A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

No one moved. Nobles, guards, attendants, all of them stared. Most didn't look at me. They looked at Aron, at the possibility of disaster.

Aron was shaking, barely steady on his feet. His hand seized a glass from the banquet table and hurled it at the ground. It shattered near his feet.

He pointed at me, his voice clear from the other end of the chamber. "This is what Sunmire calls a Godbeast? You dress him up and pretend he's divine. You bring him here and let him sit at my father's palace? Here in Kethra? You let this ugly animal walk among us?"

Some nobles shrank back. Others watched me, searching for a reaction.

The guards moved to restrain him, but he yanked his arm away before they could even grip him properly.

"Unhand me!" he spat, louder than before. The guards froze, unwilling to cross that line.

He shrugged off his blue cape. It landed at his feet. He straightened his back as best as his drunken body would allow and locked eyes with me.

"If Sunmire is proud of this beast," he said, "Let it fight. Here. Now. Let every kingdom bear witness."

He faced the court and raised his voice. "I challenge you, Pophet of Sunmire! I stake my honor and Kethra's name on this duel. I will show you, and every fool here, that no foreign monster shall rule this kingdom."

I glanced at King Ormund. His eyes were heavy, jaw clenched. He stood half-risen from his throne, but he couldn't speak. Not now. Tradition held him still as much as any chain.

I turned back to Aron. I kept my voice even, empty of anger. "If I accept, what do I gain by winning?"

A few nobles murmured. The king's silence was all the answer they needed: he couldn't stop this.

Aron let out a laugh that didn't sound like laughter at all. "Don't think you'll get away as before, with your petty sneak attack. This time, you face me in front of everyone. No tricks. No excuses. I won't fall to a dog's tricks again."

I looked back at the king. Ormund's lips shaped the words, I apologize. He meant it.

I could see the regret in his eyes. He couldn't protect his son, his guest, or even his own kingdom's dignity.

A slight movement tugged at my attention. I looked down. The two princesses, Sara and Selenia, had crept behind me. Sara's hand clung to my fur. Selenia pressed in, her gaze fixed on the prince, on her brother. Both were pale and their bodies were shaking. They hid behind me as if I were a wall.

The hall was still thick with tension when my attendants finally noticed the two princesses hiding behind my body. One of them knelt down and spoke in a soft voice meant only for them.

"Your Highnesses, are you alright?" she asked. "Did something frighten you?"

Sara pressed herself closer to me, not meeting my attendant's eyes. Her response was nearly a whisper. "Older Brother Aron gets scary when he's like this. He shouts. He… he doesn't stop."

Selenia didn't say anything, but she nodded. I felt her grip tighten on my fur. Their fear wasn't a child's fancy. It was the learned caution of those who had lived too long around someone unpredictable. I remembered that feeling all too well.

In the early days in Sunmire. Being the different one, I was always unsure which word or mistake would bring a lecture or a cold dismissal. I learned, young, that quiet was safer than standing out.

It was a hard thing, to realize how much of myself had been shaped by fear. Looking at Sara and Selenia, I understood what it cost them. No child should live waiting in fear for their brother's aggressive voice.

I lowered my head, meeting their eyes directly. "Do not worry." I told them quietly.

Sara nodded, though she was still shaking.

I turned away from them and faced the rest of the hall. Aron had paused in the archway, surrounded by his personal guards and the curious stares of half the court. My voice carried across the marble.

"I accept the challenge."

Aron's head snapped back, his expression twisting into something close to triumph. "Thirty minutes," he called out. "That's all the time you'll need to pray to your God. Have a servant guide you to the dueling grounds."

He didn't wait for an answer. He turned and left with his supporters. A gaggle of excited nobles trailed after him. Others followed, swept up by the prospect of a dueling spectacle.

The banquet was easily forgotten. I could hear the mutters of conversation spreading down the corridors—bets already being placed, voices high with anticipation and fear.

Soon, almost everyone was gone.

The king remained, seated on the throne as if this was the only way he could hold his dignity together. The princesses' servants began guiding them away.

Ormund raised a hand and looked at me.

I padded closer, feeling the full weight of his gaze.

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He spoke low, so that only I could hear. "I thought my son was better than this. He was gentle once. My fault lies in still looking at him as a boy, spoiling him after his mother passed."

He paused, and the lines of his face deepened. "I am sorry, Pophet. For this."

He looked at me, and for a moment, he was not a king but a father left with too little power.

"If you can spare him," he said. "I ask not as king, but as a man who has already lost too much."

I considered his words. I felt neither pity nor scorn, only a bit of sympathy. "I will do what I must," I said. "No more. No less."

He nodded, accepting what could not be changed.

The king called for someone to guide me. And so, I turned and followed him.

The arena was circular. Sand in the middle, a wide band of damp earth around it, and beyond that, a deep channel of dark water that ringed the platform.

I noticed how the sand was packed harder than I expected. Probably for the local duelists who preferred swift movement and stability.

Eline, I realized, still owed me a divine artifact. It was a minor thought that came since I was fighting a duel again, but I pushed it aside. I doubted I would need any help. Aron was far weaker than most of the clerics at Sunmire, and far less clever.

The stands were already full. Nobles, dignitaries, foreign visitors, and the royal family.

High above, on a balcony edged with silver railings, the royal family and their inner circle sat apart from the crowd. King Ormund, with a grave expression, sat with his remaining children.

Sara and Selenia sandwiched between two nervous attendants, eyes fixed on the arena. The princes were there as well, though their faces were shadowed, unreadable from this distance.

I took my place at the arena's edge and waited. Across from me, on the far side of the sand, Aron finally appeared. The crowd's voices swelled and then fell quiet as he stepped forward.

He wore no armor. No sword. Not even a shield. His hands were empty, arms bare.

He looked smaller under the arena lights.

For a moment, I wondered if he intended to make a mockery of the duel, or if he simply wanted an excuse for defeat.

Then I dismissed it. It wasn't my concern how a prince chose to dress for his own humiliation.

The king rose, his voice echoing from the balcony above. "Pophet of Sunmire. Prince Aron of Kethra. Are you prepared to honor the rules of this duel?"

Aron's head lifted, eyes sharp, a false confidence in his posture. He answered not with the expected formal reply, but with a different ritual.

"I declare my right," he said, voice carrying across the arena. "By law and by blood, I may appoint a champion to fight in my stead."

The words rippled through the crowd. I heard the confusion, the excitement, the uncertainty. No one had expected this, least of all the king.

King Ormund's face twisted with anger. He stood up fully, voice booming. "You—!"

He never finished. Several advisors rushed to his side, their robes brushing his arm as they whispered in urgent tones. The king's fists clenched at his sides, but he allowed them to pull him back.

One of the senior advisors stepped to the front of the balcony and raised a hand. "The right has been declared. The request is granted. Prince Aron, name your champion."

Aron turned, face brightening with something I recognized as relief. He raised his voice, putting weight on every syllable. "I call upon Verian Karthos, the Frozen Gulf of Kethra."

A wave of murmurs rolled through the audience. The name meant nothing to me, but the sound of it landed with impact in this colosseum.

Across from me, a man appeared from the wall. He was tall, broad in the shoulders, with skin weathered by years at sea. His hair was dark, streaked with blue, tied back in a knot. Cold blue eyes regarded me with the patience of an old predator.

He wore a heavy coat, open at the chest, and his arms bore the tattoos of Kethran naval honor. The air seemed to cool as he walked down the steps, stepping onto the sand with quiet confidence. The Frozen Gulf. The champion of the sea.

The king's anger was obvious, as veins had starting protruding his head.

The advisor motioned for silence, announcing again, "Let the champion approach. The duel is set. The rules shall be honored."

"Begin."

In an instant, I saw blue. I was engulfed in ice.

The Godbeast vanished inside the wall of ice.

For a moment, nothing else occupied Verian's mind. His hand tingled from the invocation, and the air was heavy with chill and the damp scent left behind by true cold.

The sounds from the crowd were far away, dulled by his concentration.

He drew a slow breath, centering himself as he'd done on a thousand decks, in a hundred battles. These duels were a formality.

When the first prince's advisors called, he did not hesitate. He fought because loyalty still had meaning in this country, even if most men had forgotten it. The prince's challenge was a stain on Kethra's dignity, but when the throne called, Verian answered. That was his oath.

He knew that he was not born to serve princes like Aron, but the sea does not let a man choose his master.

Still, he had let himself feel something close to anticipation. The stories about Sunmire's Godbeasts had been wild enough to excite even a disciplined soul. Monsters that conquered dungeons that Verian had barely survived in, even capable of stopping entire Zorthar and Ferron armies. Verian had almost believed the tales.

In private, he'd even hoped this would be a duel worthy of Kethra's old navy songs.

But when he entered the arena and saw what awaited him, the feeling faded. The beast's breathing was labored, its chest moving with effort.

Its face looked like it was something not made in nature. Its fur also looked dirty like mud, and even dull at the edges. He recognized the signs of fatigue in its eyes. Verian saw no threat.

He did as he always did before a fight, focusing inward, calling on the awakened senses that set him apart from lesser men. Mana appeared to him as water. He could see a duelist's strength the way sailors read the tide.

Some opponents were rivers at flood, others shallow streams pretending at depth. But the Godbeast was a dry well. He checked again, uncertain for a moment if he had missed something.

No. The mana the Godbeast had was none.

This was Sunmire's envoy? This was the fabled Godspawn? The one who conquered that dungeon that claimed more than 20 parties here?

For a heartbeat, Verian felt embarrassed on Aron's behalf, for Kethra, and even for himself. Had the court been deceived? Was this some game, a show of weakness to claim mercy or diplomatic leverage? Or was the beast simply sick, sent here to fail?

It made no difference. Royalty was law, and Verian would end the duel with dignity. There would be no drawn-out play and no pointless spectacle.

At the signal of the fight, he reached out, gathered the air and the water in it, and froze the world. Ice as clear as glass and as strong as stone encased the Godbeast. The crowd's murmurs faded to a hush.

The king's face, visible above, was gray with tension. Verian felt none of it, only the brief relief of a task finished.

"It's over," he said, voice even, disappointment obvious in its flatness. "The duel is finished." These words were for the king and the court, not for the beast.

He turned, already thinking ahead to the report he would make.

Behind him, a new sound.

A growing crack.

Verian stopped, his senses sharpening. He turned just in time to see a fissure spiral down the prison of ice. The Godbeast's paw pressed out, splintering the blue barrier as if it were thin glass, not a conjured wall from a Phase-3 warrior.

The Godbeast stepped out, cold mist trailing from its fur. Its eyes were unchanged.

"Disrespectful. You mirror your prince," it said, the words quiet but heavy.