Corpse Puppet Master

Mist hung low as Gu Muye and Zhou Min stepped into the corpse forest, following a narrow path beaten by dozens of feet before them. The lanterns behind them swung gently, the bone frames creaking in rhythm with each sway. Every step forward stole a measure of warmth from the marrow, leaving only damp earth and the sour tang of rotting leaves.

There were twenty-three disciples in their group. Gu Muye counted them because counting calmed his mind. Seventeen boys, six girls. The numbers alone spoke: a cold truth the sect's rules never printed, but every disciple learned by glancing around. More boys survived the early years; the girls who remained were kept closer to older disciples, bone pendants at their necks marking them as "garden hands" or marrow gatherers. Few held knives.

Zhou Min shuffled beside him, his weight sinking footprints deeper into the moss. "Feels colder than the marrow vault," he whispered, breath steaming faintly.

Gu Muye nodded once, eyes ahead. He'd already noted the way the path bent near a fungal hollow, the smell of damp iron where corpse moths might nest. Observing helped him forget the gnawing in his chest, the knowing that someone wanted him to fail.

Ahead, a short, sharp-shouldered boy flicked his gaze back. Jin Tao — his bone hook always clenched too tightly, knuckles pale as boiled fat. His eyes had that edge of small greed: the kind that stayed quiet until it thought no one watched. A few steps from him, Lan Ni kept to the side, a scar slicing across her chin to the corner of her mouth, giving her a perpetual half-smirk. She held a marrow basket in both hands, and her eyes were always moving: tree roots, fungus blooms, other disciples. Never still.

Fang Yu, bigger than the rest, made the mistake of talking too loudly. "I heard corpse leeches gather under the thorn hollows," he said, voice hushed but not enough. A sharp glance from an older disciple silenced him.

The older disciples were different. Robes cleaner, bone pendants heavier, faces set in permanent half-scowls. One, broad-shouldered and silent, had the thin scars of corpse beast talons across his left hand. Another, older still, wore his bone hook at his belt but kept a thin marrow knife in hand, its tip stained the gray-brown of old fungus sap. Their gazes passed over Gu Muye and Zhou Min like a measuring scale: two weak boys, already marked by someone's whim.

The forest itself made a language of its own. Rustle of moss under foot. Drip as water slid from fungus caps onto half-rotted logs. Farther in, a low skitter that could have been a bone-clawed rat or something worse. Every sound carried weight, pressing at the edges of thought.

Zhou Min cleared his throat. "Do you think they'll keep us together?"

"They won't," Gu Muye answered, voice low. "At least not for the whole day. Better to watch the older ones. If they move, we move."

Zhou Min let out a shaky breath. "Right. Right." His hand brushed the cloth bundle at his side, where his own bone hook hung, unused so far. He had practiced, Gu Muye knew — late at night, by the pale light seeping under the door — but practice meant nothing when fear flooded the wrist.

They walked on. The path split briefly, curling around a pale fungus mound that reeked faintly sweet. The older disciples chose the left fork without speaking, so the rest followed. Lan Ni paused, glanced to the right path — darker, roots thicker — then stepped back into line, her face unreadable.

A marrow beetle scuttled across the trail, its shell mottled with corpse-moss growth. Gu Muye watched it vanish under a hanging root, the movement barely stirring a thin line of spores that drifted, catching dim light in faint green motes.

"Don't breathe too deeply when we pass fungus clusters," he murmured to Zhou Min. "Spores stick to sweat. Elder Ji warned of lung rot." Advice from the scraps of the host soul, mixed now so deeply into his own mind that Gu Muye no longer separated which memory was truly his.

Ahead, the forest thickened. Twisted trees leaned together, branches clawing at one another. The air felt heavy, each breath damp as if filtered through mold. A snap echoed — Jin Tao had stepped too quickly, cracking a dry limb underfoot. His shoulders tightened; the older disciple closest to him glanced back but said nothing. They all kept moving.

In the small space between steps, Gu Muye listened. Drip. Skitter. The heartbeat-like pulse in his ears. His gaze moved across each disciple: who kept their head down, who looked too long at another's pack, who kept near the girls and marrow baskets. Weakness marked itself long before blades were drawn.

At the bend near a fungus-slick log, the group paused. The older disciple with the scarred hand raised two fingers silently. The meaning was clear even without words: spread out, gather marrow pods, keep the line.

Lan Ni moved first, stepping lightly over roots, her basket swinging from one hand. Fang Yu stayed closer to the center, glancing back often. Jin Tao drifted toward a smaller patch of pale fungus near a sunken stump, eyes flicking around as if to make sure no one watched.

Gu Muye felt Zhou Min's hesitation beside him. "Stay close," he murmured. Zhou Min nodded, sweat beading along his brow despite the cool air.

They found a patch of marrow pods growing at the base of a black-rooted tree. Small, swollen lumps, gray-white and faintly veined, half-buried in moss. Gu Muye knelt, the damp sinking into his knees. He took out his hook and began to cut around the roots, careful not to tear the thin skin of the pods.

Beside him, Zhou Min tried to mirror his movements. His hands shook. The first cut was too shallow; the pod stayed stuck. Gu Muye didn't speak — only shifted closer, showing with motion rather than words.

Snick. The marrow pod dropped into his hand, cool and faintly pulsing. Into the basket it went. Another, slightly larger, glistened under a thin film of mold.

From behind a moss-hung bough, Fang Yu's voice, low: "Don't take the biggest ones. They watch weights."

Good advice, though it came late. Gu Muye nodded silently, picked a smaller pod instead.

Nearby, Jin Tao's hook scraped too loudly. He glanced up, saw Gu Muye watching, and turned away, hunching over his find.

A shape moved between two pale trunks: the older disciple with the marrow knife, silent as mist. His gaze passed over them, lingering half a breath on Gu Muye and Zhou Min. No words, but the message was clear: hurry, don't draw notice.

They worked. The forest around them didn't grow quieter — it never had true silence — but the noises shifted. Rustle of something large moving deeper in. Clink as a marrow hook bumped stone. Drip. Always drip.

Lan Ni's voice, sharp, though low enough not to carry far: "Watch your sleeve. Spores cling." A girl beside her, younger, mumbled apology.

For a moment, Gu Muye looked at them. Not pity — calculation. Girls survived because the sect needed Yin energy, but they weren't safe. Nothing in the sect was safe. Lan Ni knew that; her eyes held the flint-sharp caution of someone who had already seen blood spilled for nothing.

A shadow passed overhead — just a branch swaying, but every disciple flinched slightly. Gu Muye's fingers tightened around the marrow pod he had been about to cut. His breath steadied before he moved again.

Minutes stretched. Sweat beaded along spines, soaking collars. The moss clung to knees and sleeves, faint smell of rot rising with each shift.

When baskets were near half-full, the older disciple raised his knife slightly — the unspoken signal to regroup. One by one, the scattered outer disciples stepped back to the trail, baskets held carefully.

Fang Yu's shirt had torn at the shoulder; a faint line of red where bark had caught him. Jin Tao had a new pod, larger than before; his gaze darted to the older disciple and back to the ground. Lan Ni's basket was fuller than any, but her face gave away nothing.

As they gathered, Zhou Min shifted closer. "We did better than last time," he whispered, voice still thin.

Gu Muye nodded. "Don't show it," he murmured back. Pride was noticed, and noticed was dangerous.

The older disciple's gaze swept over the baskets. No words, but a faint, satisfied grunt. He turned, and the line began moving again, deeper into the corpse forest.

They walked. The forest changed slowly. Trees thicker, bark darker, sometimes slick with fungus. Roots arched over the trail like the ribs of buried giants. Here and there, pale patches of corpse-rot fungus glowed faintly, sickly light pooling on moss.

The girls kept closer together now. Not from fear alone — they knew where older disciples expected them. Lan Ni stayed near the front, half a pace behind the scar-handed older disciple. Fang Yu's breathing grew heavier; sweat marked his brow.

Jin Tao hung back, near Gu Muye and Zhou Min. His gaze flicked too often to baskets, packs, the path behind. Gu Muye noted it, filed it away. Hunger and fear shaped a person's choices faster than bloodlines ever did.

At a bend where the trail passed a rotting stump, Fang Yu muttered, "Think they'll camp tonight?"

Gu Muye answered without turning, "If the older ones say so. Better to stay in sight."

Fang Yu swallowed. "Right. Right."

The forest around them seemed to lean closer. Snap of distant branches. Drip. Always drip.

Zhou Min shifted his pack higher on his shoulder. "Do you think," he started, voice small, "any of them ever come back from deeper in?"

Gu Muye didn't answer immediately. He glanced at Lan Ni, at Jin Tao, at the older disciples, silent and sharp as bone hooks.

"If they do," he said finally, "they don't speak of it."

The day wore on. Shadows stretched, pooling under roots and fungus caps. The baskets grew heavier; arms trembled with strain. Gu Muye felt it, but showed nothing. Zhou Min's shoulders slumped, but he kept pace.

The older disciple with the marrow knife raised his hand again. They stopped, formed a loose half-circle under an arching root. Without speaking, he and the scar-handed one knelt and began to check baskets. Not counting — weighing by feel, by trained eye.

Fang Yu's basket was lighter than expected. The older disciple's gaze lingered; Fang Yu swallowed, head lowered.

Jin Tao's was fuller than before; too full. The older disciple's hand moved slightly, a warning. Jin Tao's breath caught, but he didn't speak.

When he reached Gu Muye and Zhou Min, the older disciple paused. His eyes, dark and flat, weighed more than the baskets. He moved on without a word.

Zhou Min let out a breath he'd held too long. Gu Muye kept his face still, but inside, a thought echoed:

Not noticed. Not yet.

As they prepared to move again, Gu Muye felt the heaviness of the marrow pods, the sting of sweat in his eyes. But deeper still, in that cold, still place where calculation lived, he watched.

The older disciples spoke little, but their glances, the way they positioned the girls, the silent signals — all built the shape of power. The outer sect survived not by rules, but by understanding who stood where.

The girls were valuable, yes — but not safe. Fang Yu feared notice. Jin Tao feared too little. Lan Ni watched everything, waiting for a slip.

And beside Gu Muye, Zhou Min: tired, sweating, but still walking. Still alive.

They moved on. The forest deepened. Rustle. Drip. Snap.

And Gu Muye only had one thought. Survive