The Puppet Dao

Chapter 1 – A Body With No Cultivation

The young man with the lantern stared at Lin Cang like he was looking at a talking statue.

“What… what do you mean, made?” he asked after a pause, voice tight.

Lin Cang didn’t answer right away. He held the strange book under one arm and stepped forward, walking into the lantern light. The other man flinched slightly as Lin Cang came into view—face clear, skin flawless, robes untouched by dirt, hair tied neatly behind his head. To any casual eye, Lin Cang looked like a normal, even refined, outer sect disciple.

But his silence made everything feel heavier.

“I woke up here,” Lin Cang said finally, voice low and even. “I don’t know this place. I don’t know you. I don’t remember anything except my name.”

The lantern flickered slightly as the other man hesitated. “...You're saying you have no memory at all?”

“No.”

“You don’t know how you got into the Dust-Crypt?”

“No.”

“Then how are you standing?” the man asked sharply. “There’s no Qi coming from your body. You’re like a piece of wood.”

Lin Cang looked down at his hands again, the skin smooth, warm, and soft to the touch. Not a hint of what lay beneath. He flexed his fingers once more, testing each motion. They moved like his will was water, and they were branches following a stream.

“I don’t know how,” Lin Cang said. “But I’m alive.”

The man’s brow furrowed deeply. He looked like he didn’t believe it—but couldn’t deny what he was seeing.

“…What’s your name?” he asked.

“Lin Cang.”

“Which sect are you from?”

“I don’t know.”

The man exhaled and rubbed his forehead like he was trying to smooth away confusion. “Well, this is the outer ring of Green Pine Sect. That means you’re trespassing. Or you’re a runaway. Or worse—someone smuggled you in.”

“I didn’t come here on purpose.”

“You expect me to believe you just woke up in a crypt under our grounds?” The man’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped slightly back, raising his lantern. “You’re not a soul puppet, are you?”

Lin Cang tilted his head slightly. “What is that?”

“You don’t even—!” The man stopped himself. He lowered the lantern a little, and looked at Lin Cang more closely. “No. You’re too clean. Your skin doesn’t look lacquered. You don’t have sealing lines. And your voice doesn’t echo. If you are a puppet… then you’re a very good fake.”

Lin Cang remained silent.

“…Forget it,” the man muttered. “Look, my name is Zhao Chen. I’m just an outer sect student. I’m not in charge of anything. But if someone finds you down here without permission, you’re going to get whipped at best—or crippled if they think you're a spy.”

Lin Cang didn’t move. “I understand.”

Zhao Chen sighed again and turned, walking toward the tunnel behind him. “Follow me. Don’t speak too much. Don’t act strange. Just keep your head down. We’ll get you out of here before the morning patrol comes. Maybe the elders will sort it out.”

Lin Cang looked behind him once, back toward the crypt and the robed skeleton leaning against the stone pillar. The book under his arm felt heavier now. He followed.

The tunnel was narrow, carved roughly into the stone. Zhao Chen’s lantern cast soft orange light on the walls as they walked. Their steps echoed. The air was dry and smelled of dust and ancient paper.

Zhao Chen kept glancing back at him every few moments.

“…You really don’t remember anything? No cultivation method? No breathing technique? No spiritual sense?”

“No.”

“Do you… know how to fight?”

Lin Cang thought for a moment.

“I feel like I do,” he said.

“That’s not helpful.”

They continued walking.

After a while, Zhao Chen slowed his pace and spoke again.

“Your face is clean,” he said. “Too clean. And your robes are perfectly fitted. Outer sect students don’t get silks like that. You don’t even have a name tag or rank badge.”

“I see.”

Zhao Chen turned to him fully now and stopped walking. “I don’t know if you’re lying or if someone wiped your memory and dropped you here. But no one climbs out of the Dust-Crypt looking that fresh. Not without a secret.”

“I didn’t ask to wake up.”

“No,” Zhao Chen said, his eyes narrowing again. “But you’re awake. And this world doesn’t care how you got here. Only what you can do.”

He stared at Lin Cang for a moment longer, then turned around again.

“Keep quiet,” Zhao Chen said. “If anyone asks, you’re a new disciple from the Eastern Branch. I’ll say you were sent to help clean scroll archives and got lost. Don’t say anything else.”

Lin Cang nodded.

They walked in silence for several minutes, and then the tunnel began to rise. The air grew cooler. A breeze passed through, and Zhao Chen paused to blow out the lantern. Faint light came from a sliver ahead—a narrow crack in a stone wall.

Zhao Chen pressed against it. A hidden door opened slowly, and the scent of pine, wind, and old paper came rushing in.

“Come on,” Zhao Chen whispered. “This leads into the back of the outer archives.”

Lin Cang followed him through the crack.

They stepped out into a massive stone chamber with shelves stacked high with old scrolls, bamboo slips, and dusty books. Moonlight spilled through a tall window set into one wall, lighting the room in soft silver. Lin Cang looked up and around slowly.

The world outside the crypt… was real. Bright. Cold. Alive.

Zhao Chen leaned against the wall and looked around.

“No one’s here,” he said. “If you want to keep that book, hide it. If an elder sees you walking around with something strange, they’ll confiscate it and question you for hours.”

Lin Cang nodded and slid the book into his robes, beneath the left sleeve. It fit tightly, but it was hidden.

“Now,” Zhao Chen said, straightening up and brushing dust from his sleeves, “you’re going to follow me to the dorms. You’re going to act like a tired disciple. You’re going to eat rice and not say anything stupid. If someone asks who you are, you say nothing. If an elder speaks to you, you bow.”

“Understood.”

Zhao Chen glanced sideways at him again, frowning a little.

“…You’re really calm for someone who just woke up in a crypt.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever known anything else,” Lin Cang said quietly.

For once, Zhao Chen didn’t have a comeback.

He just turned and led the way out of the archive.

They exited the archive through a narrow hallway lit by glowing spirit lanterns. The stone walls were lined with faded wall scrolls showing calligraphy and sword techniques. A few steps ahead, a staircase curved down into the outer sect compound.

Zhao Chen didn’t speak at first. He walked quickly, checking corners, making sure no patrol disciples were nearby. Lin Cang followed behind him, matching his steps exactly, watching everything. The scent of pine trees hung in the air. The stone floor felt cold beneath his thin cloth shoes.

As they reached the bottom of the stairs, the view opened up.

Moonlight bathed a wide courtyard. Simple wooden dorms lined one side. A small training platform sat in the center, along with a bamboo rack of wooden practice swords. Several young men in plain robes were sitting beneath a tree, talking in low voices.

Zhao Chen turned and held up a hand.

“Stay close. Don’t talk.”

Lin Cang nodded.

They crossed the courtyard quickly. One of the boys under the tree looked up and narrowed his eyes.

“Oy, Zhao,” the boy called out, his voice lazy. “Who’s that behind you?”

“New disciple,” Zhao Chen replied without stopping. “Eastern Branch. Got lost.”

The boy squinted. “Since when does the Eastern Branch send anyone to our dorms?”

“Since Elder Wu started assigning grunt work to make up for spirit stone thefts,” Zhao snapped back, still walking.

The boy muttered something under his breath and didn’t press further.

Zhao led Lin Cang toward the farthest dorm on the right. It was narrow, with a slanted roof and paper windows. He slid the door open and waved him in.

Inside, there were four beds, two on each side. Everything was neat but worn—folded blankets, low shelves with plain cups, simple robes hanging on the wall. A single oil lamp burned softly in the corner.

“This one’s empty,” Zhao said, pointing to the last bed. “No one wants it. Leaks when it rains. You’ll take it.”

Lin Cang stepped inside and looked around. The space was small but quiet. Peaceful, even. He sat on the edge of the bed slowly, feeling the rough straw mattress under him.

Zhao sat down on the opposite bed and rubbed his forehead again.

“Alright,” he said, quieter now. “Let’s make something clear. I helped you because I didn’t want you getting executed in front of the pill garden tomorrow morning. But that doesn’t mean I trust you. You show even a hint of being possessed or cursed, and I’ll report you myself. Understand?”

“I do.”

“You act strange around the sect master? Same.”

“I understand.”

“Good.”

There was a long pause. Zhao stared at the wall for a moment, then let out a tired breath.

“…You’re not lying about having no cultivation?” he asked.

“I’m not.”

“No Qi flow? No sense of spiritual energy?”

“Nothing.”

Zhao leaned forward and opened a small box by his bedside. He pulled out a round, cracked stone and tossed it lightly to Lin Cang.

“Hold this.”

Lin Cang caught it with one hand.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Testing stone. It glows when someone has spiritual potential. Just hold it.”

Lin Cang looked at the stone. It was warm. Faint lines ran through it like veins in marble. He gripped it with both hands and waited.

Nothing happened.

Zhao’s eyes narrowed. “No reaction at all?”

Lin Cang turned the stone over once. “It’s just warm.”

“…Alright, now focus. Try to breathe deeply and pull in energy through your navel. Even outer disciples can manage that much.”

Lin Cang nodded slowly. He closed his eyes. He breathed in.

And felt…

Nothing.

No warmth in his chest. No movement in his belly. No flow through his limbs. His body stayed still, heavy. He opened his eyes again and shook his head.

“It’s like I’m a cup with no bottom,” he said.

Zhao took the stone back, looked at it, then tossed it into the box with a sigh. “That confirms it. You’ve got no Qi root. You’re not a cripple—cripples still have meridians. You’re something else entirely.”

Lin Cang looked down at his hands.

“Then how am I moving?” he asked softly.

Zhao looked at him.

“That’s what worries me,” he said.

The room fell quiet. Only the faint creak of wood and chirping insects outside filled the silence.

Then—

A knock at the door.

Both of them looked up instantly.

Zhao stood slowly and walked to the door. He opened it a crack.

A tall man in black outer sect robes stood in the doorway. His expression was cold, formal. His eyes swept past Zhao and landed on Lin Cang immediately.

“Is this the new disciple from the Eastern Branch?” the man asked.

Zhao hesitated. “Yes, Elder. His name is Lin Cang. He just arrived tonight.”

The man stared for a long moment. “He does not appear on the disciple registry.”

Zhao’s voice tightened. “Maybe the registry hasn’t been updated yet—”

The elder raised a hand. “Bring him.”

Lin Cang stood. Zhao turned to him and gave the slightest shake of his head, almost invisible.

“Come,” the elder said.

Lin Cang stepped forward. His movements were smooth, calm. He followed the elder out the door.

Zhao stayed behind, fists clenched.

They walked across the courtyard again. This time, no one spoke. The elder led him toward a tall pavilion lit by spirit lanterns, its wooden pillars carved with dragons. A plaque above the door read: Hall of Records.

Inside, the elder led him to a stone table and opened a large jade book, pages etched with glowing script. He pressed one hand on the table and gestured to Lin Cang.

“Place your hand here. We will verify your identity.”

Lin Cang hesitated.

“Is something wrong?” the elder asked.

Lin Cang reached out slowly and placed his palm flat against the smooth stone.

The elder watched.

Nothing happened.

No glow. No name appeared. No spiritual trace.

The elder’s brow furrowed.

“…Unregistered,” he said under his breath. “But alive. Not undead. No spiritual taint…”

He looked up.

“Remove your outer robe,” the elder ordered.

Lin Cang paused. “Why?”

“I must inspect your body for tampering or possession. Do it.”

Lin Cang hesitated again, then slowly undid the clasp at his collar and opened his robe.

The elder’s eyes scanned his bare chest.

And stopped.

Right in the center of Lin Cang’s chest, just above the heart, a faint carved circle was visible—something that had not been there before. Seven tiny marks split the circle evenly, forming a sigil like the one from the book in the Dust-Crypt.

The elder's face turned pale.

“…Where did you get that mark?” he asked slowly.

“I don’t know.”

“Who taught you this pattern?”

“No one.”

The elder took a single step back.

“You—”

He turned suddenly and reached into his sleeve, pulling out a small talisman scroll.

He was about to activate it—

When Lin Cang’s eyes widened slightly.

Something moved behind the elder.

A black hand, paper-thin and sharp as a blade, emerged from the shadows.

And just as the elder turned—

The hand sliced cleanly through his throat.

Blood sprayed. The talisman dropped.

Lin Cang stepped back as the elder collapsed to the floor in silence.

A figure stepped out of the shadowed corner.

Cloaked in drifting black talismans. Masked. Silent.

Its right hand was made of wood.

Not carved. Not sculpted. But grown.

And it flexed its fingers once, slow and deliberate.

“…Found you,” the figure said softly.