A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

Rinvara's fan struck the top of my head with a crisp fwip.

"You absolute idiot!" she snapped, smacking me again for emphasis. "What were you thinking accepting that duel? Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

I flinched, ears flattening as I looked up at her with what I hoped was a suitably repentant expression.

In my defense, her paper fan hurt. Not in the physical sense, of course. My thick fur was capable of tanking enchanted rifles. But I was hurt in the spiritual sense; it was like every whap of that fan came pre-loaded with disappointment.

I've survived Ferron's Sigil cannons, I thought grimly, but apparently, Rinvara's fan is the weapon that'll finally end me.

She wasn't done. Not even close.

"Of all the reckless, harebrained, half-baked plans you could pull, this is the one you choose to go through with? A Rite of Proven Blood? Against Gorran?" Another fwip. "Have you lost your mind?"

I opened my mouth. "It wasn't exactly a plan—"

Fwip!

"Don't you dare argue with me, Pophet!"

Behind her, Mira stood with her arms folded. She hadn't said a word yet, but her eyebrows were doing enough talking for the entire room.

When I glanced her way, she let out a long, weary sigh.

"She's right, Pophet," Mira said at last, her tone calm but cutting. "It was too hasty to accept. You could have walked away. There are other ways to salvage your honor without putting yourself in a death match."

"Berating me was one thing," I murmured.

Then I turned to Rinvara, meeting her eyes as my own voice hardened. "But Rinvara… I couldn't just stand there and let Gorran sully your name. Not after everything that's happened to you."

That stopped her cold.

The fan, mid-swing, hovered uncertainly in the air before lowering to her side.

I exhaled, my chest tight with the memory of Gorran's venomous words. Weak. Unworthy. Just like Rinvara.

And that was where I drew the line.

'He can insult me all he wants. But Rinvara? No.'

"Don't worry," I said, squaring my squat shoulders as much as a pug could manage. "I'm not planning to die out there. I'm going into secluded training for a month."

"That's not reassuring!" Rinvara shrieked, smacking me with the fan again. This time, it was more of a reflex.

Mira let out another sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Then make sure it doesn't. If you're serious about this, we'll support you, but you can't rush it."

I nodded, meeting her gaze steadily.

Rinvara tried to use her fan, but the swing felt wrong. The paper was slightly crumpled now from all the whacking. She felt the creases and smoothed it out, her lips pressing into a thin line.

"Just… come back alive, okay?" she murmured.

A faint smile tugged at my muzzle. "Yeah, I will."

I turned and padded towards the main church, paws thumping against the stone path.

They moved Rinvara here, to a detached villa near the church, away from prying eyes. This served to hide her while keeping her close to safety.

Eventually, I reached Talem's office.

He didn't look up when I entered. "So," he said, voice smooth as ever, "the Gentle Faith has decided to roar."

"It wasn't a roar," I muttered.

"Bark or roar, it seems you've shaken the courtyard nicely. The conservatives are still patching the holes in their arguments. If Gorran doesn't win spectacularly, it's the final nail for him."

I cleared my throat, trying to sound dignified. "I need somewhere quiet. A place I won't be disturbed before the rite."

Talem finally set his quill down and regarded me over the rims of his spectacles. The light from the stained glass caught his eyes in a way that made them gleam like a pair of amused fox's. "A month, is it? Planning to become a wolf in thirty days?"

"I'm just… planning not to die in thirty days," I said dryly.

That earned a soft chuckle. "Very well. I suppose we ought to keep you from keeling over in front of Gorran. I'll arrange for one of our private training rooms."

He picked up a small bell sitting on the desk and rang it.

"Escort Pophet to the private training rooms," Talem instructed. "Make sure no one disturbs him unless the basilica is on fire."

The cleric who had just entered immediately bobbed his head and scurried out, gesturing for me to follow.

As we padded through the halls of Sunmire, I couldn't help but feel the weight of where I was heading.

The private training rooms.

I'd heard of them before. Everyone had. These weren't ordinary chambers.

They were used by the founders of Sunmire's faith in the earliest days, when gods and mortals still walked side by side.

In the millenia since, they've only been used a few times, becoming artifacts of reverence more than places for actual use.

For Talem to offer me one wasn't just generosity. It was a statement.

'He's taking a side now,' I realized. 'By putting me here, he's telling the conservatives he's willing to gamble on me.'

That thought sent a ripple of unease through my fur. I'd spent most of my life avoiding politics by pretending to nap through them. Now, I was actively moving on the board.

The cleric unlocked the heavy stone door and stepped aside nervously. "Here, Venerable."

The room was extremely large, circular, and completely silent. There was a wooden rack filled with all sorts of weapons, and a small bookshelf filled with books.

It also seemed like I didn't need to worry about food and water; there was a stone basin filled with water and another filled with granular pills, meant for long storage and immediate consumption.

I entered and heard the stone door close behind me.

A faint hum stirred in my chest.

'Huh. That's new.'

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I blinked, focusing inward. My gaze swept through the screen behind my eyelids, and there it was:

〈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.

Wait. That wasn't what it said before. When did it change?

A strange warmth pulsed deep inside me, not in my stomach like what my old human muttered when she read cultivation novels, but higher.

In my chest.

Why the chest? My human had always read about something called a dantian in the gut. Lower abdomen. A spiritual energy core that glowed. But this… this was different.

It felt like a steady energy supply in my chest.

I pressed a paw over my heart. The sensation felt weird now that I was aware of it..

I drew in a long breath, letting it flow down through that subtle core, and exhaled slowly.

The room seemed to grow quieter with each breath.

Right. A month.

If I was going to beat Gorran, I'd have to learn how to use this.

By the third day, I could feel it—a steady, almost imperceptible increase in my Qi. Each breath I took seemed to draw the energy deeper into that strange core in my chest.

Progress.

But not nearly enough.

At this rate, Gorran would grind me into the dirt.

I let out a slow, frustrated exhale.

'This can't be all there is.'

The Qi trickled through my meridians in sluggish threads, thin as spider silk. Every time I tried to circulate it faster, it felt like trying to drain a full basin through a straw.

I could use it to strengthen myself a bit, but if I pushed further than that, I started to feel dizzy and nauseous.

'So this is cultivation?'

I flopped onto my side, glaring at my stubby paws.

A weapon. That was the thought that kept worming back into my mind. Gorran would be using his divine armament during the rite. But what did I have?.

But what kind of weapon could I even use?

A sword? Not with these paws. Not unless I planned to duct tape the hilt to my face.

A spear? Would I have to tie it on my back?

Teeth? No. Too primal and risky.

My gaze dropped to my claws.

They weren't long, certainly not like my siblings' talons, but they were sharp. Sharper than any pug's claws had a right to be. Their edges glinted faintly in the lantern light as I flexed my toes.

Claws then. It has to be my claws.

That reminded me of something my old human read. She'd curl up in bed, scrolling through yet another cultivation webnovel, and whisper phrases that lodged in my brain even though I'd been just a dog back then.

Sword Intent.

In those stories, Sword Intent wasn't about the sword itself. It wasn't just swinging a blade fast or cutting clean. It was the distilled will of a swordsman made manifest. The sharpened focus of a mind that sought only one thing: the perfect cut.

A true swordsman didn't need a weapon. His intent alone could split stone, sever rivers, even cut the sky in half.

Sword Intent was a step beyond technique. It was philosophy made lethal.

The sword was not just steel. It was an idea, a truth.

And when that truth resonated, even a blade of grass in the hands of a master could become sharper than any legendary weapon.

I sat down, pondering and letting that thought settle.

If a swordsman can cut with intent, why can't I?

My claws weren't steel. But they were mine. Extensions of my body. Tools of survival I'd carried through two lives now.

In my case, it wouldn't be Sword Intent.

It'd be… Claw Intent.

Absurd? Definitely.

I raised my paw and stared at it.

Claw Intent…

A swordsman's first step toward Intent was focus. To understand the nature of cutting. Not just what they were cutting, but why.

Was the cut meant to protect? To destroy? To liberate?

The intent defined the blade, not the other way around.

I imagined it now: my claws poised, not to slash wildly, but to sever what needed severing. To impose my will on the world, however small and ridiculous that will might seem.

Breath in. Qi swirled faintly, gathering in the core in my chest.

Breath out. I let my qi flow to my claws.

A swordsman's slash divided the world in two because his heart said it must.

My claws could do the same—if my heart was steady enough to believe it.

The idea thrilled me. It was ridiculous, yes, but also empowering.

'Alright then. Let's see if a pug can claw the heavens.'

I drew in a slow breath, this time letting my focus narrow to a single point: the invisible line where my claws and the world intersected.

By the fifth day, I had officially clawed the training room's equivalent of a toddler's scribbles into the floor.

Not on purpose.

"Focus," I muttered for the tenth—or was it the hundredth?—time. My claws trembled in the dim light as I tried to draw Qi into them.

"Intent defines the cut, not the claws. Intent defines the cut, not the claws."

Then my paws slipped, and I faceplanted into the floorboards with an undignified thwump.

'So this was how masters who used Sword Intent felt, huh?' I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling.

Sword Intent. The pinnacle of focus and will.

Their cuts were flawless because their hearts were flawless. No hesitation. No doubt.

I, on the other hand, was a pug. A creature built with flaws.

I was raised to waddle, nap, and be adorable, not slice through the fabric of reality with invisible claw strikes.

But if swordsmen could impose their will on steel, why couldn't I impose my will on my nails?

In a beast's life, they were survival made manifest. Hunt, defend, climb, claim territory.

Every swipe of a claw declared: This is mine. I endure because I must.

The philosophy was there. The conviction was… wobbly.

I planted my paws again and drew a breath so deep my chest felt like it would pop.

Focus.

The air around my claws quivered. I felt a faint hum of power run down my forelimbs and pool at the tips of my nails. It was fragile, like a spiderweb strung between my pads.

'Yes. Hold it steady…'

I swiped at the air experimentally.

Nothing happened.

Just a faint breeze and a dull scrape as one claw accidentally caught the stone floor.

'Okay,' I thought grimly. 'Maybe that one doesn't count.'

I tried again. And again. And again.

Each attempt fizzled. My paw shook with exertion, and I swear the air was mocking me with how stubbornly it stayed uncut.

'Intent defines the cut. Intent defines the cut.'

What was my intent, anyway?

I wasn't here to destroy. I wasn't here to dominate. I didn't want to stand on a pedestal that carved the world bloody just to prove to everyone I could.

No.

When I cut, it wouldn't be to harm. It would be to prove my existence.

I breathed in, let the Qi flow from that strange chest-core to my claws, and raised my paw one more time.

But then, another thought struck me.

'Why was I so obsessed with splitting the world into two?'

That was a swordsman's way of thinking. One edge. One line. One perfect division between what was and what wasn't.

But I wasn't a swordsman.

I stared at my paw. Four claws, short but sharp, each one faintly thrumming with the Qi I'd painstakingly gathered.

Why settle for two halves… when I could rend the world into five?

The thought ignited something deep in my core.

I inhaled slowly, dragged the last threads of Qi into my claws, and swiped.

Four lines ripped across the fortified stone. Faint, shallow marks, but marks nonetheless.

I froze. My paw hovered mid-swipe.

The scratches were real. The protection runes woven into the wall had dulled them, but I could see them, four thin gashes trailing my claws.

A weary grin tugged at my muzzle.

And then the fatigue hit me like a sledgehammer.

I flopped onto my side with a thud. The stone felt cool beneath me.

"Okay," I panted. "Maybe… I'll just… nap here for a second."