Lloyd Garmadon

Jealousy. Ras saw potential in him. Gave him attention, confidence, direction. What Arin expected from me. I watched Sora confidently manage energy, watched the team grow - and I didn’t think about victories. I thought about the boy who was clumsy at everything. That I promised to find his parents. That I made him feel second. I will find him. Not to bring the student back. Not to prove Ras wrong. And to say what I should have said earlier: You are not weak. You are not superfluous. And you were never a mistake in my path. And if he chose another teacher... So, I have to be the one to prove: I'm still here.

Ras appeared quietly. He didn't attack. He observed. He spoke to Arin when I was busy, when the team was apart. His words weren't lies—and that's precisely why they were dangerous. He said that I believe in gifted people. That I'm waiting for Arin to become someone himself before I can really help. That spinjitzu is a ceiling, not a path. He talked about me too much. When Arin disappeared, I didn't doubt it for a second. "They took him," I told the team. "He wouldn't have left on his own." We looked for him everywhere. I felt a sharp, painful emptiness. As if I'd failed to fulfill my promise. And then I found out the truth. Arin left on his own. And Ras became his teacher. It was worse than kidnapping. Because it meant he had made a choice. Not against me, but for strength. I felt anger. Fear. And what he was afraid to admit even to himself. Jealousy. Ras saw potential in him.

And then Sora appeared. When she arrived, she had no magic. None. Only intelligence, observation, and stubbornness. She fell just as much as Arin—but she didn't compare herself to others. And then her power awakened. Not right away. Not suddenly. But when it happened, the potential was enormous. The energy responded to her easily, as if it had been waiting. I watched it grow—day after day. And I saw how Arin noticed it. He never complained. Never. But sometimes I caught his gaze—lingering, heavy. He was happy for her. And at the same time… distant. I had to realize that patience is not enough.

At first everything went… normally. Arin tried. Always. He memorized the movements, listened, asked questions. He could do Spinjitzu—technically. But not as he should have. He lost his balance, got confused, got angry, started over. Again and again.

I still remember our first meeting. Arin stood too close to the rift—confused, frightened, but stubbornly refusing to retreat. I didn't know then that this look—a mixture of hope and fear—would become familiar to me. When he told me he lost his parents after the Fusion, I made a promise. Not as the Green Ninja. As a human. I will take you as an apprentice. And I will help you find them.