A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

The garden was quiet, tucked behind the guild's guest wing. A thin stone path wound between trimmed hedges and clusters of lantern-lit flowers, their pale colors glowing faintly under the evening sky.

The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of herbs planted along the wall.

Mira pushed Rinvara's wheelchair slowly over the path, her gloved hands steady on the handles. The chair rattled once over the uneven stone, and she slowed her pace.

For several steps, there was only the faint creak of the wheels and the chirp of night insects.

Then Mira spoke, her voice low. "Lady Rinvara… is it okay?"

Rinvara tilted her head slightly. "What is?"

"That he said those words to you." Mira's eyes stayed fixed on the path, her voice careful. "Your brother… he said he had no intentions of returning to Sunmire. I worry…"

Her tone trailed off, but the unspoken words lingered in the air.

Rinvara's lips curved faintly. The expression carried no bitterness, no anger, only that calm smile that seemed to carry deeper shadows within it. "Pophet is stubborn," she said softly. "Always has been. But I know him well. Better than anyone. Beneath that roughness, beneath those words, he still wants acceptance. He still wants a place to belong."

The wheels rattled again as Mira guided her around a bend in the path. She glanced down, cautious. "You believe he will return, then?"

"I know he will," Rinvara said. Her voice carried certainty, not as if she were making a prediction, but as though she were stating a fact already decided. "He pretends indifference, but inside he longs for recognition."

Her pale hands rested neatly in her lap, fingers folded together. The blindfold across her eyes fluttered faintly in the breeze. "I could feel it," she continued. "That our bond has not faded. My resonance tells that my brother still cares for me. Deeply. Enough that it surprises even me."

Mira's lips pressed thin, though she did not argue. "And yet, he refuses Sunmire."

Rinvara chuckled softly. "Words are easy. Circumstances are not. He believes he has no reason to return. That much is true. Sunmire no longer holds his trust. He feels betrayed, and so he casts it aside."

Her smile lingered, serene. "But tell me, Mira. What happens when something fragile, something dear to him, falls into danger? He can ignore politics. He can ignore danger. But he cannot ignore me."

Mira's hands tightened faintly on the wheelchair's handles.

The garden path opened into a small clearing where a fountain trickled softly into a stone basin. The water caught the lantern light, sending ripples of gold across the surface. Mira slowed the chair to a stop beside it.

Rinvara tilted her face upward, as though feeling the faint spray of mist against her skin. "I've kept my body frail for a reason. It draws out the protectiveness in others. Especially in him."

Her fingers brushed lightly over the armrest. "He is mine, Mira. And he will come back to Sunmire when the moment demands it. Because his heart cannot allow otherwise."

Silence stretched again, broken only by the trickling fountain and the rustle of leaves in the night breeze.

Mira adjusted her grip on the chair and asked quietly, "Do you not fear pushing him away with such methods?"

Rinvara shook her head slowly, revealing a small smile. "Whatever do you mean? I am but a blind and crippled woman. I am not capable of acting on such things. Isn't that right?"

She leaned back against her chair. "Sunmire will eventually have its pillar."

Mira lowered her gaze. She knew better than to argue further.

The garden settled into quiet once more, the fountain's steady trickle marking the slow passage of time. Rinvara's faint smile did not fade.

The guild staff had apologized more than once as they packed our belongings. They claimed it was a matter of "reassignment," though I knew better. Our room at the entrants' quarters were taken away, and we were moved into somewhere else entirely.

The new place wasn't simple lodging. It was a high-end establishment near the center of the city, five stories tall with carved balconies and wide courtyards paved with stone. The moment Sali and I stepped inside, I could smell polish on the wood, incense burning faintly in the halls, and the sharp tang of mana wards layered into the walls.

Our rooms were larger than before. The floor was solid stone beneath thick rugs, strong enough that I could stretch into my full form without worry of the boards groaning or the ground caving in. The windows opened onto a private garden rather than a noisy street, and the door had guards posted outside, though they bowed politely whenever Sali passed.

Sali seemed calmer here. She walked the rooms with a faint wonder, running her hand over the carved table, the washstand with its silver fittings, the soft bedding. It was more than she had ever known, and far more than she thought she deserved.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

We had nearly more than a month until the main tournament began.

I didn't worry much. A month was long enough for me to sleep and eat. But Rinvara and Mira seemed to have different thoughts otherwise.

They visited often. Too often, in my opinion. Mira always came with her notebook in hand, and she never failed to lecture me, her voice cool and precise. Very different from that youthful, naive, and yet a bit crazed medic all those years ago.

"The Decennial is not something to treat lightly," she told me one morning, standing beside the window as Sali practiced breathing exercises. "Entrants come here from across the continent. Veterans. Champions. Even a Godbeast cannot simply win without preparation."

I had already heard this speech twice before.

I lifted my head from the cushion, gave a grunt, and shut my eyes again. Sleep was better than listening.

Her lips pressed thin, but she didn't press further.

Rinvara was different. When she visited, she settled quietly near the low table. Mira would pour her tea, and she would sip it slowly, blindfolded eyes turned in my direction. Sometimes she would reach down and offer me a biscuit or a sweet. If I was awake, I ate it. If I wasn't, she left it by my face.

Sali and I still kept to our own routine.

Every morning before the morning bell rang, she sat cross-legged on the floor, back straight, eyes closed. I stayed behind her, sometimes perched on a stool, sometimes in my larger form with one paw resting lightly against her back. I pushed strands of Qi into her body.

Now, nearly the whole morning was spent in silence, broken only by her steady breaths and the faint sound of water dripping from the fountain outside the window.

Her progress was slow. Painfully slow. But she didn't stop.

I didn't mind the long hours either. I had time, more than enough.

Both of us belonged to long-lived races. Elves could live for centuries if not cut short by blade, bullet, or sickness. The years passed differently for us. Where a human might rush, fearing that their time would end before the sun set again, we could afford patience.

That patience was why Sali could keep trying, even when failure met her every day. It was why I could keep pressing Qi into her body, knowing that results might not show for weeks, months, or even years.

To others, the lack of progress would have been despair. To us, it was simply another morning.

And so the days passed.

Sali grew steadier in her breathing, her form more composed.

When morning training ended, Sali would wipe her brow, change her tunic, and prepare for the day. I would curl up, sometimes in my smaller form, sometimes stretched to my full size, unbothered by the strength of the floor.

Mira would eventually arrive to tell me again how unprepared I was. Rinvara would smile and feed me another snack.

It felt like the good old days.

The morning began the same as always.

Sali sat cross-legged on the floor, back straight, eyes closed. Her hands rested lightly on her knees, her breathing steady.

I was behind her in my large form, paw pressed to the center of her back. A strand of Qi pulsed through me, flowing into her body as it had for weeks.

I expected nothing different today.

But after an hour, something changed.

Her shoulders tensed. Her breath caught once, then steadied again. Beneath my paw, I felt a faint resistance.

I blinked, focusing.

Her own strand moved inside her. Weak, unsteady, thinner than the edge of a hair. This time, though, it wasn't me dragging it forward. She was guiding it herself.

I pulled my paw back slowly, waiting for it to collapse. But the faint current didn't vanish. It circled, faltered, then steadied again.

Minutes passed. Sweat rolled down her temple, dampened her tunic at the collar. Her breaths grew heavier.

An hour passed.

Her hands tightened faintly on her knees.

Two hours.

I stayed silent, watching her. For the first time since our training began, she no longer needed me pressing Qi into her.

She had her own.

Finally, after nearly three hours, she let out a long exhale and opened her eyes. Her gaze was steady, though her cheeks were pale with exhaustion.

For a moment, she just sat there, chest rising and falling. Then, without a word, she raised one hand and flashed me a small peace sign.

I blinked, then gave a low grunt in response.

From that day onward, Sali could train on her own. She still wanted me nearby, but she no longer asked for my paw on her back. She sat each morning, eyes closed, guiding the thin strand of Qi through her body.

For her, it was enough. A step forward after around a month of basically no progress.

This meant I had more time for myself now.

While she sat on the floor, I turned to the guild's records. Stacks of books and papers, neatly organized, full of names and notes about the other entrants. Basic information such as titles, cities, reputations, enough to paint a picture of the scale of the competition.

I sprawled across the low table in my smaller form, pinning pages with my paws as I skimmed them. Some names were empty boasts. Others were dangerous, veterans with reputations that even I should be respecting.

Sali's breathing filled the room behind me. The faint pulse of her Qi circled inside her body, unsteady but growing more consistent each day.

I turned another page, eyes narrowing. Top-tier adventurers. Champions from across the continent. Some even from beyond the seas.

A quiet grunt left me. Perhaps I had been too relaxed. Mira's lectures echoed faintly in my mind, irritating as they were.

The more I read, the less comfortable I became.

I pressed my paw against the page, staring at the ink. Mira's warnings returned to me 'Even a Godbeast cannot simply win without preparation.'

I let out a low grunt. Maybe she wasn't entirely wrong.

Still, what could I do? It was too late to change anything now. The Decennial was already at our doorstep.

I closed the book I was reading and pushed it aside. My claws tapped once against the wood before I curled into myself on the table.

Tomorrow would come whether I was ready or not.

I yawned, flicked my tail once, and let sleep take me.

The next morning, the bells of the guild tower rang loud across the city.

The month had passed. The Decennial Tournament had begun.