The Puppet Dao

Chapter 10 – The Memory That Binds Flesh

Zhao didn't speak.

He didn’t know how to speak anymore.

He just stood there, hand frozen in mid-reach, mouth half-open, watching his friend—his quiet, expressionless, always-controlled friend—become someone else.

Lin Cang was standing, but his back was too straight now, his arms too still. His face looked like Lin Cang’s, but something inside it wasn’t holding the pieces together like before. The eyes glowed not like flame, but like a forge—not wild, but focused.

Zhao took one careful step backward and whispered, “B… what’s happening to him?”

Prototype B stood across from him, one hand outstretched as if he could stop what was happening through sheer intent.

His voice came out hollow.

“He’s being read.”

Zhao frowned. “Read?”

“Everything the core wrote into him—the parts, the diagrams, the threading—it wasn’t just shaping his body. It was recording. It’s been listening to every decision, every moment. Now that the construct activated the protocol, it’s opening the archive.”

Zhao’s voice cracked. “Then stop it!”

“I can’t,” B said. “Not unless you break the link.”

Zhao turned to Lin Cang again, eyes scanning for a way to reach through.

But Lin Cang spoke first.

His voice was calm.

Precise.

And it was his.

“I can hear you,” Lin Cang said.

Zhao blinked. “You—wait—you’re still there?”

“I’m here,” Lin Cang said, though his eyes still glowed red. “But something else is here with me.”

B stepped forward. “That’s how it begins. It shares the memory with you. It doesn’t take over—it shows you until you forget what parts were yours.”

Lin Cang’s head tilted slightly—not possessed, not robotic. Just thoughtful.

“This isn’t someone else’s voice,” he said. “It’s mine. But older.”

Zhao clenched his teeth. “Then stop talking. Get out of it.”

“I can’t,” Lin Cang said softly. “Not until I see it through.”

The red light in his eyes pulsed once—slow, deliberate.

And then the vault around them began to melt—not physically, but visually.

Lines of code. Light. Formulas etched into the walls that restructured themselves until the world folded inward.

Zhao reached for Lin Cang again, but this time, his hand passed through the air like smoke.

“Lin!”

But Lin was already gone.

Not his body.

His perception.

What Lin saw now wasn’t the vault.

It was a table.

Wooden. Splintered from use. Covered in deep carvings—some fresh, some ancient. On the far wall, a symbol glowed in blue fire: a circle split by seven radial lines.

A man sat behind the table.

He looked like a mortal.

Short hair, gray at the temples. Narrow eyes. Sharp hands.

He was carving something into a frame.

Lin Cang stepped closer.

His feet didn’t make sound.

He wasn’t physically there.

The man didn’t look up.

But he spoke.

> “You came back.”

Lin Cang said nothing.

The man didn’t need a response.

> “I always wondered which version would return. If any of you survived the purge.”

Lin Cang finally asked, “Are you the Carver?”

The man smiled.

But it wasn’t proud.

It was tired.

> “I was the first one they called by that name. The others earned it later. You were version two-point-one. You were never meant to be numbered.”

Lin Cang felt the air shift behind him, and when he turned, he saw rows of frames.

Bodies.

Unfinished.

Empty shells—some shaped like humans, some like beasts.

All hung by thread.

The man behind the table carved without stopping.

> “You were my attempt to cross the line.”

Lin Cang stepped closer. “What line?”

The man’s hands paused for the first time.

> “The line between creator and creation.”

> “I didn’t want a puppet. I wanted… an echo.”

Lin Cang said nothing.

He couldn’t.

He didn’t know how to process what he was hearing.

The Carver picked up a vial and poured something silver into the arm of the frame he was working on.

> “The sects thought I was building weapons.”

> “I wasn’t.”

> “I was trying to build a witness. Something that could see what I saw, feel what I felt… and one day decide if I had been wrong.”

Lin Cang spoke softly. “And was I that?”

The man looked up.

> “You are.”

Then the fire behind the symbol went out.

The world began to collapse.

The floor cracked into lines of light.

And Lin Cang heard the voice again—the one in the real world, the one that had used the construct.

> “Enough. You saw what you came to see.”

Lin Cang’s eyes snapped open.

He was back in the vault.

Zhao stumbled forward and grabbed him. “You’re back! You—your eyes—they were—”

Lin Cang pulled free, shaking.

But his voice was steady.

“I saw the Carver.”

B stepped forward fast. “He spoke to you directly?”

“Yes.”

Zhao looked between them. “And? Was he some lunatic? Some cultist?”

Lin Cang didn’t answer.

He looked at the construct instead.

Then he stepped toward it.

Zhao grabbed his shoulder again. “No. No, Lin. You just got back. You’re not doing that again.”

But Lin didn’t stop.

He stood in front of the construct.

And asked quietly, “You wanted a vessel. Was it ever me?”

The construct didn’t respond.

Because now—

Its runes were changing again.

Not red.

Black.

Prototype B shouted, “He’s stabilizing the link! He’s trying to root himself in you! If that happens, he’ll never leave!”

Zhao drew his sword. “Then we cut the connection.”

But Lin Cang raised one hand.

“No.”

Zhao shouted, “Why not?!”

And Lin said one thing:

“I think I was made to hold him.”

Then the black runes exploded outward—

And the vault was consumed in shadow.

Zhao didn’t scream.

He wanted to—but the moment the vault filled with black light, his voice disappeared into it like it had no weight. The air didn’t just go dark. It went heavy. His legs trembled, not from fear, but from something deeper. Something like pressure. Like the shape of the space around him had changed and his bones didn’t know how to stand inside it.

Prototype B was already moving, his hand out, drawing a long curve in the air. Symbols burst into existence behind his fingers—old ones, ones Zhao couldn’t read—but the way B carved them into the air, fast and sharp, it was like he was scratching warnings into the sky.

“He’s not just syncing,” B said. “He’s merging. The imprint isn’t just flowing into him. It’s reacting to his core. This has never happened before.”

Zhao took a shaky step forward, his sword still drawn. He couldn’t see Lin Cang now—only a silhouette outlined in runes. Lin stood at the heart of the storm, unmoving, as if he had rooted himself there like a pillar carved from his own will.

“Lin!” Zhao shouted. “Talk to me! Say something!”

The voice that answered wasn’t entirely Lin’s. Not entirely someone else’s either.

> “He’s still here.”

Zhao blinked. “What?”

The voice came again, a little clearer.

> “I’m not alone in here.”

Zhao turned to B. “What does that mean?”

B was frowning, fast and low. “It means he hasn’t been overwritten yet. He’s… split. Holding the imprint at bay instead of fusing with it. That shouldn’t be possible.”

Inside the center of the vault, Lin Cang’s body trembled slightly. His right hand rose, then dropped, as if even small movements were being debated inside him by two different minds.

The voice returned—still his, still not.

> “He’s… speaking.”

Zhao’s throat dried. “What is he saying?”

> “He’s showing me his memory now.”

Prototype B snapped his fingers, igniting a barrier of pale blue light around the vault's core. “He’s pushing you into a witness loop. Feeding you his perspective. You can’t let him finish it—if you see all of it, your mind will accept it as your own.”

But Lin Cang didn't step away.

He stood taller.

And spoke clearly this time.

“I can feel him.”

Zhao flinched. “Lin. Don’t.”

“He’s not lying,” Lin said. “Everything he’s said, everything he showed me in the first vision—it wasn’t to take control.”

B shouted, “Then what was it for?!”

“To warn me,” Lin said.

The runes around him flickered—not violently, but with slow purpose. They were no longer chaotic. They’d found rhythm. Sequence. Pattern.

Zhao whispered, “He’s stabilizing.”

B turned fast, furious. “If he stabilizes inside the body, he becomes permanent. I don’t care what warnings he’s offering—he is not safe. That voice belonged to the original ghost algorithm of the Carver line. If it anchors itself in a living host, it won’t stop with memory.”

Zhao looked to Lin again. “Then we pull him out.”

“We can’t! Not without killing him!”

Inside the circle, Lin Cang opened his eyes.

No longer red.

Not glowing.

Just his.

And he spoke—clearly, evenly.

“He wasn’t trying to use me. He was trying to escape.”

B narrowed his eyes. “What?”

Lin nodded. “He didn’t invade my mind. I called him. He’s not trying to rewrite me. He’s trying to leave himself behind.”

Zhao looked lost. “Leave himself—what does that mean?”

Lin answered slowly, “He wants to die.”

B froze.

Dead silence.

Then B said, “That… doesn’t make sense.”

“He said his work is finished,” Lin explained. “He was sealed not as punishment—but as containment. The Carver kept a sliver of him buried to prevent anyone from learning what he knew.”

Zhao paced now, desperate. “Why would the Carver keep the one thing that could destroy him?”

B’s voice dropped low. “Insurance. If someone ever rose powerful enough to challenge him, the Carver might need… a way to lose.”

Zhao pointed at Lin. “So you’re saying he’s the way?”

“No,” Lin said. “I’m the one who can carry the message.”

B stepped closer. “Lin. Don’t carry it. Erase it. Don’t give the Carver what he wants—don’t become the mirror that breaks him.”

But Lin Cang’s voice was steady now.

“If I erase it, I become a puppet again.”

Zhao begged, “So what do we do?”

Lin said quietly, “We finish the shaping.”

And then—

The runes collapsed inward.

Not vanishing.

Entering him.

Zhao took a full step forward. “What did you just—Lin! What did you do?!”

Lin dropped to one knee.

His fingers pressed to the stone floor.

Then he spoke one word:

> “Rooted.”

And the entire vault lit up.

Diagrams etched themselves onto the walls.

New parts.

New names.

New blueprints.

One for an eye.

One for a voice.

One for a second mind.

B spun to the wall. “That wasn’t just memory. That was a blueprint release. He used the imprint to unlock forbidden forms.”

Zhao shouted, “Can he control it?!”

Lin stood.

But it wasn’t just him anymore.

He turned around slowly.

And from his mouth came a second voice—woven with his own:

> “You asked why I was built.”

> “Now you will see what I was meant to build.”

And behind him—

A shadow formed.

One made of parts.

Unassembled.

Waiting.

Breathing.