A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

Brother Maevin and I left the orphanage long before dawn.

The halls were quiet, save for the faint creak of the old floorboards under his boots. I stayed curled inside his coat, my body shrunken to the size of a puppy again.

It wasn't dignified, but it was practical. And after last night's chaos with the children, I wasn't about to risk round two.

Better to slip away unseen.

Outside, the air was crisp with the bite of pre-dawn chill. But the streets were already alive.

Carriages rattled by, hooves striking the cobblestones in steady rhythm. Candles flickered faintly in windows as priests and clerics prepared for Sunmire's dawn prayer.

Brother Maevin walked unhurriedly, his coat pulled tighter against the cold. When we reached the carriage row, he flagged down a driver.

"Aurielle Conservatory," he said.

The driver nodded and gestured for him to board.

I nestled deeper into Maevin's coat as it began to move, the faint sway of motion lulling me into reluctant comfort.

Nearing the gates of the Conservatory, I noticed them.

Scholars and reporters with luminographs.

Not many. Nothing like the mob yesterday at the station and when we passed here. But still there—lingering in corners, pretending to check notes or polish lenses as their eyes darted to every passing carriage.

"They're persistent," I murmured softly, keeping my voice low.

Maevin's hand brushed his satchel. "They're scholars. And scholars are insatiable when presented with a mystery."

When the carriage stopped, Maevin disembarked and approached the iron gates. He produced a folded parchment from his coat—a certificate embossed with golden ink and stamped with the sigil of Aurielle's alumni.

The custodian at the gate, a wiry man with ink-stained fingers, took one look at it and brightened.

"Brother Maevin," he said warmly. "I didn't expect to see you back here. You look different now; you were one of our quietest alumni, but your theses still circulate in the archives."

"Thank you," Maevin said simply. "I've come to deliver something to Her Reverence Eline, courtesy of the public records. Could you take me to her?"

"Of course. She's in the Solarium Athenaeum."

If the Basilica was a monument to faith, then Aurielle Conservatory was a monument to thought.

The halls stretched high and wide, stone walls inlaid with sun-glyphs and lined with portraits of famed theologians and researchers. Steam-lamps glowed softly along the corridors, casting warm light across polished floors.

Students hurried past carrying stacks of scrolls, their eyes bleary from long hours and too much caffeine. Even now, the place thrummed with tired energy.

The custodian led us through it all without pause. "Her Reverence Eline has been given her own office," he said over his shoulder. "Very few achieve that privilege so young."

We reached the Solarium Athenaeum—a library so vast it seemed to breathe.

It wasn't as big as the Basilica's grand archive, but it came close. Tall stained-glass windows spilled amber light across rows of bookshelves. Scholars hunched over desks littered with quills and scraps of parchment, their faces pale in the glow of enchanted reading lamps.

The air smelled of old parchment, lamp oil, and faintly of ink.

The custodian's voice dropped to a respectful murmur. "She's in her private office. This way."

We passed doors marked for book restoration, collaborative projects, and private lessons.

At the far end, one door stood apart. No plaque, no markings. Just polished oak and a faint glyph etched into the wood.

Her office.

Maevin paused for a moment, adjusting his glasses. Then he knocked softly.

"Come in."

The voice was young and calm but filled with exhaustion.

Brother Maevin pushed the door open, and we stepped into what could only be described as a scholar's battlefield.

Books lay in lopsided stacks on every available surface. Loose papers blanketed the floor in a chaotic sprawl. Some were covered in neatly written notes, others in symbols I couldn't decipher. There was also a makeshift bed sat in one corner, its blanket tangled and half-falling to the floor, like its occupant hadn't bothered to straighten it in weeks.

Eline was seated at a cluttered desk in the middle of it all.

Her hair was tied back in a messy ponytail, several stray strands sticking out at odd angles. She wore an oversized professor's jacket, the sleeves rolled up haphazardly to keep them out of the ink. Her glasses perched precariously on the bridge of her nose, and her quill scratched furiously across a scroll.

Maevin cleared his throat.

"Ahem."

No reaction.

The quill still kept moving, her hand darting from one parchment to another with practiced precision.

"Ahem." This time louder.

The quill froze mid-stroke. Eline lifted her head, pushing her glasses back with an ink-stained finger.

This was the first time I'd seen her polymorph.

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She looked so… small. About the same size as Rinvara if she was sitting on her wheelchair.

As a Godbeast, she had been a large, overbearing presence who seemed a bit too curious about everything. Here, in her human form, she seemed almost fragile; her curiosity tamed. Her frame looked slight under the heavy folds of her jacket, and faint shadows rimmed her eyes.

Still, there was something in her gaze that hadn't changed.

"Hi, Pophet," she said softly. "How've you been faring these days?"

I went still.

She couldn't have seen me. I was still inside Maevin's coat, pressed tight against the fabric and barely seeing her through the seams. Unless… she thought Maevin was me?

"Brother Maevin," she continued, her voice steady. "You can leave Pophet here. That would be nice."

So she did know.

Maevin didn't hesitate. He unfastened his coat, reached inside, and gently lifted me out.

My paws hit the floor with a faint click.

Eline's tired eyes widened slightly as she looked directly at me.

"I was right," she murmured.

"How did you know?" I asked, staring up at her.

She gave a faint smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Don't you remember how I see mana?" she said simply.

I hesitated.

"Three lights. Forehead. Chest. Lower belly." Her voice was quiet, almost matter-of-fact. "Everyone has them. Some shine bright, others are dim, but they're always there."

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she studied me.

"You're the only one I've ever seen with just one."

The words settled in the room like falling ash.

I remembered her mentioning this before my awakening. And after my awakening, she looked at me quite strangely, with her stare tinged with confusion. I'd brushed it off back then. But now, I could see that confusion again in her face, but it had sharpened into something heavier.

Eline leaned back in her chair, resting her chin on her ink-stained fingers.

"It hasn't changed," she said softly. "You're still… an anomaly."

I wasn't sure if I liked the sound of that.

Eline leaned back in her chair, her gaze shifting briefly to the door.

"Brother Maevin," she said softly, "could you give us a moment? I need to speak with Pophet alone."

Maevin didn't ask why. He just nodded, adjusted his coat, and quietly stepped out.

The door closed behind him with a faint click, leaving only the sound of scratching quills and muffled voices from the library below.

Eline didn't speak right away. She pinched the bridge of her nose, then let out a slow breath.

"I've made a mistake," she said finally.

Not the most comforting opener.

I kept my paws still on the floor, trying to gauge how bad this "mistake" was going to be.

"The kind of mistake you can fix with an apology? Or the kind that's about to make the front page of every paper in Lumineth?"

Her lips twitched, though it didn't form a real smile. "Maybe somewhere between the two? If it gets fixed quickly."

She straightened slightly, pushing her glasses back into place. "I've been working on a new experiment by testing how mana and steam could be combined safely. It was going well… until I tried to replicate a phenomenon I'd been studying."

She paused.

"Have you ever heard of Cloudfall?"

"I've read about it," I said cautiously. "Something about a cloud collapsing under its own weight and dropping a small lake on a city."

Eline nodded. "Centuries ago, in the western continent, a natural mana weave wrapped itself around a cloud system. It compressed the vapor tighter and tighter until the structure couldn't hold. When the weave ruptured, 25,000 tons of water fell in an instant. The devastation was..."

"And you thought recreating this was a good idea?"

Her expression didn't waver. "On a small scale. For research."

I resisted the urge to sigh.

She stood, began pacing the room, her ink-stained hands gesturing as she spoke. "But my version doesn't behave like the original. Instead of keeping the water at a fixed volume, the mana lattice I built grows stronger as the cloud gathers more moisture. It seemed self-regulating at first, but the growth isn't steady—it accelerates."

"So," I said slowly, "you've created a cloud that's getting heavier and larger the longer it exists. And eventually…?"

"Eventually, the water it's holding will exceed the strength of the mana holding it together. When that happens, the collapse will be catastrophic."

I flicked an ear. "How catastrophic?"

"Theoretically, around ten to twenty Cloudfalls," she admitted. "Enough to level half the Conservatory and flood the southern wards of the city."

I stared at her for a long moment.

A flush crept up on her face. "It wasn't supposed to go this far."

I rubbed a paw over my muzzle. "And where, exactly, do I come into this?"

Eline rubbed her temples and let out a groan.

"I really don't want to get scolded by Bishop Eydor again…" she mumbled.

Not exactly the kind of reassurance I was hoping for from the person responsible for a growing sky-flood.

She let out another sigh, heavier this time. "The last time one of my experiments went wrong, he made me do prep work for four professors. For an entire week."

She dragged a hand down her face, leaving a faint smudge of ink on her cheek.

"And not the nice professors either. The mean ones. The ones who think prep work means rewriting all their lecture notes, using six different types of ink, and calculating mana drift tolerances down to the last decimal."

Her voice cracked slightly on the word "decimal," and she shuddered. "Do you know how many parchment sheets I had to cut? I swear my claws have blisters!"

"You're telling me this because…?" I asked.

"Because I'd rather not end up with another punishment," she muttered.

I was silent for a beat too long.

"Why don't you fix it yourself?" I asked finally.

Eline froze. A redder flush crept up her neck.

"Because… I'm technically still under punishment from last time."

"..."

"If I leave the Conservatory grounds right now, Eydor will know I'm up to something again. And he's terrifying when he's suspicious."

"You're saying," I said slowly, my tail flicking against the floor, "that a magical disaster is brewing over this city because you're grounded?"

"I'm not grounded," she snapped, crossing her ink-stained arms.

"You're grounded."

Her expression hardened. "It's more complicated than that."

"Uh-huh."

"I'm serious, Pophet. I can't leave."

"And I'm serious too," I said flatly. "This isn't something to play around with. I'm telling Bishop Eydor."

Her head shot up so fast her glasses nearly fell off her face.

"Wait!"

I paused mid-turn.

"Before you do that…" she said, her voice quicker now. "If Gorran had used his divine armament during your fight, you wouldn't have stood a chance, would you?"

My hackles rose slightly. That was… uncomfortably true.

"But what if you had your own?" she pressed, taking a step closer. Her tired eyes were sharp now, almost fever-bright. "Something crafted for you alone? One that draws on your strange mana signature instead of a traditional three-light flow."

I narrowed my eyes at her. "Where are you going with this?"

"I'll make you one."

"You'll make me a divine armament?"

"Yes. I passed my blacksmithing license a few months ago. I've been working with Sunsteel, tempered under holy flames. I can design something specialized—something no one else in Sunmire could even attempt because they're too rigid in their methods."

I blinked.

"So let me get this straight," I said slowly. "You're saying I'll get a custom divine armament in exchange for getting rid of your overgrown experiment?"

"Exactly," she said without hesitation.