Maksym Pachesiuk
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Moon Cultivation [Book 2] - Chapter 112: Patient Third
🕑 Added 2025-07-23 23:36:02 +0000 UTCIn the next round, I was up against the female version of Dubois — Sophia Mitchell. A wide-bladed rapier and four daggers. Unlike Dubois, her weapon had a clearly defined edge. It was obvious that from second year onward, she intended to pursue the path of a classic swordswoman — Point-Blade.
Like me, she hadn’t taken any damage in previous fights. On top of that, she had a formation built specifically to counter Fist. There was no chance I’d surprise her with Iron Head again. That was my thinking, and Kate’s as well, so I didn’t place any bets on that technique.
Most likely, she’d dodge, and I’d end up with a dagger in my back or a rapier in my side as the technique recoiled.
For dealing with Ponit cultivators, I had a simpler and well-practised tactic of disarming. Turgunov had done the same to her in the last tournament. I’d done it to plenty of others too, including Dubois, though it hadn’t gone entirely to plan with him.
This time, we got grass terrain with a large, thick concrete arch in the middle. Not a classical arch, just two chunky concrete pillars with another slab laid across the top.
It looked like the organisers were trying to diversify the arenas, but weren’t exactly bursting with creativity.
Still, I cared less about their creativity than the practical side of things.
You could definitely hide behind those pillars to block incoming attacks. As for getting on top of the arch… technically possible, but was it worth it? It was around two three metres high — too far for a clean jump. I’d have to pull myself up. And then what?
Mitchell could still easily reach me from the ground.
"Fight!" called the judge.
I ran, mimicking the approach from my last match.
Mitchell moved at a walk, lazily launching two daggers into the air. They drifted not toward me, but off to the right and left, curving wide to circle around and strike from behind.
Only after that did she draw her rapier and a third dagger, holding it in her left hand as backup.
I stopped and turned toward the left flying dagger, unleashing a flak burst of Chain Strikes at it like an anti-air battery, while activating my shield at the same time.
I don’t know exactly what Mitchell had been planning, but I suspect she wanted to hit me from three directions at once.
Whatever it was, she didn’t like what I’d just done.
Her daggers accelerated, but that worked against her. I was missing wildly, but thanks to the dagger’s sudden speed boost, it flew right into one of the projections and, like a shot-down fighter jet, went into an uncontrolled dive.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mitchell launch into a dash, her rapier extended straight ahead.
Danger surged at my back, and I performed a diagonal Monkey leap. At this point, I could probably do them in my sleep.
The threat passed close to my right, and I threw a series of strikes behind it, guided only by instinct.
No hit. As the dagger zipped away, Mitchell was already closing in, but her technique had run out of distance. She shot past the arch, even adjusting her trajectory mid-air to keep me in front of her rapier’s tip.
Didn’t know they could do that. But there were still a good ten centimetres between me and the tip when her technique gave out.
Mitchell had gone all in, and now the recoil hit her. She froze, and the tip of her rapier wavered.
I spun around sharply and grabbed the rapier blade with my left hand.
Unlike Dubois’ faceted rapier, this one had a true edge, meaning it also had flat sides. The metal of my gauntlet screeched as Mitchell pulled one way and I the other. There was a very real chance her weapon had a formation designed to cut through hardened alloys, but I wasn’t about to waste the opportunity.
I drew back my right hand for a Hook, aiming at the base just beneath the guard, and twisted the blade so the flat would take the impact.
I poured as much qi into the strike as I could, even though the projection only had about twenty centimetres to fly. The detonation hit me too, jerking my hand back. My fingers went numb, but the goal was achieved. The blade shattered into fragments.
However, I’d completely overlooked how exposed that left me.
Mitchell hadn’t.
Instead of trying to wrench the rapier from my grip, she used it as a lever to pull herself toward me and drove a dagger into my right side, all the way to the hilt.
Whether it was because we were still connected by the rapier, or because she didn’t have enough distance or time to react to danger, I’m not sure, but my formation failed to register the blade at all.
Just a flash of danger on my right, a dull impact, and I leapt back.
Mitchell lost her balance and fell into the grass.
I sprang forward and drove her helmet into the soft earth with my foot, reinforcing the strike with a Monkey blast.
Three hits later, after her visor cracked and her head had sunk halfway into the ground, the judge appeared beside us.
I paused and looked at him.
Behind his back, medics were already waiting at the edge of the arena.
Mitchell spread her arms and tried to push herself up.
"Keep going!" the judge said.
I stomped her helmet into the ground again.
Three more strikes, and she stopped moving. The judge called the match.
I’d won.
Bloody hell, I’d won.
With a dagger in my side, this was definitely my last fight for today.
What’s down there — guts? Liver?
I looked down at the hilt still sticking out of my side, clamped between the plates of my armour.
The sight, or maybe just a careless shift, brought the pain rushing back. Though to be fair, what ‘careless shift’? I’d just been stomping around on Mitchell like a warhorse, and hadn’t felt a thing.
Adrenaline? Hormones?
Didn’t matter anymore.
On my next inhale, a sharp stab flared through me, then turned to a slicing burn, and cold began to spread from the wound. My knees trembled, and the world started to spin.
A pair of medics and a tech rushed to Mitchell. Another pair picked me as their target. One of them dropped to his knee and began scanning around the injury.
"Ha!" he barked.
"What?" I asked.
"Don’t move!" he shouted. "Freeze!"
Once he saw I’d turned into a statue, he stepped back slightly and explained: "You’ve got a penetrating wound below the ribs. It’s deep, but missed your internal organs. You’re extremely lucky!"
I immediately felt a bit more alert.
“So I could continue in the tournament?”
The medic frowned, looked at me like I was an idiot, stood up, and brought the scanner to my head.
Right. Fuck you too, man. Could’ve just answered the question.
"You’ve got significant muscle damage and a minor bleed. Which will become a major one the moment we pull that piece of metal out."
"Fuck!" I said.
"Nah," he replied, "this is more of a ‘crap’ or ‘bollocks’ — not a ‘fuck.’ A ‘fuck’ would’ve been…" he raised the scanner again to my wounded side,"…three centimetres higher. Then you’d be flat on your back, and she’d be the one still standing." He gestured toward his colleagues, who had just removed Mitchell’s helmet and were scanning her neck.
Bloody comedian, this one.
The medic waved the tech over to pull the dagger while he retrieved an aerosol can with a long, narrow nozzle.
The tech also did a quick scan and gave instructions.
"Lean slowly to your left. Try to stretch out the right side." He shifted the scanner into his left hand but didn’t pull it away, and gripped the dagger hilt with his right.
So... no high-tech tools for me, then.
"Wait!" I said, glancing at the chattier medic. "I want to stay in the tournament."
"You’ve lost your mind!" he snapped. "You’re bleeding!"
"Seal it. Do whatever you have to so I can make it to the next round. Or I’ll file a complaint."
"It’s not worth it," the medic tried to reason with me.
But all I could see was N’Kamba. She’d earned third place because she surrendered in time. Not quite my situation. Actually, kind of the reverse.
N’Kamba had forfeited to Gunter in the semi-final. Turgunov beat Mitchell and sent her to the pod, and N’Kamba had no one to fight for third place.
Sure, this wasn’t a semi-final, just the round of sixteen. But if I surrendered now, I’d become Mitchell to Moyo or Balan. The bracket had me facing the winner of their match.
What if they beat the hell out of each other and both ended up in the med bay?
No. It was too early for me to check into the infirmary.
"That’s not your decision to make," I told him, eyeing his black uniform — staff standard. "You’re not under selection pressure."
"Don’t be a bloody fool!" he barked. "Extra injuries will count against you in selection!"
I wasn’t about to explain my full strategy to him, so…
"Do everything you can," I insisted, and carefully turned my head to the tech. His uniform was grey — he understood me better. "Pull it!" I said, and leaned to the right.
The tech yanked the dagger free.
A sharp bolt of pain shot through me, making my whole body tense. I couldn’t hold back the grunt that tore through clenched teeth, and after the spasm, I felt warmth spread through the cold side of my body.
The tech jumped back, and the medic took his place, inserting the aerosol nozzle straight into the wound through the gap in my armour.
My vision darkened, and I swayed. To avoid falling, I grabbed the medic’s shoulder.
"It’s going to get worse!" he promised.
"Painkiller," I requested.
"You’ll manage without!" he replied.
"Then I’ll do it myself!" I snapped.
"Go ahead!" he grinned, and yanked the nozzle free, nearly making me piss myself.
I almost gave the order to inject a painkiller, but held back in time. Who knew how long I’d still need to last? Painkillers had limits too.
I let go of the medic and glanced at my side, where pink-white foam was oozing out. The pink, of course, was blood.
"Thanks," I told him, then turned and headed for the exit.
All my focus went into walking normally, not limping. I was performing for the crowd because inside, the pain was a blaze that made me want to scream.
Sometimes, pain gets so intense it slips beyond words. I was still two steps short of that absolute kind. For now, the word was ‘burning.’
Kate nearly broke my skull, and probably a few ribs too. She’d raised a fist to slam into my wound, clearly intending to send me straight to the infirmary, before I nearly shouted that I had a plan.
Fortunately, she agreed to listen.
In the Moyo vs Balan match, Moyo had won.
Both of them, like me, were Fist cultivators. And as is often the case in a fight between equals, they tore each other apart. One got carried off on a stretcher, the other barely crawled out of the arena.
"See!" I told Kate. "I might not even have to fight at all."
"If he steps into the arena — you forfeit!" Kate ordered firmly.
"Maybe I’ll just play around a bit for show," I said.
"No playing around!"
"Alright, alright! God..."
The next arena was sand, scattered with large rocks. Everything from fist-sized stones to boulders the size of my torso.
Moyo stepped onto the arena, or rather, hobbled onto it, limping on his right leg.
Kate was far away, so I stepped in too. Thanks to the painkiller, I managed to fake a spring in my step. I did wonder if Moyo was faking too, but I decided to take the risk.
And it paid off.
Though I still had to fight, and no doubt thoroughly enraged Kate, Moyo didn’t pose much of a threat. He barely moved from the edge of the arena. I had to walk up to him myself.
He tried to hit me, but his technique was slow, travelled in a straight line, and I could see exactly where to dodge before he even finished casting it.
About five metres away, I unleashed a relentless barrage of Chain Punches, and kept the pressure up until they broke through his shield and forced him out of the arena.
It looked almost identical to the demo video from the library.
Kate nearly tore my head off.
Convincing her that I really would forfeit next round wasn’t easy. But the next round was Cinar, and I wasn’t about to mess with him.
He’d taken a beating too. His armour was dented and scratched, and he looked like he’d been through a grinder.
Compared to him, my armour practically gleamed.
He was preparing for a tough fight, you could see it in his stance.
I, on the other hand, was trying not to tense up. The painkiller was wearing off, and my movements were getting harder to control.
Still, when the command to begin came, I raised my hands with enthusiasm.
"I forfeit!" I shouted.
Cinar had already launched into a sprint and nearly tripped over his own pickl in surprise.
"Good luck against Dubois," I wished him, and stepped off the arena.
This time, Kate was satisfied with me. And I didn’t tell her that I was this close to howling from the pain.
Thank God, Dubois and Skoryk had matched up in a way that left them both in the infirmary after their fight.
Cinar was awarded a technical win.
Dubois, as the winner of one of the semi-finals, got second place.
And since Skorik couldn’t fight — third place went to me.
Sometimes, all you have to do is endure. But right now, I really needed the med bay — before I actually pissed myself from the pain.
Comments
Максим Пачесюк
Thanks! Jake can’t win all the time — but he’s not a fan of losing, either.
Jonathan Griffith
You're bringing your A game. Tyftc!
