A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

By the last half-hour of the shift, the Bottomless Inn felt even smaller to me than usual. We had survived five grueling days of bizarre patrons; the adventurers and the hired staff hustled to finish closing tasks

On the opposite end of the tavern, the last few customers chattered in hushed voices.

"I swear, ain't that a Gromstel?" one of them hissed. The words were muffled by the distance. "Exactly! Look at that face and the size of that thing…"

I eased myself to listen.

"The Gromstels!" repeated one of the customers, eyes narrowed into a grin. There were nervous snickers as they spoke this gromstel thing that I didn't know of.

My tail thumped in amusement. The more I listened, the more I found the idea absurd and oddly satisfying. It seemed that I looked like a legendary beast, that when angered, would spend my entire life ruining the bloodline and connections of the poor victim.

My massive pug brain did a quick backflip at this.

Me, a demon-dog of legend?

The thought was preposterous; I was absolutely, wholly, undeservedly amused. Clearly, having everyone mistake me for some ravenous folklore monstrosity had served me well so far.

It wasn't like I'd asked for this confusion.

In truth, if the rumors were wrong and someone strong and battle-hungry had taken the opportunity, they'd take it out on me eventually.

Eventually, the last customers left and there were only a few minutes left for the dungeon run to end.

"Midnight," one of the adventurers muttered, glancing at an antique clock on the wall.

A heavy grandfather clock ticked solemnly in the corner of the common room, its brass pendulum swinging with a steady, sonorous rhythm. At the stroke of midnight, its two hefty hands both pointed straight up.

I wiped my paws on a rag and stood up.

The tension in the inn settled into a hushed silence.

Only the slow creak of floorboards and the steady ticking clock echoed through the quiet. The few remaining candles still flickered uncertainly, casting the tavern's corners into jittery shapes.

I looked around at the others: the four adventurers, plus the hired staff, who were moving about calmly as they finished cleaning, had now stopped.

Suddenly, a voice rasped through the hush: "All to your rooms."

It slithered out from nowhere like a thin gust of wind. "Return to your accommodations. Your tattoos await. One by one." The voice was old and twisting, like the branches of an ancient tree rustling on a rainy night.

I whirled around to see the source: a hunchbacked old lady in a heavy cloak had entered the common room. No one had noticed her approach, and now she stood near the doorway, cane in hand.

In the flickering firelight, I saw her crooked silhouette.

She had to stoop low under the lintel, and her cloak's hood shadowed her face, leaving only the glint of sharp eyes. Even in the dimness, I could vaguely sense that she was the law within this dungeon. I could tell there was nothing I could do if she decided to kill us all.

The tavern fell completely silent at her words.

Even the old clock seemed to pause mid-tick.

We all froze in place, shuffling uneasily. The adventurer leader was the first to move; he gave a heavy nod. "Let's go back to our rooms," he said.

Quietly, everyone began to move. The four adventurers exchanged resigned glances. The support staff—cooks, bartenders, cleaners— began filing towards the employee rooms. The old lady watched them go with the faintest of smiles, as if satisfied.

I stayed back for a moment, letting the last of the milling crowd slip past. On my hind legs, I straightened up and finally pushed through the small opening. The adventurer leader had waited by the exit, cloak dusted with ash from tending the fireplace earlier.

When I stepped into the corridor, he turned and fixed me with a glance.

"Uh… thanks, Your Eminence Pophet," he said quietly, his tone neither warm nor cold. His voice was hoarse, as if reluctant to show any emotion. He sounded half-grateful, half-reluctant, not sure how to even say thanks properly.

I felt my giant heart pound at the confusion of it all, then tried to straighten my posture and appear dignified.

I nodded. "You're welcome," I said, raising a paw as if in salute. "I hope you choose a good affinity." I walked past him and hurried down the corridor after the last of the others.

The corridor where our rooms were assigned was narrow and dim. The wooden walls and a few sputtering lanterns gave it a cold, ancient feel. I'd been technically assigned a room at the end of the hall.

I approached the door marked "20". It was barely more than six feet tall and only about two feet wide.

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One glance told me the room itself would be impossibly small if I remained this size. No big deal, I thought: I could easily shrink myself.

I pushed it open with my snout-face first, and then, I took a breath, closed my eyes, and focused.

Feeling the Qi coil within me, I tugged inward on it. My ears felt as though they pulled back, my shoulders rounded, and my limbs folded. In a smooth, painless motion, I shrank down into my small pug size: just a few inches tall.

When I opened my eyes again, the door loomed overhead. I padded into the room.

It was nearly empty except for an old bed pushed against one wall and a wooden nightstand. The bed was narrow, its springs satiny and complaining.

The wooden walls were bare, cracked in places, and a thin layer of dust and cobwebs clung to every corner. A single lantern on the wall bathed the tiny room in golden light, and the thin quilt on the bed was threadbare and stained. It was comically big when compared to my current size.

I trotted to the bed and hopped up. I barely made it.

Puffing out my chest, I made myself comfortable. I curled up with my legs under me and my tail still curled behind me.

Once still, the room grew quiet as a tomb. No more instructions came; apparently, the elderly innkeeper had not insisted on immediately showing herself.

I sat there for a while, trying to still my nerves.

Thirty minutes passed in that quiet.

But my mind wandered. Mana.

I couldn't stop picturing it. Raw, untapped magic surging through me; the idea made me happier than when my early life during my life back on Earth. Ever since I got reincarnated, I had dreamed of this day.

Fire. Lightning. Ribbons of holy light.

I imagined myself roaring spells instead of just drooling on the carpet.

A soft knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. My head snapped up. The door creaked open just a crack, and the old lady edged in.

Her cane clicked on the floor as she entered. The lantern light showed her face fully now—leathery skin stretched over sharp cheekbones, deep-set eyes that glittered with knowledge.

I cleared my throat. "Ma'am?" I managed, sitting up on my haunches.

My ears pushed forward, trying to catch every tone of her voice.

Her lips curved faintly in acknowledgment. "For completing your shifts, you will get an affinity." she said softly, gaze fixed on me.

"Yes, ma'am," I answered, surprising myself with how eager I sounded. "I wanted… I mean, if it's okay, I'd like mana." I said the word almost as a prayer.

The ink from the ghost's tattoo guidebook still stained my imagination with hopes of fireballs and spells. "Yes. Mana."

She raised a thin eyebrow. "Mana," she said, almost tasting the word.

Her eyes narrowed. For a moment, I thought she was going to draw blood with that gaze, but then… she sighed.

"I cannot," she announced gently but firmly.

My ears twitched. "What do you mea–-"

She held up a hand. One bony finger touched her lips, urging patience.

The quiet of the room deepened. Then she crouched slightly to my level.

Her voice became a quiet murmur as if sharing a grave secret.

"Child, you cannot enhance an affinity you do not possess."

Her words crashed into me. I froze, all bravado gone.

Affinity I do not possess. That phrase echoed.

This meant that I didn't have any affinity for mana. I'd been nothing but empty pages in those centuries-old spellbooks.

"But… I thoughts…" I stammered. Heat crept up my snout. My ears drooped, heavy with disappointment. My tail sagged and tucked slightly between my legs. My whiskers trembled as tears pricked my eyes.

She softened, a tiny frown forming. It wasn't anger in her eyes; it was something almost like pity.

She reached out carefully and placed a gnarled hand on my head. "No, dear," she said quietly, petting the fur gently. "It's not wrong to hope. Many do. But magic is... particular. You must have something to give before you can have more."

I sniffed, trying to swallow back the lump in my throat. "I understand," I whispered. It wasn't true, but I could tell debating would only upset her. The old woman nodded, then leaned back. Her manner relaxed as if a kind aunt giving advice.

"Weakness and disappointment come from believing something is owed," she said softly. "But you, you have courage. You have heart. And you have come far." She stood and moved closer toward my shoulder.

In one smooth motion, she produced an inkbrush from within her cloak and a small vial of midnight-blue ink.

Before I knew it, she dipped the brush.

"Sit still," she instructed.

The brush's bristles pressed to my fur. A cool tingle spread from that point, racing down my neck. I shivered but didn't flinch. My entire body felt the brush's touch, as if it painted straight into my bones.

Slow and deliberate, she painted a single foreign symbol on my shoulder. The bristles traced a swirling, flowing shape. It felt like the gentle caress of moonlight on water as she inscribed.

"Aha," she whispered as the strokes finished. She squinted at the symbol, then back up at me. "This is the breath of life, the current of energy." She paused, finger on my chest. I shuddered under her gaze.

The symbol glowed faintly azure on my fur.

"Life," I repeated, eyes wide. The characters seemed to undulate gently. Even my ears stopped drooping out of surprise.

"Yes." She stepped back and admired her work, chuckling a bit. For some reason, it felt like she was favoring me. "It does not give you mana. But it can resonate with it." She smiled at me, kindly.

Part of me felt cheated, I hadn't gotten what I'd asked, but another part of me was awe-struck. The ink shimmered softly. The mark slowly sunk into my body, becoming a new part of me.

The old lady straightened with finality. "Your tattoo is complete," she said. With that, she turned and walked out as quietly as she had entered. The door swung shut behind her, leaving the room silent once more.

For a long moment, I laid flat on the bed, staring at the wall. Finally, I hopped off the mattress and sniffed at the spot the brush had touched. It smelled faintly of the air on a rainy day.

A soft tapping came from the corridor. My head swiveled. Something drew me out: the door to my room was now open a crack, and beyond it, the hallway stretched silent. Oddly, all other doors stood open too.

That meant everyone else had already met the old innkeeper and left, leaving this corridor empty.

The lanterns on the wall flickered above me. Not an adventurer in sight, not a cook calling a the end of their shift. Even the hearth fire had died down to embers.

All was still. But my own claws clicked on the floor as I pawed forward.

With a slow breath, I slowly walked towards the exit, stepping away from the Bottomless Inn's shadow.