The forest was a blur of green and brown. Wei An ran, his feet barely seeming to touch the tangled roots and damp earth. The strength in his legs was a revelation, each stride covering three times the distance he could have managed just an hour ago. His senses, still reeling from their violent awakening, flooded his mind with information. He could smell the damp rot of a fallen log fifty paces to his left, hear the frantic flutter of a trapped moth in a spider's web high above, and feel the subtle shifts in air pressure that spoke of a clearing ahead.
Fear was the fuel, but the engine was the power thrumming in his veins. It was a wild, chaotic energy, nothing like the gentle, harmonious Qi the village elder described. This power was frenetic, tinged with the pride, fury, and agony of the Three-Tailed Spirit Fox's last moments. These feelings were not his own, yet they echoed within him, threatening to overwhelm his thoughts.
He finally found refuge as dusk began to bleed purple and orange through the canopy. A small cave, barely a hollow carved into the base of a stony hillock, hidden behind a curtain of thick vines. It smelled of damp earth and bats, but it was defensible. He collapsed inside, his back against the cold stone, his body finally succumbing to the strain.
The initial euphoria of his newfound power was fading, replaced by a chilling reality. The Remnant Essence he had absorbed was not a docile servant. It was a wild beast caged within his meridians. It lashed out, sending waves of icy pain followed by searing heat through his body. The fox's emotions washed over him—a flash of arrogance as it battled its foes, a surge of terror as the sword pierced its flesh, a profound sorrow as it looked upon the world for the last time.
Wei An gritted his teeth, his knuckles white as he clenched his fists. This was the price. The power was not free. He was not just absorbing energy; he was absorbing the echoes of a soul.
"Control..." he rasped, his voice raw. "I have to control it."
He closed his eyes, forcing himself to focus inward. He tried to guide the chaotic energy, to tame it as the legends said cultivators did with their Qi. But he had no technique, no manual, no teacher. It was like trying to command a flood with nothing but his hands. Every attempt to direct the flow was met with a violent backlash that left him shaking and gasping.
He realized his folly. He had a full stomach but no idea how to digest the meal. Absorption was only the first step. Without a method to refine and control this power, it would eventually tear him apart from the inside or drive him mad with the echoes of the dead.
The hunger in his dantian, which had been blissfully silent after its great feast, began to stir again. It was a faint whisper now, but he knew it would grow. This path was a cycle. He would need to hunt, to find more death, to feed the insatiable void within him.
But the next time, he would be ready. He would not just be a scavenger. He would be a predator. And a predator needed to know how to use its claws. His next priority was clear. He needed a cultivation technique. A manual, a scroll, anything that could teach him to master the ashen path he now walked. And in the vast, dangerous world of cultivators, knowledge like that was often guarded by death itself. A grim smile touched his lips. For him, that was not a deterrent. It was an invitation.