Maksym Pachesiuk
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Moon Cultivation - Chapter 4: Thinhorn
🕑 Added 2025-03-10 11:38:27 +0000 UTCThe thin-horned guy led me into the corridor. His little horns were distracting, but—Verdis, eight other moons, cultivation, cull… I had bigger things to think about. I’d landed right in the middle of a bloody rat race, with no memory, no experience and he didn’t seem like he was about to kill me.
The corridor was wide, with dim white lighting and unnaturally smooth, sterile walls. The air carried a faint trace of antiseptic. I had just opened my mouth to ask my first question when someone nearly knocked us over.
A stocky cadet, wearing the same grey jumpsuit as me, burst out of a nearby room and crashed straight into Thin-Horns. But the guy moved like a damn ballerina—twisting aside, dodging the impact, and even steadying the cadet to keep him from falling.
“Get your filthy hands off me, freak!” the cadet snapped, swinging at his arm.
Thin-Horns pulled back just in time. The miss only pissed the guy off more—he lunged forward, slamming a shoulder into him. Despite all his grace, Thin-Horns went down this time, landing flat on his arse.
“Piece of shit,” the cadet sneered.
“The hell’s your problem, mate?” I asked.
“What, you into freaks or something?” he spat.
Is this racism, or something else? Ah, fuck it. I could already feel the heat rising inside me. Without thinking, I swung my fist straight at his jaw.
It never landed.
One moment, Thin-Horns was still on the floor—the next, he had caught my wrist in an iron grip, just inches from the cadet’s face. I couldn’t move it an inch.
“Not worth it,” he said calmly.
The brute finally processed what had just happened.
I had tried to hit him.
Now, he wanted to return the favour, but Thin-Horns caught his fist just as effortlessly.
Frustrated, the guy changed tactics—With a snarl, he jumped, aiming a hammering punch straight between those horns.
I tried to step in, but my guide twisted my arm, forcing me back.
The cadet’s fist smashed into Thin-Horns’ forehead—
And he screamed in agony.
Not Thin-Horns. The cadet.
“Son of a bitch!”
Thin-Horns, completely unfazed, simply released his hand, and the guy collapsed to the floor, cradling his injured knuckles.
“Fucking thinhorns…” he whined.
Another figure shot around the corner—a young man wearing a darker, sleeker, and more formal jumpsuit than ours. I spotted an insignia on his collar: the Roman numeral III.
“Cadets!” he barked, already closing the distance.
He turned to me first.
“Sullivan.”
Then, to the other cadet.
“Tariq. With me, you two degenerates.”
His tone left no room for argument.
“Apologies, Cadet,” thinhorn interrupted, “but I was ordered by the doctor to answer this cadet’s questions.”
“Memory loss,” I added.
Thin-Horns had addressed him as Cadet, but for some reason, I had no desire to argue with the guy. The upperclassman scanned me, assessing whether I was bullshitting him. Then he sighed and nodded.
“Fine, take him. Tariq, let’s go.”
The aggressive cadet shot me one last burning glare but said nothing—just followed after his superior.
I watched them go, then turned back to Thin-Horns.
“Who was that?”
“A temporary supervisor,” he explained. “A third-period cadet. Upperclassmen assist with training logistics.”
“They’re going to be teaching us?”
“For the most part, they just help manage newcomers, enforce discipline, and evaluate your progress.”
I exhaled.
“Something about this system rubs me the wrong way…”
Thin-Horns gave a small, knowing smile.
“Most cadets say that. But it doesn’t change the rules of the game. Living space on Verdis is limited.”
“Why? Let that be my first question.”
“To maintain qi concentration.” He gestured for us to keep walking.
I nodded and asked my next question.
“How should I address you?”
“Focus,” he advised. “Use the interface.”
“I’m not exactly… Oh!”
Above his head, text flickered into view:
Diego 0015.
I focused on the numbers, and somehow, another menu popped up—similar to my own stats window.
Except Diego 0015’s lifespan read 67/178.
“What the…?”
He didn’t look sixty-seven. Thirty at most—very well-maintained thirty. Like those Asian male models thirty.
“Figured it out?” he asked.
“Condensation? Third level?” I skimmed through his other stats.
Every single root was above forty. Mace and Lightning were 118 each.
“That’s right.”
Something didn’t add up… Doc had said cadets had three years to reach the third level.
But Diego was clearly not a cadet.
“You’re not a cadet, are you?” I asked.
He chuckled.
“I’m a thinhorn—a GES—genetically engineered servant, a human-demon hybrid. At your service.”
I glanced at his roots.
I hadn’t seen that other cadet’s stats, but I had a strong feeling they weren’t much different from mine.
“You know any techniques?”
“Only internal ones. I’m not a combat model.”
“And you couldn’t smear that prick across the walls?”
“I’m a servant,” he repeated.
“Not a slave, though?” I asked, watching his reaction.
A barely noticeable flinch. For someone who controlled his body so well, that was telling. Then again… that cadet knocked him down.
“You let him knock you down,” I realised.
“He was in a crash,” Diego said, relieved by the change of subject. “His body was overloaded with hormones, stabilisers, and stress. It’ll pass. I thought letting him land a punch might help him regain control faster.”
“He’s a prick who hates thinhorns. I doubt a few hours will make him love you.”
Diego smiled again.
“I was designed for work, not love.”
Yeah. He was definitely a slave.
Which complicated things. First of all—it was wrong. Second—slavery was stupid. Slaves always revolt. They always end up butchering their masters.
I could, theoretically, swear undying love to Diego just in case, but if a rebellion broke out, thinhorns wouldn’t be picky about who they cut down. And I couldn’t bribe all of them. Besides, this was something I needed to think through. No way was this “servant” giving me the full truth upfront. So I focused on the first topic in my quest log.
“Tell me about demons. Keep it short.”
Diego didn’t answer right away. He merely slowed his pace a little, as if weighing the best way to start. I figured that, being half demon himself, he had to tread carefully.
“For a long time, humans believed them to be true spawns of hell,” he said at last. “And while their behaviour did match our idea of infernal creatures, they weren’t demons in the religious sense. They’re just another race. Aliens.”
I raised an eyebrow. Then again… it made sense. Cultivators here live on the bloody moon.
“Go on.”
“They’re horned humanoids. Thick horns, like a bull’s. And they’re all cultivators—third level and up. At least, the ones humanity has encountered.
"The last two raids on Earth were led by seventh-level—Soul Formation demons. Or possibly… the same one demon. They used different techniques, but both specialised in swordsmanship.”
“Wait—hold up.” I frowned. “There was no sword root in the stats.”
“Sword techniques rely on Blade and Point roots,” Diego explained, gesturing to a door marked 4.
“Ah. Makes sense. I assume other techniques work the same way? Like, a storm technique would use Lightning and Air?”
The room held six pods, but they weren’t just different from mine and Tattoo Girl’s. They were different from each other. All looked outdated, some more worn than others. One even had a nice, fist-shaped dent in it.
Didn’t even surprise me anymore. At least there was a small table and two chairs.
We took our seats.
“Well, that depends on the storm,” Diego continued. “A thunderstorm—yes. But an ice storm would require Wind and Water. You get the idea.”
"What I don’t get," I said, "is whether firearms have any place in all this. Do you guys even use guns?"
"Of course. Law enforcement uses them down on Earth. But for cultivators, they’re not particularly useful. Why would you bother, when a Point or Finger technique can do the same thing as a bullet or a laser?”
“Okay, Point, I get. But Finger?!”
“It releases a thin qi beam, cutting through anything like a laser.”
I tried to process that.
All I could picture was a guy making finger guns and shouting “pew pew” while red lasers shot from his fingertips.
“…And what does Fist do?”
“It releases a wave of hard qi, causing external damage to the body. Palm techniques use soft qi—they inflict internal damage.”
Interesting. But I was drifting off-topic. Making a quick journal note—“roots and techniques”—I steered the conversation back.
“Back to the demons. How often do they attack, and how do we fight them off?”
“Once every five hundred years. Give or take. They appear suddenly, through portals. Kill, loot, then vanish.”
Once every five centuries… I suppose that made sense. Cultivation—long lifespans and all that. But—
“Portals?” I asked.
“Yes. We don’t understand the technology or technique behind them. It’s what made people believe they were actual demons in the first place. During the second-to-last raid, humans detected ships in the Solar System for the first time. At first, it didn’t match up with mythology or religion. But when the ships appeared again during the last invasion—
All doubts vanished. They weren’t from hell. They were from space.”
“…And why the hell do they keep coming here?”
“To pillage.”
“What do we have that space doesn’t?”
“Artefacts. Precious metals. Anything infused with qi that can be taken.”
“There were legends,” Diego added, “that they used to come more frequently—until they stripped the planet of qi crystals.”
“So… they’re after the same resources we want.”
“Exactly.”
“But they don’t just steal artefacts. They can drain qi directly from cultivators. They can hollow them out.”
“That’s… not great.”
“It’s death,” Diego said flatly. “Without qi, a cultivator is just an empty shell.”
“So if you don’t cultivate, they leave you alone?”
“The last time demons attacked, they wiped out entire countries. They performed qi harvest rituals on the biggest cities—
Nothing survived. Not even microbes.”
“…So, war?”
“More like a massacre,” Diego replied, still eerily calm.
“…And we?”
“We prepare.”
I snorted.
At least he said we—didn’t separate himself from humanity.
I’d have to dig deeper into the whole thinhorn thing. Maybe they really weren’t slaves. That is, if I had the time. Verdis, the Black Lotus School, all these trials, culls, accelerated training… None of this was random.
“When’s their next scheduled visit?”
“Forty years. Give or take.”
I sighed. Another war in forty years. At least this time, I had time to prepare. A nagging feeling told me the last one had caught me off guard.
“Well, at least it’s not tomorrow…”
I had no desire to get drained dry by some horned bastard. Which meant I definitely didn’t have forty years. I had one.
“So… where’s the ‘cultivate’ button?” I joked.
“In the interface.”
“…Seriously?!”
“Of course not.”
“If there’s one thing you won’t be getting a shortcut for, it’s cultivating qi.” He smirked.
“Good old-fashioned meditation. Didn’t the doc send you the manual?”
I nodded and opened the interface. I should probably request his contact while I was at it.
“He did. But if you had to sum it up in two sentences?”
“Don’t cultivate indoors—any scraps of qi that make it in are already being absorbed by the bodies here. And you won’t be able to cultivate outside until you receive your battle suit.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Why?”
“The further from the school, the better. All the surrounding qi is gathered by formation arrays and channelled into Flow Chambers. You’ll be assigned a meditation schedule later.”
“A schedule? The doc told me to forget everything else and cultivate until I break through the first bottleneck.”
“The schedule covers the hours guaranteed by the school. You can increase that time by spending training points—
Or cash, if it’s burning a hole in your pocket.”
“How much?”
“Ten thousand per hour.”
“…And roughly how many hours will I need to reach the bottleneck?”
“Anywhere between two and twenty.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound too bad!” I said, relieved.
“First—” Diego cut in, “I wouldn’t count on money that isn’t in your account yet. The whole process of verifying your memory loss and approving your insurance claim will take at least ten days.”
“…And second?”
“You won’t last more than fifteen minutes on your first try. And then you’ll be out of commission for half a day.”
Comments
Jonathan Griffith
Tyftc!
