Cultivator of the End: I Refine My Own Death-Chapter 118 – The Skin Collector’s Offer

The rain had fallen in torrents for days, and still, the air seemed saturated with a strange tension, as though the land itself was holding its breath. Rin stood at the edge of a craggy precipice, overlooking a desolate valley. The valley had once been the site of an epic battle between two great sects—now only the bones of fallen cultivators and the rusted remnants of their weapons remained, scattered among the ashen soil like the forgotten remnants of time.

It was here, amid the broken and shattered, that the strange figure appeared.

Rin had sensed the presence long before the man came into view. The air shifted, a disturbance that was more than mere wind, as though something — or someone — had stepped through the veil of space itself. Rin's gaze hardened as he turned toward the soundless, shadowed figure emerging from the mist.

The figure was tall and draped in dark robes that rippled like smoke in the wind. A mask, molded from the flesh of some unknown creature, obscured his features. What caught Rin's attention more, however, was the man's attire: layers of skin, not his own, stitched together into an intricate quilt. It was a garment of human and animal flesh, expertly woven and fused into a patchwork of grotesque artistry. The skin glistened faintly, as if preserved by a dark power.

"You sense me, child of death?" The figure's voice was smooth, almost hypnotic, as it slithered through the air like a whisper carried on a cold breeze.

Rin said nothing at first, studying the man. He could feel a strange pulse in the air—a sort of latent death energy radiating from him. The man was not merely a cultivator; he was something far more disturbing, something beyond mere flesh.

"What do you want?" Rin asked, his tone wary but curious. He had grown accustomed to the undercurrents of death that surrounded him, but this presence felt different—like an ancient, hungry thing that had been waiting for centuries to find someone like him.

"An offer," the figure said, stepping closer. "A proposition, if you will."

Rin's eyes narrowed, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his dagger, Mourning Fang. His senses were finely tuned, and he could already feel the strange currents of energy coiling around the man like an unnatural aura.

"You are familiar with death, aren't you?" the figure continued. "You walk the path of destruction, consume the dead, and refine the very essence of decay. But what if I told you there was more? A way to shape that death, to weave the flesh and bone of those who have passed into something... useful?"

Rin's brows furrowed. "Weaving flesh? Is that your art?"

The figure chuckled, a low, guttural sound that resonated with something deep within Rin's core. "It is. Flesh Weaving. A forbidden technique that allows one to extract the very essence of the dead, to shape it, mold it, and repurpose it for a variety of uses—talismans, armor, disguises... and much more."

Rin's gaze sharpened. This was no ordinary art. The mention of disguises, of armor made from the dead—it suggested a power that was not only forbidden but deeply connected to the dark, unspoken realms of cultivation. Flesh Weaving was no simple technique. It was an art of life and death, of manipulation on a level Rin had yet to explore.

"And what do you want in return?" Rin asked, already sensing the catch. He had walked this path long enough to know that there was always a price—always an exchange when dealing with those who trafficked in forbidden arts.

The figure tilted his head slightly, as though considering something, then spoke, his voice lowering into a near-whisper. "A favor, someday. A simple request, made when you are stronger. When you reach the third stage of your death cultivation. When you are beyond the limitations of this mortal realm."

Rin's mind spun, his thoughts racing. The third stage. He had barely begun to tap into the deeper layers of his Death Refinement Dao, and yet this figure spoke as though he already knew the depths of Rin's potential. The offer was tempting—a way to refine his abilities, to unlock new powers through the dead. Flesh Weaving could be a tool of immense power, something that could solidify his standing as a force to be reckoned with. freeωebnovēl.c૦m

"I am not one for favors," Rin replied coldly. "But I do not turn away power."

The figure seemed to smile beneath his mask, a twisted, unsettling grin that did not quite match the serene calmness of his voice. "Then we have a deal. I will teach you, and in exchange, you will owe me one favor. Nothing more, nothing less."

Without another word, the figure extended his hand, and Rin, after a moment of hesitation, grasped it. The touch was cold, like the skin of a corpse freshly unearthed, but Rin felt a pulse of dark energy surge through him. It was as if a part of himself had been marked, bound to this strange being's will.

"You will need to begin by understanding the art in its simplest form," the Skin Collector said. "You will need to witness it firsthand."

And with that, the man stepped aside, motioning to a pile of decaying corpses nearby. The stench of death wafted through the air, but Rin was undeterred. He stepped forward, his hands moving to steady the first of the bodies. It was a fallen cultivator, his body broken and ravaged by the harshness of battle, a victim of Rin's own slaughter in this very valley.

"Flesh Weaving requires intimacy with death," the Skin Collector's voice continued, echoing in Rin's mind. "You must first extract the essence, then shape it to your will."

Rin knelt, placing his hands on the corpse, his Death Core thrumming with power as he began to manipulate the dead flesh. It was an unnatural sensation, one that seemed to sink into his very bones as he called upon the essence of the corpse, feeling the remnants of life and death intertwine in his palms. He reached into the body, pulling free the essence of decay, the vitality trapped within the ruined form.

At first, it was a struggle. The flesh resisted him, unwilling to bend to his will. It was an alien thing to manipulate, and Rin had never attempted such a feat before. His hands shook, not from fear, but from the overwhelming sense of power surging through him. He needed to learn. He needed to control this.

As Rin closed his eyes and focused, he could feel the pulse of the corpse's soul fading, leaving behind only the residue of death. He inhaled deeply, drawing in the energy, and then began to mold the flesh. At first, it was crude—an attempt to form a simple talisman, a piece of armor. But as his control deepened, so too did the finesse of his craft. The flesh began to shift, to reshape under his will, forming into a hardened, leathery armor that clung to his body like a second skin.

The Skin Collector watched in silence, his presence barely more than a whisper in the air.

"Good. Very good," he murmured. "You have taken the first step. But remember, Flesh Weaving is not without its price. The more you weave, the more you become bound to the dead. The more you reshape the flesh of others, the more you lose your own humanity."

Rin stood, the new armor—a patchwork of living flesh—clinging tightly to his form. He could feel the warmth of it, a strange, sickening comfort. It was powerful, yes, but he was acutely aware of the price. This was not the path to redemption, but one of corruption.

"And when I reach the third stage?" Rin asked, his voice steady but tinged with a sense of unease.

The Skin Collector's mask tilted slightly, his voice now carrying an edge of finality. "When you reach the third stage, you will have power beyond your imagining. And you will be ready for the favor I will ask."

Without another word, the figure turned and began to fade into the shadows, his body melting into the surrounding mist like a part of the air itself.

Rin stood in silence, feeling the weight of the armor on his body and the burden of the pact he had just made. "The third stage," he muttered to himself. "I will reach it. And then, we will see what kind of favor he asks."

For now, though, Rin knew that he had taken another step toward the unknown, toward a power that could either elevate him to new heights or drag him into a deeper darkness.

And as the Skin Collector vanished into the wind, Rin felt an unsettling sense that this was only the beginning of a much darker journey.

To be continued...