Wooden Puppet

The two had made up—Lin Qingyun lit a campfire by the river, and He Zhuoming sat beside it, reapplying medicine to her palm and wrapping it with a strip of silk cloth.

She bandaged it hastily, but it still looked fairly presentable.

After gripping the wooden sword with her bandaged hand and swinging it a few times, He Zhuoming suddenly understood why the heroes in TV dramas always liked wrapping cloth strips around their palms.

Because the grip really did feel much better with a layer of cloth around it.

Lin Qingyun propped his chin on one hand, watching her, and suddenly spoke up to remind her: "You haven't put medicine on your neck yet."

He Zhuoming reached up and touched her neck. "Here... forget it, it's already healed."

She yawned, drowsiness washing over her, mumbled a goodnight to Lin Qingyun in a slurred voice, then curled up beside the campfire and fell asleep.

He Zhuoming fell asleep as quickly as always. This overly young body had an almost programmatic obsession with sleep, as if even if the world were to end the very next second, a middle school student still couldn't be delayed from going to bed before ten o'clock.

Listening to He Zhuoming's breathing grow steadier and steadier, Lin Qingyun reached into the campfire and pulled out a handful of unburned wooden branches—he snapped them in two, bound them into a crude human shape with cloth strips, bit his fingertip, and dripped a few drops of blood onto the 'wooden man.'

The instant the blood touched the surface of the branches, the crude 'Wooden Puppet' transformed into a second 'Lin Qingyun.'

Lin Qingyun blinked, and it blinked. Lin Qingyun smiled, and it smiled, a pair of dimples appearing at the corners of its lips, the pearl of the long earring swaying on its left cheek.

The two sat facing each other, identical down to every single strand of hair—a resemblance more perfect than that of twins.

Lin Qingyun stood up—'Lin Qingyun' sat down in the spot he had just vacated, lowering its eyelashes and staring at the sleeping He Zhuoming.

He reached out and grabbed at the air casually, seizing hold of an invisible thread: anyone who had killed him had gotten his blood on both their blade and their body. As long as Lin Qingyun wanted to find them, it didn't matter if they fled to the ends of the earth.

He took a single step forward, and the scenery around him immediately twisted into distortion. Lin Qingyun hadn't lied to He Zhuoming—he really couldn't fly on a sword. That ancient, slow method of travel was something he had no use for at all.

When he went somewhere, either he walked on his two legs, or he arrived directly in a single step, like now.

The distorted blocks of color sharpened in a few breaths, but the scene had already shifted from the deep mountain forest to the main hall of a humble post station—two lanterns hung at the entrance, and only a single guest sat inside: a black-robed swordsman.

On the table before the swordsman sat a jar of wine and a plate of meat. The meat had barely been touched, but the jar of wine was nearly empty.

It was a jar of strong liquor, yet the swordsman, who had drunk a great deal of it, showed no sign of intoxication. His expression was numb and cold. No matter how much wine he drank, it couldn't grant his heart a moment's respite from its pain.

Lin Qingyun sat down across from the black-robed swordsman—he had already changed clothes. The clean, soft red robe was embroidered with large golden crabapple blossoms. The glow of the red cloth made his smiling face look even more pretty and harmless, and also made him seem all the more out of place in this post station.

The station was too old and dilapidated, and the swordsman drinking inside was too coarse and rude, while the short-haired, smiling youth looked like nothing so much as a pampered young master from a wealthy family.

The black-robed swordsman stared at him coldly. "I knew you weren't dead."

Lin Qingyun tilted his head, and asked gently with a smile, "Do we have a grudge?"

The black-robed swordsman became agitated. "You actually forgot me!"

Lin Qingyun replied without a trace of apology, "My memory isn't good. Being forgotten by me is a perfectly normal thing."

The black-robed swordsman suddenly erupted, his blade tearing through the air and slashing toward Lin Qingyun—it was a fast, powerful strike, its overwhelming momentum almost cutting off all paths of retreat—

This was clearly a strike meant to kill!

Yet it cut through nothing!

After the black-robed swordsman's strike failed, he was stunned, then felt a sharp pain in his wrist. That strike he'd been so certain of had landed on his own wrist!

His hands fell to the ground together with his blade. A cold, invisible force clamped onto his chin and dragged him before Lin Qingyun.

The youth looked down at him, his face still wreathed in smiles, and asked in a calm voice, "Look into my eyes. Come now, tell me—what grudge do we actually have between us?"

The black-robed swordsman met those smiling, curved eyes, and he grew dazed. In that moment, the intense hatred and pain in his heart were stripped away by a strange force.

The face of the youth before him grew more and more blurred. He felt an unprecedented fear in his heart, and dimly saw a tall, crimson-red deity statue replace the youth's position, and that deity statue was staring at him.

The black-robed swordsman answered in a drifting voice, "Ten years ago... I once offered incense to you in the Pear Garden Divine Palace... At that time, I made a wish to you... I wished to pass the sect's entrance examination... I wished to become a true cultivator... to bring glory to my clan and make my family proud of me..."

Lin Qingyun propped his cheek on one hand, looking somewhat puzzled. "Did something like that happen?"

The black-robed swordsman said, "You answered me then—you did answer me. You said you would fulfill my wish, only that I would live a very lonely life from then on... But you didn't tell me! What you meant by 'a very lonely life' was that my entire family would die unnatural deaths!"

His natural talent had been mediocre, not quite enough to meet the entry standards of the local cultivation sect.

Yet on the very night he received the response, the sect elder's son got into a fight with someone and accidentally sent a lightning-summoning spell crashing into his home—the spell worked too fast, and his entire family of wives and children all perished under it.

To compensate him and to settle the karmic debt, the sect broke its rules and accepted him as an inner disciple. He had been entirely unremarkable, but after entering the inner sect, he suddenly became sharp. His cultivation advanced with astonishing speed, and by nearly thirty, he was qualified to compete for the position of sect elder.

He had always believed that he was cultivating this fast purely because he worked hard enough. It wasn't until the sect's grand ceremony, when he was granted an audience with the sect master, that he was told he carried the aura of a True Deity's blessing—

That reminded the black-robed swordsman of the wish he had made in the Divine Palace. So it hadn't been him turning over a new leaf at all—it had been his wish taking effect!

"If you had told me in advance that it would cost this much, I would never have agreed!"

The black-robed swordsman grew more and more agitated, and the more agitated he became, the more blood flowed from his wounds. He looked like a madman, a terrible sight.

But Lin Qingyun, who was being accused, remained very calm. He had even already shifted his gaze away from the black-robed swordsman, staring blankly at a spiderweb in the corner of the ceiling.

The black-robed swordsman's accusations, each word dripping with blood, flowed past Lin Qingyun's ears like plain water, leaving no impression on him at all.

He had fulfilled many people's wishes, but he generally forgot them right after. He had heard at least a hundred stories similar to the black-robed swordsman's.

He complained in a light, airy tone, "All this over such a small thing?"

The black-robed swordsman struggled in fury. "A small thing? My entire family, dozens of lives! In your eyes, that's a small thing? A thing like you, how dare you call yourself a True Deity! How dare you claim the Divine Palace and the incense offerings! You—"

He didn't get to finish the curse. The part of him between his lips and his neck began to melt. Flesh and skin dissolved into blood, and the tongue inside dissolved along with them.

Lin Qingyun stood up, stepping over the severed hands and the blade on the floor, still complaining. "It's all Xiao He's fault. Why is she so curious? She chased after me, and all she got was a bunch of nonsense."

"Why are you shouting so loudly? You only had your family killed and your hands cut off. But I was killed by you five times, and I haven't made a fuss."

Grumbling, Lin Qingyun picked up a broom from the corner, raised it, and swept down the spiderweb from the ceiling. He also brushed away the fallen leaves at the doorstep.

*

He Zhuoming usually slept straight through until morning, but today she broke her routine and woke up early—she woke before the sun had even risen, when the sky was just barely light.

This was all thanks to the fact that, before going to sleep last night, she had told herself ten times that she needed to wake up before sunrise and cultivate.

She had long since memorized the breathing technique. By the time the sun rose, He Zhuoming had already finished her 'morning practice.' She let out a long, energized breath—then turned her head and saw Lin Qingyun's face.

She greeted him, and Lin Qingyun smiled and nodded, but didn't speak.

The two continued on their way. He Zhuoming had become much more agile, and was able to climb over some steep mountain paths on her own. But as they walked, she grew more and more aware that something was off about Lin Qingyun.

He still smiled like usual and would still reach out to steady her when she stumbled, but he hadn't said a single word all morning.

Was Lin Qingyun really this quiet?

He Zhuoming walked along, glancing back at Lin Qingyun with a puzzled look.

Unlike her stumbling pace, Lin Qingyun moved easily among the rocks, as if walking on flat ground. Aside from never speaking, judging by appearance alone, he walked even more like a normal person than she did.

He Zhuoming couldn't help asking, "Qingyun, why haven't you said anything all day?"

By then, Lin Qingyun had already walked ahead of He Zhuoming. When he heard her question, he turned back to look at her, his long, thick eyelashes fluttering slowly twice, then flashed her a big smile.

He Zhuoming was baffled. Why did he suddenly smile like that? Though he was always smiling anyway... so weird.

After smiling, he turned his head back and kept walking—just ahead was an upward slope of scattered rocks. He climbed it nimbly, reaching the top in two or three steps.

He Zhuoming didn't understand, but she hurried to catch up and climb the slope too. But she wasn't as practiced at climbing as Lin Qingyun, and by the time she finally made it to the top, she was panting and exhausted.

Lin Qingyun patted He Zhuoming on the shoulder and pointed ahead.

He Zhuoming followed his gaze, and her joy was so great that her fatigue vanished. She cheered, "We finally made it out of the mountains!"

Looking ahead, the scenery was no longer layered mountain peaks. It was flat plains, dirt roads, and in the distance, the walls of a city.

But the city wall was too far away. Even with her vision, which had improved many times over, she could only make out a vague outline. If she and Lin Qingyun had to walk there on foot, it would take at least two more days.

But there was good news too—they reached a post station before dark. The station was shabby and old, with two faded lanterns hanging at the entrance and a sign overhead bearing three big characters: Wendi Station.

The character-carved sign was old too, written in cursive, and the paint was peeling. He Zhuoming stood there staring at it for a long time before she could make out the three characters.

He Zhuoming muttered, "Even if it's a deserted place, having a roof over our heads is better than not..."

The station looked so run-down that He Zhuoming naturally assumed no one was living there, so she didn't announce herself. She just walked up and pushed hard on the door—only to come face-to-face with an old man standing behind it. He Zhuoming jumped in fright and instantly pointed her wooden sword at him.

The old man was startled too, raising an iron pitchfork at the two of them. "Who are you?!"

He Zhuoming turned to look at Lin Qingyun. Lin Qingyun responded with an innocent, friendly smile and tilted his head at her.

Still not saying a word.

Looks like she couldn't count on the mute.

He Zhuoming had to handle it herself. She steeled her nerves and said, "We're here to ask for lodging."

The old man remained wary and gripped his pitchfork. "Lodging? This is an official station. We don't take in ordinary folk. Do you hold any official titles?"

He Zhuoming was stunned. Official titles? An official station? Wait, did this cultivation world have a government too?

Then Lin Qingyun, who had been silent the whole time, suddenly stepped forward. He dug around in his sleeve and produced a jade token, which he handed to the old man.

At the sight of the crane pattern on the token, the old man's manner immediately turned respectful. He took the token with both hands, examined it, and returned it to Lin Qingyun. "So you're musicians of the Pear Garden. Please, follow me, both of you."

He hunched his stooped back and made a gesture of invitation. He Zhuoming felt confused, and instinctively looked at Lin Qingyun again, wanting him to explain a little.

Their eyes met. Faced with He Zhuoming's look of inquiry, Lin Qingyun curved his eyes into a smile, but said nothing.

He Zhuoming had no choice but to follow him inside first.

Everywhere in the station, signs of age and disrepair could be seen. The only thing that looked clean was the floor of the main hall, which was still wet, as if it had just been mopped.

The old man rubbed his hands together and explained, "Last night, a disciple from a cultivation sect stayed here. No idea what unclean thing he stirred up, but he died in the main hall that very night—rest assured, though, I've already scrubbed the bloodstains off the floor. I also prepared the young master's body and put it in the back courtyard. The county runners from Wen County will come pick it up tomorrow morning."

He Zhuoming was deeply shocked. Wait, why could this old man talk about it so calmly? Was death just an everyday occurrence in this world?

She couldn't help edging closer to Lin Qingyun, one hand clutching her wooden sword and the other quietly grabbing hold of his sleeve.

Lin Qingyun lowered his eyes, his gaze sweeping over her hand, and silently swapped positions with He Zhuoming, standing between her and the old man as a silent buffer.

The old man paid no attention to their little movements. He asked Lin Qingyun eagerly and obsequiously, "Would the musician master like to rest in a room first, or have something to eat?"

"All three rooms upstairs have been cleaned and are ready for you. If you'd like to eat in the main hall, we have braised beef, some cabbage I grew myself, and apricot blossom wine."

Lin Qingyun turned his face toward He Zhuoming, signaling with his eyes for her to decide.

He Zhuoming, remembering that the old man had just said someone died in the main hall, said, "We'll go to our rooms to rest first. Can you bring the food up to us?"

The old man said, "Of course—these are the keys to the two inner rooms. I'll go make the food now. Please go on up."

He took two keys from his waist, handed them to Lin Qingyun, and walked off.

Once upstairs, they did indeed see three doors, all secured with heavy bronze locks.

Lin Qingyun casually handed a key to He Zhuoming, but she didn't take it. Instead, she asked him, "We're each getting our own room?"

Lin Qingyun didn't see a problem with that arrangement, and nodded at He Zhuoming.

He Zhuoming grabbed his arm and tugged him down. Lin Qingyun didn't understand what she meant. With a puzzled look on his face, he stayed planted in place, unmoving.

Seeing this, He Zhuoming gave up and stood on her tiptoes, hooking her arm around Lin Qingyun's shoulder. Her expression was serious, and she lowered her voice. "Didn't you hear what that old man just said? There's a monster in this station! A professional cultivator died here last night!"

"Going by the usual fiction formula, if we sleep in separate rooms at a time like this, something's bound to happen to one of us..."

As she spoke, her expression was grave, both hands cupped around her mouth—Lin Qingyun only felt a puff of warm air brush past his ear along with the girl's light, airy voice.

He hadn't understood a word He Zhuoming said, because he wasn't a complete person after all. He was only a Wooden Puppet, and his capacity for thought was very limited.

But when Xiao He leaned in close to speak to him, the Wooden Puppet felt a few precious drops of blood inside his body begin to grow hot.

It was hard to say whether that heat was the breath Xiao He blew against his ear, or the heat of blood boiling over. It burned straight through the Wooden Puppet's skin in an instant, giving it the illusion that it was about to be burned to death.

Acting on instinct to seek advantage and avoid harm, the Wooden Puppet couldn't help but step back, putting some distance between itself and He Zhuoming.

He Zhuoming, suddenly deprived of the shoulder she'd been leaning on, stumbled forward two steps. Confused, she asked, "What's wrong?"

The Wooden Puppet lowered its eyes to gaze at He Zhuoming—in its smooth, barely-thinking mind, there was now plenty of confusion too.

The confusion on He Zhuoming's face gradually turned into worry. "You've been acting strange since this morning. You won't talk, like a mute. Are you sick?"

She talked as she closed in on the Wooden Puppet, wanting to press the back of her hand to its forehead to check its temperature.

The Wooden Puppet reacted quickly, catching hold of her wrist before her palm could touch it—it shook its head gently at He Zhuoming, pushed her hand back, and turned to unlock the nearest door.

It didn't say anything, but through its actions, the Wooden Puppet agreed to share a room with He Zhuoming.

It figured that going along with Xiao He could never be a bad move.

The room inside was better than He Zhuoming had imagined: a table and chairs, fairly clean bedding, and two windows by the bed.

She kicked off her short boots, climbed onto the bed, and pushed open the window, discovering that it overlooked the back courtyard.

There was a small patch of green vegetable garden and a shed made of straw. The shed was divided into two halves—one half housed sheep, and the other was empty, for no discernible purpose.

In another corner sat a handcart draped with coarse white cloth.

He Zhuoming watched for a while, then suddenly realized what was under that white cloth. She quickly shut the window and moved to the edge of the bed, her face scrunched up in distress. "Why does it have to be so close to a corpse? What if it turns into a zombie at night and hops up here to eat us?"

The Wooden Puppet stood by the door, observing He Zhuoming's every word and action. It walked over slowly, kicked off its short boots in imitation of He Zhuoming, crawled to the window on its knees, and pushed open the window she had just closed.

Every one of its movements was a perfect copy of He Zhuoming's, down to the exact angle at which it opened the window.

But He Zhuoming didn't notice anything strange about these actions—right now, she thought the corpse in the back courtyard was the strange thing.

She crawled over to the Wooden Puppet's side, shoulder against its shoulder, head close to its head. She surreptitiously pointed a finger at the handcart, then quickly, as if stealing, yanked her hand back.

As if she were afraid that pointing at it one more time would make the corpse mark her.

He Zhuoming lowered her voice. "The old man said he was a cultivator. After a cultivator dies, does he become a stronger zombie than a regular person? Or does he turn into a vengeful spirit?"

The Wooden Puppet wasn't looking out the window at all. Beneath its long, thick lashes, beneath the smile on its face, two ink-black pupils shifted slightly toward He Zhuoming, watching her with curiosity and confusion.

He Zhuoming muttered to herself for a long while, then couldn't help nudging the Wooden Puppet with her elbow. "Say something, will you?"

She turned her face to look at the Wooden Puppet—only when she looked over did the Wooden Puppet turn its face to match, meeting He Zhuoming's gaze openly and smiling.

It could keep smiling, but He Zhuoming really couldn't.

She gave the Wooden Puppet a suspicious look, up and down. "You... are you sure you're okay? Not saying a word all day is one thing, but why do you keep smiling like that—I mean, sure, you do smile a lot normally, but today you're smiling... it's really a little weird."

"You don't look like you've gone a bit dumb, do you?"