A Lonely Lotus (2)

The battle between Moriarty and Wuxin wasn't something I had planned to witness. Honestly, I'd sought Wuxin out for guidance—there were a few subjects I'd been struggling with. But clearly, I'd failed to account for their childish tendencies.

You might expect Moriarty to be the more mature of the two, considering he's mentally five years older than Wuxin. Sadly, that's not the case.

"You're not going to intervene?" Ryuk asked beside me.

"Wuxin's a full-on defensive-type aura user, and I'm mostly defense-oriented as well. If the two of us fought, we'd be stuck in a stalemate for hours," I explained. "Moriarty, on the other hand, is all offense—and faster than him. It's better if I don't get involved."

We stood inside a pristine, cubic chamber lined with gleaming white tiles. The entire room was forged from a reinforced extraterrestrial alloy, tough enough to endure the strain of a B-rank duel. This particular chamber had been rented for a single match, regardless of its length. It cost more than booking by the hour, but no one expected a battle between B-ranks—or those below—to last longer than that.

Across the room, Moriarty and Wuxin faced each other, twenty meters apart.

Moriarty leaned slightly on Wally, who had taken the form of an elegant cane. Wuxin, by contrast, stood perfectly upright, his fingers poised over the holes of his flute—ready to play.

In the very next moment, Wuxin lifted his flute sideways, resting it gently against the left side of his lips. His posture was calm—almost meditative—as if the act of playing was a sacred ritual, carved into his very muscles by years of discipline.

Then the world shifted.

The tiled floor beneath us rippled like disturbed glass and dissolved into still water. Lotus flowers bloomed where there had been nothing but emptiness, their petals spreading outward in silent procession.

Moriarty reacted instantly, launching himself off the ground and levitating mid-air using telekinesis. Below him, Wuxin now sat cross-legged on a giant white lotus, left leg resting over his right, as he began to play.

The flute's melody was soft at first—barely audible—but the space responded like a living organism. The water stilled even more. The air thickened with reverence.

"This kid's really improved his illusion skills…" Moriarty muttered, eyes darting around in disbelief. "I can't tell what's real anymore. This feels... absolutely real."

He raised a hand and began preparing a ranged strike.

"So this is his form of detachment…" I whispered, unable to hide the excitement in my voice.

In a blur of movement, Moriarty fired countless threads of water from all directions—each one arcing toward Wuxin like serpents mid-strike. But just as they neared him, something unseen twisted their paths.

As if blocked by an invisible barrier, the water threads snagged on each other, tangling mid-air. They wrapped and coiled like captured prey—binding themselves in knots before falling uselessly into the lotus-covered waters.

"What? Already thinking of using your ability?" Wuxin asked with a smirk, his fingers still dancing across the flute.

Moriarty didn't reply.

Instead, without warning, a thick mist flooded the chamber—cool, dense, and creeping across the lotus-covered water like a silent invader.

"You know what flaw you still haven't fixed?" Moriarty's voice echoed from somewhere within the fog. "Your lack of movement."

Wuxin gave no answer. He simply continued to play, unbothered. The notes rang clear and soft through the mist, unhurried—as if time itself had no bearing on his rhythm.

But then, something changed.

Urgency crept into his melody.

The tempo quickened.

Wuxin's body lifted from the white lotus, rising into the air as his notes climbed higher in pitch.

In the very next moment, the mist crystallized—dozens, no, hundreds of ice spikes erupted from every direction, shrieking through the air toward him like jagged teeth. But before they could reach him, they shattered—struck by an unseen pressure, or perhaps unraveled by the very tune he played.

The room fell still again.

Wuxin descended slowly, eyes closed, posture composed. He landed softly upon the white lotus, facing Moriarty's direction—still calm, still silent, as if the barrage had never occurred.

"You've improved," Moriarty said, a warm smile spreading across his face—a rare expression I hadn't seen in what felt like ages. His eyes began to glow faintly, a sharp green glint flickering in their depths. "I suppose I should grant your wish."

He raised his cane and tapped it in the air.

Ripples surged from the tip like shockwaves on still water—concentric circles of power that warped the space ahead of him. They accelerated, then crashed against Wuxin's invisible barrier, sending a hum through the room as Wuxin quickened his melody in response.

In the very next breath, Moriarty vanished.

He reappeared behind Wuxin mid-motion, cane poised in a stabbing stance. He thrust forward—but the strike bounced off as though it had hit a solid wall. Not a shimmer, not a crack—just pure resistance.

"Illusions. Sound arts. And now you've picked up body-strengthening techniques?" Moriarty asked, stepping back with a scoff. "Seriously, did you not learn any offensive skills?"

"You can accelerate spells?" Wuxin replied, not with surprise, but with genuine curiosity—his voice calm, his flute never leaving his grip.

As Moriarty began preparing another spell, Wuxin spoke calmly.

"Have you ever pondered... why must the strength of the strong bring suffering to the weak?"

Moriarty paused, genuinely confused.

"...I don't have the luxury for thoughts like that. Ray's the one who entertains that kind of philosophy. Why are you asking me?"

"You're the closest person to Senior Brother," Wuxin replied, lowering his flute slightly. "I assumed you'd know the answer by now. But it seems... you haven't reached the place he has. That alone reassures me of my victory."

Moriarty's expression darkened.

"We'll see about that."

He snapped his cane downward. Ripples burst from beneath his feet—jagged and vicious—sending waves of razor-edged ice tearing toward Wuxin like tidal blades. Unshaken, Wuxin floated backward, another white lotus blooming beneath him. He settled onto it once more, serene and still, as if even this violence was just another note in the composition he was conducting.

The boundless illusionary space Wuxin had created began to tremble—subtle at first, then violently—as Moriarty concentrated his mana into a single, deadly point.

Around him, five spear-shaped icicles formed, their surfaces jagged and pulsing with pressure. He hovered still for a moment, then locked onto a single target.

Wuxin.

But Wuxin only smiled.

He remained seated on the lotus, his fingers gracefully dancing across the flute. The melody flowed undisturbed—serene, pure, almost divine. The air around us seemed lighter, the space brighter, as if the music itself rejected violence.

Then the spears launched.

They tore through the air, spinning like drills, Moriarty's eyes glowing with that now-familiar green glint as he guided them faster, sharper, deadlier.

But Wuxin made no move to block them.

No spell.

No barrier.

He didn't even flinch.

As if… he had accepted defeat.

As if the pain was already his.

And then—

Impact.

All five icicles drove into his chest—piercing through his heart in perfect unison.

Time froze.

"Ah… cough..." Wuxin gasped, bloodless but shaken. "Now I understand... what it means to be weak."

Our faces darkened.

What had he done?

Before I could even move, I stepped forward—but Ryuk extended a wing in front of me, blocking my path. I turned to protest, but he pointed toward Wuxin, silently urging me to look closer.

That's when I noticed it.

There was no blood.

None at all.

The ice had already melted, and where the holes should have remained—there was only smooth, pale skin. The wounds were closing. Healing. Right before our eyes.

And then… the lotus closed around him, its petals folding inward with solemn grace, encasing Wuxin in a glowing cocoon. A soft, sweet melody drifted through the air, gentle and haunting.

All around us, identical lotuses began to bloom—each the same size and shape—spinning slowly through the air like celestial dancers. They encircled us, weaving a hypnotic pattern in the space between reality and illusion.

"Do you hear it?"

The voice rang in our ears—not spoken aloud, but echoing within. Yet we knew: it was meant for only one person.

"The song of the weak."

Moriarty snapped out of his daze, eyes narrowing. He looked around, scanning the illusion.

"Their voices... Isn't it beautiful?"

He said nothing.

Instead, he focused—searching for the lotus that pulsed with the most energy.

"The joy, the excitement, the delight, the satisfaction... Can you feel them?"

Still silent, Moriarty raised his cane and struck one of the floating lotuses. It froze instantly and shattered with a sharp crack.

"This is your weakness."

But Wuxin wasn't inside.

"Even though everything is right in front of you... you fail to see it."

And then it happened.

From above, a massive foot—easily the size of an elephant's—came crashing down onto Moriarty, slamming him into the ground. The force of it left a crater perfectly molded to his body.

When the dust settled, Wuxin floated down, descending like a monk from the clouds. He stood before Moriarty, who—despite being buried in stone and dirt—wore no frustration, no pain.

Only a smile.

Wuxin extended his hand.

Moriarty took it.

Wuxin pulled him up.

"Welcome back, brother."

"Yeah, yeah... don't get too proud of it. If I'd actually used my ability seriously, you would be the one in the crater," Moriarty replied with a laugh, brushing off his coat like he hadn't just been flattened by an illusionary divine foot.

Wuxin laughed too. "I agree. Guess I just got lucky."