A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

Torchlight wavered in the throne hall's stale air as I stared her down.

Water still ran in slow droplets from my matted fur, forming dark pools around my paws.

Bone fragments littered around us, the last insult to the dignity of the Forgotten King. I heard pieces of what she said.

At the foot of the dais stood Aephelia.

My breathing was slow and controlled, but the rage was there.

The water hadn't come from nowhere. She was the one who tried to drown me. I knew I recognized that scent.

A friend. Or at least, someone I thought might've been.

The water dripped from my muzzle, steady and sharp.

Tap. Tap.

Amidst the silence, it struck the stone floor beneath us.

She raised one hand—slowly, cautiously. With an open palm.

"Pophet," she said softly. Her voice bounced once off the cold stone and vanished. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I only needed to stop you just for a moment." Her eyes flicked toward the puddle beneath me. "I'm sorry."

I didn't speak. I let the growl do the talking. It rumbled low and deep in my chest.

Aephelia didn't move. Her hand stayed up, her posture was still one that showed she was giving up.

And I just stared.

Her face looked older in this light. Or maybe it was the weight behind her eyes. We'd shared tea, once, sort of. Laughed quietly in a sunlit café.

"Why," I said at last, voice flat and sharp, "are you here?"

My tone echoed louder than expected. The hall had a way of making everything sound like judgment. I took a step forward, slow and deliberate, until the full light of the torchfire caught me. I made sure she saw it all—broad shoulders, damp fur clinging to muscle, the glint in my eyes that had stopped more than one soldier dead in his charge.

"I want answers, Aephelia."

She opened her mouth but faltered. Her gaze fell to the skull in her hands "I can't explain everything. I'm bound by oath."

I narrowed my eyes. Nostalgia would not dull my edge, not now.

Whatever the warmth had been between us, it didn't shield her from the truth. She had betrayed me.

"I will give you one chance. Just this once," I said again. "In honor of the nights we shared as friends on the train and the trust I thought we had."

I let the memory pass through my mind without holding on to it. The train, the café, her teasing remarks, the warmth that had once seemed genuine.

Gone. Distant. Cut loose by what she'd tried to do to me.

There was a sad curve to her lips, but I didn't return it. If she thought I would ease up because she was feeling regretful, she was mistaken.

I tilted my head just slightly, less a gesture, but more of me shifting my weight. In the light, I could see my reflection in her eyes. I was cold. Unmoving.

Aephelia stepped back toward the broken throne and carefully placed the skull down on the jagged stone seat. The half-crushed crown gave a dull jingle as it shifted. The glow in the sockets had dimmed to weak blue lights. Watching us.

She stood straighter then.

"This," she began, her eyes not on me now but on the skull, "was once an Emperor. Of a kingdom that no longer exists. A king of a nameless land, from an era deliberately wiped from history."

Her voice was calmer than I expected. Precise. Each word echoed through the hall like a chime being tested for cracks.

"Our records call him the Forgotten King for a reason. His name, his kingdom's name were wiped clean."

She glanced toward me. "This dungeon is the last echo of that time."

I said nothing. I just listened to her.

Aephelia's voice lowered. "It happened centuries ago. When the continent his empire stood on disappeared…"

Her eyes flicked to mine, gauging my reaction.

I didn't blink. My tail gave one deliberate thump against the stone, but that was all I allowed to show.

I already knew what she was implying. But I didn't interrupt her. Better to let her say it aloud.

"Kethra," she continued, "the kingdom this dungeon appeared on is a relatively young nation when compared to Sunmire. Barely three centuries old. It was built where something older used to stand. The land they now occupy…"

She turned toward me fully. "It was once part of the Tenth Continent."

There it was.

"They achieved wonders," she said, stepping closer to the throne again. She let her fingers trail along a crack in the stone armrest. "Their empire was progressing; it was efficient, beautiful. And it was doomed."

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Her voice quieted further. "Because they grew too bold. Too ambitious."

I saw her hand curl, barely, a tightening in the knuckles.

"They broke the natural order. The laws we placed to preserve the world's balance. And in their hubris…"

She trailed off, then finished, almost spitting it.

"They forced our hand."

There it was. A slip-up.

Our hand.

She didn't realize she'd said too much, at least not yet. She looked as if she was reminiscing the past.

"It was their fault, you know?" she said suddenly, sharp now. "They were warned. We gave them multiple chances. And they still tried to—"

Her mouth shut.

Her eyes widened, realization flooding in, and both hands flew to her mouth as if to shove the confession back in. She stepped back towards the throne, and the sudden motion caused her to bump it, causing the skull to slip off the seat where she'd set it.

The skull of the Forgotten King fell to the stone floor with a resounding crack. It bounced once and rolled, coming to a stop near Aephelia's feet. A tiny shower of dust puffed up where it hit. One blue eye-light flickered and went out. Aephelia gasped softly, stooping to retrieve it, but her gaze remained fixed on Pophet in alarm.

"You were there?" I said.

Aephelia swallowed hard. "I-I misspoke."

The Three Laws.

They had not been taught as theory or principle. They were law in the rawest sense: obeyed not because they were understood, but because they served as warnings. No gray lines, no exemptions. Just three thresholds the world was never meant to cross.

Law One: The manufacture and storage of black powder in quantities exceeding standard alchemical thresholds is strictly prohibited.

Law Two: The refinement and combustion of volatile liquid fuels, such as gasoline, synth-oil, or anything that burns above water temperature, is restricted to ceremonial and industrial grade quantities.

Law Three: No mechanized construct may be built that exceeds single-core regulation..

I had memorized them when I was young, like every child and Godbeast of Sunmire.

And what would happen if someone dared to break those laws? The answer came in a single word: Annihilation.

But one day, Eline had pressed further. "Who enforced it?" She asked during one of our history lessons.

"There is a society," our instructor responded, his voice unchanging. "They do not govern and they do not bargain. They simply arrive."

No one asked questions after that.

I looked at Aephelia, still kneeling, still holding the skull. She looked as if she was thinking about something—probably because she was aware that she had said too much.

I took in the sight of her, studied her features as if they were no longer familiar. She looked young. Mid-twenties, perhaps. Black hair and brown eyes. Her face still held the blush of youth.

But the Tenth Continent had fallen around 700 years ago. Long enough for other kingdoms to crumble and reform.

I was curious. What lifespan did members of that organization possess?

"So," I said, my voice low, "the cheerful woman I met on that train was more than she appeared."

I didn't hide the threat in my tone.

She looked up. Her eyes didn't plead, but there was something unspoken there. An apology without words, a hope that I might overlook what could no longer be ignored.

I watched her for a moment, then gave a quiet, dry chuckle. Something closer to disbelief. It barely escaped my chest.

She flinched slightly, and I noted the way her body tensed.

Not in preparation for running away, but as if hesitant on something. She rose slowly, still holding the skull in her arms.

"Pophet, I… I can't…" Tears fell from her eyes. "You're still a child. I… I don't want to kill you. Can you forget what I just said?"

I drew another breath, filling my lungs with the stench of whatever foul trap had doused me earlier. Even after I got a bath, it still clung to my fur.

A part of me was curious. I was curious if I was capable enough to beat someone who belonged to the organizaiton that felled a continent. But this wasn't the time yet, there was a more pressing matter at paw.

"Another time then," I said, voice flat. "We'll have that conversation, Aephelia. In full."

Her gaze flicked up.

My eyes dropped to the skull in her hands. "Right now, we have a more immediate concern. Don't we?"

She blinked, caught off-guard by the shift in topic. Her hands moved to wipe at her tears.

"Yes," she said, and her voice returned to something steady. "Yes, of course."

"Your dramatic entrance aside," I said. "TeIl me. What must be done to exit this dungeon?"

Aephelia turned and gently placed the skull back onto the throne's seat. A flicker of blue light in its eye tracked her movement. She rested her hand on its crown, then stepped back.

"Under normal circumstances," she began, "the dungeon would close once the Emperor's trial is completed. In other words, when he chooses a successor. The Forgotten King must deem a challenger worthy to carry on his legacy. Only then will the exit respond."

I processed that in silence. My mind traced back the steps I'd taken since arriving. The desert that looped on itself. The guardian who spoke in riddles. The hall lined with traps. The army of statues, untouched. The vault of gold I left alone.

If this place was intended to test patience, intellect, caution, leadership, and greed, then by their measure, I had failed nearly all of them. I hadn't played their game.

And at the final gate, the one who sat in judgment found nothing he could pass his crown to. Just me. And her.

My tail twitched once.

"So because I didn't care to play along with their trials," I muttered, "this old bag of bones refuses to let us out?"

Aephelia gave a brief, dry smile. "You did take a few liberties. In any case," she added, "he hasn't chosen either of us."

She blinked at me, then approached the throne again. This time, she lifted the skull with both hands.

She raised it to eye level. Only one of the glowing sockets flickered.

"Your Majesty," she said. "We've technically completed your trials. We stand before you. Tell us. Are either of us worthy of your legacy?"

The skull moved slightly. Its jaw opened with a soft scrape.

"No," said the Forgotten King.

The word rang through the air.

Aephelia stood still. Then slowly lowered the skull.

I stood again and padded past her up the dais. I stopped near the throne and looked down at what remained of the Forgotten King's body.

I turned my head back to her. "So now we wait for him to change his mind?"

"No," she said.

She moved to her bag and opened it. Her hands rifled through parchment, scrolls, small containers, until she retrieved a cloth-wrapped object.

"If he won't choose," she said, "then we remove the choice."

She stood and unwrapped the object. A silver-framed mirror, oval in shape, with etched designs along the handle and rim. The glass wasn't clear. It was black and smooth, reflecting light in strange, irregular patterns.

"What is that?" I asked, eyes narrowing.

"An insurance policy," she said. "It has a few functions, such as storing artifacts and tricking dungeons."