A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

When morning came, I was curled into a tight ball in the little crevice I'd claimed for the night.

The echo of a nightmare slowly faded. In that dream, I was back on the mountainside, watching a towering wave of mud and water crash down toward a helpless village. I ran towards them to help, but when I tried to go, it felt like I was still stuck in place.

For a long moment, I lay there in the dim morning light, panting.

My throat felt raw, and I realized I must have been whimpering or barking in my sleep.

The crevice was cramped and damp; dew from the dawn had seeped into the dirt around me.

After yesterday's events, my paws were sore, and a dull ache throbbed in my hind legs from scrambling over rocks and chasing prey. When I tried to move, dried blood cracked and flaked off my coat.

The taste of that raw deer still lingered on my tongue, very coppery and unpleasant.

My stomach, however, was content.

I wriggled out of the hollow between the rocks and the fallen log. Outside, the forest was beautiful.

Pale shafts of sunlight shone through the canopy of cedar and pine, illuminating swirls of morning mist. Birds trilled in the distance, oblivious to the tiny Godbeast emerging from the underbrush.

I stood there for a moment in my miniature form, letting the cool air wash over me.

But I quickly realized that I still smelled of the blood that was matted in patches on my black fur.

I needed to clean up.

The last thing I wanted was to be found, if there were any hunters or travelers nearby…

A quick shake of my body sent droplets of dew and bits of leaf litter flying off me. Then I scampered down the slope a short distance to where I'd passed a small stream the night before.

As I approached the burbling water, I paused and lifted my nose, sniffing cautiously. The forest smells were all I detected—pine needles, the tang of water, a hint of distant wildflowers.

No human scent, no horses or smoke. Just to be safe, I stayed small as I trotted to the stream's edge.

The water was ice-cold as I splashed in up to my chest, but I let out a sigh of relief as I began pawing and licking the dried blood from my fur. The metallic taste made my stomach churn, yet I forced myself to keep cleaning until my coat was as clean as I could get it.

Ribbons of diluted blood swirled away downstream.

"Focus," I murmured to myself, my voice a tiny rasp. "Just keep moving."

If I let guilt paralyze me, I'd die out here—and maybe I deserved to, a part of me argued.

I climbed out of the stream and shook myself vigorously. My fur, now thoroughly soaked, spattered droplets in all directions.

It wasn't ideal to be wet in the morning chill, but at least I was clean. And since hunger wasn't really a problem at the moment, it meant that it was time to put more distance between me and yesterday.

The eastern border was still far away. Possibly months of travel on foot, especially through wilderness. I could move faster if I stuck to roads or remained in my larger form longer, but both had risks.

Roads meant people. People who might recognize a Godbeast,

So I kept to the wilds. I moved at an easy pace, ears pricked for any unusual sounds.

Under the feel of the breeze and the sound of small creatures scurrying, everything seemed peaceful. Now and then, I was tempted to chase a squirrel climbing up a tree, but other than that, I encountered nothing of real threat that morning.

Only my own thoughts troubled me, circling back again and again to that landslide and what I had done.

To stave off the memories, I forced myself to pay attention to practical matters. When the sun climbed higher, I paused in the shade to avoid overheating in my thick fur. I lapped water from another brook when I found one.

Out here, I was on my own. A fugitive from my own life, a self-exile by shame.

By midday, hunger began to gnaw at my stomach again. I only ate enough to satisfy my hunger last night; I hadn't finished the whole deer, not with my stomach unaccustomed to raw meat.

I needed to hunt again. I slowed my pace, nose sniffing and ears swiveling as I smelled and listened for potential prey.

At the same time, I tried to recall everything I knew about hunting. Gorran and Vaelric, both of my brothers, were skilled predators. I was not.

While they sparred and hunted in the forests around the Basilica as part of their training, I spent my days in the library or napping somewhere in the shade. On the rare occasion I'd joined a supervised hunt, I mostly trailed behind awkwardly and watched.

The instructors eventually stopped asking me to come along; it was too embarrassing for everyone involved.

Yet I wasn't completely ignorant. I remembered a few pointers from those failed lessons. Basic predatory tactics that any wolf would know by instinct.

But I wasn't a wolf.

I was a pug through and through. My instincts tended more toward curling up on pillows than stalking deer.

Even so, I had to try.

I lowered my body and slunk through the underbrush, hoping to catch a whiff of something before it caught mine. It didn't take long. After around fifteen minutes of creeping along, I smelled a cluster of scents: the musky odor of wild boar somewhere far, the grassy scent of rabbits closer by, and then… yes, the distinct scent of a deer coming from downslope.

I inched forward, placing each paw carefully to avoid snapping twigs. I paused behind the gnarled trunk of an oak and slowly peeked around it. Two deer, grazing on the shrubs.

A mix of relief and anxiety fluttered in my chest.

If I could surprise them, I was still able to barely chase them down.

My heart began to thud as I sank low, belly brushing the ground. The wind was good; it carried their scent to me, but not mine to them. They continued to graze, unaware of the predator creeping nearer.

Step by painstaking step, I closed the distance. Thirty meters away… fifteen… five. I could hear the closer deer ripping leaves from a bush, its short tail flicking contentedly.

All of a sudden, a stray breeze gusted from behind me. I felt it ruffle the fur on my back.

The deer's head shot up, ears alert. It had caught a hint of me. Our eyes met through the foliage.

I immediately lunged with a snarl, using all the strength in my hind legs. In a heartbeat, I poured Qi into my muscles, and my body reacted instantly—whoosh—I surged from the size of a small puppy to a seven-foot Godbeast. And it closed the gap in a flash.

The deer tried to bolt, but I was already upon it. My claws raked across its flank as I slammed my weight into the animal. We crashed to the ground amid thrashing limbs and flying dirt. The deer kicked frantically; a hoof clipped my shoulder, barely stinging.

For a moment, the deer jerked and struggled beneath me. I tasted hot blood as my fangs punctured its neck. Then, with a final shudder, the animal went limp.

Silence reclaimed the scene, broken only by the harsh sound of my breathing.

I kept my jaws locked for a few seconds longer. Gradually, reality seeped back in. The other deer was long gone, vanished into the forest. Beneath my paws, the deer I'd killed lay still. Its blood stained my muzzle and dripped onto the trampled grass.

I released its neck, panting. My heart pounded from the hunt and the kill. And something else.

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Was this… triumph?

The rush of a successful hunt coursed through me, primal and fierce. I had done it. Yesterday was pure luck that I happened on a small deer that thought I was friendly.

This, however, was clumsy and brutal, but I had taken down prey on my own, using fang and claw as a Godbeast should. A strange heat flooded my chest, and I realized it was… excitement. Maybe even pride.

The part of me that was still civilized recoiled at this realization-–was I really feeling thrilled to have killed an innocent creature?

But the hunger, the need, and the instinct were all sated by the act.

In this moment, it was hard to deny the savage satisfaction thrumming through my veins.

I stood over the deer's body for a few moments, catching my breath and wrestling with my emotions. A droplet of blood rolled off my chin, landing on a broad leaf.

The sight of it, bright red against green, made something clench in my gut. The weight of life, a life I had just ended with my own claws, settled onto me like a heavy blanket. This deer had been alive minutes ago, peacefully eating, harming no one. And now it was meat, cooling rapidly in the open air, because of me.

Things were different when I killed those enemy soldiers and Varnok.

This, right here, was what the value of life felt like.

My ears drooped. "I'm sorry," I whispered, barely audible.

It felt necessary to say it.

I didn't know if I was apologizing to the animal or to my own conscience.

My stomach growled, reminding me that this was a necessary lesson. If I didn't eat, I'd die. That was the reality of living in the wild.

All those years being pampered in Sunmire, fed cooked meals by servants, I'd never truly grappled with what it meant to survive. In books and philosophy classes, they talked about the sanctity of life, about the cycle of Light. But none of those abstract teachings prepared me for the visceral truth: survival meant something else had to die.

Whether it was a plant plucked from the soil or an animal brought down by my fangs, something paid the price for my life to continue.

I steeled myself for what was going to happen next. I'd learned from last night that eating immediately without preparation was messy and unpleasant. This time, perhaps I could be a little more respectful about it, or at least a little smarter.

First, I dragged the carcass a few yards into thicker underbrush to conceal myself. I managed to wedge it between some roots and rocks where I'd have a bit of cover from prying animals, should any wander by.

Then, recalling something I'd heard, I decided to drain the blood before feeding.

Using a claw, I slit the deer's throat more deeply and stepped back as a dark red stream flowed out onto the ground. It pooled and soaked into the soil. I wrinkled my nose at the scent but endured it.

At least it was better than having the blood gush out in my mouth with each bite.

I waited until the flow of blood slowed to a mere trickle. Flies were already beginning to buzz around, drawn by the scent. I needed to hurry. Steeling myself, I began to eat.

It was still unpleasant. The meat was chewy, warm, and very raw, but without so much blood now. I found I could stomach it a bit better than before.

I forced myself to chew chunks of lean muscle and swallow, trying not to think too much about what I was doing. After a few bites, it became easier. My body knew it needed this nourishment, and my mind mercifully quieted as I ate.

By the time I was satisfied, the sun had passed overhead. This time, I managed to leave a small portion of the deer uneaten.

I considered trying to preserve some of it for later, but I didn't really know how to. And carrying raw meat with me would only invite trouble. So I had to reluctantly leave the remains behind for nature to reclaim.

I loped back to the stream once more, my muzzle sticky with blood. As I drank and cleaned myself for the second time that day, I caught my reflection again.

This time, I saw a creature with blood-stained fur around its jaws and fierce eyes.

I looked… wild. More Godbeast than I had ever looked in the polished mirrors of Sunmire's halls.

Perhaps out here, I was becoming what I was always meant to be, for better or worse.

I left the stream and into the forest's cover again. Moving during daylight carried some risk of being spotted, but I reasoned it was unlikely anyone was in these remote woods. Still, whenever I crossed through an area where the trees thinned or I heard the distant echo of something man-made, I shrank back down to my small form.

As a little black pug, I was far less conspicuous. I could hide in a hollow log or under a bush if needed.

On one occasion, I stumbled upon a dirt path winding through the woods. It wasn't a major road, just a narrow trail likely used by foresters or the occasional traveler between villages. I hesitated at the edge of it, sniffing.

Horse dung, relatively fresh. Human footprints in the mud.

That set me on edge.

Cautiously, I followed the trail from a distance, moving parallel through the undergrowth rather than walking openly on it. Sure enough, voices eventually reached my ears, and I spotted two men walking with a mule-drawn cart up ahead through the trees.

I froze, heart thumping. They hadn't noticed me, I was hidden.

My black fur and the shadows of the ferns provided natural camouflage. I stayed utterly still as the cart creaked by just a stone's throw away.

The men were talking loudly, one was complaining about "Ferron soldiers causing trouble on the border road" and how he was taking this path to avoid them. The other spat and grumbled about taxes and conscription—snippets of village gossip that I barely processed.

I was too focused on not being seen.

Eventually, the cart was out of sight and the voices faded. Only then did I let out the breath I'd been holding. I realized my hackles were raised; the mention of Ferron had triggered a spike of anger in me.

For some reason, the Ferron children at the orphanage didn't trigger anything in me. Was it because I knew deep down that they were innocent?

Once the area was clear, I darted across the dirt path and continued through the wilderness on the other side. Travel was slower off-trail, but I felt safer staying away from any road or settlement.

True to my resolve, I maintained a small profile whenever I sensed any sign of people. Twice more that week, I skirted around distant villages-–I could smell woodsmoke and hear dogs barking long before I saw any rooftops.

Each time, I detoured widely, sometimes even waiting until nightfall to slip by under cover of darkness. In those moments, I moved as a tiny pug, belly low to the ground, ears flattened. It was ironic that this form made me feel secure the most.

Thus, my journey continued, day after day. As I traveled eastward, the terrain changed.

The forest grew denser in some parts, then opened into rolling hills in others. I crossed babbling brooks and, at one point, a fairly wide river. I managed the crossing by swimming while half-drifting along with the current to a calmer bend where I could climb out.

That night, I shivered violently from the cold after getting soaked, and I realized I needed a better strategy for shelter.

Up until then, I had slept wherever I could squeeze myself—under logs, in natural hollows. The nights were growing cooler. A few times, unexpected showers of rain had caught me off guard, leaving me drenched and miserable until morning.

After one such night of teeth-chattering misery, I knew I had to be proactive.

The following evening, I decided to make a bed. Using my claws, I scraped together piles of fallen leaves, pine needles, and dried grass, pushing them into the crevice I chose today to create a kind of bedding.

I broke off some fern leaves and laid them on top to help insulate against the cold ground. It was crude, certainly nothing like the feather-stuffed mattress I once had back in the Basilica, but it was the best I could do right now.

That night, curled up in my makeshift leaf-nest, I actually felt almost comfortable.

The next morning, I woke feeling a little bit stronger, a touch more attuned to the sounds and rhythms of the wild. I slowly begun to realize that my body was working harder than it ever had, and it was adapting.

I noticed it in small things: how I'd wake just before dawn each day, no longer needing the bells or schedules to do things during the day.

How my ears picked up the skitter of a mouse or the distant howl of a fox and automatically sorted those sounds as non-threats, allowing me to sleep on.

How I started to pick up the trails of animals more easily during my hunts.

The more I ate, the less squeamish I became about it. Not that I loved it, I wasn't about to start licking my paws with glee at the taste of blood, but I learned to accept it and even appreciate it in a way.

Eating enough meant I had energy to travel and think clearly. It warded off the dizziness and weakness that had plagued me in those first couple of days.

As the days turned into weeks, I kept moving and kept learning.

I traveled mostly at dawn and dusk, avoiding the hottest part of the day when possible. I conserved my Qi carefully, only using it for bursts of speed or strength when necessary, like during a kill or to leap across a wide chasm.

I suspect my skill-cultivation benefited from this constant exercise and the fresh air of the wild.

Gone were the stuffy meditation chambers, dusty rooms, and libraries. Here, every breath felt both laborious and invigorating. My lungs and meridians felt like they were being scrubbed clean by exertion and hardship.

I still continued moving eastward, to the border. This daily life continued for a month more.

The next morning, I rose with the dawn and began my descent from the highlands. I maintained my small form more often now, since I was nearby the populated areas.

Twice before midday, I heard distant hoofbeats or smelled the scent of horses.

By early afternoon, I found confirmation of where I was.

Peeking through the foliage, I spotted a section of a giant wall snaking across the edge of the valley. My heart sped up. That had to be the eastern border wall.

I decided to wait for nightfall before attempting to get closer. In the meantime, I napped under a bush and munched on some wild blackberries I found. They were quite tasty.

Dusk fell, and with it came a nervous energy twisting in my gut. Part of me was excited at the prospect of finally reaching my destination after around a month of hardship.

Another part was terrified of what awaited. What if the border garrison had orders about me? Did they even know I was "missing"? Or that I caused the Maple's Rest calamity?

Steeling myself, I ventured out cautiously as the darkness deepened. Thankfully, a crescent moon provided little light, and there were even clouds rolling in as well, which would help cover me.

I moved from cover to cover, a small shadow crossing the fields. In the distance, I could see watchfires along the wall and the outline of a gatehouse. I made sure to keep far from the main road that led to the gate.

Instead, I crept toward a quieter section of the wall, where fewer torches burned.

As I approached the base of the wall, I could smell a very familiar scent. It was faint but unmistakable. My steps faltered and I instinctively returned to my full size.

There it was, the unique scent of a Godbeast sibling: Saphiel.

My heart nearly stopped. She was probably atop the wall or patrolling nearby, but either way, there was no doubt, if I could catch her scent, that meant she had caught mine as well.