A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

Thankfully, they'd assigned me two attendants.

They handled the endless parchment, letters, seals, the bland meals wrapped in giant silk napkins, and the accommodations at Kethra. They'd even rehearsed the words they would use to introduce me to the waiting delegation.

I ignored them for now.

It was easier this way. After all, I knew that they weren't here to serve me. They were here to manage me.

The airship tilted slightly as it began its descent. From the cabin's narrow porthole, I caught a glimpse of Kethra: a sprawl of fishing villages clinging to the ocean, the sea gnawing endlessly at their edges.

I stayed seated, claws occasionally tapping against the steel floor.

The attendants stiffened as the deck shuddered beneath us. One glanced nervously at me before turning back to his scroll.

Eventually, the airship docked with a hiss of steam and the sizzling of heated iron. Outside, the Kethran delegation was lined up in perfect formation—nobles draped in sea-blue silks, priests clutching staves, and guards in gleaming armor.

Their faces were polite masks.

The gates creaked open.

I stepped forward.

And the masks cracked.

"Is… is that really it? It doesn't match the records…" a voice muttered.

"The books said silver fur," another whispered. "It should have an elegant form… A regal face…"

Instead, they saw me.

Mud-colored fur. A squat, blunt face shaped by something outside of nature. Heavy shoulders and a thick body.

Someone muttered, failing to lower their voice. "Grotesque."

The words landed.

I stopped. My eyes swept the delegation, slow and deliberate. One noble flinched under the weight of my stare.

The taller attendant shuffled nervously forward. "Reverent Pophet, arrangements have been made for your rest. The estate—"

"No."

The word cut the air clean.

I took another step. The steel airship dock felt solid under my paws.

"Lead me to the dungeon."

"Your Reverence, surely you'd prefer—"

"I want to see it now."

The attendant swallowed hard and nodded. "At… at once, Reverent Pophet. The dungeon should be an hour inland. We'll make preparations."

I didn't speak again.

As I passed, the delegation parted without being told. Some stared at my back; others looked away.

The city smelled of brine and wet stone, the kind of smell that clings to fur and lingers no matter how hard you shake it out.

They led me through Kethra's winding streets at a steady pace, my paws leaving faint prints across damp cobblestones. I didn't bother softening my step, didn't need to. These roads had been built for carts hauling barrels of salted fish and crates packed with iron ingots.

Whatever weight I carried, it was nothing they hadn't borne a hundred times before.

People stared at me. Of course they did.

Mothers clutched their children tighter. Sailors paused mid-knot, lips thinning as their gazes followed me. Priests in sea-blue robes clutched coral talismans and muttered prayers under their breath.

Their whispers bled into the salt air. Just fragments. Just like Sunmire.

I kept walking. Claws clicking lightly against the stone. No tail wagging. No glance to acknowledge them, though I heard every word they murmured.

As we continued walking, the waterfront came into view, and with it, the dungeon.

A black pit gaped in the sand ahead, perfectly circular and wide enough to swallow a large cart whole. Wooden scaffolding ringed its edges, planks reinforced with heavy beams and lashings of sea-weathered rope.

Around it, three Kethran guards stood at attention, hands resting on their weapon hilts. My attendants quickly showed our papers, showing who I was.

I padded forward, unhurried.

The dock groaned faintly beneath my paws.

I stopped at the edge of the pit. Sand shifted under me, dry and coarse..

I leaned closer and peered down. Shadows clung to the interior walls, slick with moss and algae. I could see nothing within, just like at the Bottomless Inn, an endless darkness within the entrance.

A slow drip echoed from the darkness.

Every expedition so far has failed. No survivors.

Talem's words came back to me

If this pit wanted to be my grave, it would have to work for it.

I turned from the hole, catching the lead guard's gaze. She straightened instinctively.

"Keep maintaining the perimeter," I said. My voice came out low, measured. "I'll enter when I'm ready."

The words lingered in the salty air for a beat too long. I didn't wait for a reply.

"Now take me to my quarters," I added, my tone flattening into something colder. "I've seen enough for tonight."

My attendants looked a bit hesiitant, then scrambled to obey.

As they led me away from the dungeon, back toward the twisting streets and the waiting villa, I felt the stares behind me like hooks tugging at my fur.

Kethra's people were still watching.

Waiting to see if this little creature with the stubby body and blunt face could possibly live up to the legendary Godbeast of Sunmire.

The path up toward the royal district was wide and clean, paved in pale granite that caught what little light the sinking sun allowed. Arched bridges spanned narrow canals where gondolas drifted slowly, crewed by silent boatmen.

Here, the air no longer smelled of fish and salt. It carried the faint sweetness of flowers curling down from iron balconies.

I said nothing as they led me on.

The attendants walked with careful, almost reverent steps, though they kept glancing back at me. I thought that they maybe heard of bad news about me.

I didn't blame them.

We arrived at a guest manor near the palace gates. Modest by noble standards, though still far more than I needed.

White stone walls, a tiled roof, heavy doors that swung open at the touch of a servant's hand.

Inside, the air was cooler, perfumed faintly with something floral.

The attendants peeled away to ready the quarters.

After a few minutes, they left my room.

"If you require anything, Your Reverence, we'll be posted just outside," he said, eyes a little too low to meet mine.

"My thanks," I answered. The words came out steady, though there was no warmth in them. He bowed and left, closing the door with a careful click.

Silence filled the room.

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I padded across the floor and paused by the garden. Beyond the open sliding panels, a small pond reflected the deepening sky. A thin waterfall fed it, the sound low and constant.

I lowered myself onto my haunches and stared upward. The sky over Kethra was turning purple at the edges. Clouds stretched thin across it, their underbellies painted gold by the last rays of the sun.

I closed my eyes.

Two years in the Sanctum had made me think about the direction of my life. And it burned out everything soft in me.

It wasn't anger now. Not really. Just a cold, measured resolve that sat deep in my chest. Alongside a mountain of frustration at everyone.

Suddenly, a loud crash broke the quiet.

I was on my paws before the sound had finished echoing.

The chamber doors slammed open with enough force to rattle the hinges. Two Kethran guards hovered in the hall beyond, their eyes wide, mouths opening to speak—but it was too late.

A young man strode through, clad in half-armor, boots striking the floor like a challenge. His breath came heavy, his face flushed with fury.

The intruder was lean, with tawny hair tied back in a short tail, and he bore enough familial resemblance to the portraits lining the hall when I entered here.

I knew at once who this must be: one of King Ormund's sons. A Kethran prince.

His boots struck the marble floor hard, each step echoing too loudly for the quiet villa. His breath came fast and uneven, chestplate rising and falling.

The two guards who had been posted outside, and my attendants, hovered nervously in the open doorway behind him. Neither dared step in after failing to stop the prince's charge.

"You…!" The prince spat, the word sharp enough to bounce off the stone floor. "They said a Godbeast came from Sunmire." His lip curled into a sneer, "But you look far lesser than one."

I didn't move.

My eyes narrowed by a fraction at this indignance. It was enough to qualify as a glare, and more than enough to make one of the guards shift his weight uncomfortably in the doorway.

The prince's hand hovered near the pommel of the blade strapped at his hip. His mana flickered around him, weak and volatile.

It felt like a small flame fanned too hard, sputtering and eager to leap higher. By Sunmire's standards, the boy was barely a Phase-6. A fledgling at best.

Behind him, one of the guards spoke nervously. "Prince Aron, please… perhaps it's best to—"

"Silence!" Aron barked, snapping his head back. The guard flinched and shut his mouth.

The prince stepped further into the room. His boots rang out like a challenge.

I stayed where I was, watching him without a word.

He was young. Twenty summers, perhaps? His hands were steady now, but there was a slight tremor in his left wrist.

Finally, I tilted my head slightly. "What is it that you want?" I asked.

There was no fear in my tone, no deference. Only the kind of firm patience you give to a child who hasn't yet earned a response.

His face flushed red. He took another step forward, hand tightening on his sword hilt.

"I want what is rightfully mine," he growled. "This glory. This challenge. It was supposed to be mine. But Father went sniveling to Sunmire, begging for help, and now they send you…" his voice rose, cracking slightly at the edge, "...you, to steal the honor that should have been mine."

The blade flashed as he drew it in one sharp motion.

"Beast!" He hissed. "I challenge you to a duel. Right here. Right now."

Behind him, one of the guards shut his eyes, lips moving in a silent prayer. The other swallowed hard, sweat beading at his brow.

I regarded the prince for a long moment as his chest heaved, adrenaline and anger feeding his stance.

"Go back to your chambers," I said finally. My voice was quiet. "Sleep off this folly."

A muscle jumped in his jaw. He hadn't expected dismissal, certainly not from something he saw as beneath him.

With a roar, he lunged forward, sword raised high.

Aron lunged, both hands gripping the hilt as he swung down with all the force his young frame could muster.

The sword flared blue, mana rippling along its edge. The mana hissed in the still air, loud enough to make the two guards flinch back from the doorway.

It might have been dazzling to someone else.

I didn't move.

The blade struck me square across the shoulder. Sparks leapt. Steel screeched as it bit against my fur, and stopped.

There was no pain. No cut. The mana in the strike dispersed across my body.

The boy froze mid-swing, his eyes going wide as the blade shuddered uselessly in his grip.

"You…"

His voice cracked with disbelief.

My eyes met his. Calm. Cold.

"Finished?" I asked quietly.

Then I raised a paw.

A single, deliberate swipe.

Thwack.

The sound echoed in the chamber like a struck drum.

My paw caught him square in the chest, right over the royal crest embossed in his armor. The steel buckled inward with a hollow groan, and Aron's body flew back as though he'd been struck by a battering ram.

He hit the far wall hard enough to shake dust loose from the ceiling beams. A vase on a pedestal toppled and shattered beside him, porcelain shards skittering across the polished floor.

The sword clattered from his hand. Its blue glow sputtered and died.

He crumpled in a heap, arms splayed limply, chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged breaths.

For a long moment, the room was silent.

I lowered my paw to the floor, claws clicking softly against the stone. My expression didn't change. The only flicker of emotion I allowed was a faint tightening of my brow.

"Pathetic," I murmured.

The two guards at the door staggered back. One muffled a curse. The other's hand hovered over the hilt of his spear before he thought better of it and let it fall to his side.

I padded forward, claws ticking softly on the marble.

The boy was unconscious.

Good.

I opened my jaws and clamped down on the back of his collar. The dented plate groaned faintly in my teeth as I lifted his limp body from the floor.

"Follow me," I said.

The guards hesitated, eyes darting to each other. Then, as if some unspoken signal had passed between them, they scrambled to obey.

I began walking with my two attendants, two Kethra guards, and an unconscious prince.

Servants peeked from doorways as the procession moved through the halls. Gasps rippled as they saw the prince's battered body being carried like a discarded rag doll.

Some pressed themselves flat against the walls, heads bowed low. Others ducked hastily out of sight.

The guards trailed a few steps behind me, hands hovering near their weapons but never daring to draw.

If I had meant harm, they knew they weren't able to stop me.

Torchlight flickered along the corridor walls as I padded forward, my shadow stretching long and distorted across the marble. It looked monstrous there, like some ancient beast dragging a slain knight into the underworld.

But Aron wasn't dead.

At least not yet.

The fear in the air was thick enough to taste. It rolled off every soldier and servant I passed in waves.

Even here, they provoke me, I thought.

Even now, they test the edge of my patience.

The prince had raised a blade in the home that had offered me shelter. He'd broken the oldest rule of hospitality. Such arrogance demanded correction.

We reached the grand doors of Kethra's throne hall.

The two royal guards stationed there went rigid as their eyes fell on the prince's limp body being dragged along the floor.

One opened his mouth, his voice cracking. "W-what is the meaning—"

"I will meet your king," I said.

Within, King Ormund of Kethra sat atop a carved oaken throne, its back shaped like a cresting wave frozen mid-surge.

A handful of advisors clustered around him despite the late hour, their hushed council breaking apart as the great doors slammed open.

The king rose sharply as my claws clicked against marble. His beard caught the torchlight, and his hand gripped the arm of his throne as if to steady himself.

A court mage dropped his scrolls. A lady-in-waiting gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

I crossed the threshold, head held high, jaws still clamped around Aron's collar. The prince's limp body dragged across the polished stone.

I stopped ten paces from the dais and dropped him.

He landed in an ungainly sprawl on the red carpet, armor dented and face pale. His arm flopped out at an awkward angle.

Gasps rippled through the room.

A royal heir, defeated and dragged like a piece of luggage.

"Aron…" Ormund's voice cracked. He descended two steps, one hand reaching out instinctively. His eyes darted between his son's prone form and the Godbeast standing over him.

"What is the meaning of this?" an advisor barked, stepping forward. His naval uniform creaked with the movement, his face blotched red with fear and indignation. "You dare—"

"What I have done," I said, my voice low and even, "is defend myself. And uphold the honor of Sunmire's pledge."

The words cut through the hall.

I kept my eyes on the king.

"Your son forced a duel in my own chambers. He drew steel. He offered mortal insult." My words fell slow. "I answered back."

Ormund's jaw tightened. He raised a hand sharply. Two guards rushed forward, lifting the prince between them. Aron's head lolled against his dented breastplate as they carried him out.

The king's eyes tracked his son until the doors closed behind him.

"Lord Pophet," he began, voice formal but taut. "As King of Kethra, I extend my deepest apologies. Prince Aron's actions are his own and do not reflect our hospitality. He will be disciplined."

He paused. "But I must ask…"

I stepped forward to the foot of the dais. Advisors tensed with their hands twitching beneath their robes, readying spells.

I simply sat, my gaze unwavering. "I require reparations."

Silence swept through the chamber.

"Reparations…" Ormund echoed softly, his voice cautious. "What do you deem appropriate for this offense?"

"Respect," I said, the word flat and heavy. "And assurance that this does not happen again. In Sunmire, to raise a blade against an envoy is a crime answered in blood or bounty. I answered with neither."

My eyes flicked toward the door where Aron had been carried out.

"I spared your son as a courtesy. Don't mistake that for weakness."

A noblewoman, who I assumed to be Aron's mother, let out a faint sound and clutched her fan tighter. Ormund raised a hand to silence any further reaction.

"We understand," he said after a beat. "Name your price. Kethra would not risk strife with Sunmire."

I let the quiet drag a moment longer.

"I do not seek gold. Only an artifact that will increase my chances of survival in the dungeon."

Ormund's shoulders loosened slightly. "We can grant this." He gestured to a robed man at his side. "Rhyss. Fetch the Tidemother's Embrace."

The man who was standing beside the king bowed deeply and disappeared through a side door.

I waited in silence.

Minutes passed before the man named Rhyss returned, cradling a polished wooden case in his hands.

He opened it, revealing a necklace of interlocked runic links. At its center, a pendant of coral and crystal shimmered with aquamarine light. Within the crystal, water churned in a perpetual current.