The Essence Flow-Chapter 128: Amateur Hour
Golden sunlight dripped through the forest canopy in honey-thick beams, illuminating lazy spirals of pollen and dust. Towan ambled forward with exaggerated nonchalance, fingers laced behind his head, each bootstep sending up the earthy scent of crushed ferns. His whistled tune carried farther than it should have in the unnatural hush.
Then he froze mid-step.
The forest had gone preternaturally still - no birdsong, no rustling leaves. Just ahead, a single flag fluttered from a low branch like a staged prop. The white silk tie gleamed impossibly bright against the mossy bark, its knot tied with the precision of a royal gift-wrapping.
"(You're kidding me, right?)" Towan's lips barely moved as he eyed the obvious trap. Ferns trembled ever so slightly to his left - not from wind, but from poorly contained anticipation. "(Who'd actually fall for this amateur hour nonsense?... Then again...)" A grin split his face as he spotted the telltale glint of eyes between distant leaves.
With theatrical flourish, he threw his arms wide. "OHHHH NOOOO!" The words dripped with enough sarcasm to drown a small village. "WHO COULD HAVE POSSIBLY LOST THEIR PRECIOUS FLAG?" His voice cracked deliberately on the last word as he shuffled toward the bait with the grace of a drunken scarecrow, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
His fingers still closed around the flag.
Because of course they did.
The ambush detonated like a powder keg - first the concussive WHUMP of compressed air slamming between his shoulder, hurling him face-first toward the clearing. Then the shadow from above - a descending hammer of stone-reinforced leather streaking downward.
CRACK.
The impact drove Towan into the earth like a nail. Dust mushroomed upward in a ochre cloud, dry leaves scattering like frightened birds. Somewhere in the ringing silence, a twig snapped underfoot as their boots approached.
"Got him!" The wind-user's voice dripped with triumph, his grin visible even through the settling debris.
His earth-aligned partner landed with a ground-shaking thud, brushing dirt from his ornate gauntlet. "Sorry, newbie," he drawled, nudging Towan's ribs with a steel-toed boot. "Two flags, right? We'll only take one." A chuckle. "You can thank us later."
The dust cloud settled. Towan didn't move.
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. the violation.
Not yet.
Then - a cough. A splutter. And finally, that damnable grin splitting through the dirt on his face.
"Wow," Towan croaked, rolling onto his back with exaggerated effort. "You hit way harder than your haircut suggests."
The earth-user's eyebrows collided with his hairline. "What-"
Towan's body uncoiled like a sprung trap. His hand snapped up, fingers locking around the still-extended gauntlet. A brutal hip twist - the attacker's weight became his weapon - and suddenly the world flipped as the brute sailed overhead. Towan's boot followed in a vicious rising arc.
The second crack lacked the first's bone-shaking resonance, but the wet "OOF!" of air leaving lungs made for adequate compensation.
The wind-user's Essentia flared like a struck match, his outstretched palms compressing the air into a visible ripple. The slicing gust sheared leaves from branches as it screamed toward Towan.
He dropped into a crouch so low his knees brushed his ears. The windblast scalped the tree behind him, sending a rain of splinters downward as he rolled forward—not away, but straight into danger. His fingers clawed through the damp earth, coming up with a fistful of moss-slick stones.
The improvised projectile spread like buckshot. The wind-user threw up his arms too late—pebbles pinging off his forehead, moss smearing across his squinting eyes. That half-second of blindness was all Towan needed.
"Catch."
The word came out half-laugh as Towan's elbow connected just below the sternum with a sound like a boot stomping a melon. The air left his opponent's lungs in a comic wheeze before he folded like bad origami.
Two bodies now decorated the forest floor: one groaning into the dirt, the other gasping like a beached fish. Between them stood Towan—shirt hanging in tatters, a thin red line scoring his cheekbone, and a grin stretching wider than the cut was long. He leaned against a nearby birch, casually snapping off a branch to scratch his back.
"(Damn...)" The branch tip caught on a forming bruise. "(That actually hurted.)" His mental grammar might be questionable, but the twitching grin remained unshaken.
Towan twirled both flags around his fingers like a street magician with stolen watches. "You should've brought three," he said, plucking the banners from their belts with exaggerated care. The silk rippled in the breeze as he turned to leave.
Three steps away, he paused. The forest held its breath.
"Actually..."
In one fluid motion, he spun on his heel and lobbed one flag back. It fluttered down like a wounded bird to land across their tangled legs. "I'm nice. You can keep yours." His grin turned sharp as a woodsman's axe. "But maybe work on your coordination. That was embarrassing to watch."
From the dirt came only a wet cough and a shaky thumbs-up, the latter raised with all the enthusiasm of a surrendering soldier.
Towan wiped his brow with the least-torn part of his sleeve, leaving a streak of dirt and blood across his forehead. His eyes flicked to the bait flag still fluttering innocently from its branch. With a snort, he snatched it down, the pristine white thread now sullied with forest grime.
"Two flags down," he mused, tucking his prizes away. The afternoon light painted tiger stripes across the path ahead as he glanced northward. "Wonder what Elliot's up to."
Then, with the silent grace of a forest predator, he melted into the emerald shadows between the trees - leaving only crushed ferns and wounded pride in his wake.
.
!
Chapter 128: Amateur Hour
Comments