The Essence Flow-Chapter 117: All Answers in Your Own Words
The morning air clung to the academy halls, thick with the scent of ink, candle wax, and nervous sweat.
Towan and Elliot wove through the labyrinth of corridors, their footsteps echoing off stone walls lined with portraits of long-dead scholars—each one seeming to silently judge them for being late.
“Did you revise anything?” Elliot hissed, dodging a harried student sprinting the other way, clutching a quill like a dagger.
“Of course not,” Towan replied, flashing the same grin that had gotten him out of trouble at Herb’s tavern more times than it should’ve.
They’d spent the morning
lost
—spectacularly so—arguing over turns that all looked identical under the Academy’s flickering witchlight.
“I
told
you it was left, deadass,” Elliot muttered, shoving open a heavy door that revealed—yet another hallway.
“Well, I’m sorry,
Mister-I-Know-Where-Everything-Is,
” Towan shot back, flipping the wrinkled map upside-down. “I had it inverted.”
When they
finally
stumbled into the exam room, it was with seconds to spare.
The space was austere. Unforgiving.
Rows of tables stretched like a battlefield, each perfectly spaced. Professors stood along the walls, silent and watchful—like hawks waiting for prey to twitch wrong.
“They really don’t want us to cheat,” Elliot muttered, eyeing the closest instructor. The man’s gaze could have frozen magma.
Before Towan could reply, a familiar voice cut through the tension:
“Good morning, guys.”
Alira approached with Sylra in tow. Her fiery braid bounced with each step, and she smelled faintly of citrus and anxious sweat. Sylra, on the other hand, radiated calm—or maybe it was just seasoned
resignation
.
“You two look like you fought a library and lost,” Sylra observed dryly.
Towan shrugged. “We may have taken the scenic route.”
Elliot nodded toward the examiners. “Think they’ll buy ‘rogue Essentia interference’ as an excuse?”
Alira snorted. “Only if you want to test that
remediation dungeon
theory.”
“You’re lucky you’re not late
yet,
” Sylra added, her silver eyes flicking toward the enormous hourglass an attendant was now hauling into the room. The sand had already begun to trickle down—each grain landing with an almost accusatory
hiss
.
Towan suddenly felt a piercing gaze burning between his shoulder blades. The kind that made the skin on your neck twitch.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; any sightings.
He turned.
Len Verestra stood near the stained-glass window, pretending to admire it with theatrical nonchalance. The light painted her high cheekbones in amber and emerald, but it didn’t soften the tension in her jaw—or the white-knuckled grip she had on her fan.
His eyes scanned the rest of the room like landmarks in familiar terrain.
Near the front sat Rellie, bolt upright. Her usual deadpan cracked just long enough to wave at him, fingers fluttering like a bird startled into flight.
Just behind her, Sera Vellmont lounged with feline ease. She acknowledged him with the barest lift of her hand—a slow, mocking half-wave, her smile razor-sharp.
Then—
SLAM.
The door shut with a finality that echoed like a gavel.
Several students flinched.
A gaunt man in midnight-blue robes strode to the front of the room, his boots clicking against the marble like a metronome.
“Please take your seats,” he said, voice cold enough to freeze lava. “I am Professor Khalvar. I’ll be supervising this examination.”
He began distributing thick scrolls, the rustling parchment somehow deafening in the heavy silence.
“You have two hours,” he said as he moved, yellowed fingernails tapping against each desk like a countdown. “Do not even
think
about cheating.”
He paused. Let it sit.
The silence grew weight.
“Unless you enjoy
permanent expulsion.
”
Towan stared at the parchment in front of him.
The title read:
Theoretical Examination – Year 1: Foundations of Essentia.
Beneath it, in beautiful serifed letters:
All answers must be written in your own words. No spell-aids, mnemonic runes, or emotional transference allowed.
He exhaled slowly.
Question 1: What is the fundamental difference between Flow Essentia and Channelled Essentia? Provide an example.
Towan blinked.
“…Flow is... like breathing.”
He hesitated, then scribbled:
Flow Essentia is like breathing through your skin—it’s passive, natural, constant.
Channelled Essentia is when you grab that breath and shove it through your veins on purpose.
Example: When I got punched off a roof, Flow kept me alive. Channelled helped me
land.
He paused.
That actually didn’t sound bad.
Huh.
Question 2: Describe how Intent affects elemental Essentia manifestation.
Towan frowned. “Intent… right…”
He vaguely remembered Leon ranting about this over tea while he was halfway asleep.
Intent shapes the form of your Essentia, like how anger can turn fire wild or sadness makes water heavier.
I think the emotion doesn’t matter as much as the
direction.
Like, you can scream and still control lightning if your scream means
focus.
TL;DR: It’s not about what you feel—it’s about what you
mean.
He underlined
mean
three times. It felt smart.
Question 3: What happens when a person overdraws Essentia from their core without proper circulation training?
Towan snorted softly.
You collapse. And puke. And your skin goes pale. Sometimes your hair smokes.
Also, you pass out in the mud while your master yells, “Again.”
Elliot, a few rows over, choked on a laugh.
Professor Khalvar’s head snapped up like a hunting hawk.
Towan immediately stared at his parchment like it contained the secret to world peace.
Question 4: Compare and contrast the philosophies of the Tranquil Path and the Combustion Creed.
“What are these…?” Towan muttered. And then made it up on the spot.
Tranquil Path: Flow is harmony. Don’t disturb the pond unless you’re ready to swim with the koi.
Combustion Creed: Light the pond on fire. Laugh while it boils.
Personally, I think both are missing the point. You need balance.
Sometimes the koi
deserve it.
Question 5 (Bonus): Who coined the phrase ‘Essentia is Memory in Motion’?
Towan groaned internally. He
definitely
remembered the quote.
Vaguely. Eryndar had muttered it once before throwing a scroll at his head.
No clue who said it.
Some sad philosopher who didn’t punch enough people.
Then, just in case—
(Let’s hope this counts.)
.
!
Chapter 117: All Answers in Your Own Words
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