The cave was a sanctuary of silence. For a full day, Wei An did nothing but memorize the energy circulation path for the first technique in the manual: Ashen Skin. The book instructed the user to lay hands on a corpse and pull.
Wei An had no corpse. He only had the dregs of the boar's Remnant Essence coiled in his dantian. His method would have to be an internal one. More importantly, he knew a forceful "pull" on the volatile essence would be suicide. He had to guide it, not command it.
He sat cross-legged, closed his eyes, and focused inward. The murky grey energy from the boar was sluggish, tinged with a simple, brutish rage. He didn't try to suppress the feeling. He acknowledged it, letting its echo fade as he focused on his goal.
He envisioned the meridian path in his right arm, the one described in the manual. But instead of preparing to pull energy into it, he used his own will to make it a welcoming, empty riverbed. He was not a conqueror demanding tribute; he was a host inviting a dangerous guest.
With a gentle nudge of his will, he coaxed a tiny wisp of Remnant Essence from his dantian.
It flowed.
The pain was sharp, a familiar sting of ice and fire, but it was not the overwhelming agony of his first absorption. The wisp of energy, wild as it was, followed the path of least resistance he had created. It surged from his core, up through his torso, and flooded the meridian in his arm. It was a hot, swift current, no longer a rampaging beast.
He guided it through the complex circuit just beneath his skin, feeling a strange friction as the energy scoured the inside of his flesh. The wisp completed one full circulation before dissolving into his body, leaving a faint warmth in its wake.
His eyes snapped open. A single bead of sweat traced a path down his temple. He had done it. He had created a new technique, a hybrid born from a demonic manual and a heavenly curse.
The process was excruciatingly slow. Wisp by agonizing wisp, he drew out the boar's essence and circulated it. Each successful loop was a small victory paid for in pain. By the time the first rays of dawn pierced the gloom of the cave, he was trembling and utterly spent. The last of the boar's essence was gone, fully integrated into his body.
He held up his right arm in the faint light. It appeared unchanged, pale and thin. But when he picked up a sharp flake of rock and deliberately scraped it hard across his forearm, the result was stunning.
It didn't draw blood. It didn't even break the skin. It left only a stark white line, which faded after a few seconds.
He had achieved the initial stage of Ashen Skin. He was, by his own definition, a true Soul Weaver. He had woven the essence of a dead soul into his own living flesh.