A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

Book 2. Third Life.

They called it the central continent. Maps printed the name as such, and merchants spoke it with pride. In truth, the landmass was only a little larger than Sunmire.

But what truly mattered was not size, but function. This was the land of dungeons and those who made a living from them.

To the southeast lay Elantris, where religion argued with one another across battlefields already tired of war. To the north, the barren lands of Frost, and to the west was the nations of the Orient Seas.

What made the central continent different from the others was that it chose a different allegiance. Contracts over creeds.

Anyone who could work, learn, or fight within rules that protected the many were welcome into its land.

Refugees would arrive by the road and by quiet harbor. Adventurers would gather from nowhere. Mercenaries settled in groups. Honorable knights found their oaths rewritten to fit a broader code. Inventors rented sheds that smelled of oil and ink. Scholars moved between schools, libraries, and secretarial positions within towns and cities.

All-in-all, a single thread bound them: the acknowledgment that this land accepted them. And that they had one enemy, the dungeons.

At the center of this choice stood the Adventurer Guild. Despite its name, it was actually an entire city. It was the heart of the central continent.

Every important descent began on paper. Teams registered their composition, ranks, and claims. A clerk checked the form against the Registry of Losses and the Calendar of Stabilization. A scribe stamped the Quarantine Window. A medic confirmed the party's baseline health. The Quartermaster issued seals and thread-bound notebooks. One copy stayed with the team lead. One remained in the archive.

This meant that if a team vanished, the paper trail did not.

And due to how they standardized dungeon entries, casualty rates around stabilized dungeons fell year by year. The continent's popular attraction was artifact generation.

Where Sunmire smelted iron and revered sunsteel, the central continent churned out artifacts by the thousands daily.

This was also thanks to the Adventurer Guild's effort; they did not hoard its basic texts. It sold them at cost or donated them in villages near low-risk dungeons. A farmer with three healthy neighbors and a borrowed lamp could read their guides and be easily able to get some coin. It also built loyalty to the system that made the work survivable.

The Adventurer's Guild simply set the boundary between private belief and public danger. The founders had said this at the start, and it forever became their creed: 'We will treat death as a variable we can reduce.'

The central continent's promise to its people was not glory. It was the chance to do dangerous work with the best odds available, written in plain language and enforced without favoritism.

From the Central Continent's heart-city, notices went out on the same paper they used for dungeon work. The decade tournament was scheduled.

Provincials would begin two months before the main event. Every major city received the dates, the brackets, and the rule sheets.

In Duramark, an adventuring region near the west, one small city took its turn.

It had a single arena, a mid-sized guildhouse, and enough inns to keep travelers from blocking the roads. It was enough.

The purpose matched the continent's habit. Morale first. It was not a hunt for the strongest. That honesty still drew people to participate anyway. Fighters liked clean rules and steady crowds, and the city liked coin that did not come from needless bloodshed.

The morning of registration began with a line at the guildhouse door. Names were checked against the ledger. Ranks were verified. Each entrant signed the liability form, and where relevant, the consent for the final bracket.

The rule sheet was simple. No killing or permanent maiming unless you were in the Open Brackets. That bracket required rank, filings, and mutual consent. Other than that, and before anyone could reach the final brackets, matches ended on submission, surrender, or ring-out.

There were other precautions, too, to ensure that the audience was unharmed. No projection that could catch the first rows. Healers capable of basic barrier spells were also stationed ready at each ring. And a marshal could stop a bout at any time.

Breaking the rules meant removal and a ban from guild events for a defined term. Being banned was a problem because they could cut you off from work.

Crowds filled the stands. Vendors sold water, bread, and roasted meat. And betting stalls with permits had opened in plain view. The popular betting spree was the same across the continent: non-awakened vs awakened.

Under safety rules, a trained non-awakened could perhaps injure a reckless awakened.

Morning was for novices and unranked hopefuls just testing things out, thinking that they were capable of much more.

The city's guildhouse controlled the pace. Healers rotated on schedule. Floor crews replaced cracked tiles. And a marshal walked each stage before a fight to check for any mishaps or sabotage.

After midday, the Ranked Bracket began. Local companies sent their names. Morale within the city rose as plenty of people enjoyed themselves, even earning some bragging rights about lasting a certain amount of time versus a prolific warrior.

Between each bracket change, the announcer reminded the stands what the tournament was and was not. It ran once every ten years. Provincials, like the one they were having, began two months ahead. Winners of the Final Bracket of both Open and Ranked Brackets would need to report within a days.

From there, the Adventurer's Guild would sponsor them to the capital.

The Open Bracket slate went up at dusk. There, consent seals were visible next to each name. But that didn't mean that the organizers didn't care about their lives. Healers laid out full kits and the local militia cleared extra space at the exits for stretchers.

The betting line had gotten more popular since this bracket allowed lethal force.

When the marshal posted the next fight, one name drew a second look from a few older men in the stands: Callen Vierre, once of House Vierre in Duramark's north.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

When he first came here, he had signed the consent seal without hesitation.

Callen had the confidence of someone who had trained for years and kept training after his noble home's money ran out. House Vierre had been respected. Then, a chain of bad loans and two failed ventures forced auctions.

The manor became a boarding house, and the last steward who had taken care of him when he was a child had left with an apology and a handshake..

He did not join for coin. Although the provincials paid, it was not enough to rebuild a house. He joined the tournament because he wanted to prove himself.

After all, he carried a history the crowd could not see.

They had been betrothed as infants. Fifteen years of certainty arranged by their families.

Their lessons were split by both noble house's expectations: he studied the sword, politics, and law; she studied dance, medicine, and court speech. It was a standard path under a standard order.

Even here, on a continent that welcomed anyone who could work under rules, they still had a patriarchal society. While there were exceptions in history of women leading noble houses, it was in quiet generality that men inherited them.

He never doubted that she would stand beside him governing a region. He thought it would make her safe and honored. He called that happiness.

One morning, she asked to meet in her family's garden. There was no preamble. She requested for their engagement to be annulled. Of course, he was furious.

It soon became an argument; he spoke about how she should stand by his side and not sacrifice herself for her family. To let her brothers handle that burden.

"Why do you assume it is an honor for you to claim your noble right, and it is a sacrifice for me to claim mine?"

Is what she said to him. He was flabbergasted.

He had tried to answer with reason. He talked about their shared duty and the comfort they seeked in each other. He spoke about safety. He spoke about keeping her from the edges of trade and the dangers of travel. He thought he was offering care.

She listened, then ended it. The families negotiated the return of gifts and the closure of accounts. The betrothal ended with signatures and two quiet dinners that felt like funerals.

Out of anger, he kept training. He was so lost in himself that he didn't care when news of his house's finances had worsened. But no matter, he simply sold the last horses and walked to lessons. He even worked guard jobs for merchants who did not care about his old name.

News of her found him anyway. First, she secured distribution rights for a new set of medicinal tonics through a small guild no one had watched closely. Within a year, those tonics were on every road, and her contracts paid out.

Then, she funded surveys in a rough range to the east that most buyers had ignored. The reports came back with rare metals and steady veins. She leased the land and sold production quotas before the larger houses could copy the move. When the first shipments came, her ledgers doubled.

After that, she built companies that handled artifact components, basic goods, and transport. She hired engineers who spoke to inspectors in their own language. When people told the story, they said she saw the curve before the market did.

It had only been five years since their annulment and she had already grown out of his reach.

It was almost as if she came back from the future.

But enough of that. Five years had passed. In that time, Callen awakened. The world changed shape for him. He could see mana as a flame in everyone. However, he had not trained his resonance enough to trust using it in public.

The marshal posted the next slate. His name rose again with a new line under it: Sali. The board listed her as Sali (Elven Beasttamer), with a bow icon and the support tag the Guild used for rescue assignments.

He knew the name. Everyone worth their salt in Duramark knew it.

She had appeared eight years ago at the guildhouse with a small black creature under her arm. She signed up for basic drills and education, then volunteer support. Within three years, she was on at least a quarter of the after-action reports.

If a dungeon party lost someone, she was there to be the temp. If a team froze at an important junction, she supported them. If an entry team needed an extra pair of eyes, she was the go-to person. The Adventurer's Guild advanced her rank faster than most because her file was clean and her results were great.

Elves were common enough. But Beasttamers were not. Most people with the gift failed at the second step: keeping the bond with their beast steady under pressure.

Rumor said her black beast could turn giant, but only a scant few had seen it. So the rumors were as unreliable as the idea itself. How could a beast that small turn so huge?.

The bell sounded the call, and Callen walked from the bench to the stage. The sand had been raked smooth.

His opponent stepped in from the opposite gate.

She was young, slender, and small. She had blonde hair, braided neatly. Bow across her back. A simple bracer on her left arm. No ornaments that Callen could see from his spot.

She placed the small black beast on the ground beside her and patted its head once. It blinked up at her, then at him.

Callen checked their mana. Sali's flame was small and steady, like a candle. It told him she had control but not excess. But when he looked at the small beast, he found that it had no flame at all.

His skin prickled. Everyone had a flame. Even the sick had one small enough to constitute as a thread. But this thing did not.

He focused on the creature. It looked… odd. Flat face. Big round eyes. A tail that curled. Its tongue hung out to one side as if the rest of its mouth had run out of room, even though it still had plenty.

It sat with its front legs too straight and its back end slightly splayed. It also breathed loudly, as if air had to fight a short hallway to get in. But when it looked at him, its eyes were too serious for the rest of the face.

The crowd leaned forward. Some laughed softly. They had never seen anything like it.

The marshal raised a hand. "Standard Open Bracket rules. Begin."

Sali moved first. She took the bow from her back, notched, and sent a testing shot. The arrow flew towards him but without heavy intent. Callen stepped and let it pass. The next came low; he tapped it aside with the flat of his blade. The third he cut cleanly at mid-flight.

None of them threatened him.

He grew skeptical. This was the famed Beasttamer?

The one dungeon parties would request by name? The arrows were textbook-worthy, but they were not a problem.

He decided to end it quickly. He drew mana into his legs, felt the heat settle along the tendons, and moved. The sidestep was fast. He went wide to Sali's left, aiming to cut the angle and force a clean surrender with a blade at the collarbone.

He didn't intend to kill her, just enough to nick her skin. It was a common finish.

Sali lost sight of him for a second. Her eyes widened and she had to turn her head both sides before she found him.

But the black beast did not lose sight of him at all.

Its round eyes tracked him as if he were the only moving thing in the ring.

As Callen neared, the beast lifted one paw. The gesture was almost delicate. Then the paw came down on the sand.

Pressure hit him. His knee almost buckled and he broke his acceleration to jump back on reflex.

The ground where he had been standing caved in. The indentation was the clear shape of a paw.

An invisible force struck compacted the sand hard enough to hold the print without slumping.

Callen stared.

He reset his guard. The beast watched him calmly, tongue lolling, chest wheezing. It was ridiculous and unnerving at once.

Sali lowered her bow and glanced at the print, then at the little creature. Her posture changed. She stepped back from it and bowed to the small beast, almost like an apology.

Sali then raised the bow again and sent two more arrows, wide and high.

She kept her distance. Most of her arrows flew towards him properly, but a few of them had a little mana imbued in them.

Callen edged forward more than once, looking for an opening. Each time, the small black beast lifted its paw and held it there—silent, tongue lolling, eyes fixed on him.

The weight in the air pressed just enough to warn him. One more step and he would be flattened on the ground.

He eased back. The paw lowered. Sali loosed another arrow, plain as the last.

It repeated—advance, paw raised, retreat, paw lowered. Over and over, the distance never closing.

By the fifth time, Callen understood.

She wasn't fighting to beat him. In this tournament, with the crowd watching, Callen Vierre realized he was not an opponent.

He was a training dummy.