A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

"Disrespectful. You mirror your prince." My voice echoed in the arena, and for a moment, even the crowd forgot to breathe.

Verian's expression changed, a hint of surprise now.

I moved before he could recover. My right paw swung through the air with Claw Intent.

Qi gathered along my digits. And I aimed for the man's chest, intending to just graze a layer of his skin and end the fight immediately.

Verian reacted faster than I expected. He drew a sharp breath, moving backwards while exhaling with practiced precision. The air around him thickened and sheets of ice appeared, layer upon layer until they formed a barrier between us.

I didn't stop. The ice gouged cleanly along the path of my intent. Shards crashed down, heavy and sharp. I pawed forward as they struck the sand.

He looked genuinely surprised now. I saw his stance tighten, his eyes narrowing, searching for an opening

He moved backward even more as he swung his arms out. Another gust. More ice formed—walls, lances, a storm of cold aimed at my body.

He attacked in earnest. He conjured spears and disks and knives. Some aimed for my throat, others for my limbs. His mastery with his awakening was clear.

But his attacks did not matter.

I walked forward. The first spear of ice struck my chest. I felt the impact, the sharp cold. It broke, splintered, and fell away. I kept moving. More followed, coming in bursts, timed to trip me or slow me. I shrugged them off.

The ice cracked against my fur, against my legs, against my ribs.

But I kept walking.

He grew more desperate. He tried to trap my legs, freezing the sand around my paws. I tightened the muscles of my legs and then snapped my foot free, the ice shattering with a dull noise.

He tried again. This time a dome, forming a prison of blue all around me. Lances starting protruding from the walls, trying to skewer me. However, I simply ignored them. I pressed both forepaws against the wall, feeling the Qi pool in my limbs, and I pushed. The dome split, air rushing outward. I walked through.

Verian's breathing had changed. Faster now, heavier. He moved backward even more, sweat standing out on his brow despite the cold.

I stopped just a few paces away from him. "Your phase is impressive," I said, my tone even, "but you are not fighting a human."

He answered with another volley. This time, a hail of frozen shards, sharp and fast. They struck my back and sides, some even scraping my jaw, but none found any signs of real damage. None drew blood.

He exhaled sharply, drawing all the air around him and forming a single harpoon of ice the size of a small ship. With a grunt, he threw it forward, spinning it in an arc.

I caught it between my jaws. The ice stung my gums, but I bit down and heard it snap.

I released what was left of the harpoon and let it fall to the sand. "Yield," I said. "You are not my enemy."

The chill in the arena was quite refreshing, actually. I could feel my breath feeling a bit more relaxed.

The air against my fur felt almost clean compared to the perfumed heat of the banquet hall.

For a moment, I let myself pant, tongue lolling just past my teeth. I hadn't felt this awake in days.

Verian and I stared at each other, the sand shifting beneath our weight. I could see the pool behind him, dark water glinting under the arena lights.

With a few more steps, he retreated to the arena's edge, careful not to show his back.

He spoke with an edge to his voice, "Let us see how you fare in my element."

I barely had time to understand before he moved again. He extended both hands and the sand beneath me suddenly shifted. Ice emerged from the sand, drawn from the fragments I had shattered from the fight. It felt slippery beneath my paws, making me hesitate..

Then the ground itself changed. Before I could do anything, Verian transformed the ice and hurled me toward the pool with a force that surprised me.

My body arced through the air. I twisted, trying to right myself, but I wasn't able to move in mid-air. I hit the water hard.

I was now surrounded by darkness and motion, and I was both heavy and weightless in a way due to my fur being drenched.

I kicked upward by instinct, but the surface had already begun to change. Above me, the water hardened, a thin pane of ice spreading outward from the edges. I quickly tried to move up, but the pillars of ice appeared, pushing me down further.

Verian meant to trap me, to hold me underwater until my breath ran out.

Did he know about it, though?

The artifact still hung around my neck. Tidemother's Embrace. Drowning was not possible for me.

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The moment I sank beneath the surface, a faint bubble formed over muzzle, letting me breathe as easily as if I was on land.

I let my body adjust, floating for a moment in the cold. The arena lights barely pierced the surface above and everything was foggy here.

It was slowly getting darker. Above, I watched the ice thicken, a ceiling forming over the pool. If I tried breaking through now, Verian would be waiting, ready to force me under again.

I kicked my hind legs, moving away from the wall the audience were. The platform's pillar was ahead.

It was simple enough. Instead of swimming upward, I pressed my forepaws against the side of the platform and struck it with the flat of my paw. The underwater blow caused a small earthquake on the arena above, creating a hole near the base.

Sand drifted outward in slow motion, swirling around my claws.

I struck it several more times until it became big enough for me to fit in. I tucked my head and forced my way forward, wriggling into the gap I had made. Sand poured over my back, sticking to my wet fur. It was a tight fit.

I clawed upward and the darkness eventually started to brighten, and as I pressed one last time, I broke the surface.

The arena's sand felt rougher now beneath my paws.

For a heartbeat, no one made a sound. Then the murmurs rose, shock and awe mixing in the air. I shook water from my fur, droplets flying across the platform. My nose was cold. My legs were numb.

Verian stood several paces away, frozen in disbelief.

"By the seas," he muttered, voice soft enough that only I could hear.

He raised his arms, trying to summon ice again. A film of moisture flickered in the air, then collapsed. Nothing more came. His shoulders sagged, his arms dropped. The exhaustion was plain on his face.

"I would have stood a chance if we were at sea," he said, his voice flat. "It takes too much mana to turn the water in the air into ice. Here, it runs dry quickly. It's been some time since I fought like this. I am honored, Godbeast of Sunmire."

He was proud, but not foolish. He had given everything, and I respected that.

"I enjoyed this," he said quietly.

I stepped closer, watching his posture, waiting to see if he would try anything desperate. He did not move.

"As did I," I replied. The words came out simple, unadorned. There was no need for bravado or insult.

Then I lifted my paw and brought it down on the side of his head. He crumpled, unconscious before he hit the ground. I did not hit him hard enough to break anything. Only enough to render him unconscious.

He deserved that much.

For a moment, there was only the sound of the crowd, growing louder as the reality of the outcome settled. I stood over Verian's fallen form and looked up at the king's balcony.

An advisor in ceremonial blue strode to the edge, voice carrying clear over the arena. "By the laws of Kethra and by the eyes of all present, the victor is Pophet, the Gentle Faith that Echoes, The Sixth Heir of Sunmire."

I stepped back, letting their medics enter the arena and tend to their champion.

Prince Aron's chambers were chaos. The sound of shattering glass rang against the stone walls as he flung a decanter at the far end of the room.

Wine seeped across a ruined rug, pooling at the feet of a toppled statue. One of his servants tried to clear away the debris, but Aron sent him stumbling back with a wordless glare.

He paced, fists clenched, hair hanging loose over his face. The applause in the arena still echoed in his skull. That damned beast. The Sixth Heir. He couldn't even bring himself to say the name.

He seized the edge of a lacquered table and flipped it, sending porcelain crashing to the floor. A painting, one commissioned at great expense from one of the continent's best, was next. He tore it from its place above the bed and raked it down the canvas, slashing through the image of Kethra's harbor, both marvelous depictions of both sea and sky ruined by his hand.

Behind him, his advisor stood quietly, waiting for the storm to pass. Two servants shrank near the door, eyes fixed on the floor.

"My father wants me gone," Aron spat, throwing the twisted remains of a silver candelabra at the wall. "He'd rather send me to Sunmire, have me bow to their sanctimonious priests, learn their history. What does he think I'll become there? A puppet? A diplomat?" He scoffed, voice breaking. "He's selling me out. Banishing me to that city of scholars. I am the firstborn prince of Kethra…!"

He stopped, chest heaving, and turned towards the advisor. "He means to humiliate me. Strip me of my claim."

The advisor hesitated. "The king wishes to ensure your safety, Your Highness. Sunmire's university city—"

Aron cut him off with a snarl. He pulled a card from the inside of his coat, a thin slab of ivory, inscribed with runes in sharp blue ink. He tossed it to the advisor.

"Send a message to the inscriptions on that card. I don't care what it takes. I want that fucking mutt dead."

The advisor bowed his head, voice flat. "As you wish, Your Highness."

"Yes. Yes. Kethra's guest of honor." The man's voice was soft, almost careful, as he pressed the rune-inscribed token to the communicator by his desk. "Of course it will be pricy. Nothing less for one so public now. We've already received news, the price has gone up since a few hours ago."

He paused, listening.

He picked up a ledger, scanning a list of names. "You know our terms. Payment in full, or no guarantee. Yes. Yes, I understand. No, I don't need the reasons. Just coin."

He waited, pen poised over the page. "Accepted. You'll get your word when it's done."

He ended the call with a twist of the wrist, placing the token back on a marble tray. He wrote quickly in the open ledger, marking a symbol beside a blank space, then closed the book and tucked it under his arm. He stood up and left the room without looking back, passing out of a study lined with stained glass and polished wood.

The halls were wide and high, filled with the low sound of conversation and shuffling footsteps of many people. None of the staff met his gaze. He walked briskly, the hush of carpet muffling his steps.

At a sharp turn, he paused in front of an unmarked door and knocked.

A woman's voice from inside. "Come in."

He entered. The room was colder, lined with ledgers and heavy scrolls. At a desk, a woman worked, signing forms and pressing seals into cooling wax. Her hair was bound tightly at the nape, and she didn't look up at first, finishing a name with a flourish before setting her pen aside.

She regarded him for a moment, eyes unreadable. "It's late."

"Another call came in." He placed the ledger on her desk, open to the most recent entry.

She scanned the page, her gaze sharp. "Another?"

"Yes." He stood straight, waiting for her to finish.

She sat back, lacing her fingers together. "Who?"

"The same as before. Kethra's visitor. Pophet, the Gentle Faith that Echoes, Sunmire's Godbeast."

She made a quiet noise of acknowledgment, reading through the details.

The man continued speaking, "We've received three requests for him, two from Sunmire and one from Kethra. All within this week. They don't care how it happens as long as the result is final."

She slowly tapped the page with one finger. A faint smile, then a sigh. "Send our poison specialists."