Corpse Puppet Master

Mist clung to the narrow path as Gu Muye followed Zhou Min toward the Bone Scripture Hall, damp stone darkening under their steps. The morning felt colder here, the chill sharper, as if the mountain itself resented their presence.

Their breaths curled pale against the air. Around them, the sect still moved in hushed rhythms, disciples shifting corpse bundles, older figures crossing courtyards without speaking. Farther off, the faint crackle of furnace fires rose and fell.

Zhou Min walked ahead, shoulders hunched, robe still marked by ash from yesterday's work. "They sent for us," he muttered, voice just loud enough to carry. "Bone Scripture Hall doesn't call outer disciples often."

Gu Muye kept silent, gaze on the path. Stone worn smooth by generations, damp moss edging every crack. His heartbeat felt slower than it should, breath steady from habit, a trick from Earth, counting silently to keep panic back.

They turned a corner, and the Bone Scripture Hall came into view, a low, long building of black stone, roof tiles dark as burnt iron. Above its doors, bone charms dangled from thin cords, stirring in the faint breeze, clicking softly like teeth.

Two older disciples stood watch, faces blank, eyes hooded. One raised a hand, crooked finger beckoning them forward.

Inside, the air turned dry, heavy with old dust and faint bitterness of corpse qi etched into bone scrolls over decades. Rows of narrow tables stretched across the chamber, each lined with pale scrolls and shallow dishes of bone ash ink.

At the far end, five elders sat cross-legged on stone platforms. Their robes were deep gray, etched with faded patterns of bone. They did not speak, did not even look up; thin, milky eyes stayed fixed on the scrolls before them. Their breath seemed so shallow it barely stirred the air.

A single gesture from the closest older disciple sent Gu Muye and Zhou Min to an empty table near the entrance. The table was pitted by knife marks and dark stains, bone scroll already waiting.

Zhou Min swallowed, gaze darting to the silent elders. "Don't look at them," Gu Muye whispered, voice low. "Just copy."

They knelt, knees pressing against cold stone. Gu Muye picked up the stylus, its tip shaped from sharpened bone. His hand trembled only slightly before settling.

The scroll held cramped, angular script, black as old blood. Not full techniques, just fragments, corrections, names of long-dead disciples whose progress had been deemed worth recording.

He dipped the stylus in bone ash ink, the smell sharp, dry, almost bitter on the tongue.

Time crawled. The only sounds were the soft scratch of stylus against bone, quiet breaths, and the faint rattle of charms in the breeze outside.

Gu Muye forced focus, copying each symbol exactly. A mistake meant punishment, but more than that, it meant drawing attention. And in this place, attention was sharper than knives.

Dust rose in thin motes, catching what little light seeped through narrow windows. His gaze flickered upward once, just long enough to see the silent elders unmoving, faces lined like old wood, eyes sunk deep.

Zhou Min beside him worked more slowly, breath uneven, hand smudging ink on the scroll's edge.

A movement caught Gu Muye's eye. Across the hall, behind a half-curtained archway, a shadow flickered. A narrow stair led down into darker stone. No guard stood there, but the silence itself felt like a wall.

He dropped his gaze before eyes could follow.

After what felt like hours, the older disciple returned, footsteps soundless on stone. His gaze swept over the scrolls and paused on Gu Muye's work.

"Clean," he said, voice flat. His eyes lingered a heartbeat longer than comfort allowed, then shifted away. "You. Again tomorrow."

Gu Muye inclined his head, breath tight. More time in the Bone Scripture Hall meant more risk but also more to see, to learn.

Zhou Min's scroll drew a faint click of tongue from the older disciple. "Slower," he muttered, but waved them both back.

They rose, legs stiff, stepping carefully so sandals didn't scrape the floor. The elders still hadn't moved; the air around them felt thinner, colder, as if even sound dared not stay.

Outside, the mist had lifted slightly, stone paths gleaming damp under weak light. Zhou Min exhaled, breath shaking. "They didn't even blink," he whispered.

"They don't need to," Gu Muye answered, voice quiet. His gaze drifted back to the black-roofed hall. "They see anyway."

They walked in silence for a while, feet tracing narrow paths between stone abodes and moss-choked walls. The smell of ash and cold air followed them, clinging to cloth and skin.

"Did you see it?" Gu Muye asked finally.

Zhou Min glanced at him, brow furrowing. "See what?"

"A stair. Beyond the curtain."

Zhou Min shook his head. "No. Didn't dare look around."

Gu Muye nodded slowly. "Probably nothing," he lied.

But the memory stayed sharp, the archway, the stair curling downward into darkness, the absence of guards. Knowledge hidden where only the trusted walked.

Back in his room, Gu Muye sat on the straw bedding, breathing slow, counting silently. One… two… three… heartbeat easing, hands steadying.

Fear never left. But it taught.

The sect thrived on silence. The elders didn't threaten; their stillness alone crushed words in the throat. The older disciples spoke little, punished less than they watched.

Gu Muye felt the shape of it now, control through quiet, power woven into what wasn't said.

He remembered Earth, nights in narrow rooms, learning to watch faces and hear what silence meant. Here, that skill mattered even more. Kindness meant little, but awareness, caution, those could keep him alive.

His gaze drifted to his hand, fingers stained faintly gray from bone ash ink. Even the dust of knowledge left a mark.

Zhou Min's footsteps scuffed lightly outside, stopping by the doorway.

"You all right?" Zhou Min's voice was low, tired.

"Yes," Gu Muye answered.

Zhou Min hesitated. "They want us again tomorrow. But it's better than the furnace, maybe."

"Maybe," Gu Muye agreed. But he thought of the older disciple's eyes, the stair behind the curtain, and the silent elders who saw without seeing.

More knowledge meant more danger. But also power.

Zhou Min turned to go. Gu Muye watched his friend's back, the way his shoulders stayed tense even walking away.

Left alone, Gu Muye closed his eyes, letting silence settle around him. The black bone lay cold in his dantian, unmoving but steady.

The sect taught without words. Fear shapes obedience. Silence guards secrets. Knowledge cuts deeper than blades.

And in that silence, Gu Muye decided to watch, learn, remember not just to survive, but to see where others could not.

Outside, a faint breeze stirred bone charms along the eaves, the brittle clatter whispering through cold air.

For now, that was enough.