Mystic Eyes: My Eyes Steal the Laws of Cultivation

The old man almost stumbled.

He stopped abruptly, so abruptly that his feet carved deep grooves into the volcanic ground.

His face was pale.

Covered in sweat, not the sweat of exertion, but the cold sweat of fear.

For the first time since the beginning of the battle...

He looked like an ordinary old man. Frightened. Desperate. Broken.

"Wait!"

He raised both hands, a gesture of surrender.

The black spear, his most precious weapon, fell to the ground with a metallic clang.

"We can talk!"

"It was a misunderstanding!"

"I was wrong!"

"I shouldn’t have attacked you!"

His voice trembled, not with calculated hesitation, but with genuine fear.

"Forgive me!"

"I can compensate you!"

"I have spirit stones, thousands of them, mid-grade!"

"Techniques, some rare ones that few people know!"

"Treasures, artifacts I have collected over decades!"

"I can give you everything!"

Kyrian simply watched him. In silence.

His entire body ached. His arms were covered in deep cuts through which the red bone beneath could be seen.

His two spiritual cores were nearly completely dry.

Without Qi. Without energy. Empty.

His head throbbed, a dull, constant pain that seemed to come from inside his skull.

All of this because of them. Because they had decided to attack him. Because they had decided to rob him. Because they had decided to kill him.

There was nothing to discuss.

The old man saw the answer in his eyes.

He saw no anger. He saw no hatred. He saw no vengeance.

He saw indifference.

As if he were already dead.

And he panicked.

He turned to flee again, moving with the speed of a cornered animal.

But it was too late.

Kyrian raised his hand.

The surrounding fire Qi responded to immediately.

Hundreds of strands of orange energy, as thin as hairs yet as strong as steel cables, wrapped around the old man.

Like chains. Like serpents. Like flaming fingers.

"NO!"

He screamed.

He tried to escape, his arms thrashing, his legs kicking wildly through the air.

He tried to fight back, activating every treasure remaining within his spatial ring, barriers appearing only to be destroyed instantly.

He tried to break free, releasing every bit of Qi he still possessed, an explosion of energy that opened a crater around him.

But he failed.

The flames touched his body.

And began to burn him.

First, his clothes evaporated instantly.

Then his skin melted like wax.

Then his flesh charred, blackened, and fell away in pieces.

The old man screamed. A horrible scream. Desperate. Agonizing. Inhuman.

His body began to melt. Like wax before a furnace.

His arms vanished, first the fingers, then the hands, then the forearms.

Then the torso, his chest collapsed inward, his ribs shattered apart.

Then the face, his mouth still screaming, his eyes still pleading, even as his skin dripped away.

Until even his voice was consumed.

A few seconds later...

Nothing remained. Only ashes. Which the wind carried away.

Kyrian remained motionless for several moments.

His body trembled, not from fear, but from exhaustion.

The wings of fire vanished, dissolving into embers that slowly drifted toward the ground.

The glow of his spine weakened, the vertebrae dimming one by one, from the base of his neck to his lower back.

The environmental Qi, which had gathered around him like an army before its king, returned to the world.

Like a receding tide.

The connection with the volcano disappeared, the roar of the magma diminished, the eruptions ceased, and the lava resumed its slow descent down the mountainside, without direction, without purpose, simply following gravity.

And finally, his body demanded its price.

He fell.

To his knees.

"Cough, cough..."

He coughed blood. Then more blood. A dark puddle formed on the ground beneath his face.

An absurd pain spread through every muscle, as if every fiber had been torn apart and stitched back together.

His spine felt as though it had been crushed, every vertebra aching as if cracked.

His meridians burned. His arms were covered in deep cuts, skin split open, muscles exposed.

His two spiritual cores were completely dry.

The Aura of Fire. The flames in his eyes. The control over the volcano.

All of it consumed far more energy than he possessed.

His realm was still too low. Far too low.

But even so...

A smile appeared on his lips. Tired. Injured. But genuine.

It had worked.

He had won.

Four Spiritual Awakening cultivators.

Alone.

Kyrian slowly sat down on a black stone, the nearest one, the flattest one.

His entire body trembled, involuntary spasms running through his muscles, his hands, and his legs.

But he was satisfied. He felt invincible. At least within the Core Formation Realm.

And even early Spiritual Awakening cultivators, those in the first or second stage, perhaps even the third, were no longer an impossible threat while he used the Eyes of Fire and the Bone of Heaven.

Even so...

A conclusion emerged clearly within his mind.

’I need more Qi.’

Much more.

His eyes were becoming far too powerful, every evolution, every new insight dramatically increasing their consumption.

What had once been an advantage, having two cores, was now beginning to seem insufficient.

Perhaps a third core would solve part of the problem.

Perhaps not.

His gaze then fell upon his spatial ring.

An idea appeared.

"I wonder if it works now?"

He murmured quietly.

Quickly, he took out several recovery pills from his own ring, the same ones he had refined in the Bloody Court, the same ones that had previously produced almost no effect at all.

Because his body was different.

Imperfect and mortal.

Disconnected from the Heavenly Will.

But now...

It was different.

Kyrian placed the pills into his mouth.

He swallowed.

Instantly, they began to dissolve.

Transforming into medicinal energy, not the rough and violent energy of before, but something gentler, more natural.

A pleasant warmth spread through his body, beginning in his stomach, rising through his chest, and flowing down his arms.

Soon afterward came a burning sensation.

His wounds began to burn, not like fire, but like something deeper.

His muscles as well, the torn fibers contracting, reconnecting, regenerating.

But it was a good pain.

The pain of recovery.

Kyrian’s eyes widened slightly.

It worked.

The pills truly worked.

For the first time in his life, since he had begun cultivating, since he had learned to refine pills, his body accepted them.

His new body was finally that of a true cultivator.

Or something very close to it.

A tired smile appeared on his face.

Then he closed his eyes.

The medicinal energy continued to circulate. Healing. Regenerating.

And there he remained.

Alone.

Amid the ashes of his enemies.

Waiting for his strength to return.