining bandits let out exclamations of fear and anger, and the farmer hesitantly opened his eyes again just a crack to take a peek at what had happened.
A strange man was standing upon the bandit leader's back, using him like a podium to look down on the other bandits. He was clothed in plain, dusty brown robes, with pale skin and short black hair cropped close to his skull.
In each hand he held a niuweidao blade; cheap iron ones, yet sharp and obviously well cared for. Though he had his back to him, the farmer could see the edges of the blue mask we wore peaking around his cheeks.
One of his daughters let out an awed gasp from the wagon, and as the stranger turned his head slightly to look at the source of the noise, the farmer caught sight of the mischievous, manic grin carved into the mask's face.
"The Blue Spirit." He whispered reverently.
Word travelled faster than horses, and for the past month rumours around these parts had told of a wanderer in a terrifying blue mask walking the road to Omashu, preying upon thieves and bandits.
Wanted posters issued by the Fire Nation named him The Blue Spirit, and the price upon his head left no doubt that he was a dangerous individual.
Some said he had slipped like a shadow through to the heart of a fully-manned Fire Nation fortress all on his own, then fought his way out side-by-side with The Avatar. Others said that he was a spirit incarnate, here to seek revenge on The Fire Nation for their atrocities against the spirits.
It sounded like a load of gossip and nonsense at the time, yet to see the masked man standing before him now, his posture straight yet relaxed in an almost regal display of confidence, the farmer couldn't help but wonder if there was some truth to the rumours after all.
With a wild cry one of the bandits lunged forward, swinging his blade in a wide arc. Yet the Blue Spirit parried with effortless ease; simply catching the sword with one of his own and lazily spinning it around in a half circle that forced the bandit to let go or twist his wrist.
The discarded sword flew through the air towards another bandit, causing him to dive out of the way and onto the dusty ground.
Two more bandits came in together, each from an opposite direction, and stabbed towards the Blue Spirit's torso. Yet the Blue Spirit spun on his heel, digging it further into the bandit leader's back and making him groan in pain.
Both of his swords snaked out to each deflect one of their swords just enough to miss him, yet did nothing to arrest the momentum of the charging men. Then, with a spritely backflip, he leapt off the bandit leader's back and spun over one of the charging bandit's heads.
The two bandits collided into each other face first, and tumbled down to collapse in a heap upon their own leader.
Only three armed bandits remained, and after seeing their fellows be taken apart so easily for their recklessness they approached cautiously; spreading out to surround the Blue Spirit in a triangle formation.
The Blue Spirit gave his swords a lazy twirl and lowered his stance, settling into a pose that reminded the farmer of a tiger waiting to pounce. When it became clear that he was waiting for them to make the first move, the three bandits charged in unison.
It was obvious that these three were used to working together. Their weapons were crude and their forms sloppy, but they all followed a rhythm that could only be born from fighting side by side many times.
The Blue Spirit's blades snaked out to counter each of their strikes, yet before he could counterattack he was forced to intercept another strike from a different direction.
Added to the fact that he held his swords with only one hand, whilst the bandits held theirs with two, and it became clear even to the untrained eye that The Blue Spirit would not be able to keep up the pace for long.
Yet The Blue Spirit himself did not acknowledge this. A minute passed, then two, and yet the niuweidao blades continued to whirl around him like a hurricane of steel. Whether through stamina or pure tenacity, the masked man's arms never lost their strength. It was the bandits who grew tired first, their swords slowing with each swing as a lack of proper training and poor nutrition caught up with them.
Eventually the strikes came slowly enough that The Blue Spirit spotted an opportunity. With a jolt he threw himself down to squat under a swing from behind to decapitate him, his swords still extended out like wings to lock down the other bandit's blades.
The attacker, who'd grown used to the feel of his blade being deflected, overextended and stumbled forward at the lack of resistance, and The Blue Spirit leapt up like a jumping frog to headbutt him beneath the chin without even turning to look at him.
A bony crunch rang out as the bandit's teeth clacked together, and he dropped his weapon to stagger back, cradling his possibly broken chin in his hands.
Now only two remained, and those odds were far more favourable for a master of the twin swords. Advancing on them like a leopard stalking its prey, The Blue Spirit lashed out, forcing them both back, and quickly pounced on one before the other could regain his footing.
He brought the flat sides of his swords to clap against both of the bandit's ears simultaneously, disorienting the man's sense of balance so badly he fell to the floor like a drunkard, and turned to the second, spinning his blades in a quick flourish.
The last bandit looked around at his defeated comrades, looked back to The Blue Spirit, then promptly ran for his life.
Some of the earlier bandits were starting to recover, but it was clear that all the fight had been scared out of them, and all they dared to do was take their more recently fallen comrades and shuffle away as hurriedly as possible. When they were all gone, The Blue Spirit brought his swords together into one and carefully slid them into the sheath on his back.
He turned back to the road, fully intending to walk away, but let out a small yelp of surprise as he was suddenly glomped by a pair of arms around his leg.
"Thank you! Thank you so, so much!" One of the farmer's daughters gushed, hugging his leg as if it was the pillar holding up the sky. "They- they were gonna-... and da' was-..."
"What my daughter means to say," interjected the farmer, stepping forward to place a comforting hand on his daughter's shoulder. His voice still had a little shake to it as the after-effects of fear shook his system, but he powered on through. "Is that we owe you a debt we can never repay, Blue Spirit. Please accept our most humble thanks, and know what we will do whatever we can, however small, to repay you."
The Blue Spirit froze, the rigidity of his posture suggesting that he was unsure of himself, and the farmer idly wished he could see what sort of expression the young man wore beneath his mask. At last The Blue Spirit shook his head.
"Oh come now, surely there must be something we can do for you." The farmer's wife insisted, coming to join them with their second daughter cradled protectively in her arms.
"The road is long, and you carry no supplies. Surely we can at least share some food and a cup of water with you? What little we have becomes all the bigger when it is shared with good company."
Despite the mask, it was pretty obvious that the Blue Spirit was finding the whole situation a little awkward. The girl clamped around his leg like an anchor prevented him from running away, and it was hard to ignore the farmer's family when they looked at him with such honest gratitude. Eventually he resigned himself to defeat and nodded slowly.
...
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