The Essence Flow

Chapter 169: One Mind, Two Bodies

The Second Year struck first—a blinding horizontal slash, his blade carving a silver arc through the air. A textbook opener. A move meant to cleave through both of them at once—Towan’s ribs, Elliot’s throat—before they could react.

But then—

Towan leaped.

Not just a jump—an explosive burst upward, his body twisting mid-air as the blade passed harmlessly beneath his boots. At the same exact moment, Elliot dropped, his knees bending like a collapsing spring, the sword’s edge whistling over his head.

A perfect split-second dodge.

And then—the counter.

Towan’s tornado kick came like a scythe—his leg whipping around in a brutal, spinning arc aimed straight for the attacker’s temple. At the same time, Elliot uncoiled from his crouch, his fist driving forward in a piston-straight punch, knuckles seeking the soft space between ribs.

(Shit—!)

The Second Year barely had time to react. His sword jerked up to block Towan’s kick—steel meeting shin with a metallic clang—while his other arm crossed his body, forearm bracing against Elliot’s punch. The impact sent him skidding back, boots scraping against the floor.

(They weren’t kidding… These two really are monsters.)

(I better show what I can do too)

The Second Year moved faster than the brothers expected—blurring forward like a gust of wind, his blade a silver streak aimed straight for Elliot’s shoulder. A surgical thrust, honed to cripple. Against any normal student—even a Third Year—it would have ended the fight right there.**

But something was off.

The swordsman’s instincts screamed at him. This wasn’t a battle against two fighters. It was like facing one mind split between two bodies, moving in terrifying sync.

Elliot didn’t even flinch. At the last possible second, he sidestepped, the blade whispering past his collar. Before the swordsman could recover, Elliot’s elbow cracked upward like a hammer, slamming into his sword arm—a brutal disarm strike.

Towan, still landing from his kick, twisted mid-air, his foot already lashing out in a low, sweeping kick—aimed to take the swordsman’s legs out from under him.

The Second Year’s free hand snatched Elliot’s elbow, arresting the blow mid-motion. At the same time, he leaped, clearing Towan’s sweep with barely an inch to spare.

No pause. No hesitation.

Mid-air, he wrenched his sword down in a vicious overhead slash, aiming to split Towan from shoulder to hip.

Towan barely avoided being split in half—the sword's edge shaving a lock of hair from his forehead as he threw himself backward, rolling across the floor. The blade thunked into the wood where his head had been a second before.

Elliot struck like lightning.

Before the Second Year could recover, Elliot's hand clamped around his sword wrist, fingers digging into pressure points. At the same time, his other arm hooked the attacker's elbow—trapping the blade—as his knee cannoned upward into the ribs. A sickening crack echoed through the hall.

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But the Second Year wasn't done.

With a snarling twist, he wrenched his wrist free—a practiced disarm escape—and in the same motion, slammed his sword's pommel straight into Elliot's jaw. The impact snapped Elliot's head back, sending him stumbling, vision swimming.

For one dangerous moment, it was just Towan.

The Second Year spun his blade into a reverse grip, eyes locking onto his now-solo target. The hallway seemed to narrow, the air humming with tension.

Towan's eyes hardened—no cocky grin, no taunt. Just cold focus. He planted his feet, muscles coiled like springs. Just a few more seconds. Buy time.

The Second Year struck.

His blade flashed high—a silver arc aimed at Towan's neck—but then—

A feint.

At the last possible millisecond, his wrist flicked, redirecting the slash low, aiming to sever Towan's hamstring. A move that would cripple any normal fighter.

But Towan wasn't normal.

His body moved before his mind fully processed the change. A explosive front-flip, his legs tucking tight as the blade whispered beneath him, cutting nothing but air. And as he reached the apex of his flip—

He dropped like a guillotine.

His heel slammed downward in a brutal axe kick, aimed straight for the collarbone. The Second Year barely got his arm up in time, cross-blocking with his forearm—but the impact crunched through his guard like a hammer. His knees buckled, boots skidding back a full step.

What the hell—?!

This wasn't just raw strength. Towan's kick carried the full momentum of his flip, turning his entire body into a weapon. The Second Year's arm throbbed, fingers twitching around his sword grip.

The moment Elliot’s palms slammed into the floorboards, the air itself seemed to hum with tension.

"Take the potatoes out of the ground!"

A farming technique—repurposed for war.

The ground rippled, shockwaves surging forward in a violent tremor, cracking wood and upturning tiles. The Second Year’s eyes flared—instincts screaming—as he launched himself upward, barely avoiding the destabilizing quake.

But Towan was already moving.

Like a predator anticipating its prey’s escape, he lunged, arms locking around the Second Year’s torso in a vice-like bear hug. Muscles strained, tendons bulging—no technique, just raw, relentless force.

"You—!"

The Second Year’s snarl choked off as the air crushed from his lungs, his sword arm pinned uselessly at his side.Elliot didn’t hesitate.

A single, explosive push-off—then he was airborne, knee driving forward like a piston. The impact cracked against the Second Year’s jaw, bone meeting bone with brutal finality.

For a suspended second, the world held its breath.

Then—collapse.

The body dropped like a sack of armor—face-first into the floorboards—already out cold.

Silence.

Then—They sighed

"He wasn’t bad at all, huh."

Towan cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders as adrenaline still hummed in his veins. The unconscious Second Year lay sprawled at their feet—breathing, but decisively beaten.

Elliot exhaled sharply, wiping a smear of dirt from his jaw. "Yeah. With this level, he could definitely be First Class." His fingers pressed briefly against his ribs—testing for damage—before settling on his hips.

A beat. Then—

Towan grinned.

"We still got it."

Elliot didn’t smile. Not fully. But the corner of his mouth twitched—just enough."Of course we do."

His gaze flicked past Towan, toward the dormitory exit. The hallway stretched beyond, shadows pooling where the lamplight didn’t reach.

"I’ll go check on Lyris," he said, already stepping away. "She said she’d be in the library tonight."

Towan’s elbow jabbed into Elliot’s ribs—a merciless, brotherly nudge."How romantic," he drawled, smirk widening.

Elliot didn’t dignify it with a reaction. "Shut up."

"Then I’ll go look for the others." Towan’s tone shifted, just slightly, as his eyes lifted to the window. The sky beyond the glass swirled with unnatural hues—deep violets and sickly greens, like a bruise against the night. "And see what the hell’s wrong out there."