121. Symphony of Ruin
Here, on another tournament planet… the story unfolded with its own fury. A shattered skyline burned under a false sun, ruins echoing with the clash of steel and screams. Where Moon wrestled against the four-armed Gandharva in one world, this battlefield told a different tale—new hunters, new prey, another storm in the endless trial.
Moon, spear in hand, eyes cold.
And opposite him, the four-armed being—speedster, master of sound, a warrior whose very presence hummed with vibration.
The silence shattered in a blink.
The Gandharva blurred forward, faster than thought, faster than breath. One moment the air was empty—
the next, he was there.
Moon's instincts screamed. His spear snapped up, not as a weapon, but as a shield.
CRACK!
The sound was like the heavens breaking. The spear didn't bend, it didn't resist—it shattered. Splinters exploded outward like a rain of glass, scattering in the wind. The force carried through, slamming into Moon's chest and hurling him like a ragdoll into the husk of a colossal tree.
The impact shook the earth. Bark split, the massive trunk groaned and cracked as Moon vanished into it. Dust and fragments rained down, swallowing the world in silence.
The Gandharva did not follow.
He didn't need to.
Four arms hung loose at his sides, relaxed, patient. His expression was that of a predator who knew the kill would return to him.
Then—movement.
Smoke began to drift from the shattered tree. At first, only faint wisps. Then thicker, curling tendrils. The Gandharva's sharp eyes narrowed, his body tensing.
From the wreckage, a figure emerged.
Moon.
A cigarette glowed between his lips, its ember burning defiant red. His hands no longer held a spear. Instead, twin Nichirin blades caught the dying light, their edges gleaming with a cold, merciless promise.
He stepped from a broken branch, descending slowly, each motion deliberate. Smoke left his mouth in a thin curl, trailing into the still air.
The Gandharva chuckled, a rich, amused sound.
"You light a cigarette mid-battle? Hahahahaha… interesting."
But before the laugh had finished, Moon was already there.
One heartbeat—empty space.
The next—Moon stood before him.
His face carried no anger, no joy. Nothing human. Only silence carved into flesh.
His blade descended—
—and snapped backward.
The strike never landed. The sword jerked violently, as if an unseen hand had caught it and hurled it away. The force rattled Moon's wrist, nearly wrenching the weapon free.
Moon's eyes narrowed. His voice was sharp, low.
"What—?"
The Gandharva moved.
Two of his arms—his left pair—lashed out with impossible speed. His fists hammered into Moon's ribs with the force of thunder.
CRACK!
The sound of bone. Moon's body flew, a dark blur against the sky, thrown through air like a broken arrow.
But before he could strike ground, his body twisted. He spun once, shoulders snapping into place. His feet found a branch, the weight of his landing absorbed in silence.
Balanced. Stable. The cigarette still burned.
Moon exhaled smoke and spoke, voice flat, even.
"What was that?"
The Gandharva's lips curved, faint amusement flickering in his eyes.
"Don't tell me you've never fought a Gandharva before."
Moon tilted his head, indifferent.
"So?"
The Gandharva's tone carried the hum of a string, every word vibrating in the air.
"We are not only known for our speed. Our true mastery is sound. Your blade recoiled because I shaped a vibration—a repelling frequency. Unless you strike with greater force than my resonance, you will never pierce me."
Moon was silent. His gaze sharpened.
"Is that so?" he whispered.
Steel flashed.
Kachak!
In less than a breath, the Gandharva's smile froze. His body stiffened. His two left arms—gone. Severed cleanly at the shoulder. Blood spilled in heavy drops, dark against his skin.
He staggered a step back, shock flashing across his face.
Moon exhaled smoke, his voice like frost.
"Stay quiet. You might learn something."
The Gandharva's smile faltered. A cold gleam flashed from the ring on his finger. In an instant, a crystal vial dropped into his hand. He downed it without hesitation.
The effect was immediate—violent.
From the bloody stumps, fresh arms erupted, muscle knitting over bone, tendons lashing into place. The sound was grotesque, wet and tearing, yet in moments his form was whole again.
His eyes hardened.
I should never have taken him lightly. Humans… their curse is weakness, but their gift—adaptability. They bend. They survive. They sharpen in the middle of battle.
And so, the Gandharva shed all restraint.
His body trembled, then blurred—every cell vibrating at a frequency that warped the very air. His outline fractured, shifting in and out of focus, as though reality itself refused to hold him still. Strikes came like lightning, yet no blade touched him.
Moon's twin Nichirin swords carved arcs of silver through the air. Each one should have split flesh, but every strike slid aside, deflected by the invisible wall of rippling force surrounding the Gandharva. Sparks danced, sound cracked, yet nothing pierced.
Moon's eyes narrowed. He understood.
This exchange was pointless.
He halted, then in one calm breath, stepped back.
The twin swords dissolved into light, vanishing into the ring at his finger.
Only silence remained—until Moon slowly raised his fists.
His stance was steady. His gaze burned.
The cigarette's ember glowed between his lips.
A simple boxer's stance.
The Gandharva blinked. Then laughed.
"My, my. Do you really believe you can best a warrior with four fists… in hand-to-hand combat?"
Moon exhaled, smoke curling lazily from his lips, his eyes sharp, unyielding. Sparks of electricity danced along the contours of his knuckles, small arcs leaping and snapping in anticipation.
"I may lack in swordsmanship," he murmured, voice low, deliberate, carrying over the void between them, "but in hand-to-hand… I will break you."
The Gandharva froze mid-step, every fiber of his being vibrating with disbelief. This man… His gaze swept over Moon's calm, unwavering posture, the very same man whose blade had cut through threats like whispers in the wind. And yet… fists were his claim?
Impossible. Ridiculous. Yet the truth in Moon's eyes brooked no denial.
"…Let us see," the Gandharva whispered at last, voice like iron threading through silk. Flames burst along his four arms, crimson and coiling, curling like serpents in anticipation of carnage.
Moon flexed his fingers. Lightning arced across his forearms, sparking from fingertip to wrist, igniting the air with its static song.
And then—
They collided.
The moment their fists met, the world shuddered. Soil ripped, tree trunks groaned, and ancient branches snapped as if mourning the violence. Sparks ignited the air, dancing in the clash of fire and lightning, each strike leaving scars in the ground, arcs of power snaking through the ruins.
The Gandharva moved like a storm, four fists a blur, slicing and smashing the air with scorching arcs. Fire licked the space between them, heat ripping the ground beneath.
But Moon… Moon moved as if he were the storm's equal. He dodged, twisted, pivoted. Blocks and parries flowed seamlessly, strikes redirected, pressure counters applied with lethal precision. And with each punch Moon landed, the impact sang—bone-shattering, nerve-jarring, electric arcs racing along the Gandharva's arms, shocking his flesh and mind.
The storm shifted.
Moon pressed the advantage. His fists became a relentless downpour, hammering, stabbing, hammering again. Each hit precise, brutal, unstoppable. The Gandharva staggered. His balance teetered, arms flaring instinctively to catch his footing.
Moon's palm thrust forward, deliberate, inches from the chest.
THOOM!
The shockwave slammed into the heart like a cannon. The Gandharva's chest seized, his breath caught in his throat. For one heart-stopping instant—he froze.
Then, desperately, he vibrated his chest, coaxing life back into the faltering rhythm. His body jerked violently, flesh straining, but the balance he had commanded for decades wavered now, a ripple of uncertainty in the ocean of his mastery.
Moon's eyes narrowed, cold, calculating.
The Gandharva reached for the instrument. A veena materialized in his hands, glowing with faint luminescence, strings like threads of starlight. His voice rose, solemn, unwavering:
"Let the heavens break their breath,
And sing the song of silent death.
From veena's strings the end draws near,
All shall fade—this battle ends here."
Moon's lips thinned. The instrument's beauty was undeniable, ethereal, almost divine. The notes flowed like water, soothing, hypnotic… but each vibration carried devastation, splitting the air with unseen blades. Trees splintered, earth cracked, dust exploded into clouds. The melody itself was a weapon, entwining with Moon's nerves, forcing his heartbeat into stuttered rhythm, a cruel mimicry of life.
Blood welled from his eyes, nose, ears. His body stilled. Heart faltering. He hung suspended in the oppressive power of the veena's song.
Yet the Gandharva did not relent. Calm, careful, every movement measured, he plucked strings with surgical precision.
Then—laughter.
Slow. Ragged. Unmistakably human. Moon's laughter.
The Gandharva's eyes widened. His opponent's chest heaved, hand plunging straight into his own heart. He pressed, forcing the rhythm back, shocking life through his veins.
Dhak. Dhak.
The sound echoed, taunting, mocking, perfectly in tune with the veena's deadly song.
Moon's grin widened, unhinged, feral. Blood smeared his lips, but he laughed, the sound bouncing off the ruins, shattering the music itself.
"Oye, four-arms…" Moon spat, his voice harsh, laced with mania, "you call that a shockwave? I've farted louder blasts than that."
The insult was more than words. It was a blade that cut deeper than any weapon. Not just at the Gandharva - his race, at his mastery, at the decades he had spent perfecting his art.
And for the first time—ever so subtly—the Gandharva's composure cracked.
Fury ignited in his eyes, the calm predator momentarily lost. His four fists flared, the flames roaring brighter, but his motion carried hesitation now. The battle—the true, untamed war between fist and fury—was only just beginning.
To be continued…