Moon Cultivation [Sci-fi Xianxia]

[Book 2] Chapter 95: Semi-final


I stepped onto the arena. Sand again beneath my feet. Okoro's hammers were already waiting for me — both of them, just as Kate had said. He stood square, torso slightly leaning forward, right elbow raised, left arm hanging a little lower. His shoulder blade probably still hurt after his encounter with Skoryk. Or maybe not, if the painkillers were good enough. Well, the needles were definitely removed. Only dents and scorched marks remained on his chest plate.

I still didn't have a solid plan for this fight, but I did have stimulants: the War God's Fist and the Cheetah's Pulse. What they enhanced was probably obvious from the names — my fist technique's power and my speed.

I also had the Giant Black Turtle Shell in reserve, which strengthened the shield. However, the shield's durability already depended on the strength of the projections, which was in turn boosted by the War God's Fist. The mace already struggled to break through the shield, so I didn't overdo it. I already had nearly eight thousand units coursing through my veins.

"Fight!" came the referee's command.

Okoro didn't wait. A blast of wind beneath his feet, and he charged at me, raising his right hammer for a blow. But I didn't just stand there either. The Monkey carried me to the side in two leaps, and I started pelting him with Chain Punches.

This was more about activating the shield than posing a real threat, but — wow!

I had never felt such power in my hands before! They literally hummed with energy and strength.

It's worth mentioning his formation here. It created a cluster of small hexagonal golden projections along the path of any incoming hostile projection targeting him. I don't know how many projections were in the cluster, but each one pulled away a portion of the Palm Qi, causing the projection to dissipate or shudder under the pressure of Fist Qi, disrupting its integrity and forcing it to detonate.

Even though my Chain Punches had become stronger, they still shattered harmlessly against his defence. However, I suddenly realised that I wasn't exactly a convenient opponent for Okoro either. While the silvery cocoon of my shield surrounded me, he couldn't break through it.

Hammers that left disproportionately deep dents in steel composites bounced off the shield like rubber balls off a racket. The sound, however, wasn't like tennis — it was more like steel hitting bulletproof glass.

I could feel the force of his blows, feel how it pushed, how it drove me forward, but it wasn't the pinpoint pressure of a point — it spread across the shield, as if trying to overpower it and failing.

Of course, each of those strikes drained a good chunk of the shield's charge, and I had to wave my arms constantly to keep it in shape. Another surprise was that to attack my shield, Okoro had to close in, close enough that his formation didn't have time to react to my projections!

Meaning, with every blow he delivered, he took four projections in return! From that range, I wasn't just not missing, I was landing them in nearly the exact same spot every time!

They were still breaking harmlessly against his chest, stripping paint off it. As soon as I noticed that, I shifted my aim to his abdomen.

Okoro didn't like that. He broke off the engagement.

That way, he could catch his breath and observe me, devising a new plan.

As for me, I had to keep waving my arms to maintain the shield's shape and watch my projections shatter against his formation. Still, without the pressure of his attacks, the shield didn't need nearly as much energy, and I could slow down to a turtle's pace, releasing one projection every two seconds.

If only I had an ultimate — this would've been the perfect moment to use it.

Okoro didn't rush. He shifted his weight from foot to foot a few times, lowering his left hammer and trying to ease the strain on his shoulder blade. Then, suddenly, he leaned forward as if about to charge head-on again. I instinctively reinforced my shield and sped up my striking technique.

But he didn't charge.

Instead, his right hammer swung back again, the air burst beneath his feet, and he darted to the left. One leap, then another, and he disappeared from my frontal field of vision.

He was circling behind me.

I spun around sharply — and he leapt at me.

No! He leapt over me! Smashing his hammer into the shield mid-air. The blow landed almost on the weakest point of my shield. I felt the pressure push past the integrity of the energy cocoon — it cracked like an eggshell, then shattered completely.

I lunged forward to dodge the next strike, but it never came. Looking back later, I realised he hadn't even landed yet at that moment. But in the heat of it, I was running purely on instinct, and those instincts told me to break away, turn, and strike back — which is exactly what I did.

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Monkey, Monkey, pivot and a Hook, flowing perfectly with the turn of my torso.

He hadn't landed well either and was just in the middle of turning.

Unexpectedly, the projection of my fist curved and slammed into Okoro's left shoulder. The qi detonation nearly sent him sprawling onto the sand. He had to stagger back to keep his balance, but he dropped his hammer.

What was that?

We both froze in surprise.

Had his formation given out?

I rained Chain Punches on him — he quickly moved to get out of their path. Still, a few struck due to their terrible scatter. They collided with the standard defence.

Then Okoro stopped and let a couple more strikes hit him.

The formation absorbed them without issue.

So what was it? The Hook?

I charged up both arms.

The curved-trajectory projections struck his left shoulder again, nearly knocking him over once more, then his right. The defensive hexagons materialized, but the projections passed them by. The formation didn't understand, it wasn't programmed to intercept attacks like that! It only caught what came at him in a straight line.

That easy?

He hadn't had time to change tactics. And I had no intention of giving him any.

Monkey, and a dash to the right. One step, then another. Another flurry of Hooks. One to the head, one to the thigh, a third twisted through my torso into an uppercut to the chest.

The projections didn't stop. The golden hexagonal shields still appeared, gleaming in the air like miniature bucklers, but they weren't appearing where the projections flew. They were grasping at empty space, uselessly.

Okoro suddenly lost all initiative and was using every ounce of effort just to stay on his feet. Under my blows, he flailed like a ragdoll. He didn't even try to counterattack, just struggled to keep hold of his hammer.

I didn't even bother activating the shield anymore, focusing entirely on the finish. My strikes didn't leave deep dents in his armour like his did in others, but they didn't pass without a trace either.

And I made one big mistake.

I didn't knock him down. And before I could land another blow, he did it himself.

Just before the next projection slammed into his right side, he flung his arm out and activated a movement technique. An air burst propelled him down into the sand. The Hook projection passed just overhead. I'd already released the next one — it too passed over his body, so I twisted mid-motion to aim the following strike downwards. But Okoro had no intention of staying in the dirt.

With another wind burst, he launched himself up and straight at me, propelled by short jolts from his movement technique. Aiming the Hook's trajectory became far trickier. One missed behind him, the next whizzed past his face, and I had to reactivate my shield to avoid a hammer blow to the skull.

Boom-m-m!

The shield held. And he only had one hammer now, so the strikes weren't as frequent. Plus, it was easier to aim Hooks up close. He knew that, which is why he didn't stay still — he tried to repeat the same move that had broken my shield last time.

He jumped.

My Hook swept beneath his feet.

The impact, the crack, the shield shattered. But this time, I didn't retreat.

I struck back turning with a Hook.

He hadn't even landed properly yet when the silver projection of my fist slammed into his jaw.

It wasn't as dramatic as his fight with Skoryk. The faceplate didn't fly off, no teeth went flying, but it looked to me like his helmet spun a full one-eighty.

Automatically, I fired off a second Hook, but somehow it crashed into a cluster of golden hexagons, scattered them to hell, and detonated as well, sending Okoro sprawling into the sand. His body caught up with the twist of his head mid-fall, and he dropped his hammer. It flew up into the air and before I even realised what I was doing, I caught it.

The hammer was in my left hand. Okoro lay face-down in the sand.

I needed to finish the fight. Either by hitting him with more Hooks, or by grabbing the other hammer and tossing him out of the arena.

But before I could make a decision, the referee announced:

"…Sullivan!"

"Uh…" I blinked. "Sorry, what was that? Did I win?" I asked him.

"Yes," the referee confirmed.

Medics were already rushing onto the arena, quickly loading Okoro's limp body onto a stretcher and hauling him toward the undressing machine.

Hey! I had cracked his visor! It was still hanging on, but the split along the seam was clearly visible.

I exhaled, nodded, and made my way to the waiting hall.

I was heading to the finals. I wondered what kind of monster would be waiting for me there.

"Sullivan!" the referee called out.

I turned around. He gestured at me with a beckoning wave.

I headed over.

"The hammer," he clarified, repeating the gesture, clearly asking me to hand it over.

I was still holding Okoro's weapon in my hand.

"Apologies," I said and tossed the hammer back to him.

So, the final…

"Who's next?" I asked Kate, who was clearly reviewing footage from the match I needed to know about.

"They're still fighting," she replied, turning the tablet so I could see. "Temirzhan Turgunov versus Eric Dubois."

I knew them both — I'd watched their fights.

"Ah, shit!" I muttered, leaning in to get a better look.

Both fighters wore black-and-blue armour, but Dubois leaned more into black, while Turgunov's was predominantly blue — and a lighter shade at that. He had just landed another blow with his two-handed mace. It hit Dubois square in the chest. A silver formation shield flared, then shattered. Another dent appeared in Dubois's chestplate, and he was thrown back several metres. How he stayed on his feet — I had no idea.

His whole suit was already heavily battered and deformed. Some sections had lost multiple layers, others were sticking out like peeled-off chitin.

Turgunov's armour looked better at first glance, but on closer inspection three steel stilettos were lodged in his back, and judging by the way Dubois was still gripping his rapier, there were likely more than a few holes in Turgunov's chest and abdomen.

Although… the rapier looked shorter than before.

It was broken!

Both fighters caught their breath, then took a step toward one another. A normal step, slow, without any techniques. It looked bizarre.

Dubois lunged with his rapier. Turgunov didn't even try to parry, he attacked as well, but the mace was slower. As he swung it, a golden mini-shield from his formation flared to life. Dubois pierced it, and the rapier lodged itself in Turgunov's right forearm.

Still, Turgunov completed his swing. This time, he couldn't break through the formation shield, though Dubois was still knocked back.

They paused again, catching their breath, then trudged wearily toward one another once more.

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