Corpse Puppet Master

Chapter Title: Cold Morning

Mist hung low over the courtyard, curling around broken flagstones and patches of black moss that clung like stains. The cold this morning was worse than before. It seeped into skin, sank past cloth, and bit into the marrow of their bones. A pale sky loomed above, its sun still hidden behind thick clouds, as if even daylight hesitated to enter the sect's crumbling walls.

Gu Muye sat on the worn edge of a stone step, the surface rough and damp against his palms. His breath rose in faint wisps, fading quickly in the chill. Zhou Min settled beside him, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, hunched low like someone hoping to disappear into himself. Their robes, threadbare and patched, offered little warmth, and the sleeves had been stiffened by repeated use and too little washing.

Across from them, Hui Yan and Qiu Sheng squatted near the courtyard wall, backs resting against the slick stone. Each held a bowl of watery porridge, steam curling upward in thin lines before vanishing into the mist. Hui Yan's gaze kept flicking toward the gate at the far end of the yard, sharp and wary, as if he expected someone or something to come through it at any moment. Qiu Sheng, broader and older than the rest, stared down into his bowl, lips moving in a silent count.

"Next forest team leaves tomorrow," Hui Yan muttered, his voice low yet clear in the stillness. "Three from outer, two older disciples to watch them."

"And two didn't come back last time," Qiu Sheng added. His scarred lip tugged as he spoke, lending a cruel tilt to his expression.

Zhou Min stirred his spoon through gray broth, head bowed. "Maybe they just ran," he said, though his voice wavered.

Hui Yan let out a short, bitter laugh. "Run where? Even if you make it past the ridge, the sect will follow. They can track your scent. Better to vanish here than die cold and hungry out there."

Qiu Sheng nodded slowly, his spoon scraping the bottom of the bowl. "The forest remembers. Even the trees know your footsteps. There are things inside that hunt what they've smelled once."

A wind stirred through the courtyard, carrying with it a dry, sour smell of old blood and mildew. The sound of branches creaking beyond the walls gave the air a brittle sharpness. A bird called once, thin and uncertain, before silence returned.

Gu Muye didn't speak at first. He watched Hui Yan's fingers—trembling slightly—and saw how Zhou Min hadn't looked up in minutes.

"Have you ever been sent?" he asked finally, voice quiet and steady.

"Once," Hui Yan answered. "Not far. We harvested corpse mushrooms—black caps that grow from dead bone roots near the pools. Didn't go deeper."

"What's deeper in?" Zhou Min asked, eyes lifting for a moment.

"Nothing that comes back whole," Hui Yan replied.

Silence returned, heavy and thick. Far off, a bell began to toll, its echo swallowed by the damp stones of the yard. The sound felt final, like the closing of a door.

Zhou Min offered a half-smile. "Maybe they'll forget to pick us."

"Maybe," Qiu Sheng said. But no hope lived in his voice.

Gu Muye shifted, feeling the small pouch tucked inside his robe press coldly against his ribs. The corpse-refining powder it held was the only barrier between life and agony. Without it, the corpse qi inside his body would rot him from within, blacken his veins, steal his breath.

"We should be ready," Gu Muye said.

Qiu Sheng looked over. "And if you run?"

"You die slower," Hui Yan answered. "Or the forest finishes what the sect started."

Gu Muye curled his fingers against the stone. Every path led to death unless you carved a new one yourself.

"I hate this place," Zhou Min murmured. "Every breath feels borrowed."

"Then borrow wisely," Hui Yan said. A small smile tugged at his lips. Even Qiu Sheng's stern face softened.

Then came the scrape of feet.

Wu Yuan entered the courtyard, sleeves loose, his eyes half-lidded and unreadable. His presence stirred the mist, made it feel colder. Two older disciples flanked him, silent. They carried themselves with the quiet assurance of those used to being obeyed without question.

Hui Yan looked away. Qiu Sheng tensed.

Wu Yuan walked with casual cruelty. His eyes found Gu Muye and Zhou Min.

"Look at this," he said. "New rats huddling for warmth."

No one answered.

"Stand."

They obeyed. Zhou Min rose first, slow and stiff. Gu Muye stood beside him.

The older disciples struck quickly. Zhou Min fell back with a grunt, cheek red and swelling. Qiu Sheng moved a step forward, then stopped. His hands curled into fists, then relaxed.

Pain exploded across Gu Muye's side. Blood pooled in his mouth.

Wu Yuan reached forward, lifting Gu Muye's chin.

"Thought you'd hide behind others?" he asked.

Gu Muye didn't reply.

A fist slammed into his gut. He collapsed to his knees. Another blow followed—light but dizzying.

"Give it here," Wu Yuan said.

Gu Muye froze. Wu Yuan tore the pouch from his robes, holding it like a prize.

"Tribute," Wu Yuan whispered.

Others watched. No one spoke. Not Hui Yan. Not Qiu Sheng. The courtyard didn't judge—it simply remembered.

Zhou Min wiped blood from his mouth. Gu Muye tasted iron.

A quiet thought settled:

Fear alone isn't enough.

The sect rewarded coldness, not caution. Waiting brought nothing. Mercy wouldn't save them. Not here. Change was survival.

Wu Yuan turned away, his shadow retreating. His footsteps faded along the stone corridor, swallowed by the quiet drizzle that had begun to fall, light but steady. The sound of raindrops tapping on stone tiles filled the silence.

Zhou Min leaned on the wall, chest rising and falling fast. His eyes were darker than before.

The bone bell tolled again, distant and slow. Gu Muye straightened. Every joint protested, every breath hurt. But he stood. Not from courage. From the knowledge that he would not survive by hope alone.

He looked at Zhou Min, at the bruises blooming on his friend's face. No words passed between them, but a shared understanding settled in the space between their breaths.

A drip of rain landed on Gu Muye's hand. He didn't move. He would endure. Learn. Change.

The mist lifted slightly as the morning light finally breached the clouds, pale and thin but present. For now, it was enough to keep moving.