Corpse Puppet Master

Bone lantern light burned low in the cold morning air, green flame barely flickering against stone walls blackened by soot. Gu Muye stood at the edge of the furnace hall, breath misting faintly, a bundle of corpse parts at his feet.

The stone chamber smelled of old ash and faint sour-sweet corpse qi. A sunken pit burned at its center, slow flames licking the darkness. Around it, older outer disciples moved in practiced silence, eyes flat and watchful.

Zhou Min shuffled up beside him, face paler than usual, breath catching slightly as he eyed the fire. "Same as yesterday," he muttered, though his voice held no relief.

Gu Muye shifted the weight of the corpse bundle over his knee, using his thigh to take part of the strain, a small trick he'd learned back on Earth, hauling boxes in cramped storerooms. It spared the back; more importantly, it kept his grip steady.

They waited as an older disciple barked instructions, voice hoarse from smoke. "You two, third furnace. Careful with the cloth. Don't let it spill."

They moved as ordered. Gu Muye stepped carefully toward the furnace's edge, the stone slick with soot and something older, darker. Zhou Min followed, shoulders hunched, eyes darting to the flames.

Gu Muye crouched, loosening the bundle's knot. The smell thickened: rot, dried blood, faint bitterness of old poisons. He drew a slow breath, counted silently, one, two, three feeling his heartbeat steady. Even here, Earth-learned tricks still worked.

Together, they tipped the bundle. Blackened bone rolled out first, then what might have been part of a torso, skin gray and drawn tight. The fire crackled, greedy.

Then something changed.

A thin bone fragment, smaller than a hand, slipped free. As it hit the flame, smoke billowed upward, thicker, darker, carrying a sharp, choking stink that burned the back of the throat.

The fire flared, corpse qi twisting in the air, sudden and hateful.

Gu Muye's body moved before thought: he grabbed Zhou Min's sleeve, yanked him back, turning his own face away. His free hand tugged cloth across his mouth and nose, another half-remembered habit from sweeping dusty storerooms back on Earth.

A crack split the air as the corpse qi burst, a swirl of black smoke rolling outward before thinning. Heat struck Gu Muye's cheek, sharp as a slap.

They stumbled back, coughing. The smoke clung to skin, leaving a faint sting that ran along veins.

Silence held for a breath, then broke as an older disciple cursed, rushing forward. His eyes, flat and cold, swept over the younger pair.

"What happened?" he demanded.

Gu Muye forced himself to answer evenly, voice rough from smoke. "A bone slipped. It burned wrong."

The older disciple's gaze lingered, narrowing slightly. "You reacted quickly."

"Reflex," Gu Muye said, letting truth cover the lie.

The man studied him for a heartbeat longer, long enough for Gu Muye's breath to catch, then spat to the side. "Stay out of the way next time. Clean the edge."

They obeyed, moving with hands still trembling. Zhou Min wiped sweat from his brow, smearing ash across pale skin. "What in the frozen hells was that?" he whispered.

Gu Muye swallowed. His tongue tasted bitter, metallic. "I don't know," he murmured. "But it wasn't normal corpse bone."

From the corner of his eye, he caught another older disciple, eyes lingering on them both, unreadable. Then the man turned away, voice rough as he barked orders to others.

They finished the task with quiet, shaking hands, pushing charred fragments into the pit. The heat burned under fingernails, smoke stinging eyes until tears blurred the stone.

When finally dismissed, they stumbled into the outer courtyard, morning light pale and thin through drifting mist.

Zhou Min leaned against the cold wall, breath rasping. "Thought I'd choke," he muttered, voice hoarse. "You pulled me back."

Gu Muye didn't answer at first, hand still trembling faintly. "Would've burned worse if we'd stayed close," he said at last.

"How'd you know?"

"Just did," Gu Muye murmured, gaze dropping to moss-damp stone. He remembered too clearly: once on Earth, a spilled pot of boiling water in a crowded kitchen. Move back fast, turn away from the steam. Reflex learned through burns and scars.

Zhou Min wiped soot from his cheek, eyes still wide. "Thanks," he added, voice roughened by fear more than smoke.

Gu Muye only nodded.

Later, as they stepped toward their abodes, a group of disciples passed by, voices low but urgent.

"Did you see the smoke?" one hissed.

"Too dark. Something wrong. They say maybe it was from Bone Scripture Hall."

"Impossible. They'd never…"

"They burned something they shouldn't. That's what I heard."

The words slid through the courtyard like oil on water, leaving a bitter taste behind.

Zhou Min shot Gu Muye a worried glance. "Bone Scripture Hall… you think it's true?"

"I don't know," Gu Muye said quietly. But a seed of unease rooted deep in his chest. Bone Scripture Hall was where silent elders kept records, copied bone scrolls etched with corpse refining methods, and guarded secrets none dared name aloud.

If even fragments of those secrets ended up in a furnace…

His thoughts tightened. Accidents here weren't always accidents. And the sect didn't waste what was useful.

Back in his abode, Gu Muye sat on the straw bedding, sweat cooling into chill. The faint smell of burnt bone still clung to cloth and skin.

He closed his eyes, letting breath slow, one, two, three, forcing the tremor from his hands. On Earth, nights alone in narrow rooms, he'd learned this trick from a cheap article: slow breaths, focus on counting, heart rate eases.

Even here, surrounded by corpse qi and stone, it worked.

His mind replayed the moment: the corpse qi's sudden flare, the smoke's sting, Zhou Min's frozen shock. And his own reaction, not perfect, but fast enough to matter.

Then the memory of the older disciple's eyes flat, unreadable, lingering too long.

Noticing made you visible. Visibility drew danger.

Gu Muye exhaled, chest tight. In this sect, kindness wasn't rewarded. Neither was blindness. The kind died first. The blind died next.

He felt it now, deep under the sweat and fear, the first cold edge of ruthlessness. Not hate, not yet, but quiet calculation. Watching. Remembering.

Zhou Min was worth protecting. But the rest? He couldn't protect them. Couldn't afford to.

The black bone lay silent in his dantian, unmoving, but its cold presence reminded him: survival meant sacrifice. Meant choices.

Outside, the courtyard lay quiet under guttering lanterns. Other disciples whispered in small knots, voices hushed and sharp.

Rumors would grow. Some would point at them, at why Gu Muye had reacted faster than others.

He couldn't stop them. But he could be ready.

A faint tap echoed at his door. Not Zhou Min's cautious knock, but softer, hesitant, almost reluctant.

Gu Muye rose, joints stiff, and opened the door a hand's width. A thin-faced disciple stood outside, shoulders hunched, eyes flicking up, then down.

"You're Gu Muye?" the boy whispered.

"I am," Gu Muye answered carefully.

"They told me… you saw it," the disciple stammered, voice barely more than breath. "The black smoke."

"I saw," Gu Muye said. "What of it?"

"They say it came from something forbidden. That maybe it was burned on purpose. Some older disciples said if you speak of it, it's bad luck. Or worse."

Fear made the boy's voice shake, but something else glinted behind his lowered eyes — desperate curiosity. Gu Muye recognized it. In a place ruled by silence and fear, knowledge was a blade. Even a rumor could cut.

"I saw only smoke," Gu Muye replied, keeping his voice flat. "No more."

The boy seemed ready to speak again, but swallowed the words. He nodded, stepped back, then turned and hurried away, sandals scuffing the moss-slick stone.

Gu Muye shut the door slowly, thoughts turning.

Someone had sent the boy, or the boy had dared come on his own. Either way, the story of the black smoke was already spreading. In a sect that survived by burying truths in bone and ash, rumors were more dangerous than curses.

He sank back onto the straw bedding, spine straight despite weariness. The black bone in his dantian lay quiet, its presence neither comforting nor hostile, only watchful, as if waiting.

Tomorrow, he'd have to tread even more carefully.

But tonight, rest still mattered.

Gu Muye lay back, closing his eyes. His breath slowed, heartbeat easing under the rhythm he'd taught himself: one, two, three. The stale scent of corpse qi still clung to him, sharp at the edge of sleep.

Somewhere beyond the stone walls, furnace fires still burned, crackling softly in the cold night. Whispers moved through the courtyard, low and quick, fading into silence.

Sleep came slowly, not gentle, but enough. Outside, the wind stirred the bone lantern's green flame, casting restless shadows that danced until dawn.