Corpse Puppet Master

Dawn slipped pale and cold across the cracked stones of the courtyard, brushing the thin mist that curled around broken tiles and moss-stained walls. Gu Muye stepped out of his small stone room, bruises stiff and ribs still aching with each breath. Beside him, Zhou Min limped slightly, face mottled purple from the swelling at his jaw.

They exchanged only a glance. Words felt heavy this early. A crow cawed in the far branches, a sound too sharp for the hushed chill of morning. They made their way to the water trough, walking with the stiff, halting gait of those who had been hit too many times, in too many places. The trough's basin, ringed in ice just days before, now held still, dark water that reflected the cracked courtyard stones.

By the basin, Hui Yan leaned with arms crossed, dark hair tied back roughly, eyes sharp despite the hour. Qiu Sheng stood nearby, massive frame hunched over as he splashed water on his scar-cut face. Lian Ru sat on a low wall, gaze distant, fingers tracing the cracked stone beside her knee, lost in thought. Her long sleeves trailed into the dust, and she didn't seem to notice.

Zhou Min forced a crooked smile that pulled at the swollen skin. He muttered that it looked worse than it felt, his voice hoarse from sleep and bruised ribs.

Hui Yan responded that then it must feel like death. Her words were dry but not unkind.

Gu Muye murmured that it was close, his voice as flat as the cold water stinging his palms. He cupped a handful and splashed his face, feeling the sting rattle into his bones.

Qiu Sheng's shoulders lifted in a half-shrug. He said it was better beaten than buried, and shook water from his thick hands, sending droplets skittering across the stones.

Most days, Lian Ru added. Her voice was quiet enough that it nearly vanished in the morning chill. Her breath fogged faintly in the air, then faded.

The bell rang then, deep and slow, from somewhere deeper within the sect, calling them to labor. The sound passed over them like a wave, and they moved, instinctively falling into step. Buckets of corpse ash scraped over stone, moss was scoured from steps with wire brushes. Bone dust clouds caught in their throats, turning coughs black-tinged. The ash stung eyes and settled in clothes, grinding into skin and memory.

The sky lightened, and with it came the wind, sharp and whistling between the courtyard arches. Trees beyond the outer wall groaned as their limbs shifted. Somewhere, a loose banner flapped.

Pain stayed close, in every stretch and lift, but Gu Muye kept moving, breath short, thoughts sharp. He watched everything now. The paths the older disciples took. The corners where shadows pooled. The quiet looks exchanged by those who had learned not to trust ease. A training hall door slammed nearby, the echo booming across the stone like a warning.

During a pause, Zhou Min lowered his voice, sweat dampening the cloth at his collar. He said he had watched Wu Yuan, eyes flicking to be sure no older disciple listened. Since before… well, before this. He said the man walked the eastern path most nights, always about the same time.

Gu Muye nodded slowly, ribs flaring under bruises. The eastern path, he repeated. Less traffic, away from older disciples.

Zhou Min said his two shadows usually followed, but one sometimes broke off early. He noticed it when he was on furnace duty last month. Didn't dare do anything then.

Now we might, Gu Muye said quietly. His words were more iron than breath. His hands moved reflexively as he spoke, lifting a rag to scrub black moss from the wall, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

Qiu Sheng wandered over, sweat darkening the collar of his robe. Forest team's coming up, he murmured, voice low. Older disciples picking names tomorrow.

Zhou Min grimaced, tongue working at the cut on his lip. He asked if they would pick them.

Always need fresh hands, Qiu Sheng said, not bothering to soften it. His expression was like stone, worn but unbroken.

Better the pools than the inner grove, Hui Yan offered, stepping closer, voice dropping. Outer edge's bad enough. Deeper in, no one counts the bones there.

Even Lian Ru's voice carried a shiver. She said they dragged what's left to the root dens. Her voice barely rose above the wind.

Zhou Min tried for humor, though it cracked under strain. Maybe he was too thin to bother eating.

Qiu Sheng snorted, the ghost of a smile flickering. More like he would choke them on his complaining.

The words brought a breath of laughter, brittle but real. Even here, fear wore many masks. And sometimes, laughter was the only one they could wear without punishment.

As the sun rose higher, its light filtered through mist, casting weak shadows across the stone. Somewhere nearby, a crane called, its cry sharp and forlorn.

Later, as the morning wound on, Gu Muye and Zhou Min moved together through the shadows beside the storage hall, bruises tugging at each breath. They carried buckets back and forth, hands raw from splinters and grime. The storage hall smelled of old wood, damp straw, and the faint rot of unused things.

Zhou Min murmured that they could use that habit. If they knew when and where.

Gu Muye's gaze stayed on the moss-dark stone ahead. He said they would watch first. No rush. Learn what they missed.

Zhou Min asked what if they saw an opening.

Then we take it, Gu Muye answered, flat, without ornament. His voice was calm, like it had always been decided.

The meal bell called them back toward the hall, porridge steaming thinly in the cracked pots. It was more water than grain, but it was hot and filled the space in their bellies. At the table, the same small group gathered. Hui Yan, eyes never still. Qiu Sheng, massive hands wrapped around his bowl. Lian Ru, quiet, hair falling like a shadow. The clink of wooden spoons against metal filled the space between words.

They ate, and between spoonfuls, rumor flowed in low voices.

Two missing from the pools last week, Hui Yan said, mouth barely moving. Found bones near the black root path.

Powder ration's thin, Qiu Sheng grunted. Furnace hall claims they lost a batch.

Or kept it, Lian Ru murmured, words almost too soft to catch. Her eyes narrowed slightly.

Even under fear, conversation wandered. Hui Yan mocked the taste of porridge. Zhou Min retorted that it was better than eating corpse moss. Qiu Sheng snorted laughter through his nose. It felt almost human, for a moment.

Small jokes. Complaints about chores. A whispered rumor of an older disciple caught with a stolen corpse talisman. The sect felt less like stone and ash for a breath, more like living bodies pressed together by cold necessity.

After the meal, Hui Yan leaned closer, voice slipping beneath the hum of the hall. Names chosen at dawn. If yours comes up, stay close to the group. Forest takes the slow and the brave alike.

Zhou Min's mouth twitched, half a grimace, half a smile. Slow they could help. Brave… not so much.

Better to walk afraid and come back breathing, Qiu Sheng offered. His voice was softer now.

Lian Ru's eyes flicked to Gu Muye. Be careful, she said. No more, but enough.

When they stepped back into the courtyard, the bell's fading echo hung in the cold air. A wind stirred the hanging moss, the mist curling again at their ankles. Gu Muye felt bruises tighten skin over bone, each breath a measured ache.

In that quiet, the black bone at his center stirred. A warmth quick as breath, gone before thought could catch it. He didn't pause on it. The day pressed forward, and pain pulled attention away.

But under the dull drumbeat of bruised ribs, resolve hardened. They wouldn't wait to be broken again.

They would watch. They would plan. And when the moment came, they would act. Not alone, but together.

The courtyard swallowed their steps as they moved toward the ash pits. Morning light bled pale through mist. Somewhere ahead, rumor waited. The forest team would be chosen tomorrow.

And this time, they would not enter it unprepared.