The Grand Southern Reception Plaza of the Imperial Capital had rolled out the full, suffocating weight of royal pageantry.
Four ranks of imperial beast-masters stood in crisp white silk livery hemmed with silver wire. Each man held a bronze incense burner swinging on a brass chain, choking the morning air with sweet clouds of ambergris and spirit-orchid smoke. Behind them knelt three hundred scribes and palace stewards, their foreheads pressed so hard into the polished white marble flagstones that their breath left condensation rings on the stone.
Right in the center of the yard, perched on a twenty-foot slab of fossilized dragon-turtle shell, sat the Emperor’s supreme gift of gratitude:
**The Imperial Celestial Golden Dog Palace**.
It was an eighteen-ton monument to pure, unhinged royal excess. Thirty feet wide, twenty feet deep, and rising twenty feet to its triple-tiered hipped eaves, the entire structure had been cast from eighteen metric tons of pure, unblemished immortal star-gold.
Its eaves curved up toward heaven, shingled with translucent green dragon-jade tiles that hummed with a faint emerald glow. Golden pillars were chiseled with cloud dragons chasing celestial pearls.
Inside the central vestibule, resting on a raised platform, lay three stacked mattresses of golden silk velvet. The royal herald proudly shouted that palace artisans had hand-stuffed every mattress with the shed down feathers of nine-colored celestial phoenixes, enchanted with eight concentric calming arrays to ensure dreamless slumber.
Surrounding the entrance sat twelve solid-gold feeding troughs. Each bowl was heaped with legendary delicacies: simmered dragon-bone marrow porridge, thousand-year ginseng mash, braised mountain mutton, and dried strips of golden-scaled river carp. Beside the bowls, two junior handlers knelt holding ceremonial leads made of woven silver wire and polished hollow jade rings.
The Chief Imperial Beast-Master, a withered elder with a silver beard that reached his belt, crawled forward on his knees, holding up a scroll woven from cloth-of-gold:
"Report to the Master Contractor and His Imperial Majesty!" the Chief Beast-Master quavered, his voice tight with courtly drama. "The Royal Beast Guild, laboring through three night watches alongside forty master alchemists, has forged the ultimate sanctuary of heaven! We have built this dwelling to honor the Nine-Heavens Nether-Solar Divine Hound! It aligns with the Dragon-Tiger celestial meridian, insulates against worldly corruption with eight tiers of defensive wards, and offers perpetual culinary worship! We pray His Divine Ferocity finds this palace worthy of his cosmic majesty!"
Emperor Yan Ming smiled broadly, turning to Austin with deferential warmth:
"Master Austin, when Admiral Meng told the court how your divine guardian defended your airspace and seized our dreadnoughts, the throne knew simple words would never do. We offer this golden palace so that your hound may rest as an emperor among beasts."
Austin stood on the white marble, hands shoved deep into the front pockets of his denim dungarees. He pushed his midnight-blue Sovereign Hard Hat back on his head, staring through his green arc-welding spectacles at the eighteen-ton gold pavilion, then at the junior handlers holding the jade rings.
"You're planning on snapping a three-quarter-inch hollow jade ring onto an eight-hundred-pound mastiff that pulls stump-grinders for exercise?" Austin muttered, shaking his head. "That thing'll shatter before he even leans into the collar. And look at those feeding troughs. Simmered dragon marrow and fatty braised mutton? That’s a fast-track ticket to explosive canine diarrhea. You feed an animal eighty percent pure lipid grease after a high-speed transit run, you'll be spending tomorrow morning pressure-washing this white marble with caustic soda."
Austin pulled a six-inch brass pocket level and dial gauge from his vest. He walked over, slapped the level against the primary door jamb, and squinted:
"Out of plumb by three-sixteenths," Austin muttered, clicking his tongue. "And look at that corner miter. You’ve got an eighth-inch gap in the casing. What did you boys cut these joints with, a broadaxe? Did anyone run a framing square over these lintels before pouring eighteen tons of liquid bullion?"
The Chief Beast-Master blinked, trembling as he stared up from his knees:
"Grandmaster... celestial gold is cast through divine alchemical prayer! The joints reflect the sacred imperfection of mortal devotion!"
"The joints reflect that your carpenter didn't know how to read a tape," Austin countered flatly. "And that's before we talk about basic thermal physics. Thermal conductivity of gold runs around three hundred and ten watts per meter-Kelvin. That’s roughly four hundred times higher than cedar lumber. In December, this thing’s gonna act like an industrial heat sink, sucking every BTU of body heat out of whatever sleeps inside. Come mid-July? It turns into an eighteen-ton toaster oven."
The Chief Beast-Master swallowed hard:
"But the kennel is blessed with eight talismans of soothing spring warmth!"
"Talismans don't fix missing R-value, Chief," Austin said, tapping the gold eaves with his gauge. "Zero thermal break between exterior metal and inside air. No vapor barrier. No venting at the ridge. The first night the temp drops below freezing, warm dog breath hits that cold gold ceiling. It hits the dew point and condenses. In ten minutes, you've got ice water dripping straight onto his head. And star-gold is dead-soft. The first time an eight-hundred-pound mastiff scratches his ear and kicks the wall, his dewclaws are gonna gouge four-inch trenches right through your dragon carvings. But client specs are one thing, end-user approval is another. Let's see what the tenant thinks."
Austin turned toward the boarding ramp of the *Sunset Express*, which sat idling silently on its magnetic cushion twenty yards back:
"Pug! Tenant walkthrough!"
A heavy, rhythmic thumping rattled the train's aluminum vestibule.
*Clop, clop, clop.*
Cerberus Pug swaggered down the ramp and trotted out across the white imperial marble.
All eight hundred pounds of black fur and muscle moved with slow, unhurried insolence. Clamped in his middle jaws was his absolute favorite treasure on earth: a four-foot, splintered, thoroughly chewed chunk of laminated oak from the *Sun-Slayer's* dragon steering helm. It was caked in dried slobber, gouged with teeth marks, and held together by sheer canine obstinacy. His left head sniffed the perfume smoke with mild disgust, while his right head watched a line of trembling imperial crossbowmen with half-lidded golden eyes.
A hundred royal beast-masters held their breath, trembling in religious anticipation.
*"Look,"* a junior handler whispered, tears welling in his eyes. *"The Divine Hound approaches his celestial throne. He shall claim dominion over the mortal realm!"*
Pug trotted right up to the front steps of the golden palace.
His left head leaned down, sniffing the jade-inlaid dragon pillar:
*Snort.*
His right head shoved its snout into the phoenix-down velvet cushions:
*Snort.*
His center head cracked its jaws just enough to give the mirror-polished gold doorframe a wet, casual swipe:
*Slurp.*
Pug paused. All six golden eyes blinked together.
Then Cerberus Pug turned his back on the eighteen-ton monument.
He walked four paces to the right, sidled up to the primary front cornerstone—a carved gold dragon curling up toward heaven—and lifted his thick, muscular right hind leg.
*PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSST.*
A scalding, high-pressure stream of nether-hound urine erupted from his flank with the force of a municipal hydro-jet.
It slammed into the eighteen-ton gold pillar like an unthrottled firehose. The steaming, acidic yellow blast sheared across the intricate dragon scales, melted the protective cinnabar lacquer with a loud hiss, and poured down the jade-tiled steps into the white marble gutter in a foaming, pungent torrent.
Pug gave his hind leg two sharp shakes, dropped all four paws back to the stone with a deep, rumbling grunt—*Urrrgh*—clamped his slobbery chunk of steering wheel back in his teeth, and turned around.
Without so much as a sideways glance at the twelve gold troughs of simmered dragon marrow or the phoenix-down beds, Pug trotted straight back up the ramp of the *Sunset Express*.
*CLOP-CLOP-CLOP.*
The courtyard went cemetery-quiet.
A hundred royal beast-masters stood paralyzed, jaws hanging slack. Beside them, two imperial scribes knelt with trembling brushes over fresh parchment, completely frozen in terror. One scribe whispered hoarsely to the other: *"How do we record this? On the fourth day of autumn, did the Divine Hound... consecrate the royal monument with solar vitality?"*
Austin glanced over, catching the scribe's eye:
"Go ahead and write 'pissed on the corner,' son. History appreciates accurate field notes."
The Chief Beast-Master clutched his robes over his heart, his knees folding beneath him as his silver beard shook:
"The... the Divine Hound of Heaven..." he wheezed, voice cracking into a ragged sob. "He... he hiked his leg on eighteen tons of immortal star-gold?!"
"He rejected the feathers of nine-colored phoenixes!" the Minister of Rites wailed, clapping both hands to his cheeks. "He ignored the simmered marrow of sacred dragons! And he used the Son of Heaven’s supreme tribute... as a fire hydrant!"
Austin couldn't help a dry chuckle. He slipped his brass gauge back into his canvas tool belt and turned to head for the train:
"Told you, boys. Gold doesn't breathe. Working dogs don't care about precious metals, and phoenix feathers just collect burrs and shed undercoat. You gave an eight-hundred-pound guard dog a gaudy metal monument. He gave you an honest architectural critique."
Austin reached the train door, pausing to wave a grease-smudged hand at the stunned court:
"Appreciate the thought, Your Majesty, but we've got concrete to pour back on the peak. Departure's on time!"
The automated chimes rang out across the plaza:
*DOO-DEE-DOO!*
The sliding doors hissed shut. With a silent shove of magnetic force, the *Sunset Express* glided out of the imperial terminal, cleared the city gate, and shot up to six hundred and fifty miles per hour on the return rail.
Two hours and forty minutes later, after dumping twelve megawatt-hours of kinetic energy back into the substation grid through regenerative braking, the silver train settled onto the maintenance tracks at Mount Clear Sky under the amber glow of the Level 55 Second Sun.
The doors opened with a soft hiss. Pug bounded down the ramp, trotted across the obsidian plaza, and headed straight for the timber lodge.
He walked past the stone guest quarters. He ignored the newly swept porch steps.
He trotted directly around the side of the foundation to his sacred spot under the cedar floorboards.
There, tucked into the dry dirt away from the wind, lay his real bed: an old, ragged, grease-stained quilted wool moving blanket—the heavy-duty one Austin had wrapped around rebuilt hydraulic valves and diesel pumps back in Season 3. It reeked of chainsaw bar oil, WD-40, cured bacon grease, and dry sawdust. It had holes chewed in two corners, frayed hem threads, and a dark ring where a quart of transmission fluid had spilled on it two years ago. To Pug, it was paradise.
Pug dropped his chewed piece of ship's wheel into the dirt with a dull *thump*.
He turned three slow, deliberate circles on the greasy wool, let out a massive, bone-deep doggy sigh that rattled his ribs, and flopped down in an eight-hundred-pound heap:
*FLOP.*
Within ten seconds, all three black muzzles were resting across his front paws. His breathing slowed down, and his regular three-part snoring choir began to vibrate through the floor joists:
*Snore-whistle... snore-puff... snore-snort.*
Austin climbed the porch steps, his lead-lined boots clumping on the cedar deck:
*Clomp.*
He stopped by the railing, looked down at the snoring mass of fur, and reached into his cargo pocket. He pulled out three thick links of smoked garlic beef sausage he'd snagged off the imperial buffet table and dropped one beside each black nose:
*Plop. Plop. Plop.*
*Sniff... gulp. Gulp. Gulp.*
Pug didn't even open an eye. Three jaws snapped shut in rhythm, swallowing the sausages whole. His three stubby tails gave two lazy thumps against the foundation post—*Thump, thump*—before he sank back into sleep.
Austin smiled, sat down in his wooden rocking chair, and picked up his mug of jasmine tea:
"Good dog. Knows what real comfort is. You can keep your eighteen tons of gold; give me a dry porch, an old greasy blanket, and a good stick any day of the week."