Corpse Puppet Master

Morning came to the Corpse Refining Sect not with warmth but with a thin, stubborn light that barely softened the cold. The cracked stones of the courtyard held the night's chill, turning each step into a quiet ache that crept from ankles to ribs. Gu Muye woke before the first bell, breath pale in the air, bruises pulling tight with every movement.

Zhou Min stirred a moment later, groaning as he sat up, hand rising to touch the swollen side of his jaw. His fingers traced the bruise, stopping when pain made him wince. He lowered his hand, eyes dull but steady.

"Didn't sleep," he muttered.

"Me neither," Gu Muye answered, voice low.

They didn't speak further. The morning didn't invite words, only the careful rhythm of breath and the heavy thought that tomorrow might look very different.

Outside, the bone bell tolled once, its hollow note crawling through stone and bone alike, drawing outer sect disciples from their narrow rooms. Robes were pulled tight against the cold; heads bowed slightly, some from habit, some from fear. Breath rose in thin clouds as they filed toward the courtyard, feet whispering across damp stone.

Gu Muye and Zhou Min joined the slow current of gray-robed figures, each step measured to keep bruises from pulling too sharply. The courtyard seemed larger in the morning light, the stone cracks clearer, the stains darker. High above, patches of moss hung from broken eaves, dripping cold water onto stone.

They took their places near the center, heads slightly bowed but eyes watchful. Around them, others gathered: Hui Yan, expression distant and sharp; Qiu Sheng, shoulders broad and jaw tight; Lian Ru, face pale in the cold, gaze lowered. A low murmur moved through the crowd, thin words, questions with no answers.

At the edge of the courtyard, an older disciple stepped forward, robe trimmed in black thread. His gaze moved over them once, flat and uninterested, before settling on the thin bone strip he held. Names carved into it glinted faintly in the pale light.

Gu Muye felt Zhou Min's breath catch beside him. He kept his own steady, though every muscle tensed, bruises reminding him of what came before.

The older disciple raised his head, voice flat and practiced. "Names for the forest edge team. You leave tomorrow at first bell. Fail to return, and the sect forgets your name."

He began to read. "Li Chen. Xun Tao. Wang Bei. Zhou Min."

The name dropped like a stone in water. Zhou Min stiffened, shoulders drawing tight, but he didn't speak. Gu Muye kept his gaze on the stone before his feet, breath slow.

"Gu Muye."

The second name followed almost as quickly. A chill, sharper than the morning cold, slipped under skin and into bone. He let the sound settle, no reaction beyond the faint tightening of his jaw.

More names followed, voices and faces he barely knew, all marked now by the same quiet dread. The older disciple read without pause, words falling like dust. When he finished, he lowered the bone strip, gaze sweeping over them again.

"You gather marrow pods, bone moss, and corpse fungus," he said. "Return empty-handed, and you return to nothing."

No threat needed; the forest was threat enough. Everyone knew it.

The older disciple turned, robes stirring dust as he walked away. Silence followed him, deep and close, like the hush before a grave is filled.

Gu Muye drew a slow breath, ribs complaining at the stretch. Zhou Min shifted beside him, breath quick and shallow.

"So it's us," Zhou Min murmured, voice thin.

"Tomorrow," Gu Muye said.

"You think it's chance?" Zhou Min asked, his words quieter, the question tasting of fear and something like bitter humor.

"Maybe," Gu Muye answered, gaze unfocused. "Maybe not."

But behind the answer, suspicion moved. Wu Yuan's face, calm in its cruelty after the beating, came back to him. The way those eyes had measured them, cold and bored. It could be nothing, but it felt like something.

Zhou Min swallowed, wincing as pain moved through his bruised jaw. "Feels like him."

"We don't know yet," Gu Muye said. "And guessing won't change tomorrow."

Around them, the courtyard shifted. Some disciples turned quick glances their way, some pitying, most simply glad their own names hadn't been called. Others turned away entirely, breath misting the cold air.

Qiu Sheng stepped closer, voice pitched low so only they could hear. "Watch each other's backs," he said. His gaze flickered, hardening for a moment. "The forest isn't patient."

Zhou Min nodded, the motion stiff. "We will."

Hui Yan didn't speak, only held Gu Muye's gaze for a breath before looking past him, sharp eyes already moving to other names on the list. Lian Ru hesitated, lips parting as though to speak, but no words came. Instead, she turned, her robe stirring bone dust as she stepped away.

The courtyard emptied slowly, footsteps careful on cracked stone. Those chosen for the forest walked slower, breath heavier, as though tomorrow had already placed weight across their shoulders.

Gu Muye and Zhou Min remained a moment longer, the morning cold soaking through thin robes into bruised skin.

"You think he asked for it?" Zhou Min asked again, voice quieter now.

Gu Muye felt the thought settle deeper, cold and heavy. "Could be," he said. "But we don't know. Not yet."

The suspicion didn't answer anything, but it stayed.

They turned to leave, the day already moving forward. Chores still waited: carrying buckets from the trough, sweeping ash from narrow halls, scrubbing moss from cracked tiles. The mundane weight of survival that didn't pause just because tomorrow might bring something worse.

By the trough, water ran cold over bruised knuckles, sting freshening pain that had begun to dull. Zhou Min let out a slow breath, steam rising from it, and for a moment neither spoke.

"At least it's us together," Zhou Min said, voice thin.

"Better than alone," Gu Muye answered.

"Still wish it was someone else's name," Zhou Min added, half a bitter laugh that scraped his throat raw.

"So do they," Gu Muye said, nodding toward the disciples who kept their distance, glancing away too quickly.

They spoke little while working, but their silence wasn't empty. The weight of tomorrow filled it, heavy as stone.

Later, when the midday bell sounded, they gathered in the hall for thin porridge that tasted of old grain and ash. Hui Yan sat across, eyes drifting between them, thoughtful but unreadable. Qiu Sheng ate slowly, jaw tight, every motion deliberate. Lian Ru barely touched her bowl, gaze lowered to the stone.

Words stayed mostly unsaid. Fear moved through the group like a slow current, quieter than panic, older than hope.

The afternoon stretched on in chores and cold wind. Gu Muye's thoughts kept circling the same center: Wu Yuan's face, the feel of bruises still fresh, the possibility that the older disciple had spoken their names into tomorrow's danger. He didn't know for sure, but suspicion sat at the edge of thought, stubborn and cold.

As shadows lengthened, the older disciples moved above the courtyard walkways, robes stirring faint drafts of bone dust. Their eyes flicked down now and then, measuring, weighing, deciding. Gu Muye kept his gaze lowered, but once his eyes lifted enough to catch the briefest glimpse of a dark sleeve, a turned-away face.

It could mean nothing. But in the sect, even nothing could be something waiting.

When dusk gathered over cracked tiles, the day ended not with rest but with colder air and quieter steps. Back in their narrow room, Gu Muye and Zhou Min sat with backs against opposite walls, breath misting faintly in the small space.

"Tomorrow," Zhou Min said, the word carrying everything they didn't say.

"We watch," Gu Muye answered. "We wait."

"And if it's really him?" Zhou Min asked, voice rough.

Gu Muye's breath drew in slow, ribs aching. "Then we remember," he said. "But tomorrow, we survive first."

Zhou Min nodded, the motion small, pain twisting his mouth for a moment. "Together, then," he said.

"Together," Gu Muye echoed.

Night deepened around the sect, swallowing the last scraps of light from high windows. Outside, the corpse gardens lay still under a pale moon, roots dark against pale soil. Somewhere far off, a bone chime stirred in a passing breeze, its hollow note fading quickly into silence.

In the quiet of their room, breath rose and fell, slow and measured, until even thought felt heavy and still.

They didn't know for certain who had spoken their names. They didn't know what waited in the forest beyond cracked walls. But tomorrow, they would go all the same.

And when morning came, suspicion or not, fear or not, they would be ready to step forward.