The Essence Flow

Chapter 162: When The Sky Bleeds

The sky bleeds violet.

Essentia - that sacred lifeblood of the world - roils in the air like poisoned veins, its once-golden light now a sickening amethyst storm. The very oxygen burns with each ragged breath Towan drags into his ruined lungs.

He staggers forward, boots slipping in a mosaic of blood - his, theirs, everyone's. The metallic tang coats his tongue, thick as the smoke choking the ruins of the academy.

"Sylra—!"

His voice fractures against the silence.

She lies entombed in shattered stone, her glasses reduced to twisted wire frames clinging to her pale face. The fabled Auren blade - that masterpiece of silver alloy - lies snapped across her chest like a broken promise. Her fingers remain frozen in their final grip, clutching empty air where her tea set should have been.

"Alira! Look at me! Stay with—"

The fire mage slumps against what was once their classroom wall. One ember-bright eye has already dimmed to ash-gray. Her lips move - shaping his name, maybe, or a final joke - but the collapsing world steals her voice. The last wisp of her Essentia curls upward like a dying candle's sigh.

Then—

Elliot.

Standing unbowed in the hellstorm.

Back turned to Towan.

Face to face with the abomination made flesh.

The Corruptor's cloak billows as obsidian tendrils erupt from its form - each one a screaming void given shape. They lash the air, carving canyons into the earth itself.

Elliot doesn't move.

Doesn't brace.

Just exhales - one quiet breath fogging the bloodstained metal of his mask.

"Don't..." The words reach Towan through the maelstrom, clearer than they've any right to be. "...let them win."

The impact comes.

Not as sound.

Not as light.

As the universe itself cracking down its spine.

Towan jackknifes upright with a gasp so violent it feels like his ribs might crack. His lungs scream for air as if he's been drowning in that violet-tinged hellscape for hours rather than sleeping. Moonlight stripes the dorm room floor, painting Elliot's peacefully curled form in silver—alive, unharmed, infuriatingly oblivious.

"...What the hell."

The whisper tears from his raw throat. He stares at his trembling hands—no blood, no burns, no evidence of the horrors they'd just committed. Just clean skin and the faint callouses from hours of training.

(That wasn't a dream. What was that?)

His heartbeat refuses to slow down. Images flash behind his eyes: Sylra’s broken sword, Alira’s bloodied smile, Elliot facing something unseen with that calm, determined look.

(But that didn’t happen. Couldn’t have. They’re alive. They're here. They’re—)

Towan's fingers dig into his sternum, searching for the phantom wound that had torn through his chest moments ago. Nothing. Just sweat-slick skin and the relentless drum of his heartbeat.

"...Felt real enough."

The words taste like ash.

He doesn't bother lying back down. The window becomes his anchor—the real world's moonlight a fragile counterpoint to the burning purple skies still seared behind his eyelids. Somewhere between midnight and dawn, the line between memory and premonition blurs into something unrecognizable.

The library's usual musk of aged parchment and wood polish hung heavy as Elliot pushed through the oak doors, Lyris gliding silently at his side. Sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows, painting the study tables in fractured colors—one of which illuminated a sight that froze Elliot mid-step.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Towan.

Sitting.

Reading.

Elliot's fingers spasmed against the doorframe. "I-impossible." The whisper escaped like a condemned man's last prayer.

Lyris tilted her head, following his stricken gaze. "What's wrong?"

"That's—" Elliot's finger trembled toward the impossible scene. "How is Towan reading a book?!" His voice cracked on the last word, loud enough that several students shushed him.

Towan glanced up from his mountain of literature, casually flipping a page. "Yo Elliot." He waved with his free hand before diving back into Meteorological Anomalies of the Third Age. The other titles sprawled across the table whispered their ominous themes: The Violet Apocalypse, Essentia Corruption: When the Sky Bleeds

, The Corruptor's Genesis.Elliot's boots scuffed against the hardwood as he approached, his brain short-circuiting. "What... brings you here?"

Towan's thumb paused mid-page-turn. "Got bored of training." The lie slid out too smoothly, his usual boisterous energy suspiciously absent. The nightmare's grip still coiled around his ribs—Elliot's last words, the impact, that purple—but voicing it would make it too real.

Lyris' sharp eyes narrowed, scanning the book titles before relaxing into a smile. "Well... intellectual pursuits suit him, don't they?" She nudged Elliot.

"Y-yeah." Elliot nodded mechanically, but the back of his neck prickled. Towan would sooner chew glass than abandon the training field. Something was wrong.

And those books...

Why did their titles feel like a premonition?

Later That Day – Training Field

The training field buzzed with the usual afternoon energy - the smack of flesh on practice dummies, the rhythmic exhales of students drilling forms, the occasional yelp when a throw went wrong. But in the center of it all, Towan moved like a ghost had taken up residence in his body.

Every punch snapped out with mechanical precision. Every evasion started before his imaginary opponent even twitched. No playful feints. No laughter ringing across the field. Just the kind of clinical efficiency that comes from knowing exactly how many ways a body can break.

Sylra watches from the edge of the field.

“…That’s not how he usually moves,” she mutters.

Alira hugged her elbows, her usual grin nowhere to be seen. "Towan usually fights like a drunk monkey trying to hug everyone. This?" She nodded toward the field where Towan's bare fists left afterimages in the air. "This looks like someone counting ribs under their knuckles."

"Hey, Towan!" Alira's shout cut through the training noise. That half-second delay before he turned made her stomach drop.

"Wanna spar?"

The surrounding first-years instinctively backed up, creating an impromptu ring.

Towan rolled his shoulders - once, twice - the motion too measured, too controlled. "Sure."

The word hung between them, flat and heavy. No smirk. No challenge. Just quiet readiness that made Alira's fingers curl into fists she suddenly wasn't sure how to use

Towan would usually play defense - letting Alira test every flashy technique, grinning through the singed eyebrows and charred uniform sleeves. Today, his body thrummed with a different energy.

Alira recognized it the moment she took her stance. That coiled readiness wasn't Towan's usual loose-limbed anticipation. This was a predator's crouch.

She opened with her signature combo - three fireballs arcing through the training field's afternoon air. Towan didn't bat them aside with his usual showy palm strikes. Didn't even block.

He moved

.One sidestep. Two. A pivot so sharp it kicked up dust. Then he was there, closing the distance faster than Alira's fire could chase him.

(Oh SHI—)

Her palms slapped the dirt.

WHOOSH

A wall of flame erupted between them, hot enough to warp the air. Alira backflipped to safety, arms already stinging from the near-miss. (Close quarters=death right now—)

The fire died. Empty space stared back.

A single footstep crunched gravel to her left.

Towan was already airborne, his spinning kick trailing embers as it carved through her hastily conjured fire-shields. The impact sent her skidding backward, arms numb from the force.

Before her vision even cleared, she found Towan's fist frozen a hair's breadth from her nose.

No smirk. No quip. Just steady breathing and eyes that held too much knowledge of how this could have ended.

Alira remained frozen, arms still raised in a phantom guard. The ghost of Towan's fist lingered before her face like an unanswered question.

"Good match."

Towan's voice carried none of its usual playful edge as he walked away. No dramatic retelling of close calls. No exaggerated groaning about her improved technique. Just four flat syllables that hung in the air like smoke after an extinguished flame.

"I'll be alone for a while, ok?"

He didn't turn back. Didn't see how Alira's fingers slowly curled into trembling fists at her sides.

(Was the gap between us... always this vast?)

The thought carved itself into her ribs with cruel precision. All those past spars where he'd laughed through her attacks, where he'd pretended to struggle—had they been charity all along?

Sylra appeared at her side, pressing a cold water bottle into her hand. "I've seen almost every spar between you two," she said quietly. "That wasn't Towan fighting." She tilted her head toward the empty space where he'd stood moments ago. "That was someone fighting through him."

Alira finally lowered her arms, the heat of her fire essentia cooling to embers in her veins. She watched Towan's retreating back until he vanished around the corner, leaving only questions in his wake.

Professor Kaelin’s boots whispered against the training field’s packed earth as she approached. "Sylra?"

The silver-haired student turned, her braid swinging like a pendulum.

"Would you mind coming with me?" Kaelin’s voice carried that particular lilt—the one that wasn’t really a question.

Sylra glanced at Alira, who was still massaging her forearms from the spar. "Duty calls," she murmured, handing over the water bottle.

Alira waved her off with a weak smile. "Go on, genius. Don’t keep the brass waiting."