A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

The airship glided through the pale dawn light, gently bumping on the sparse clouds like a ship on a slow, rainy sea. I sat wedged into a special extra-large seat, an obvious concession for my rather sizable form.

The cabin smelled faintly of oil and cedar wood, and the hush of conversations around me was broken only by the soft hiss of steam vents and the occasional clunk as the ship adjusted its altitude.

Being a seven-foot-tall Godbeast with the leather-upholstered seat to myself drew more attention than I'd hoped. We were on a commercial airship, so there were plenty of other people on it.

Mind you, the only people who were fully aware of my existence, not just through rumors, were steamblooded nobles and high-ranking merchants.

Our trip back to Sunmire, which should have just been a day's worth of rest at Valden City and a couple of hours on the airship back home, had already taken six days thanks to my little misadventure, but now that the we were finally going back, I was determined to keep any more chaos to a minimum.

Some passengers pretended to read or sleep, but their side-eyes were blatant.

A great example was when an old lady who saw me when she first boarded let out a small gasp, grasping at her prayer beads.

In my past life on Earth, I would have called this "fame anxiety." But when I was taken on parks, it was more of a cutesy type of fame.

I glanced down at my lap, contemplating the audio space invasion in progress.

I swallowed back a groan. The rumors had certainly flourished. Pophet the Sixth—"Sunmire's Sixth Heir,"—was known as a legend, but not the good kind.

Even now, news of what I did at one of Ferron's front strongholds was kept secret. The only thing I'm known for by the general public was unbenign rumors of being a hideous Godbeast, or that I didn't exist at all.

I tried to offer a modest smile, but ended up looking vaguely threatening. If I had a cent for each startled face, I'd be able to use the money to buy plenty of chicken.

My mind drifted. Airships here in Sunmire were marvels of safety and design.

I glanced at one of the bulkheads, noticing strange runes etched on a metal safety bar.

Back on Earth, I'd once heard from my owner reading about a tragedy—the Hindenburg or something—where fireworks had gone very, very wrong. In this world, however, there was a similar event, but it only made them bolster their safety protocols even more.

Every seam was enchanted against fire, every bolt given a second and third backup, and the engines even had protective runes.

Rinvara, who was currently beside me, was happily trying to learn how to knit; she was being taught by Mira. I'd gander that she knew how people felt about me currently, but I told her to just let it be.

[Fifteen minutes to Sunmire's Basilica.] A voice echoed from above.

Home at last. After all the chaos, we were finally close enough to glimpse the golden spires of our faith's grandest temple.

Outside the window, the sky turned from steel-gray to a lighter blue as the ship descended. The Basilica rose from the city like a sentinel of hope: white marble towers crowned with ornate runes and golden sun-emblems, catching the sunrise and splintering it into a thousand glints of light.

From up here, it looked breathtaking.

There was a light jolt to the airship as we landed on a skyport platform sealed in webs of protective wards. The engines hissed and came to a stop.

After a few more words from the captain of the airship, the cabin door opened with a whisper of air.

I hopped carefully to the floor, stretching my legs after the cramped flight.

On the platform stood a delegation of high priests in embroidered robes, the Grand Vicar Talem among them, hands clasped and face solemn, flanked by stern but respectful guards.

They were waiting, of course.

Beside me, Mira steadied Rinvara's wheelchair; my sister sat behind an ornate veil, her hair gleaming like silver in the afternoon sun. The moment Talem's eyes found us, warmth softened his aged features.

He pushed through his retinue and offered his hand to Rinvara first.

"Rinvara," Talem intoned, voice filled with relief, "by the Light, you are safe. Welcome home." He removed his mitre and bowed deeply.

I could tell he truly meant it—no political masks here, only fatherly concern.

Rinvara, despite her blindness, inclined her head with a serene grace. "Grand Vicar Talem," she replied softly, "your prayers have protected us as much as any blade. We are grateful."

Mira gently guided Rinvara's hand to meet Talem's in a chaste clasp.

"We were so worried after your disappearance. When word came you'd been taken…" He cut off, eyes downcast. "I am sorry, both of you."

Rinvara squeezed his hand, eyes unseeing but with a gentle sincerity. "There is nothing to forgive," she said. "You did your duties."

He paused when he looked at me, pleased. He gave a half-smile. "It seems the Light truly guides the humble."

I only grunted in reply, not knowing quite what to say.

We finally arrived back home.

A pair of clerics began ushering us down a flagstone path toward the Basilica's rear entrance. Rinvara's wheelchair rolled softly over the moss-dusted stones, petals of night-blooming flowers casting shadows in the morning light.

This courtyard herb-garden had echoed many memories in me.

It was once been tended by my mother, Lady Aurelith herself, in quieter days. There were also quite a few when I dug out roots and chased squirrels around.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The scent of basil and mint mingled with rich soil and dew, and a single fountain gurgled gently to our left.

After ensuring Rinvara was settled in a private chamber, her first need, Talem insisted, was rest, the Grand Vicar excused himself politely and beckoned me to follow.

"Sir Pophet," Talem said softly, leading me further into the herb garden, away from everyone else. He spoke with a gentle authority. "You have traveled far and seen things. How do you feel? And tell me frankly, what do you think of the world now that you have seen it beyond the inner church?"

I paused, distracted by the scent of lavender and the rhythm of my own heartbeat.

My pawprints and his footprints made soft impressions in the well-tended gravel path.

The question hung in the air like incense smoke. I stopped breathing heavily for a moment. Finally, I answered in a small voice, "It's… sad."

Talem's gaze was kind, but his eyes sharpened with curiosity. "Sad?" he echoed. He nodded slowly. "Tell me why you feel that way."

I sniffed, as if the air itself might catch my thoughts. But I remained silent, as if that was my answer.

Talem nodded, stepping up onto a little stone bench beside an old fountain carved with a small statue of Aurelith. He patted the spot next to him, inviting me to sit. "You speak with a gentle heart, Pophet." His voice was warm, carrying a father's pride. "Your mother once said the same thing to me."

I nearly choked. "My mother said that? When?"

My eyes must have grown wide.

Talem let out a small chuckle. "Our Lady Aurelith has many conversations while walking this garden. She said our faith's weight bears down even on divinity's heart. That was a long time ago, before you were born."

His voice softened. "Your siblings, however… Vaelric, Gorran, Saphiel, they spoke of great things. Vaelric promised to protect the church in place of Lady Aurelith; Gorran claims that he wants to push our borders; Saphiel to become a legend in war. But your two other sisters gave more modest answers."

He continued, "Rinvara said, 'I want to help people.' Eline gave something no other had told me, she said, 'I don't really care.'"

I heard my sisters' names echo. Rinvara's gentle concern, Eline's aloof shrug—I could easily remember them. Beside us, leaves trembled. Talem leaned on his staff. "It seems a pattern," he murmured. "Even in the generation of Lady Aurelith, the answers were mostly the same; some with visions of destiny, others with more humble dreams."

He placed a hand lightly on my furred shoulder. He gave a small, encouraging smile. "Child of Aurelith, your heritage is not your path. Pophet, the Gentle Faith that Echoes, what do you want for yourself? What do you want to be?"

I blinked.

This was the hardest question of all. I felt the tickle of the Milky Way through my thoughts, the part of me that remembered being Mr. Tater, an old pug enjoying belly scratches.

I scratched the ground with a claw, not sure how to answer.

"I… I don't know," I admitted at last. The words felt hollow even as I spoke.

Talem gave me a gentle pat on the shoulder. "That's perfectly alright. You needn't answer now." He waved a hand through the space above the herbs, the evening light warming us. "We have many years ahead, Pophet. You may discover your path in time. For now, you have done enough for others. Rest and heal."

We rose together.

In silence, we walked back through the fragrant garden, each step muffled by the moss-lined path. In the distance, a choir of clerics sang a hymn; their melody rose like a blessing through the crisp air.

I swallowed hard. The weight of everything had settled in my chest like a stone that wouldn't budge.

Later that night, sleep refused me.

My chambers were quiet and dark, a single lantern casting long shadows on the floor. I lay on my bed with the conversations of the day swirling through my mind.

My oversized paws twitched. I felt younger here than ever, as if somehow the years fell away. It was a strange feeling.

My mind raced. Back on Earth, I had been a very old dog indeed; wise in too many ways, and comfortable with that age. Now, in this new life, I had all the recklessness of youth reawakened inside me. I felt like I was living two lifetimes at once.

Growing up here among godbeasts had changed something in me. It was like my mind had flipped decades backward as my body grew.

Where once I had the cautious, logical patience of an old pug, now I often felt impulsive and eager like a child. My base instincts overtook my logical thoughts more than ever. Decisions felt less like puzzles and more like gut punches.

I felt like a puppy who chased his own tail when no one was watching.

I sat up, fur brushing against the embroidered quilt. The silence here was comforting and lonely all at once. Turning, I raised a paw to rub my forehead, as if I could knead out these tangled thoughts.

'What happened to me?' I thought.

I thought of a strange list of my own memories: how patient and measured I was on Earth, how I valued humans and loved them. And here… how easily I had chosen violence.

I closed my eyes and replayed scenes in the dungeon and battle. The screams of enemies I had felled—they had names, faces once.

I had easily ended them with barely a second thought. If my owner was here, she would have told me that I was in the wrong.

"Is this me now?" I whispered to the dark. "Am I burying everything I know behind these claws?"

Something about the question Talem asked—what do you want to be?—kept echoing.

What did I want?

When I pictured myself on Earth, I was content to be a simple companion, wrapped in a blanket while air-conditioning blew cold air towards me, not worrying about anyone else's pain.

Here, I had been vaulted into bloodshed.

For lack of better distraction, I shifted my thoughts to something familiar and stupid. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the mental window. It came to me, blinked up behind my closed eyelids.

〈Pophet, The Gentle Faith That Echoes〉

[Mana: 0 / 0]

[Skills: 2]

Skill: Breath of the Lazy Heavenly Beast

At last. Through rigorous lying down, you have unlocked a cultivation technique once whispered about by absolutely no one and practiced by even fewer. This questionably divine method draws in Qi, a subtle, ancient energy that almost nobody believes exists anymore, very slowly, almost reluctantly, during moments of complete stillness.

Level: 9/9 Foundation Building Stage

Skill: Thousand Fats Body Compression

A secret technique born from the ancient and mostly-forgotten ██████████████, this minor art was developed by low-ranking disciples who needed to evade both danger and responsibility with equal grace. By tightening the meridians and weaving Qi, the user may compress their physical vessel into a deceptively diminutive form.

Practitioners of this technique once used it to sneak past gatekeepers, hide beneath floorboards, or nap inside sacred urns to avoid morning drills. While compressed, power output is greatly reduced.

Legends say true masters could vanish into a teacup. You, however, are pug-shaped and still squishy.

Inside, I felt at once proud and embarrassed. My abilities were nothing special by the standards of real warriors. Of those true heroes I read in kingdoms of near and far.

In my first life, I was Mr. Tater, a pampered old pug with routines and snug naps. I lived for my human's pleasure and protection, and I cherished each hug like a sacred ritual. I guarded those memories like treasure even in death.

Here, my new body tasted fear and rage and power; its instincts were a tangled knot of canine and divine.

I propped myself on my haunches and rubbed my muzzle on the corner of the dresser.

'Maybe I'm a puppy pretending to be a sage.'

When the walls no longer felt like they held answers, my thoughts drifted back to the skill list on the mental canvas. I let it vanish, then reopened my eyes. Starlight from a narrow window cut across the room, lighting up floating motes of dust.

Outside, the Basilica bells chimed late.

I crawled off the bed and padded toward the window.

I closed my eyes and took a trembling breath, feeling the weight in my enormous paw pressing against the cold stone floor.

Then, as if in some echo chamber, that question returned, sharper:

Why does it feel like I don't care as much anymore?

I whispered to the night, to the happenstance of my second life.

"Why?"

And the wind through the Basilica's stained-glass windows gave no answer back.

It only sighed.