A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

Varnok didn't wait. The moment his shield hit the ground, he lunged. For a man of his bulk, he moved with ruthless speed. I barely had time to brace before he was on me.

The first blow came from the shield itself—he yanked it out of the dirt and swung the flat broadside like a battering ram.

WHAM.

It smashed into my left shoulder, a burst of pain and a crunch of bone. The impact lifted my front paws off the ground and sent me skidding sideways. I snarled, twisting to keep balance, claws gouging lines in the stone under us.

A few Ferron soldiers murmured at the sight: a one-ton beast staggered by a single hit. They hadn't expected me to reel. Neither had I.

Varnok's grin flashed as he advanced. "Good," he rumbled. "Again."

He swung for my head this time.

I ducked low. Steel sang over my ears. I barreled forward and collided with his midsection before he could recover the swing. It was like hitting a fortress gate. The big man grunted and slid back a step, boots scraping rock.

But he didn't topple. Didn't fold.

Instead, massive arms locked around my torso—one under my neck, the other over my ribs—and suddenly I was the one being lifted.

My paws left the ground completely. The air vanished from my lungs in a shocked huff. He'd hoisted me clean off the floor.

I thrashed. A panicked instinct. My back legs kicked out, scraping for purchase in empty air.

Before I could break free, Varnok slammed me back down. The world tilted and crashed as my side hit stone hard enough to spit dust. Stars burst in my vision.

A cheer went up from the ring of Ferron soldiers. I heard clattering armor, excited shouts—one of them actually laughed. The champion had floored the invading beast in a single grapple.

Pain flared hot along my ribs. Something definitely cracked. I heaved, back paws shoving off the ground, and rolled away before Varnok could drop the edge of his shield onto my skull. The metal plate crashed beside me instead, leaving a shallow crater where my head had been.

If I'd been a fur slower, I might've been splattered across the stones.

He tried to follow up, boots thudding as he closed distance. I scrambled upright, ignoring the shriek of protest from my battered ribs. Varnok swung the shield again, this time a low sweep meant to knock my legs out. I jumped.

The shield whooshed under me. I came down on it with both front paws, slamming it to the ground. For a half-second, I saw surprise flash in his eyes—then I lunged and sank my teeth deep into his forearm.

Blood. Hot, metallic.

He bellowed, a startled roar as my fangs punctured flesh. I tasted iron and the bitter tang of some alchemical plating on his skin. The man was wearing more than just armor; his very skin had been treated for durability.

Still, I bit down harder, determined to rend muscle from bone.

Varnok didn't pull away. Instead, his free hand punched down onto my already flat snout. Once, twice—crunch. On the third hammerfist I lost my grip and he tore his arm free from my jaws.

Blood spattered across my face and across the dirt. Not just his—mine too. He'd split the skin above my muzzle with that last blow; I felt warm blood trickling into my nostrils.

I shook my head to clear the dizziness. Varnok stepped back, adjusting his grip on the shield. A trickle of red ran down his forearm where I'd bitten, but the wound was shallower than it should have been.

He rolled his shoulder, cracking his neck.

"So, the beast has fangs," he growled. "Good. Show me more!"

He was enjoying this.

I circled slowly, panting, trying to buy a second to think. The circle of Ferron troops widened to give us room, their rifles idle at their sides as they watched the duel with rapt attention.

No one interfered. Ferron viewed duels as honor through death.

The fortress courtyard was deadly quiet save for our labored breaths and the scrape of my paws and his feet on stone.

My ribs throbbed with each inhale. My vision wavered for a moment—concussion, maybe. I blinked sweat and blood out of my eyes.

Focus.

I couldn't take many more hits like that. Rinvara's harness hung across my chest, the little pouches pressing against my fur. Five little miracles she'd made for me, now my only lifeline.

Varnok charged again, closing the gap with a thunderous stride.

I feinted left, then sprang right at the last instant.

His shield whooshed past, and I raked my claws across his thigh as I darted by. Sparks flew—his greaves were reinforced with something, because my claws skidded off metal after slicing only cloth and a thin layer of flesh.

He hissed, but instead of pursuing, he pivoted and slammed the shield down at his feet.

A clang rang out as the shield's bottom edge hit the courtyard stone—he'd braced it like a wall between us. I realized why a heartbeat later: Sigil etchings along its face flared sudden white.

"Down!" someone shouted from behind Varnok.

I dropped instinctively.

BOOM—CRACK!

A concussive blast of light and sound erupted from the shield. It was like a flashbang the size of my dinner plate. Even with my eyes shut, the flash seared orange through my lids. The sound felt like a hammer inside my skull.

Soldiers beyond us cursed and staggered; a few nearest were knocked clean off their feet.

My ears rang. I forced myself up, blinking past spots. Varnok was already on the move, shield abandoned for the moment. He loomed out of the fading glare and drove a gauntleted fist into my side—right into the cracked ribs. I howled as fire exploded along my chest. The giant followed with an elbow to the back of my neck. I hit the ground hard, legs splaying awkwardly beneath me.

This was bad. Really bad.

I tried to scramble up, but pain lanced through my ribcage. Breathing hurt.

Move, damn it!

Varnok reached down and grabbed me by the scruff, his thick fingers twisting into the loose skin and fur behind my neck. With a guttural heave, he hauled me partly off the ground. I kicked weakly, claws scraping at his arm, but my hind legs barely scraped the floor.

He swung me. My body whipped through the air and he flung me bodily into a nearby stack of crates. Wood shattered under the impact. I crashed through supply boxes like a wrecking ball, splinters and metal canisters scattering. The world spun.

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When I finally rolled to a stop, my vision doubled and my mouth tasted like blood and vomit.

Somewhere, distant, I heard cheers again. Boots stomping in approval. "Finish it!" a voice yelled.

A low ringing was all I heard after that.

I tried to rise and nearly blacked out. Everything hurt. 'This is it,' I thought dimly. 'I'm going to lose.'

No. I couldn't. Rinvara…

My paw fumbled at my chest, claws tearing at two of the harness pockets.

Pop. Pop.

Two tiny waxy marbles dropped out. I crushed it under my paw pad, felt the casing burst, and smeared the ooze into my fur. Then I licked, quick and desperate.

It tasted like chewing a rotten lemon dipped in bile. I almost gagged, but forced it down.

Warmth flooded through my limbs. The edges of my vision sharpened. The potion hit my bloodstream like a shot of liquid fire—stinging, then steadying.

The pain in my ribs ebbed to a dull throb. My next breath came easier.

Varnok was striding toward the heap of broken crates, clearly intending to dig me out and end this. I lay still a moment longer, playing possum as the healing concoction did its work.

He kicked aside a splintered board, then another, clearing a path.

The moment I saw an opening, I surged up from the wreckage in a blur. My sudden movement caught him off-guard.

I barreled into his knees from below with all my strength.

There was a crack—like a branch snapping. Varnok roared in pain and toppled backward. I'd driven into his already wounded thigh; something in his knee gave way under the force. He hit the ground on his back with a crash of metal plates.

Now it was my turn. I pounced onto his chest, pinning him. My claws scrambled for purchase against his breastplate, seeking the flesh beneath the seams.

He fought back, thick arms straining against my weight.

One hand braced under my jaw, trying to push my head away; the other fumbled at his belt. A blade? No—a pistol, an ugly little modified steam-rifle thing. A desperate attempt.

I snarled and snapped, forcing my weight down on his chest. The breath whooshed out of him. His pistol hand was trapped awkwardly under my paw now. He grimaced, face twisted in exertion.

"I see… why she fought for you," Varnok rasped under the strain. Even now, pinned and injured, his voice carried that terrible confidence. "Strong… for one called the runt of Sunmire."

Runt. The word lit a spark of anger in my chest. I growled, bearing down.

His arm trembled as he tried to keep my jaws from closing around his throat.

I lunged for his throat with a snarl feral enough to silence the watching crowd. My fangs closed on his gauntleted forearm as he barely interposed it in time, but I didn't let go. I bit down harder, tasting fresh blood through the cracks in his armor.

He screamed.

With a wrenching twist of my neck, I flung his arm aside, finally breaking his guard. Before he could bring the other up, I drove my head forward and clamped my jaws around the side of his neck.

Varnok's eyes went wide. His fists hammered against my shoulders, frantic, but weakening by the second. I bit down harder, crushing muscle and windpipe, feeling the hot spray of blood fill my mouth.

He made a wet choking sound. One last defiant snarl bubbled out, but it faded into a gurgle.

His blows slowed, then stopped.

I held on until I felt the life leave his body—until his struggles ceased and his arms fell limp. Only then did I release my grip and let his head slump against the blood-soaked stone.

Varnok, Ferron's would-be champion, was dead.

I rose unsteadily over the corpse. Blood dripped from my maw, thick and dark. My own blood pattered from dozens of gashes and punctures in my hide, mixing with his.

I must have been a sight: battered, matted with gore, sides heaving.

The courtyard was silent except for my ragged breathing.

Slowly, I turned to face the ring of Ferron soldiers. They stared back in disbelief. Some with fury, some with sudden fear. Their champion lay in a red pool at my paws.

No one moved. Not yet. Honor, I realized dimly.

They had honored the duel—no interruptions until one of us fell. Now that condition was satisfied.

A rifle clicked as someone chambered a round. That sound kicked all of them into motion. Spears leveled, shield readied, rifles rose, forming a wary semicircle around me.

I bared my teeth, forcing myself upright. My legs shook. I could barely see straight. The potion's warmth was fading and pain was flooding back with a vengeance.

One of the soldiers barked an order: "Surround the beast!"

The rest began to fan out, encircling me cautiously. I tried to roar but it came out more like a ragged snarl.

Blood loss was taking its toll.

Black edges crept into my vision.

My paw brushed another of Rinvara's life-saving marbles strapped to my harness. Two had been used—I still had three more.

'Don't use them all in one go, okay?'

With trembling urgency I cracked the third and fourth marbles beneath my paws, lapping up the bitter fluids while I still could. A shudder of relief coursed through me as my wounds tried to stitch themselves closed and fresh strength ignited in my muscles.

Just enough to stand tall.

The Ferron troops closed in, unaware that I'd just bought myself a few extra breaths of fight.

Steam-rifles glinted. I crouched low, gathering what remained of my energy. My heart pounded loud in my ears, drowning the ring of steel around me.

If this was where I died, so be it. At least I'd take a few more of them with me.

A tense heartbeat passed. Then—a shout from one of the soldiers on my left, near the shattered gate. His voice cracked high with alarm: "Incoming! Someone's coming in!"

The others hesitated, momentarily confused. Through the haze of pain, I heard it too: footsteps, unhurried, echoing through the mangled entryway I'd left behind.

A lone silhouette emerged from the smoke of battle. Tall, slim, and walking with the calm of a Sunday stroll.

The Ferron soldier nearest the gate took one glance and his face drained of all color. His rifle wavered. "By the saints… it's him," he croaked.

Him?

Another soldier swore under his breath. Weapons that had been aimed at me began shifting toward the newcomer instead. Fear rippled outward in a murmur. I caught snatches: "—can't be—" "The Mortician?"

That name cut through the fog in my mind. I let out a long breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

The Mortician stepped fully into the courtyard light. His appearance was deceptively ordinary at first glance: a lean older man draped in a charcoal longcoat. A pair of small, round-lensed spectacles perched on his nose, one lens flipped up to reveal a keen, hawkish eye. In his gloved hand, he tapped a slender cane.

He surveyed the scene: the ring of Ferron soldiers, their champion's corpse at my feet, me battered and swaying but alive. His lips curved in the faintest hint of a smirk.

"Evening, gentlemen," The Mortician greeted politely. His voice was calm, almost cheerful, carrying easily in the stunned silence. "Lovely weather to claim your bodies, isn't it?"

The soldiers exchanged unsure glances. More than one took a step back. A burly Ferron sergeant mustered some courage and barked, "Identify yourself!"

The Mortician tilted his head, as if genuinely surprised by the question. He snapped his heels together in a theatrical half-bow. "Oh, you don't know me? Allow me: I'm the one your superiors would often warn you about."

With that, he flipped the second lens of his spectacles down over his eye. The glass glinted, catching torchlight as he focused on the sergeant. He reached into his coat pocket with his free hand.

The sergeant's resolve shattered. "Scatter!" he yelled abruptly, stumbling back. "Fall back! Now!"

Too late. The Mortician's arm flickered forward. Whsst. Something small and metallic whined through the air. It embedded in the sergeant's neck—a tiny needle. The man yelped, clapping a hand to the spot. "I—" He didn't finish. A strangled cry tore out of him as he doubled over, veins in his face darkening to an ugly black.

Pandemonium. Every soldier broke ranks at once, fear overtaking discipline. Some ran for the nearest door or gate.

One terrified soul did fire—a panicked crack of a steam-rifle, aimed wildly at the Mortician. He didn't even flinch. The slug pinged off the cobbles at his feet, and in the next blink that poor soldier was on the ground, clawing at his own throat.

I hadn't even seen the Mortician move, but I could see the glint of another needle protruding from the man's collar.

The Ferron troops were in full retreat now, racing for any exit that took them away from the cloaked man at the gate. A few dropped their weapons entirely as they fled.

In half a minute, the courtyard emptied of all but the dead and dying. More than dozens of Ferron soldiers had been here ready to kill me; now only their footsteps and panicked shouts echoed from the far corridors as they ran.

The Mortician walked toward me at an unhurried pace, stepping over bodies and discarded rifles without so much as a sideways glance. His attention was on me now. Specifically, on the blood dripping from my numerous wounds.

"Easy, Pophet," he said, voice level as if we were merely meeting in a quiet hall.

"No sudden movements. Let's keep you upright, shall we?"

I realized I was listing to the side. The crash of spent adrenaline and the marble-potions' fading glow hit me like a wave. My legs buckled, but before I could topple a pair of strong hands—surprisingly strong, given his build—caught my fur from the side.

The Mortician braced me. He smelled of bitter herbs and something acrid, like alchemical acid.

"Quite a mess you've made here," he remarked mildly, surveying the carnage. "I'd personally say you did well."

I opened my mouth to respond—maybe to thank him, or maybe to snarl that I had it under control. But before I could decide, a new voice cut in, a man appeared beside a nearby stairwell that led deeper into the tower:

"Sir! Over here! We've found her!"

My heart almost stopped.