The Essence Flow-Chapter 143: Baseline

The Essence Flow-Chapter 143: Baseline

The classroom buzzed with hushed urgency, whispers slithering between desks like snakes through grass. Fragments of conversation carried clearly in the charged air:
"They're sealing the mountain passes..."
"My cousin in the guard said something tore through three patrols..."
Towan's elbow nudged Sylra's arm, his brow furrowed as he jerked his thumb toward the murmuring clusters. "What are they talking about?"
Sylra leaned in, her silver braid brushing the desk as she spoke in a voice barely louder than rustling parchment. "As far as I know," her breath ghosted cold against his ear, "there's been a corruption eruption in the eastern peaks." Her fingers tightened around her pen. "Monster sightings started yesterday."
Towan's chair screeched backward as he bolted upright. "WHAT—?"
Sylra moved faster than Essentia-enhanced reflexes, her palm smothering his outburst with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to silencing idiots. "Shhh!" Her nails dug warning crescents into his cheek. "Don't shout it, dumbass." Her glare could have frozen molten steel. "Unless you want to explain to Professor Kaelin why you're spreading unverified rumors?"
Around them, several heads had turned. A student near the front dropped their inkpot with a clatter that echoed like a gunshot in the sudden silence.
The door burst open with a gust of wind that sent papers fluttering from desks. Professor Kaelin strode in, her crimson robes swirling around an absurdly colorful contraption—a towering apparatus of gleaming brass pipes and quilted padding that pulsed faintly with embedded Essentia runes.
"Is that...?" Alira's voice trailed off, her artist's eye tracing the intricate designs.
"—a punching bag?" Elliot finished, adjusting his glasses as the machine emitted a low, testing hum. His fingers twitched toward his notebook instinctively.
"Attention, class!" Kaelin's voice sliced through the murmurs like a blade. With practiced efficiency, she anchored the device to the floor, its base locking onto the stone tiles with an audible
clank
of magical adhesion. "We're having a joint combat session with Professor Khalvar today." A mischievous glint flashed behind her spectacles as the machine whirred to life, runes cycling through rainbow hues. "You'll be divided into groups based on your punching strength."
Towan's knuckle cracked like a gunshot in the sudden silence, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. "Now this is something interesting." His chair legs screeched as he leaned forward, already mentally calculating how hard he could hit without breaking the fancy equipment.
Across the aisle, Sylra's hand flexed open with deliberate slowness.
(Are they testing our raw capability?)
Her sharp eyes tracked the machine's pulsating rhythm—too steady, too
measuring
. Her thumb pressed cold against her lips as she considered the implications.
(Or are they looking for something specific?)
The machine's runes pulsed like a slow heartbeat as Professor Kaelin ran a hand along its quilted surface. "Don't worry," she said, her voice carrying that particular lilt teachers use when they know students are overthinking. "This test is being conducted simultaneously in all first-year combat classes." A flick of her wrist sent Essentia dancing across the device's surface, illuminating a small viewing pane that shimmered like mercury. "The results will be visible only to the puncher..." Her glasses flashed opaque for a dramatic beat. "...and to me."
Silence blanketed the room, thick enough to muffle the machine's quiet hum. The class exchanged glances—some eager, some apprehensive—until Kaelin's eyebrow arched expectantly.
"Well?" She tapped the machine's padding with one polished nail. "Who wants the honor of going first?"
The challenge hung in the air, the unspoken question clear:
Who among you is brave enough to set the standard?
At the back, Towan's boots hit the floor with a thud as he pushed to his feet, but not before Sylra's hand snapped sharply against his wrist in warning.
(Not yet, you oaf—let the nobles tip their hands first.)
Alira rose with the dramatic flair of a stage performer, plucking invisible lint from her skirt. "Fine," she sighed, rolling her shoulders. "If no one else will." Her fingertips sparked to life—not the wild conflagration of a battlefield, but the precise blue-white heat of a glassblower's torch, each flame dancing in perfect control.
She positioned herself before the machine, her stance shifting fluidly from artist's poise to combat readiness. "Do I just...punch the bag?" Her voice carried a painter's curiosity as she glanced at Professor Kaelin.
"Exactly." The professor's smile held the quiet satisfaction of someone about to witness art in motion.
Alira's eyelids fluttered shut. For a heartbeat, the room held its breath—
Then her entire being
erupted
. Flames cascaded around her like a phoenix's rebirth, the air shimmering with heat distortion as her Essentia recognized its mistress. Her fist became a comet trailing fire, impacting the bag with a
WHUMP
that sent vibrations rattling up the machine's brass pipes.
The contraption groaned like a waking dragon, gears whirring madly before—
CLICK-CHACK-PING!
—a slip of parchment shot from its side slot.
Alira plucked the still-warm paper, her eyebrows knitting at the message:
'You scored 6573! Congratulations!'
(Is this good?)
Her teeth worried her lower lip as she glanced around, the flames around her fingers guttering out like shy candlelight. The number meant nothing without context—was this beginner's luck or master's touch? The machine's runes pulsed expectantly, as if asking the same question.
"Oh! That's a nice score." Professor Kaelin materialized behind Alira's shoulder like a benevolent ghost, her spectacles glinting as she examined the parchment. The sudden proximity made Alira jump slightly, the last embers of her flames flickering out in surprise.
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With a clap of her hands that echoed through the silent classroom, Kaelin addressed the wide-eyed students: "I forgot to mention—the scoring range is 0 to 10,000." Her finger traced an imaginary arc in the air, as if painting the spectrum of possible achievements. "Consider 5,000 as academy graduate standard." The unspoken challenge hung in the charged air—
Who among you will surpass it?
At the back of the room, Towan whistled low through his teeth. "That was a nice punch," he muttered to Sylra, eyeing Alira's still-smoldering fist with newfound respect.
Sylra's fan tapped thoughtfully against her chin. "Yeah," she conceded, her strategic mind already running calculations. "Could be dangerous if it connects unblocked." Her gaze flicked to the machine's slightly charred padding—proof of the strike's intensity.
Elliot half-turned in his seat, his notebook already filled with hastily scribbled observations about flame-channeling mechanics. "You could always dodge," he offered matter-of-factly, though the tightness around his eyes betrayed how closely he'd been watching
Elliot pushed back from his desk with quiet determination. "Guess I better do it earlier than later," he said, rolling up his sleeves as he approached the machine. The classroom's murmurs died down—even the nobles leaned forward, curious about the brother who'd defeated Jyn.
"Do your best, bro!" Towan's cheer rang out, though his knowing smirk said everything—they both understood Elliot wouldn't reveal his trump cards in a simple assessment.
Professor Kaelin poised her pen over her notebook, the nib already dripping ink in anticipation. "Go ahead," she murmured, her gaze sharp as a hawk's.
Elliot nodded, settling into stance. No visible element manifested, but the air itself seemed to thicken around him, pressing against skin like the charged moment before a lightning strike. He drew his fist back to his waist—
(Not using Thunder Strike here)
—every muscle aligning with mechanical precision.
The punch unfolded like a masterclass in biomechanics: exhale synced to shoulder rotation, hips firing before the arm extended, knuckles meeting padding at the exact nanosecond of peak kinetic transfer.
THOOM.
The machine shuddered, its pipes singing a harmonic note from the perfectly balanced impact. The printer whirred instantly, spitting out results as Kaelin's pen flew across her page:
'Efficient motion. Not strength-fueled. Incredible impact.'
Elliot plucked the paper.
(7154...?)
His brow furrowed slightly. "I thought I'd do better," he muttered, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested otherwise as he returned to his seat.
"How much do you think he scored?" Len whispered to Rellie, her sapphire eyes alight with competitive curiosity—measuring Elliot's capability against the unspoken benchmark of his brother.
Rellie's crimson gaze tracked Elliot's relaxed posture. "Enough to beat us both," she said softly. Though the number remained hidden from her, the intent behind that restrained punch vibrated in her Essentia senses like a plucked bowstring.
(He's holding back far more than he's showing.)
Deyar cracked his neck as he stepped forward, rolling his shoulders with the casual confidence of someone who'd grown up in a warrior house's training yards. "Hand-to-hand isn't my main strength," he admitted, though the way his feet slid into a perfect Glacier Stance betrayed generations of combat mastery.
The temperature plummeted as he settled before the bag. Frost spiderwebbed across the floor beneath his boots, his exhale forming crystalline clouds in the suddenly arctic air. When his fist drew back, it wasn't just covered in ice—it became ice, the jagged formations growing like deadly blossoms until—
CRACK-SHATTER!
The impact sounded like a glacier calving, frozen shards exploding outward in a glittering spray. The machine groaned in protest, its Essentia runes flaring blue to absorb the cryogenic shockwave.
Deyar caught the printed slip mid-air.
(7500...)
His lips pursed—respectable, but not as good as he could
Behind him, Kaelin's pen scratched rapidly:
(Impressive strength. Rusty technique.)
The underline beneath "rusty" dug deep into the parchment.
"That was quite strong, huh?" Towan murmured, brushing ice crystals from his sleeve.
Sylra's fan tapped a thoughtful rhythm against her palm. "Yeah, but listen to how the machine's stabilizers are still whining." Her sharp ears caught the uneven pitch. "He knows the forms, but his transitions are sluggish—probably from over-relying on his element."
Towan nodded, remembering his own early days of favoring strenght over fundamentals. "Happens to everyone who leans too hard on their gift." The words carried the weight of personal experience.
The frost on Deyar's knuckles melted into droplets that hit the floor like tiny accusations. He flexed his fingers once more before retreating to the shadows of the classroom, where the cold around him lingered like unspoken regret.
The next hour unfolded in a rhythm of thuds and gasps as students took their turns. Scores clustered between 3000-5500—solid academy-level performances that made Professor Kaelin's pen dance approvingly across her clipboard.
Len's turn came like a tidal surge, her water-imbued strikes flowing through the bag with deceptive gentleness before unleashing crushing pressure at the moment of impact. The machine spat out
5650
, its pipes gurgling in aquatic sympathy.
Rellie's attempt was brief and brutal—a single, Essentia-less jab that barely registered a
250
. Yet Kaelin's eyebrow arched at her notes:
(Precision over power. Potential for assassination styles.)
Then Sylra stepped forward.
No elemental fanfare, just the razor-sharp perfection of Auren family techniques. Her fist connected with surgical precision—
8140
flashing on the slip. The highest so far, though the machine's faint smoke trail suggested it had barely contained the strike's true potential.
Kaelin's ranking sheet now held secrets only she could decipher—numbers weighted against the elegance of form, the whisper of untapped reserves.
And then—
"Finally!"
Towan's chair screeched backward, a harsh protest against the floor as he surged to his feet. He cracked his knuckles with theatrical relish, a grin splitting his face. The machine's runes flickered erratically, their glow wavering like candlelight caught in a gathering storm.
(Though I prefer kicking, punching is always welcome!)
He rolled his shoulders, stepping up to the heavy bag with the ease of someone stepping into a well-worn routine. For a heartbeat, he hesitated—then shifted his stance, grounding himself. The memory surfaced without effort: Leon’s voice, low and steady in the dimness of the cave, the first lesson etched into muscle and bone.
(I’ll go with this one.)
The ghost of the warrior seemed to stand at his shoulder as he moved—weight shifting, arm rotating, every motion precise, deliberate. For a moment, the air itself held its breath.
Then—impact.
The bag shuddered under the force, the chain links rattling like startled bones. A hollow
thud
reverberated through the room, sharp and final.
Kaelin’s eyes widened, just a fraction. Her fingers stilled against the edge of her paper.
(Crude power refined… Who taught him to punch like this?)
The question coiled in her mind, unspoken but sharp.
At the edge of the room, Elliot’s lips curved into a knowing smile.
(He got it perfectly, huh.)
There was pride there, faint but unmistakable.
Towan blinked at the printed slip—
8001
—and shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck.
(Hmm. I guess this is good.)
The door creaked open, and Professor Khalvar leaned into the room, his sharp eyes scanning the students before settling on Kaelin.
"Hey, Kaelin, are you done?"
His voice carried the brisk efficiency of a man who had already moved three steps ahead. Without waiting for an answer, he stepped inside, the hem of his robe brushing against the doorframe.
"I’ve got the other two classes ready by now. Kaen’s waiting for us."
Kaelin didn’t look up immediately, her fingers gliding one last time over the edge of her ranking sheet as if reluctant to let go of its secrets. Then, with a measured exhale, she straightened.
"Yeah. I just finished."
Her voice was cool, composed—the same tone she used when announcing checkmate. She turned to the rest of the class, and though her expression didn’t change, something in her posture sharpened.
"Get moving, class. We’re going to the combat training area."

.
!
Chapter 143: Baseline