A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

The events of last night ended quickly. Quicker than I would have liked. The assassins were skilled, but their understanding of what I was capable of was quite shallow.

They died before I could even get answers: Two from crushed throats, but the other two by their own hand. Poison, hidden under their tongues. I'd pinned the leader down, demanding names, but she only smiled. Then blood dripped from both of their mouths, and their eyes rolled back. By the time the guards arrived, every one of them was dead.

Honestly, I had my own conclusion. My poison skill appeared during my imprisonment at the Sanctum of Isolation. It was then and there that I realized that my food was being poisoned, but it was the kind that wouldn't kill me.

I figured that they wanted to keep me weak after I got out.

That backfired on them. Qi helped me adapt, and so it ate the poison and used it as nourishment.

Morning brought King Ormund himself. He came in person, his attendants following at a distance. His face was drawn, his eyes shadowed from lack of sleep. He bowed lower than before, repeating his apologies.

"I swear to you, Your Reverence, this was not sanctioned by my court. The palace is in uproar. We will investigate this matter. We will send you everything we find about the assailants. You have my word as king of Kethra."

I listened, watching him. He meant it. There was nothing in his bearing to suggest deception, only frustration. I inclined my head, accepting his promise. "See that you do," I said. "I expect nothing less."

"Thank you for your mercy, Your Reverence."

After he left, the guards cleaned the mess. The bodies were taken away on silent stretchers, faces covered. I watched the whole time.

By late morning, Elen and Taris entered, looking miserable.

They had both sobered up, but the wine had left them hollow and red-eyed. Elen tried to say something, but couldn't meet my gaze. Taris stood behind her, fists clenched, shoulders slumped.

I told them before they started to blame themselves. "I know you feel responsible. But you are not at fault. It was mine for forcing you to drink."

Elen swallowed, her voice barely above a whisper, "We drank. We let our guard down. That shouldn't have happened. Not when we are so far from Sunmire, especially not in a foreign nation."

Taris nodded, face set in a grim line. "We failed you."

I shook my head. "You are my attendants. I do not expect more from you other than to attend to my day-to-day matters."

Neither looked convinced. As far as I was aware of, they were Phase-7 attendants who were doubled as bodyguards. Probably just for formality.

In the end, all I could offer was honesty. "You are not responsible for the world's poison. Or for the decisions others make in the dark."

Elen finally met my eyes, tears gathering. She blinked them away and nodded.

Taris bowed, lower than he ever had before.

The morning passed in silence. I reviewed the last of the palace correspondence, had one final audience with King Ormund, and then it was time.

Kethra's king insisted on sending me off with a full escort, his own personal guard. Twelve men in blue-and-gold armor lined up outside my villa.

I didn't object. The previous night's attempt had proven that someone wanted me dead. Ormund himself met me at the airship dock, offering one more apology. I accepted it with a nod and boarded.

The airship was newer than most I'd seen. Wide hull, reinforced canopy, thick windows to completely block out the wind.

We took off before noon. Kethra's city shrank below us, the palace dome fading in the mist. I felt a bit sad at leaving. The king treated me well and I generally enjoyed my time there.

Inside, the airship was well-appointed. There was a central lounge with two tables, polished wood and a blue velvet cloth stretched tight over each one.

After an hour of silence and travel, Elen came over and placed a large lacquered box in front of me.

"Your Reverence," she said, her voice a little steadier now. "Have you ever played Noblige's War?"

I looked at the box, then at her. The name was familiar from the books I've read, but I couldn't recall ever seeing it played.

"I've read the rulebook," I said. "But I've never tried it myself."

Elen smiled. "It's a strategy game that's been around for four centuries, invented by a noble who wanted to give commoners the closest chance to warfare without dying. Scholars from Lumineth call it the highest test of logic outside of real battle. There are whole sections of books at the major libraries about just the openings."

She opened the box and laid out the board. It looked like chess, but more complex. The grid was wider. There were two additional types of pieces, each with a unique shape.

The carved pieces glinted under the overhead lamps—towers, ships, knights, pawns, bishops, plus a pair of ministers. Four more pawns lined the back row.

I sat across from her. Taris watched from the window, pretending to be absorbed by the shifting clouds, but his ears were tilted back, listening.

Elen explained the rules, her fingers quick and sure as she moved the pieces to demonstrate. "Do you want to go first?"

I shook my head. "No. I want to see how you play."

She nodded and called for Taris to be her opponent. They began. The opening was simple—pawns advancing, knights shifted to the flanks. I tried to follow, remembering what little I'd read.

Soon, though, I found myself challenged in their game. She attacked in subtle patterns, making me react, drawing out my caution.

Between moves, Elen spoke softly, explaining strategy. "When I was young, my father taught me this game. It's considered an art in Lumineth. A noble daughter must be able to win an official match before her sixteenth year."

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"Did you?" I asked, watching as she sacrificed a pawn to pressure Taris's minister.

She laughed—a real, unguarded laugh. "No. But I beat my cousin, and that was enough to shame him for months."

After she beat Taris, who had now returned to the window, looking all sunken, it was my turn.

I played slowly, making mistakes, letting her show me the consequences.

Let's be honest, I was being thoroughly destroyed.

As the game continued, I found myself focusing more and more on each piece. The need to see past the obvious, the value of patience.

We played three games before the sun began to set. Elen won all three.

She pushed herself up from the lounge seat, stretching her back with a quiet groan. "I'll check the comms, maybe grab something from the galley. Taris, come with me."

Taris nodded, brushing off crumbs from his tunic. He gave me a brief glance.

I stared at the pieces, replaying Elen's moves, the way she had baited my pieces, forced an exchange, then sealed the match ten steps ahead. The strategy was clean, almost ruthless. I turned a piece over in my paw, feeling the grooves cut by some artisan decades ago.

Minutes slipped by and the ship's engines hummed. The guards stationed at the front cabin checked the windows and muttered to one another, occasionally glancing my way but never long enough to meet my eyes. I paid them no mind.

Half an hour passed. I waited, still no sign of Elen or Taris.

The ship had grown quieter than usual. The hallway toward the comms deck was empty; no laughter, no footfalls, not even the clink of utensils or the scratch of a pen.

My ears flattened, and a tightness crept into my chest.

I stood, pushing away from the board, and pawed down the corridor. The lights flickered. The door to the galley was half-open. I stepped inside and didn't see anyone, just the scent of a half-brewed cup of coffee spilled on the floor.

My patience was wearing thin. I went to the nearest guard, standing stiff at his post by the stairwell.

"Where are Elen and Taris?" I asked, my tone flat.

I sniffed the air. There it was: the metallic scent of blood, raw and heavy, coming from one of the staff rooms at the back.

He looked away, fidgeting. "They, ah, went to the engine room. There was a… malfunction."

A second guard joined him, shifting his weight. "It's nothing to worry about, Your Reverence. The captain says—"

"Move aside," I told them. "Now."

They hesitated, eyes darting, hands going to their belts. The first guard tried to block the corridor with his body. I stepped forward. He drew his steamgun and fired.

The pellet struck my shoulder, bounced off, and clattered to the ground.

I didn't flinch. I raised my paw and struck him hard across the chest. He folded in on himself, ribs breaking audibly. The second guard tried to run, but I grabbed him by the collar and threw him against the wall. He went limp.

I crossed the hall and slammed my shoulder into the door. It cracked open, splinters falling to the floor.

Inside, the air was cold. The sight hit me before the overpowering scent did. Elen's body was on the floor, eyes wide and empty, staring up at nothing. Her throat had been cut clean through, the blood soaking her uniform, pooling beneath her jaw. Her lips were parted, as if she'd tried to speak even in death.

Taris lay nearby facing the ground. The back of his skull was caved in, fragments of bone showing through the mess of blood and hair. One arm was bent beneath his back at an impossible angle.

I stood over them and felt the world narrow. Fury started somewhere deep in my stomach, hot and clean. My vision sharpened. My breath grew steady.

I placed my paw over Elen's eyes and gently closed them.

I heard boots stomping. More voices.

One of them shouted, "He's here! Open fire!" The first volley struck my side, useless. I didn't hesitate. I raised my paw, felt Qi pour into my claws, and used Claw Intent.

The nearest man's chest split open, ribs exposed, blood spraying the wall. He screamed until he hit the floor. The others froze, weapons shaking.

"How…!" one managed to say something, but I didn't let him finish. My paw swept out again, faster than they could track, and Claw Intent tore through his abdomen, carving him open. He folded around the wound, eyes wide in disbelief, then collapsed.

There was nothing left to say. I advanced, step by step, and made sure every one of them felt what they'd done. Their bullets did nothing. My anger was absolute.

This time, I did not restrain myself.

The bridge door was locked tight, thick iron and a rune seal blinking red at the handle. It was meant to withstand explosives. But it didn't matter to me.

I pressed my paw against the metal, braced my body, and pushed. The door tore off its hinges with a shriek and slammed into the glass of the forward window, embedding itself half-in, half-out, the glass spider-webbing around the impact.

The wind howled in briefly before the emergency runes hummed to life and sealed the breach.

The men on the bridge froze. The one at the helm, their leader, or so I assumed, stood back, gun drawn, sweat on his forehead. Six more waited behind him, clustered around the controls, two with their own steamguns, another holding something larger, bulkier.

A steam-cannon, barrel fitted with fresh-etched runes. The leader barked, "Fire!"

The steam-cannon roared, the recoil echoing. The shell hit me squarely in the muzzle. It burned, metal and rune scoring my face and leaving a trail of blood down my jaw.

I tasted iron, blinked once, and kept moving.

The room stank of panic. I counted seven men, all within the reach of a leap.

I lunged, swiping the nearest man across the chest. Claw Intent tore through uniform, bone, and heart. He fell without a sound. The second man raised his gun, but my paw closed on his wrist and crushed it, bone cracking in my grip. He screamed and I shoved him aside. The third tried to run, but I caught him by the collar and drove his head into the bulkhead. Blood splattered the reinforced glass.

Five left alive, including the captain. The others already dropped their weapons, or tried to crawl away.

I stepped forward, crushing a man's shin under my paw. He screamed, clutching his ruined leg, but I ignored him. I moved on to the next, snapped his femur with a downward press, and let him drop, writhing. The sixth man tried to hide behind the helm, but I dragged him out, careful not to kill him yet.

The leader, still clutching his gun, stared at me with wild, bloodshot eyes.

"Why?" I demanded. My voice was flat.

He clenched his jaw, refused to meet my gaze. "I have nothing to say to you."

I turned to the man with the crushed leg, still conscious, teeth gritted in pain.

I spoke again. "This is your last warning. Speak."

The man shook, blood running down his thigh. He looked at his captain, then at me, and said nothing.

I nodded once and raised my claw. Slowly, I sliced through the man's right arm—through skin, muscle, tendon, bone. He screamed, convulsed, tried to pull away. I let him feel every inch of it.

The other hijackers stared, some retching, some crying, and one had even pissed himself.

I stopped just before continuing. The man's breath rasped in his throat. He was still alive.

I looked at the leader again. "Why?"

Nothing.

I resumed. Another slice, then another. At the fifth, the man's body went limp. His eyes rolled back. He died of shock.

I let the arm drop to the floor, blood pooling under my paws. And silently, I smashed his skull, pressing down until it cracked. The sound was blunt, final.

I faced the rest, gaze fixed on the captain. "This is your last chance."

He glared, sweat pouring down his face, hands shaking.

In his face was the defiance, the fear, and the last threads of loyalty to whatever master sent him here.

The other men sobbed or whimpered, begging for mercy.

I waited, letting the silence settle in the blood-soaked bridge. A storm began brewing outside, battering the windows, and the ship's engines strained as we drifted through the air.

My patience was nearly gone.

Then I continued with the next victim.