Corpse Puppet Master

The pale green light of the bone lanterns stretched thin across the narrow stone path. Morning had not yet reached the outer sect, but Gu Muye stood outside his small abode, breath misting faintly in the cold air. Moss clung to cracks in the courtyard stones, damp from night fog.

The walls of the outer disciple compound formed low lines of dark stone, each small abode spaced a few paces apart. Shadows pooled between them, broken only by flickering lanterns hung on blackened iron hooks. A stillness hung over the place, broken now and then by the scuff of sandals on stone or the clink of iron chains in the distance.

Zhou Min emerged from his own abode a short distance away, tugging at the sash around his robe. His round face looked pale, cheeks hollowed slightly by fear and hunger. He raised a hand in silent greeting.

Gu Muye nodded back. His chest felt tight with the cold, but also with what he planned to attempt today. Yesterday, he'd managed to guide corpse qi almost to his dantian before it slipped free. A small step, but in this place, even a small step meant living another day.

They walked side by side toward the courtyard's center, where an older disciple had begun handing out the day's tasks. Around them, other outer disciples gathered quietly, heads low. The air felt heavy with something unspoken, fear of failing, fear of being seen as weaker than the rest.

Most disciples could barely refine a single wisp of corpse qi each day, a thin, ghostly thread of energy. Forcing more too soon meant pain, bleeding, or worse. A few who were naturally sturdier, or had learned to endure pain, could draw two wisps, even twist them into a fragile strand. But that was rare.

Gu Muye remembered it clearly, as if it had always been his own memory: the lesson from the bone-robed elder on the first day.

"Nine minor stages in the Corpse Qi Baptism Realm," the elder had rasped, voice like dry leaves. "Nine steps to temper your fragile veins before corpse qi devours you alive. Fail to advance, and your body will serve the sect in death instead."

Zhou Min stopped a step ahead, turning to glance back. "You trying again today?" he asked, voice low.

"I have to," Gu Muye said. His voice felt steadier than it should.

Zhou Min nodded, worry flickering in his eyes. "Just watch yourself. Most of us can barely handle a wisp without burning inside. Even Wu Yuan didn't dare twist a strand until the second year."

"I know," Gu Muye replied. He could feel the black bone lying silent in his dantian. It didn't grant strength or speak, but it had swallowed part of corpse qi's resentment before, keeping him from losing control. That meant he could risk a little more, but too much might draw eyes he didn't want.

They reached the courtyard center. An older disciple stood waiting, bone token hanging from his sash. His eyes swept across them like someone counting animals, not people.

"You two," he barked, nodding at Gu Muye and Zhou Min. "Furnace duty today."

Neither dared to complain. They followed him through narrow corridors, deeper into the sect's cold heart. The smell changed as they walked, from damp moss to the thicker, choking sweetness of burning corpse flesh.

The furnace room was little more than a stone chamber sunk into the earth. A low pit burned with a slow, hungry flame, and around it, broken pieces of bone and ash lay in uneven piles. Their task was simple: feed the fire with dried corpse scraps brought from the Bone Garden.

Zhou Min picked up a jawbone, skin still stretched thin across it, and tossed it into the flames. The fire licked at it hungrily, the smell turning sharper, oilier.

"Think this was an inner disciple once?" Zhou Min asked, voice forced light.

"Doesn't matter," Gu Muye said, though the thought turned his stomach. He grabbed a blackened femur, throwing it onto the fire. Sparks crackled upward, fading into the stale air.

They worked in silence after that, sweat gathering under robes despite the chill that seeped from the stones. Gu Muye's mind drifted to the corpse qi that hung faintly in the air, thicker near places like this. Even the ashes still held fragments of hate and resentment.

When they finished, the older disciple waved them off, eyes already moving to the next pair. Gu Muye and Zhou Min stepped back into the courtyard, the morning gloom unchanged.

"Careful with drawing corpse qi after furnace duty," Zhou Min warned, wiping ash from his sleeve. "It clings stronger here. Burns worse."

"I know," Gu Muye said. "But it might help too. More corpse qi to pull from."

Zhou Min shook his head. "Only if you don't mind coughing blood after."

Gu Muye didn't answer. His chest still burned faintly from the smoke and heat, but fear pressed sharper: every day wasted was another day closer to being declared useless.

They parted outside their abodes, Zhou Min lingering in the doorway, eyes shadowed. "If something goes wrong, call out," he murmured. "I'll hear."

"I will," Gu Muye promised.

Back inside, the small stone room felt colder than before. The bone lantern's green light flickered weakly, shadows stretching across bare walls. He lowered himself onto the straw bedding, closing his eyes.

Breath slowed. Thought sank inward, past heartbeat and breath, toward the dantian's quiet center. The black bone lay there, unmoving, silent, but real.

Outside, he sensed corpse qi drifting: cold, sour, heavy as rot. He coaxed a single wisp closer, careful not to pull too sharply. It brushed across his skin like cold mist, then sank inward.

Pain came immediately: sharp, biting, as if ice burned flesh from the inside. His meridians, narrow, fragile threads not yet tempered, protested, twitching under corpse qi's hateful weight.

He willed it downward, toward the dantian. Sweat beaded at his temples, breath catching in his throat. Each heartbeat felt like a drum against bruised ribs.

Closer. Just a little closer.

The corpse qi twisted, resentment flaring like thorns under his skin. For a breath, he thought he'd lose control, felt veins burning, flesh trembling.

Then the black bone stirred. Cold, still. Part of the resentment vanished into it, devoured silently.

The corpse qi settled for a heartbeat at the edge of the dantian. Not much, a breath's worth of power, but real. Then it slipped free, bleeding back into the air, leaving only the echo of pain.

Gu Muye opened his eyes, chest heaving. Sweat ran cold down his back, soaking the robe at the spine.

A small success.

His meridians burned faintly, as if a thin line of coals had been laid under the skin. But the corpse qi had touched the dantian before scattering. That meant his body was adapting, painfully, slowly, but moving forward.

Outside, the faint scrape of sandals on stone drew nearer. Zhou Min appeared at the doorway, breath misting in the cold.

"You tried?" he asked, voice kept low.

Gu Muye nodded. "It reached the dantian. Didn't stay."

"That's better than nothing," Zhou Min murmured. "Better than most of us manage."

"Any luck on your side?" Gu Muye asked.

Zhou Min rubbed a hand over his stomach. "Still only a wisp. Tried to twist it into a strand, but it burned like fire. Had to let it go."

Gu Muye's gaze dropped to the moss-dotted floor. "We'll get there," he said, though doubt pressed at him.

"We have to," Zhou Min answered, voice flat but steady. "If we can't draw more than a wisp before the second year, we're done."

Silence hung between them, heavy as corpse qi itself.

"Maybe we help each other," Zhou Min said suddenly. "Share what works. Keep watch when one of us draws. Two heads, you know?"

Gu Muye's first instinct was to refuse, the part of him already learning to see risk everywhere. But he looked at Zhou Min: the worry, the honest fear barely hidden behind stubbornness.

"Agreed," he said. The word felt heavy, but right.

Zhou Min's mouth twitched, almost a smile, before it faded. "Rest, then. Try again tomorrow."

Gu Muye watched him step back toward his abode, the green lanternlight catching on the sweat at his brow. Alone again, the small stone room felt colder, walls pressing closer.

He lowered his gaze, hand drifting to his abdomen. The black bone lay silent, unmoving, but it had helped. Not by giving power, but by swallowing the worst of corpse qi's hate.

He could risk drawing more than most. But too fast meant suspicion. And even with the bone's silent help, the pain still burned.

"I must live," he whispered to the cold stone.

Outside, the wind stirred the lantern flame, shadows crawling across the courtyard stones like slow-moving corpses.

For now, rest.