The Essence Flow

Chapter 154: Not Who. Why

Next day, Calo was stalking—

Or, as he preferred to call it: investigating.

He crouched behind a tree near the east training yard, notebook in hand, eyes peeking through the leaves like a woodland cryptid. On the field ahead, a group of First-Class girls moved through combat drills, their strikes crisp and Essentia-precise.

“Hmmm…”

He scribbled:

Sylra: still too tall. Flow too clean.

Len: almost too kind to be the Queen. But that redirect on the axe throw… hmm.

Alira: chaotic, loud, but focused. Maybe faking the volume to throw people off??

Then:

None of them move like her.

Calo sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He was about to shift position when—

“I didn’t know you were into this.”

“OH SHI—!”

He whipped around, half-leaping back into the tree trunk.

“…Oh. It’s you.”

Sera Vellmont stood behind him with her hands clasped behind her back, tilting slightly like she’d been standing there a while. She wore her usual third-class uniform, hair neat, eyes catching the sunlight like polished silver. Her smile was gentle. Maybe a little too gentle.

(Sera Vellmont… she’s been my friend since I entered Third Class. Sweet. Supportive. Always calm.)

(Should I tell her about the fight club?)

"...I'm doing research," he said, trying not to sound breathless. "For, uh... a report."

She arched an eyebrow. “A report that requires spying on first-class girls through bushes?”

“Investigating, actually.” He held up the notebook like it was a license. “It’s for a personal project.”

Sera leaned in, her eyes glinting beneath the silver lenses. “Calo… are you trying to figure out who she is?”

He froze.

“…who?”

She grinned. “The Queen.”

Calo nearly swallowed his tongue. “You—how do you know about that?!”

“I know everything, remember?” she said lightly, poking his notebook with one finger. “Everyone’s been talking since last night. Kind of hard to ignore when Towan ends up cratered into a wall.”

Calo exhaled, pressing the notebook against his chest. “Yeah… I was there. I saw the whole thing.”

“And?”

He blinked. “And?”

She leaned a little closer. “What do you think of her?”

Something in her tone had changed. Still warm… but now with a sharpness behind it. A knife wrapped in lace.

Calo scratched the back of his neck. “She’s… terrifying. And beautiful. I mean—her fighting. Her fighting is beautiful. Like, not her face. I haven’t seen her face, obviously. Not that she’s ugly. Probably not. I mean, statistically—”

Sera held up a hand, laughing softly. “Relax. You’re allowed to be fascinated.”

Calo slumped, letting his forehead rest on his notebook. “I just… I want to understand how she fights. She was moving like she knew what Towan was doing before he did it.”

“She did,” Sera said, too quickly.

Calo lifted his head.

“...What?”

“Nothing,” she smiled again, shifting her weight. “Just guessing. Intuition, maybe.”

There was a pause. Then Sera cocked her head to the side.

“You know…” she said slowly, “if you really want to understand her, maybe stop watching people who fight like you expect her to.”

Calo frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sera just shrugged and turned to leave. “Just a thought.”

Then, as she walked away—almost as an afterthought—she added over her shoulder:

“Sometimes the best masks are the ones people don’t even realize are there.”

Calo stared after her, goosebumps crawling up his arms.

He opened his notebook and, after a moment’s hesitation, flipped to the last page.

Beneath his list of suspects, he scrawled:

New Name: Sera Vellmont (?)

Too kind. Too quiet. Too perfect.

“Knows too much.”

He underlined the last part twice.

Then circled it.

Calo sat cross-legged on his bunk, half-buried under open notebooks, wrinkled flyers, and three separate pencils he'd chewed down to stubs. His fingers drummed erratically on the mattress, tapping a rhythm only conspiracy theorists and caffeine addicts could understand.

His eyes drifted back to the line he’d written twice already, the ink slightly darker from how long he'd stared at it:

Crimson eyes.

He flipped to a fresh page.

Queen’s eyes: Glowed red. Confirmed.

He pressed his pen down harder.

Only one student has crimson eyes at this academy.

Rellie. First-Class. Quiet. Dagger-user. Present at the match.

He stared at the list.

(It doesn’t make sense… I saw her watching. She couldn’t have been in the ring and in the crowd.)

Unless…

“Does she have any family?” he muttered aloud, eyes scanning the room like the air might answer.

He jotted down:

Twin? Sister? Clone? Essentia illusion?

No records of other crimson-eyed students.

He slammed the notebook shut, rubbing his temples.

Great. Now I sound like a lunatic.

The door creaked open.

“Yo,” Veik said, sticking his head inside. “You coming to dinner or evolving into a notebook goblin?”

Calo blinked. “I need your opinion.”

Veik raised an eyebrow. “On?”

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“The Queen.”

Veik sighed, stepped in, and flopped onto the opposite bunk. “You’re still obsessed with her? Bro, she’s not your soulmate. She’s your trauma.”

“I need to figure this out,” Calo said, flipping open his journal to the red-eye notes. “I swear I saw her eyes glow crimson mid-fight. You remember anyone else in the school with that eye color?”

Veik frowned. “Just that quiet girl from First Class… what’s her name… Rellie?”

Calo pointed at him. “Exactly.”

“But she was at the fight, wasn’t she?”

“Yes!” Calo groaned. “I saw her standing near Elliot when the Queen looked right at her.”

“So… sisters?”

“No records. No mentions. No one’s even hinted she has family here. And no one else in the student body has red eyes.”

Veik blinked. “Wait—have you… checked?”

“Of course I’ve checked!”

“You checked the entire academy for red eyes?”

“Yes!”

Veik stared for a long moment. “You are very single.”

Calo glared. “Look. I’m not saying it’s Rellie. I’m just saying, nothing else fits. I’m back to stage one.”

Veik stretched his arms overhead. “Well. Only one thing to do when logic breaks down.”

Calo raised an eyebrow. “Go insane?”

“Worse.” Veik grinned. “Go back. Round two tonight. Masked duels.”

Calo hesitated. “What if she recognizes me?”

Veik snorted. “You? Bro, you haven’t even stepped in the ring. You’re just the nerd in the rafters who breathes too loud.”

Calo gave a long, tired sigh. “…Fair.”

Veik patted his shoulder. “Come on. Maybe she’ll fight again. Maybe you’ll get answers. Or maybe she’ll elbow someone into a wall again and we’ll both scream like toddlers.”

Calo opened his notebook, uncapped a fresh pen, and wrote one final line across the top of the page:

Second Encounter – Tonight. Bring veil. Bring notebook. Bring nerve.

The old stables pulsed with Essentia and adrenaline.

Calo adjusted his borrowed mask for the fourth time that night, watching a hulking second-year flip his opponent into the chalk wall with a CRACK that rattled his spine. The crowd roared in delight, their masked faces illuminated by flickering torchlight and Essentia-fueled lanterns suspended from the rafters.

“Alright,” Veik said through a mouthful of something crunchy and suspiciously spicy. “That’s five matches and zero sightings of our horror-movie heroine.”

Calo didn't respond. His notebook sat balanced on his knees, filled with quick notes, half-formed diagrams, and one slightly smudged sketch of the Queen’s mask with the words “WHERE R U??” scribbled underneath.

He scanned the crowd. No black mask. No haunting crimson eyes. Just a blur of bruises, shouting, and cheap victory poses.

“Maybe she’s done,” Veik said. “Maybe she ascended to some higher plane where people fight using eye contact and sarcasm alone.”

“Or maybe,” Calo muttered, “she’s watching. Waiting.”

Veik gave him a sideways glance. “You sound like you’re in love.”

Calo glared. “I sound like I watched someone fold Towan like laundry.”

A new match began—some cloaked speedster versus a brawler with shockwave boots. The fight lasted longer than expected. The crowd whooped. Someone spilled tea on someone else. Veik won a small bag of trail mix in a side bet and offered none of it to Calo.

Still no Queen.

Match seven came and went.

Match eight got interrupted when one student fainted from nerves before the bell rang.

Match nine was technically impressive but left Calo yawning behind his mask.

“Maybe she’s gone,” he muttered, leaning back on the upper rafters.

“Maybe she heard you were watching and decided to spare your fragile heart,” Veik replied, crunching dramatically.

Calo didn’t answer.

Because just then—

The torches dimmed.

No one touched them. No one called it out.

But one by one, the Essentia lanterns hanging from the rafters flickered, like the air itself had inhaled sharply.

The crowd hushed, like a choir holding its breath.

A familiar scrape echoed through the arena—boots against stone, deliberate, soft, final.

Calo sat bolt upright.

No way.

From the shadowed archway, she stepped forward.

Same void-black mask. Same deliberate silence. Her daggers weren’t even drawn—just glinting faintly beneath her cloak like sleeping predators.

“She’s back,” Calo breathed.

The announcer, for once, didn’t scream.

He whispered—voice thick with reverence:

“And now… our final match of the night.

The undefeated.

The silent storm.

The Queen returns.”

The crowd didn’t cheer.

They recoiled.

Like something sacred had entered the ring.

The challenger—a cocky third-year with a custom curved blade and enough flair to choreograph a musical—froze mid-spin.

“...Wait. I'm fighting her?”

Too late.

The Queen stopped at center ring, tilting her head like a question.

The announcer cleared his throat.

“Challenger… you may begin.”

Calo didn't blink.

His pen hovered over the page like it was afraid to touch down.

Don’t miss it this time.

Veik leaned forward, crunch forgotten.

“Alright,” he whispered. “Let’s see what your nightmare girlfriend’s got.”

Calo didn’t speak.

Because deep down, he knew.

This time, it wasn’t just a fight.

It was a message.

Calo’s pen hovered above the page.

Below, the challenger was already sweating—literally. His curved blade trembled in his grip, flashy Essentia glyphs pulsing along the metal like they were trying to escape. He was older. Stronger. More experienced.

It wouldn’t matter.

The Queen didn’t move.

Not yet.

Calo flipped to a new page, labeled it in shaky lettering:

Queen – Duel #2 Observation Log

0:04 seconds in – Challenger circles. The Queen doesn’t follow with her head.

Tracking him with peripheral vision only? OR full-field awareness?

0:11 – Challenger feints left, cuts in with a low slash.

The Queen steps sideways—not back.

She glides like friction forgot to apply.

Unbroken posture. No Essentia flare. Is she even enhancing?

0:17 – Her hands lift slightly.

Not to block. Not to strike.

Just to exist in the space between his intention and her response.

He panics, pulls back.

She moved exactly enough to make him hesitate. Weapon = psychological.

0:29 – He goes for a real swing—wide, fast, reckless.

The Queen leans. Just leans.

His blade whooshes past her mask by an inch.

Still hasn’t drawn her daggers. Some say they’re fake. Not fake. She just doesn’t need them.

Veik leaned in beside him, whispering, “She’s not fighting him. She’s… teaching him a lesson.”

Calo scribbled:

Queen's philosophy: If you swing without purpose, I won't even bother blocking.

0:37 – She flicks her wrist.

The challenger’s sword arm jerks back—he stumbles.

Pressure point? Micro-parry?

No one sees her palm make contact.

But everyone hears the sound of his blade clattering to the stone.

The Queen steps closer.

She still hasn’t drawn her weapons.

0:41 – Challenger lunges bare-handed. Desperate.

She twists—not spinning. Not flashy. A shoulder rotation.

His feet leave the ground.

The crowd gasps as he lands on his back with a thud that echoes like a gong.

0:50 – She steps back. One pace.

She bows.

Fight’s over.

Calo’s hand cramped from how fast he’d written.

She never draws her blades. Doesn’t need to.

Her body is the weapon.

Every limb = precision-engineered. Every breath = threat.

He underlined:

ZERO WASTED MOVEMENT.

The Queen turned—calmly—and walked toward the shadows.

Just before the archway swallowed her, she paused.

Tilted her head.

Her gaze—straight up.

To the rafters.

To Calo.

Their eyes didn’t meet. They collided.

Two glowing pinpricks of crimson light beneath that void-black mask.

Calo’s heart stopped. His pen dropped.

She raised one hand. Just a single finger.

Pressed it to her mask’s lips.

Shhh.

Then she was gone.

Veik’s voice cracked beside him. “Did she just—?”

“She saw me,” Calo whispered.

Then he picked up his pen again, his fingers trembling, and wrote only one word on the page:

“Why?”

“Dude,” Veik said, elbowing Calo in the ribs as they walked back through the moonlit stone paths toward the dorms. “You got hit with it bad.”

“I’m fine,” Calo muttered, eyes glued to the ground.

“No, no, no—you got it real bad. I know the signs. I’ve seen this before.”

“Veik—”

“You’re not investigating her anymore,” he said, pointing dramatically. “You’re yearning.”

Calo stopped in the middle of the path. “I’m not—!”

“‘Her dodges were elegant,’” Veik quoted, voice high and fluttery. “‘She bowed like an ancient poem.’” He clutched his chest. “‘Her eyes… understood me.’”

“I never said that!”

“You didn’t have to! You looked like you were about to jump off the balcony and propose with a notebook ring!”

Calo groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I just want to understand how she fights, okay?”

“Uh-huh.” Veik nodded solemnly. “And I want to understand why I keep eating expired cafeteria burritos. Doesn’t mean it’s healthy.”

They turned the corner—only to pause as a figure stepped out of the courtyard shadows.

Rellie.

She stood beneath the academy’s silverleaf tree, arms crossed, her crimson eyes reflecting the moonlight like twin lanterns. She wasn’t looking at them—just up, toward the swaying branches. Thoughtful. Still.

Veik stiffened.

Calo blinked once. Twice.

Then—before he could talk himself out of it—he stepped forward.

(Okay Calo. Play it cool. Not suspicious. Just casual curiosity about whether she’s maybe a legendary underground fighter with a god-tier murder record.)

“Hey,” he said, voice cracking. “Uh. Rellie?”

She looked at him slowly. “Yes?”

He swallowed. “Do you, um… know anything about the Queen of the Masked Duels?”

Her crimson eyes blinked once.

Then again.

“I’ve heard of her,” she said. “Why?”

Calo scratched his neck. “I… I saw her fight. Twice. She’s—she’s terrifying. She fights like she doesn’t need weapons. Like she’s not reacting—she’s remembering. And her eyes…”

He trailed off, catching the faintest flicker of tension in her jaw.

“Her eyes were red,” he finished. Quiet now.

Rellie tilted her head. “You think it was me?”

“No! I mean—no. You were there. Watching. I saw you.”

Silence.

Then Rellie shrugged.

“I don’t know who she is,” she said. “But I think… maybe she doesn’t want to be found.”

That stopped Calo cold.

Rellie walked past him, then paused and looked over her shoulder.

“Would you keep chasing her even if you knew she didn’t want to be caught?”

Calo opened his mouth.

Closed it.

He didn’t know.

Not really.

Rellie smiled faintly. “Then maybe don’t ask who she is. Ask why she’s wearing the mask.”

She disappeared into the shadows before he could respond.

Veik stepped up beside him. “So… that wasn’t ominous at all.”

Calo stood there for a long moment, then quietly pulled out his notebook.

Flipped to the last page.

And wrote:

New question:

Not who.

Not how.

But why.