Maksym Pachesiuk
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Moon Cultivation [Book 2] - Chapter 107: Missed One
🕑 Added 2025-07-15 23:36:00 +0000 UTCThe day of the tournament arrived. Cinar was competing; I wasn’t. Dubois had also declined the idea, so we were bound to face each other next time. Still, there were plenty of others I was glad to avoid. Praise be, number one, Leon Gunther, was in this tournament. As were Turgunov, Okoro, Zabyaka, the one who had flattened Cinar last time, and another dozen top-tier fighters.
I felt generous enough to send Cinar a few words of encouragement and even made a sincere promise to root for him. Even my ego stayed quiet — it didn’t believe in his victory one bit. I seriously doubted he’d even make it to the semi-finals.
His very first match was against Okoro. The same Okoro who had already made me break a sweat. The judge gave the signal, and the sand beneath Okoro exploded outward as he launched forward with an air movement technique. He shot ahead like a catapulted projectile.
Cinar didn’t move an inch. The spike of his pick was tucked behind his back, tip pressed to the ground.
Okoro tore across the arena, winding up his right arm for a strike.
Personally, I thought it was a poor decision. Cinar could’ve skewered him like a fly on a pin, using his own momentum against him.
Cinar waited, clearly considering the same thing.
At the last moment, he stepped forward with a swing, calculating the distance so the spike would pierce Okoro’s side.
Had that strike landed, no formation would’ve saved Okoro. But he wasn’t a fool, the charge was a feint. Instead of striking, he hurled the hammer from his right hand and unleashed an air burst from his left. The technique all but cancelled his momentum, and the spike of Cinar’s mace swept past his belly, scraping a few centimetres of paint.
The hammer slammed into Cinar’s chest, denting his breastplate like cardboard and knocking him to the sand.
Momentum carried him sliding on his back, just out of reach of Okoro’s follow-up — and just beyond the range of the opponent’s second weapon. That alone saved him from another strike. Okoro held back from throwing his second hammer, still dealing with the backlash of his own techniques and trying to recover his balance.
Had he thrown it, that might’ve been the end right there. But not only did he hold back, he also lunged to retrieve the first hammer, giving Cinar time to get back on his feet.
He stood, clutching the dent in his chest plate with his left hand.
Okoro already had his second hammer in hand. He lunged again with a short burst. Cinar didn’t retreat. On the contrary, he dropped his centre of gravity, tilted the pick forward, and let it grow.
When Okoro struck from the left, Cinar met the blow with the pick’s spike.
Wow. Impressive precision.
The clash of two different types of qi forced both of them back a step and knocked their weapons loose. And that was one area where Cinar had a clear advantage — he knew how to harness the inertia of his massive weapon properly, while Okoro was still just trying to keep his hammer in hand.
That left him open.
It all happened incredibly fast. I think there was a bit of everything involved: inertia, telekinesis, and the weapon’s shapeshifting properties. One moment the pick was flying backwards, and the next it twisted around Cinar’s wrist and smashed into Okoro’s armour just above the right collarbone.
The defensive formation didn’t trigger.
I don’t know whether that was due to qi disruption from the earlier clash or a flaw in the formation’s construction, but the spike went in up to the hilt.
Cinar yanked the weapon back—
Well, tried to. But the judge materialised beside them, caught the handle mid-motion, slapped Cinar flat onto his armoured backside, and snatched one of Okoro’s hammers to hurl it at the other.
“Freeze!” he barked. “Victory to Cinar! Anyone moves, I start breaking bones!”
Cinar’s next match had to be postponed, since the medics were extracting the pick from Okoro with extreme care. At least he had time to replace his chest plate.
In the second match, his opponent was an unfamiliar girl. Judging by her presence here, this was probably her first tournament — I didn’t remember seeing her before. Even in armour she looked wiry, and stood nearly a head shorter than Cinar.
Sandra Costa.
In a way, she was a mirror of Cinar. Her roots were the same Wood and Point. Only, where Cinar leaned into weight, she played to speed and precision. Her weapon was a double-ended spear, each end shaped into a natural point, flanked by two slender prongs that could unfurl in an instant, turning the spear into a harpoon and her opponent’s guts into a shredded mess.
Her technique was more traditional — more a dance than a duel. She didn’t stop for even a moment. Even as the match was announced, her footwork had already begun tracing a spiralling path around Cinar. He didn’t rush. He settled into a classic stance: left shoulder forward, pick shortened, slightly pulled back and angled downward.
The girl’s spear flared green, and she launched the attack. No direct lunge like Okoro, her movements were jagged, angular, constantly shifting direction. Still a Point-based movement technique, but with rapid directional changes, made possible by dual spearheads.
Cinar didn’t respond immediately. He let her move, let her burn energy, studying her rhythm. But after a few seconds, she started pressing him. Her spear could grow too, and it looked like it extended farther than his mace. She burst to one side, flicked the spear mid-air toward Cinar and launched it. Her dash changed trajectory at the last instant, the spear suddenly extended, and the tip snapped loudly against Cinar’s left shoulder.
A shallow groove scored the armour, ending in a tiny puncture.
The spear snapped back to half-length as she pulled it towards herself, stepped in, and struck upward with a follow-through. Almost touched his helmet, but this time Cinar parried with the pick’s shaft.
He was finally getting into gear.
When Costa began another manoeuvre, Cinar caught her weapon with his left hand and it lit up green. Looked like he was trying to subdue the Wood itself, but it twisted and fought like a live snake.
Costa clearly hadn’t expected that. She tried to yank her weapon free, but Cinar was stronger. He pulled her toward him — straight into the path of the pick. A fairly slow strike, since he had to swing the massive weapon one-handed.
Costa had to choose, hold onto her weapon or take a spike to the ribs, and she let go.
Cinar immediately lifted the spear, which was still writhing like it had a will of its own.
Costa froze in hesitation, unsure what to do as Cinar subdued her weapon. The green glow around his left hand faded, the spear stilled and straightened. Cinar turned back toward his opponent, but before he could even take a step, Costa raised her hands.
His next opponent was none other than Leon Gunther himself. I already knew Cinar wasn’t making it to the finals, but still, he tried. A Palm-cultivator with peak efficiency, number one across all rankings, Gunther wasted neither gestures nor energy. He moved like a metronome. Struck like a mechanism.
Even watching the fight was uncomfortable. Just seeing him walk onto the grass of the arena, I already knew who would win.
The judge gave the signal.
And this time, Cinar didn’t act like himself, he charged first, extending the length of his pick.
For a moment, it looked like he was setting the pace. His weapon sliced through the air, smashing a cluster of miniature shields hovering above his opponent, formed by a defensive formation. Just a few centimetres more and the spike would’ve touched the helmet.
A flicker of ‘Could it be?!’ flashed through my head.
But Gunther merely shifted his right palm forward. The projection that burst from it pierced Cinar like cardboard. A golden hand met the shield array and shattered into smoke, but that smoke kept moving and passed straight into Cinar’s chest. He staggered from the impact as the last traces of the Palm Qi burst out through his back.
Cinar’s mace struck Gunther’s helmet, and simply slid off it, not leaving so much as a scratch.
Another formation? Or some sort of technique?
Gunther raised his left palm forward. Cinar tried to dodge, but his earlier injury slowed him. With a titanic effort, he twisted the pick and slammed the shaft into Gunther’s left arm.
The golden projection fired off mid-swing. Part of it shattered on the mace, the rest splintered against the formation shield.
Cinar spun the pick again, and Gunther had to evade — only, he wasn’t fast enough...
Wait!
He was fast enough. He was intentionally absorbing hits with the formation shield, angling them just right so Cinar couldn’t break through. It saved him both time and effort.
And once I understood that, the whole thing looked damn impressive. I could never pull that off, but Gunther moved like someone with decades of combat behind him.
Hmm… I should tell Novak to keep an eye on that one. I don’t like him.
Cinar’s pick either bounced off the formations or scraped against the armour, while Gunther didn’t strike back, even though he kept moving his hands.
Uh-oh. I know what it means when a cultivator starts waving their hands with no obvious effect.
Gunther sprang back from Cinar, instantly opening a seven-metre gap between them. He stretched his arms wide, and at a few centimetres from his middle fingers, massive golden palm projections formed — each the size of a person.
Ult!
I had no idea what I would’ve done in his place.
Cinar charged forward, pick extended like a spear.
Gunther clapped.
Literally. His armoured gauntlets came together and so did the projections. Cinar was caught between them. He flew the remaining distance like dead weight, his weapon dealing no damage, and collapsed onto Gunther like a puppet with its strings cut.
Gunther stepped aside, letting the body slump to the ground.
“Match over! Victory — Gunther!” the judge announced as the medics rushed to Cinar.
Shit. That was brutal.
And thank God I hadn’t signed up for this tournament!
Gunther took first place without even breaking a sweat. His quarter-final opponent was Ines Arraio, and he smeared her across the arena. The girl didn’t stand a chance.
In the semi-final, he faced Miriam N’Kamba. She forfeited the moment the fight began.
Honestly, that was a smart tactical decision.
In the final, Gunther’s opponent was Turgunov, the same one Dubois had faced in our tournament’s semi-final, and even he didn’t bother to fight. He didn’t even step onto the arena.
That’s when N’Kamba’s genius really showed. She secured third place, because Turgunov’s opponent, Sophia Mitchell, was already sealed inside a nameless capsule in the infirmary.
Turgunov had rolled over her like a tank. And while she made sure he paid dearly for it, she didn’t leave the arena on her feet. You could say that semi-final was a near-repeat of his match with Dubois. Mitchell was also a Point-type and also wielded a rapier. Only this time, Turgunov had learned from his mistakes — he snapped her blade down to the guard and turned her armour into scrap metal while she was still inside it.
All things considered, I had every right to congratulate myself on my decision not to take part in this tournament.
I’d almost certainly have ended up smeared across the floor like poor Mitchell.
Comments
Jonathan Griffith
Tyftc!
