A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

The old nun sat in her rocking chair, steady and unhurried, watching us from behind round spectacles. The chair creaked faintly as she leaned back.

"So," she said, her voice even but laced with curiosity. "Who was smuggled in this time?"

'Smuggle?'

Her eyes flicked from Brother Maevin to me. They lingered with the careful measure of someone trying to see if I was going to be the new house pet.

Maevin didn't flinch under her scrutiny.

"This," he said calmly, "is Pophet. The Sixth Heir of Sunmire."

The creak of the chair stopped.

For a long moment, she didn't speak.

"You're not one to joke," she said finally. "So I'll assume that's true."

The chair resumed its slow rhythm. "The fabled sixth," she murmured. "My. Word of you has spread far and fast. Even the alley vendors are talking about the sibling who felled the Mountain."

"His polymorph is… functional, if not impressive," Maevin said evenly. "A bit lackluster," he added after a beat.

How dare he.

'It's compact. Efficient. Portable,' I muttered in my head.

The nun's lips curled faintly in amusement. "You talk, do you? I wondered if you were just a quiet little mascot for the Basilica."

I considered saying something snarky back, but thought better of it. No point antagonizing someone who fed me earlier.

"You must be feeling cramped in that small form," she said. "Why don't you stretch out? There's enough room here."

It'd be rude to keep her waiting.

I hopped down from Maevin's lap and padded to the center of the room. I focused, letting my Qi release. My body rippled as fur, muscle, and bone expanded outward, paws widening, shoulders rising.

The transformation finished with a faint shiver as my full frame settled into place.

The floor creaked.

Then cracked.

There was a sharp splintering sound, and before I could shift my weight, the wood gave way entirely.

With all the dignity of a falling wardrobe, I plummeted through the floor in a burst of dust and broken planks.

I grunted as I landed on the ground floor, surrounded by laundry and a startled cat that bolted under a cabinet.

Above, Maevin appeared at the edge of the hole. His expression didn't change. "Your fur's changed back," he noted calmly.

The nun leaned forward, her face appearing in the gap. She squinted down at me, the faintest trace of a smile pulling at her lips. "Oh! Now I remember your color."

"Dear me, the floorboards weren't as sturdy as I thought," she continued. "You'll have to forgive the old house."

"I'm fine," I muttered, trying to rise with as much grace as a Godbeast can.

As soon as I managed to stand and brush off the dust, the door creaked open.

A small boy peeked through the gap. He froze the instant he saw me, eyes going wide. His mouth dropped open.

He shouted at the top of his lungs.

"GUYS! THERE'S A FLUFFY HERE!"

I barely had time to groan before the sound of pounding footsteps filled the hall.

Children poured into the room like a miniature stampede.

"There's really a fluffy!" one cried.

"Whoa, what is that?"

"Is it a dog? It's too big for a dog!"

"Why does it have such a squishy face? That's so weird."

Before I could edge away, they were on me. Small arms wrapped around my legs and sides. One particularly daring child clambered onto my back with a gleeful laugh.

"Look at its ears! They're so soft!"

"It's like a giant pillow," another declared, planting themselves across my shoulders.

One boy circled me with narrowed eyes. "It looks like a lion. But fatter. And with no tail tuft."

"I think its fur is burnt," said a girl, patting my chest with complete confidence.

"It's fawn," I muttered, more to myself than anyone else.

Not that they cared.

From above, the old nun's voice drifted down through the gaping hole in the floorboards. "Do keep them company until bedtime, won't you?"

I lifted my head and stared up at her.

She wasn't joking. Of course she wasn't joking.

"Yes, Miss Amara!" the children chorused before I could protest.

Their attention flicked upwards as they finally noticed the hole.

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"Whoa! A hole!"

"Hi Miss Amara! Hi Brother Maevin!"

The old nun smiled faintly. "Children, stay away from this room. We'll have the boards fixed tomorrow."

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Please step back from the edge," Maevin said. "We don't want anyone getting hurt if something falls."

The children giggled and turned their focus back to me.

"C'mon, fluffy! This way!"

Carefully, I eased toward the door. The frame was narrow, and my bulk filled it uncomfortably. I moved inch by inch, trying not to snap the wood or flatten any of the small bodies crowding me.

'Easy. You are grace. You are not about to destroy structural integrity again.'

The children tugged at my fur, urging me forward.

"Let's take him to the lounge!"

"There's a big fireplace there! He'll like it!"

"Can I feed him? I brought candy!"

The lounge was warm and inviting. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting a soft glow across the old rugs and battered couches. I lowered myself carefully onto the floor near the fireplace, curling my paws inward so I wouldn't accidentally scratch someone.

The moment my stomach hit the ground, I felt the weight of half a dozen children clambering onto my back.

"It's like riding a moving bed!" one of them yelled.

"Not moving much," another observed. "But still soft."

A boy tried to stand on my back, balancing like a circus performer before he toppled into a fit of laughter.

I sighed and rested my chin on the floorboards.

The children were relentless. Some buried their faces in my fawn-colored fur. One little girl decided my ears made excellent handholds and tugged gently on them.

It didn't stop there.

"Here, fluffy! Are you hungry?"

Small hands reached out with offerings. Crumbs, cookies, and brightly wrapped candies appeared from hidden pockets and sleeves.

"I saved this caramel from last week!"

"Have my cookie. It's still fresh… I think."

"I don't know if it eats peppermint," a girl said doubtfully as another tried to push one into my mouth.

I didn't move. They didn't know I was a Godbeast. To them, I was just a strange creature with an unfortunate face and enough patience to let them roughhouse.

So I stayed still and let them climb, tug, and play around.

Eventually, their chaos burned itself out.

It started with a single yawn. A tiny, high-pitched one from the girl tangled in my scruff. Then another boy followed, and within seconds, it became a chain reaction. One by one, the children slowly slumped over like dominoes.

The girl on my back was the first to surrender, curling up against my shoulders like I was some oversized, fawn-colored mattress. Soon, there were three more nestled against my ribs. Another two lay sprawled across my front paws. Even the bold boy who'd tried to feed me peppermint had finally keeled over on my tail.

Their quiet breathing filled the lounge. The crackle of the fire softened into a low, steady murmur.

I didn't dare move. Not even an inch. One twitch and the whole pile might wake up, and I didn't have the energy or the heart to go through another round of "ride the Godbeast" tonight.

It wasn't long before I heard the soft pad of footsteps.

Brother Maevin entered first, his calm expression unchanged. The old nun followed, her hands folded in front of her habit.

They worked in silence, plucking each child off my back and sides with the kind of practiced care that came from years of lifting sleeping bodies. The nun cradled the smallest ones in her arms. Maevin carried two at a time with no effort at all.

The boy on my tail stirred briefly when Maevin picked him up, but settled again with a faint breath.

It took them nearly half an hour to ferry all the children off to their rooms.

When they returned, the fire had burned lower, glowing embers sending faint heat into the quiet lounge. They sat down across from me on the old couches, Maevin's posture straight and still, the nun's hands resting lightly in her lap.

"Smuggle, huh?" I said finally, my voice low to keep from disturbing the lingering quiet.

Almost all the children smelled different. Some carried the faint scent of spices I couldn't place. Others had the sharp tang of salt air clinging to their bodies. Two of them, barely noticeable, smelled of Ferron.

"Yes," Maevin said. "This orphanage houses children from other nations."

I let that sink in for a moment. "Which of the bishops know about this?"

"Grand Vicar Solar Talem, Bishop Eydor, and Bishop Tharne," he replied. "It is, in fact, Bishop Tharne who brings these children here from his missions."

I shifted slightly, mindful of the creaking floorboards. "And you must be the Saintess. Amara. I overheard one of the children call your name."

"That is a title I no longer deserve, Your Eminence," she said quietly.

"From my eyes, it seems a lacking title," I said.

A faint smile touched her lips.

Maevin adjusted his glasses, his voice steady. "I brought you here because I trust that you will keep this secret safe. You stand with the Forward Order."

"Why risk this?" I asked, watching him carefully.

For the first time since I'd met him, Maevin's hands hesitated.

Slowly, he reached for the buttons on his robe and undid them, slipping the fabric aside to reveal his chest.

A pale scar cut across his heart.

It was shaped like a card.

"I came from a nation far to the west, beyond the sea," Maevin said, his voice quieter than usual. "It was a land where power is enforced through a particular law. There, status is everything. Wealth, connections, effort—they mean very little compared to a person's value given to them at birth."

He continued without flinching. "It was an entire hierarchy built from ink and luck. This came to be when the current king reached beyond the 0th Phase, by Sunmire's standards. Within the borders of his kingdom, cards became physical law."

I noticed the way his hand brushed over the scar across his chest.

"Each card is imbued with a role or descriptor that enforces its owner to a role. I was one of those bound. A child consigned to a 'Servant's Deck'. I existed only to obey. There are other uses of the cards; where they could summon creatures, conjure magic, and even become physically stronger."

Amara's gaze softened, but she didn't speak. She let him continue.

"When I reached adolescence, I stowed away on a merchant vessel. Back then, I took a gamble. I thought I'd rather take the chances than live out the rest of my years as property. I nearly did die. But by chance, I crossed paths with Bishop Eydor. He saw the card on my chest for what it was and he removed it. When the wound closed, he brought me here, to this orphanage."

"And since then?" I prompted.

"Everything I've done," Maevin said quietly, "has been to repay Sunmire and this orphanage, my home. I could have been left to rot in the alleys of some city. Instead, I was given a purpose."

The room fell silent. The fire snapped in the hearth, sending sparks spiraling upward.

"Now. You know my history." Maevin said.

I shifted my gaze to the old nun across from him.

"And you, Amara?" I asked.

"Why should I need an excuse to help children?" she replied.

The answer was so plain, so unembellished, that I felt the corner of my mouth twitch.

I remembered reading about her once, years ago.

Amara's name appeared in the library, on a book cataloguing Sunmire's Saints and Saintesses.

When Sunmire's borders nearly collapsed due to a plague, Amara alone stood as the first line of defense, stitching and curing the wounded back together with holy light. When pestilence swept the villages, she stilled it. When drought threatened the granaries, she blessed the fields and broke the rot's hold.

Soldiers had called her a living sun. They called her Lady Aurelith's substitute on the battlefield.

And then, without ceremony, she retired shortly after our births.

A Saintess who had stepped out of the continuing history of Sunmire, and into obscurity.

The fire crackled in the silence that followed.

"This secret," I said at last, "I will keep. I vow it on my Mother's name."