The green glow beneath Froakie's skin pulsed brighter with each passing second, as if something ancient and alien stirred within it.
Riven could only watch, frozen. His legs trembled, his chest heaving from exhaustion, and the pain in his side had grown unbearable—a gnawing fire that seemed to burrow deeper with every heartbeat. Blood slicked his shirt, hot and sticky, and the gash along his ribs burned each time he inhaled. But none of that registered clearly in his mind anymore. Not with this happening in front of him.
The light intensified—until, with a sharp jolt, it began to solidify.
Slowly, impossibly, the glow condensed on Froakie's back, forming into a rune—its lines etched like scars, glowing a sickly jade. It looked ancient, almost tribal, yet impossibly precise. It wasn't something natural. It wasn't something meant to exist.
Froakie whimpered in pain, its limbs twitching weakly against the ground. The rune seared into its flesh like molten glass dropped into icy water—steam rising, muscles locking. The air around it crackled faintly, as if the jungle itself didn't know how to respond.
Riven lurched forward, instinct overriding hesitation—he had to help—but something else caught his eye. Another light. Dim at first. Flickering.
It came from the severed head of the Mightyhyena.
A ghostly shimmer of green and violet bled from the beast's eyes and jaw. It was grotesque, unnatural—like a soul bleeding through shattered bone. Slowly, the light coalesced into another rune, this one harsh, jagged—more violent than Froakie's, like a symbol of rage rather than will. Riven's breath caught.
Two runes. Two opposing lights.
And he understood none of it.
Pain lanced through his side again, sharp and sudden, forcing him to drop to one knee. His vision blurred at the edges. He pressed a hand against the wound—his palm came away red. Too much blood.
But before he could think—before he could breathe—the rune on the Mightyhyena began to fragment.
It shattered like fragile glass, breaking into motes of green and purple flame. The sparks drifted through the air like falling fireflies—weightless, beautiful, and utterly wrong. They didn't fall randomly. They were drawn—to Froakie.
"No," Riven breathed, staggering to his feet, arm outstretched. "Don't—!"
But it was too late.
The motes spiraled downward, slow but inevitable, and sank into the rune etched on Froakie's back.
Froakie screamed.
Not like a wounded Pokémon.
Something deeper. Something human.
Its body convulsed, limbs cracking unnaturally, spine arching in impossible ways. It was grotesque. Unnatural. Wrong.
Riven's breath hitched. He tried to move, to help, to stop it—but his legs wouldn't obey. His body locked in place, trembling. Blood continued to spill from his wound, warmth soaking into his torn clothes, but even that pain was distant now.
The only sound was Froakie's tortured screeches and the soft buzz of arcane energy rippling through the air.
For a full minute, Riven stood rooted. The world had gone mad, and all he could do was watch as Froakie's form twitched and twisted, bones grinding, eyes wide in pure agony. And then—
Silence.
Froakie's body collapsed, still and lifeless… until its chest rose again with a sharp inhale. Slowly, its eyes opened.
And in those eyes, Riven saw no madness. No fury.
Only clarity—and something else: gratitude.
He let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, his knees buckling beneath him. He caught himself on a rock, gritting his teeth as fresh pain bloomed in his side. Whatever had happened, whatever torment Froakie had endured… it had survived.
And something inside it had changed.
A rustle broke the moment.
Riven jerked his head up, his hand flying toward his belt, vision swimming. But then—
Aron.
The little steel-type emerged from the underbrush, dragging Riven's battered backpack behind him with slow determination. His usually pristine armor was scratched and smeared with blood, but his eyes were steady.
Riven forced a broken laugh, teeth gritted from pain, and knelt down as Aron nudged the bag toward him with a tired grunt.
"Good job, buddy," he rasped, voice hoarse.
He dug into the pack, hands shaking, searching for potions and bandages. First he tended to Aron—mechanically, efficiently. The motions helped him focus. Then himself. He hissed as he wrapped the bandage tight around his ribs, the pain now sharper, more present.
Froakie was last.
He uncorked the potion, tilting the vial carefully, letting the first drop fall onto the water-type's back.
Froakie flinched violently.
Screeching.
Riven recoiled, snatching the bottle back as panic surged through him. The potion—meant to heal—had only caused more agony. Froakie writhed for a second longer, then lay still again, panting.
"What the hell is happening to you…?" he whispered. Not really to Froakie. More to himself.
Before the question could take form in his mind—before he could even try to make sense of it—
A voice answered.
Low. Rasping. Cold.
"So," it said. "The experiment wasn't a failure. It was the specimen."
Riven went still.
The words were soft. Patient. Measured like a scalpel.
But they cut deeper than any blade.
The jungle changed.
The sounds of insects and birds died instantly. A wind that hadn't been there before crept in, chilling and wrong. The air thickened with something unseen—an invisible pressure that coiled around Riven's lungs, squeezing. It wasn't just presence. It was weight. Power.
His blood turned to ice.
Every instinct screamed at him to run—but his legs refused to obey. They were heavy. Rooted.
He turned.
Slowly.
Painfully.
And behind him stood a figure wrapped in shadows, tall and impossibly still. His features were hidden beneath a dark hood, but his eyes gleamed—faint and distant, like dying stars.
He wasn't just there.
He commanded the space.
The trees leaned away from him. The air seemed thinner, heavier.
And those eyes—those cold, gleaming eyes—weren't on Riven.
They were on Froakie.
With reverence.
And hunger.
Riven's breath caught in his throat.
Something ancient had awakened.
And now, something worse had come looking for it.