A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

The map was stained with blood.

Not soaked, just dotted. A thumbprint on the corner. A few streaks near the lower edge. The medic had rolled it carefully before handing it to me.

She stood to my left, not quite meeting my eyes. Her tone was softer than before.

"Sorry again," she said. "Should've stopped at two."

I didn't answer. Not out of cruelty—just pragmatism. Three were dead. One unconscious. Nothing else was coming out of them now. What we got was what we had.

She shifted awkwardly, like she wanted to say something else, then thought better of it.

I unrolled the map across the top of an old ammo crate. It was shaky in places, but the pattern was clear.

Outposts. Five of them. All ringed in a half-circle around a valley pass. Sentry points were also marked and patrol routes were drawn with charcoal.

And then the most important ones—the strongholds. Two of them.

One wide, squat, like a compound. The other narrower, vertical. Designed like a tower.

The tower was most likely used for long-range reconnaissance and as the first line of defense. The compound was buried too deep to enter without planning a way back out.

I traced a paw along the tower. That's likely where they prepared their skirmish teams. Rotate out small squads, test defenses, disappear again.

Smart. Efficient. Cowardly.

I wasn't sure where Rinvara was yet, but I had to take my chances.

The medic shifted uncomfortably again.

"He might not last long any longer," she said. "The one still breathing. He had some internal wounds before I even started."

I looked at her.

Not angry. Not disappointed.

Just tired.

Should I have waited for The Mortician to arrive before we started with the interrogations?

A quiet beat passed.

The sun hadn't risen yet. Still the same iron sky. Still the same haze along the ridges. But at least I understood something now.

Phase-5.

I had a feeling, but after the battle, I was finally certain.

Because of this, I took the risk.

"We're going for the tower." My claw tapped on the map.

No one reacted. Not yet.

I kept going.

"If Rinvara's alive, that's where we start looking."

Still no questions.

"I won't order anyone to come with me. We're not raiding a camp. It's a fortified stronghold. With sentries and possible reinforcements. Built to hold off battalions."

That got them thinking.

"We leave in thirty minutes," I said. "If you're coming, be ready."

Then I walked away.

No speeches. No debate.

I left them to talk amongst themselves.

I sat at the edge, just shy of the gate. The wind had picked up. Not strong. Just enough to remind me the night wasn't over yet.

The ground was cold, uncomfortably so. But I didn't mind.

Thirty minutes felt like a long time. It eventually passed.

Bootsteps. Five sets.

I looked up.

The mage came first. He wire the same coat, and had the same calm on his face. But I could see that his gait was slower than usual. I could see the way he kept glancing to the side. Like he'd already gone through an argument in his head a few times and lost all of them.

The medic came next. Arms folded tight across her front. Not defensive—more like she was keeping herself from turning around. Her eyes didn't hold the same fire they had earlier.

Then came the others.

Three of them.

All familiar.

The ones from Kareth's Gate. The ones who stood guard while I waited outside the command office. The ones who spoke about Rinvara like they still owed her something.

They didn't say anything now.

But they didn't need to.

They stood straighter than the other two. They looked committed.

Five total.

That was what I had.

Although Vess told me The Mortician would be coming with us, there was a delay due to preparation. He probably assumed that with the guards I had, there would be enough time for him to arrive and ensure that nothing was going to happen to me.

But plans changed. The ridge was ahead of us, the sky was still dark, and I was anxious to save Rinvara as soon as possible.

"We're not waiting for The Mortician."

I said it without turning.

Six of us stepped beyond the trench wall. Wind came in low across the mud. The field before the slope looked empty, but we knew it wouldn't stay that way for long.

The medic walked behind the rest. Not dragging her feet, but not eager either. Her hands were tucked under her coat like they belonged elsewhere.

The mage walked to my left. Same coat. Same silence.

The others—the three from Kareth's Gate—took position without needing a word.

We didn't take the long path.

It was funny, really.

The difference between here and the other side was maybe an hour. Less if you were walking fast. Less still if you were a pug who didn't care about terrain.

No mountains. No ravines. Just a slope, some trenchwork, and a cluster of sentires and barbed wire holding their end of the map together.

And yet, for every meter gained across this stretch, someone had to die.

Sometimes dozens.

Sometimes more.

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The frontlines weren't stable because of planning. They were stable because too many people had already bled just to keep them from shifting one inch in either direction.

This had been going on since Sunmire stopped being just a church and started calling itself a nation. Since the day it planted a border and dared anyone to cross it without kneeling first.

Ferron didn't kneel.

Neither did we.

So the fighting never stopped.

Every advance, every retreat, every skirmish—they were all just trades. Lives for lines. Muscle for mud. Maps redrawn not with ink, but with blood and bodies that didn't make it back.

It would keep going until one of us stopped existing.

I stepped ahead of the others as the slope evened out.

The tower was clearer now. Reinforced walls. Runed edges. Two sentries posted on a low ridge just outside the gate. One had a scope, which had already seen us.

Despite seeing that they were already signalling the surroundings of my existence, I didn't stop moving.

"We're going in direct," I said, voice low. "I'll draw the front. If she's in there, there'll be signs. Find them. If I make enough noise, you'll be able to find a way in."

The alarm went off hard—like a struck bell being dragged through a pipe.

Steam-rifles snapped to ready before I cleared ten more steps. Dozens of soldiers rose from trenches and low brush cover ahead, rifles braced against shoulders, all pointed my way.

Then they fired.

Not just random shots. But a wave.

A full row of pressure-vented steam-rifles went off in near unison. The sound hit first—phshhk-pshhkt-kank—clangclangclang—and then the impact. A wall of metal slugs punched into the dirt and stone around me. Some skipped off the slope. A few struck center mass.

Since the five were behind me, they were safe. The only damage was singed fur. Nothing more.

I dove forward.

The trench came up fast. Narrow. Low.

I barely fit.

Metal scraped my side as I dropped in. Boots and rifle-butt handles slammed against my ears as I hit bottom.

Two soldiers were already inside.

One tried to scream. Didn't get the chance.

My paw hit his ribs and the human folded in a way humans never really could. The other raised his rifle, but the barrel bent as I crashed into him. His head hit the wall and didn't bounce back.

I turned to the others.

"Infiltrate. Wear their uniforms."

They didn't need more than that.

The mercs got to work, pulling jackets and webbing off the bodies while the medic and mage took position low. No hesitation. Just movement.

Ferron was a contradiction.

Barbaric in doctrine. But precise in warfare. They updated every season. New layouts, tighter formations, better tech. Even these trench units had integrated valve glyphs so their men could breath better.

Above us, I could hear more footsteps. Movement. Fast.

I popped my head over the trench edge.

Soldiers were moving into position along the tower wall. I could see scopes. Barrel mounts. Relay flags waving in pattern.

They were coordinating.

Another volley came.

A full sweep. Slugs zipped past my ears. Hit dirt. Hit stone. A few struck my flank.

Pshhkt—clank.

Another.

Pshhtk—clang.

They weren't slowing me down. And I was drawing attention.

The higher-ups caught on quick.

"Sigil cannons!"

Shouted from somewhere along the left tower rail. Multiple voices echoed the order.

I could hear the setup. Heavy chains. Locks removed. Seals peeled open.

Enchanted payloads.

I couldn't give them more time.

I jumped out of the trench and my paw caught on something metal.

Barbed wire lashed across my side. Hooked into fur. Tangled.

I didn't stop.

More wire caught. Two lines now. Then three.

It clung. Dragged. Pulled the dirt behind me in a growing trail of metal.

But I kept running.

The gate was up getting nearer.

However, the wire was slowing me down more than I expected.

I could feel the drag. One length looped around my left hind leg. Another trailed behind me like a second tail, grinding against the dirt with each step. It wasn't enough to stop me.

But it would eventually be if it kept like this.

I looked behind—just once—and swiped my claw hard across the trailing end. The metal snapped loose, snapping with a sharp tcht as the severed coils sprang back.

The rest stayed tangled across my back and under my legs, clinging like vines of rusted teeth.

Then the sound hit.

BOOM.

Louder than the rifle fire. Heavier. A thick, pressurized release of force that cracked the air like it was breaking through glass.

I didn't look.

I jumped to the side.

The ground detonated in a hiss of frost and fractured stone.

Ice spread in a wide fan—clean, fast, and climbing. It latched onto the soil like fingers.

An enchanted round. Meant to pin.

Would've probably worked, too.

So I kept moving.

Another shot screamed overhead.

BOOM—shrkt—crack.

The next landed wide, bursting into poison instead of frost.

I dodged another. Dirt exploded to my right, pelting me with half-melted slag.

Then the gate came into view.

Fifteen feet tall. Steel plating. Reinforced by crossbars.

I stopped just short.

Placed a paw on the center seam.

Metal. Cold. But no glyphs. No defense etching.

I didn't understand why. Was it complacency?

I backed up four steps.

Then I ran.

And hit it full force.

Bolts tore loose. Hinges cracked. And the frame bent inward.

I pushed through the gap before it fully fell.

Inside, dozens of soldiers were waiting for me.

Shields out. Spears up.

Infantry. Formed lines. Full gear.

I could smell, hear, and see even more coming from behind.

Not just from the courtyard. From the upper levels. From hatchways and side stairs. Even from the flanking tunnels. They flooded in like the walls had started to bleed soldiers.

Spears angled forward. Shields locked together.

They didn't shout. Didn't warn.

They moved.

And I moved faster.

The first line broke before they even braced. A shoulder-check to the left. A claw to the right. A leap and a twist that landed me behind them—and when I turned, three more were already on me.

I snapped my jaw once.

Metal bent. Something in the soldier's arm gave a sick crunch. The man screamed—but it was buried under the crash of another hitting the wall behind him.

I kept spinning. Slammed my weight against the nearest shield wall. The formation cracked, bent inward, but didn't fall.

They'd trained for beasts as large as me.

But not Godbeasts.

I leapt over them. Took out a half-dozen on the landing. Kept going.

A pike pierced my shoulder. Another struck just under my rib. I didn't stop. Pain registered like heat—sharp, immediate, irrelevant. I tore one spear free, snapped the other by turning.

Blood hit the stone.

Mine.

Their mistake was thinking it meant anything.

They piled on, tried to flank. One got clever with an overhead strike.

I grabbed his wrist with my maw and threw him into a brace line.

Someone barked a command from above. Arrows loosed. One skidded off my back flank. Another found flesh. A third struck deep near my haunch, slowing my turn just enough for two soldiers to get in a lucky hit with a halberd.

Steel slashed across my chest. Not deep. But enough to sting.

Enough to make me growl.

And just as I reared back to lunge again—

"Halt!"

The voice cut through everything.

Sharp. Controlled.

The soldiers hesitated. The weapons they held stopped, but not lowered.

Then the crowd parted.

He walked through like he'd been summoned. Bald. Towering. Shield strapped to his back like a door that forgot to be part of a wall. His skin was dark, thick as aged bark, and his stride held the weight of someone who had never once been moved against his will.

He stopped ten paces out.

"I am impressed," he said, voice loud enough to bounce off the stone. "You walk through steel and you face everything without hesitation. You do not flee. Tell me your name and allegiance. You are worthy to be dueled."

I stared at him.

Recognition settled fast. My claws curled slightly.

This was the one.

The brute who dragged Rinvara away like she was a crate of gear. The one the Mortician had described.

My voice came out low.

"Pophet," I said. "The Gentle Faith That Echoes."

His head tilted.

Then came the laugh.

Full. Booming. Not cruel, just amused.

"Gentle?" he grinned, gesturing to the destruction behind me. "You've painted this place with my brothers' blood and call yourself gentle?"

He slammed a fist once to his chest.

"I apologize," he added, suddenly formal. "I have yet to earn my title. I am Varnok. One of Ferron's to-be champions."

Then he reached for the shield. It came off his back with a groan of metal and leather.

He planted it in the ground with a crash.

"Let us test your faith, O' Gentle One."