The Essence Flow

Chapter 152: The Queen Does Not Bow

The Queen straightened slowly. For the first time, her void-black mask seemed to... pulse.

Towan's neck crack echoed through the suddenly silent arena. "Round three?"

Then—

Two pinpricks of hellfire ignited behind the Queen's void-black mask.

Rellie shot upright, her chair clattering backward. Every hair on her arms stood rigid—that predatory crimson glow was impossible, yet there it was, pulsing in time with her own racing heartbeat.

Towan's boots scraped backward across the sand. (Crimson eyes?!) His stance morphed into Leon's reinforced guard—elbows tucked, forearms like iron gates.

The Queen blurred.

"IS THE QUEEN GOING TO FINISH THIS NOW?!” the announcer shrieked, his voice cracking mid-syllable.

Sylra's nails bit into the wooden railing, splinters embedding in her gloves. "She’s compressing essentia!," she murmured, her analytical tone fraying at the edges. "This isn't just acceleration—she's evolved."

The first kick hit like a siege weapon—Towan's X-block held, but the impact drove his boots six inches deeper into the arena floor. Dust plumed around them as the Queen leaned in, her whisper slithering through Towan's mask:

"Now..." Her next basic straight punch phased through his guard like a ghost. "...it's my turn..." A textbook hook bent around his raised arms. "...to play." Each word punctuated by another impossible strike.

"THE CHALLENGER'S DEFENSE IS IMPECABLE—WAIT, HOW IS THE QUEEN STILL HITTING HIM?!”

Towan's breath came in ragged gasps as another jab materialized inside

his elbow block. (What kind of nightmare logic is this?!) His usually fluid movements turned jerky—panic and confusion bleeding into his footwork. (How does she know where my blocks will be at?!)Across the arena, Elliot's knuckles turned white around Len's wrist. "She's not just predicting him anymore..."

Len's teacup slipped from numb fingers. "...She's reading him."

The Queen's crimson eyes burned brighter with each connected strike, painting afterimages in the thick air.

Towan's back hit the arena wall, dust showering from the impact. His chest heaved as he glared at the approaching Queen—her crimson eyes burning through the black mask like bloody stars.

"Fuck it." He spat out a mouthful of copper-tanged saliva. "Forgive me, Elliot."

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The stance shift was subtle but unmistakable—right foot sliding back, left arm coiling like a spring, fingers curling into that distinctive half-claw Elliot had practiced ten thousand times. Right hand closed down to his waist, concentrating essentia

Elliot's mask nearly flew off as he jolted upright. "That bastard!" The words burst out equal parts furious and proud. Beneath the ceramic, his grin threatened to crack his face. "He's attempting Thunder-Strike! That's my—!" His voice cracked. "That's my move, you plagiarizing dumpster fire!"

Towan's muscles trembled with the strain of channeling essentia in a pattern he'd only witnessed. (Don't need finesse... just one clean hit...) His usual whirlwind precision abandoned for raw, single-minded power.

The Queen paused. Her fingers curled in a mocking invitation. "Come on." The words dripped with condescension. "Try it. If you dare."

Towan's vision tunneled. The arena noise faded. All that remained was the pulse in his ears and those glowing crimson eyes.

"Yeah." His voice dropped to a predator's growl. "I will."

The Queen's crimson eyes flared as she launched forward—a textbook straight punch humming toward Towan's solar plexus.

Towan braced, every muscle coiling for the collision.

The Thunder-Strike tore from his fist in a jagged arc of blue-white energy. Imperfect. Unrefined. But violent

. The air itself shrieked as the shockwave rippled outward——only to meet empty space.

"OH SWEET MERCIFUL—SHE BAITED HIM!" the announcer howled.

The Queen's body flowed around the energy blast, her spin so fluid it seemed to defy physics. Towan's eyes widened behind his mask. (Oh shi—)

Her elbow connected with his temple in a crack of splitting mask ceramic.

The impact lifted Towan clean off his feet. For one weightless moment, he hung suspended—spittle and blood arcing through the torchlight—before the stone wall rose to meet him in a crater of shattered rock.

"DOWN GOES THE CHALLENGER! THE QUEEN'S COUNTER WAS ABSOLUTELY SAVAGE!"

The dust settled like a shroud over the arena. Len's teacup slipped from numb fingers, shattering on the stones below. "Towan... lost?" The words tasted foreign on her tongue.

Alira's hands hovered halfway to a cheer that never came. "I didn't... expect this." Her voice wavered between awe and horror.

Sylra adjusted her cracked glasses with mechanical precision. "Statistical probability favored him if he'd employed full aggression from the initial—"

Elliot's laugh cut through the murmurs—sharp, brittle, and utterly humorless. The sound of a brother who'd just witnessed the impossible.

Only Rellie remained silent. Her crimson eyes tracked the Queen's movements with laser focus. That lingering gaze hadn't been accidental. The Queen wanted her to see. Needed her to know.

"AND STILL UNDEFEATED! YOUR REIGNING, RUTHLESS, ABSOLUTELY TERRIFYING QUEEN!" The announcer's voice cracked with hysterical admiration.

The victor bowed with theatrical grace, then strode toward Towan's crumpled form. Her fingers—delicate as porcelain—hovered before his mask.

"Get up, sweetie." The mocking lilt sent an electric jolt down Towan's spine. That voice. That tone. Somewhere in the haze of pain, memory flickered like a dying candle. “I’m no princess.” She said with a smile behind the mask “I’m the Queen”

Towan grasped her hand. The contrast was jarring—her grip felt like it might snap in his calloused palm, not the same force that had just hammered him through stone.

As she turned to leave, the Queen paused. Just for a heartbeat. Her crimson gaze burned into Towan first—a silent challenge—before slicing toward Rellie. The air between them crackled with unspoken recognition.

Then she was gone, swallowed by the roaring crowd.

Towan stared at his trembling hands. "Who the hell...?" The question dissolved into the blood on his lips. That voice. Those eyes. The way she'd looked at Rellie.

Somewhere in the fractured pieces of his memory, the answer lurked. Just out of reach as he didn’t remember properly.