A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

He was one of the mercenaries who had come with me. His borrowed Ferron uniform was torn and bloodied, and a hastily wrapped bandage was visible over one eye.

He half-ran, half-staggered into the courtyard. Relief and urgency warred on his grime-streaked face.

The Mortician withdrew his support, seeing as I could stand on my own now, and stepped aside. "Go," he said quietly.

I didn't need another word. Ignoring the protests of my battered body, I bounded across the courtyard toward the mercenary. The sudden movement opened my barely-closed wounds, but I couldn't care less.

My sister was here. Rinvara was here.

"She's alive, sir," the mercenary blurted as I neared. He was breathing hard, adrenaline making him jittery.

"In bad shape, but alive. The medic's with her now, down below."

He led, limping quickly back the way he'd come. I followed close, with the Mortician and another mercenary falling in behind me. The others from my team had regrouped. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted our mage leaning heavily on a wall, his face pale and sweat-soaked, one of the Sunmire mercs supporting him under the shoulder.

He caught my eye and gave a weak nod—he was alive, just drained of mana. I nodded back as I passed; there'd be time to check on him properly later.

The stairwell twisted down into the tower's lower levels. Every step deeper the air grew colder. The stone walls sweated with damp chill, and a faint blue light flickered in a sconce, casting long shadows.

A few Ferron bodies littered the steps—guards, by the look of their uniforms. They had numerous blade and bullet wounds. The mercenaries' handiwork from when they infiltrated here.

Along the way, there were numerous doors. However, since the mercecnary who was leading us didn't stop, we continued going down. We rounded the final bend and entered what could only be the final room.

My paws nearly slipped on the wet stone floor as I rushed in. The smell hit me first: blood. That coppery tang thick in the air, mixed with something medicinal and foul.

Crates and barrels lined one wall, alongside neat rows of glass vials filled with a glowing ruby liquid. My stomach churned—Rinvara's blood, extracted and stored like wine. An appalling amount of it. They had been harvesting her for weeks, maybe months.

In the center of the room was a low metal table, and on that table…

"Rinvara." Her name left my throat as a rasp.

She lay there motionless, and for a horrifying moment, I thought I was too late.

There was a small human woman bound to the table with leather straps. Pale skin marred by dark bruises. A filthy sheet draped loosely over her body, stained with dried blood.

Her once silver hair was now the color of ash, chopped short. They had changed her, rendered her into this fragile shape, but I knew it was her. I could smell it: beneath the stench of blood and chemicals was Rinvara's scent, faint but unmistakable.

Our medic was already at the table, hunched over Rinvara's limp form. "She's breathing," the medic said softly without looking up. Her hands moved with brisk care, checking pulses, packing wounds. I could see the strain on her face—eyes red-rimmed, jaw clenched to keep steady.

I approached, each step feeling like I was walking underwater. My own injuries suddenly meant nothing.

Rinvara did not respond to my presence. She lay still, chest rising and falling in the shallowest motions. I could hear her breaths, weak and wet.

They had done so much to her. I took it in piece by piece, as if my brain couldn't accept it all at once.

Her wrists and ankles were raw and bleeding; the tendons were cut. Her fingernails… they were gone. Every single nail on her fingers and toes had been pried off, leaving cracked, bloody beds.

Someone had roughly bandaged each digit, but dark red seeped through.

A strip of cloth hung loose around her neck, removed by the medic. Its interior was smeared with blood. When I saw Rinvara's mouth, I understood why—her lips were split and blood crusted her chin, they removed her fangs.

Worst of all were her eyes. Or where her eyes should have been.

Dirty white bandages covered them, wrapped around her head, stained through with deep red where the eyes would be. My stomach turned. Blood had leaked out from beneath those makeshift bindings and dried in twin streaks down her face.

What had they done to her? Gouged them? The thought sent a surge of nausea and fury through me.

A low whine escaped my throat without permission. I stepped closer until my paws touched the edge of the table. "Rinvara…" I whispered.

The medic glanced at me then, her face softening with pity. "She's unconscious, Sir Pophet. It's better this way for now." Her voice was gentle but carried a current of restrained anger. Her hands moved to the tube that snaked from Rinvara's left arm.

It was a siphon inserted crudely into a vein at the crook of the elbow secured with tight cloth. The tube ran to a large glass canister on the floor, half-filled with blood. Rinvara's blood.

My vision went red at the edges. They hadn't just tortured her—they'd turned her into a living farm. Siphoning her very life away day by day, drop by drop, to use as an alchemical resource.

'Parts and materials.'

The Mortician's bitter words from days ago roared back in my memory.

I stared at that damned tube and the blood-filled jars and felt something inside me flame into an inferno.

"Easy," the Mortician said softly from behind me.

I realized my entire body was trembling, lips peeled back in a silent snarl. The Mortician moved to the opposite side of the table, opposite the medic. He began cutting away the straps that held Rinvara down.

"Pophet, she's stable enough now. Focus. We need to move her out of here quickly."

He was right. Enemy reinforcements would be coming. I forced myself to breathe, dragging my gaze off my sister's ravaged form and back to the situation at hand.

The medic carefully removed the siphon from Rinvara's arm. A well of dark blood followed it out; she swiftly pressed a clean wad of gauze into the puncture. Her hands were shaking now. She'd maintained calm until doing what needed doing, but I saw tears glistening at the corners of her eyes.

She swallowed hard and secured the bandage around Rinvara's thin human arm.

"Artifact… it must be this," croaked the mage, who had limped in last with help. He neared Rinvara and pointed to a dull black stone embedded in her belly. Faint runes flickered on its surface. Even exhausted as he was, his eyes gleamed with understanding.

"Some kind of polymorph anchor. Ferron got it from a dungeon, I'd wager… one of those treasures." He grimaced. "This is one of the few treasures that came plentiful. It forces awakened creatures into human form."

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Dungeon treasure. Of course. Across the continent, strange locations surfaced from out of nowhere—each containing treasures with unnatural powers. Ferron must have gotten their hands on one that could do this vile work. My teeth clenched. They knew it'd be easier to imprison a powerless human woman than a weakened Godbeast.

The Mortician studied the artifact coldly. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but his jaw was set in an uncharacteristic hardness. The sight of Rinvara had disturbed even him.

The Mortician then pulled out a small pill-marble, just like the ones that Rinvara gave me. He stuck a syringe into it, and drained the liquid.

Without a pause in his motions, he injected it into Rinvara. "We've done what we can for immediate care," he said to the medic.

The medic sniffed sharply and wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve. Her professional mask snapped back into place. "Every second here is a risk." She quickly secured Rinvara's arm across her chest with a strip of cloth so it wouldn't dangle. "She's deeply unconscious. Shock, blood loss… and whatever else they did. But her pulse is hanging on."

"I'll carry her," I said immediately as I stepped forward.

One of the mercenaries, the burly one with a fresh cut across his forehead, cleared his throat. "Sir, I can—"

"No," I growled, more harshly than intended. My eyes never left Rinvara's pale face. "I'll carry my sister."

I carefully slid my broad frame alongside the table. The medic and Mortician exchanged a brief look, then they lifted Rinvara off the cold metal and placed her gently across my back, between my shoulders. She weighed next to nothing. I could feel her shallow breaths against my fur.

The medic secured her in place as best as possible, looping spare cloth around my torso. Thankfully, they also took this opportunity to remove the barbed wire around me.

The Mortician moved swiftly about the room, collecting a few of the blood vials and tucking them away—evidence or perhaps needed for her recovery. He also rifled through a desk in the corner, snatching papers and stuffing them in a waterproof pouch. Likely records of what they'd done to her.

I was glad someone thought of that; I was too focused on Rinvara to think of anything else.

When at last we ascended the stairwell, it was as a grim procession. I led, carrying Rinvara carefully, feeling every slight shift of her weight. Behind me came the medic, one hand on Rinvara to stabilize her.

We emerged back into the courtyard's grey dawn. I hadn't even realized hours had passed, but outside the sky had lightened to early morning—a sickly overcast glow filtering through the smoke. The fortress yard was deserted, save for the dead. Varnok's hulking corpse remained where I left it, surrounded by congealing blood.

The bodies of Ferron soldiers lay strewn about from my initial charge and Mortician's deadly arrival. A few wounded groaned softly, too far gone to do anything but were still clinging to life.

None were threats now.

A strange quiet blanketed the place. In the distance, I heard faint shouting—an alarm bell was ringing again from the direction of the other stronghold across the valley.

Reinforcements would be on their way, probably from the larger Ferron compound that had been out of reach. They must have realized something had gone horribly wrong here.

"We need to go. Now," the medic urged, voicing what we all knew.

Our ragged group moved out across the courtyard. My legs protested with each step; pain throbbed dully where wounds had closed partially from Rinvara's potions.

I had two marbles left in the harness. I silently cracked one more underpaw as I walked, lapped up the contents on the move. Just in case.

The remaining one I'd save for Rinvara if she needed it more than me.

We passed through the twisted wreckage of the gate I'd broken earlier. Beyond lay the killing field—no man's land between Ferron's tower and Sunmire's trenches. The ground was scarred with craters and crisscrossed by coils of torn barbed wire.

In the early light, I saw the aftermath of my assault: Ferron trenches collapsed, bodies half-buried where I'd plowed through. A few scattered fires smoldered, belching greasy plumes into the morning chill.

My fur stood on end. Not from the cold, but from the faint rumble I felt through my paws. Distant, growing louder. Machines. Heavy ones, maybe tracked transports or steam-augmented armor.

Ferron reinforcements, and not light infantry judging by the vibration.

Perhaps a half-click out and closing fast.

Mortician glanced behind us at the fortress tower. He grimaced. "They'll be here in minutes."

A mercenary swore under his breath. "We won't outrun those."

"There is no need to worry," Mortician said calmly. He reached into his coat and produced a small metal sphere with rune markings, about the size of a plum. Without breaking stride, he tossed it over his shoulder back toward the courtyard.

"Keep moving," he added.

We did, cresting a shallow ridge that put the bulk of the tower behind us. There was a muffled pop and then a WHOOSH as the sphere detonated.

I didn't turn around, but an instant later, a gust of bitter, chemical wind blasted past us, carrying with it flecks of virulent green vapor.

The open field stretched ahead, the shallow valley we'd crawled through earlier in the night.

Now in the dawn light, it felt infinitely more exposed. If Ferron spotters reached a vantage, we'd be silhouettes on open terrain. We moved as fast as our battered group could. I kept to a loping gait, careful not to jounce Rinvara.

The medic jogged beside me, one hand steadying Rinvara's back. The mercs fanned out a little, scanning flanks. The mage, to his credit, gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep pace without further help; he even whispered a few words and conjured a weak illusion of haze around us, a mage's last trick to obscure our figures.

It might not fool keen eyes for long, but any edge was welcome.

We scrambled up the last rise, breath burning in our lungs. My limbs felt like lead, and only sheer will and the potion coursing through me kept me from collapsing.

But I had Rinvara. She was still breathing against me; that thought alone kept me going.

"There!" panted one of the mercs ahead. I saw it: the jagged line of our fortifications, camouflaged under mud and scrub, just beyond a belt of scraggly trees.

We had made a sort of arc during the fight; we were approaching our lines a little east of where we'd departed, into a more guarded front, but it didn't matter. These were friendly lines.

A sharp whistle sounded from those trenches—someone had eyes on us. A challenge call.

The merc shouted back a coded response, waving an arm. Figures rose from the mud, rifles at ready until they recognized our uniforms, or rather, the mercs' mix of Ferron and Sunmire gear and my unmistakable bulk.

"Incoming! Friendly!" A voice echoed. "Cease fire, they're friendly!"

We half-slid, half-clambered down into the forward trench. Sunmire soldiers came forward to help, eyes wide at the sight of us. One young man looked ready to faint when the Mortician hopped down off the ridge behind us, nearly bumping into him.

"Make some way!" the medic barked, snapping everyone out of their shock. "We need a stretcher now! She's critical, move!" The authority in her voice jolted the trench soldiers into action.

Two ran to fetch a stretcher; another unclipped his cloak and passed it up to further cover Rinvara.

Carefully, I tried to ease lower onto my belly so they could more easily lift Rinvara off me. Every instinct screamed to keep her close, but I knew the medics could tend her better in proper facilities. "Easy… careful," I found myself murmuring as four soldiers transferred her to the canvas stretcher.

The Mortician stepped forward, taking command with brisk efficiency. "Get her to the rear field hospital immediately," he ordered the stretcher-bearers. "Tell them The Mortician has stabilized her for transport, but she needs a regular transfusion and triage."

He gave them a hard look over his spectacles. "And get a High Cleric ready if one's available, just in case. Go."

They nodded fervently and took off down the trench, carrying Rinvara between them as quickly and gently as they could. The medic from our team went with them, refusing to leave Rinvara's side.

I watched as long as I could until they disappeared further into the base.

It took all I had not to follow.

Every fiber of my being wanted to stay with her, to watch over her every second until she woke. But I could barely stand, and others were already swarming around me—voices asking questions, hands trying to guide me to a place to lie down, someone exclaiming at the state of my wounds.

The mercenaries were being helped as well. I saw one slump against the earthen wall in exhaustion, and the mage was practically carried by a fellow caster toward the command dugout.

I took one step after the stretcher and stumbled. The world tilted. Before I hit the ground, strong arms caught me under the shoulders.

A mercenary and soldier helped lower me to a sitting position against a crate. I dimly felt someone pressing bandages to my still-bleeding flank, another checking the gash across my face.

Numb. I felt numb as I stared down the path where Rinvara had gone.

She was safe now. Safe and alive, in Sunmire care. The relief that thought brought was enormous, yet the rage inside me still simmered, unchecked.

It wasn't enough that we had her back.

Not nearly enough.

I closed my eyes, shaking with exhaustion and wrath.

Ferron… I had never known hatred like this before.

The things I saw in that room—the bandages over her ruined eyes, the nails, the blood harvest—would haunt me until my last breath.

The pain she endured, the suffering… I would carry it for her now, and I would return it to those who caused it a thousand-fold.

"Ferron will pay," I rasped, not even realizing I'd spoken aloud at first.

For the first time in my two lives, my voice sounded foreign to my own ears.