V3.C34. An Invitation Across Millennia

Chapter 34: An Invitation Across Millennia

Mun Lao watched Lien the barmaid weave through the crowd, a ship of cheerful efficiency in a sea of drunken joy. His professional assessment was complete: strong, healthy, clearly fertile. A fine candidate, physically speaking. But the vessel for Vumala’s rebirth required more than just a robust frame; it required a certain… spiritual availability. A loneliness, a yearning, a quiet space in the soul where a new, terrible story could be planted. He couldn’t sense that from across a noisy room. He needed conversation. Proximity.

He also, he admitted to himself as his stomach gave another ancient rumble, wanted another one of those spiced meat flatbreads. And having pleasant scenery while he ate was just good sense.

He waited for Lien to make her next pass near the bar, a fresh tray of empties balanced on her palm. As she approached, he raised a hand, not calling out, but creating a small island of expectation in the chaos.

“My dear,” he said, his voice a low, warm rumble that somehow cut through the din without being a shout. “Your pardon. This ‘Dragon’s Kiss’ the barkeep mentioned. Is it as fierce as its name, or is it all fire and no flame?”

Lien slid the tray onto the bar with a clatter and turned, wiping her hands on her apron. She gave him a tired but amused look. “Fierce enough to knock a full-grown ox-badger on its behind, grandfather. I wouldn’t, if you want to remember your own name tomorrow.”

“A tempting danger,” Mun Lao said, chuckling. He leaned forward slightly, his faded gold eyes twinkling with what he hoped passed for mischievous charm. “But perhaps I’ve had enough of fire for one lifetime. Tell me, does this fine establishment serve food? Something to… fortify a weary traveler against the perils of your excellent ale?”

“Kitchen’s still open,” Lien said, nodding toward a back archway. “Stew’s good. The roast groat-cakes are heavy as bricks but they’ll stick to your ribs.”

“A recommendation from one who clearly knows the value of good sustenance,” he said, letting his gaze sweep over her appreciatively, not lecherously, but with the air of a connoisseur admiring a well-made tool. “You must work up quite an appetite, laboring like this.”

She snorted. “You have no idea. It’s been like this for days. Ever since the news.”

“Ah, yes, the peace,” Mun Lao said, seizing the opening. He gestured to the empty stool beside him. “A moment of your time? I am a stranger here, and the tales of this great change are… confusing. A perspective from one so clearly at the heart of things would be a kindness.” He patted a small pile of coins on the bar, more than enough for a drink and a meal. “And let me buy you a cup of something that isn’t ale. You look as though you could use a moment’s rest.”

Lien hesitated. The coins were persuasive. The old man was strange, with an intensity in his eyes that didn’t match his “grandfather” act, but he wasn’t threatening. And her feet were killing her.

“Just for a minute,” she said, sliding onto the stool with a grateful sigh. She signaled to the barkeep for two cups of weak spiced cider. “What’s confusing about it? War’s over. Fire Nation’s going home. Everyone’s happy.”

“Why are they going home?” Mun Lao asked, his tone one of pure, innocent curiosity. “A century of expansion, of glorious… well, from their perspective, glorious conquest. Then a single duel, and it all unravels? It seems… abrupt. In my day, such shifts in the wind took seasons. Years.”

“Your day must have been a slow one,” Lien said, accepting the warm cider. She took a sip and shrugged. “From what the couriers say, the old Fire Lord, Ozai, was a monster. The new one, Lu Ten, he’s different. Maybe he’s just… tired of it. Or smart enough to see it was a losing game. Even firebenders can’t burn the whole earth.”

Tired. Smart. Mun Lao hid a sneer behind his cup. Weakness, dressed up as wisdom. The Fire Nation he knew would have burned the earth until it turned to glass, then learned to bend the glass.

“And the Avatar?” he asked casually. “I heard whispers, even in the mountains, of the Avatar’s return. An airbender child. Surely he had a hand in this peace?”

Lien’s face lit up. “Oh, yes! The Avatar! He was here, you know. Well, not here in Gansu, but up at the North Pole. They say he helped stop the Fire Nation fleet during the siege! A little kid with arrows on his head, bending water and air!” She shook her head in wonder. “Maybe that’s what did it. Maybe the Fire Lord saw the Avatar was back and knew the gig was up.”

So, the cycle had renewed. A child Avatar. Perfect. Distracted, untrained, fumbling in the dark while the true work of ending stories began. This was valuable information.

“Fascinating,” Mun Lao murmured. “A new Avatar for a new age of… peace.” He made the word sound faintly ridiculous. “And what of the Fire Nation’s own princes? This Lu Ten has siblings? Rivals?”

“There’s Princess Azula,” Lien said, lowering her voice. “They say she’s even more dangerous than her father. But she’s disappeared. And the other one, Prince Zuko, the banished one… he’s probably dead. Or hiding in a hole somewhere.”

Zuko. The name surfaced again. The disgraced, the disappeared. A loose end. Loose ends had a way of becoming knots.

“It seems the world is simplifying itself,” Mun Lao said, finishing his cider. “Fewer players on the board. A tidier game.” He pushed the coins toward her. “For your excellent service and even better company. Now, about that stew. And perhaps… you would do an old man a final kindness and join me? Eating alone is a lonely business, and your knowledge of current events is a finer seasoning than any spice.”

He gave her his most harmless, avuncular smile. It was a test. An invitation across a gulf of not just status, but of epochs.

Lien stared at him for a second, then let out a genuine, booming laugh that turned a few heads. “Grandfather, you are a charmer, I’ll give you that! But join you? I’ve got ten tables waiting, a keg that needs tapping, and a floor that’s getting stickier by the minute.” She stood up, pocketing the coins with a grateful nod. “The stew’s good. Enjoy it. And if you’re still feeling lonely, Old Man Tegu over in the corner knows every dirty joke from here to Ba Sing Se. He’s terrible company, but he’s always available.”

And with that, she was gone, swept back into the current of her work, leaving Mun Lao sitting alone at the bar.

He wasn’t offended. He was… intrigued. The refusal was expected. The vessel could not be won with a few coins and blandishments. It would require a different approach. A creation of need. An offering of something she lacked. Comfort? Security? Excitement? He would have to discern it.

But the encounter had been fruitful. He had names: Lu Ten, Ozai, Azula, Zuko, the Avatar child. He had the shape of the world’s new, fragile peace. And he had confirmed that the robust, cheerful Lien, while a fine physical specimen, was currently too content, too busy, for his purposes. Her soul had no empty rooms. He needed someone with a quieter heart, a lonelier hearth.

He signaled the barkeep for a bowl of stew. As he waited, his eyes continued their inventory, his ancient mind plotting. The night was young. The town was full of possibilities.

And as the hearty, aromatic stew was placed before him, Mun Lao took his first bite, savoring the complex flavors of an era that had, for all its weakness, mastered the art of the kitchen. One quest at a time. Tonight, the vessel could wait.

He had a bowl of ten-thousand-year-improved stew to finish.