Mystic Eyes: My Eyes Steal the Laws of Cultivation

Chapter 432: A Touch of the Needles

Kyrian followed the mysterious man through the alleys of the Caravan of the Sky.

Neither of them spoke. The silence between them was not uncomfortable; it was neither the tense silence of enemies observing each other nor the awkward silence of strangers forced to coexist.

It was a cautious silence. The silence of two people evaluating one another within their own minds.

The bustling streets of the commercial district gradually faded behind them.

First, the stalls became fewer, the vibrant colors of the tents giving way to the gray walls of older buildings.

Then, the cries of the merchants, that cacophony of offers and promotions, turned into distant echoes, muffled by the distance and the surrounding structures.

The scent of medicinal herbs, which had previously dominated the air, mixing with the fragrance of incense and street food, gave way to the damp smell of ancient stone and aged wood.

The man walked calmly ahead.

Neither fast, as if trying to escape. Nor slow, as if waiting for Kyrian to catch up.

His steps were steady and silent, so silent that Kyrian, even with his eyes focused on every movement, sometimes struggled to hear them.

It was as if he knew every alley of that wandering city. Every turn. Every shortcut. Every hidden passage.

Kyrian maintained a constant distance of several meters, not too close so as not to appear threatening, not too far so as not to lose sight of him.

His eyes, the violet eyes of lightning, occasionally settled upon the man’s wide sleeves.

On the way he moved. On how his presence seemed to diminish when not directly observed.

It was strange. Very strange.

Even knowing exactly where the man was, even tracking his footsteps, his breathing, and the slight movement of his clothes, Kyrian had the feeling that his mind wanted to ignore him.

As if his instincts were saying:

’Don’t look.’

’Don’t perceive.’

’Don’t notice.’

’He isn’t here. You are alone.’

But Kyrian’s eyes resisted these unknown effects. Perhaps it was a technique or something similar, but it had no effect on Kyrian because of his eyes.

His gaze remained fixed.

’A concealment technique?’ he thought.

’Or something more... natural?’

’Something innate?’

Half an hour passed in this manner. They crossed bridges over dark canals. They went around abandoned marketplaces.

They passed behind temples whose bells had long since fallen silent. The man did not look back even once.

He did not check whether Kyrian was still following him. He did not alter his pace.

’He knows I’m here,’ Kyrian thought.

’He doesn’t need confirmation.’

Until the man finally stopped.

Before them stood a small abandoned temple.

The stone walls, once white but now gray, were cracked in several places. Vertical fissures stretched across them, some wide enough for a hand to pass through.

Part of the roof had collapsed, and broken tiles formed small piles across the courtyard floor. The main support beam, still intact, leaned dangerously to one side.

The ancient religious inscriptions that had once covered the walls, telling stories of gods and heroes, had nearly vanished with time. Only traces remained, remnants of something that had once been beautiful.

Yet something in that place still seemed alive.

At the center of the courtyard, a fruit tree grew quietly. It wasn’t large. It stood just over three meters tall.

But its leaves were green, a vibrant green, intense and full of life. Its branches were strong, thick, and twisted, yet sturdy.

Small reddish fruits, the size of walnuts, swayed gently in the wind.

The man approached the tree. Without saying a single word.

Then...

Kyrian saw his fingers move. Fast. Extremely fast. A needle appeared between them. And touched the trunk of the tree.

At that very instant...

The leaves began to wither. Their vibrant green turned yellow. Then brown. Then gray.

The fruits rotted, their reddish skin darkening, shriveling, falling.

The branches dried out, twisted and brittle, as if they had been scorched beneath the sun for decades.

Life vanished before Kyrian’s eyes. The entire tree seemed to age decades within mere seconds.

Kyrian frowned.

’What did he do?’

’It wasn’t poison. There would have been a smell, a color.’

’It wasn’t a fire technique. There was no heat, no flames.’

’It wasn’t a formation. There were no runes, no symbols.’

’It was... something different.’

Before he could say anything... the needle moved once more. Another touch.

Instantly, the tree bloomed again. Buds emerged from the dried branches, tiny green dots that expanded, grew, and transformed into leaves.

Leaves were reborn, unfolding as though time itself had reversed. The fruits regained their color, from brown to red, from shriveled to fresh.

But not completely. Half of the tree, the left side, remained rotten. Dry branches. Dead leaves. Decayed fruit.

The other half, the right side, was filled with life. Green. Firm. Alive.

It was a bizarre sight. Life and death coexisting side by side.

Kyrian observed carefully.

’How?’

It was the first thought that came to his mind.

’How did he do that?’

’He didn’t attack the tree randomly.’

’He struck something specific.’

’Something inside the tree.’

But what? Meridians? A tree did not possess meridians, not like humans did.

Qi? Perhaps. But how could one manipulate the Qi of a plant with a needle?

The man did not explain. He merely turned around. And resumed walking.

Kyrian followed closely behind.

The curiosity within him grew stronger and stronger.

’Who is this man? Where did he come from? How did he learn this?’

’And what else does he know?’

Another half hour passed.

This time, they arrived in a residential area.

The houses here were humble, built from dark wood with thatched roofs. Small, simple, functional.

A small wooden house was surrounded by several worried people.

They murmured among themselves, speaking in hushed voices, making nervous gestures.

”Do you think he’ll succeed?”

”It doesn’t seem likely...”

”We’ve already tried everything.”

”Maybe we should call a physician...”

”Too late for that.”

Kyrian looked past the people.

A man was sitting near the entrance. His face was pale, pale as death.

Sweat ran down his forehead, thick droplets trailing down his cheeks and soaking his tunic.

His breathing was heavy, ragged, and irregular, as though every breath was a struggle.

His Qi fluctuated violently, rising and falling in chaotic waves, like a sea caught in a storm.

He was trying to break through a bottleneck in his cultivation. But something was wrong.

Kyrian did not need his eyes to see it; the man’s energy was unstable, murky, and diseased.

He was going to fail the breakthrough.