The Puppet Dao

Chapter 4 – The Faceless One

Zhao Chen froze where he stood.

His foot was still raised from his last step, but he didn’t put it down. His breath caught in his throat like something had grabbed it. Lin Cang didn’t move either, but he shifted his weight slightly, angling his body between Zhao and the figure that had emerged from the wall.

The figure was tall—taller than either of them. Its body looked like a man’s in shape, but not in movement. There was something wrong with the way it stood, as if its legs were placed just slightly too far apart, or its arms hung at an angle that ignored bone. It wore long gray robes that fluttered even though there was no wind, and its sleeves trailed like ribbons behind its fingers. But the most unnatural part was its head.

It had no face.

No eyes, no nose, no mouth. Just smooth, pale skin stretched across the front of its skull like soft wax that never finished hardening. The only mark on it was a single red line running vertically from the crown of its scalp down to the base of its throat. The line glowed slightly, like heated metal, and it pulsed in slow rhythm.

Zhao Chen finally whispered, his voice a dry scratch.

“…What is that?”

Lin Cang did not answer.

The figure tilted its head slightly, as if examining them both. Then it took one step forward. There was no sound. Its feet didn’t touch the ground like normal. It moved without causing air to shift. It didn’t even cast a proper shadow, despite the light from the lantern above.

Then it spoke.

Not with a mouth—but with sound.

A voice slid into the room like smoke under a door.

> “One carries the shaping. One carries the memory. Both are incomplete.”

Zhao Chen’s knees almost gave out. “That voice—it’s inside my head.”

Lin Cang kept his eyes on the creature. His right hand—the newly grafted one—twitched slightly. Not in fear. It was reacting on its own.

“What do you want?” Lin Cang asked, voice level.

The faceless one tilted its head again, then began circling the room slowly, never taking its unseen gaze off them.

> “You were not supposed to activate. Not yet. Your threads were still loose. Your pattern incomplete.”

“You know what I am.”

> “I know what you will ruin.”

It stepped closer now, moving around the edge of the record hall’s central scroll altar. The boards didn’t creak. Even the shadows didn’t change when it passed through them. It was like it wasn’t walking in the same space.

Zhao Chen swallowed hard and stepped back, behind Lin Cang.

“Lin,” he whispered, “we need to leave. This thing—this thing isn’t a cultivator. It’s not even a spirit.”

“I know.”

Lin Cang didn’t take his eyes off the figure.

He raised his voice. “You said I’m incomplete. Then why bother coming?”

The figure stopped moving.

> “Because pieces do not stay buried. They reach upward. They try to call others to complete them. You were not supposed to call.”

“I didn’t call anyone.”

> “You wore the mark.”

Lin Cang slowly placed his palm over his chest where the circle and seven marks were carved.

“And now what?” he asked. “You kill me before I understand what I am?”

The voice paused.

Then it answered.

> “I do not destroy the pattern. I return it.”

Zhao Chen whispered again. “Lin, it’s going to take you. We can’t fight that.”

Lin Cang didn’t move. “No. It’s not going to take me.”

“You sure about that?”

Lin Cang slowly opened his right hand.

A faint glow shimmered across the skin. The grafted puppet arm—now part of him—was responding again. He could feel the runes beneath the skin. They weren’t symbols anymore. They were circuits. Directions.

The faceless one raised its own hand now.

A long, pale palm. Five fingers. Perfectly still.

Then the air twisted.

It wasn’t like a breeze. It was as if the space around the figure bent, like paper being folded without a hand. Zhao staggered back against the shelf behind him. Scrolls toppled. Ink bottles rolled off the desk and shattered on the floor.

Lin Cang planted his feet.

“What is that?” Zhao shouted, gripping the shelf.

> “Return begins,” the voice said, softer now.

The line across the faceless one’s head glowed brighter. The red turned gold.

Then—

It stepped forward and thrust its hand toward Lin Cang’s chest.

Lin Cang moved.

His right arm shot up, blocking the blow with his forearm. The two hands met with a sound like metal striking wood. But the faceless one didn’t stop. Its fingers pressed against the mark on Lin Cang’s chest, and the circle began to glow.

Lin Cang gritted his teeth and grabbed the creature’s arm with both hands. The grafted limb hummed again—louder now. Symbols flared along his wrist. Heat surged through his palm.

He shouted.

“Let go of me!”

The air exploded with a burst of invisible force.

Zhao was thrown against the far wall.

Lin Cang held on, pressing the faceless one’s arm back, fighting the force that wasn’t pushing—it was pulling. Pulling something out of him.

The voice returned, louder now.

> “You are not bound. You are not blood. You are not breath.”

And Lin Cang shouted back.

“Then I don’t belong to you!”

He forced all his weight into the push.

The grafted arm split at the seams.

Not in failure—but in change.

The wood unfolded. Thin blades slid from the wrist—like fan ribs snapping open. They weren’t sharp. They were shaped with runes.

And the puppet arm reversed the pressure.

With a surge of force, Lin Cang pushed the faceless one back.

It stumbled.

It didn’t fall.

But it stopped.

The red line on its head flickered.

For the first time, it paused—not to taunt, not to speak, but in hesitation.

Then it tilted its head a final time.

> “You are further than I thought.”

It began to fade—not vanish—but recede, like fog being pulled back into a cave.

Lin Cang didn’t move.

Zhao was still sitting against the wall, dazed but awake.

As the figure melted back into the rear wall of the record hall, it spoke one last time.

> “But others are watching. And he has awakened. The one who carved you.”

The voice faded.

The room was still.

Then Zhao finally said, voice shaking:

“…Who carved you?”

Lin Cang didn’t answer.

Because deep in his chest, behind the mark, something had changed.

Not pain.

Not memory.

But recognition.

A new page had formed inside the book in his robe.

And a name had appeared there.

A name written in ink that could not fade.

A name that did not belong to a sect.

A name that no one had spoken aloud.

Not yet.

But someone would.

And when they did, Lin Cang knew—

They would die for it.

Zhao Chen leaned against the far wall of the records hall, sweat on his forehead and his robes half-soaked with ink from a broken jar. His chest rose and fell, and though he tried to look composed, his fingers wouldn’t stop twitching.

Lin Cang remained standing, the air around him slowly settling.

The golden light from the talisman lanterns flickered as if unsure what had just happened.

Zhao finally broke the silence. “That wasn’t just a spirit. I’ve seen possessed corpses. I’ve fought phantom beasts. That thing… it wasn’t like them.”

“It wasn’t trying to kill me,” Lin Cang said, still looking at the spot where the faceless one had vanished.

“Then what was it trying to do?”

“It wanted to return something.” He looked down at his chest and tapped once over the circular mark. “Or take something back.”

Zhao looked at him with wide eyes. “What are you?”

“I don’t know yet,” Lin Cang answered.

Zhao pushed himself up and brushed off broken pieces of scroll tube. “Then what was that? That energy blast? Your arm… it changed.”

Lin Cang lifted his right arm again. It looked normal now, the new shaping hidden beneath his skin. But when he moved his fingers, he could feel the new patterns—like muscle memory for something not made of flesh.

“It’s a Form,” he said slowly.

Zhao frowned. “What does that mean?”

“I think… it’s like a technique, but not one you train. You build it into yourself.”

Zhao blinked. “Build? You mean like a refiner?”

“No,” Lin Cang said. “Not with tools. With parts. Pieces that belong to me—or were meant for me.”

Zhao crossed his arms. “You’re talking nonsense. Cultivation doesn’t work like that. You cycle Qi. You break through. You open meridians. You don’t… swap arms.”

Lin Cang didn’t reply.

Instead, he pulled the strange book from his robe and opened to the newest page—the one that had written itself after the fight.

Zhao leaned in slightly to look.

The writing was thin, black, and perfect. Not written by hand. Each stroke was as clean as a carving.

> **“Form Name: Mirror Reversal Arm – Grade II

Status: Bound

Compatibility: Stable

Core Link: Partial

Assigned Origin: Carver of the Hollow Vein

Imprint Seal: ‘He Who Carved the Nameless Face’”**

Zhao read it twice. Then again.

“…That’s a name?”

“It’s a title,” Lin Cang replied. “The one who made me. The one the faceless thing was talking about.”

Zhao stepped back, slowly. “You mean someone built you?”

Lin Cang closed the book and tucked it away again.

“I’m not a puppet,” he said. “Not in the way people think. I bleed. I move. I breathe.”

“But you can’t cultivate.”

“No.”

Zhao exhaled sharply. “Then how do you get stronger?”

Lin Cang looked down at his right hand again. “By shaping. By finding more pieces.”

Zhao hesitated. Then said quietly, “Like the map.”

Lin Cang nodded. “That was the first clue.”

“Then where does it lead?”

“To a ruin.”

Zhao raised an eyebrow. “There are dozens of ruins in the mountain.”

“This one was drawn by someone who knew exactly where to look,” Lin Cang said. “It’s near a waterfall, past an old sect boundary. If the scroll is accurate, there’s something waiting there.”

Zhao paced once. Then stopped. “You’re going, aren’t you?”

“I have to.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I have no choice.”

Zhao scowled. “You just fought off a faceless demon puppet and used a technique that doesn’t exist. You’ve got a death sentence carved into your chest and a book that writes to you. And now you’re planning to wander off into some sealed ruin alone?”

“I won’t find answers by staying here.”

Zhao rubbed his temples. “No. But you will get hunted. Do you understand that? The inner sect has already marked you as suspicious. Elder He is still searching for the ‘missing corpse,’ and if he finds even a hair out of place—”

“I can handle it,” Lin Cang said.

Zhao looked at him, long and hard.

Then, reluctantly, he nodded once.

“…Then I’m going with you.”

Lin Cang blinked. “Why?”

Zhao shrugged. “Because I’m already involved. If you get caught, I get questioned. If you vanish, I’m the last one who saw you. And if the thing that carved your face comes back—I’d rather be next to the sword than behind it.”

“I don’t have a sword,” Lin Cang said calmly.

“Then we’ll borrow one.”

They stepped toward the window. Zhao reached into a box on the shelf and pulled out a long cloth-wrapped bundle.

“This is an ironwood blade,” he said, unwrapping it. “Not good for spirit combat, but it’ll break bones. It’s mine. You’ll use it.”

Lin Cang took it with a nod and tied the blade to his back.

Zhao grabbed a second one and tucked it into his belt. “We leave tonight. The patrols won’t check the cliff path until morning. We’ll be at the waterfall by dawn.”

Then Lin Cang paused.

His eyes narrowed.

“What is it?” Zhao asked.

Lin Cang turned slowly toward the far end of the room.

“I thought it was gone,” he said quietly. “But it left something behind.”

Zhao followed his gaze.

There was a scroll. Rolled tight. Bound in red twine. Just like the map.

But this one was thicker.

Lin Cang stepped forward and picked it up.

He opened it slowly.

Inside, there were names.

Dozens of them.

Lined up in three columns. Written in black ink.

Then, beneath the final name, in fresh red script:

> Lin Cang – Status: Awakened

And beneath that, a short message.

> “The Carver has opened his eye.”

Lin Cang folded the scroll.

Zhao’s face was pale.

He stepped back and whispered, “If he’s watching… then what’s coming next?”

Before Lin Cang could answer, a voice spoke from outside the window.

Not a shout.

Not a whisper.

Just a calm statement, spoken in perfect clarity.

> “Outer sect disciple Lin Cang. By order of the sect master, you are to be brought for questioning at sunrise.”

Lin Cang turned toward the window.

Three figures stood in the courtyard.

All of them wore robes trimmed in gold.

And behind them, a white banner flew.

It bore one word.

> “Execution.”