Mystic Eyes: My Eyes Steal the Laws of Cultivation Chapter 329: Inside the Gate (3)

Kyrian maintained his stillness at the chamber's heart, the blood spear in his right hand throbbing as if it were an extension of his very being.

The chamber air hung thick with unspoken threats. Ancient stone's musty scent mingled with the hostile Qi that radiated from the two intruders, a palpable, poisonous miasma.

Millennia of dust, disturbed by Kyrian's opening of the coffin, still swirled in the stagnant atmosphere. This fine mist caught the crimson light from his gaze, dancing eerily.

Within the gloom, Kyrian’s eyes pulsed with a cold, alien intensity that was profoundly unnerving. His crimson irises appeared to hold vast, still pools of blood, catching and reflecting light in a manner utterly impossible for ordinary human sight.

He meticulously dissected every nuance of his adversaries: the precise footing of the younger man, the rhythmic breathing of the elder, and the intricate currents of Qi flowing through their bodies.

Then, a sudden clarity struck his mind.

’White Tower.’

He recalled the name. Wei Feng had spoken of it.

"When you find the opportunity, eradicate the White Tower." Wei Feng’s final words, among his last, echoed in Kyrian’s memory.

Kyrian possessed scant knowledge of this so-called White Tower, never having bothered to inquire. Yet, observing the pair before him now, he began to suspect its significance was far greater than he had ever considered.

Their condescending gazes, as if he were a mere insect to be crushed, immediately signaled their malevolent intent. The animosity blazing in the young man's eyes wasn't fleeting anger; it ran deep, cultivated over long years, perhaps even generations.

Their hatred for Kyrian felt ancient, as if they had been sworn enemies for eons, despite their current encounter being their very first.

Kyrian perceived their profound disgust and animosity directed towards the blood path. This wasn't merely a disagreement over cultivation methods or philosophies; it was profoundly personal. The younger man’s eyes fixed upon Kyrian’s crimson robes of the Blood Court as though witnessing the spectral image of a murdered loved one.

’I shall seek out Dong Zhen regarding the White Tower upon my return,’ Kyrian resolved internally.

’It appears there’s a history there I've yet to uncover.’

His focus narrowed onto the young man, who now styled himself as "Young Master." The youth's visage was contorted in pure fury, still reeling from being so effortlessly dismissed by Kyrian, a cultivator of seemingly inferior standing.

The sheer humiliation was a scorching brand in his eyes, eclipsing any physical injury.

The young man's cultivation, firmly set at the 7th stage of Core Formation, was now fully unleashed. An oppressive aura suffused the chamber, causing the very stone walls to vibrate minutely.

Beside him, the middle-aged man maintained a facade of impassivity, yet his eyes betrayed a depth of disdain, perhaps even exceeding that of his charge.

Though clearly serving as the Young Master’s guardian and subordinate, his personal animosity was in no way diminished by his professed loyalty.

"You have defiled my ancestor's tomb," the young man spat, his voice thick with barely suppressed rage.

"Do not delude yourself into thinking you will depart this place alive. Filth of the blood path..."

"The Blood Court has eternally been a blight upon our people," the middle-aged man interjected, his tone placid but laced with venom.

"To eliminate one of their kind here is a fortunate turn of events, Young Master."

Kyrian inclined his head slightly, his expression immutable.

"I was unaware this tomb belonged to anyone," he stated, his voice devoid of inflection, almost detached.

"Not that it matters anymore."

The blood spear intercepted the most perilous blows. Every impact unleashed a booming sound that reverberated off the stone walls, sending crimson sparks scattering in every direction.

The middle-aged man observed without action, remaining as still as a statue. He had not intervened yet, but his gaze meticulously tracked Kyrian's every move.

“Young Master, exercise caution,” he finally uttered softly.

“He possesses greater strength than he initially appears.”

“I am well aware!” the young man retorted with fury, his rage escalating with each intercepted strike.

He quickened his assault. His sword transformed into a swift white blur within the dimly lit chamber. Strikes that were once rapid now became frenzied. He was no longer fighting with refined technique, but rather with raw, unbridled anger.

Kyrian understood the consequences of battling with uncontrolled fury.

He let out a sigh.

And then, he launched his counterattack.

Kyrian advanced a single step. The blood spear elongated like a sentient serpent, extending far beyond its usual reach. The thrust was unadorned and direct, devoid of any pretense, yet imbued with his potent blood intent.

The spear sliced through the air, unaffected by the wind blades that attempted to divert its trajectory. It cut through the tempest as a vessel navigates through waves, striking the young man's shoulder with devastating force.

The impact was sharp and vicious. The sickening crack of bone echoed throughout the chamber.

The young man was flung backward, slamming against the opposing wall with a deadened thud. He coughed up blood, a dark crimson stream that marred his pristine white robe. His eyes were wide, not from the sting of pain, but from sheer astonishment.

“How…” His voice cracked, trembling slightly.

“A 1st stage…? This is utterly impossible!”

Kyrian remained silent. He advanced once more.

The blood spear dissipated within his grasp, reforming into droplets that swirled in the air briefly before coalescing into a long dagger fashioned from solid blood. Though shorter than the spear, the blade was denser and considerably sharper. Kyrian wielded this new form with the same fluid mastery.

He struck.