The Puppet Dao

It was dark.

Not the kind of dark that comes from nightfall or a shaded forest. This was a thick, pressing dark that had weight to it—like wet soil or soaked cloth smothering every surface. There was no breeze. No scent. No sound.

Then, slowly, a sound broke through. A light click, then another. Wood shifting. Joints creaking.

A pair of eyes opened.

They did not shine. They did not burn. They simply opened—mechanical and still, like shutters letting in nothing.

And Lin Cang drew his first breath.

His body didn’t move right away. He remained still for a long time, staring at nothing, trying to understand what had woken him. Or what he was.

His mind, clear and sharp, held no memories. No name. No age. No face. Yet words floated in his thoughts like fish in a still pond.

Finally, he tried to speak.

“…Hng.”

His voice sounded dry, as if unused for years. It startled even him.

He tried again.

“…Is someone… there?”

The words echoed softly, bouncing off unseen walls.

A response came—not from a person, but from his body. A dull throb ran through his chest, but it wasn’t pain. It was more like… a hum. Like something had just powered on inside him.

Then, movement.

His fingers twitched, stiff and heavy. He looked down slowly—and stopped.

His hand was not a hand.

It was made of smooth, varnished wood. The fingers were slender, joined by tiny hinges of bronze. On the back of the palm, carved into the grain, was a strange pattern—like a circle broken by seven marks. An unfamiliar symbol.

He sat up with effort, arms stiff like frozen branches. The sound of his movements echoed again, more clearly now—wood scraping against stone.

“...What am I?” he whispered.

His voice had a human tone, but something about it felt… tuned. Adjusted. Too precise.

He stood, unsteady at first. The ground beneath him was dry and cracked. He walked forward, one step at a time, each footfall tapping like wood against stone. He passed through the dark, hands brushing against rough walls, until his palm found a door.

He pushed.

The door groaned open. Dust poured in like smoke. And beyond the door, faint light drifted in from above—a hole in the ceiling, just wide enough to show a gray sky.

He squinted.

A figure stood in the light. Or rather, sat. Slumped against a broken pillar. A man—or what was once a man. Now only bones wrapped in faded robes, the skull tilted forward as if sleeping.

Lin Cang stepped closer, slowly, carefully.

The corpse held a book in one hand, its spine cracked. With effort, Lin Cang reached out and pulled it free.

He opened it. Every page was filled with diagrams—not of human anatomy, but blueprints. Pieces of bodies, drawn in parts. Arms made of jade. Legs of iron. Wooden torsos. Strange tools. Notes written in tight, harsh characters circled each drawing.

One line, written larger than the rest, repeated again and again:

“The Form is the Body. The Body is the Vessel. Shape is the Path.”

Lin Cang stared at it.

A breeze stirred. Dust swirled through the crypt. He looked down at his wooden hand again. The joints. The strange symbol. The smoothness of the grain. All of it matched the diagrams in the book.

And then, something clicked again—this time in his mind.

A name came to him, from nowhere.

“…Lin Cang,” he said quietly. “That’s my name.”

His voice was steadier now. A little more human. Or perhaps, he was just getting used to it.

From behind him, a new sound rose—slow steps on stone.

He turned.

Another figure had entered the chamber. A young man, dressed in gray robes, holding a lantern. His face was narrow, his expression cautious. When he saw Lin Cang standing beside the dead man, his eyes widened.

“You—! Who are you?” the man asked. “What are you doing in the Dust-Crypt?!”

Lin Cang said nothing.

The man squinted at him. “You’re not supposed to be down here. This area is sealed. Are you… are you an inner disciple?”

“I don’t know what that means,” Lin Cang replied simply.

“You’re… joking.” The man frowned. “Wait, your aura… I can’t sense any Qi from you.”

Lin Cang looked down at his own hand again.

“No meridians. No dantian. No soul,” he said. “But I am awake.”

The man took a step back.

“What kind of joke is this?” he asked. “What sect are you from? Speak!”

Lin Cang looked at him. Calm. Still.

“I don’t know,” he said again.

“…Then how are you alive?”

Lin Cang glanced at the book in his hand. The blueprint. The words.

Shape is the Path.

He closed it.

“I think,” he said quietly, “I was made.”