The Puppet Dao

Chapter 6 – The Man Who Smiles Without Warmth

Lin Cang rose to one knee, breath slow and uneven. The burning sensation in his chest had settled into a low throb, like a drumbeat echoing through hollow wood. He didn’t need to look down to know the change had completed. The new heart—the crafted one wrapped in gold thread—was now inside him. Not implanted. Not absorbed. Merged. It had rewritten his core. He could feel it. His body felt heavier, but not in a way that slowed him. It felt more real. More present.

But he didn’t move yet. Not with that man watching him.

The silver-haired figure stepped closer, soft footsteps echoing on the smooth stone of the ancient shaping chamber. He didn’t walk like a sect elder, or like a swordsman. There was no martial rhythm to his steps. No intent to fight. He walked like someone who already owned the room.

Zhao Chen stood frozen near the wall, half-shadowed by the archway. His mouth was slightly open, his hands clenched, as if his mind had realized the danger before his body could react.

The man’s voice was calm as he spoke again. “It’s strange. I remember crafting that heart. I remember the threads, the carvings, the inner channels. It was my finest work. Flawless. It was meant to be the centerpiece of a living weapon. One that could walk through fire and still smile.”

Lin Cang slowly stood, his hand resting near the inside fold of his robe. He didn’t draw the blade yet.

“You say you crafted it,” Lin Cang said, his voice steady. “But it was locked in a jade seal. Buried. Forgotten.”

The man smiled wider—but the smile never touched his eyes.

“Oh, not forgotten. Merely hidden. Sometimes you have to bury your best work to keep it from jealous hands. You see, there are people in this world who don’t like it when someone creates life without permission.”

Lin Cang narrowed his eyes slightly. “You speak like a Formsmith.”

The man chuckled lightly. “That’s what they used to call us, yes. Artists of the fleshless. Shapers of the unsouled. We weren’t cultivators, but we played with the tools of immortals. And we were punished for it.”

Zhao finally found his voice. “You’re from the Forbidden Sect.”

The man tilted his head and gave a low, amused nod. “Forbidden. Yes. That’s the name they gave us after they erased ours from the records.”

Lin Cang kept his tone controlled. “And what do you want?”

The man’s smile flattened slightly. “Now that is the right question.”

He raised one hand, palm open, fingers long and elegant like they were carved rather than grown.

“I want you to return what isn’t yours.”

Lin Cang didn’t move. “The heart?”

The man nodded slowly. “It responded to your mark, didn’t it? That circle with seven breaks? The key that shouldn’t exist anymore. You touched it, and it opened for you. It thought you were the vessel. But you’re not. I am.”

Zhao stepped forward now, fists clenched. “You want to steal it?”

The man didn’t even glance at him. “Steal? No, child. I want to restore it. That heart was made for my body. My form. It’s incomplete without me.”

Lin Cang’s expression didn’t change, but his mind was already racing. He could feel the heart inside him now—not just as an object, but as a living, beating presence. When he had touched it, it hadn’t hesitated. It had chosen him. Whatever this man claimed, the heart had bound to Lin Cang’s body willingly.

“It didn’t recognize you,” Lin Cang said slowly. “It responded to me.”

“That’s because your body is a flawed container,” the man said, tone sharpening slightly. “It tricks the mechanisms of shaping. It imitates life. It mimics choice. But it was never meant to receive a core. You were a discard.”

Zhao growled low in his throat. “You don’t get to talk about him like that.”

“I’m not talking to you,” the man replied without turning.

He took another slow step forward.

Lin Cang raised his hand slightly—not a threat, but a signal.

“Don’t come closer,” he said.

“Or what?” the man asked, smiling again. “You’ll burn me with your Qi? Strike me with a spell? Use the Form you barely understand?”

“I’ll respond,” Lin Cang said simply. “And you won’t enjoy it.”

That made the man stop.

For the first time, he looked genuinely interested.

“You’re not bluffing,” he said. “That’s fascinating.”

Then his smile faded.

“But it won’t be enough.”

Suddenly, the man clapped his hands once.

The sound echoed through the chamber like a bell.

And from behind the stone walls—

Shapes moved.

Zhao’s eyes widened. “What—what is that sound?”

The floor trembled.

Then, with slow, scraping movements, four figures stepped into the room from hidden passageways.

They were tall, broad-shouldered, and silent. Their bodies were made of polished wood and metal joints. No faces. Just masks carved from stone, each with a different expression: anger, joy, sorrow, and hunger.

The man’s voice was quiet now.

“Do you see them? These are the Hollow Frames. They have no souls. No thoughts. Only design. They obey shaping commands—and I command them.”

Lin Cang shifted his stance. “You want the heart? Come take it.”

The man’s expression finally turned dark.

“I wasn’t asking.”

He snapped his fingers.

The Hollow Frames moved.

Fast.

Faster than anything made of wood should.

Zhao cursed and drew his sword.

Lin Cang raised his right hand. The runes flared.

But before the first puppet reached him, Lin Cang saw something behind it—

A seventh figure.

Smaller.

Walking out of the shadows.

A puppet…

With his face.

Lin Cang stared at it—not in fear, but in recognition. The puppet moved slowly, deliberately. Each step echoed softly against the chamber floor, but there was no sound of gears or breathing. Its body was lean, shaped perfectly like Lin Cang’s own. The same height. The same posture. Even the same robe—stitched in identical patterns, like a mirrored version of the outer sect uniform. Its face was almost too perfect. Eyes that didn’t blink. Skin that didn’t flex. Mouth closed in a slight, emotionless curve.

But it was his face.

Zhao Chen’s voice came from behind him, tight and sharp. “Lin, what—what is that? That’s not the one from the archive, is it?”

“No,” Lin Cang said quietly. “That one broke.”

“Then what’s this?”

“I think…” Lin Cang didn’t finish the thought. His mind had already begun assembling the pieces. This puppet wasn’t like the others—the Hollow Frames. Those were heavy, masked, expressionless tools. But this one moved like it remembered how to walk. Its arms hung loosely at its sides, its spine held the right amount of tension. It was not just shaped—it was trained.

The silver-haired man stepped beside it now, one hand placed lightly on the puppet’s shoulder like a proud craftsman showing off a prize.

“This,” the man said with calm satisfaction, “is your intended self. A corrected vessel. A stable frame. Without soul, without thought, without flaw.”

Lin Cang didn’t speak.

“You were only the first mold,” the man continued. “Your design—yes, I admit it—was revolutionary. The ability to bind Form blueprints directly into living parts. But the first body was unstable. Too unpredictable. Too... curious.”

Zhao stepped closer to Lin Cang now, his voice low. “He's talking about you. He means you're unstable.”

The man nodded as if confirming it. “You responded to triggers I never designed. You asked questions. You paused at commands. That’s not how a weapon behaves.”

Lin Cang finally met the man’s eyes directly. “Then why didn’t you destroy me?”

“I thought I had,” the man said. “But you woke up. Somehow. And worse, you shaped. You used the book. You merged with the heart. That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“You made a mistake,” Lin Cang said coldly.

“No,” the man replied. “I made a miracle. Then I lost control of it. So now I’ve made a new one.”

His hand lifted again, brushing lightly down the puppet’s back.

“This version doesn’t resist. It doesn’t wonder. It doesn’t choose.”

Zhao shook his head. “Then it’s just a puppet.”

The man smiled without humor. “And what is your Lin Cang, then?”

Zhao drew his sword. “He chose to become something. That’s the difference.”

The man shrugged. “That difference ends now.”

With a snap of his fingers, the Hollow Frames moved again.

Two rushed Zhao.

Two came for Lin Cang.

But the copy—his double—stood still.

Lin Cang spun to the side, dodging the first strike. One of the heavy frames drove its fist into the floor where he had been, shattering the stone. Dust exploded upward. Zhao blocked a second frame with the flat of his blade and yelled out as he was thrown back toward the wall.

Lin Cang raised his right arm. The Mirror Reversal Form activated instantly. The runes along his wrist glowed blue, then purple. His fingers snapped open, releasing a pulse of kinetic force. One of the Frames staggered, joints locking. Lin Cang moved in close and struck its chest with the heel of his palm. The wood cracked—but not enough.

“These bodies aren’t hollow,” Lin Cang muttered. “They’re layered.”

Zhao shouted from the far side of the room. “I can’t cut through them! They’re reinforced!”

“They’re anchors,” Lin Cang called back. “Part of a larger seal.”

Then, the puppet double moved.

It didn’t walk—it glided, almost. Straight toward Lin Cang.

And for the first time, it opened its mouth.

The voice that came out was his.

> “Core detected. Authorization: parallel shaping. Begin overwrite.”

Lin Cang froze for a half-second.

The puppet raised both hands.

Symbols appeared in the air—carved lines of gold that spiraled around Lin Cang’s body like thread trying to sew flesh.

> “Form conflict. Imprint core unstable. Proceed with reversal?”

Lin Cang gritted his teeth. “You’re not real.”

> “I am what you were meant to become.”

Zhao shouted, “Lin! Behind you!”

Too late.

The puppet struck forward—not with fists, but with fingers. They jabbed toward Lin Cang’s chest, toward the center mark.

He blocked one.

The other hit.

His vision blurred.

Pain shot through his ribs—not from the blow, but from something being read.

The puppet’s hand was scanning him—pulling data. Blueprint patterns. Energy signatures.

> “Vessel confirmed.”

The puppet’s expression didn’t change. But its hand moved again.

This time, it didn’t strike.

It mimicked.

Every move Lin Cang made, the puppet repeated. Same stance. Same motion.

Lin Cang backed away slowly.

Zhao gasped. “It’s copying you!”

“I know.”

“Then what do we do?”

Lin Cang clenched his jaw.

“I change the script.”

He lunged forward with a sudden new movement—one not part of any style. He twisted, spun low, and struck from an angle no cultivator would train for. It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t refined.

It was desperate.

The puppet followed—

And hesitated.

Just half a beat.

Lin Cang’s palm struck the base of its jaw. The carved face cracked—barely. But it was enough to show it could be hurt.

Zhao ran to his side again, sword in hand. “We need to break its legs. Knock it off balance. Together—”

But Lin Cang held up a hand. “No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?”

“We’ve already lost this fight.”

Zhao blinked. “What—?”

“The heart inside me—he activated it. It’s not stable. If I keep fighting, it’ll burn through my body.”

Zhao’s face turned pale. “Then what are you saying?”

Lin Cang looked at the puppet—his own face, staring back at him.

“I’m saying I have to shut it down.”

“How?”

Lin Cang slowly reached inside his robe.

And pulled out the black-edged talisman—the second one. The one he hadn’t used yet. The one the masked man had warned him about.

Zhao’s voice broke. “You said you weren’t ready to touch that.”

“I’m still not.”

“Then don’t!”

“I don’t have a choice.”

The puppet lunged again.

And Lin Cang slapped the talisman directly onto the center of his own chest.

> Seal Confirmed. Begin Internal Shaping Lockdown.

He collapsed to his knees.

Zhao screamed his name.

And from within Lin Cang’s body—

Something unfolded.

A structure. A mechanism.

Not of bone.

Not of wood.

But of pure shaping code.

The Hollow Frames stopped moving.

The puppet froze.

And then—

Lin Cang’s eyes turned completely white.

And he spoke a voice that wasn’t his:

> “Override complete. All copies: return to origin.”

The puppet screamed.

And the chamber began to collapse.