In ATLA with a system

A/N: Hello. This chapter is kinda important but its info heavy for the first half and a bit of second half so be warned. A lot of your questions should be answered here and you will have a lot of questions as well lol. 

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Ren sat cross-legged in a quiet corner of the camp, his back pressed against a stack of crates. The faint buzz of activity from the rest of the camp drifted around him, but he kept his focus inward, blocking out the noise.

His shoulder throbbed under the rough bandages, a constant reminder of how close he'd come to dying. He exhaled slowly, steadying himself as the system's presence hummed faintly at the edges of his awareness.

Time to figure this thing out properly.

"Status," he muttered under his breath.

The text shimmered into view, floating before him with a calm indifference to his situation.

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Name: Ren

Age: 15

Level: 2

Class: Unassigned

Health: Poor

Stamina: Low

Mana: Unknown

System Evaluation: You're weak. Get better.

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Ren's eyes immediately locked onto one detail:

Level: 2.

"Okay. I levelled up. Great. So why don't I feel any different?"

The rest of the status screen offered no answers. His health and stamina were still in the gutter, and mana remained a mystery. Whatever levelling up did, it didn't give him strength to fight strong opponents.

He scrolled down, his focus shifting to the skills section.

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Skills:

Basic Swordsmanship (Lv 2 – 45%)

Observe (Lv 1)

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He stared at the text for a moment, his fingers tightening into fists. Basic Swordsmanship at Level 2. Forty-five percent to the next level. The improvement felt... real. He could remember the fight with that second soldier, the slight difference in how he'd moved, how the sword had felt less like a foreign object in his hands.

It wasn't much, but it was something.

His gaze moved to Observe. He didn't need to test it again; using it on Jiro the night before had made its function crystal clear. A simple skill, but one that might prove invaluable in the long run as shown by those gamer manhwa he'd read back then.

But the question that had been nagging at him since the previous night lingered: Threat Level. What does it actually mean?

He exhaled sharply, his fingers drumming against his knee. "System," he muttered under his breath, keeping his voice low. "How do you determine someone's threat level?"

The system's response came instantly, cold and detached, ringing in his mind like a chime of finality.

|Threat levels are determined by an individual's relative strength, skill, and the likelihood of their success in direct combat against the user. The system evaluates based on these parameters to provide the most accurate representation of potential danger.|

Ren frowned, leaning forward slightly. "And what are the threat levels?"

The system responded without hesitation.

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Threat Levels:

Minimal: Target poses no significant danger.

Low: Target is a minor threat, but manageable.

Moderate: Target is dangerous but beatable with effort.

Major: Target is highly dangerous and likely to overpower the user.

Critical: Target is overwhelmingly dangerous and nearly impossible to defeat.

Invincible: Target cannot be defeated under any circumstances given the user's current abilities.

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Ren's eyes lingered on the last word. Invincible. It made his stomach twist, not because it was surprising but because it was so absolute. 

"So, Jiro isn't just way out of my league," he muttered to himself. "He's in a league I can't even see."

The system remained silent, offering nothing more.

Ren leaned back against the crates, his mind still turning over the system's words about threat levels. It all felt overwhelming, but one part of his status screen kept nagging at him, refusing to let go.

Class: Unassigned.

It didn't sit right. What was a class even supposed to mean in this world? Did it have something to do with his skills, his survival? Or was it something bigger like the RPG classes?

I mean imagine being a mage in this world, would the avatar be that?

"System," he said quietly, his voice steady despite the storm in his chest. "What does my class mean?"

The system's hum flared to life, its response immediate and measured.

|Classes represent an individual's alignment with a specific bending discipline, combat style, or unique path of growth. In this world, classes are categorized by the elemental arts:

Earth bending

Fire bending

Water bending

Air bending

Individuals without a bending affinity are classified as Unassigned due to their inability to fit within the elemental class system.|

Ren's brow furrowed as he absorbed the information. "So... 'Unassigned' means I'm stuck like this because I'm not a bender?"

The system continued, its tone even and unchanging:

|Correct. Non-benders are designated as Unassigned. This status reflects their exclusion from the elemental class system and lack of inherent bending potential. However, growth and mastery of non-bending disciplines remain possible though they will not be represented as an individual.|

Ren exhaled sharply, the words hitting harder than he wanted to admit. "So, what you're saying is, no bending, no class. Great."

The system fell silent, offering no further clarification.

Ren rubbed the back of his neck, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. He hadn't expected the system to hand him bending powers on a silver platter, but the confirmation stung more than he cared to admit.

No bending. No class. Just me and whatever this system decides to throw at me.

He clenched his fists, pushing the thoughts aside. "Fine," he muttered under his breath. "Unassigned it is. For now."

If bending dictated classes, then what about the one person in the world who could bend everything?

"System," Ren said cautiously, his voice low, "what about the Avatar? What's their class?"

For a moment, the system remained silent, its usual hum absent. Then, a stark and unexpected response appeared before him:

|No Data|

Ren blinked, leaning forward slightly. "No data? You're fucking with me, right?"

The text lingered, unchanging.

"No data," he muttered again, his voice edged with frustration. "You've got an entire fucking system set up to measure people, and you don't know about the one person who's literally the centre of this world?"

"Alright, one more question system," he muttered, his voice tinged with exasperation. "What about stats? Strength, speed, stamina... any of that?"

The system's hum returned, faint but present. Then, as if considering his question, it answered:

|Statistical Information:

Currently unavailable. Stat details will be unlocked at higher levels.|

Ren frowned, leaning forward slightly. "Unavailable? Seriously? What level do I even need for that?"

The system didn't respond, its text fading back into the ether as though it had said all it was going to.

"Of course," Ren muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "Why give me anything useful now when you can just dangle it in front of me later?"

He rubbed his temples, the faint throb in his shoulder making itself known again. The system was quickly proving to be both a blessing and a headache.

No stats. No bending. No class. What do I even have?

He clenched his fists, staring down at his bandaged hands. Nothing but a sword, a spear and I should probably get another system. That'll have to do.

"System," he said quietly, his voice edged with curiosity and frustration, "is killing the only way to level up my skills? Specifically for swordsmanship?"

The system's hum preceded its response, calm and measured.

Skill Levelling Information:

Skill progress can be gained through consistent use, training, and practice. However, direct combat yields the most significant experience, as it tests the skill under realistic conditions.

Ren frowned, running his fingers over the hilt of his sword. "Direct combat, huh? So, does that mean I have to kill to get experience?"

The system responded instantly:

|Defeating an opponent is sufficient to gain experience. Lethality is not a requirement.|

Ren blinked at the text, his brow furrowing as he absorbed the information. "So, I don't need to kill... just win."

The idea settled awkwardly in his mind. Winning a fight without killing someone seemed like a luxury in this world, where survival often came at someone else's expense. Still, the distinction mattered.

"Well, that's... something," he muttered. "Not like it changes much out here, though."

The system went silent again, its presence retreating into the background of his thoughts. Ren exhaled sharply, gripping his sword tighter.

"I've survived. I'm alive. Why isn't the quest done yet?"

The system responded, its tone neutral and precise:

Main Quest: Survive

The quest is ongoing as survival is not defined by a single moment but by sustained efforts across multiple critical events. The user will continue to face conditions where survival is uncertain. The quest will only be completed once the immediate danger has passed entirely.

Ren let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "So, what you're saying is, I'm still in danger."

The system didn't respond, but the silence was answer enough.

"Figures," Ren muttered, leaning back against the crates. "You'd think surviving ten minutes in a war zone would count for something."

And finally the most important feature of them all.

"Inventory," he muttered under his breath.

A grid-like display shimmered into view, translucent and hovering just within arm's reach. His eyes scanned the contents:

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Inventory:

-Sword (Equipped)

-Broken Spear (Unequipped)

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Ren raised an eyebrow. The simple layout reminded him of old games he used to play—clear, practical, and surprisingly neat given the chaos around him.

"So... unequipped, huh?" he mused, his hand hovering over the broken spear's icon. Without hesitation, he focused on the sword. "Unequip."

The weapon vanished from his lap in an instant, the weight disappearing so abruptly it startled him. His fingers twitched at the sudden emptiness.

"Okay," he said slowly, his voice tinged with curiosity. "That's... useful."

His gaze shifted to the display, where the sword now sat in the unequipped slot. With a small smirk, he focused again. "Equip."

The sword materialized in his hand, its weight and balance familiar yet strange, as if it had never left him.

"Instant," he muttered, turning the blade over in his grip.

A thought struck him, sharp and sudden. He unequipped the sword again, leaving his hands empty, and stood. The camp bustled in the background, but no one seemed to notice him.

Ren crouched slightly, mimicking the movement of someone about to throw a punch. He lunged forward, his empty hand snapping outward in a motion he imagined aiming at someone's chest or throat.

"Equip."

The sword appeared mid-swing, its edge slicing through the air. The momentum of the motion carried him forward, his mind racing.

That... that could work.

The potential of it was obvious, he could use it to take down enemies by surprise, but as he swung the blade experimentally, his movements betrayed the truth.

The swing was off, his balance sloppy. The blade cut through the air, but not with the precision or confidence of someone who actually knew what they were doing.

"Great," Ren muttered, lowering the sword. "I've got the illegal and dishonourable jedi move down, if only I was as skilled as obi-wan"

He ran a hand over his face, frustration bubbling at the edges of his thoughts. The system had handed him something useful, but it wasn't going to fix the fundamentals.

His gaze wandered toward the centre of the camp, where the steady clanging of steel echoed in uneven bursts. A group of soldiers sparred, their movements calculated and deliberate.

Ren tightened his grip on the sword, the system's earlier words flashing in his mind:

|Defeating an opponent is sufficient to gain experience.|

Defeating, not killing, he thought. So technically, I don't need to stab my way through everyone to get better.

The sight of the sparring soldiers made him hesitate. Their movements were efficient, controlled. His, by comparison, were... not.

Ren shook his head, sheathing the sword with a sharp click. "One step at a time," he muttered under his breath. "First, figure out how to swing this thing without looking like I'm chopping firewood."

The sparring circle buzzed with activity as Ren approached, the rhythmic clanging of wooden practice swords filling the air. He hesitated for a moment, gripping the hilt of his sword tightly, but quickly released it. The idea of sparring with his own weapon felt reckless, even to him.

"Looking for a fight, kid?" one of the soldiers called out, a stocky man with a thick scar running down his forearm. His voice carried a mix of amusement and scepticism.

Ren nodded. "Yeah. Just need to grab a training blade."

The man's eyebrows lifted slightly, but he gestured toward a rack of weapons off to the side. "Help yourself. Let's see if you've got the guts to keep up."

Ren grabbed a practice sword, the weight lighter than his own blade but still solid in his hand. As he stepped into the circle, his heart pounded in his chest, but a familiar thought flared in his mind.

Observe.

The faint overlay appeared over his opponent:

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Name: Earth Kingdom Soldier 

Status: Healthy

Threat Level: Major

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Ren tilted his head slightly, his grip tightening. Major threat? Please. I took down a Fire Nation soldier with a spear and sheer panic. This guy can't be worse than that.

The wiry soldier across from him spun his practice blade casually, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "You sure about this? I don't want to embarrass you too badly."

Ren shrugged, masking the flicker of nerves in his chest. "Guess we'll find out."

The match started fast. The wiry soldier's strikes were quick and precise, and Ren struggled to keep up. His blocks were clumsy, his counters too slow. The soldier sidestepped easily, landing a clean strike to Ren's ribs.

"Too slow," the soldier said, his smirk widening.

From the side-lines, one of the spectating soldiers snorted. "Looks like the kid's swinging at ghosts. You sure you're aiming at the right guy, pal?"

Another chimed in, laughing. "Maybe he thinks this is some noble duel. Hate to break it to you, kid, but you've got to actually hit someone to win."

Ren gritted his teeth, resetting his stance and swinging again. His strikes were wild, unfocused, and predictable. Another blow landed on his shoulder, then one to his thigh. The match ended with Ren flat on his back, the tip of the practice sword pointed at his chest.

"Next time, try keeping your balance," the soldier said, stepping back with a chuckle.

Ren pulled himself to his feet, his chest heaving as frustration burned in his gut. He squared his shoulders as the stocky soldier called for the next opponent.

The mocking continued.

"Think he'll last more than ten seconds this time?" one of the soldiers jeered.

"Doubt it," another replied, laughing.

Ren's overconfidence shattered quickly as the next match unfolded, his opponent landing strike after strike with a brutal efficiency. His footing slipped, his grip faltered, and every swing felt like a desperate attempt to stay in the fight.

But with every loss, something clicked. He began to notice patterns, how his opponents moved, how they feinted before striking. He adjusted his stance, kept his feet planted more firmly, and tightened his swings.

Midway through a match, a faint chime echoed in his mind:

|Skill Progress: Basic Swordsmanship (Lv 3 – 0%)|

Ren blinked, momentarily thrown off as his opponent's strike grazed his arm. He recovered quickly, his grip steadying as he realized the system had acknowledged his efforts.

The next match, Ren lasted longer. His blocks were sharper, his counters more deliberate. He still lost, but his opponents no longer dismissed him as a complete amateur. Each fight became a puzzle, and each loss taught him something new.

By the time his final opponent stepped into the circle, a compact, solidly built soldier with a determined glare, Ren felt the ache in every muscle. His arms were heavy, his legs trembling, but his mind was sharp.

The match began, and Ren moved with purpose. He remembered to keep his balance, to watch his opponent's shoulders for hints of movement. The compact soldier pressed hard, his strikes heavy and relentless, but Ren adapted. He dodged when he couldn't block, countered when he saw an opening, and adjusted his stance with every step.

When Ren finally disarmed his opponent with a swift, deliberate strike, the circle fell silent.

"Holy shit," one of the soldiers muttered. "He actually did it."

Another let out a low whistle. "Didn't think the kid had it in him."

The compact soldier stepped back, giving Ren a curt nod of respect before picking up his weapon.

Another chime echoed in his mind:

|Skill Progress: Basic Swordsmanship (Lv 4 – 0%)|

Ren exhaled shakily, the faintest flicker of satisfaction sparking in his chest. His body ached, his hands were raw, but he'd done it.

"Not bad, kid," the stocky man said from the side-lines, crossing his arms. "Still rough, but not bad. Wanna keep going?"

"Nah, if I do another fight, I'll fall over before I swing another blade," Ren joked, his legs wobbling as he struggled to keep himself standing.

He shakily made his way to the side, where several soldiers gave him pats on the back.

"Not bad," one said gruffly.

"Figured you'd quit after the first match," another added with a nod.

Ren managed a tired smile, leaning against a nearby stack of crates.

Ren leaned back against the crates, catching his breath as the soldiers moved around him. The pats on his back felt strange, encouraging, yes, but also tinged with an odd finality, like they weren't expecting much more from him in the future.

One thing stood out to him, though, as he glanced around the sparring field: there weren't any Earth benders here.

In fact, now that he thought about it, he hadn't seen many Earth benders in the communal areas or even in the medic tent where he'd woken up. The absence nagged at him.

Ren frowned, straightening slightly despite his protesting muscles. "Hey," he called out to the stocky soldier who had commented on his performance earlier.

The man looked over, raising an eyebrow. "What?"

Ren hesitated for a moment before asking, "Why did you guys think I'd quit after the first match?"

A few nearby soldiers chuckled, and the stocky man let out a short laugh. "Kid, no offense, but you're not exactly what we'd call durable. Most of the non-benders can't take more than one beating before they give up."

Ren narrowed his eyes. "Non-benders?"

The stocky soldier shrugged, gesturing around. "You don't see any Earth benders out here, do you? They don't need this kind of training. Most of them are out there in the real fights or handling the heavy lifting. Us? We're just here to make up the numbers."

Another soldier chimed in, leaning on his practice sword. "They call us 'the first line,' but you know what that really means, right? Cannon fodder. Keep the Fire Nation busy while the benders do the real damage."

Ren's stomach twisted at the casual way they said it, like it was just a fact of life. "That's why Commander Jiro's so hard on us," he said slowly, piecing it together.

"Exactly," the stocky man replied, crossing his arms. "If we're weak, we die fast. And if we die too fast, the Earth benders lose their shield. Jiro's job is to make sure we're not completely useless, even if it means beating it into us."

Ren clenched his fists, the weight of their words settling heavily in his chest. "So, what? We're just disposable to them?"

A murmur of agreement rippled through the soldiers nearby. The man leaning on his practice sword nodded. "Pretty much. Don't get me wrong, some Earth benders treat us like equals. But out here? Most of 'em just see us as tools. Jiro's no different. He might have even compared your achievements to some kids right Gwhahaha that's what he does to everyone. Out here Earth Benders are treated as the main soldiers, whether they be kids or grown adults while we are just meat shields."

The stocky soldier smirked faintly. "That's why it's funny watching you try so hard. Most guys like you quit after a few fights when they realize it doesn't change anything."

Ren's jaw tightened, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "Doesn't mean I'm gonna stop."

The soldier's smirk softened slightly, almost imperceptibly. "Well, good for you, kid. Just don't get your hopes up too high."

Ren sat in silence, the soldiers' words echoing in his mind. Around him, the sparring circle buzzed with activity, but it felt distant, muted, like he was listening from underwater.

Cannon fodder. Tools. Shields.

The words scratched at his thoughts, their weight pressing against the flicker of determination he'd felt earlier. His gaze wandered across the sparring field, the laughter and chatter of soldiers who seemed resigned to their role in this machine of war.

They don't care about us. They care about winning. About survival. But not ours.

Ren exhaled sharply, leaning forward as his elbows rested on his knees. The ache in his body was nothing compared to the frustration roiling in his chest.

I'm supposed to die for them? Just so they can take the glory while I rot in the dirt?

The injustice of it all twisted something deep inside him. He thought of Jiro's scorn, the Earth benders' absence from the sparring field, and the soldiers' resigned acceptance of their role as disposable pawns.

"This is bullshit," he muttered under his breath.

A few nearby soldiers glanced at him, but he didn't care. His mind was racing, the pieces falling into a picture he didn't want to see but couldn't ignore.

This is war. This is how it works. There's no fairness, no honour, just who can use who the best.

The realization hit like a cold slap to the face. He wasn't here because anyone believed in him or saw his potential. He was here because he was expendable.

Ren's jaw tightened as he stared at the ground.

Then why should I care about them? If they don't care about me, why should I risk my life for their cause?

It wasn't anger, it was clarity. The kind of clarity that came when the comforting lies peeled away and left the harsh truth exposed.

I'm not a hero. I'm not here to save anyone. If I'm going to survive this, it's going to be for me. Not for Jiro. Not for the Earth Kingdom. For me.

The thought felt foreign, selfish, and cold, but it felt right.

He pushed himself to his feet, his legs still shaky from the sparring matches. The other soldiers barely noticed him leave the circle, too caught up in their own training.

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A/N: Gimme stones and if by some miracle we reach 100. I give out an extra chapter. 

Also write more reviews ;-;. Gimme some criticism man. Defo not because I want the fic to have an actual rating. Oh heavens no. :)

Anyways jot down any questions you have in the comments. 

Toodles ~