The Essence Flow-Chapter 23: Echoes of The Dojo
The path ended at a set of stone steps, worn smooth by countless feet and quiet years. Moss crept over them like old memories. At the top sat the dojo—its wooden frame dark with age, roof bowed under the weight of long-forgotten snow.
Above the gate, a single wind chime of broken blades swayed in the wind, clinking once. Just once.
Towan slowed, his hand brushing the gate.
"Feels... old," he said.
Leon didn’t answer. He just opened the gate without ceremony.
________________________________________
The Courtyard
The packed dirt was scarred and cracked, like something had tried to claw its way out from beneath. Stones lined the edge of the circle—faded, sunken, but deliberate.
Towan crouched by one jagged groove.
“This looks recent.”
Leon shook his head.
“It’s older than you.”
Farther in, the training dummies were in various stages of ruin. One was missing its torso entirely. Another leaned at a slant, like it had been hit by something that didn’t care it was made of wood.
Towan raised a brow.
“Someone had anger issues.”
Leon almost smiled. Almost.
“No. He just believed in results.”
________________________________________
The Main Hall
Inside, the dojo smelled of oil, parchment, and silence.
Weapons lined the walls—some polished to a shine, others left to rust. A narrow shelf in the back held scrolls labeled in uneven handwriting.
“Techniques That Might Kill You”
(...Seriously.)
Towan wandered deeper.
His eyes landed on the mural.
Five warriors. Mid-battle. Essentia flaring from their hands and feet.
Taken from NovelFire, this narrative should be ed if found on Amazon.
The strokes were aged, some faded, but the energy still pulsed in the scene.
He could name most of them by stance alone.
Rheon—fluid, sharp.
Reniel—light on his toes, cloak like mist.
Ardentis—centered, surrounded by pure energy, no element. Just power.
But—
One side of the mural was... wrong.
Not faded. Not unfinished.
Scratched out.
A figure had stood there once. You could feel the shape of it—like a ghost had leaned too hard against the paint and left a dent.
Towan lifted a hand toward the faded corner of the mural. There was nothing there but cracked plaster and scratch marks, but something about the space pulled at him.
Leon’s hand caught his wrist—not rough, but final.
“Don’t,” he said. Quiet. Certain.
His eyes weren’t on the mural.
They were somewhere far behind it.
Elliot tilted his head.
“Why’s one of them missing?”
Leon looked at the mural for a moment. His face didn’t move, but his eyes darkened as his jaw twitched just once.
“They weren’t supposed to be remembered.” And turned away before they could ask more
Leon led them down a narrow hall, the floorboards creaking with every step. The air here felt still—not dead, but heavy, like it had been holding its breath for a long time.
He pushed open the first door with his foot.
“This one’s yours,” he said to Towan.
The room was simple. A low cot. A dented chest. One candle, long melted into the table beside it. There was a hole in the wall near the back—deliberate or accidental, it wasn’t clear.
Towan leaned toward it, squinting into the darkness.
“…Is this for airflow or dramatic effect?”
Leon glanced over.
“It’s whatever you need it to be.”
________________________________________
The next room was Elliot’s.
Sparser, but cleaner. A folded blanket. A mattress thin but even. Someone had swept the dust—recently.
He stepped inside, quietly.
There was a floorboard near the edge of the bed, just a little off.
Not enough to notice.
But enough.
He crouched, lifted it. Beneath was a hollow.
Not deep.
Not empty.
A single leather strap lay at the bottom, like something had once been tied shut here.
A journal? A box?
Whatever it was… it was gone.
Elliot didn’t mention it.
He just replaced the board and stood.
________________________________________
Leon stopped at the last door.
He opened it slowly, as if out of habit—not reverence.
No bed.
No shelves.
No light.
Only a cracked hourglass on the windowsill, and a single dagger stuck in the ceiling beam, handle still swaying faintly from motion that had long passed.
Towan blinked.
“…This is your room?”
Leon didn’t reply.
Towan stepped inside, cautious.
The floor creaked differently here. Like it remembered something.
“Where do you sleep?”
Leon grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled him out without a word.
“Not in there.”
They spent the rest of the day preparing the dojo for them to stay in. Most of the structure felt abandoned
They spent the rest of the day bringing life back to the dojo. Dust hung in the air like old memories, and the floor creaked beneath every step, as if testing their presence.
Most of the structure felt untouched. Not ruined—just… left behind.
“Kinda feels like Leon didn’t want to come back,” Towan muttered, passing the mop over a stubborn stain.
Elliot, wiping down the fogged windowpanes, nodded.
“Yeah. I got that vibe too.
But maybe having us here... shifts something.”
They kept working in silence, until soft footsteps broke the rhythm—faint, steady, approaching from behind.
Leon stepped into the hallway, arms crossed.
“Hot bath?” he offered, voice casual. “Fixed the springs. They’re ready.”
Towan and Elliot turned at the same time.
“H-hot springs?” Towan blinked.
“Come on,” Leon said, already walking away.
“You’ve earned it.”
As they followed him out the back, Elliot glanced at his brother.
(His mood’s better... huh. Maybe this place remembers him, too.)
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Chapter 23: Echoes of The Dojo
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