Maksym Pachesiuk
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Moon Cultivation [Book 2] - Chapter 84: Some Problems
🕑 Added 2025-06-04 23:36:01 +0000 UTCI’d gotten over Arnaud. After all, I’d just been a random witness to his collapse — I wasn’t involved in any other way. Besides, I had my own problems to deal with, like the metaphorical beating my arse had taken from Cinar. Metaphorical, since it was actually my chest that suffered the most.
I even had to spend three points on treatment at the infirmary.
The infirmary was the main points sink for cadets — and the Academy’s favourite method for draining our points.
Among my guys, Marlon was the most frequent visitor, but this time Denis had taken his place. First, he didn’t show up for dinner, then he didn’t come back to sleep, so we called him. When the system said he was temporarily unavailable, we knew it — he’d ended up in the medblock.
He woke us up early in the morning.
Well, technically he only woke Bao, but Bao greeted him, and since it was almost time to get up anyway and we were all half-awake, it was enough to rouse both Marlon and me.
Denis saw we’d all opened our eyes and wasted no time unloading a bitter rant about the injustice of life.
“What exactly happened this time?” Marlon asked through a yawn.
“My new mentor decided to demonstrate the proper way to channel qi through the palm! And guess who he chose as the target for his demo?”
“Well, Kate used to rough me up a bit too,” I said. “Seems like they’re all mental in this place.”
“Did Kate ever make you cough up blood?” Denis shot back.
“Worst she gave me were bruises,” I admitted.
“Screw that psycho!” Denis snapped. “He’s going to train me into an early grave.”
“Fully with you on that one,” Bao chimed in.
“And why are you still without a mentor?” I asked. “Isn’t the name ‘Bao’ enough to attract eager volunteers like flies to honey?” I added, even though we all knew flies preferred shit.
“Volunteers to milk me dry, sure. But now that I’m no longer Daddy’s golden boy, my options are pretty limited.” That word, ‘Daddy,’ practically hissed with venom. Bao Fen used to lash out at the whole world, but now all that rage had narrowed in on one target. “And don’t even mention the crystals. I’m not giving them up."
Everyone had their own problems...
Bao handled his issues with surprising composure — though it had clearly left him with daddy issues. Johansson would’ve loved that…
Hmm. He’d actually make a perfect mentor for Bao. Bao leaned more towards Wood than Mace, Johansson more Mace than Wood — but in the end, it was the same two roots.
“Mad idea…” I said aloud. “If I find you a decent mentor who hates your family, would you train under him?”
Bao actually leaned down from his bunk to give me a surprised look. Before he could answer, Denis practically cried out:
“Find one for me!”
Whatever had been going through Bao’s head, the words got stuck in his throat. Then he gave a firm nod.
“Yes!”
“And find me one too!” Denis repeated. “He’s got crystals at least — I’ve got nothing.”
“I’ll ask,” I promised.
I called Johansson after breakfast, on my way to Rene’s.
He picked up almost immediately.
“I’ve no idea why you’d be calling me, but I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be interesting,” he said.
“I think you’ll like it. You once said you couldn’t stand Bao…”
“Did the little shit do something? Didn’t you say he’s starting to act almost human now?”
“Exactly. I want to offer you the chance to be his mentor.”
The silence dragged.
“What?” he finally said. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard all month!”
“His father’s written him off. He’s not getting any help from the family. Just imagine the buzz if Bao Feng gets into second period thanks to you.”
Johansson took a bit longer to answer this time.
“That would be… glorious. But his odds are slim. He’s fallen way behind all of you. Even those crystals of his won’t bridge that gap.”
“He’s aiming for the duels.”
“Because that’s his only shot,” Johansson laughed.
“It’s your decision. I’m just saying — there’s no risk to you. But if he makes it…”
“I’ll think about it,” he cut me off. “There’s no risk, true — but it’ll cost me a lot of time. That all?”
"I also need a Palm-type mentor. For my other roommate."
"You’ve got some nerve!"
"I'm just asking if you know anyone."
"I don’t!" Johansson snapped and hung up.
Well… that could’ve gone better. Still, a negative result was a result nonetheless.
This time, training with Rene was far less dramatic. I arrived early and managed to claim a slightly wider strip, which let me practise a diagonal jump combo — first jump to the right, then to the left. It was only a small part of what the technique could eventually do, but to master the rest, I’d need to change facilities and book a few one-on-ones with Rene. And one-on-one with him cost ten times more for half the time: a thousand units, or a hundred points per hour.
Sounded like a massive difference, but by the end of my session, there were twenty-three cadets in the hall, each paying roughly what I was — one hundred for two hours. Do the maths, and it’s still a thousand an hour. And there I was, wondering why his group rates seemed so cheap. Now I saw the whole picture. Even without private sessions, Rene was probably pulling in close to a quarter of a million per month! Not sure what he made during slow months — and honestly, it didn’t matter nearly as much as what the other trainer earned. The one Kate had recommended. That guy had to be raking in millions.
I was sure the school took a cut from those earnings — and not a small one either.
For the vast majority of first-years, individual training was just too expensive, whether in units or in points. So cadets only went that route when the regular sessions stopped giving results. I hadn’t hit any such wall yet. I was progressing. I saw room to grow. But once I had the basics of the technique down, I’d definitely be booking some private lessons — to squeeze everything I could out of the Monkey.
After Rene’s, I had the rest of the day free. Kate cancelled our training due to some errand of hers, so I had another three vials of Wood essence pumped into me and went for a walk in the greenhouse. Including yesterday’s dose, that should’ve raised my root value to eleven. Two more days and I’d be able to start working on sensing the Wood Qi. But since the growth was entirely dependent on the extract, not on me, I decided to relax and gave Zola a call.
Outgoing call: Z. T. Dlamini
"Yes?" Zola’s voice came quickly, but sounded tired and strained.
"Are you busy?"
"I'm always busy. But if this isn’t an invite to intense training or a crash course in trauma recovery — go on."
"I'm in the greenhouse. Thought if you had a free hour, we could walk a bit, chat."
"Wow, you sure know how to charm a girl. Be right there."
The line went dead before I could say anything else. And she claimed to be busy.
I wandered around the greenery for a bit, found a free bench across from a patch of white orchids, and sat down, sending Zola my geolocation.
Barely ten minutes had passed before a familiar figure appeared through the hedge-lined walkway. But Zola looked... different. Like she’d been surviving on four hours of sleep a night for several days straight. Puffy eyes, a slack expression, sluggish movements, and most noticeably, her hair. She’d never been into fancy styles, but her old straight black hair used to sit neatly with no effort. The new one was thick and curly, pulled into a clumsy bun with several rebellious strands sticking out like wild weeds.
"You look like shit," I greeted her, settling an old score from the time she said the same to me.
"When was the last time you weren’t in that state yourself?" she snapped.
"Oh, look at that — you’re perking up already," I said with a grin. "Fix your hair and you’ll pass for human again."
She threw her head back toward the dome’s transparent ceiling and let out a dramatic groan before collapsing onto the bench beside me.
"This hair, Jake… this fucking hair is driving me insane!" she said it like it was the central tragedy of her life. "It has a will of its own. I have no idea what to do with it. None of my usual tricks work anymore. And it’s not like I’ve got loads of spare time to binge curly hair care tutorials!"
"I didn’t think it’d get to you that much," I said.
My transfer to the new body had been smooth — aside from the amnesia.
What would I do in her place? I’d have shaved the whole mess off and called it a day.
But to Zola, the hair clearly mattered.
"I thought the hardest part would be adjusting to the strength, the weight distribution, the speed," she said. "But for fuck’s sake, no one warned me I’d need to learn how to use special shampoos, oils, and never, ever towel-dry!"
"Oh come on, how hard can it be?" I said — and immediately earned a death glare.
"You’re not helping!" she growled. "I either need to rant, or blow off steam in some other way..."
She tried to sound threatening, so I played along.
"Sorry!" I pulled myself together, arranged a sympathetic look on my face, and declared, "That honestly sounds like a whole new cultivation technique!"
Zola gave me a critical once-over — expression, posture, tone — then decided it was acceptable.
"It is!" she said. "I knew it would be hard. But I expected the kind of hard where you push yourself to a hundred and ten percent. This body’s way behind…" She stopped and looked around, suddenly nervous. No one was listening in, but when she continued, it was in a more careful tone. "But out of all the stress — training, rehab, more training, study, cultivation — the worst part is this bloody hair. Every morning it turns into a knot of wild magic with the temperament of a viper!"
I nodded like that was the most normal complaint in the world, completely relatable.
"And that’s not all!" she went on, waving her hands — tired but animated. "My muscles wake up before I do! I go to bed, and the body’s still buzzing. I wake up, everything hurts. And the moment I start to relax — itching!"
"Itching?" I echoed, feigning concern.
"Yes, itching! Under the skin. In my hair. In my fingers!" She crossed her arms and hugged her shoulders. "Even going to the toilet is different. Everything’s changed!"
I nodded with solemn understanding — though the last detail was a bit much. Maybe my memory loss actually saved me a lot of discomfort. For the first time, I felt grateful for it.
"I just want things to go back to how they were!" she almost whined. "I’d even take the migraines back!"
I raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"Without the…" she waved vaguely. "Without… Well, you know what I mean."
"I do," I said. "But you know things won’t go back. You’ll have to adjust. And to speed up that adjustment, I’d suggest cutting your hair really short. If I were you, I’d just shave it all off —"
"Have you completely lost it?" she cut in, horrified. "I’m a lady! Ladies don’t shave their heads!"
"That’s why I said cut, not shave. But first and foremost, you’re a cultivator. And if that hair’s giving you so much grief — cut it. Not forever. Just until better times, when you’ve got the room to deal with it properly."
"You think a bald head will be less stressful?"
"I don’t know. But it probably won’t itch. Bursalu doesn’t seem to be itching."
Zola fell quiet, thinking.
"You sound reasonable. I don’t like it."
I spread my hands.
"Just being a concerned friend."
Comments
Nameless
We need bald nur fr tyftc
Jonathan Griffith
Tyftc!
