Maksym Pachesiuk
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Moon Cultivation [Book 2] - Chapter 119: Not Down Yet
🕑 Added 2025-08-05 23:36:02 +0000 UTCA few drops of blood flew from the spike as Сinar’s fist went for another swing. My left hand was still pressed against his chest. I didn’t even realise how I’d activated the Monkey and pushed him away.
The spike had only grazed my armour, but the Monkey recoil was enough that I barely managed to stay on my feet.
Bloody nausea! Bloody spinning world!
Сinar had done his homework, too. He’d watched my fights. He’d figured out how I worked. And he’d found my weak side. Literally – my side!
And those spikes… Yes, there were two of them, one jutting from each fist. They weren’t separate weapons; they were part of the gauntlets. Built-in, hidden, invisible until the last possible second. I couldn’t disarm him, couldn’t toss them out of the arena.
Clever move!
But I hadn’t lost yet! I still had three, maybe four rounds left!
My thoughts were a mess. The damned nausea made it impossible to think straight. My leg trembled with pain like an autumn leaf.
I shoved strategy aside, focusing only on tactics and this specific moment. I clenched my teeth and forced a command through to the armour to inject whatever was left: painkillers and a standard stim.
In response — a quick sting in my side, a dull ache in my heart, and for a few seconds, the world snapped back into clarity.
The weakness didn’t vanish. It just slipped into the shadows. And it came back in waves. Between those waves, I had to somehow fend off Сinar’s attacks.
My opponent began swinging his fists, and I let the first few hits land. The formations saved me. The spikes skidded across the defence, unable to pierce it fully.
Сinar realised he needed physical contact to neutralise the defence and grabbed my right wrist while I stood there like a salt statue. With his right hand, he aimed again at my poor left side.
That snapped me out of it.
I kicked his left shin. No technique, just a plain kick – but hard enough to make him drop to one knee and bang his helmet against my armoured abdomen.
His right hand veered lower and further than he’d planned, so the spike only grazed my armoured arse.
Pure instinct: I lifted my right arm, the one he was still gripping, grabbed his left in a mirrored hold, stepped back with my right foot, and drove my knee into his armoured chin.
The alloys rang out at the clash.
Why the hell didn’t I use Qi?
Because I didn’t have a knee technique.
But I knew the principle behind projection. No channels, just like in those first training sessions with Rene — just a lot of Fist Qi.
I struck again.
A silvery projection wrapped around my leg, and I realised the mistake too late. Projections detonate, and I hadn’t even given it ten centimetres of flight. The recoil cracked into my knee almost as hard as his armoured chin had.
But a knee has only one joint, and the explosion merely forced the leg to straighten faster. His neck, on the other hand, had more, and Сinar’s head snapped back so hard the segmented plates of his armour groaned under the strain.
Instinct took over. I flung my arms outward, forcing Сinar to rise, pulled upward by momentum. His grip on my right arm weakened and slipped, but I was already leaning in for a headbutt, performing part of the Iron Head technique I’d practised countless times under Adam’s watchful eye.
Сinar’s head swung back into place just in time for my blow. It wasn’t a full technique, I didn’t have much unstable Qi left to channel into the strike, but it was enough to stagger him. His head jerked again, his balance faltered, and he swung out blindly with a free hand.
I caught it, locked it in place, and hit him again with a knee projection, this time drawing my leg further back and shortening the arc, so the projection had room to travel.
Bloody hell, that was awkward and drained a ridiculous amount of energy!
Head’s better.
I let go of Сinar’s arms and, before he could recover, grabbed his helmet, locked it in place, and slammed three headbutts in quick succession — point-blank Iron Heads.
His faceplate cracked along the seam. The helmet looked ready to come apart, so I hit him again. And again—
“Enough!” the judge commanded, reinforcing the order with a light smack to the back of my helmet. It rocked my head but didn’t hurt.
I stopped.
Сinar was still moving. Tough bastard!
“Did I win?” I asked.
“You did!” the judge said impatiently, gesturing towards two sets of medics waiting their turn.
I released Сinar and he collapsed sideways, completely disoriented.
One pair of white coats rushed to him; the other started working on me. One knelt beside me and began scanning the wound. A real déjà vu. Except this time, it was from this life, not the last. Now should come the ‘Ha!’
But no ‘Ha’ came. Not even a single energetic exclamation.
Instead, the medic muttered something along the lines of,
“Hmm-hmm-hmm.”
“What?” I asked.
“Onto the stretcher,” he said, motioning at me. “Carefully.”
“Aren’t you going to close that up or something? Feels like I’m leaking pretty badly.”
From the outside, there was barely any blood, just a thin red trickle, but the undersuit beneath the armour was soaked. I couldn’t quite tell how badly, but the lower my leg got to the ground, the colder my left side became. Somewhere around the hip, the warm wet sensation began to clash with the creeping chill.
“Tough luck, kid. The wound’s too serious for a temporary fix. We need to get you into a pod as soon as possible.”
“Does that mean I can’t continue in the tournament?”
This medic was a lot more human than his colleague. He didn’t treat me like an idiot or put on a circus act.
“You’ve got a deep puncture between your ribs and hip. Internal oblique muscle is torn, the fascia’s partially ruptured, the peritoneum’s been pierced, and your small intestine’s been punctured. That’s not a scratch,” he said, all seriousness.
How bad was that, really?
Sure, he’d rattled off a bunch of smart, terrifying words, not that I caught all of them.
My past-world instincts told me a pierced intestine during combat, without immediate hospital care, was a near-certain death sentence. In this world, if you were still standing, chances were good you’d survive. Medicine here worked miracles.
I’d stabbed Douybois in the guts with a stiletto all the way to the hilt — and the guy was back on his feet in a week.
I was still standing.
This was round five — the quarterfinal. I was one step from the goal!
In the semis, I’d forfeit again and, gods willing, third place, 880 points, and the crystal would be mine!
All I had to do was stay on my feet.
I shook my head.
“Stop the bleeding. I have to keep going.”
“Son,” the medic said gently, “besides the obvious bleeding and torn muscles, you’ve got peritonitis — inflammation of the peritoneum from intestinal leakage. It’s an extremely dangerous condition that requires immediate treatment.
“First it’s a dull ache, then rapid deterioration — nausea, fever, intense pain, spasms.
“Sometimes the first symptoms are delayed, but I think you’ve just masked them with stims. The moment the painkillers wear off, you’ll be in hell.”
“Perfect!” I said. “That means I’ve got time until the painkillers wear off!”
I turned and hobbled towards the waiting zone, bracing myself for a scolding from Kate. The medics trailed behind.
My pair, that is. The others had loaded Сinar onto a stretcher and strapped him down tight — he was still struggling for some reason. They passed us on the way out.
Kate met me with a worried look, then glanced at the medics who were sticking close.
“Is everything alright?” she asked.
“He needs immediate hospitalisation,” my medic informed her. “We’re just waiting for the spasms to hit so he can’t resist anymore.”
“Visor up!” Kate commanded.
I waved her off firmly and nearly collapsed from the stab of pain in my side.
“Enough! Same plan as last time.” I added, more quietly, “I’m not going to fight. I just need to stay standing.”
“Visor. Up!” Kate growled, raising a fist now glowing with silvery Qi.
I lifted it.
“Bloody hell, Jake, you look like shit!” Then she explained, “You’re pale as death! Get to the infirmary. Now!”
“No!” I snapped back. “You did give up your arm for your crystal, and told me that it was worth it! I’ve got a crystal on the line too!”
Kate flinched and winced at the memory, and I pushed harder.
“I’m not out in the field with Iron Ants. I’m in the School, under medic supervision. If something happens, they’ll revive me!”
“You’re overestimating us, lad,” the medic grunted.
Strangely, his scepticism only strengthened my resolve. He didn’t remind me of that arse who patched me up last time. He was more like Robinson. And I trusted Robinson.
“What’s the situation?” I asked. “Who’s in the semi-finals?”
Kate puffed up, ready to argue, but the tug-of-war inside her, the memories, held her back. She changed her mind and checked her tablet.
“Gunther, Dubois, and Skoryk.”
“Excellent! Absolutely perfect!” I said.
I remembered the bracket, so I knew Gunther would face Dubois in the semi-final, and I’d be up against Skoryk.
Skoryk was a solid fighter, one I’d kept tabs on, but both Dubois and Okoro had overpowered her. And I’d overpowered them.
For a moment, a wild idea flashed through my mind — maybe I could go for second place. I crushed it quickly.
Not in this state.
I could barely move, and I felt even worse.
The undersuit beneath the armour was soaked, but not with blood anymore. Sweat. A few large drops slid down my cheeks, and one crept between my eyebrows, tickling its way along my nose before dripping off the tip.
I’d started to shake.
The tremor was easy enough to hide inside the armour, but my left leg was twitching so hard it wouldn’t stay unnoticed much longer.
Faster! Faster! Faster!
I needed to get into the arena as quickly as possible!
To pass the time, I threw another question at Kate.
“What’s their condition?”
“Gunther? Star of the show as always. His armour’s barely scratched. No serious damage. Inside or out.
“Dubois took a few hits. I wouldn’t bet money on it, but I’m pretty sure he’s on his third set of armour for the tournament.”
“Bloody rich bastard,” I muttered.
Dubois wasn’t a bastard, of course, but his family’s wealth, and their willingness to spend it, were something else.
“Skoryk?” I asked.
“She got hit,” Kate nodded, but didn’t elaborate. “You’re not planning to fight her, are you?”
“Never even crossed my mind,” I lied.
“Her left side’s dented, left leg’s pierced, and looks like a Palm Cultivator did minor internal damage too.”
So among the semi-finalists, Skoryk had taken the worst beating. Well, aside from me.
The damn pain was growing. My stomach felt like it was swelling.
Was that my guts spilling out? Or just fever-dream hallucinations?
Though, the fever only went up to my waist, my left leg still felt like it had been dunked in ice water.
Faster! Faster! Faster!
Enduring it was getting harder. I couldn’t wait for the semi-final, and I had to last until the final. The third-place match would run alongside the main event.
The medic raised the scanner. Oddly, he aimed it at my head, not my injured side.
“Still not ready for hospitalisation?” he asked.
“Not yet!” I snapped.
The sudden aggression tensed my abdominal muscles — and the first real spasm hit.
Comments
Jonathan Griffith
Tyftc!
