The Essence Flow

The night air was sharp against Rellie’s skin as she stood outside the dorms, the chaos of the rebellion muffled behind thick stone walls. Beside her, Ryn shifted uncomfortably, his usual stoicism fraying at the edges.

She wanted to ask—why help me?—but the answer hummed between them before the words could form. Guilt. Heavy and unspoken.

Why, though? They weren’t close. They’d barely exchanged nods in the halls.

Then it clicked.

(He’s from the slums, right?)

The realization settled like a weight. Countless possibilities unfolded in her mind—a past where he’d watched and done nothing, where violence had festered unchecked. She didn’t need to ask. The truth was in the tension of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed around his dagger hilt.

"Thanks," Rellie said finally, the words carried away by the breeze.

Ryn exhaled, shoulders loosening just slightly. "No problem." A pause. "I woke up to a fire near my room—" He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting away. "Turns out someone was testing elemental weapons. Lost control."

"I see."

She didn’t press. Ryn was trying too hard—forcing a casual tone, like he was stepping into a role that didn’t quite fit. But she played along.

"I thought you’d be with them," she admitted, nodding toward his daggers. "Wouldn’t it benefit you too?"

Ryn’s mouth quirked, something almost like relief flickering in his gaze. "I could say the same." He gestured to her own blade, the motion looser now. "But then, I’m not First Class."

"Well..." Rellie allowed herself a small smile. "I am."

For a moment, the night felt lighter—a fragile peace woven between them, thin as spider silk but just as strong.

"I don’t agree with what they’re doing," Ryn muttered, scuffing his boot against the cobblestones. "They should’ve known how... traditional the Academy is." He shrugged, but his grip on his dagger tightened. "Though it’d be nice if they allowed weapons properly..."

His voice trailed off, gaze dropping to the ground. The silence stretched, thick with something unspoken.

Then—

"Hey... Rellie."

She felt it before he even spoke—guilt, sharp and fresh, aimed at her this time.

"What is it?" she asked, already knowing.

Ryn’s jaw worked, words sticking in his throat. "I’m sorry."

"For what?" She tilted her head, feigning ignorance, though her empathy had already painted the picture.

"The entrance exam." His voice was rough, like gravel. "When I tried to take your flag—even though you couldn’t defend yourself." A shaky exhale. "I was wrong. And I... I don’t know what I was thinking. I just wanted—" His hands flexed. "—a chance so badly, I didn’t care who I stepped on."

Rellie moved to place a hand on his shoulder—then paused, eyeing the height difference. Instead, she settled for a firm pat on his back.

"Don’t worry," she said, cutting off his spiral. "I get it. You didn’t mean anything bad."

Ryn’s breath hitched. His eyes glazed, shimmering under the moonlight—tears he’d never admit to. For the first time, someone understood. Not just excused, but understood.

"Thanks," he whispered.

Then—

BOOM.

The forest erupted in a fireball, the shockwave rattling the ground beneath them. Both whirled toward the blaze, peace shattered in an instant.

Alira descended the stairs to the Third-Class boys' wing, her boots scuffing against the stone steps—until the sound of labored breathing and taunts cut through the silence.

She rounded the corner to find chaos frozen in a snapshot of pain and arrogance:

Calo, clutching his left shoulder, fingers slick with blood that dripped steadily onto the floor. His face was pale, but his jaw was set—more pissed than panicked.

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Veik, standing protectively in front of him, fists raised but trembling slightly, his usual deadpan replaced by raw, untested nerves.

And facing them—

Blare and Park, their grins wide and vicious, weapons gleaming under the flickering hallway torches. Blare twirled his axe lazily, the purple glow from its grip pulsing like a heartbeat.

"Told you you didn’t have a chance against us," Blare sneered, taking a step forward.

Alira didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But the air around her warped, the temperature spiking in an instant.

(Bet they need a bit of help.)

A spark flickered at her fingertips.

Veik’s voice cracked through the hallway, raw with defiance. "You... bastard!"

Blare’s grin only widened, his axe already in motion—a brutal, arcing swing aimed straight for Veik’s ribs—

"CROUCH!" Park’s shout was a whip-crack of panic.

Blare barely had time to react before a searing fireball shot past his face, close enough to scorch the tips of his hair, the stench of burnt strands curling in the air. He staggered back, eyes wild.

"Who the hell—? Oh, shit."

His gaze snapped to the stairs.

Alira stood there, one hand still glowing with embers, the other tucked casually in her pocket. The flickering torchlight painted her in shadows and gold, her smile sharp as a knife.

Park swallowed hard. "A First-Class..."

"What’re you guys doing?" Alira tilted her head, her tone almost playful. Then, her grin vanished—her expression hardening into something deadly.

"Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?"

Alira’s gaze locked onto Veik, her eyes sharp with unspoken command.

"Take your friend and get out of here," she said, tilting her chin toward the exit. Her voice was calm, but beneath it thrummed the low, dangerous heat of a lit fuse. "I’ll catch up."

Veik didn’t hesitate. A quick nod—"Thanks"—and he hauled Calo’s arm over his shoulder, half-dragging, half-supporting him as they retreated. Blood smeared the floor in their wake, a trail of defiance.

Blare twitched forward, axe raised—instinct screaming to chase—but Park’s hand snapped out, gripping his wrist.

"Don’t," Park muttered. "She’s the problem now."

Alira didn’t watch them go. Instead, she stepped smoothly into the space Veik had occupied moments before, her boots scuffing lightly against the stone. The air around her warped, heat radiating in visible waves.

Then—she smiled.

It wasn’t friendly.

"Should we start?"

Alira wasn’t in the mood to play.

An explosion had rocked the academy moments ago—too violent, too precise to be student work. Something was wrong. The realization sent a cold ripple down her spine, cutting through her usual battle-lust.

No time to waste.

Park and Blare struck as one—Blare’s axe carving a wide, decapitating arc, while Park’s dagger thrust like a viper for her gut.

Alira leapt back, hitting the ground with her palms flat—

"Haa—!"

A ring of fire erupted outward, a blazing shockwave that sent both attackers reeling. They staggered, clothes singed, skin reddening—but their weapons pulsed brighter, the eerie purple glow intensifying as if feeding off the damage.

(What the hell—?)

Alira’s eyes narrowed. No time to puzzle it out. Fire coiled around her fists, snapping like hungry wolves.

She hurled a compact fireball at Blare—small, but dense with force. He barely caught it on his axe, the impact screeching through the metal. But the fire didn’t vanish. Instead, it pushed, relentless, flames licking up the haft as Blare skidded backward, boots scraping against stone.

Alira didn’t watch.

She was already moving—closing the gap between her and Park in a single, fluid stride.

(She’s too fast—!)

The realization hit Park like a bucket of ice water. Until now, he’d been cutting through Third-Class students—overwhelming them with sheer aggression and numbers. But Alira?

She moved fast

His dagger lashed out in a desperate slash, but she was already underneath it, her body coiled tight before unleashing a piston-straight punch directly into his jaw.

CRACK.

The impact snapped his head back, teeth clacking together as his vision whited out for a split second. His body lifted off the ground, weightless—

THUD.

He hit the stone floor hard, the sound echoing down the hallway like a gavel strike. His dagger clattered away, skittering out of reach as his limbs twitched uselessly, nerves still stunned from the blow.

Across the room, Blare finally regained his footing, his axe’s purple glow flickering erratically—as if even it was struggling to keep up.

"HOW COULD YOU!!"

Blare's roar tore through the hallway, raw and unglued, his voice cracking under the weight of fury and betrayal. His grip on the axe trembled, the purple glow flaring wildly as if feeding off his rage.

He swung—a reckless, wide arc, every ounce of his strength behind it.

Alira didn’t even blink.

She sidestepped, the axe whistling past her harmlessly, then launched herself into the air, her body twisting into a perfect flying kick. Her heel slammed into his chest with a sickening thud, the impact searing through fabric and flesh alike.

CRACK.

The force lifted him off his feet, sending him hurtling backward until his spine collided with the wall, stone splintering under the blow. He slumped to the ground, limbs splayed, the axe clattering from his limp grip.

His t-shirt bore a smoldering, fist-sized hole, edges still curling with embers. Beneath it, his skin blistered an angry red.

Alira landed lightly, tilting her head as she studied him.

"Huh. That was… easy."

She nudged the discarded axe with her foot. "He definitely had the strength."

A pause. Her fingers tapped her chin, bemused.

"Why let emotions screw up a good fight?"

As if in answer, the last remnants of the axe’s purple glow flickered—and died.