Corpse Puppet Master

Morning weighed heavy over the Corpse Refining Sect, carrying a damp chill that clung to skin and breath alike. The cracked tiles underfoot felt colder than usual, the night's moisture gathering in shallow pits and dark stains. Gu Muye's first steps out of the room were met with the soft scrape of straw sandals against stone, a sound swallowed quickly by the wider courtyard beyond.

He drew his robe tighter, the coarse fabric scratching against bruised skin. Beside him, Zhou Min moved slower, wincing at each step. His jaw still bore the deep purple mark of Wu Yuan's hand, edges turned yellow where the bruise had begun to age.

A faint drip... drip... echoed somewhere in the narrow corridor leading to the courtyard, water falling from moss-choked cracks. In the half-light, every sound felt sharper: the tap of hurried footsteps from other disciples, the rustle of robes pulled tighter against the cold, the distant clang of the morning bell announcing the coming day.

They joined the slow current of outer sect disciples moving toward the gathering spot. The cold seeped into Gu Muye's ribs, each breath drawing a dull ache from bruises not yet settled into numbness. He let the pain remind him to stay careful, to keep his gaze lowered but his ears open.

At the courtyard's edge, older disciples stood watching. Their robes were cleaner, trimmed in darker thread, eyes flat and bored as they measured those passing below. Near a stack of cracked jars and bone hooks, Hui Yan waited, arms folded, the shadow under his eyes darker than usual.

As Gu Muye and Zhou Min approached, Hui Yan's gaze shifted. His voice came low, words almost lost under the quiet scrape of stone dust pushed by a breeze.

"Be careful tomorrow," Hui Yan said. His eyes moved once to either side, checking for listening ears. "Forest edge isn't just rot and bones. Sometimes it's worse."

Zhou Min nodded, the motion small and stiff. "We know," he said, voice hushed.

Hui Yan hesitated, eyes flickering down to the cracked stone before meeting theirs again. "I heard something," he added, even softer. "Don't know if it's true, but… Wu Yuan might've pushed for your names. Said you looked too comfortable."

The words landed like a thud behind Gu Muye's ribs, though he kept his expression still. Zhou Min's breath caught, a faint hiss escaping through clenched teeth.

"Thank you," Gu Muye said quietly.

Hui Yan shrugged, the motion almost defensive. "Don't thank me. Just watch your backs."

They moved on, the courtyard shifting around them: younger disciples fetching small bone hooks, rough hemp rope, pouches of corpse-refining powder scraped from cracked jars. The clink of bone on stone, the whisper of rope coiling into packs, filled the air with a quiet urgency.

Zhou Min's voice came low, words slipping between the sounds around them. "So it really might be him."

"Feels like him," Gu Muye replied, eyes on the worn rope in his hands. "Now we know to watch."

"Why us?" Zhou Min asked, voice sharp but still hushed.

"Because we didn't look afraid enough," Gu Muye answered. "Or because we did."

Zhou Min let out a slow breath, shoulders sinking under the thin robe. "Doesn't change what we have to do."

Gu Muye's fingers worked the rope, checking for frayed spots, the rasp of hemp rough under callused skin. "No," he said. "But it changes how we do it."

Near the outer wall, Qiu Sheng stood with his back half-turned, gaze following older disciples who moved along the stone path above. His broad shoulders rose and fell slowly, breath measured.

When they approached, his voice came without turning. "Forest edge isn't a place for heroes," he murmured. "Keep your heads down. Watch roots and shadows more than each other's pride."

"We will," Gu Muye said.

"And if you see something move where nothing should," Qiu Sheng added, voice lower still, "don't wait to be sure."

Zhou Min swallowed, the sound quiet but sharp in the cold morning air. "Understood."

Qiu Sheng nodded once, almost imperceptible, then stepped away, boots tapping against cracked tiles.

Gu Muye turned his attention back to the simple pack at his feet: a small bone knife, thin rope coiled tight, a shallow jar of corpse-refining powder the color of pale ash. The powder clung to skin when touched, its smell sharp and dry, catching at the back of the throat.

The scrape of stone lids opening and closing, the clink of bone tools shifting, filled the space around them as other disciples did the same. Breath misted in small clouds, each exhale caught in the cold morning air.

Zhou Min knelt beside his own pack, movements slower, careful of bruises. His fingers paused over the cracked jar of powder, eyes dark with thought.

"First sign of trouble," he said quietly, "we run."

Gu Muye nodded. "And if there's no chance to run?"

"Then we don't die slow," Zhou Min finished, voice flat.

They checked the tools twice, then a third time. The forest wasn't forgiving of mistakes. Rope could catch or slip, powder could scatter on damp air and become useless. Even the bone hooks, stained from past use, had edges that could break on rotted wood.

Gu Muye's hands moved steady, each motion practiced but careful. Pain flared in ribs and shoulder, but behind the ache, thought stayed cold and clear.

If Wu Yuan had spoken their names, it meant he might be watching. Maybe not from the forest path itself, but from the walls above, waiting to see if they returned at all.

Better to return than to disappear quietly.

The sun, pale behind thin clouds, climbed just high enough to turn frost on moss into thin steam that curled across cracked stone. The courtyard slowly emptied as preparations ended, the shuffle of sandals on stone growing less until only a few figures remained.

Gu Muye and Zhou Min stood side by side, packs resting at their feet. Around them, the sect walls loomed higher than they felt yesterday, the old stones darker under cold light.

Zhou Min's voice broke the quiet. "If it's really him," he began, stopping to swallow, "what do we do after?"

"We survive first," Gu Muye said. "Then we remember."

"And if we don't get the chance to remember?"

Gu Muye let the question settle before answering. "Then at least we made him waste the breath it took to speak our names."

They left the courtyard, the tap of their steps quiet against stone. The path toward the forest gate ran narrow between walls stained by age and moss, the air colder there, shadows longer even at midday.

Ahead, older disciples waited to count heads, bone tokens in hand. The clack of tokens against each other marked each name checked, a dry, steady rhythm.

The forest gate itself stood taller than it looked from afar, iron-banded wood dark with old rot, hinges streaked with rust. Beyond its half-open maw lay gray root tangles and undergrowth thick enough to swallow breath and sound alike.

The creak of the gate shifting in a cold breeze echoed faintly, wood complaining at old strain.

They joined the others chosen for the forest team, gray-robed figures all marked by the same quiet dread. Some glanced toward them, quick looks that fell away just as fast. No words rose; the cold and the gate itself swallowed them.

Zhou Min shifted the pack on his shoulder, the rope inside whispering against itself. Gu Muye adjusted the weight across bruised ribs, breath careful, slow.

He felt the suspicion about Wu Yuan settle deeper now, heavier than before. Hui Yan's words had turned doubt into something closer to knowledge. It didn't change what came next, but it turned fear into resolve, sharper and colder.

An older disciple stepped forward, voice loud enough to carry but flat with indifference. "Remember what you gather," he said. "Bone moss, marrow pods, corpse fungus. If you bring nothing, the sect forgets you."

He turned without waiting for reply, leaving the gate as open as it would ever be.

Silence spread through the group, the cold air heavy with breath not yet drawn.

Zhou Min's voice came, low, almost lost under the creak of wood and the drip of water from moss overhead. "Together, then?"

"Together," Gu Muye answered.

They stepped forward, passing under the arch where stone turned to shadow and the path narrowed to dirt and root. The gate groaned faintly behind them, as if warning them not to look back.

Gu Muye kept his gaze forward, breath slow. The path beyond lay gray and dark, the undergrowth silent except for the occasional rustle of unseen things.

Suspicion about Wu Yuan stayed at the edge of thought, heavy as the pack on his back. They didn't know for certain, but it felt close enough to truth.

And truth or not, the forest cared little for names or grudges. Only for what stepped into its roots, and what failed to step back out.

They moved on, the tap of sandals swallowed by moss, rope whispering against cloth, and the air ahead smelled of rot and old bones.

Tomorrow had come. And ready or not, they walked forward into it.