Moon Cultivation [Sci-fi Xianxia]

[Book 2] Chapter 93: Lucky Round Three


I skipped the third round. Advanced automatically. My opponent, and his armour, had taken significant damage. Stepping into a fight against a fully functional enemy would've been idiocy. And he didn't.

Kaleb Shoal, a Point-Air cultivator, had won his previous fight.

Facing him on a sand-covered arena was Volkov — a Wood cultivator. I took an instant dislike to the bastard, though I hadn't even seen his face beneath that pitch-black armour.

Shoal's gear had an unusual paint job. Instead of a standard colour mix, the black angular plating was traced with blue and violet lines. They ran along the edges, lighting them up in a way that made it seem like the armour was surrounded by a jagged aura. When I rewatched the fight, I found myself cheering for Shoal, even though I already knew he won. I liked his crazy, cheerful approach. Even before the match began, he pointed the stubby spear at his opponent and said:

"Hey, how about we spice things up a bit? Fancy a little wager?"

"And what would that be?" Volkov asked, spinning a black wooden staff above his head.

"A small crystal. Got one with 63 units of qi in it. I'll take anything over fifty in return."

Volkov stopped spinning the staff and shook his head.

"You're insane," he said.

"I've just got a slight gambling issue!" Shoal laughed. "So that's a no, I take it?"

"Prepare yourselves!" the judge barked.

I don't know whether Shoal genuinely wanted to place that bet or was just trying to mess with his opponent's head. Volkov didn't answer — he just raised his staff in front of him like a spear.

Shoal mimicked the stance in parody, holding his stubby thing. His weapon had a four-sided tip, shaped like a standard training spike, but behind the head was a short, less-than-half-metre metal shaft. The result looked ridiculous — like he was mocking his opponent outright.

"Begin!" the judge commanded.

Both fighters activated movement techniques. Well, Shoal definitely did — what Volkov used, I wasn't sure. He charged forward, picking up speed over a few steps, then planted his staff in the ground like a pole. The staff bent in an unnatural arc — and grew longer. The cultivator launched himself from it like a spring and shot forward, switching grip mid-air for an overhead strike.

At the same time, Shoal lunged forward like a roller-skater or a cross-country skier. He was literally gliding through the air, skimming just a few centimetres above the sand.

The cultivators, and more accurately, their weapons, clashed in the centre of the arena. Volkov soared over Shoal. His staff was knocked aside by the spear.

What the hell? It was now a full-sized spear, even though Shoal definitely wasn't a Wood cultivator. And his weapon had a metal shaft, too.

Volkov landed using his staff as a shock absorber and pivot point, allowing him to turn back toward his opponent immediately. Shoal did something similar, except his leverage came from mid-air. He literally planted his right foot in the air like against a wall, pushed off it, and launched into a turning spear strike. The spear extended again — this time into a pike. And once again, Volkov parried it.

Despite the variable length, the spear held a straight line and didn't bend at all. Three rapid thrusts followed — each deflected by both ends of the staff. The staff flexed like rubber, reaching where Volkov physically couldn't, and each impact rang out like wood striking a steel pipe.

Both fighters took a simultaneous step back.

The staff straightened. The spear shrank.

"There's still time to bet!" Shoal reminded him. "You've got a pretty decent shot at winning."

"I will win," Volkov assured him — and lunged forward.

Shoal struck with the spear again. It extended, but Volkov caught it with his staff. This time, though, the metal didn't rebound — it was entangled. The wooden staff coiled around it, and Volkov pressed the spearpoint to the ground.

"Nice!" Shoal commented, then tried to retract the spear.

The metal was still caught in the wood's grip. For a moment, they played tug-of-war, but then the spear slipped free and collapsed into its shortest form.

Shoal jumped, pushed off the air behind him, and shot forward like a human torpedo. Volkov couldn't see the weapon, couldn't tell where to block, so he simply smashed Shoal in the head with full force. But it was too late. The spear, hidden under Shoal's body, extended again and drove straight through Volkov's gut.

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My own stomach turned cold as the metal tip emerged from his back. It pierced his black armour like it was cardboard.

Shoal, however, took that head blow hard and was knocked to the ground. He dropped the spear and needed nearly a second to collect himself. Clearly, his helmet wasn't as good as mine.

Shoal rolled aside, scrambled to his feet, and glanced at Volkov — who stood frozen, staring at the metal shaft protruding from his abdomen. Whether from shock or stimulants, something was still keeping him upright.

"Victory to Shoal!" the judge announced.

Shoal threw his right arm into the air and tilted his head back. That snapped Volkov out of his stupor. He swung his staff — and it wrapped around Shoal's neck. The neck plates creaked. The wooden noose lit up with green qi.

"Stand down, Volkov!" the judge ordered. "The match is over!"

He didn't listen. He kept pulling, like he meant to pop Shoal's head clean off. The judge had to step in and knock him out. In the end, the medics had to deal with both cadets at once. Shoal even got a technician assigned to him. They didn't remove his helmet — they cut it off. Right there on the spot, to save time. The job was too delicate to trust to a machine.

I don't know much about medicine, but reattaching a helmet in a few minutes was obviously impossible. For all his showy antics, Shoal wasn't an idiot. He withdrew from the next match.

I had time to watch his fight. I didn't waste any mental energy imagining how I'd take him on. Instead, I checked the tournament bracket. My next opponent would be either Samrawit Tesfaye or Choi Min-jae. Their match hadn't started yet, which gave me just enough time to study one of them — maybe watch an earlier fight. I chose Choi. Tesfaye was a Point cultivator. Choi was a Palm. Both were bad matchups for me, but I had a feel of Point. So, I picked Choi.

He'd fought a Fist cultivator and squashed him like a bug. Not with a single hit, he didn't use an ultimate, but he barely moved at all. His opponent opened with a textbook Fist technique: sprint-dash-strike. But he never got to finish. Choi dropped to one knee and met the attack with a palm projection — aimed squarely at the groin.

That's the flaw in many dash-based techniques, not just from the Fist school, but from Point and others too. Once you commit, you can't change direction until the move is complete.

The guy nearly reached Choi. His knee was less than half a metre from Choi's head. But Choi's palm? That was only centimetres from the guy's armoured crown jewels. And let's be honest — most armour isn't built to block Palm Qi.

This wasn't.

The technique failed mid-dash. He slammed into Choi at full speed, but the knee missed its target. The collision sounded like a car crash minus the tyre screeching.

Choi got to his feet.

His opponent crumpled into a near-exact copy of Amira's post-defeat pose, with one major difference — his hands were jammed between his legs, clutching his armoured groin.

Even my own ballocks ached just watching it.

If I ended up facing this guy, I'd definitely be using Iron Shirt. Immediately. No hesitation.

But right now, their match had already begun. I started the replay just a few seconds behind the live feed.

Tesfaye wielded a proper spear — short, but not absurdly so, and definitely not telescopic. Alongside that, she wore a bandolier loaded with four spikes. That's how she opened the fight. The spear was already stuck in the ground, point-first, before the judge gave the signal. She pulled two spikes from the bandolier. Her left arm extended forward, while the right reached back for a throw — telegraphing clearly that this time, her opponent would need to close the gap himself.

The judge gave the command, and Tesfaye threw the two darts she was holding. Choi charged, same style as his opponent in his previous fight. She managed to toss the remaining two spikes, snatched the spear from the sand, pivoted left and leapt.

It was a Point movement technique — one that pulled both her and her weapon forward via telekinetic force. But she used it to leap out of Choi's path, not into it.

Choi's technique ended in a complete loss of momentum, like he hadn't been moving at all, as he threw out his palm. From it burst a supercharged projection, trailing behind it a cloud of golden Palm Qi in the shape of a barely visible echo of his whole body. At the last second, Choi tried to adjust the angle, swinging his palm diagonally. He still missed.

Tesfaye's spear yanked her just clear of the strike a fraction of a second before impact. But the spikes she'd thrown earlier — none of which had hit Choi — came back in a wide arc and began to pepper his back one by one.

The first struck between his shoulder blades and made him stagger. The second slammed into his kidney region. The third made him turn — his mistake. It hit his ribs, leaving a deep dent.

Tesfaye aimed her spear and leapt again. Same movement technique — but it ended just as Choi deflected the fourth dart with a palm projection. Tesfaye's spear pierced his side. Not deeply, just a few centimetres. Not enough to end the fight.

She yanked the weapon back out of the armour's grip and raised it again for a proper finishing strike.

Choi didn't let her stub. He fired a projection straight at her head. She almost dodged it, but the golden-woven palm projection clipped her ear, scrambling her spatial sense. She tilted, nearly fell. Instead of a clean strike to the stomach, the spear tip flicked upward and smacked into Choi's armoured chin, scraping deep and snapping his head back.

He staggered a step. That gave Tesfaye time to recover. They both struck at once — she aiming for his gut, he for her chest.

Her spear pierced his abdomen, burying the head all the way in. It didn't come out the back — either Choi's armour was better than Volkov's, or Tesfaye didn't hit as hard as Shoal. Or maybe it was the weapon. Didn't matter. Her opponent dropped to his knees.

"Stop the match!" the judge called.

Tesfaye trembled — like she was choking. Her hands were still on the spear, and the shaft shook too. Choi didn't like that. He growled through the pain and shoved her off. As she fell, the spear pulled free, and blood sprayed from the wound.

Choi clutched the hole and pushed himself upright. Medics were already running, the judge standing close.

They sprayed the wound with something fast-acting. Tesfaye was ordered to remove her visor. One eye was bloody, with red streaks down her lips and from her nose. Still, the medics decided she was in better shape than Choi.

They left her be.

Choi, however, was ordered onto a stretcher.

He didn't like that. Even tried to argue. The medic promised he'd lie down — one way or another.

After a brief examination and a quiet exchange, the judge declared:

"Victory goes to Tesfaye!"

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