A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

By the time I reached the trench lines, mud had already claimed my front paws.

Not in a dramatic way. Just enough to make every step feel like I was dragging a second pug under each leg.

The ground was a mess. Uneven, sunken in places, still drying in others. It hadn't rained in a few days, but that didn't matter. This place didn't need new weather to stay miserable.

Barbed wire was draped over the ridgeline like someone ran out of time mid-deployment. Most of it was tangled, rusted, or left in spools where no one dared touch it. Too many heads had gotten shot trying to make it look proper.

The firing mounds were worse. Just stones and dirt shoved into something approximating cover. No engineering. No thought. Just whatever could be stacked high enough to shoot over without being tall enough to attract fire.

Soldiers moved past after glancing just once at me. Not out of disrespect, they were too tired to spare the attention.

Rifles leaned against makeshift racks. Steam-fed through canisters, and rune-supported. Condensed pressure regulated through narrow chambers reinforced with brass.

No gunpowder. Obviously. That was off-limits.

Everyone here followed the Three Laws. Whether they believed in them or not.

___________

Law One

The manufacture and storage of black powder in quantities exceeding standard alchemical thresholds is strictly prohibited.

Law Two

The refinement and combustion of volatile liquid fuels, such as gasoline, synth-oil, or anything that burns above water temperature, is restricted to ceremonial and industrial grade quantities.

Law Three

No mechanized construct may be built that exceeds single-core regulation.

___________

It wasn't a moral thing.

It was structural.

There is a society—one that has surpassed both coin and scripture—that keeps track of how close people get to breaking scale. They don't publish warnings. They don't issue sanctions. They just show up.

We used to have ten continents.

Now we have nine.

The laws are enforced by all kingdoms across every continent; the rest of us learned to keep our heads down and build smaller.

Steam. Pressure. Cold-weapons. Runes. Repeat.

I passed a soldier adjusting his regulator housing with a fork handle. Another was scraping out exhaust soot with the edge of a spoon. The gear here wasn't cutting-edge. It wasn't even standard. It was held together by necessity and the lowest bid.

Farther down, a field priest was fixing a wounded soldier. Due to the lack of equipment, he used what was on his person, just a steady hand and a strip of cloth.

No one complained.

Everyone worked like it was the only thing keeping the trench intact.

Because, in a way, it was.

One of my escorts finally broke the silence.

The one in front. Older than the others, but not that old. Late thirties, maybe. Rough jaw, plain voice, zero nonsense in the posture.

He didn't ask permission before walking up beside me. Just adjusted his pace and started talking.

"You probably already understand what's going on after your briefing," he said. "Still, if you're looking for a place to start, we'll take you wherever you need."

He just waited a second to see if I'd answer. When I didn't, he kept going.

"The official communications is buried under three weeks of manifest. But half the comms technically go unanswered. The medics are overworked, understocked, and operating out of a former barracks we converted after the last tent fire."

He wasn't trying to impress. Just inform.

"We've cleared most of the approach. You won't get shot for now. Probably. Last time was forty hours ago."

Behind him, the others followed in formation—spread wide, not close.

The mage walked farther back. Quiet, coat tugged close.

The squad leader glanced at a sloped barricade as we passed it. The kind used to catch shrapnel, though it looked like this one had already failed once.

"Our numbers are down," he said. "Not just here. Everywhere along the front. But here more than most."

He paused to step over a collapsed ladder.

"Used to be twenty-seven stationed at this segment. Last rotation, we hit fourteen. Currently sitting at nine, if you count the ones who aren't able to walk right anymore."

He pointed, almost lazily, toward a dugout near the ridge. "Two officers ago, that was the forward overwatch post. It's storage now."

I didn't say anything.

Didn't need to.

He didn't expect commentary. Just kept speaking like he was clearing a backlog in his head.

"We used to get mercenaries here," he said. "Not really church-trained. But they were good enough to help here. They knew how to patch a wound and shoot a rifle. If lucky, they were awakened. But they stopped coming after Rinvara."

No emphasis. Just a fact.

"After all, no one wants a contract where a Godbeast disappears. Even if they don't believe the reports. Doesn't matter."

He looked forward again.

"Something strong enough to make her gone just like that? That'll stop people from coming here."

The wind shifted slightly. Carried a note of scorched copper. Same scent from earlier.

He gestured vaguely toward the line.

"Ferron sends scouting teams every couple days. Never the same size twice. Sometimes twenty. Sometimes closer to fifty. However, they are always light. Always quiet."

He shifted his shoulders, armor clicking.

"They're not trying to breach yet. They're attacking just enough to keep us too tired to hold steady."

I gave a low grunt in acknowledegment.

He nodded once. Didn't push it.

"They rotate tactics. Change formation types. Use different weapons."

Another step. Another trench turn. The walls here were lower. Someone had scrawled a warding circle in chalk on one of the planks. It hadn't been redrawn in days.

"The brass says they're just testing supply routes. Recon. I don't buy it. They know what they're doing. They're trying something out."

We stopped at a split in the path. He let the silence breathe for a second, then glanced toward me.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

"I'll wait for them to come."

That was all I said.

The squad leader didn't react. Just gave a quiet understanding nod, turned, and kept walking.

The forest at the edge of the field was silent. Too silent.

Korin crouched under the bend of a frost-heavy branch, one knee in the dirt, hand pressed flat over the rune-reader embedded in his gauntlet. It pulsed once—faint and steady. Good. No rune traps. Not yet.

Behind him, the others spread out through the underbrush, blades low, breath held. Twelve total. Two squads. No lights. No talking..

Sunmire scouts had been stationed like usual, but this time no one had to silence them. No confrontation. Just bad positioning or lazy patterning. Maybe luck. Korin didn't care. They were past the line and no one was dead yet. That was enough.

The field ahead shimmered faintly under moonlight. Mud as far as they could see. Open terrain, broken only by trenchworks and supply shacks huddled low against the slope.

Two lookouts who looked alert but bored, maybe tired.

Korin gave a hand signal. Two fingers up, then swept low. The flankers peeled off toward the left edge, taking the slow route under the shadow of the ridge. They'd go wide, then cut the line once the call came.

He tapped the reader again. A second rune lit red beneath his glove. Land-triggered illumination runes. Enough to light the field if anyone ran through it.

If this run went clean, they'd finally manage to breach the trench wall before sunup.

He shifted his weight forward. One more meter—

Then sound.

Loud. Sudden. A short, harsh crack like bone against stone.

Followed by shouting.

Alarm.

The lookouts weren't looking anymore. They were screaming.

Then it landed.

Just weight from nowhere—like the sky dropped a boulder onto them.

Korin didn't see it until it was already on top of their squad. One soldier vanished under a paw. Simply gone beneath the sheer mass.

It didn't make sense.

It was huge.

Not wide like a wolf. Not long like a hound.

Compact. Dense. A slab of muscle and momentum wrapped in fur. Its eyes were too large. Too forward-facing. And its face—he didn't have a word for it.

Almost flat.

Crushed snout, broad head, huge chest, thick jowls. Like someone had bred a warhound with a siege ram and then carved the result down to half its expected size but kept all the weight.

It didn't charge. It just appeared. And once it was there, nothing stopped.

A modified rifle cracked from Korin's left. It was reshaped to suit stealth missions, a smaller punch and size.

Bang!

A solid hit. Right in the creature's side.

It didn't flinch.

Another shot—closer. Still no reaction.

He saw one of his soldiers go for the legs. Classic trip maneuver. The blade hit and bounced.

The creature turned—not fast, not jerky. Just… abruptly. Like it had forgotten that physics existed.

It didn't dodge the second strike headed towards its body. It walked into it. Shoulder-first.

The blade snapped at the base.

The soldier screamed, briefly. A giant paw swung from upwards, crushing him underneath.

It kept moving.

Something wheezed from its chest. Not a roar. Not a snarl.

A short, wet snort—followed by a series of hacking breaths like a creature trying to cough underwater.

It felt all kinds of wrong.

It made the back of Korin's skull itch.

"B-By the Gods," he whispered, stumbling backward. "What is that thing?!"

No one answered.

Because half of them were already down, and the rest were trying to escape.

And the thing was still making that sound.

Snort. Wheeze. Snortsnort. Hack.

And it rushed at them.

They ran.

Just full retreat, boots slapping mud, shoulders lowered like that would make them smaller targets.

I stood at the top of the shallow incline, watching them scramble through the slosh they'd crossed so confidently a few minutes earlier.

My front paw was soaked. Not from the terrain.

I shook it off, slow. Red sprayed off in streaks.

"Capture the runners," I said to my escorts, who had just arrived behind me. "Tell the scout line to intercept anyone who makes it past the ridge."

The words came low. Calm.

They didn't hesitate.

My escorts moved immediately. All of them. No clarification needed. Two vaulted the trench. One peeled off to alert the nearest patrol with a whistle code. The mage didn't speak, but his hands lit faintly with relay glyphs, sending a pulse through the wardlines.

It would reach the scouts in less than a minute.

I watched the Ferron survivors vanish back into the dark. There were five, maybe six left.

Around me, the soldiers stationed at this front were frozen. A few had half-raised weapons in alert due to the alarm. One still held a canteen, mid-drink, arm trembling slightly. Another leaned against the wall.

No one spoke.

Until one did.

Young. Barely adult. Dirt on his cheek.

"W-who are you, s-sir?"

He said it carefully. Respectfully.

Like he wasn't sure if he was supposed to say sir, or something else.

I didn't look at him when I answered.

"Rinvara's brother."

Then I sat.

Mud under me. Blood still drying part on my fur. The sky overhead a dull sheet of charcoal.

And I waited. They'd be back soon. With prisoners.

Unfortunately, out of the five who fled across the field, four were dragged back screaming or unconscious. One got away.

I didn't bother ordering to secure him. One loose thread wouldn't unravel anything tonight.

The captives were tied and seated under makeshift canopy at the edge of the trench compound. Someone had looped copper-corded rope around their arms and legs. Old supply wire. Not ideal, but it held tight.

I made my way over after the last was secured.

They saw me coming.

Their eyes went wide. One started shaking before I even spoke.

Good.

I stopped a few feet in front of them. Let the silence press for a moment.

Then:

"I want everything you know. The last six months worth of attacks. Your staging points. Supply routes."

No one answered.

Not immediately.

One of them glared at me, jaw tight. The others stayed silent. One spat blood onto the ground near his boot and looked away.

They were still soldiers.

Still loyal enough to keep their mouths shut.

"I see," I said. "The hard way, then."

I turned to my escorts, who stood in a line just behind me. "Which of you is trained in extraction?"

A beat passed.

Then the woman on the far left raised her hand.

She looked like a medic—short-cut hair, sleeves rolled back, a few surgical tools still clipped to her belt.

"I studied some," she said as she counted on her fingers. "Not much, Pain centers. Tendon layers. Nerve clusters."

I nodded. "Makes sense. Medicine is the study of the body. Torture's just another branch."

She smiled.

Wider than she needed to.

"I'll allow three tries," I said. "Make them count."

Her eyes lit up a bit too brightly.

Then she waved over two of the others and they began dragging the prisoners—one at a time—toward the old latrine corner where the canvas stretched deeper, darker.

I didn't follow them.

Time passed.

Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty.

Then footsteps.

Quick. Eager.

The medic returned covered in new stains. Blood along her arms. One smear down her cheek. She looked like she'd washed up in reverse.

"Boss!" she said, not winded at all. "Got one of them ready to talk. Thought you'd wanna hear it direct. So I've got him all ready for you!"

She was smiling a bit too much.

I blinked at her. Slowly.

But she got the job done.

So I followed.

They'd set up a folding chair under the canopy. He was a soldier named Korin. He sat in it, still tied. Still bleeding.

He looked like he'd fallen down a flight of stairs made of scalpels. One eye swollen shut. A line of blood running from his nose to his chin. At least three fingernails missing. Probably more parts where I couldn't see.

His breathing came in ragged bursts. In and out, shallow and fast. Every few seconds his head lolled to one side like he wasn't sure which world he was in.

I stopped in front of him. Let him focus.

"Where is my sister?" I asked. "Rinvara."

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Then something flickered behind the one eye that still opened.

"Sister…?" he rasped. "Ah. So you're the fabled Sixth…"

His head slumped again. His mouth moved, but no sound came.

I waited.

A second later, he came back to himself.

"Your… sister… is alive…"

That was all he got out before his jaw trembled and his body tensed with another tremor of pain. His breathing cut out like he was trying not to scream again.

The medic stepped forward, suddenly sheepish.

"Sorry," she said, a little too casual. "Might've gone overboard."

I didn't answer.

Didn't move.

Because something sharp had driven into my chest and lodged there.

Hope.

Small. Stupid. Dangerous.

But there.

Alive.

It would do.

For now.