Mystic Eyes: My Eyes Steal the Laws of Cultivation

Kyrian remained still in the center of the chamber, the blood spear pulsing in his right hand like a living extension of his own arm.

The air in the chamber was heavy with tension. The smell of ancient stone mixed with the hostile Qi that emanated from the two intruders like a poisonous vapor.

The millennia-old dust that Kyrian had stirred when opening the coffin still floated in the air, creating a thin mist that danced under the crimson light of his eyes.

Kyrian’s eyes glowed in the dimness. They were cold, strange, and intimidating. Each crimson iris seemed to contain an ocean of stagnant blood, reflecting light in a way no ordinary human eyes should.

He analyzed every detail of his opponents, the position of the young man’s feet, the breathing of the older man, and the flow of Qi within their bodies.

And then, something clicked in his mind.

’White Tower.’

He remembered. Wei Feng had mentioned that name.

"When you have the chance, destroy the White Tower." Wei Feng had said, as one of his last wishes before death.

Kyrian didn’t know much about this so-called White Tower. He had never bothered to ask around. But now, looking at the two before him, he was beginning to understand that there was something about the Tower he should know.

Just by the way they looked at him, as if he were an insect that needed to be crushed, it was already clear that it wasn’t anything good. The hatred in the young man’s eyes wasn’t momentary anger. It was something deeper. Something cultivated over years. Perhaps generations.

They hated Kyrian as if they had been enemies for a long time. Even though they had just met for the first time.

Kyrian noticed the disgust and hostility the two harbored toward the blood path. It wasn’t just a matter of cultivation techniques or philosophies. It was personal. The young man looked at the red robe of the Blood Court as if he saw in it the death of someone dear.

’I’ll ask Dong Zhen about the White Tower when I return.’ Kyrian decided in his mind.

’It seems there’s more history there than I imagined.’

He focused his gaze on the young man, who now presented himself as "Young Master." The boy’s face was twisted with fury after being thrown aside so easily by Kyrian, a cultivator of such inferior cultivation.

The humiliation burned in his eyes more than any physical wound.

The young man’s cultivation, 7° stage of Core Formation, was now fully unleashed. An oppressive pressure filled the chamber, causing the stone walls to tremble slightly.

At his side, the middle-aged man maintained a neutral expression. But his eyes showed the same disgust. Perhaps even deeper.

He was clearly the guardian and subordinate of the young man, but his loyalty did not lessen his hatred.

"You invaded my ancestor’s tomb." Spat, the young man said, his voice trembling with rage.

"Don’t think you’ll leave here alive. Trash of the blood path..."

"The Blood Court has always been a plague to us." Added the middle-aged man, his voice calm but filled with venom.

"Eliminating one of them here is a stroke of luck, Young Master."

Kyrian tilted his head slightly, without emotion.

"I didn’t know the tomb belonged to someone." His voice was neutral, almost indifferent.

"Not that it matters now."

And it was true. From the way the two looked at him, from the killing intent that emanated from their bodies like incense smoke, Kyrian knew it didn’t matter what he said. To those two, he was already dead. He just didn’t know it yet.

The young man did not wait for further answers.

His sword gleamed with a sharp wind Qi, so dense it seemed solid.

Invisible blades formed in the air, slicing the suspended dust into even smaller fragments. The attack was fast, precise, and loaded with killing intent.

Kyrian did not retreat.

He raised the blood spear and spun his body in a fluid motion. The spear collided with the wind blades in a series of rapid impacts, generating explosions of red sparks that lit up the chamber like lightning. The sound of the clashes echoed through the stone walls, and the ground trembled beneath their feet.

The young man advanced.

His speed was impressive for the 7° stage. Kyrian could see that he was indeed a talent, perhaps one of the best of his generation in the White Tower.

His sword danced through the air like a whirlwind, creating a storm of invisible cuts aimed at Kyrian’s vital points. The neck, heart, eyes, and wrists.

Each strike was designed to kill.

But Kyrian saw everything.

His crimson eyes registered every flow of Qi, every angle of attack, and every slight muscle contraction that preceded a strike. He dodged with minimal movements, a step to the side here, a tilt of the torso there, almost lazy, as if he were dancing in slow motion while the world around him rushed.

The blood spear blocked the most dangerous blows. Each collision generated a thunderous sound that echoed through the stone walls, and red sparks flew in all directions.

The middle-aged man watched in silence, motionless like a statue. He did not intervene yet. His eyes, however, did not miss a single movement of Kyrian.

"Young Master, be careful." He finally murmured.

"He is stronger than he appears."

"I know!" Snarled the young man, his fury increasing with every blocked strike.

He accelerated the pace. His sword became a white blur in the dim chamber. Strikes that were once fast now became frantic. He was no longer fighting with technique, he was fighting with anger.

And Kyrian knew what happened when someone fought with anger.

He sighed.

And finally counterattacked.

Kyrian took a step forward. The blood spear extended like a living serpent, stretching beyond its normal length. The strike was simple and direct, without flourish, but filled with his blood intent.

The spear pierced the air, ignoring the wind blades that tried to deflect it. It cut through the storm like a boat through waves, and struck the young man’s shoulder with brutal force.

The impact was sharp. The sound of bone cracking echoed through the chamber.

The young man was thrown against the opposite wall, his body slamming into the stone with a dull thud. He spat blood, a dark-red jet that stained his immaculate white robe. His eyes were wide, not from pain, but from shock.

"How..." His voice came out shaky, faltering.

"A 1° stage...? This is impossible!"

Kyrian did not respond. He advanced again.

The blood spear dissolved in his hands, transforming into droplets that spun in the air for a moment before reforming into a long dagger of solid blood. The blade was shorter than the spear but denser, and sharper. Kyrian wielded it with the same ease.

He struck.