A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

The Basilica had too much space.

Even after I had grown this big, there were still too many long hallways. Too many sunlit arches

Before, no one would notice me unless I barked or accidentally knocked over a reliquary. Even then, they mostly just looked confused. Or worse, sympathetic.

But this time, I was no longer ashamed like before.

I wasn't curled beneath the library shelves pretending to be part of the décor. I wasn't wedged behind the communion urns, chewing on guilt and boredom. No. This time, I walked the halls.

Big. Present. Visible.

It was easier now. My larger form drew attention, yes, but also a strange kind of deference. The same look one might give a walking shrine. I wasn't feared, exactly.

Just carefully acknowledged.

Sunmire's Basilica was technically built to accommodate 15-foot tall Godbeasts and the occasional overachieving sermon. But even so, it still caught people who have never seen me before off guard.

Especially so since the Godbeasts they've seen in books had an entirely different aesthetic when compared to me.

But it helped that I tried not to look too divine.

I was just a very large, very soft, and arguably polite Godbeast, making his daily rounds like a slightly melancholic zeppelin in fur.

After a week, I had a routine now.

Mornings started with Rinvara.

After she met with Grand Solar Vicar Talem yesterday, she didn't talk that much anymore. Well, at least not unless someone made her.

She would be seen sitting near the sun-facing windows of the infirmary hall, wrapped in so many blankets she looked like a gifted burrito.

She would smile when she noticed me.

I never asked questions. Never made her talk. I just sat beside her. Big as a boulder. Warm as a furnace.

We'd listen to the clerics murmur prayers in the background, or the rustle of leaves from the adjacent garden. Occasionally someone brought her broth. Occasionally she fed me some.

Then, I'd walk.

Even after I grew this big, the Basilica grounds were enormous. Too enormous. It felt like they were built for something else. Like some architect got halfway through a blueprint and said, "You know what? Let's just add more hallway."

So I walked them.

Stone on paw. Paw on stone. Columns and arches and stairs I could now climb easily without the dramatic flair of stumbling.

Lunch was mandatory. Even though I didn't understand half the things being served, and the kitchen staff were still traumatized from when I intruded yesterday and accidentally knocked over a spice rack with a sneeze, the scent was still too appteizing.

Then came the library.

Always.

The library was mine.

Or at least, it had been. Until Sister Clara vanished.

She was the one person who treated me like I belonged there. Silver-braided hair. Voice like a bird chirping. She prepared me a cushion and gave me the books I wanted to read.

Now?

Gone.

"Sent off to assist an orphanage-church somewhere", said the new librarian, a too-young cleric with bright eyes.

I didn't ask questions too many questions, I figured that was just how it was.

I sat in my usual spot. Read the same paragraph three times. But I didn't really remember a single word.

Afternoons were for naps in the garden.

The sanctified herb garden—yes, the same one I'd disgraced in my younger days—was now the only place that didn't make my fur feel too heavy.

I'd lie beside the rosegrass patch, eyes half-dozed, while young clerics pretended not to gawk.

Sometimes Talem joined me.

The Grand Solar Vicar himself, robes rustling like pages turning in the wind, face solemn enough to look like carved stone.

He told me about Rinvara's condition here the day before.

"She won't die," he said.

I blinked. Kept staring at the herb blossoms.

"Rinvara," he clarified. "She won't die."

I didn't say anything. I just shifted my weight slightly, like the air had gotten heavier.

"The artifact…" He paused, looking upward toward the sun-fractured mosaic above us. "It's part of her now. Removal would end her life."

Still, I said nothing.

He sighed.

"She will be recorded as deceased."

That made me look at him. Slowly. Like turning an entire moon.

"It is for her safety," he added. "If everyone believes her dead, they will stop looking. I will personally ensure no one challenges that record."

My ears flicked once.

"She agreed," Talem added quietly. "With difficulty."

I looked away again.

There was more he could've said. But he didn't. Just sat beside me, robes gathered around his knees like he was perched in prayer.

When he stood to leave, he didn't bow. Didn't say goodbye.

Just a hand. Gently resting on my shoulder for a breath longer than it needed to.

Then he was gone.

Time flowed into a monotonous standstill, until something happened.

The weather didn't change, but the wind did.

There were no grand declarations. Just a slow ripple, like parchment curling at the edge of a candle.

There was a strange hush that followed conversations when I stepped too close.

Sunmire had finally pushed its borders.

That was the rumor, at first. Then came names. Bishop Serevan had led a campaign through the eastern ridgelands. But it was one Sunmire's heirs—Gorran—who they said broke the Zorthari defense.

He drove their forces back. Secured a key fortress that had resisted for decades.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

Gorran, one of my siblings.

The older clerics beamed when they spoke of his name. They would whisper of his divine armament, which was crafted from a piece of Serevan's armor and an aged sun-blessed metal that dwarves from another continent would kill to have.

The conservative faction, the old-robed voices who usually stayed within their marble chambers, were suddenly everywhere. They nodded at one another with fresh urgency. Spoke quickly in corners. Passed missives with seals I didn't recognize.

They had found their moment.

If Gorran, the Godbeast of Mountains, was forging a name at the front lines—what was I, the failure of the Six Heirs, doing here?

The answer, apparently, was nothing.

But I didn't really care much for the news. I was satisfied with what I had.

I was just happy that Rinvara had her favorite broth. That the garden still smelled of rosemary. That the same sun fell through the infirmary windows each morning.

But others cared.

They watched me now; not with curiosity, but calculation.

The soft reverence that once colored their greetings had dulled.

It felt like back then, where once I passed, there were pauses in speech. Half-bows. And tension behind smiles.

I heard whispers even when I wasn't supposed to.

"…he just strolls the gardens all day."

"Is that really Lady Aurelith's son?"

"I heard he was brought in a cage. They say he stayed quiet the whole time."

The first few times, I brushed it off. The next few, I slowed down. I started hearing more than I wanted.

Rumors upon rumors started building up. Some real. Some false.

One day, in the library, I overheard two junior clerics whispering near the reading alcove. "Imagine if he had led the eastern push," one snorted. "By the Light, the Zortharians would have claimed our borders instead…!"

They laughed.

I didn't say anything.

I stayed in my usual spot and read the same line on the same page five times this time. Then I closed the book and tried leaving without a sound.

Even Talem's presence, steady and warm as it was, seemed dimmed by something invisible.

He sat beside me one afternoon, fingers clasped, saying nothing. I waited, expecting another quiet comment or a shared observation. But instead, he just sighed, long and low.

"They'll be watching more closely now," he said at last. "Not just the clergy."

I turned to him.

"The people," he clarified, eyes never leaving the courtyard beyond the lattice.

I didn't reply.

I didn't need to.

I already knew.

Even when I walked the halls, I could feel the judgment trailing behind me.

And through it all, I kept walking.

Not because I knew where I was going.

But because I was still confused at where my place was in this world.

Do I really have to bloody my claws to find a place for myself in this world?

Is that all this place understands?

Strength, spectacle, the clatter of war drums, the sound of rifles echoing a battlefield, and the shine of polished armor?

Was quiet not enough?

Was I not enough?

I used to be content with a nap and the warmth of someone's lap. A belly rub on a tired evening.

I once sat next to a child, mourning for her because she cried beside a broken toy.

Now I'm here, wondering if they want me to kill someone to prove that I'm real.

And the worst part?

I think they do.

I told myself I didn't care. That Gorran could keep the parades and the murals and the relic forged from sun-metal and sermon-sweat.

I didn't need it. Didn't want it.

But when the whispers came, day after day—low, piercing, and persistent—they started pressing at the edge of my sleep.

I'd close my eyes in the garden and hear them anyway.

-He doesn't even train.

-Do Godbeasts slumber their duties now?

-I heard Gorran's roar echoes in the battlefield. What does that one do? Snore?

I slept more.

Not because I was tired.

But because sleeping felt like the only way to shut it out.

I curled near the window where Rinvara used to sit. I hoped the whispers would pass like bad weather.

But they didn't.

They followed.

And eventually, the ground itself betrayed me.

The Basilica trembled faintly one morning, like something ancient was approaching. Then came the sounds—distant horns, cheers rising like heat through the flagstones.

A parade.

Even from my room I could hear it, drums that pulsed like heartbeat, synchronized boots on marble, an entire city exhaling in joy.

He had returned.

Gorran. The triumphant heir. The Godbeast of Mountains.

My brother.

And all I could do was sit up slowly, ears twitching, body stiff from days of pretending I didn't care.

The cheers rolled toward the Basilica like a tide.

And I couldn't sleep through this one.

I had dozed off when they suddenly barged in.

Four clerics. White-robed. Polished sandals. Faces that looked like someone had just told them to clean a stained-glass window with their tongues. Not a knock. Not a cough. Just the door swinging open and their eyes scanning my room like I was a piece of unruly furniture.

"Your Eminence Pophet," one of them began, already moving toward my side. "You are to be dressed for the ceremony."

Ceremony?

I blinked groggily, jaw hanging open slightly as my brain tried to catch up to the invasion.

Another one of them was already unfurling a silken mantle with golden threads. Another was carrying what looked suspiciously like a giant comb.

"This is for the honored guest segment. Your attendance has been formally requested."

They said requested, but their hands were already brushing my fur and checking the seams of my coat. One of them tugged gently at my ear to adjust some ornamental ribbon.

It was disrespectful.

Comically so.

I was still half-curled up in my sleeping corner, mind lagging somewhere between dreams and dread. I should have growled. Or should have bared a tooth or at least stood up and reminded them I had claws the size of dinner knives.

But I didn't.

Because this was probably Talem's orders.

So, I let them dress me. Let them polish my claws. Let them drape a ceremonial harness over my back, decorated with symbols I didn't care to recognize.

And when they were done, I followed them out.

The Basilica's main hall had transformed.

Banners of gold and crimson hung from every arch. Priests lined the steps with burning incense, murmuring blessings. A massive crowd of nobles, priests, and high-ranking merchants had gathered, their voices hushed, eyes alight.

Gorran's ceremony.

The war hero's medal. The heir who bled for the land. The Godbeast of Mountains.

They would sing about him today.

I walked quietly behind the clerics.

Halfway there, I paused.

A window. High and wide, framed in stone and etched with the sunburst seal of the Church. I stopped and looked through it.

Down below, in the courtyard, Gorran stood with his soldiers.

He was wrapped in silver-threaded armor, each plate engraved with radiant patterns. A cloak of sky-blue hung across his shoulders. His mane had been trimmed and tied back, and sunlight bounced off him like a mirror made of pride.

He was laughing.

Casual. Familiar. Surrounded by those who had fought with him.

One of them, a young officer with freshly polished boots, turned and asked, loud enough that I could hear even from the window, "Is the sixth heir, your brother, attending the ceremony?"

Gorran didn't hesitate.

He smiled.

Then said:

"He is no brother of mine. Just a stray mutt Mother Aurelith happened on."

Snap.

Something in my chest—thin, fragile, taut for weeks—finally snapped.

I don't remember leaping.

Only the sound.

The wall exploded. Stone shattered. Glass shrieked.

The scent of dust and old marble hit the air like lightning. My paws crashed through the carved sill. Debris scattered across the courtyard like petals thrown at a funeral.

And then—I was on him.

Fawn-colored fur against polished silver.

Brother against brother.

Godbeast against Godbeast.

〈Pophet, The Gentle Faith That Echoes〉

[Mana: 0 / 0]

[Skills: 2]

Skill: Breath of the Awakened Heavenly Beast

In its early form, it gathered Qi through the body's calm, inviting energy only when the soul and breath were perfectly aligned in rest.

But the stillness has broken. The beast has awakened for itself

Alive with emotion long suppressed. Tempered by restraint. Forged in stillness, this technique no longer draws quietly.

Level: 1/4 Core Formation

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.