A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

The airship hummed as brass gears clicked inside the walls. The enchantments gave off a faint, acrid tang of heated sunsteel. Every now and then, the cabin shuddered as the engines adjusted course.

Saphiel wasn't here. She'd stayed behind at the eastern border to prepare for any Ferron attack. The Church needed her there in case something happened at the frontlines.

So here I sat. Alone. Collared.

Saphiel called the Basilica to tell them she found me and to come pick me up. So, a few Phase-4 soldiers came a couple of days later and shackled me.

The collar was kind of functional. Sunsteel banded with suppression runes that drew the mana from my veins and left me feeling a bit heavier than usual.

It hummed faintly against my fur.

It felt like a toy, something I could snap in half if I wanted.

But I didn't. I had to obey for now.

Outside the cabin window, Sunmire grew on the horizon.

White spires climbed into the sky. Gold banners caught the morning wind. And at the heart of it all, the Basilica sprawled—arches and domes gleaming as the first light touched its highest tower.

As the airship descended, the military platform came into view.

No civilians waited there. Only priests in layered white robes. Workers with coal-stained gloves leaning against stacked crates. A few stewards in polished boots, their faces sharp with disapproval, as if escorting me was an inconvenience.

When they noticed me. Murmurs spread quickly.

"That's the one?"

"The sixth heir…"

"They've chained him?"

"They say he's a disgrace to Lady Aurelith's line."

"Quiet. He'll hear you."

Hearing their words, I couldn't help but press my claws into the steel floor. Not hard enough to leave marks.

The airship jolted once as it settled into the cradle. Brass talons clamped down on the hull with a hiss of steam.

Two clerics in sun-white uniforms walked up the boarding ramp. One held a scroll, the other a sunsteel key that caught the light.

"Venerable Pophet," the scroll-bearer said flatly, eyes fixed on my head. "By order of the Ecclesiastical Council, you are to be escorted to the Inner Sanctum for judgment. Until such time, you will be confined to the quarters."

Quarters. That was the word they used.

I gave a small nod. The collar tugged against my neck as I moved.

The key turned. The chains fell away from my legs with a soft clatter.

The collar stayed.

Of course it stayed.

The priests didn't wait for me to respond. They turned and began walking, expecting me to follow like a well-trained hound.

I followed.

The Godbeast quarters weren't cells, not exactly. The walls were lined with silk hangings. The floor cushions could have swallowed three of me whole. And incense clung faintly to the air, sweet and heavy.

But it didn't matter.

A cage is still a cage. No matter how soft the bedding.

I spent a week in the Godbeast quarters doing absolutely nothing.

And I mean nothing.

Sleeping. Eating. Staring at the silk wall hangings so garishly embroidered they made my eyes hurt. Occasionally, I'd flatten a cushion with the full weight of my divine body, just to test how much stuffing it could lose before becoming a pancake.

It was… nice. Too nice.

The food came on time; bowls of roasted meat, soft bread, and spiced tea strong enough to make my ears twitch. No guards spoke to me, but they peeked in every hour, as if worried I'd do something dangerous, like nap too hard.

For once, I didn't mind the solitude. After Rinvara, after Ferron, after everything, it felt good to let my body and mind heal. So this was how much weight I'd been carrying before I resolved myself, huh.

But it couldn't last.

On the seventh morning, three guards arrived.

Tap. Tap. Just a knock, a nod, and the clink of their boots as they led me out.

The Basilica hadn't changed. Still full of light and noise and the faint metallic scent of incense wafting down every corridor. But walking through it with a collar on made every priest's stare feel sharper.

The guards flanked me as we entered the Grand Atrium.

Sunlight poured through stained glass, turning the marble floor into a river of color. Above, saints and Godbeasts were etched into the domed ceiling.

It looked beautiful.

The Inner Sanctum loomed ahead. Two massive crystal doors shimmered faintly as protective runes flared across their surface.

Talem and Tharne waited just outside.

Talem's face was stone as always. His heavy robes rustled faintly as he stepped closer, his eyes unreadable.

"Speak only when permitted," he said. "Accept what comes."

I swallowed and gave a slight nod.

Tharne leaned in closer. His voice dropped low, almost a whisper.

"We wanted to shield you, Pophet… but today, we are outnumbered."

Then the doors opened.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

A wave of warm, incense-laden air hit me first. Then sound. Quiet at first. Whispers. Robes shifting. Feet scraping marble.

The tribunal chamber was carved from living crystal, its surface etched with scenes of Godbeasts in their prime—towering forms of light and fur.

But every eye in the room was on me.

The clergy sat in elevated rows.

High above, the Conservative Faction stared down in silence. Bishop Quarroth's eyes were as sharp as daggers. And beside him, High Elder Grellin leaned forward slightly, lips curled in distaste.

Their gazes weighed more than the collar around my neck.

I kept walking. One paw in front of the other. The steel floor rang faintly with every step into the tribunal chamber until I reached the center.

"Call the matter to order," High Elder Grellin said.

A deep gong rolled through the chamber, reverberating in the etched walls until even the faintest whispers fell silent.

"The tribunal recognizes Bishop Quarroth," Grellin continued. "Present the charges."

Quarroth rose from his seat with practiced calm, his black robes trailing behind him as he stepped to the floor. The faint light of the sanctum caught on the silver trim of his vestments.

"This tribunal convenes to judge the actions of Pophet, the Gentle Faith that Echoes, sixth heir of Lady Aurelith," he began.

"Let the record show: On the twelfth day of September, the Godbeast known as Pophet failed in his support at Maple's Rest. When a landslide occurred, he neither helped with the rescue efforts, nor looked for assistance. He abandoned his duties as Sunmire's Godbeast. The resulting collapse claimed eighty-seven civilian lives."

The words settled cross the chamber.

"Further," Quarroth said, his tone as steady as before, "on the twenty-third day of May in the same year, this same heir engaged a Ferron stronghold without sanction. His reckless conduct escalated what might have remained a minor skirmish into open hostility. Two Phase-3 soldiers perished. Several more were maimed."

A clerk approached and offered him a thick ledger bound in sun-gilded leather. Quarroth took it, turning to a marked page.

"Let it also be noted," he said, "that Rinvara, the Light that Never Flickers, sister to this heir, was declared missing in these ledgers prior to his unauthorized raid on Ferron territory. And yet…"

The Inquisitor closed the ledger with a soft snap.

"…he diverted soldiers, resources, and his own life for a cause declared lost."

He turned to face the rows of clergy seated above.

"The Sanctum deems these actions wasteful in the extreme. An heir should governed by duty, not by sentiment. He is a liability to Sunmire's divine mission."

Grellin inclined his head. "The charges are heard and logged."

The High Elder's eyes dropped to me, sharp and unyielding.

"Pophet of Aurelith's line. You stand accused of dereliction of sacred duty, failure to protect Sunmire's faithful, and conduct unbecoming a Godbeast heir. This tribunal will determine whether you remain recognized in the lineage or whether your title and standing shall be revoked."

The words fell like hammers, deliberate and final.

I kept my head lowered. My claws pressed faintly into the steel floor, the sound of the collar's hum loud in my ears.

"Proceed."

"This tribunal has heard the charges," Talem began, his voice calm. "It has heard of failure. Of recklessness. Of acts unbecoming a Godbeast heir. But allow me to remind the Council: Lady Aurelith's blood is not so easily discarded."

The High Elder gave no reaction.

"Pophet is an heir of the divine line," Talem continued. "It is true he faltered at Maple's Rest. It is true the eastern border suffered after his actions. But these failures are not proof of corruption. They are proof of inexperience. They are proof of an heir left unguided when guidance was most needed."

Talem's voice deepened.

"Is it not the duty of the elders to shape the fledgling? To teach it how to soar, not to cast it down at the first sign of weakness?"

No one replied. Only the faint scratching of quills echoed as clerks recorded every word.

"To revoke his name now would not cleanse the legacy of Aurelith. It would stain it further. For the failure would not be Pophet's alone. It would be ours."

Talem stepped back and gave a shallow bow.

"It is logged," the lead clerk announced, voice thin but firm.

Tharne rose next, his footsteps brisk and light against the crystal floor.

"Esteemed councilors," he said, his tone clipped and precise, "it is not my place to deny the charges brought against the sixth heir. They stand as written. But I urge this tribunal to consider what has not been written."

A few heads shifted slightly.

"Pophet's record lacks brilliance, yes. But it also lacks malice. There is no evidence of treachery. No hint of betrayal. He has harmed none by intent. Does that not matter?"

Tharne's gaze swept across the chamber, calm but unwavering.

The clerk spoke again. "It is logged."

Bishop Quarroth rose with the inevitability of a stormcloud. His black robes shifted with each careful step.

"This Council will forgive my frankness," Quarroth began, his voice smooth as polished glass, "but we are not gathered here to weigh sentiment. We are gathered to safeguard Sunmire's divine mandate."

He placed one hand on the leather-bound ledger before him.

"Pophet's failures are not youthful missteps. They are a pattern of negligence. At Maple's Rest, he turned away as the earth swallowed eighty-seven souls. At the eastern border, he acted without sanction, provoking Ferron forces. This resulted in two Phase-3 soldiers losing their lives."

The Inquisitor paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle.

"Lady Aurelith's blood is sacred. It was given sparingly. And yet here stands one who would rather wallow in comfort than rise to her legacy. The sixth heir has proven himself unworthy. His presence weakens the line."

Quarroth's gaze swept the chamber, sharp as a blade.

"Let us not allow sentiment to blind us to duty."

"The response of Quarroth is logged," the clerk intoned.

Silence followed.

Looking at them—at all these old men draped in silk and authority—I realized something.

I didn't want to be like them.

Didn't want to grow old clutching at power. Didn't want my every word to weigh more than truth itself.

At this thought, my frustration rose.

The elders deliberated for ten minutes. Ten minutes to decide what my existence was worth.

I stood motionless in the center of the circle, the collar still humming faintly against my throat. Their hushed voices didn't carry to me, not that I wanted to hear them.

If they were weighing mercy, I couldn't see it in their faces.

When the presiding elder raised his staff, the sound of it striking the floor cut through the chamber like a thunderclap.

"It is the judgment of this Tribunal," he said, his voice as smooth and cold as sunsteel, "that Pophet, the Gentle Faith that Echoes, youngest heir of Lady Aurelith, shall be confined in isolation for no less than two years."

He let the words hang in the air, heavy and final.

"During this time, he may reflect on his failures and contemplate whether he is worthy of the divine lineage he has so thoroughly sullied."

The staff struck again, sealing the decree.

Talem's jaw flexed. Tharne's hands tightened against his robes. But neither protested.

Politics had already tied their tongues.

Two guards approached from opposite sides of the circle. Each carried a sunsteel band inscribed with suppression runes, glowing faintly in the chamber light.

I felt my claws pressing into the steel floor as they came closer. My tail twitched involuntarily.

The collar hummed louder, like it could sense my pulse rising.

'Two years. They're going to bury me alive for two years, and they think that'll fix their legacy.'

One guard knelt and pressed a glowing sigil into the fur of my forelimb..

My frustration bubbled up like a scalding boil under my ribs.

'They sit in their robes and speak of duty while others fight and bleed for their decisions.'

The second guard secured the matching band on my hind leg, and the suppression rune flared bright before dimming to a faint, steady glow.

The tribunal watched in silence.

For the first time since entering the chamber, I looked directly at them. At the rows of elders with emotionless faces.

Wearing an indifferent expression as if this was a waste of time.

And then I remembered my old human.

When she got frustrated, like really frustrated, she didn't stay quiet. She cursed at the opposing party.

So I tried it.

As the second band clicked into place and the guards began leading me out of the circle, I spoke.

"Go fuck yourselves."

It felt good.

The words hung in the sacred air, sacrilegious and alien.

A few clerks stiffened. Someone gasped.

But no one stopped me as I walked out, head held high.