"Parseltongue" and the Basilisk (VII)

But Madara's soul was not protected by a thin membrane. It was an endless wall, forged through countless battles and tempered by countless deaths, stronger than any known material. The Basilisk's gaze struck his soul without leaving so much as a scratch. He did not even need to defend himself, resist, or do anything at all.

He merely stood there, letting the energy flow in through his eyes, pass through his body, and drain out through the soles of his feet, like wind passing through an ancient tree. The tree swayed in the wind, but its roots remained buried in the earth, immovable.

The Basilisk's eyes changed for an instant. They did not grow larger or smaller, brighter or dimmer. They became "confused." Its pupils hesitated between dilating and contracting, like someone answering a multiple-choice question, wavering between two options without knowing which to choose.

Its gaze had never failed. Since the day it had been created, for a thousand years, its eyes had seen countless creatures—people, animals, ghosts, magical beasts—and every one of them had fallen. Some had died, some had been petrified, but none had remained standing. None had stood beneath its gaze while looking at it as though they were looking at a worm.

The Basilisk tilted its head slightly. It was not afraid, nor was it retreating. It was a more instinctive movement, as if confirming something. It shifted its eyes from Madara's face to the space behind him. Other than a blind man radiating dark magic, there was no one else.

It moved its eyes back and fixed them on Madara again. He was still standing. He still had that look in his eyes. The Basilisk's pupils contracted. It was not focusing its vision; it was "focusing" its power. It compressed every bit of Death