The Young Puppet Master

Kazen Clan

Council Hall.

The Spirit Light Lamp cast a crystalline glow over the hall.

The Clan Lord, the Young Lord, and all the Elders of the Kazen Clan were present, seated in solemn silence.

Several jade slips floated from hand to hand, each recording the proceedings of this year's clan-wide examination.

The Clan Lord caressed one of the slips, his eyes closed. Streams of light danced in his mind, replaying the events in exquisite detail.

This year's focus was different. For the first time, the Mechanical Techniques division had been given prominence.

Specifically: puppet-string control.

The young cultivators channeled elemental mana through threads, linking their consciousness with the mechanical puppets. With careful coordination of spiritual force and mental clarity, they were to bring the puppets to life.

Yet even the best of them only managed a few crude motions—walking, tumbling, basic rolls.

The Clan Lord opened his eyes, the jade slip dimming in his hand. He set it gently on the stone table beside him.

"No seeds of true Puppet Artisans among our juniors," he murmured, his voice low.

Elder Hanzo, from the clan's Academy Pavilion, bowed slightly. "My Lord, our Kazen lineage has always specialized in talismans. Puppetcraft is a refined art, niche even among the hundred cultivation disciplines. Our instructors barely qualify as competent artisans."

"How can we expect true prodigies to bloom from such soil?"

The Clan Lord waved a hand, not unkindly. "Elder Hanzo, I am not casting blame. But the Crimson Ember Vault will not yield its secrets to brute force. It is a domain forged by Puppet Masters. To inherit its treasures, we must enter its world."

He glanced around the table, his gaze weighty.

"Our Kazen Clan discovered the Vault only recently. The other great factions—the Syrae, the Morin, and the City Lord himself—have had years to prepare. They've already begun grooming their Puppetcraft disciples in secret. We're behind."

"Our only hope is to recruit externally. That includes wandering artisans, rogue cultivators—anyone with genuine puppet expertise."

He raised another jade slip and passed it down. "This contains a list of known Puppet Artisans in the Ember City region. Our top priority should be contacting the artisan known as 'Whisper Flare.'"

"The crafts sold under that name are found monthly in the Ember Black Market. No one knows his face."

The Young Lord, Kazen Riku, frowned. "Whisper Flare's identity is tightly guarded. He deals only through Sun Lingtong, an outer disciple of the Hollow Flame Sect who controls the black market."

The Clan Lord narrowed his eyes. "Riku, I'm not asking for excuses. I want solutions."

Riku bowed hastily. "Yes, Father. I've already dispatched envoys to find a direct route to him. I expect word within the week."

"Good." The Clan Lord leaned back at last. "Time is not our ally."

...

Once dismissed, Kazen Riku immediately summoned his subordinate, Kazen Juro.

As the clan's procurement steward, Juro had handled past black market dealings.

"I tasked you with contacting Whisper Flare, yet you've failed every time." Riku's tone was sharp. "What have you achieved?"

Juro, a weary middle-aged man with calloused hands, bowed deeply.

"My Lord, I have tried. I've negotiated repeatedly while purchasing his Twin-Knot Desirestrings, but he refuses all extended conversation. He conducts business only—no names, no meetings."

"I even attempted to trace him through Sun Lingtong, but that dog turned on us. I lost two men and had to bribe our way out with spirit stones from my own vault."

Riku snorted. "You disgrace yourself further by asking the clan to pay for your mistake?"

"This month, we need eighty Twin-Knot Desirestrings. Make the deal happen."

Juro paled. "Eighty? That quantity—"

"Use the bulk order to leverage a meeting," Riku cut him off. "Or don't come back."

Juro swallowed hard and bowed. "Understood."

...

Later that evening, Juro found himself walking the back alleys of southeastern Ember City.

A haven of outlaws and smugglers, this was where the black market thrived. Guard patrols rarely entered. It was the lawless edge of civilization.

He flashed a carved emblem at the gate. The guard—a wiry cultivator with a spirit-forged spear—glanced once and gestured silently. "Follow."

They entered a crooked house. The guard peeled back a false floor panel, revealing a stairwell into pitch-black stone corridors.

Juro followed without hesitation. They wound through twisting paths until the tunnel opened into an underground bazaar.

Dim spirit-lamps lit the air in hues of green and violet. Traders in masks hawked relics and runes.

And there—at the far stall, half-hidden behind draped curtains—sat the one he sought.

"Master Whisper Flare," Juro said, inclining his head.

The figure hunched over the table barely looked human.

An elderly man, shriveled and stooped, cloaked in tangled black hair that fell to his ankles. His eyes, half-hidden beneath deep sockets, reflected no light. He leaned heavily on a gnarled cane.

A puppet master cloaked in mystery, draped in dust.

Juro forced a smile and stepped forward.

...