The Almighty Cultivator

Chapter 8

For several heartbeats, nobody inside the combat hall moved.

The candidates stared at Chris, then at the cracks covering the platform where Diego’s fist had landed. None of them could reconcile the destruction before them with the fact that Chris was still standing without a wound.

“That cannot be possible,” someone finally said. “There was nowhere for him to go.”

“Diego must have withdrawn his strength at the last moment.”

“That has to be the explanation. He was only trying to frighten Chris and give him enough confidence to continue the fight.”

Relieved laughter moved through the seats as the crowd accepted the excuse. It was easier to believe that Diego had shown mercy than to admit that the coreless orphan they had mocked had escaped a strike none of them could follow.

Rachel laughed with them, although her fingers tightened around the edge of her dress.

“Diego was merely being generous,” she said loudly. “Chris should be thanking him instead of pretending he accomplished something.”

Chris looked past her and kept his attention on Diego.

“Is that what happened?” he asked. “Did you spare me?”

Diego did not answer immediately.

Unlike the crowd, he knew exactly how much strength he had used. He had concentrated every stream of essence from the stolen nine-ring core into that blow because he wanted Chris to leave the platform either dead or too broken to stand again.

His fist had met nothing but air, yet Chris had remained before him until the final instant. The dust created by the impact had concealed the movement from everyone else, but Diego knew Chris had somehow stepped beyond the path of his punch before it landed.

What he could not understand was how.

Only a handful of experienced cultivators had ever avoided him after he committed himself to a strike. Chris had never received formal training and should not have possessed the speed to move after Diego attacked.

Questions crowded Diego’s mind, each one more disturbing than the last, but he crushed them beneath his anger.

He was Diego, the only son of the village chief. Since childhood, the finest instructors his father could afford had taught him how to fight. Every child in the village had learned to move aside when he approached, and whenever he wanted something, his family made certain he received it.

Even Chris’s perfect core now belonged to him.

There was no possibility that the same orphan he had robbed and abandoned in the mountain could defeat him before the entire academy.

“You were fortunate,” Diego said at last. “Do not confuse one desperate escape with strength.”

Chris’s expression remained calm. “If believing that protects your pride, you may continue believing it.”

A vein rose along Diego’s temple.

He rushed forward again and drove his fist towards Chris’s ribs. Chris moved half a step backwards, and the blow passed in front of his body. Diego immediately turned the missed punch into an elbow strike, but Chris lowered his head before it could reach his temple.

Diego followed with a kick aimed at Chris’s knee. Chris lifted his leg at the exact moment the attack arrived, allowing Diego’s foot to cut through the empty space beneath it.

The laughter inside the hall weakened.

Diego attacked again, forcing more energy through his arms as he threw one punch after another. Each strike was faster than the last, yet Chris continued to move by the smallest distance necessary. A slight turn protected his jaw. A lowered shoulder carried another fist past his face. One quiet step placed him beyond the reach of a kick that cracked the platform.

To the crowd, Chris appeared impossibly calm.

To Chris, Diego’s movements had become easier to understand with every attack. The spiritual energy inside Diego always moved first. It gathered in a muscle, revealed the direction of the next strike, and only then forced his body to follow.

When another punch missed, Diego stumbled past him and barely stopped himself from falling. The candidates who had been cheering now watched in growing confusion.

“He avoided it again,” one of them whispered.

“Diego has not touched him once.”

“Chris must be running because he knows he cannot fight back.”

That final excuse brought several hurried agreements, but nobody laughed this time.

Diego turned slowly. Shame burned through him as he saw doubt replacing admiration on the faces around the platform. Even Rachel no longer looked certain of his victory.

He could not allow the fight to continue this way.

“You seem proud of knowing how to run,” Diego said. “Let us see whether you can escape this.”

He planted both feet against the stone and drew his hands towards his waist. Silver essence surged from his core with enough force to make his robe snap around his body.

The coordinator’s mocking expression disappeared.

“That is the Waterfall Fist,” he said. “The village chief’s personal combat technique.”

Excitement returned to the crowd. Everyone in the village had heard stories about the technique, but few had witnessed it. Instead of releasing essence in a single burst, the cultivator forced one wave behind another until the accumulated pressure crashed into the target like falling water.

Diego’s father had needed years to control it. Diego had not mastered the technique completely, but the perfect core inside him allowed him to produce far more power than his previous body could have endured.

Layer after layer of silver energy wound around his right arm. The pressure bent the air surrounding his fist and drove loose pieces of stone across the platform.

Rachel’s confidence returned at once.

“Chris cannot escape that attack,” she said. “The moment Diego releases it, the pressure will cover the entire platform.”

Chris heard her, but his eyes remained fixed on the currents gathering inside Diego.

The technique looked overwhelming from the outside. Through the sight given to him by the black core, however, Chris could see how each wave was being formed. Every stream travelled from Diego’s core towards his shoulder before folding around his arm.

He could also see the flaw.

Diego’s stolen core produced a surge of energy. The waves appeared powerful, but their timing was uneven. A narrow break formed each time one layer struck the next, and all that force depended upon Diego maintaining the same path until his fist reached its target.

Diego released a furious shout and launched himself forward.

Silver light filled the combat hall as the accumulated waves carried him across the platform. The candidates nearest the edge raised their arms against the wind, while the coordinator retreated another step.

This time, Chris remained where he was.

“He has finally accepted his death!” someone shouted.

Diego’s fist tore through the air towards Chris’s face. The pressure reached him first, whipping his hair backwards and splitting the stone beneath his feet.

Chris watched the smallest gap pass from Diego’s shoulder into his elbow. When it reached his wrist, he raised one hand.

His palm closed around Diego’s fist.

The Waterfall Fist stopped less than an inch from Chris’s face.

Every wave of silver energy shuddered before collapsing into sparks around them. Diego tried to force his arm forward, but Chris’s fingers held him in place as though the strength behind the technique had never existed.

Colour drained from Diego’s face. It returned as a deep red when he strained harder, then darkened towards purple as the blocked energy pressed back through his arm.

A ripple of shock ran through the crowd at the sight that laid right before their eyes.

Before Diego could pull away, Chris stepped inside his reach and drove his free fist into Diego’s chest.

The impact lifted Diego from the platform and sent him crashing into the stone wall on the opposite side of the hall. Broken pieces fell around him as his body struck the ground.

For a long moment, nobody spoke.

“What just happened?” someone finally whispered.