Maksym Pachesiuk
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Moon Cultivation [Book 2] - Chapter 91: Round One
🕑 Added 2025-06-17 23:36:00 +0000 UTCKate thought I wasn’t ready for the tournaments — and I completely agreed with her. She even let Cinar beat the crap out of me just to prove how unready I was. The tip of his pick pierced my shield, tore through my left side — skin and muscle — but didn’t reach the internal organs. A piece of armour had bent inward and kept slicing into the flesh as I made my way to the emergency undressing platform.
Normally, those platforms were used by medics to pull unlucky cadets out of their gear when a training session had gone completely sideways.
They didn’t have to pull me out, I got there myself, but the medics who responded to the alert authorised my access. You couldn’t just use one of those platforms casually. And the reasons weren’t technical, but logistical. The remote platforms weren’t connected to the central Armour Hall storage. The Hall couldn’t allow cadets to drop their armour wherever they pleased — the local repositories would be overflowing in no time. So all armour was always returned to central storage. And that transfer had to be supervised by Hall staff, which wasted valuable time.
I got my authorisation because the medics wanted to plug the hole in my side quickly — blood was leaking out. Once the machine yanked out the bent bit of metal, the bleeding got worseб but the medics weren’t impressed. They sprayed the wound, slapped a patch on top, and sent me to the infirmary on foot.
At the infirmary, they stuck me in a pod for five hours, and I had to scramble to find someone among the assistant crew to cover my shift in the block.
No one volunteered, so they drew lots. Omar ended up taking my place.
Five hours later, I was almost good as new, with some minor exceptions — fatigue, hunger, and thirst. Dinner was still an hour away, so I grabbed some vending machine bars and a fizzy drink.
Technically, this little inconvenience took me out of action for a full day, and Kate kept hinting that the tournament could knock me out for much longer. Still, I wasn’t about to abandon the idea. Doc had already put together a full stimulant pack for me, and Alan had upgraded my armour with an advanced auto-injection system.
Kate didn’t know about any of this. And she didn’t need to.
It had all cost me a pretty penny. My millions were melting away. In just two months, I’d already burned through three hundred and twenty-six thousand. Most of it had gone in the past week, but cultivation in the Flow Chamber was still my biggest expense. Armour came second, though that was just the beginning. The formation engravings alone would push it into first place, and on top of that — plenty of future repairs awaited.
In fact, the very first repair, Cinar’s puncture, had set me back three thousand units. That kind of money could’ve bought a cheap plastic shell. But that shell would’ve been pierced clean through by Cinar’s club and exited on the other side. In light of my overall spending, complaining seemed pointless. It was money and Vaclav’s tea in equal measure that were keeping me in fifty-third place on the cultivator rankings.
I’d decided that I wouldn’t worry about costs until I dropped below a remaining balance of a hundred to two hundred thousand. If they expelled me and shipped me back to Earth, I’d try pulling a Robinson — returning to Verdis as a staff member. Two hundred grand would be enough to pay for any education I wanted. Not that I had a clue whether I had any talent for the sciences. Medicine definitely didn’t appeal to me. Maybe pharmacology. All those stimulants, essences, and elixirs were highly valued.
The tournament shopping list Doc Robinson put together cost me forty-three thousand — mostly cheap reaction boosters, but there was some interesting stuff in there. Like Iron Shirt. That’s the traditional name of an ancient pill that temporarily boosts the body’s resistance to internal damage — especially effective against Palm Qi. The Monpharm company had turned the pill into a liquid and slightly increased its effectiveness by extending its duration. It could’ve been a decent substitute for a formation — if it didn’t cost four thousand.
Focusing on the tournament, I spent nearly all my free time studying the top ten fighters. Luckily, the registration list was public, so I could see names. Not everyone signed up at once, so I added a few previous tournament winners to my research — excluding the top three from the last round, who were barred from participating this time.
I registered once the number of contestants reached fifty. Sixty-four was the cap, by the way. This time, all the slots didn’t fill up — only sixty-one made it in. The last three got lucky draws and advanced straight to round two. The rest of us, including me, had to fight our way through.
I had quite a support team behind me. Kate, Doc, Denis, Bao Feng, Zola — they all said they’d watch my matches. Marlon said the same, but when he said it, it sounded different. He was competing too. He registered as number sixty. If I’d read the bracket right and luck was on our side, we’d meet in round four.
The weekly tournaments were held on training grounds not meant for live spectators. For that, there was the Arena, with a capital A, used for yearly gatherings and inter-school tournaments. The rest were streamed online. We were to fight under a dome like the one where Kate had first demonstrated the importance of dodging. The site had multiple terrains, and it was managed by junior members of the Hall of Order. My first match was officiated by a second-stage girl, and she looked just as nervous as we were — maybe more.
My opponent was also a girl. Her black-and-red armour featured stylish gold etching — completely non-functional, unless you count the few hundred points of pathos, as Alan would say. Still, if she had money for engraving, she had money for formations, techniques, and stimulants too.
Lan Zhen ranked one hundred and third on the cultivation leaderboard, so I was technically ahead — but I knew better than to underestimate her.
She was a mace cultivator, although her weapon was anything but standard. More like a staff with a small head. Well — small for a staff. For a one-handed mace, the head was decent-sized — about as big as a tennis ball. It gleamed with polished metal, though the shaft made it seem small by comparison. It was made of some kind of flexible polymer composite.
I’d never fought against a Mace type before. One lesson from Kowalski at the mutual support club didn’t count — especially since he’d been swinging a regular single-handed flanged mace.
Our terrain was grass — literally, a green lawn that badly needed trimming. The judge stood at the edge of the platform next to her colleague, who was watching the other pair fighting nearby. He was the first to give the start signal, and two Point cultivators immediately started flinging steel spikes at each other.
I made a mental note to keep an eye on them — didn’t want one of those flying into me by mistake.
Our judge raised her hand, and I gave my armour the command to inject the reaction stimulant. It’d be a shame to lose the very first match.
The judge brought her hand down sharply and called:
“Begin!”
The ground beneath Lan Zhen’s feet exploded — grass flew into the air as she launched forward like a cannonball, her mace raised high above her head. I stepped diagonally forward, using Mad Monkey, and slipped past her a split second before the mace came crashing down on the spot where I’d just been. I was honestly surprised at how easy it was. How naturally Monkey flowed into the dodging reflexes beaten into me by Adam and Kate.
That hadn’t happened with Cinar. So what had changed? Was it the fact that this wasn’t training — or was the stimulant already surging through my veins? No time to figure it out.
The mace head sank into the ground with a soft thwack, burying itself a good twenty centimetres deep.
While Lan Zhen was busy yanking it free, I jumped in behind her and let loose a flurry of Chain Punches at her legs, just like I’d done to Tariq once. They weren’t particularly powerful, but one landed dead on her right knee joint, forcing her down on one knee.
She managed to rip the mace from the ground, but to keep herself from sprawling face-first into the grass, she had to brace the shaft in front of her. The result was that the staff-mace now loomed over her like an empty flagpole.
Trusting my instincts and the drills I’d prepared for other cultivator types, I leapt forward, grabbed the shaft of the mace with my right hand, activated Monkey, and tried to yank it from her grip. Qi detonated beneath my foot, giving me a bit of extra thrust —but not enough. Lan Zhen clung to the weapon like a tick on a cat. I lost my balance, and we both collapsed onto the grass, gripping the shaft from opposite ends.
I had the advantage, since the mace head kept my hands from slipping — but pulling while lying down was awkward as hell. That realisation hit us both at the same time, after two tugs.
We scrambled to our feet.
Lan Zhen activated some kind of technique, and the mace suddenly filled with weight as if someone had added fifty kilos to it. Now I wasn’t just fighting her pull — I was straining just to hold the thing!
She gave a hard yank, and I staggered forward with the inertia. And then, suddenly, she was right in front of me, and kicked me in the head.
An impressive move, considering we were both clad in steel armour.
Boom-m-m!
My helmet rang like a bell. But it was a special helmet! And that probably saved me from dropping on the spot.
I did, however, lose my grip on the mace.
Lan Zhen spun it above her head like a staff, lifted it high, and lined up another strike — aimed straight for my head.
Instead of dodging or stepping back, I lunged in and headbutted her.
Clang!
It wasn’t an Iron Head. It was a truly Mad and unpredictable Monkey. Without the backing of a technique, my headbutt wasn’t any stronger than her kick, but it knocked her off balance again. Her mace smashed into the ground behind me, and her hands landed on my shoulders, still clutching the weapon.
I shoved her, breaking the clinch with a twist of my head. Her left hand slipped off the shaft.
I grabbed the mace again and gave her a kick in the stomach — more of a shove than a proper hit. At the same time, I yanked the weapon.
The ten or so centimetres between her grip and the end of the shaft weren’t enough. Her hand slipped, she lost her hold, and dropped onto the grass, landing on her backside.
For a moment, we both froze.
Her surprise was palpable even through her closed visor.
I wasn’t entirely sure what to do next, so I glanced over at the judge.
She shrugged and said:
“The match isn’t over. No one’s surrendered, taken critical damage, or left the stage.”
Lan Zhen stood up — with a clear intention to take the mace back.
I swung it and hurled it off the stage.
She stopped dead.
“Fuck!” she cursed, loud and from the heart, then turned and went after it.
Only after she stepped past the boundary did the judge announce:
“Victory to Sullivan!”
Well, my first match was a little clumsy — but it was an honest win!
Comments
Joyeus
A win is a win. Girl should have known how to throw a punch after losing her beat stick.
Jonathan Griffith
Tyftc!
