Corpse Puppet Master

Cold stone pressed through the thin straw mat, dampness creeping into bone. Gu Muye sat cross-legged, breath shallow, heart knocking an uneven rhythm in his chest.

The air in the outer sect dormitory was always chilled at night, especially at the foot of the mountain where the sunlight rarely reached. Moisture clung to the stone walls like old regrets, seeping into every corner. The straw mat beneath him, thin and frayed, offered little warmth or comfort, its edges curling like dried leaves.

Outside, the sun had already fallen behind jagged peaks, leaving the outer sect courtyard in shadow. Bone lanterns burned low, green light flickering across moss-stained walls. The shadows they cast swayed gently, as though alive, twitching like spirits in a half-formed dream. Even insects avoided the corners of the outer disciple dorms, where corpse qi had sunk into the very grain of stone.

He had waited until night, until most disciples were resting or whispering in their own abodes. Even Zhou Min had gone silent next door, breath slow with sleep or exhaustion. The younger boy's earlier fear had finally given way to fatigue, and his soft exhale through the partitioned wall was steady now, untroubled.

Now, alone in the stillness, Gu Muye gathered his will.

Corpse qi drifted faintly in the air, cold and heavy, threaded with hate. It lingered in the walls, in the threads of his robe, in the pores of his skin. The scent was faint but distinct, sharp like iron, damp like decay, a whisper of things long dead.

He drew a slow breath, counting silently. One, two, three.

On Earth, it had calmed racing thoughts. There, breathing was meditation. Here, it steadied his grip on something far more treacherous. Not just thoughts, but the boundaries of self, the trembling line between control and corruption.

His hand curled lightly over his knee. The black bone lay unmoving in his dantian, cold as grave-iron. It pulsed sometimes, faintly, like something listening. Watching. It was not alive, but it remembered death too vividly. But it had helped him before, swallowing part of corpse qi's hate before it burned his veins through.

He coaxed a breath inward, mind tuned to the qi that pooled near the floor, where it was thickest and slowest. Gu Muye reached outward, coaxing corpse qi inward, not pulling too sharply. He had learned that mistake early, when blood filled his mouth and his vision had gone white.

A single wisp slipped through skin, sinking into meridians with familiar bite. Cold and fire, wrapped together, sliding under the surface like a hooked needle.

His breath caught, but he held it steady. He made no sound. Another wisp answered, slithering after the first. Then a third, this one slower, more reluctant. Together, they formed a hateful weight, like embers pressed beneath fingernails.

Pain sparked along veins, sharp as glass under flesh. It bloomed behind his ribs, spreading like frost. Sweat gathered at his brow, cooling too fast in the night air. It stung his eyes, but he did not blink.

Slowly, carefully, he twisted the three wisps together in mind and breath, guiding them as one. They fought him, struggling like snakes in a narrow jar, lashing against each other and against his will. Corpse qi's resentment flared, a raw, living thing. Thorns under skin, splinters in blood.

But Gu Muye did not stop.

His vision blurred. The darkness behind closed eyes brightened with red pulses, each heartbeat pounding pain through chest and throat. The dantian trembled under the pressure.

The black bone stirred. It did not pulse, did not glow, but something within it shifted. Cold silence poured out, not gentle but devouring. It swallowed part of corpse qi's fury, blunting the worst of its bite.

For a heartbeat, the strand held. It thickened, a twisted current, heavy and alive with will not his own. A thread of death and hate, guided by force and stubbornness. It brushed the edge of the dantian, stretching, reaching.

Then it slipped away, dissolving into scattered wisps. Pain receded like a tide leaving raw sand behind, the kind of hurt that made one aware of every inch of skin.

Gu Muye opened his eyes. The lanternlight seemed too bright, dancing on stone walls slick with damp. His breath rasped in his chest, each inhale scraping like torn cloth. The soreness in his ribs was sharp, like he had been bruised from the inside.

Sweat ran cold down spine and ribs, robe clinging to skin. His hands shook faintly, blood beating hard in temples. He wiped his palms slowly on his robe, leaving faint streaks of moisture that steamed faintly in the cold air.

But he had done it.

A strand. Not just scattered wisps, but a single, twisted flow of corpse qi guided into the dantian. Even if only for a breath, even if it unraveled before settling, it had existed.

Even if it slipped away, the attempt meant his veins had widened. They had accepted the poison, endured it, grown used to its burning presence.

Progress. Slow, painful, dangerous, but real.

Outside, footsteps scuffed lightly on moss-stained stone. Gu Muye froze, breath caught in bruised lungs.

An older disciple passed the open doorway, lantern swinging from a thin chain. His robe was darker than most, the hem stained from nights spent around furnaces or corpse pits. His face was turned away, half-shadowed.

But as he stepped by, the man's head turned, just enough.

Their eyes met.

Gu Muye's eyes were still wide from pain. Sweat shone faintly at his temple. The older disciple's gaze narrowed. No words, no questions. Just a flicker of something sharper than curiosity. Suspicion. Or calculation.

Then the man moved on, footsteps fading beyond the curve of the path, lanternlight trailing like a second shadow.

Gu Muye's chest tightened. He lowered his gaze, breath shaking.

Small progress brings small danger.

In the furnace hall, an older disciple had already noticed how quickly he had pulled Zhou Min back from the burning bone. Gu Muye had felt the weight of that glance.

Now, someone else had seen him again. Seen the sweat still fresh on skin, eyes bright with the raw edge of pain that came only from refining corpse qi too far.

Eyes find those who rise.

And in this sect, being seen meant being weighed. Not in kindness or camaraderie, but as threat, tool, or prey.

His hand drifted to his abdomen, palm hovering over the cold weight of the black bone. It gave no comfort, only presence.

Without it swallowing part of corpse qi's hate, he would have bled from the mouth, veins blackening under skin. He knew that truth too well. But the bone's help was not mercy. It made him more visible.

And the sect devoured what it noticed.

A soft rustle came from next door, Zhou Min turning in sleep, breath catching in a half-formed dream. The boy muttered something incomprehensible, then settled again.

Gu Muye let out a slow breath. The ache in veins dulled, leaving only raw soreness under skin. His robe had dried at the shoulders, crusted faintly with salt.

His heart still beat too fast, but not from fear alone. Beneath the pain and tension, something warmer stirred. For a breath, pride. Not arrogance, not triumph, just the quiet recognition that he had stepped farther than most outer disciples ever dared.

A strand, however brief.

But pride could be a blade turned inward.

Outside, the lanternlight guttered in a passing draft, shadows crawling across cracked walls. Gu Muye watched them fade and stretch, the flickering light a quiet rhythm.

No words marked the moment. No witness, save for one older disciple who might already have forgotten or remembered too well.

He let sweat dry on skin, cooling into salt. Pain settled into a dull, familiar burn.

Tomorrow, the work would continue. More corpse qi. More risk. More eyes waiting to see who dared too much.

For now, he simply sat, letting breath slow, heartbeat at ease.

Small progress. Small danger.