Mystic Eyes: My Eyes Steal the Laws of Cultivation Chapter 396 - 397

The elderly man nearly lost his footing.

He halted with such suddenness that his boots gouged deep trenches into the volcanic terrain.

His countenance turned ashen.

He was slick with sweat, not from physical exertion, but from the chilling perspiration of pure dread.

For the first time since this brutal confrontation commenced…

He outwardly resembled a fragile old mortal, gripped by fear, consumed by despair, utterly defeated.

"Wait!"

He thrust both hands upward, a clear signal of capitulation.

His jet-black spear, his most prized possession, clattered to the ground with a sharp metallic ring.

"We can discuss this!"

"It was a terrible mistake!"

"I was wrong!"

"I should never have initiated an attack on you!"

His voice quivered, not with cunning feints, but with palpable terror.

"Please, forgive me!"

"I will offer you compensation!"

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

"I have cultivation techniques, even some incredibly rare ones that very few individuals are privy to!"

"And valuable treasures, artifacts I’ve painstakingly gathered over many decades!"

"I will give you virtually anything!"

Kyrian merely observed him. In absolute silence.

His entire body throbbed with pain. Deep lacerations marred his arms, revealing the pale bone beneath the torn flesh.

His two spiritual cores were almost entirely depleted.

Devoid of Qi. Energy drained. Utterly empty.

A dull, relentless ache pounded within his skull, a constant torment originating from inside his very being.

All of this agony was a direct consequence of their actions. Their decision to assault him. Their intent to plunder his possessions. Their ambition to end his life.

There was simply nothing left to negotiate.

The old man perceived the definitive answer reflected in Kyrian’s eyes.

He saw no trace of fury. No hint of animosity. No desire for retribution.

He saw only a chilling indifference.

It was as if he were already deceased, a mere specter in Kyrian's gaze.

This realization struck him with panic.

He spun around, attempting to flee once more, moving with the desperate speed of a trapped creature.

But it was undeniably too late.

Kyrian slowly elevated his hand.

The surrounding fire Qi responded instantly to his unspoken command.

Hundreds of crimson strands, as fine as gossamer yet as unyielding as tempered steel, enveloped the fleeing elder.

They writhed like constricting pythons. They tightened like unbreakable chains. They grasped like incandescent talons.

"NOOOO!"

He shrieked in utter terror.

He struggled desperately, his limbs flailing, his legs kicking uselessly against the empty air.

He attempted to retaliate, activating every defensive treasure concealed within his spatial ring, conjuring shields that shattered the moment they materialized.

He desperately sought escape, expending the last vestiges of his Qi, a final explosion of raw power that gouged a smoking crater around him.

Yet, his efforts were all in vain.

The searing flames made contact with his form.

And began their relentless incineration.

First, his outer garments disintegrated into nothingness.

Then, his skin liquified and dripped away like molten wax.

Finally, his flesh blackened, charred, and detached in burning fragments.

The old man’s screams echoed, a horrifying symphony of desperation, agony, and inhuman suffering.

His body dissolved. As if before an intense furnace.

His limbs vanished, starting with the delicate fingers, progressing to the hands, then the forearms.

The torso followed, his chest imploding inwards, his ribcage splintering audibly.

His face was the last to go, his mouth frozen in a silent scream, his eyes wide with a final, futile plea, even as his skin dissolved into fiery ichor.

Until even the desperate sound of his voice was consumed by the inferno.

Mere moments later…

Nothing remained but a scattering of fine grey ashes, which the whispering wind promptly carried away.

Kyrian remained utterly still for a prolonged period.

His body shuddered, not from fear, but from the profound exhaustion consuming him.

The fiery wings dissipated, dissolving into a cascade of glowing embers that gently descended towards the earth.

The luminous aura emanating from his spine gradually faded, the individual vertebrae dimming in sequence, from the nape of his neck down to his lower back.

The ambient Qi, which had swirled around him like a devoted legion, slowly retreated back into the world.

Much like the ebb of a mighty ocean tide.

His profound connection with the volcanic mountain severed, the deep rumble of the magma subsided, the violent eruptions ceased, and the flowing lava resumed its languid descent down the scorched mountainside, without aim or purpose, simply yielding to the unyielding pull of gravity.

And at long last, his physical form exacted its heavy toll.

He collapsed.

His knees buckled, forcing him to the ground.

"Cough, cough…"

He expelled a mouthful of blood. Then more followed, a dark pool forming beneath his head on the cracked earth.

An agonizing soreness gripped every muscle, as if each fiber had been violently ripped asunder only to be crudely reattached.

His spine felt crushed, each vertebra radiating a searing ache as if it had fractured.

His meridians burned with an internal fire. His arms bore deep, gaping wounds, the skin split open to reveal the raw muscle beneath.

His two spiritual cores were utterly barren.

The fiery Aura. The flames dancing in his eyes. The formidable control over the volcano’s fury.

Every manifestation had exacted a far greater energy cost than he currently possessed.

His cultivation realm remained disconcertingly low. Far too low.

Yet, even in this weakened state…

A faint smile graced his lips. Weary. Wounded. But undeniably genuine.

His plan had succeeded.

He had emerged victorious.

Four cultivators at the Spiritual Awakening stage.

All vanquished. Alone.

Kyrian slowly sank onto a nearby black stone, the closest and flattest one available.

His entire being trembled, involuntary spasms wracking his muscles, his hands, his legs.

But a profound sense of satisfaction washed over him. He felt undeniably invincible. At least, within the confines of the Core Formation Realm.

Even cultivators at the early Spiritual Awakening stages—those in the first, second, or perhaps even third stage—were no longer an insurmountable threat when he wielded the Eyes of Fire and the Bone of Heaven.

Even so...

A clear conclusion formed in his mind.

'I require more Qi.'

A significantly larger amount.

His eyes were escalating in power, each evolution and newly acquired insight drastically amplifying their consumption rate.

What was once an advantage, possessing two cores, was now appearing insufficient.

A third core might resolve a portion of the issue.

Or perhaps it wouldn't.

His gaze then shifted to his spatial ring.

An idea surfaced.

'I wonder if it functions now?'

He whispered the question to himself.

Swiftly, he retrieved several recovery pills from his own ring, the same ones he had concocted in the Bloody Court, pills that previously yielded almost no effect.

This was due to his body's unique state.

Imperfect and mortal.

Severed from the Heavenly Will.

But in this current moment...

Things were different.

Kyrian ingested the pills.

He swallowed.

Instantly, they began to break down within him.

Transforming into medicinal energy; not the crude, aggressive energy from before, but something more refined, more harmonious.

A gentle warmth permeated his entire being, originating in his stomach, ascending through his chest, and flowing into his limbs.

Soon after, a searing sensation emerged.

His injuries began to burn, not with external heat, but with an internal intensity.

His muscles followed suit, the torn fibers contracting, knitting back together, regenerating.

Yet, it was a beneficial pain.

The pain that signified healing.

Kyrian's eyes widened subtly.

It was effective.

The pills truly worked.

For the first time in his life, since he embarked on his cultivation journey, since he mastered the art of pill refinement, his body accepted their potency.

His transformed physique was finally akin to that of a genuine cultivator.

Or something remarkably close to it.

A weary smile touched his lips.

He then closed his eyes.

The medicinal energy continued its circulation, mending and restoring.

And there he remained.

In solitude.

Amidst the remnants of his vanquished foes.

Awaiting the return of his strength.