Maksym Pachesiuk
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Moon Cultivation - Chapter 74: Fist Essence
🕑 Added 2025-05-21 23:36:01 +0000 UTCBreakfast matched my mood — bland and unappetising.
There was some lazy chatter around the table about training schedules, shift changes, the usual noise. None of it stuck. The guys had already bought into the cover story that Nur was in the infirmary thanks to another of her brutal migraines, so they weren’t pushing me for details.
And I missed that damned ring. Vaclav had said I was prime bait even without it now. Especially with Thyzreth on the run.
After breakfast came the training hall.
Rene, clearly trying to make up for having ignored me the last few days, gave it a go — but it just wasn’t our day. Projections shot off at odd angles, shields activated too late or fizzled out way too fast. I kept falling out of rhythm.
At one point, Rene couldn’t help himself: “Maybe I should just show you a meditative technique instead?”
I waved him off and ended the session early.
There wasn’t anything scheduled with Adam today, so I headed straight for the greenhouse.
And that’s how I ended up in the middle of warm mist, soft light, and scents that curled in my nose — sharp and herbal, something spicy, something sour. The air smelled like memory. Like something too peaceful, too still to be real. Like a dream that used to be real life.
It was here that I first mistook Nur for a demon.
Though, if we’re being honest, the first time we met I was staring at her bare tits. Funny thing was, even in that moment, I wasn’t really looking at the tits — I was looking at the tattoos. They wrapped her body like living art: the dragon across her neck, mythical beasts, scenes out of folklore.
She thought I was a perv. Truth is, I was just caught up in the detail — the way the images twisted and flowed with the natural curves of her body. Word by word, we’d snapped at each other like two creatures spat out of the void, unsure what to do with ourselves.
Doctor Robinson had cut it short with one sharp order to put on some clothes. That shut things down — for the moment.
But Nur stuck with me. Bold and awkward, like a blade left half-forged.
I’d come to the greenhouse that day just to walk. Kate’s idea. Cool off. Clear my head. And I saw her again.
I recognised her by the dragon tattoo, curling just above her collar. She was looking at some dark-blue flowers — almost black.
She called me a perv again. I called her an exhibitionist. Then she saw my ring. Her eyes shifted. Surprise, fear — maybe pain? Something flickered there. She grabbed her head. Said it was just a migraine. I didn’t buy it.
So the moment she disappeared between the rows, I messaged Novak.
The old puppet master was playing a game I didn’t understand. It annoyed me, how certain he seemed. How pleased with himself. Nothing about the last few days gave me certainty. Or joy.
Still, the walk didn’t help. I even stopped by Marco’s — five hundred units for a cup of coffee and a pastry.
Didn’t help either.
After lunch — and a quiet, almost boring shift in the dorm block — I realised I needed to do something. Something low effort. Low stakes.
There were forty-six vials of Fist Essence sitting in my locker. Seemed like it was time.
I called Diego. The Ninety-Eighth. The one who worked in the garden.
“Well, look who it is,” said Diego. “Been a while since you graced us with your presence. Let me guess — you’ve mastered the first technique and now you want to work on saturation?”
“Wrong,” I said, but didn’t have time to explain.
“Then it must be the essence.”
“Got it in one. Can you walk me through the process?”
“Three ampoules. That’s the standard dose. You can try it with two, or even one — but that’s gambling.”
“Can you still get an extra stat boost with just one?”
“Yeah,” Diego laughed. “With a ten percent chance. So that one point costs you ten units — which could buy you two ampoules and get you a guaranteed plus two to the root.”
“What are the odds with two or three?”
“Forty and seventy percent, respectively.”
I’m no math genius, but I can multiply by ten. The numbers didn’t quite line up.
“So why does it feel like the forty-percent option gives better value for money?”
“Because statistically, it does. If you compare the cost of the procedure and the essence used, two ampoules give you better statistic value. But you’re ignoring the time investment. And you’re forgetting that statistics only work over large numbers. For you, it’s one specific chance on one specific cultivation. Forty percent is the chance of a single attempt — it doesn’t compound. Doesn’t get more generous just because you wish it would.”
“What’s your Fist at now?”
“Twenty-six,” I answered.
“So let’s use the same math — again, not very reliable with small numbers. That’s about ten attempts with two ampoules, or seven with three. Your net gain? One ampoule saved — worth about five points. With the three-ampoule method, you save around ninety minutes and spend three points less. Six, if you use the extra time to harvest flowers.”
“Damn…” I muttered. “How many times have you given that speech?”
“More than I care to count. You bloody min-maxers are driving me up the wall.”
“You just don’t want extra bodies in your Garden.”
“There’s that too,” Diego admitted.
“Anything else I need to know? Like how to actually take the stuff?”
“Bring the ampoules, show up at the Garden. The machine does the rest.”
“I can be there in thirty.”
“I’ll be waiting. Call me when you arrive.”
The Armour Hall was buzzing as always. First-years and upper cadets were now split about fifty-fifty — though the chaos had died down. Everyone knew the procedure by now: how to suit up, where to go, what to press. No more holdups.
The platforms closest to the entrance had lines of seven or eight people. I headed farther down and joined the fifth spot in line at a platform just vacated by a cadet in solid black armour.
The queue moved fast.
Then the problem hit me.
I’d tossed the three ampoules of essence into my pocket.
How the hell was I supposed to get them out from under a full suit of armour?
I didn’t remember Alan ever telling me about pockets in this plastic shell of mine. Sure, it had a hypersensitivity formation — but pockets? Not a chance.
The queue ahead of me had evaporated, and now the issue was staring me down.
I turned to the cadet behind me — a pretty, blonde second-period.
“Excuse me,” I said, holding out the ampoules. “Would you mind holding these?”
She laughed.
“First time? I didn’t know what to do either.” She nodded toward a few platforms over.
At first, I didn’t get it — then I spotted a cadet stepping off a platform and picking up a backpack from the floor.
“Bit overkill for just three ampoules, I guess,” she added, “but it’s easier than asking someone to hold your stuff every time. Besides, after this, you’ll be carrying them in your fist anyway.”
She took the ampoules.
I thanked her and stepped onto the platform.
The manipulators locked onto my arms, legs, torso — sealing me inside a steel cocoon. Tight, solid, no wiggle room.
I didn’t resist — just breathed in and relaxed. The armour assembled around me in that familiar rhythm: clicks, grinds, soft hisses. Plates layered with jeweller’s precision. Torso. Arms. Legs. Helmet.
The clamps released me. I stepped right, then left — a quick systems check — and stepped off.
The girl handed me back the ampoules, and I thanked her again. I really did carry them in my fist all the way to the Fist Garden.
The ride passed quickly. As the lift opened and I stepped out from the metro platform, I was met by a wall of panoramic windows and a familiar view — the field below was covered in those strange, squat flowers.
A soft white mist hung in the air — more like vapour than fog.
Beyond the glass, armoured figures moved about, alongside thinhorned masked ones. Some stood on platforms, others worked with drones. The airlocks hissed and cycled, opening one at a time — just another day in the Garden.
I called Diego before stepping through.
“Here,” he said. “Sending you my location.”
The marker wasn’t far, but the area was unfamiliar — I hadn’t been to this side of the Garden before.
The Garden was even more active than last time. Drones darted between flower beds under the careful watch of overseers — more than I remembered seeing before. The platforms were about a third full — same as usual. Each third platform held a cadet practicing their strike technique. There were no thinhorns on the platforms today.
The marker led me to a small service building with an airlock. Diego was already waiting at the entrance.
I handed him the ampoules, and we stepped inside.
He pulled off his breathing mask; I lifted my helmet’s faceplate. The air here was clean — not sterile, not full of antiseptic. It smelled of plants. Of life.
The room we needed was just off the entrance — a plain space with no door and almost nothing in it except three wall-mounted mechanisms. Literally: three monitors, three large holes labelled ‘Insert your hand here,’ and three smaller ones: ‘Insert your essence here.’
“Ready?” Diego asked.
“What do I do?”
He pointed to the ‘Insert your hand here’ label while feeding the ampoules into the smaller slot, one by one.
“Does it matter which hand?”
“No.”
I slid in my left — somehow I was less worried about that one.
The internal mechanism came to life. I felt the system begin dismantling the gauntlet. First, the sensation in my forearm vanished. Then a soft click — the pressure on my palm released — though clamps tightened around my thumb and pinky.
A cold mist sprayed against the skin of my wrist, and then something pierced it. A needle, I assumed — though there was no sharp pain. Just that cold, creeping forward through my veins.
It was a thick, purposeful cold — like a snake coiling before a strike. My heart skipped a beat, then steadied. And I felt it — something dense and solid settling into me. Every joint, every finger. Like cement filling my bones.
Then — silence.
I felt the gauntlet reassemble around my wrist, closing over the punctures.
You may remove your hand, the monitor said.
I pulled it back carefully and looked — the gauntlet was back in place, functioning normally. Only the lingering cold and a quiet, inner weight proved it had been opened at all.
“What now?” I asked Diego.
He smiled.
“Same thing you did last time. Walk. Focus on the Fist Qi. Just—no drones or flowers today. You’ve got thirty minutes. If you really feel the pull, you can absorb a few units of ambient Qi. But don’t overdo it — or you’ll be banned from the process permanently.”
“Got it,” I said, glancing at the timer that had just appeared in my interface above the minimap. Thirty minutes. The countdown had started.
A message popped up:
Temporary cultivation clearance granted: Fist Garden.
Diego and I made our way toward the exit — but before we even reached the airlock, another message flashed before my eyes:
Fist Root +1
Current Level: 27
Comments
Nimps
Lol perma ban/investigation incoming
Jonathan Griffith
Tyftc!
