Moon Cultivation [Sci-fi Xianxia]

It took me over a month. Thirty-two days, to be precise, since the day I acquired Sky in the Fist. I had less than three months left to collect dust in the Air Garden. And throughout that time, I'd been doing nothing but burning incense sticks. I must have burned through a decent-sized cart of them. But I still couldn't separate Air Qi from Fist Qi. Just like I couldn't get Thousand Sparks to work. At some point, Artem cut our training sessions in half, and now they were down to a quarter.

On the one hand, I was glad — I no longer felt quite as stupid. On the other — it felt like he'd given up on me. At least he hadn't taken the helmet back, but the undercover farm work was clearly off the table. And no more tea sessions at Novak's. The great and mighty, though now officially listed as my master, no longer invited me over.

Not that he refused to help. He had gotten me the essence, after all.

My Air root was now 51 — higher than Fist. I got the extra point from the last push — those final three ampoules. Still, the number didn't fully reflect the actual changes. My projection, the one I used to tear smoke, was still just a projection, though it now carried a trace of air. Especially when it burst in mid-air, waves of wind rippled through the entire room.

But I still couldn't separate air from fist, which meant that my performance of the Mad Monkey of East continued to stagnate. The core element of that technique was the creation of footholds in the air, and I couldn't manage it at all.

However, according to Rene, my execution of the Airy Chain Punch was practically textbook. I liked it myself. It was the perfect technique for maintaining pressure, breaking enemy forms, and disrupting telekinetically controlled projectiles.

And there were no more overloads. Or almost none.

I had adjusted to the new output of my reactor and learned how to draw exactly what I needed. It worked perfectly with Hook and Airy Chain Punch, but with other techniques it was still tricky. And I was completely sick of pushing that bloody smoke around.

How many times did I need to perform Sky in the Fist to pay off the technique?

90,000?

I think I'd already tripled that number in failed attempts.

Once again, I drew a thread of qi from the reactor, spiralled it along my arm, and pushed.

A three-fingered projection flared to life and launched from my hand. It tore the smoke ribbon apart, flew another metre, and burst, sending gusts in all directions. The wind rippled the smoke again.

I was so damn sick of it all.

The smoke from the stick slowly settled back into a steady trail.

Air simply refused to obey me. Which, logically, made sense, it wasn't alive and didn't have a will to be broken and bent.

But then, Fist didn't have a will either, yet Fist Qi carried intent and traits. So what traits did Air Qi have? Freedom? Uncontainability?

All of the past month's experience told me that wasn't the point. Or maybe the opposite, maybe there was no freedom at all, just the illusion of it. A false sense born from the gas's ability to expand and fill any available space. Air — like some lazy bastard trying to avoid doing any real work!

Air Root +1 flashed across my interface.

What the hell!

Why? From where?

I hadn't taken any essence in a week, and the only possible reason for growth had to be enlightenment. Only I didn't feel enlightened, I felt irritated!

Was the insight supposed to be that I couldn't control air? Brilliant. At last, I've finally understood that!

Or maybe the revelation was that air was a lazy bastard?

Is that even possible to reach enlightenment and not even realise what the bloody insight was?

Frustrated, I repeated the technique I'd been drilling.

Projection…

And again, projection. Projection! Projection!

Oh, piss off!

I jumped off the bed and took two aggressive steps until I bumped into the door.

Our room was hardly the best place for a calming walk. Two steps from the bed to the door. If I really tried, I could squeeze out a third near the desk, but only with tiny shuffling strides.

I wanted to break something. Smash it to bits.

Instead, I started waving my arms in the endless cycle of the Airy Chain Punch. The reactor was under control now, and the energy didn't surge into my fists without permission. Instead, I tried to feed my fists with rage and frustration.

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I sped up to the limit, forcing my body to give more than it could. My arms blurred with a speed I hadn't reached before. A breeze actually started to rise.

Well, fine. If nothing else, at least that!

I switched from punches to open palms, sweeping the air around me.

The wind picked up enough to shred the smoke stream from the incense into torn strips of drifting white fibres.

I swung my hand near the stand so forcefully the incense stick wobbled.

Now the air obeyed me!

No! That was an illusion. It was still avoiding me. Still the same lazy bastard slipping past my palm. The swaying of smoke and incense stick was just a side effect. I wasn't controlling the waves — they chose their own paths until they eventually calmed and settled into balance.

Air was constantly trying to restore that balance. Like yin and yang endlessly chasing one another.

Endlessly...

The struggle between yin and yang was eternal.

Air was constantly trying to restore balance, but had it ever truly been in balance?

I looked at the incense stick, still quietly burning.

The torn threads of smoke floated upwards toward the ceiling vent, while the wavy stream of milky smoke slowly straightened out.

Air was always moving. Air never knew rest.

Then could it really be called lazy?

More like... slow. Or... Chill. Yep, definitely a chill bastard.

Moving, but never in a hurry.

Even the technique I was trying to learn. When Kiwi had demonstrated the dust trap, compressing the air into a swirling, spherical mass, the air inside had still been moving, flowing.

Wait. Wait a second.

What about the Monkey? What about those other techniques that let you create solid air to push off from?

Doesn't solid air mean completely motionless molecules?

I couldn't wrap my head around it entirely, but I felt like I'd touched on something.

I grabbed my tablet and dived into the library, pulling up the section on the Mad Monkey of East and searching keywords like: 'solid air,' 'push,' 'jump,' 'solid,' 'air,' 'foot.'

Search after search gave me thread after thread of answers that didn't really satisfy me.

So I went to the comments — and there it was!

R. Brovdi: "Don't try to stop the air! Use your qi to create a flow directed at yourself! Wasted two weeks before I figured that out."

Mate, I've wasted over a month!

Don't try to stop it... Let it move... Maybe just show it the way!

Air Root +2

Oh hell yes, I'm on fire!

I reached out toward the smoke again and spun up the qi through my channels, brought it to my fingers, and on instinct alone, kept it spinning, without forcing anything.

I didn't command the qi. I didn't press it. I simply... showed it the way.

My hand gave a faint silver flicker, and the projection fell apart before even leaving my palm. Not even a pop this time. Just the tiniest push of air, like a tired exhale, but enough to disturb the strip of smoke, shifting it a few centimetres to the side.

"Yes!" I couldn't hold back the victorious shout, throwing my fist into the air. "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

I'd got it!

Freedom, motion, and balance — that's what wind was all about.

It's hard to believe, when looking at a storm or a tornado, but a tornado, that very tornado, is the perfect example of balance: hot air collides with cold, the hot flows one way, the cold the other, and in their equilibrium, something terrifying and marvellous is born.

I extended my hand towards the smoke once again and let the qi flow freely.

Minimal control.

The stream of air that burst from my palm swept the smoke away, shook the heavy ceramic holder, tore the incense stick loose and hurled it against the wall, from where it bounced off and landed on Bao's bed.

I lunged after it but wasn't fast enough. The tiny, wind-fed ember had already greedily burned a hole through the synthetic blanket.

I slapped it with my palm, making sure the sheet wasn't burning and the plastic had stopped melting.

I'd apologise to Bao later. Right now I had to get to the training hall.

Immediately, before the tornado of inspiration swirling in my chest died down.

I knew it would work this time. I could feel it.

It was mid-afternoon — three o'clock. Right around the middle of my old shift, though these days I was staying longer.

I opened the assistant supervisor group chat.

Sullivan: "Urgent! Need a shift cover! I owe you two!"

Kowalski: "What happened?"

Sullivan: "Enlightenment.

It's still holding!

I need to hit the hall!"

Sun: "Go. I'm almost there."

Sun Hao?

I hadn't expected him of all people to respond, but whatever. Bless him.

Sullivan: "Thanks!"

I ran, scrolling the hall register on the go. I needed somewhere big, but more importantly, close.

The first available one I found was similar to the one Adam and I used for Iron Head — a long metal corridor with dreadful lighting.

I started jumping before I'd even reached the doorway, tracing the diagonal pattern of the Mad Monkey, too fired up to hold still. I practically burst into the hall.

Two steps forward, a leap from the floor, qi surging into my right leg…

Now!

A shield materialised beneath my foot and wobbled slightly under the weight as I shifted all of it onto my right leg. It trembled, but didn't collapse. For the briefest moment, the air pushed back, delivering just enough resistance to balance the force pressing down on it. The air wasn't solid, it was springy. And the instant that spring fully straightened, Fist Qi detonated. The blast propelled me higher.

I channelled qi into my left leg, shifted my weight, and it rebounded just as easily.

I was running on air!

I was bloody running on air!

A few more steps and I'd be touching the ceiling!

Step! Another!

Wait, what—

I was moving in a single direction, following a single trajectory, and this was the fourth step.

Caught up in the high of it all, I'd forgotten the core rule of the Monkey.

Moving along the same line built up negative qi in the legs.

Instead of a spring, it felt like I'd stepped on a mine.

There was a bang, my trainer exploded into shreds, and the next thing I knew, I was flung face-first into the ceiling.

Darkness burst into my eyes, then a second later, the world exploded in sparks of pain as I crashed down onto the metal floor.

Should've taken my time and found a hall with sand…

I waited for the sparks to fade before trying to get up.

My right arm protested immediately with a stabbing throb, and blood started trickling from my forehead into my eye.

I rolled onto my left side and glanced at my shoulder.

Despite the strengthened body, my arm hadn't survived the metal impact. A nasty swelling at the joint said the bone had popped right out of the socket.

Before I could even think about what to do next, medics burst into the hall.

"Hello, lads!" I greeted cheerfully and let myself relax.

Not exactly the typical reaction, I suppose —

But then, I had smacked my head against the ceiling pretty hard.