The Essence Flow-Chapter 132: Just Len

The Essence Flow-Chapter 132: Just Len

The pond’s surface mirrored the twilight sky—
a bruised canvas
painted in purples and dying golds. Len sat at its edge, spine straight out of habit, but her shoulders no longer knew how to stay proud.
Her reflection stared back from the water—fractured by every soft ripple. A noble mask with hair too neat, posture too perfect, and
eyes that didn’t know who they belonged to anymore
.
Five flags hung from her belt like heavy medals. She could’ve tripled them by now.
She’d already
won
—on paper.
The private lessons, the prestige, the recognition.
But her hands didn’t reach for more.
Instead, they clenched around damp grass, fingers cold and dirty, digging as if trying to root herself in something real. Something unpolished.
A single tear broke free, streaking down her porcelain cheek. It struck the pond with a gentle
plink
, sending out
concentric ripples that carved through her reflection like knives
.
“Was I taught the wrong values?”
The question floated out—half-whisper, half-confession.
It hung in the heavy forest air, unanswered.
The lessons came back in waves—her father’s voice, her instructors’ mantras.
Stand tall.
Control the field.
Never yield, never stoop, never trust.
But they had never trained her for
this
.
They never taught how to stand up after betrayal.
How to keep breathing when
your mercy
is used to choke you.
Another tear fell. Then another.
The pond drank them all—greedy, silent. Her reflection blurred until only shadows and blue-grey smears stared back.
She didn’t recognize this girl—this broken line of elegance, streaked in mud and silence.
This wasn't the Lady Len everyone knew.
Her fingers hovered over the water’s surface, trembling—ready to shatter that last illusion with a single motion—
—when another shape rippled into view.
Not hers.
Someone behind her.
Someone still. Watching. Just long enough for the water to notice.
Sera Vellmont’s silhouette
materialized
in the pond’s shifting surface—black hair rippling like ink spilled into moonlit water.
The once-clear mirror of Len’s self now held
two reflections
.
One bruised, kneeling.
The other—
standing
, steady, unreadable.
Sera didn’t speak.
No smirk curled her lips.
No sharp remark danced on her tongue.
She simply stood behind Len, her presence like a shadow that somehow didn’t cast cold.
Those silver eyes—usually glinting with amusement or cruelty—were softened now. Warped by pondlight and silence, they held something Len had
never
seen aimed at her.
Not pity.
Not mockery.
Something far more dangerous.
Understanding.
When the words finally came, they landed with none of Sera’s usual flair.
No venom.
No titles.
No sarcasm.
“What are you doing, Len?”
Just her
name
.
This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
Not
Verestra
.
Not
princess
.
Not
‘oh look, a fan duel with heels again’
.
Just...
Len
.
It fell into the hush between them like a stone into still water—
real
, heavy, and utterly impossible to ignore.
“Get up, dear.”
The gentleness in her voice was a betrayal of everything Len knew about her.
Soft.
Almost affectionate.
Like cherry blossoms falling on a windless day—
weightless, but impossible to stop once they begin.
Sera’s hand hovered near Len’s shoulder—
not touching
, but so close the warmth could be felt. The space between them buzzed with a decade of rivalry, misunderstandings,
and something deeper neither ever named
.
“This isn’t the place to fall.”
She said it like a secret. Like a truth only someone who’s fallen before would dare to offer.
Len’s eyes stayed on the water—watching the double reflection sway and settle.
One girl ready to collapse.
The other still holding her ground.
Then Sera spoke again—just three more words. But they cracked her mask in a way that made Len’s breath catch.
“This… is not like you.”
And that single moment—
of honesty from the most dishonest voice she knew
—pierced sharper than any blade Len had ever trained to parry.
Len’s tear-blurred gaze caught the reflection in the water—two figures standing side by side in the fractured mirror of the pond.
The Sapphire Thorn and the Velvet Knife.
Polished nobility and mercurial rebellion.
Blue and red.
Porcelain and steel.
Both broken.
Just along different fault lines.
The ripples distorted them further, but the truth still showed:
They didn’t match.
But they stood. Together.
And then—before thought could catch her—
Len moved
.
Her body surged upward like breath breaking from deep water, arms snapping around Sera’s waist with a violence born of desperation.
There was no grace left in her. No composure. No fan.
Just
clutching hands
, and a sob ripped from her throat that shattered the last fragments of pride.
Tears fell hard and fast, soaking into Sera’s coat—dark streaks over crimson silk.
Len didn’t know why she’d done it.
Maybe it was because Sera didn’t flinch.
Maybe it was because she called her Len.
Maybe it was because Sera looked at her like she wasn't weak for falling.
For a single heartbeat, Sera froze.
Her body stiffened—surprise, maybe. Or old reflexes coiled tight.
But then, gently…
her hands rose
.
One slipped behind Len’s head, fingers curling into rain-damp braids.
The other moved in slow, steady circles between her shoulder blades, grounding her.
“Don’t worry…”
The whisper was low.
Soothing.
Softer than Sera had ever spoken in her life—
or maybe just softer than Len had ever been allowed to hear
.
“Everything is all right.”
A lie.
A beautiful, necessary, cruel lie.
But in that moment, beneath a sky bruising into dusk, with the pond swallowing the sound of Len’s tears—
It was enough.
“I…”
Len’s breath stuttered, breaking apart like thin ice under too much weight. Her voice was a shard of porcelain in her own throat—
too sharp to swallow, too fragile to throw away
.
She dragged a trembling sleeve across her nose, a movement too human for someone raised to glide. Her lips quivered as she tried again, barely piecing the words together:
“I thought I was doing right—”
But the sentence didn’t survive.
It cracked mid-air, fell silent.
And all that remained was a shattered whisper:
“Was I wrong?”
The question wasn’t directed at Sera.
It was aimed at the universe.
At her father’s lessons.
At her entire upbringing, now flickering like candlelight in wind.
Sera didn’t move at first.
Her silver eyes widened—not from surprise, but
recognition
. The kind that burrowed deep.
She had seen this expression before.
Not on Len’s face—on
her own
, in an unguarded mirror.
She remembered what it looked like when someone’s
conviction broke from the inside out
.
When ideals cracked just enough to bleed.
(No… not again.)
She wouldn’t let that happen. Not to this girl. Not to
this rival-turned-reflection
.
Her hand moved before her mouth did. A thumb brushed away a tear from Len’s cheek—not with smugness, not even grace. Just
gentleness
. The kind Sera hadn’t used in a long time.
“Of course not, darling.”
The word slipped out softer than silk—absent of irony, absent of performance. Just real.
She leaned forward slightly, letting their breath mingle in the space between pain and comfort.
Her voice, when it came again, was velvet-wrapped steel:
“I’m sure you did what was correct.”
The words weren’t truth.
They weren’t lies.
They were
absolution
, offered by someone who knew what it cost to question your core.
And in that moment, they wrapped around Len’s doubt like early fog curling around a bruised flower—
not erasing the hurt
,
but
making it bearable.

Chapter 132: Just Len