A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

The bells rang again at early morning, longer and louder than usual.

When they stopped, a voice rolled across the guild grounds and into the streets, carried by horn and multiple people relaying the same information. The message was simple enough for everyone to hear and repeat: the first stage of the Decennial would begin within three hours.

By the time we reached the arena district, the rules were already posted on boards at every gate so there would be no excuses later. The first stage would cut the number of competitors fast. There were a little over nine hundred entrants left after the examinations.

Today's task was to bring that number down to fewer than one hundred.

The format was written cleanly on the boards:

> Each round would field fifty entrants at once.

> A round would last at most thirty minutes.

> A round could also end early if the remaining participants were reduced to five.

> At the end of a round, the last five still standing would advance. In the event of there being more than five, it will be subject to the marshal's decision.

It was not complicated. It did not need to be.

This was the main tournament now. Unintentional deaths would be recorded and excused, but intentional killing would lead to immediate disqualification and removal from the grounds. If a marshal or appraiser judged intent: by action or clear opportunity taken, the entrant responsible would be struck from the rolls on the spot.

The clerics would still do what they could, but the Guild would not shield anyone who used the sanctity of this tournament to settle a grudge.

Healing stations were marked around the rim of the arena, each one staffed by a cleric and two medics. Multiple porters stood with stretchers near the gates. Marshals in red sashes walked the ring with whistles and signal flags.

There were less than twenty rounds scheduled for the day. Eighteen or nineteen blocks of thirty minutes each would fill around ten hours. Between them, the Guild had set a short five-minute break.

The announcers would read out the next set of names while the arena was cleaned and the wounded were carried off. It would be a long day for the marshals, and a longer one for the clerics.

Weapons were unrestricted aside from the usual bans. No poison and cursed items. Artifacts were fair game.

The Guild would not test every item in advance; responsibility rested with the entrant. If an appraiser flagged a violation during a bout, the penalty was immediate.

The boards also reminded the crowd of something the entrants already knew: cooperation was allowed. There was no rule against forming a team inside the round. There was no rule against betrayal either. Only the line on killing mattered.

Sali carried me through the crowd to the boards posted. Names were inked in tight columns, round by round. She held me higher so I could read.

My name was on the second round.

Sali exhaled and asked, "What do you want to do?"

"We'll watch the first round," I said.

Across the arena bowl, a raised platform had been set near the announcers' platform. Six elders sat there. The Adventurer Guild's heads, people who were called legends.

Grade-0 powerhouses, all of them. Between their chairs, a seventh seat had been placed and warded. A simple chair, but with a royal's treatment and a chest of tools beside it. Rinvara sat there, veil and blindfold in place, Mira beside her.

We found seats midway up, not too close to the arena. Sali set me on her lap and kept her cloak over part of me.

The arena was a plain circle: sand raked even, boundary stones chalked clean, four iron gates at the compass points.

People filled the stands. Families, guilds, traders, travelers. Hawkers moved the aisles with skewers and cups. The air smelled of hot iron, dust, and food.

Sali had even bought a few, eating them and feeding some to me.

The north gate lifted. Entrants came out, fanning across the circle. Then the east, the south, the west. Fifty in all.

No introductions. Names were for winners after all. The Guild wouldn't announce anyone until everything was finished, just in case there were any disqualifications.

It was a mix of all sorts of people. Tall and short, heavy and lean. Steel, leather, cloth. Men and women, old hands and bright-eyed first-timers who had managed to reach this far. A few carried staves or talismans. Most carried blades or spears.

Sali leaned forward a little. "Ah! There they are," she murmured.

Sarah, Mark, Holt, and Dain

I saw them too. Spread near the south side, not shoulder to shoulder but close enough to immediately support each other.

Teams formed fast. Small clusters drew together by hometown or camraderie. A few stood completely alone.

A marshal spoke up, voice echoing throughout the entire stadium despite the noise. He listed out the basic rules again; after which, he began the tournament with the sound of a horn.

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Thirty minutes on the clock.

The first round messy—two dozen small fights instead of one large one.

Duramark's party of four didn't immediately participate. They moved outward to make space, let the multiple groups crash into each other.

They weren't the only ones thinking. Other groups formed and unformed. Some groups traded allies after the first bout. Others groups broke apart immediately when a few of them got backstabbed.

After a few more trades and fights, when half the number of entrants remained, the flow of the battlefield changed. People started watching more than they swung. That was when I saw three individuals who hadn't moved much at all.

One was a woman in plain gray, sleeves bound tight to her wrists. She carried no weapon, only a thin band of frost hanging in the air around her when she breathed.

The second was a man with a short sword and a buckler who never seemed to have taken a step forward. When arrows and blades came at him, they simply swerved around him.

The third was big, not for show, with heavy plates strapped over a padded vest and a two-handed hammer he held like it weighed nothing. He tanked hits on purpose and answered back accordingly.

A group tried them. Six people who thought numbers would settle things. The gray-sleeved woman lifted her hand and pulled cold from the air; the sand crusted white in front of her, and two attackers slipped and fell unconscious before they knew what was wrong.

That drew attention. Two more groups circled, then thought better of it and drifted toward easier targets.

Duramark's four kept working around the outer edges. They dropped another pair, then met a team they couldn't beat.

It didn't take long. All four were out.

Sali's hands tightened a little on my sides but she said nothing.

By then, it was already obvious what was happening.

"Let's go," I said.

We took the stairs down from the stands while the first round was still going. The three who had dominated the field were obviously going to pass. It was now a fight for the remaining two spots.

Sali carried me through a side corridor marked for entrants. A clerk at a desk checked our slips, glanced at my tag which Sali had tied around my neck, then pointed us to a narrow hall

We passed two other doors with numbers over them before reaching the one we were assigned: Inside, a small stone room held four people already waiting. Benches lined the walls.

The four looked up when Sali stepped in with me. Two of them snickered under their breath. One folded his arms and smirked. The fourth only stared, expression flat.

Sali kept her face neutral and stood with her back to the wall. I could feel the tension in her arms, so I tapped her wrist with a paw.

"Leave me here," I said quietly. "Go back to your seat."

All four heads turned. The smirk slid off one face. The flat-eyed one blinked once.

Sali hesitated. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'll meet you after." I tilted my head toward the door.

She swallowed, then set me down. Her hand lingered on my head for a moment. "Be careful," she said, and stepped out.

Silence followed for a few seconds.

"You hear that?" one of the entrants muttered, halfway between a laugh and a cough. "It talks."

The flat-eyed one kept looking at me, then at the tag on my neck. "Registration must've been interesting," he said.

I sat on the bench, quiet.

No one pressed for details.

The marshal for this tunnel came in a moment later. Red sash over leather, papers in hand, whistle at his throat. He counted heads, frowned, and counted again. "Four? Where's the fifth?"

"I am," I said. I lifted my tag with a paw.

The marshal blinked once, then stepped closer. He took my tag gently and turned it to check the engraving. He compared it to what was on his paper. His eyes moved from the paper to my face, to my paws, and back to the paper.

"Name?" he asked.

"Pophet," I said.

He nodded, made a mark, and moved down the line. He took each entrant's tag, checked the description, and noted any visible artifacts. He paused once to ask a staffer outside the door to fetch an appraiser for a quick look at a ring. The appraiser came, glanced, and gave a short "cleared."

The marshal handed the tags back one by one. "You'll enter the stadium from the south gate."

We heard the crowd's noise above us, a rolling cheer that told me the first round had ended.

The marshal stepped out to listen for the announcer. Eventually, after a short while, he came back. "You're up."

We filed into the corridor as a group. The hall ran straight for twenty meters, then dog-legged right into a wider passage fed by several doors like ours. Another file of six or seven entrants merged in from the next waiting room. Eyes slid over me and then fixed forward again.

"Your tags," the marshal said. He walked the line, list in hand, taking each of our tags.

We moved as one down the slope toward the mouth of the south gate. Light bled through the bars ahead.

The marshal paced alongside us. I could hear someone behind me mutter, "If I lose to a little beast…"

We stepped out under the wall and spread into the ring. The footing was good: hard-packed clay under a thin skin of sand.

No one spared me more than a glance, other than the audience. Fourty-nine fighters were busy looking at each other.

A marshal in the center raised a red flag. His voice carried clean over the arena.

"Round Two will start with thirty minutes maximum. Last five standing will advance to the next stage."

A few more recounting of the rules, and then, the horn sounded.

I took one breath, set my paws, and let myself grow big. Bone and muscle shifted with a clean snap through the joints. Small to large in just a single breath.

The two who were closest to me were shocked at the sudden change, and it was enough time for me to move.

My left paw swept. The spearman's feet left the ground; he hit the sand flat on his back and he gasped. After which, I smacked him down with the same paw, rendering him unconscious.

One down.

I didn't slow down.

The next person came in from my left. I turned and slapped him across the head. He spun once and hit the sand, out cold.

A pair rushed together. One paw. Both dropped. I stepped past them before they finished falling.

Someone yelled to aim for the legs. I stepped into him and tapped him on the side of the head. He folded like a sack and stayed down.

I kept it simple. Paw, paw, paw. No claws, no bite. Just enough weight to shut the lights and leave bones unbroken.

Five with shields set a wall and jabbed over it. I walked to them, lifted a paw, and pressed. The front line slid backward together, feet skidding. I raised the other paw and tapped each helm once as they tried to recover.

Five helmets rang. Five bodies went still.

An axe came high at my ear. I glanced, caught the haft between my paw pads, and flicked my paw. The owner tumbled with it, rolled twice, and did not rise.

By the time the first minute had passed, a wide ring around me was clear, littered with groaning bodies and abandoned weapons. Those still standing gave me space and focused on me.

I stood where I was, paws loose, breathing even.

I was waiting for them to try me.

They didn't.