To look into Dver's eyes was not like looking at a person; it was like peering over the edge of a cliff at midnight.
They were dead. There was no spark of humanity, no flicker of the "Lucky Rat's" feigned terror, and no reflection of the world around him. They were a flat, matte charcoal that seemed to absorb the torchlight of the cellar rather than reflect it. They looked like the eyes of a corpse that had been left in the sun too long—milky, hollow, and utterly still.
But beneath that surface of graveyard stillness, there was a pull.
If you stared too long, the pupils didn't just seem dark; they seemed to warp the space around them. It was a visual hunger so profound it felt like a physical weight on the viewer's soul. It was the crushing, infinite gravity of a black hole compressed into two small orbs of flesh. They didn't just "see" the world; they looked at the universe as if it were a banquet already half-consumed.
When he looked at a person, he wasn't looking at their face—he was looking at the Qi in their veins, the marrow in their bones, and the vibration of their soul, calculating exactly how much "fuel" they would provide to the furnace in his chest.