Three days passed. The thrumming power from the Spirit Fox began to wane, its chaotic echoes slowly fading as his body acclimated. But with its decline, the gnawing hunger in his dantian returned, sharper and more demanding than ever before. The strength in his limbs felt borrowed, and the world, which had been so vibrant, was slowly losing its sharp focus.
He needed to eat.
Wei An knew he couldn't hope to find another dying Spiritual Beast. That was a once-in-a-lifetime stroke of fortune. He would have to create his own opportunity.
His target was a Black-Scaled Boar, a common beast known for its foul temper and tough hide. It was not a spiritual beast, but it was strong, and its life force would be more potent than any normal animal's. He spent half a day tracking it, his unnaturally sharp senses giving him an edge he'd never had. He found it rooting near a muddy stream.
This was different. The fox was an accident, a gift from fate. This boar was a choice. He was not a scavenger stumbling upon a corpse; he was a hunter intending to make one. The thought settled in his stomach with a cold weight.
He laid a simple trap, a deep pitfall covered with branches, something he'd learned to make to catch rabbits. But he guided the boar towards it with a predator's cunning, tossing stones to spook it, using his newfound speed to remain unseen. The enraged boar charged, its beady eyes fixed on the spot where a stone had landed, and plunged into the pit with a squeal of fury.
It was wounded, but not dead. Wei An peered down. The boar thrashed below, its tusks gouging deep furrows in the earth. He felt a pang of something—pity, perhaps. Then the hunger in his dantian pulsed, sharp and insistent, and the pity was burned away. He found a heavy, sharp-edged rock. He did not look the beast in the eyes as he raised it high and let it fall.
The thrashing stopped.
As the last breath left the boar, the familiar, shimmering motes of light began to rise. They were a dull, murky grey, lacking the silver brilliance of the fox's essence, but they were sustenance. He slid into the pit and placed his hand on the boar's flank.
The essence flowed into him. It was a meager meal compared to the feast the fox had provided, a stream compared to a river. There was no agonizing pain this time, only a dull ache. The chaotic emotions were muted—simple rage, fear, and confusion. It was easier to bear, easier to absorb.
The hunger subsided, replaced by a feeling of renewed, if limited, strength. He had confirmed his path. He could sustain himself. He could grow.
As he climbed out of the pit, a realization struck him. The quality of the death mattered. The power, the will, the spirit of the creature he absorbed from—it all determined the potency of the Remnant Essence. A life of struggle and might, like the Spirit Fox, provided a banquet. A common beast provided a simple meal. What, then, would a cultivator provide?
The thought was both thrilling and terrifying.
He spent the rest of the day in his cave, trying to guide the new, weaker energy. It was more pliable than the fox's essence, and he made minuscule progress, learning to pool it in his limbs to enhance his strength for a few moments.
That evening, drawn by a strange flicker of light, he ventured further than before, to the edge of a ravine he hadn't explored. There, wedged between two rocks at the bottom, was a human body. The clothes were dark and embroidered with a stylized crimson cloud. The man's chest was caved in, clearly from a fall. He had been dead for days.
Most of his Remnant Essence had already dissipated into the world. But clutched in his dead hand was a leather pouch. Wei An's heart hammered against his ribs. With trembling fingers, he pried the pouch free. Inside, amongst a few low-grade spirit stones that felt like cold glass to him, was a thin, stitched booklet.
The cover was made of some unknown beast hide. On it, written in stark, black ink, were three words:
Corpse Qi Manual.