The Essence Flow-Chapter 131: What's Your Name?

The Essence Flow-Chapter 131: What's Your Name?

The last opponent had fallen minutes ago—another two flags now dangling from Sylra's belt like
medals no one dared question
. The collection swayed softly with each step, a muted chime that sounded more like a
warning bell
than a boast.
No one challenged her now.
The whispers had done their work.
“The Auren who came back from death.”
“Silver ghost.”
“You don’t fight her. You survive her.”
The forest itself seemed to part before her.
At the first shimmer of silver hair through the undergrowth, students disappeared like prey sensing the shift in wind. No one lasted more than thirty seconds.
No one made her breathe hard.
She reached a wide clearing—ferns flattened, branches snapped, the scars of earlier battles still fresh—and claimed its center like a monarch reclaiming old land.
Sylra sank onto a mossy boulder, her spine straight, elbows resting casually on her knees.
The sunlight broke through the canopy above,
fracturing across her face like gold veins in marble
, her expression unreadable. Her stillness made the air itself hesitate to move.
And then—
A figure
exploded
from the trees.
Leaves flurried, dirt kicked up.
Ryn skidded into the clearing like a ghost trying to outrun its own name, breath ragged, eyes wide with that look only
cornered things
get.
The scar across his throat throbbed red, his whole body humming with unresolved tension.
Sylra’s gaze flicked up—lazily, like the eye of a hurricane turning to face you.
“Hm.”
A single eyebrow lifted—not alarm. Just…
interest.
This one didn’t run. This one ran
into
her.
Ryn's boots shifted on the earth as he stumbled to a halt. He realized, too late,
who he’d just walked into.
(Of all people… Sylra Auren? Shit.)
He raised both hands slightly, a mix between “calm down” and “please don’t kill me.”
“Hey… I’m not here to fight.”
His voice held no fear—but it trembled with something worse.
Recognition.
Like he'd seen this scene before in a dream that ended badly.
Sylra tilted her head, a faint smirk tugging at her mouth.
“Is that so?”
Her voice was velvet wrapped around a blade.
“Bit too late to say that.”
She stood—not quickly. Just
enough
.
The moss on the boulder peeled with her rising weight, and the clearing seemed to shrink.
“You didn’t run away. That’s rare,” she said, silver eyes catching the light like a predator scenting blood.
“So tell me…”
“Are you brave?”
“Or just lost?”
Ryn’s stance shifted slightly. Not to fight.
But to survive.
Ryn’s eyes narrowed to slits, his breath sharpening into a single beat of focus.
The author's tale has been misappropriated; any instances of this story on Amazon.
His fingers rose—palms forward, curled into claws like some
feral drake ready to pounce
.
WHOOM.
The fireball
erupted
from his fingertips—tight, condensed, and hungry.
It howled through the clearing like a comet launched from a dying star, warping the air into shimmering heatwaves as it tore through the space between them.
Sylra didn’t flinch.
The wind whispered before the flame ever reached her.
She leaned right—not dodging, but
sliding through the current
, silver hair snapping past her cheek as the fireball screamed by. It missed her by inches,
singing the tips of her strands
, but her balance never wavered.
By the time she turned,
Ryn was gone
.
Not a footprint. Not a broken twig.
The forest looked untouched—but the wind told another story.
It tugged at her senses with a lover’s urgency, spiraling behind her spine.
There.
She
pivoted
—just in time.
CRACK.
Ryn materialized behind her, both hands clenched in a two-handed hammer-fist, all his weight behind the blow. It dropped like a guillotine—fast, silent, brutal.
Sylra crossed her forearms in a tight X-block—
almost too late
.
The impact slammed into her guard like a falling boulder.
Shockwaves exploded up her arms. Her boots skidded back, carving deep twin furrows into the loam as her Essentia flared defensively through her legs, halting the slide just short of a tree trunk. Dirt rained down around her like a soft explosion.
(He hits hard.)
She flexed her arms—pain flaring beneath the skin like lightning trapped in glass.
Across from her,
Ryn's breath came ragged
, not from exhaustion—but
adrenaline backlash
. His body wasn’t spent—but it was lit like a fuse.
(I didn’t mean to start a fight.)
(But I can’t run either.)
His eyes darted to the trees. No escape paths. No openings.
Just her.
Sylra Auren.
Calm. Measured. Unmoved.
And now?
Smiling
The standoff shattered like glass.
Not by blade or blow—but by the
crunch
of careless footsteps through the underbrush.
Elliot stepped into the clearing, hands tucked behind his head, his shirt half-untucked and boots dusted with trail dirt. He looked like someone who’d been
chasing butterflies
, not trouble—but the sharpness in his eyes betrayed the truth:
He’d read the scene the moment he entered it.
“Huh.”
His gaze swept across the churned-up soil, the lingering tension still crackling between Sylra and the dark-haired stranger.
Skid marks. Flared Essentia residue. No one breathing quite right.
“Am I… interrupting something?”
Ryn’s shoulders went rigid.
(He’s with her, isn’t he?)
(Fast. Too relaxed to be weak.)
His mind whirled—exit routes, terrain angles, reach distance.
(Not good…)
His fingers itched toward the twin blades hidden under his coat.
Sylra didn’t move a muscle.
Her posture shifted just a fraction—shoulders softening, chin lifting. The transformation was subtle but precise: from
threat
to
bored conversation partner
. She dusted off her sleeve, as if brushing away something inconvenient. A leaf, perhaps.
Or
a fight
.
“Not at all,” she replied, voice cool and unbothered.
To anyone else, it would sound like she was talking about the
weather
.
But the
wind still danced around her ankles
, stirred by her breath alone.
A heartbeat passed. Then—
“By the way,” Sylra said, tone deceptively casual.
Her silver eyes locked onto Ryn with surgical stillness.
“What’s your name?”
The question landed like a silent blade between ribs.
Not hostile. Not cruel.
Just...
unexpected
.
Ryn blinked.
(My name?)
People didn’t ask that. Not in back alleys. Not in slums. Not unless they wanted something… or planned to sell it.
But the question wasn’t bait.
It was
respect
.
“Ryn,” he said, voice steadier than he expected.
He gave a slight bow of the head—not servile, but formal. Measured.
“It was an honor to fight you.”
The words surprised even him. But her skill had earned it.
Sylra’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile. But close enough to count.
“My pleasure,” she murmured.
She turned, braid swinging behind her like a blade in sheath.
“You’re not half bad.”
A low whistle cut through the silence as she beckoned Elliot with two fingers.
“Come on. Let’s find Towan.”
No command. No need for one. She simply
expected to be followed
.
Her boots crunched over dry leaves as she vanished into the trees.
Elliot gave Ryn a passing glance as he followed—half a smirk, half a curious flicker of recognition.
“Nice fireball, by the way,” he said over his shoulder. “Little sloppy on the landing though.”
Then he, too, was gone.
Left in their wake, Ryn remained rooted—
not from fear
, but something more tangled.
His name still echoed in the clearing. His name.
He'd said it like it mattered.
For the first time in years… it almost did.

Chapter 131: What's Your Name?