Eternal Thief

Chapter 1472: Obsidian Spirit Hall (1)

In a faraway, shrouded realm beyond time and space, there sat a being whose very form defied the boundaries of reality. A mirror-like humanoid entity, cross-legged in solemn stillness, as though carved from living crystal.

Upon its seamless surface, countless shifting reflections danced—phantasmal glimpses of stars, worlds, and moments lost to history—flickering like candle flames across a boundless obsidian canvas.

Suddenly, the being was jolted, as if struck by an unseen cosmic tremor. The myriad reflections froze into absolute stillness, before a new phenomenon blossomed across its polished skin:

A cosmic panorama of swirling galaxies, nebulae, and drifting constellations, painted in cold, silent grandeur. It was as though the entire breath of creation had taken refuge within that mirrored flesh.

Then, upon the being’s face, six mirror-like eyes opened, each iris swirling with depths as profound as a black hole. Within those eyes bloomed visions beyond mortal comprehension—reflections of infinite, shifting realms.

A voice echoed, not in air or space, but within the very bones of existence itself, and in a Stoic, ageless tone, untouched by gender or mortal emotion, ”A descendant has successfully cultivated one of the three Universal Force Arts of our race?!”

As if in answer, the six eyes began to swirl and transform. Countless visions flared and died across them: scenes of beings not unlike itself—mirror-bodied entities clad in skins of myriad races and forms.

Yet to these eyes, those disguises were but thin veils: translucent layers that could not conceal the truth beneath. They saw essence stripped of pretense, the soul of all things laid bare—perceiving reality in a way alien and absolute.

Unknowable spans of time seemed to pass—moments and millennia alike—yet no sign of what it sought emerged.

The entity’s tranquil stillness grew subtly disturbed, and its six eyes began to glow with a dark, silvery radiance, the brilliance of eclipsed stars.

At last, the visions ceased, and in each of those six mirrors now burned the cold majesty of cosmic constellations, reflected endlessly within their depths.

”Someone that can escape my vision? When was the last time something like this happened?” Yet that dark silver glow only grew deeper, denser, more arcane. ”Or our technique has been leaked to the outside world? But even if that’s true, the path of Universal Physique has been permanently cut off for countless years, and even if someone managed to cultivate a Universal Physique at the initial stage, they shouldn’t be able to escape my vision.

”Furthermore, they happened to cultivate the Grand Mirror Phantom Scripture; only seventeen descendants have ever been able to cultivate that scripture successfully, and then there was that outsider. However, this time...”

As it spoke, a pale silver sigil shimmered upon its forehead—an ancient glyph, at once elegant and alien, surfacing like buried truth across the mirrored flesh.

The glyph pulsed once with solemn power, and from the being’s forehead, a rectangular pitch-black mirror emerged, framed in an ornate, timeworn silver that hummed with ancient might.

The mirror’s surface was a thing of unsettling mystery: perfectly glossy, yet reflecting nothing at all. It emanated an aura of primeval wisdom and quiet dread—the breath of secrets that predated suns.

With a single measured motion, the entity extended a hand and tapped the cold, black surface. Ripples fanned outward like stones cast into the abyss, breaking the eternal calm.

Upon that black expanse, three archaic glyphs emerged. One of dark gold, one of dark silver, and one of bright crimson—together forming a perfect, impossible triangle.

Yet of the three, only the dark silver glyph glowed, burning with otherworldly light.

”The three Universal Force Arts originated from the Mirror of Paradox, the top-secret treasure of our race and also our origin. To learn the secrets hidden within the Mirror of Paradox, one of the conditions is to cultivate the three universal force arts.

”But no one in our clan has managed to complete more than two of them before they fall into depravity and perish. Only I remained sane, but I can’t cultivate the third one, or I’ll suffer the same fate.

”Yes, the Mirror of Paradox has never reacted like this to anyone who had successfully cultivated one of the three Universal Force Arts. But now, it suddenly reacted, and the glyph that represents the Grand Mirror Phantom Scripture was activated...

”Does this mean the person it has been waiting for and who can cultivate all three Universal Force Arts has appeared? And it is the Mirror of Paradox, who is hiding that person from me?”

For the first time in countless ages, a hint of madness flared within its mirrored eyes—like cracks of chaos within eternal calm.

”No matter who it is, I’ll find them!”

In silent response, the entire mystical expanse—a realm of stilled galaxies and drifting light—darkened. The stars dimmed; nebulas retreated into black fog, and an oppressive, ancient malice settled across the void like a living shroud.

Yet the Mirror of Paradox itself remained unchanging—aloof and untouched by its master’s fervor, as if it alone were immune to both obsession and time.

---

Ace was unaware of the consequences of cultivating the Grand Mirror Phantom Scripture, which had awakened an Ancient existence.

At this moment, he walked on the stress of the Midnight Exchange market of the Myriad Hollow along the obsidian boulevards lined on either side of towering shopfronts.

Nothing has changed in this sprawling abyssal metropolis; it was still bustling with activities as a myriad of Abyssal Beings were roaming the market like flies and trading anything that caught their interest under the watchful gaze of towering soul-iron statues.

”Let’s go quickly, the Obsidian Spirit Hall’s annual auction is about to start!”

This excited voice suddenly drew Ace’s attention as he looked over and saw a pair of Abyssal Devils in dark robes who were quickly walking towards a towering building.

’An auction, huh?’ Ace’s interest was piqued as he also followed them, and since he needed a target, this place didn’t seem bad.

Furthermore, Ace also wanted to see the treasures of the Abyss, and since this was the Myriad Hollow, the capital of the Myriad Obsidian Kingdom, only the best of the best treasures were worthy of appearing here.

The Obsidian Spirit Hall was a vast, towering edifice wrought from seamless slabs of polished obsidian, so dark they seemed to swallow light itself.

Its monumental façade was adorned with ancient carvings: swirling runes and grim visages of abyssal beings, each etched so finely they appeared alive under the shifting glow of soul-lanterns.

At its massive gate, soul-iron braziers burned with pale violet flames, casting long shadows that writhed across the inky stone.

Above, a colossal emblem of a three-eyed abyssal being gleamed, its gaze oppressive and unblinking, marking this hall as the greatest auction house in the Myriad Hollow—and perhaps the entire Myriad Obsidian Kingdom.

Crowds of abyssal approached the entrance in an orderly yet eager stream.

Each, upon nearing the gate, produced darkly shimmering invitation plaques. These plaques, some of black jade, others of abyssal crystal, were etched with runes that glowed faintly in the gloom.

Once shown, these tokens were accepted by the Stoic, armored guards standing watch—hulking sentinels clad in interlocking plates of blackened soul-iron, their faces hidden behind horned helms. Each one of them was a Quasi-Abyssal Lord!

After a respectful nod, the guests were allowed entry, passing into the grand obsidian halls beyond.

Ace, hidden beneath a dark cloak with his aura entirely veiled, calmly approached the entrance. His footsteps were silent on the smooth black stone, and for a fleeting moment, he watched the stream of abyssal beings ahead of him display their invitations.

When his turn came, Ace impassively said, ”I don’t have an invitation.”

The moment the guards heard Ace didn’t have an invitation, their auras flared as they thought he was making trouble. After all, everyone knew that without an invitation, no one was allowed entry into the auction, which made Ace a troublemaker.

A hush spread among the nearest onlookers, many turning to glance curiously at the cloaked figure, and his daring attitude amused them. They watch with expectance as they knew a good show was about to begin.

However, before the nearest guard could act, his expression turned wary. His eyes narrowed behind the slits of his helm, and a low growl rumbled from within his chest.

The reason for his sudden shift in reaction was, in that moment, Ace’s shadow at his feet suddenly shimmered—like oil rippling across water—and something unseen moved within it.

The guard stiffened mid-breath. His gaze met Ace’s for the briefest instant—only to recoil, horror flashing in his eyes. In that single moment, his posture shifted utterly: from suspicion to trembling deference.

”M-my deepest apologies, honored guest!” The guard stammered, voice cracking. ”Please, allow me a moment!”

Turning sharply, he half-bowed, rushing into the hall’s depths, his armored boots echoing on the black marble. The crowd was shocked by the guard’s sudden reaction, as the look they gave Ace turned profound.

Behind the hood, and under the faceless mask, Ace’s lips curled up, ’Having the Vaultkeeper didn’t seem that bad!’