Damage the soul.
The four words on the panel seemed to hum with a malevolent chill. Wei Yuan's initial excitement was doused as if by a bucket of ice water. He had a path, yes, but it was a path lined with razors.
His mind raced. Three months. Eighty-seven days until the Branch Purge. He had advanced to the middle stage of Marrow Cleansing in a single day, a speed that was nothing short of miraculous. But his cousin, Wei Tian, was already in the Spirit Channeling realm. The gap between them was not a river; it was a vast, unforgiving ocean.
To have any hope of surviving, he needed to get stronger, faster. The golden threads of regular calligraphy were safe, but slow. These new, silver threads, born from Sword Intent, felt incomparably more potent. The risk was immense, but what was the alternative? To be cast out, to watch his father die in disgrace, to fade into a forgotten grave as a clan-less cripple?
No.
A quiet, cold determination settled over him. His soul was the only thing of value he possessed. If he had to wager it to defy his fate, then so be it. A damaged soul was better than no soul at all.
"The path of the warrior was closed," he murmured to himself, a bitter smile touching his lips. "So be it. I will walk the path of the scholar, and my brush will be my blade."
With his decision made, he took a deep breath and focused once more on the ancient scroll, "The Raging River Style." He chose the next character: 斩 (Zhan) - to sever, to chop.
He dipped his brush. As he prepared to write, he tried to recall the feeling from before—that sharp, cold intent flowing from the scroll. He actively sought it, welcomed it.
The moment his brush touched the paper, the feeling returned, a hundred times stronger.
It was not a gentle stream of insight. It was a psychic spike, a shard of ice driving directly into his mind. An overwhelming wave of anger, sorrow, and brutal killing intent, the lingering emotions of the scroll's long-dead author, flooded his consciousness.
Wei Yuan's vision swam. A stabbing pain, far worse than the rejection of spiritual Qi, erupted in the center of his soul. It felt as if a fine needle were being driven into his very essence. He gritted his teeth, a low groan escaping his lips as his entire body trembled.
The character on the paper was a jagged, furious mess.
But a silver thread, pulsing with a volatile light, rose from the ink. It shot into his Dantian, carrying with it that soul-piercing chill.
[Insight Thread has gained attribute: Sharpness]
[Warning: Soul cohesion has been slightly damaged. Continued practice may lead to permanent spiritual injury or madness.]
He slumped back in his chair, panting, a cold sweat beading on his forehead. The warning on the panel was no exaggeration. This wasn't just a risk; it was a form of self-mutilation.
"This won't work," he thought, his mind reeling from the psychic backlash. "I can't just absorb the author's will. It's too raw, too violent. It's like drinking poison to quench my thirst."
He stared at the angry, sad character on the scroll. Old Man Ji's words echoed in his mind. A sad, angry man... The author had poured his own broken spirit into this manual. To copy it was to invite that brokenness into himself.
But what if he didn't just copy? What if he... filtered it?
A new strategy formed. He wouldn't simply be a vessel for the ancient swordsman's rage. He would be a connoisseur. He would observe the Sword Intent, appreciate its form, understand its structure, but temper it with his own will. He would learn from the raging river without letting himself be swept away by its currents.
He took another sheet of paper. This time, he focused on the character for "Flow" (流). He looked at the powerful strokes on the scroll, analyzing them not as an emotional outpouring, but as a technical marvel. He saw the way the ink was applied, the pressure, the speed. He felt the Sword Intent, but he held it at arm's length, studying it.
Then, he put his own brush to paper. He channeled his own quiet determination, his own cold focus, using it as a container for the borrowed Sword Intent.
This time, when the backlash came, it was still cold, still sharp, but it was manageable. It was like holding a blade instead of being stabbed by one.
The character he wrote was clean, powerful, and infused with a controlled, sharp aura. A pristine silver thread rose and was absorbed, the damage to his soul negligible.
[Insight Thread has gained attribute: Sharpness]
It worked. He had found the way.
The next two weeks passed in a grueling haze. Every day, Wei Yuan would rise before the sun, spending hours meticulously studying and replicating the characters from the "Raging River Style" scroll. Each character was a battle. Each silver thread was a victory won through immense mental fortitude.
His progress was slow but steady. He would practice until his mind was screaming in protest, teetering on the edge of exhaustion, then he would stop, allowing the single Strand of Soul Essence he had woven to slowly mend the strain on his spirit.
After two weeks of this torturous grind, he had accumulated ninety new silver threads. Combined with the ten golden threads from before, he had a hundred.
His panel glowed.
[100 Insight Threads available to be woven.]
[Attribute Detected: Sharpness (90% Purity)]
[Weaving threads of different attributes may result in an unstable or unique Soul Essence. Weave now?]
Unique. The word resonated with him. His entire path was unique. Why should his foundation be any different?
"Weave," he commanded.
The ninety silver threads and ten golden threads began their dance. The silver threads, aggressive and sharp, formed the warp of the weave, creating a structure like a thousand tiny blades. The golden threads, gentle and nourishing, acted as the weft, binding the volatile silver energy together, giving it stability and form.
The light that erupted in his Dantian was not the gentle gold of before. It was a blinding, silver-white radiance, like the flash of a sword being drawn in the moonlight.
A new strand of Soul Essence, far more potent and condensed than the first, settled in his core. It hummed with a latent power that made his very bones vibrate. He felt as if his entire being had been honed, sharpened. His thoughts were clearer, his senses more acute. He could feel the tiny imperfections in the wood of the table beneath his fingers, could smell the faint scent of rain on the wind outside.
[Unique Soul Essence successfully woven. +1 Strand of Blade-Edge Soul Essence.]
[Cultivation Realm: Marrow Cleansing (Late Stage)]
[The Loom of A Hundred Arts has absorbed Sword Intent. New function unlocked: Artistic Analysis.]
Wei Yuan's eyes widened. Artistic Analysis? He focused his will on the "Raging River Style" scroll.
[Item: "Raging River Style" Calligraphy Scroll]
[Art Quality: Masterpiece (Damaged)]
[Contained Intent: Sword Dao (Tier 1)]
[Analysis: This manual contains the foundational principles of a momentum-based sword style. The author was a Grandmaster of the sword who was betrayed, crippling his sword arm. He channeled his rage and regret into creating this calligraphy style as a way to pass on his legacy.]
He could analyze the Arts themselves! He could see the intent hidden within them, the story behind their creation. This was a monumental discovery. He could now actively seek out scrolls and artifacts containing other artistic intents—painting, music, carving—and absorb their principles directly!
His path had just become infinitely wider.
The elation was short-lived, however, as a practical problem slammed back into focus. He was almost out of ink. The coarse paper was down to its last few dozen sheets. His cultivation engine was about to run out of fuel.
He spent the rest of the day in a frantic search. Hidden in a scroll detailing the logistics of the Wei Clan from two hundred years ago, he found what he was looking for: a simple recipe for "Spirit-Gathering Ink." It was a low-grade concoction, used by disciples for talisman practice. The ingredients were common spiritual herbs, the kind that grew wild in the clan's back mountains.
He committed the recipe to memory. Gathering them would require him to leave the pavilion. The back mountains were technically off-limits to useless disciples like him, a place reserved for the main branch to practice and forage.
It was a risk. But he had no choice.
The next morning, under the pale pre-dawn light, Wei Yuan slipped out of the Pavilion of Forgotten Scrolls. He carried a small cloth sack and a worn harvesting sickle. He moved like a ghost, sticking to the shadows, his newly sharpened senses on high alert.
The back mountains were thick with ancient trees and a rich, damp smell of earth and vegetation. The spiritual Qi here was noticeably denser. Wei Yuan ignored it, his eyes scanning the undergrowth for the herbs from the recipe. He found a patch of Silverleaf grass near a stream and was carefully harvesting it when he heard voices.
"Look what the cat dragged in. The little trash from the library decided to get some fresh air."
Wei Yuan's heart dropped. He straightened up slowly.
It was Wei Feng, flanked by his usual two lackeys. They had him cornered against the stream.
"What are you doing here, cripple?" Wei Feng sneered, his eyes falling on the sack of Silverleaf grass. "Stealing clan resources now, are we? That's a serious offense. Requires... disciplinary action."
He cracked his knuckles, a cruel smile playing on his lips. This was perfect. No elders around, no witnesses. He could finally teach this piece of trash a proper lesson.
Wei Yuan's mind raced. He was still only in the Marrow Cleansing realm. Wei Feng, while no genius, was at the peak of Qi Sensing. A direct physical confrontation was suicide.
But he wasn't the same boy he was two weeks ago.
He slowly stood up, his expression unreadable. He met Wei Feng's gaze directly. He didn't say a word. He simply focused, drawing on the memory of the "Raging River Style," channeling a minuscule, almost imperceptible sliver of that cold, sharp Sword Intent he had been practicing.
He didn't move a muscle. He just... looked.
Wei Feng took a step forward, his hand reaching for Wei Yuan's sack. But then he froze.
His sneer faltered.
For a split second, the world seemed to warp. The quiet, useless boy in front of him was gone. In his place stood something else. Something ancient and dangerous. He felt a sudden, inexplicable chill, a phantom pain lancing up his spine. It felt as if a razor-sharp blade had been pressed against his throat. His instincts, honed by a lifetime of being a cultivator, screamed at him.
Danger. Mortal danger.
"What... what are you looking at?" Wei Feng stammered, taking an involuntary step back. His bravado crumbled, replaced by a primal, confusing fear. He didn't understand what was happening. Wei Yuan hadn't released any spiritual pressure. He hadn't moved. But the feeling of imminent death was suffocating.
"I asked what you're looking at!" he shouted, his voice an octave higher than usual, trying to mask his terror with aggression.
Wei Yuan remained silent, his gaze unwavering, as cold and sharp as honed steel.
Another wave of terror washed over Wei Feng. He felt like a mouse being watched by a hawk. He couldn't do it. He couldn't take another step forward.
"Tch. Not worth my time." Wei Feng spat on the ground, a desperate attempt to salvage some pride. He turned abruptly. "Let's go. The stench of failure is making me sick."
He practically fled, his lackeys scrambling to follow, casting confused and fearful glances back at the silent boy by the stream.
Wei Yuan watched them go, his calm facade finally breaking as he let out a long, shaky breath. His forehead was slick with sweat. He had poured all his focus into that one intimidation tactic.
It had worked better than he could have ever imagined.
He looked down at his own hands, then back in the direction of the fleeing bullies. A slow, cold smile touched his lips.
His blade was hidden in his brushstroke.
And it was sharper than anyone knew.