A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

The train thundered down the line, a streak of brass and steam carving through valleys glazed with frost. As far as I knew, it would take around three days to reach the southern border if the train only stopped at key cities for refuel and personnel shuffling.

I lay curled between stacks of reinforced crates, my side pressed against a shipment of field-grade armor plating: sunmetal cores, curved pauldrons, and chest-rigs sealed in waxed canvas. The metal was cold through the wrapping. Comfortably so.

Each crate was stamped with the sigil of Sunmire's supply division: a hex-sun interlocked with a gear. Everything smelled faintly of oil and canvas.

Somewhere deeper in the train, mechanisms clicked. The rhythmic whine of magi-gears, Church-built, regulated the train's pressure flow and brake timing, and once every few minutes, I could hear a soft chime ping from the crew cabin ahead. A communicator.

Their version of a phone. Clockwork inside, mana-attuned crystal on top, spinning in sync with their command channel. I didn't need to listen to know what they were saying.

- Something's on the train.
- It broke our formation.
- We saw it board Car 4.

Me.

One of the guards must've finally communicated it to the crew on board.

They were panicking.

Which was fair.

Another hour passed.

Then came the latch.

A slow, cautious click. Followed by the sliding groan of a manual rail-door opening, just wide enough for someone to peek through.

I didn't move.

I heard a stifled breath. Someone muttering something like "Oh Light, he's still here." Then a hurried whisper behind the door.

They were sending someone in.

The steps that followed were lighter. No boots. Soft-soled. One of the techs, maybe. I heard a clipboard shuffle.

"Um…" a voice said. Male. Young.

"Hello? Sir?"

A pause.

Then again, slower: "Venerable?"

I rolled onto my belly.

The man gasped as he scrambled back a step, but another crew member stepped in behind him. He was older with oil-stained sleeves and a spanner clipped to his belt.

"Is that really him?" another voice behind asked.

The older one didn't look away. "Has to be. No one else made it on."

More footsteps now. Three more crew filtered in, all trying to act like they were doing inventory.

The oldest among them cleared his throat, then tried for formality: "Venerable, we a-apologize. We were not informed of your appearance with us today."

He scratched the back of his neck. "When you boarded, we… thought you were a rogue morph. So we… locked the doors. Protocol, you understand."

I said nothing.

He shifted uncomfortably. "We're, uh… we're really sorry."

Another one chimed in, stepping forward. She had soot on her sleeves and what looked like a cracked communicator strapped to her hip. "We didn't know you were the Sixth. We've heard of you, but never seen a picture. We just got a manifest from the guards back on the platform."

I didn't answer right away.

I shifted my weight, paws pressing into the floor until the steel beneath the crates creaked slightly. The train hummed around us.

"You really didn't recognize me?" I asked, not accusing, just curious.

The older one shook his head. "Nobody other than the nobles and those who visit the main church has seen you. There's not even a sketch of you in the city. There're rumors from four years ago of your appearance during Lady Aurelith's procession, sure, but…"

He hesitated.

"Honestly, we thought maybe the Sixth was just a title."

Another awkward pause stretched between us.

The woman with the communicator finally spoke up. "Look, we've unlocked the forward car. Heat's running better up there. There's a cot if you want it. Not up to regulation what you churchfolks usually have, but it's quiet."

I stepped forward and the armor beside me shifted as I moved. My limbs felt stiffer than I expected. Moving that suddenly after a three-year respite must have drained me more than I'd realized.

The crew instinctively stepped aside.

The doorway between railcars was wider than necessary for ordinary passengers, but this wasn't an ordinary train. It was one of the older models, built back when Godbeasts still traveled openly, when whole convoys were designed to accommodate creatures before they could learn spells that would help with their sizes. Newer trains had shrunk; this one still remembered giants.

I stepped through without brushing the sides.

The crew scrambled ahead of me, clearing the path toward the staff cabin, a repurposed compartment where off-duty workers took breaks between shifts. Someone had dragged out a cot and hastily kicked aside a few folded uniforms to make space. The cot wasn't impressive, slightly bent in the middle, one leg shorter than the others, but the padding was dry and the heating runes hummed quietly beneath the floor.

It would do.

I turned once, twice, then settled onto the cot. The thing bowed beneath my weight but didn't snap. A miracle. I tucked my paws beneath my chest and exhaled.

Quiet. Warm. Finally.

I closed my eyes.

Then something moved.

The soft tread of boots on padded flooring. Cloth shifting. A quiet exhale just beside me.

I opened one eye.

The woman with the cracked communicator and soot-streaked sleeves, lowered herself to the floor beside the cot.

Then, casually, she reached out and brushed her fingers along the side of my face.

I jerked back, mouth curling in an instinctive snarl.

"What do you think you're doing?"

She didn't flinch.

"Calm down," she said, her voice unbothered. "I've just never been this close to a Godbeast before. Figured I'd take the chance."

Her fingers hovered in the air for a second before she let her hand drop back to her knee.

I stared at her.

She didn't look impressed or scared. Just tired. Curious. Like someone who would be if they worked long hours and saw something interesting.

"You wanted to touch my fur?" I said flatly.

She shrugged. "Looked soft."

"It's not."

"It is."

I narrowed my eyes.

She grinned. "Don't be so stingy."

I blinked. Her sheer bluntness knocked the retort out of my mouth. No one ever spoke to me like that. Not even the priests who whispered when they thought I couldn't hear.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"No," I said finally.

She made a show of pouting, then stood up and stretched her shoulders until they popped. "Fine. I've got reports to file anyway."

She unhooked the communicator from her belt, tapped the crystal once, and held it to her mouth.

"Staff cabin's secured," she said. "The Sixth is here. He's resting. Yeah, no visible injuries."

She gave me a sidelong look.

The channel hissed softly as she shut it down.

Then she glanced back once more before leaving. "Howl to let me know if you need anything."

She left the door half-open behind her.

The hours crawled.

He hadn't moved.

The Sixth, Pophet, as the manifest labeled him, was still curled on the cot in the staff cabin, head resting heavy on his forepaws, breathing steady. The only sign he hadn't turned to stone was the slow rise and fall of his chest.

From time to time, one of the younger crew would pass by the open door, pretending to check some of their belongings, always sneaking a glance. She waved them off each time. "Still sleeping," she'd say, and that was enough.

Now she sat alone in the narrow corridor just two cars down, a slim communicator balanced in her palm. The crystal core buzzed softly, waiting for her voice.

She took a breath, adjusted her posture slightly, and spoke clearly.

"Update for the High Presbyter's office," she said. "Subject is resting. No movement."

She clicked the crystal to end transmission. The line blinked green, then dimmed.

Honestly, she hadn't expected to be tasked for this. When she got the message, it had come from a direct subordinate of High Presbyter Kether himself, who was just three steps below the bishops, who, for someone like her, might as well have been someone untouchable.

She'd assumed it was a mix-up.

But then they'd said it plainly: We'd like someone eyes-on. Just in case. Keep him company. Inform us if anything changes.

And, more curiously: There may be a promotion waiting if this is handled with care.

She hadn't questioned it. Not really. When a Godbeast boards a train alone, it makes sense the higher-ups want to keep tabs. Especially when it's the Sixth. The mystery.

On paper, it probably looked like a truant escapade. Maybe he wanted to explore outside the church after being stuffed in there for so long.

Right?

She slipped the communicator back onto her belt. Rising from the bench, her joints popped from sitting too long.

She turned the opposite way and made her way to one of the exterior-access cars.

The wind hit her as soon as she cracked the side hatch.

Sharp. Cold.

She stepped out onto the grated platform at the edge of the car, one hand gripping the rail, the other digging into her coat. She pulled out a battered tin case, clicked it open, and slid a hand-rolled cigarette between her teeth. With a practiced flick of flint, it lit, and she took a long drag.

The first inhale always hit like memory.

She'd started back in the alleys behind her mother's boarding house. Fourteen. Maybe fifteen. The smoke was harsher then—cheap, stolen, stupid. She hadn't stopped since. Not through trade school. Not through certification. Not even when she got her placement letter for the Church.

She wasn't proud of it. But she wasn't ashamed, either.

The wind pulled at her jacket as she leaned on the rail.

The world moved around her.

The train roared across a vast stretch of scrubland. Hills rolled to the west, quiet and golden, their edges softened by the setting sun. The sky blazed in amber and lavender, clouds painted with fire. Below, narrow streams cut through frost-bitten soil like glowing veins.

She'd seen plenty of sunrises. But from this height, with this quiet?

It always took her breath for a second.

The smoke curled from her lips in a lazy spiral. She watched it get carried off into the blur of motion, swallowed by wind and distance.

Eventually, she tapped the cigarette out on the hatch frame and flicked it over the side.

Time to check back in.

She made her way down the corridor, stepping over gear lines and locked crates. The warmth of the train slowly returned.

She turned the corner into the staff cabin.

He was still there.

Pophet hadn't moved. Not even a twitch.

She exhaled quietly and sat back down against the opposite wall. Didn't touch her communicator this time.

She just watched him sleep.

Something tugged at the edge of my dreams.

A scent woke me up, salt and smoke. Then, movement. There was a soft rustle above my head.

I cracked open one eye.

A strip of dried jerky dangled from a gloved hand, suspended just above my snout.

"Rise and shine, holy fuzzball," the woman said, voice hushed but amused. "We're making a quick stop. About an hour. Just here to offload some goods and grab breakfast."

I snorted, ears flicking once.

Then promptly buried my face deeper into the blanket-scraped padding of the cot.

She huffed something like a laugh and let the jerky sway for another moment before tossing it in her mouth and leaving.

Peace returned.

For twenty whole minutes.

Then the door creaked again. It sounded heavier this time.

I smelled the food before I heard her. A clatter of something metal.

Then the scent hit: savory, earthy, and faintly herbal.

"Didn't know what you eat," she said. "So, soup."

I opened one eye.

She stood there holding a squat iron cauldron in both hands, steam curling from the rim. "Mushroom. Don't complain."

She set it down in front of me with a quiet thunk.

I stretched. Slowly. The railcar groaned under the shift of my weight, frame shuddering as my legs uncurled and I sat up. The warmth of the soup reached my nose, coaxing my stomach into a low grumble.

I dipped my head and ate straight from the cauldron.

It was simple. Warm. Slightly over-salted. Possibly made from a stock cube made by someone who knew soldiers would buy this kind of goods.

It was also the best thing I'd eaten in years.

When I was done, I pulled back, licked a bit from my nose, and muttered, "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," she said.

But she didn't walk away.

Even as she stood while I was sitting, I was still taller than her. She stared at me with both arms crossed and one eyebrow raised.

She tilted her head. "If you're really thankful," she said, "you'll let me ruffle your fur."

I blinked at her.

She grinned.

I lowered my head back to the cot, curled up again, and closed my eyes.

Her grin didn't go away, but she backed off.

For a while, there was quiet.

Then the station whistle groaned low and long. It must've passed an hour.

I stirred, ears twitching.

Outside the walls of the railcar, fresh boots moved.

Four sets. Their voices were clipped, but I heard every word.

"The train'll be moving again soon. The main car's three ahead, staff cabin's just ahead. And the Sixth is asleep, please don't bother him."

The voice belonged to the conductor. It seemed like he was giving the group a rundown of the train.

From the smell, they seemed a bit fresh. The stiffness in their footsteps screamed 'newly assigned'.

And ever since I came out of my room, I could vaguely feel strength. They were Phase-9 Lower, if I had to guess. The kind of rank they give you when you pass your evaluations.

I heard them enter the hallway in the staff cabin.

Then one of them whispered,

"That's him?"

Another low voice. "Ugly as the rumors say."

"He looks like a burnt loaf. What's wrong with his face?"

A beat of silence.

Then I heard it. Not from me.

From her. She was sitting on a wooden crate beside me, drinking coffee.

The woman's voice didn't speak, but her boots scraped the floor as she slammed it onto the steel floor. She also turned sharply towards them.

The newly assigned guards fell quiet.

I didn't lift my head.

Didn't need to.

I already knew she was staring daggers at them.

So I rolled over.

And went back to sleep.

The train was moving again.

I could feel the subtle shift in the floor beneath the cot, the rhythm of wheels and weight settling into motion. Cold iron and mountain air drifted faintly through the slats of the ventilation grate overhead, stirred by the occasional rattle of distant cargo.

Moonlight spilled through the cabin, a thin line from a warped window edge, enough to stretch across the floor and shine the corner of my paw.

She was nearby.

The woman sat cross-legged on the floor, back to one of the crates, a small toolkit open beside her. Something metallic clicked gently in her hands—she was making something, maybe. She was humming under her breath, off-tune but steady.

When she noticed me shift, she didn't speak.

She reached into her coat and pulled out a strip of jerky, held it up between two fingers, and offered it toward me without turning her head.

I took it.

No words passed between us.

I chewed slowly. She kept working.

After a while, she spoke.

"I like this job," she said, voice low. "You meet everyone."

She nudged a piece of scrap metal into place, squinting at the angle before continuing. "One week it's bishops in full regalia. The next it's factory medics trying to keep slum kids from bleeding out with lacking equipment."

She tightened something with a small click.

"It's a weird thing," she said, softer now. "Getting to know people who bless the sun… and people who barely see it."

She glanced my way.

"You meet enough people, you stop thinking in 'better or worse.' It's more like… different kinds of hard."

She leaned her head against the crate beside her. "So what about you?" she asked, not unkindly. "You think you've got it bad? Or has it actually been that bad?"

I didn't answer.

The jerky was halfway gone. I kept chewing, slower now. Eyes fixed on the opposite wall.

She didn't push.

"Hey," she said after a beat, hands up in a gesture of peace. "Not trying to poke at you. Just talking."

Her tone dropped. Quieter. Gentler.

"You're what, five? Six, maybe? In human years?"

I didn't correct her.

She let out a breath through her nose, slow. "People forget that sometimes. That you're still a kid."

She looked at me again. Not like the priests did.

"Doesn't matter how big your paws are," she said. "Still a kid."

The silence returned. But this one wasn't heavy.

It just… was.

She didn't fill it. Didn't try to break it.

After a moment, she reached for her toolkit again and murmured, "It's alright. You've got time."

And that was that.

The train rolled on.

I didn't sleep.

But I didn't move, either.