Mystic Eyes: My Eyes Steal the Laws of Cultivation

Chapter 460: Show of Force

Kyrian opened his eyes before the first rays of sunlight even touched the horizon.

The courtyard was silent, wrapped in the gray twilight that precedes dawn, that unique moment when the world seems suspended between night and day, when the shadows are still long and the light has yet to be born. The air feels cooler, and the sounds of the city have not yet awakened.

He remained lying down for a few seconds, feeling the steady flow of Qi within his third dantian, the constant rhythm of his ocular cores, and the weaker yet steadily growing pulse of the Third Mirrored Eye on his forehead.

The third eye still pulsed with slight instability, like a flame that needed wind to grow stronger, like a young tree that still needed time to firmly establish its roots.

He rose with a fluid motion, putting on a simple dark blue robe that matched the dimness of the approaching dawn.

The fabric was soft against his skin, and he smoothed out its folds with an automatic gesture.

Outside the courtyard walls, however, the silence ended abruptly. The streets already echoed with lively voices, hurried footsteps, and the growing murmur of thousands of people, a sound that swelled like the tide, spreading through the streets like fire across dry grass, filling the air with palpable energy.

The Celestial Descent Festival began today, and no one wanted to miss the first event.

He left the courtyard and was swallowed by the human current. Cultivators from every realm, from Qi Liberation to Spiritual Awakening and beyond, merchants hauling goods in carts and crates, elders wearing robes embroidered with golden and silver threads, talented youths with eyes shining with expectation and ambition. All moved in the same direction.

Sky Tower Plaza.

The air was thick with anticipation, so dense that it seemed possible to cut it with a knife.

Spirit lanterns still glowed along the building facades, blue, red, golden, and green, blending with the faint light of dawn, creating a spectacle of colors that danced across the walls as though the city itself were alive.

As he walked, Kyrian caught fragments of conversations mingling with the noise of the crowd, scattered pieces of stories and expectations.

“We’ve finally reached the End Mountains… the far north. They say not even the strongest beasts and cultivators can cross the eternal storms above those peaks. That the wind there is so fierce it strips flesh from bone and freezes the blood inside your veins.”

“The Caravan has stopped in the air, very close by. It hasn’t landed yet, but you can already feel its stability. The vibrations have weakened, as if the beast is preparing to rest after centuries of flight.”

“I heard the Sky Family is already preparing for the ceremony. The Second Elder will appear today. They say he’s the strongest among the living elders, that he’s lived for over a thousand years and witnessed empires rise and fall.”

Kyrian raised his gaze. On the distant horizon, the imposing silhouettes of the End Mountains sliced through the sky like gigantic blades, their peaks covered in eternal snow that shimmered beneath the dawn’s light like crystals.

Black clouds swirled violently above the peaks, a natural wall separating the known continent from the unknown, a barrier that no mortal or cultivator could cross.

Unknown to everyone except him. Kyrian knew that his homeland lay beyond those mountains, the mortal nations where his journey had begun, where his mother had lived, where he had learned to survive.

The plaza was an ocean of people. By the time Kyrian finally arrived, there was hardly any room left to move freely.

Thousands crowded shoulder to shoulder, staring at the Sky Tower rising majestically at the center, reaching into the clouds. The colossal structure was made of a bluish-white material that seemed to absorb and reflect light simultaneously, creating a hypnotic effect that made the tower appear alive, as though it were breathing.

Ancient runes stretched across its surface, glowing faintly with their own light, telling stories that no one alive could read anymore.

Then the sky darkened.

First came a light drizzle, almost imperceptible, as though the heavens were merely testing the earth. Within minutes, it became a heavy downpour, accompanied by an icy wind that howled through robes and banners, making them crack like whips.

Heavy raindrops struck rooftops and the stone ground, forming puddles that reflected the lanterns like distorted mirrors where colors danced and blended together.

“Damn it! Of all days?” grumbled a cultivator beside Kyrian, covering his head with the sleeve of his robe, frustration written plainly across his face.

“The festival’s going to start soaking wet… What rotten luck,” another complained, his voice filled with disappointment.

Frustration spread through the crowd like a wave, brows furrowing as murmurs of dissatisfaction grew louder.

The Caravan guards tried to maintain order, but even they seemed bothered by the torrential rain. Their armor gleamed beneath the water, and streams trickled continuously from the edges of their hoods.

Kyrian remained motionless, water running down his face, dripping from his chin onto the ground, soaking his hair and robes.

Suddenly, a collective whisper arose, growing like a wave spreading through the crowd, a sound that began as a murmur before turning into a roar.

“Look! At the top of the tower!”

Kyrian lifted his gaze along with tens of thousands of others. A solitary figure had appeared at the very peak of the Sky Tower.

Too far away to be seen clearly by most, yet present enough to make the air tremble, a presence that distorted the light around it, as though space itself were bending toward that figure.

Then came the pressure.

It was as though the heavens themselves had descended upon them. An overwhelming pressure, as heavy as stacked mountains, engulfed the entire plaza.

Kyrian felt his chest tighten, his lungs struggling to expand against an invisible force. His meridians vibrated in protest, all three ocular cores pulsing in response to the external pressure.

Even he, who had already faced Dong Zhen, who had stood face to face with the Spirit of Fire, felt insignificant. No. Dong Zhen would be like a child before this power.

That person’s cultivation level was so far beyond his own that Kyrian could not even begin to estimate it. It was like trying to measure the depth of an ocean with a ruler, like trying to count the stars with his fingers.

Many people in the crowd groaned. Some collapsed to their knees, their bodies unable to withstand the spiritual pressure, their legs buckling beneath its weight. Others turned pale, their bodies trembling uncontrollably like leaves in the wind, every trace of color draining from their faces.

“H-He… it’s him!” someone shouted with a voice trembling in reverence.

“The Second Elder of the Sky Family!”