A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

It had been a month a full month since he'd last seen the Sixth.

The assistant-cleric adjusted his grip on the scroll tucked under his arm and exhaled slowly.

'Twelve hours until the Rite,' he reminded himself. 'Twelve hours, deliver the message, and leave. Simple.'

At the far end of the corridor, the sanctified stone door loomed as imposing as ever. It hadn't budged an inch in thirty days.

And then, it suddenly moved.

The assistant-cleric stopped mid-step.

A low groan echoed through the marble hall. Dust tumbled from the archway as the slab of sunstone tilted forward—slow at first, then with a jarring crack as the hinge-locks tore loose.

The entire door toppled to the floor with a deafening THOOM.

The assistant winced, clutching the scroll tighter.

That can't be good.

A large, rounded shape emerged from the settling dust.

The Sixth.

The Godbeast blinked down at him with droopy eyes, fur matted with pale streaks of dust. His ears twitched lazily. Then he yawned long and loud, like he hadn't just knocked over a holy door, and plodded forward, stubby legs carrying him out over the wreckage.

The Gentle Faith, Pophet, glanced at him as he passed. His head dipped in a faint, almost sheepish nod.

The assistant blinked. "Uh… you broke the door."

Pophet's tail flicked once. He nodded again. Slightly deeper this time. Almost apologetic.

"The Rite is in twelve hours," the assistant added quickly.

The Godbeast stopped for a half-second. His sleepy eyes half-lidded, then he nodded again.

"Right," the cleric muttered under his breath. "You heard me."

Pophet didn't answer. He just kept waddling down the corridor at a steady, unhurried pace, leaving a trail of pawprints covered in dust.

The assistant watched him go for a long moment, then let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

He turned toward the chamber.

And froze.

There were claw marks.

Everywhere.

Deep gashes—four at a time—had been carved across the walls, floor, and ceiling. The protective runes, etched many many generations ago to contain divine tantrums, flickered weakly, their latticework cracked and leaking faint silver light.

The assistant felt his mouth go dry.

"…Oh may the Light preserve us," he whispered.

The nap wasn't perfect. Since I hadn't visited my room in over a month, there was too much dust in the air. The ones in charge of cleaning my room didn't bother airing it out.

But it had been enough to leave me feeling… not refreshed, exactly. I was still a bit mentally tired from all my training.

The sun was high when I left my room. A thin beam of light speared across the basilica courtyard as I padded forward, ears twitching against the soft whistle of wind that managed to snake its way through the massive stonework.

My body felt heavy, but this was a grounded heaviness where I felt a bit nervous.

The Rite of Proven Blood was just around an hour away.

There had been so many Rites in Sunmire's history, and none of them ended the way people thought they would. Losers were no longer celebrated as heroes within the church.

Surviving didn't elevate you—it boxed you in. You were automatically de-ranked two steps below a Bishop.

Still respected, sure. But you weren't in the succession battle anymore. Your voice didn't matter in the council in the future. Your claws were still sharp, but only for causes others deemed safe.

If you worked hard enough, maybe you could claw your way back to influence. Maybe.

History didn't remember many who did.

I kept walking, claws clicking lightly against marble worn smooth by centuries of sacred processions.

The arena wasn't far now.

It had once been a gladiator pit, back when Sunmire's faith was new and still had the sharp edges of ambition. Back then, Godbeasts fought here not because they had to, but because it reminded the faithful why their knees should bend and why the Light was spoken with awe and fear.

The marble columns ringing the stands were cracked with age, their sun-etched carvings faded but not gone. Sand covered most of the arena floor, pale and fine, but in some places the old marble still peeked through in worn, veined patches.

The spectators had already started to gather. The conservatives clustered high in the stands, robes immaculate, faces still and unreadable. Their kind believed strength was purity, that tradition and obedience were what made a Godbeast worthy.

Lower down sat Talem's faction, the Forward Order, their quiet murmurs carrying just far enough for me to catch the occasional phrase. They weren't my allies, not really, but they didn't look at me with the same rigid suspicion. To them, strength could look like a lot of things.

Sadly, my best moral support wasn't here.

Rinvara wouldn't be watching. She couldn't. Her identity had to remain hidden, locked behind thick curtains and healing wards. I could almost hear her voice anyway, scolding me for thinking I had to do this alone. Probably telling Mira to "memorize every stupid detail so you can recite it later."

My chest tightened for a moment. Then it passed, smoothed over by the steady rhythm of my paws.

At the edge of the arena, a high-ranking priest waited, posture stiff and robes creased so sharply they looked like they could cut glass. He didn't meet my eyes as he gestured toward a patch of sand near the center.

"Your Reverence, Pophet the Sixth, please wait here," he said flatly. "You'll be called shortly."

I didn't bother replying. I just settled into the spot he indicated, curling my tail against my side.

It didn't take long for the arena to fall silent.

The sand felt warm under my paws as the crowd's murmurs settled into a thick, expectant hush.

I wasn't looking at them. My eyes stayed fixed on the opposite entrrance, breathing slow, letting each rise and fall of my chest keep time with the nervous thrum in my head.

A few minutes passed before the Grand Solar Vicar, Talem, descended the steps from his shaded seat.

He stopped only when the sunlight caught his profile, casting sharp shadows that made his face look even more like the marble he was standing on.

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"By the sanctity of the Light and the grace of Mother Matron Aurelith," Talem said, his voice not loud yet clear enough to carry across every tier of stone benches. "We gather here as witnesses to the Rite of Proven Blood. Sunmire has stood unyielding for generations, its faith anchored by the strength of its heirs and the wisdom of its Godbeasts. Yet strength alone is not enough." He turned his gaze slowly, sweeping across the stands.

"To lead Sunmire is to embody her essence: light to banish shadow, fire to forge unity, and grace to temper might. Today, as in ages past, this arena becomes a tribunal. Here, the divine lineage shall be tested—not by council edict, nor by words, but by will and claw and blood. May this duel lead us forward for Sunmire's succession. And may the grace of Lady Aurelith bless her children—both the victor and the vanquished—with purpose, no matter the outcome."

The last syllable echoed faintly against the cracked marble as Talem lowered his hand. A ripple of quiet approval passed through the crowd.

Movement caught my eye at the far end of the arena.

Gorran emerged from the shadowed archway with slow, deliberate steps that sent faint vibrations through the stone floor. He didn't wear his armor, nor did he wear his divine armament on his paw.

Just Gorran—bare from neck to paw, the faint metallic sheen of his fur catching the light where his Iron Fortress had already toughened him.

Gorran's eyes met mine as he strode to the center, each step filled with the confidence as his title: Mountain.

He stopped a few paces away, tilting his head slightly. "Mutt," he said, his voice deep.

"You forgot something," I replied evenly, staying seated.

His brow twitched, just enough to suggest faint amusement. "Oh?"

"Your armor. Your armament. Unless you've suddenly taken up pacifism."

That earned the faintest curl of his lip. "I have no need for such things. I don't require steel or enchantments to crush you."

I exhaled through my nose and shook my head once.

'Of course he doesn't.'

Gorran always was the type to mistake arrogance for inevitability. The Iron Fortress made him tough, sure—but tough wasn't invincible. Tough could be cracked.

And for someone who prided himself, walking into this without his tools was about as disciplined as biting your own tail.

Talem didn't interrupt. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod before turning back toward the shaded dais, his robes swishing softly over the sand as he climbed the steps to his seat.

When he finally settled, the air shifted.

A bell rang. Deep, resonant, a single note that rolled across the arena like a hammer blow.

That was the signal.

The duel had begun.

The bell's deep, resonant tone faded into the tense silence of the arena.

My claws flexed in the sand as I pushed myself onto all fours, keeping my head low, breathing slow and steady.

Gorran didn't move at first. He stood like a statue, the black sheen of his Iron Fortress catching the sunlight in strange, jagged patterns. It gave his massive frame an almost overbearing quality.

He took the first step, and the marble beneath the sand groaned faintly.

"You know this is pointless," Gorran said, his voice carrying effortlessly across the arena. "You could still walk away. No one would fault you."

"You mean you wouldn't fault me," I said quietly. "The others already do."

He smirked faintly, "You've got a sharp tongue, mutt. But words won't save you here."

Gorran lunged.

The arena floor seemed to tremble as his massive body charged forward, black sheen glinting like liquid obsidian.

He moved faster than a creature his size had any right to. His shoulder dipped low, angling to smash me off my paws with sheer momentum.

I waited until the last instant, then shifted my weight and sprang aside. His charge tore past, the edge of his bulk skimming my flank close enough to ruffle my fur. Marble cracked loudly under his paws as he pivoted to face me again, claws gouging into stone for traction.

He quickly closed the distance again with a heavy swipe of his foreleg, claws raking through the air.

My paws skidded over sand as I was pushed by the weight of his strike.

The air was thick with the scent of sand and the faint metallic tang of his resonance. His black sheen seemed impenetrable.

My claws wouldn't even leave a mark. Or so he thought.

I exhaled softly.

Four counts in. Four out.

And then I moved.

My paw swept in a clean arc, quick and deliberate. There was no sound, no warning. But when my paws touched down again, something subtle had shifted.

The black sheen of his Iron Fortress cracked.

A faint spiderweb of fractures appeaared across his resonance before it failed entirely, the darkness peeling away like wet paint.

Gorran's eyes widened.

Before he could recover, my head slammed into his.

The impact reverberated through my skull with a satisfying thud. Blood sprayed from the fresh gash blooming across his temple. He staggered back, legs quivering slightly as he fought to stay upright.

"What…?!" The word tore from him in a raw, disbelieving growl.

His body stiffened as he tried to summon his Iron Fortress again. Faint threads of black flickered weakly across his fur, but they didn't hold.

I swept my paw sideways again in another precise arc. He flinched instinctively, but there was nothing left to stop me. His resonance shattered a second time, so quickly it looked like it had never been there at all.

Gorran's knees buckled. He collapsed forward onto the sand with a choked grunt, dust billowing faintly in the wake of his fall.

I stepped closer, my shadow falling over him as he tried to lift his head. His breathing was ragged, shallow. His eyes, once so steady, flicked up at me with a mix of confusion and rage.

"You…"

I didn't let him finish.

My paw came down in a sharp, deliberate smack against the side of his skull. The dull crack was final. Gorran sagged, his massive body going limp as unconsciousness took him.

The arena was silent.

A few seconds passed as the audience watched in shock, clearly surprised at the outcome.

The hush of the arena cracked at last when Talem's voice rose, clear and commanding. "It is done. Pophet the Gentle Faith stands as the victor."

Some of the conservatives stiffened, their robes rustling faintly as though the declaration itself had offended them.

"By the grace of Lady Aurelith, this Rite has been witnessed. An official declaration will follow shortly, as is custom. Until then, let the outcome of this tribunal settle within your hearts."

Priests moved quickly onto the arena, four of them crouching beside Gorran's unconscious form. Their hands glowed faintly as they worked, the healing rites murmured under their breath.

When they lifted him onto a reinforced stretcher, the air seemed to grow heavier. The proud and now fallen heir, carted away like a broken sparring dummy.

When Gorran woke, the first thing he noticed was the smell.

Sterile, sharp, and faintly metallic.

The private medical ward.

He stared at the smooth, polished wall, muscles stiff as his memory flooded back.

Pophet. The mutt.

The image burned in his skull—stubby legs, drooping ears, and that cursed expression, so calm, so unshaken, as his paw smacked across Gorran's head.

A mutt. A mongrel dared to strike him, to taint the noble, divine blood running in their veins.

The muscles in Gorran's jaw tightened until his teeth ground audibly. "I won't let him be," he whispered hoarsely. "I'll—"

A sound cut him off.

The slow creak of wheels rolling across the floor.

Gorran's ears twitched. His nostrils flared as a faint, familiar scent coiled into his lungs.

The wheelchair stopped at the edge of his bed.

"Oh, brother Gorran," a voice murmured, smooth as silk and twice as sharp. "How have you fared lately?"

Gorran's chest locked. His eyes darted sideways, catching sight of a pale figure with silver hair, delicate hands folded in her lap. The maid behind her stood perfectly still, head bowed as though she dared not breathe.

"...Rinvara?" Gorran finally recognized her. "You're alive? But why are you—" His words faltered as his eyes swept over her fragile, human frame. "Why are you like this?"

She raised a finger to her lips. "Shhh."

The sound threaded straight into his veins, and he fell silent without meaning to.

"Do you hear it?" she whispered.

Gorran swallowed hard. "…Hear what?"

"The sound of your heart." She tilted her head, her bandaged eyes seemed to gleam in the ward's dim light. "One, two.

"One, two.

"One…" Her voice softened to a lullaby's edge. "Two."

And then she fell silent.

Gorran's breath caught in his throat.

His chest felt wrong…

He couldn't feel it.

No heartbeat.

A crawling, ice-cold terror began gnawing up his spine.

"What—what did you—" His voice faltered, strangled in his own throat.

Rinvara leaned forward slightly, her silver hair catching the faint golden glow of the healing runes on the giant bed. "You see, brother," she murmured, her tone laced with something sweet and rotting. "If anything ever happened to our Light. To our savior. Pophet." Her voice dropped lower, almost reverent. "You wouldn't be awake right now."

Her hand rose, pale and delicate, as if to brush a stray hair from her face. But her fingers curled halfway, just enough for Gorran to imagine them closing around his heart.

"You may be the Mountain, but even mountains crumble."

The maid said nothing. Her grip on the wheelchair's handles tightened almost imperceptibly.

Rinvara's bandaged eyes bore into his. "So pray, Gorran," she whispered. "Pray that you will no longer have anything to do with him. For your sake."

The wheels creaked softly as she was rolled away, the sound trailing after her.

Gorran didn't move. Couldn't.

For the first time in his life, he wasn't sure if he was still alive.