The Essence Flow

Chapter 170: Divide And Conquer

The courtyard crackled with energy—Jyn’s lightning splitting the air in jagged arcs, meeting Deyar’s glacial strikes in bursts of steam and frost. Midnight painted the scene in shades of blue and white, their sparring the only movement in the stillness—until shadows began to slip into the dormitories.

Deyar pulled back, his next ice spear dissolving mid-air as his eyes tracked the rebels. "Shouldn’t we step in?" His breath misted, blending with the lingering frost.

Jyn didn’t pause. A whip of lightning snapped toward Deyar’s ribs, forcing him to block with a shield of ice. "Why would we?" Static danced along Jyn’s knuckles as he smirked. "We clawed our way to the top. These clowns? They’re just kicking and screaming."

Deyar’s brow furrowed. "People could get hurt."

"Not our problem." Jyn lunged, lightning coiling around his fist like a live wire. Deyar barely dodged, the charge searing the edge of his sleeve. "Besides—" Jyn’s eyes flicked toward the dorms, "—let the ‘heroes’ handle it."

Images flashed in his mind—Elliot’s surgical strikes, Towan’s raw power, Sylra’s windblade precision. The only ones he’d ever deemed worth his attention. (Well, and Deyar. But he’s already here.)

Deyar exhaled sharply, rolling his scorched sleeve. "You’re heartless."

Jyn’s grin was a bolt in the dark. "And you’re still holding back."

Somewhere in the distance, a window shattered. Neither flinched

The dorm room was thick with the deep, even breathing of sleeping students—until heavy, deliberate footsteps shattered the silence. Not the light patter of latecomers sneaking in, but the methodical thud of boots that made the wooden floorboards tremble.

Ken—a lanky Third-Class student who usually slept like a rock—jolted awake in his bunk."Wha... what's going on?" He rubbed his eyes, his voice still slurred with sleep but laced with growing alarm as the footsteps grew louder.

Calo exploded upright like a spring-loaded trap, his blanket flying off. "I can't believe it!" he hissed, his whisper somehow louder than a shout. His eyes were wild, darting between his roommates. "They're taking over the dorms!"

Veik, ever the pragmatist, was already sitting on the edge of his bed, yanking on his boots with practiced efficiency."We're screwed, bro," he muttered, his voice flat.

Third-Class students didn't get the luxury of privacy—their rooms were shared between four, a cramped but functional arrangement. Except tonight, their fourth roommate was nowhere to be seen.

Calo's hands flailed dramatically. "This is exactly like The Siege of Blackwater Hall! First, they isolate the buildings—"

A deafening crash echoed from the hallway, followed by the sound of splintering wood.

All three froze.

The door groaned open, its hinges protesting like a wounded animal.

Blare stood in the doorway—a Second-Year, Third-Class student, but now something more. The massive axe strapped to his back loomed like a executioner’s tool, its edge catching the dim lamplight in jagged glints.

Ken’s voice cracked. "Blare? You’re… with them?"

Blare’s grin was all teeth. "Of course I am." He patted the axe’s haft with almost reverent pride. "Haeren hooked me up. With this? I’m unstoppable."

His gaze swept over them—less a plea, more a challenge."Look. I don’t wanna fight you. We’re all Third-Class—" (A pause, a smirk.) "—well, I’m Second-Year now. Don’t you wanna be stronger too?"

Veik’s eyes locked onto the axe. Something was wrong

. A sickly purple glow pulsed where Blare’s fingers gripped the weapon, like veins of corruption."…No." Veik’s voice was flint. He raised a fist, calloused knuckles white with tension."I follow the way of my fists." (Towan’s training echoed in his muscles—punch through, not at.)

Blare’s friendly mask shattered. His stare turned to Calo and Ken. "What about you?"

Two heads shook—slow, defiant.

"Fine." Blare spun on his heel, the axe’s weight making the floorboards creak. "You stay here. Until the Academy listens." The door slammed—then jerked open one last time.

His silhouette filled the threshold, the axe now thrumming with that same eerie light.

"If you change your minds… you’ll have to go through me."

As the heavy footsteps faded, silence returned—thick and suffocating.

Calo whispered, “We’re gonna die in here.”

Veik didn’t respond. His eyes were still on the door.

His fists clenched.

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(If no one comes for us... I’ll break that bastard’s jaw myself.)

Alira and Rellie moved like twin blurs of shadow, their footfalls silent against the stone floors. Every corner held potential danger—rebels lying in wait, blades drawn—but the two wove through unseen, their movements a dance of evasion and instinct.

They paused, pressing against a alcove, breaths steady despite the adrenaline.

"Okay," Alira murmured, her voice a whisper against Rellie’s ear. "Second Class isn’t fighting back much. They’re either hiding… or already subdued."

Rellie’s fingers twitched, her empathic senses prickling with the sharp tang of fear radiating from behind locked doors. Students, trapped. Helpless.

"Should we check the boys’ wing?" she asked. Even without her gifts, the tension there was palpable—a storm waiting to break.

Alira nodded, but then—

"You should go to the Third-Class girls." She jerked her chin toward the stairs. "First floor."

Rellie froze.

A knowing smirk curled Alira’s lips. "Don’t you wanna see your friend?" A beat. "Sera, right?"

Rellie’s eyes widened—genuine shock flashing across her face. Few ever read her that easily. "How do you—?"

"I’m more perceptive than you think." Alira shrugged, though her grin held a flicker of something deeper. "Not like your thing, but… I get people." She rolled her shoulders, cracking her knuckles. "So go. Don’t worry about me—I can handle these bastards."

Her confidence was absolute, a wall of unshakable certainty. Rellie hesitated only a second longer before nodding sharply and darting toward the stairs.

Alira watched her go, her smile softening—just for a heartbeat. Then she turned, melting back into the shadows of the hallway.

"This sure ain’t gonna be easy," she muttered to the empty air, flexing her fingers.

But that was fine.

She liked a challenge.

(Even if her heart was hammering harder than she'd admit.)

Towan stalked through the maze-like halls of the First-Year, First-Class boys' wing, his boots scuffing against the polished stone. For the third time in ten minutes, he found himself staring at the same damn door—his own bedroom.

"Damn it…" He dragged a hand through his hair, frustration simmering. "Where the hell’s the exit?"

The corridors stretched empty around him. Most rooms stood dark and vacant—no surprise, given how few boys made it into First Class to begin with. The silence was thick, broken only by the distant echo of his own footsteps.

He paused at a window, pressing his palm against the cool glass. Outside, the sky seemed normal—at first glance. But there, hanging low over the Academy’s spires, was a single, twisted cloud. It didn’t move. Didn’t dissipate. Just loomed, like a stain on the horizon.

"I don’t have a good feeling about this."

His jaw tightened. "Hope the others are alright." A mental image flashed—Elliot’s sharp focus, Alira’s wild grin, Rellie’s quiet determination.They can handle themselves.

Then he remembered the swordsman they’d taken down earlier, the way the guy had moved like true warrior.

"If they run into someone like that…" He shook his head, scoffing. "Sylra would wipe the floor with them."

What he didn’t know: Sylra wasn’t even in the building.

After defeating the first attacker and separating from Elliot, Towan cut through three more would-be invaders—each weaker than the last. None posed a real threat. But their panicked babbling had given him answers.

Towan stopped dead in the hallway, his boots scraping against stone as the pieces clicked together in his head.

"So…" He exhaled sharply, eyes narrowing. "They sent their strongest fighter to the Second-Year First Class. Second-strongest to Second Class. Third to Third Class—all Second Years."

His fingers tapped against his thigh, counting invisible ranks.

"Which means the fourth, fifth, and sixth got dumped on us—First Years." A smirk twisted his lips. "Pretty sure Elliot and I already wrecked number four."

A memory flashed—the Third-Class Second Year collapsing mid-battle, his borrowed axe clattering to the ground.

"Pity they didn’t know where Haeren is," he muttered. Would’ve saved us the trouble.

But the rebels’ plan was clear now:

Crush the First-Class elites. Recruit the rest.

Divide and conquer—use hierarchy as a weapon.

If Elliot could hear him now—actually thinking instead of brawling—he’d choke on his own spit.

Towan almost laughed.

Then he turned the corner—

—and there it was. The exit.

A breath.

A shadow shifted.

"Finally."

Towan strode toward the exit—one step, two—then instinct screamed.

His body moved before his mind caught up—a sharp crouch as an axe whirred over his head, close enough to shear a few stray hairs. The blade thunked into the wall behind him, quivering from the force.

"Tch. Knew they’d camp this spot." Towan’s smirk was all teeth as he exploded upward, knees coiling like springs.

There, blocking the hallway, stood a Second Year—two mini-axes in play. One already embedded in the wall at Towan’s back; the other gripped tight, its edge glinting.

"Hello," the guy drawled, rolling his shoulders. Confidence oozed off him like sweat.

Towan’s eyes narrowed. "Wait—didn’t I wreck you in a spar last week?" The memory was crisp: This idiot kept dropping his guard, eating punches to the gut like they were snacks.

The Second Year’s smirk didn’t falter. "Yeah. And now I’m here to prove why weapons beat traditional fighting." His fingers tightened around the axe handle, knuckles bleaching white.

"All right then." Towan’s stance shifted—Lytharos style. Knees bent, weight balanced, fists raised. Versatile. Fast. Strong."Show me what you got."

(Gotta respect that edge.)

Towan’s eyes tracked the axe’s glint as Essentia surged through his limbs—a protective current hardening his muscles. Not invincibility, but enough to turn lethal cuts into bruises.

The Second Year lunged—fast, but reckless, his stance wide. Sloppy. Towan sidestepped, the axe whistling past his ribs, and countered with a sweeping kick that cracked against the guy’s ankle.

(Too easy—)

The attacker stumbled, balance shattered. Towan pivoted, fist already arcing upward in a devastating uppercut—

Then—movement.

A flicker at the edge of his vision. Towan jerked back just as an arrow hissed past his nose, close enough to ruffle his hair.

"You dead ass—" Towan’s roar echoed down the hall. "Are you trying to kill me?!"

At the far end, a Third-Year girl nocked another arrow, her expression bored. "You wouldn’t fall that easy."

Towan’s glare swung between her and the now-smirking axe wielder, who wiped blood from his lip.

"So. You brought backup."

"Why wouldn’t I?" The Second Year spat red. "You really thought I’d face you unprepared?"

The girl’s bowstring creaked. "We’ve been watching you, Towan. We know how you fight."

A beat. Then—

Their grins mirrored.This was a trap.