The forest stood still.
Not just quiet—still.
Even the wind dared not stir.
The usual rustling of leaves, the rhythmic hum of insects, the chirps of hidden creatures, and the distant cries of wild Pokémon had vanished, swallowed by an unnatural silence. It was not the peace of rest. It was the kind of silence that crushed the air, coiled around the chest, and made every breath feel like a transgression. As though the world itself were holding its breath.
Riven's heart pounded in his chest. The thud of it echoed in his ears like war drums. His palms were slick with sweat, and every muscle in his body screamed to run—but he didn't. He couldn't. Something was behind him.
He didn't need to turn to know it. He felt it.
That crawling sensation slithered up his spine, cold and slow, like the legs of an invisible insect scraping along his nerves. Instinct screamed—an ancestral warning too primal to ignore. Something too powerful, too unnatural, had entered the world behind him. A presence that didn't belong.
He forced himself to turn. Each movement came like lifting weights underwater. The air had thickened. Breathing felt like inhaling syrup.
There stood a man.
His silhouette was calm, unmoving. He wore a robe—the same design, the same sigils and stitching that marked the cultists Riven had encountered in the past. But this one was… different.
Pristine.
Regal.
Wrong.
The robe shimmered faintly, untouched by the dirt or grime of the wild. Intricate patterns of faded gold thread curled along the hem and sleeves like veins of something ancient and pulsing. Each stitch felt deliberate, almost ceremonial, and around the man's left arm, coiled like a serpent, was a black armband—an addition none of the others had worn.
But it wasn't the robe that held Riven's gaze hostage.
It was the man's face—or what should have been his face.
It wasn't covered. No hood shaded his features. And yet, when Riven looked at it… he couldn't see it.
Couldn't remember it.
It was as if the eyes, the mouth, the shape—all of it—were blurred the moment they entered his vision.
Something white and mist-like shimmered over the man's features, sliding across them like fogged glass. No matter how hard Riven focused, the details refused to take shape. Every time he blinked or looked away, any memory of the face evaporated, leaving behind only the phantom ache of knowledge lost.
The very concept of the man's face had been erased from existence.
Then, the man began to move. Calmly. Slowly. Circling.
Each step was deliberate, graceful, yet predatory—like a great feline stalking an injured animal. His feet made no sound on the forest floor, even though dried leaves and twigs littered the ground. He moved as if gravity held no claim over him.
He paced around Riven and his unconscious Froakie, who lay slumped against a moss-covered root, its chest rising and falling in fragile, uneven gasps.
"So the experiment… was not a failure," the man murmured, voice low and strangely melodic, like a lullaby spun from ice.
It wasn't loud, but the words hit like hammers. They reverberated through the silence, hanging in the still air like smoke.
"It was the specimen."
He spoke in riddles, but each syllable was sharp—surgical. Every word pierced Riven's skull and embedded itself there, echoing deeper than thought.
"The test subject could not handle the influx of power. The power of legends."
He paused, gaze flicking down to Froakie, who trembled faintly with each breath. A tiny whimper escaped the Pokémon's lips, nearly inaudible. The sight twisted something inside Riven.
"Understandable," the man continued, voice still gentle, almost sympathetic. "A normal Pokémon cannot handle such a burden. The divinity within… it corrodes, breaks. The body cannot house what was never meant for it."
Then his gaze turned to Riven.
And Riven felt it.
Like a scalpel sliding through skin and bone. Like icy fingers prying open a wound in his soul. The pressure was unbearable—violating. He wanted to scream, but his throat closed around the sound. Even breathing felt foreign.
"But you," the man said, tilting his head slightly, studying him like a relic behind glass, "you have found a way to let this Pokémon harness a sliver of that power. Even if it is minuscule… you made it happen. You gave it form."
Riven swallowed hard, but his throat was dry as ash. He tried to move, tried to protect Froakie, to shout, to do something—but his limbs refused to obey.
The man crouched suddenly, bringing himself level with Riven. His voice dropped into a whisper.
And Riven could feel it—his breath. Cold. Damp. Unnatural. Like winter had taken form and leaned close to whisper secrets.
"We have spent decades trying to accomplish what you did unknowingly," he whispered. "To fuse the genes of a mortal creature with that of something far older. Something beyond legend."
His voice dropped even lower, hushed like confession. Even the forest, dead as it was, seemed to recoil.
"A legendary Pokémon that the world does not speak of. The records refuse to acknowledge it. Even ancient ruins hold only whispers—scars left behind by its existence. It was banished from memory."
The man rose again, robes flowing like smoke around his frame. His movements were too fluid. Too effortless.
"Our leader discovered it long ago. On a shattered island, swallowed by the tides. Once, it was a nation—a kingdom of researchers and visionaries, whose knowledge surpassed the rest of the world by generations."
His voice darkened. Hardened. Like a storm behind calm water.
"But something went wrong. The ruins told of it. Technology torn apart, archives burned, structures melted from the inside out. And deep within those ruins, our leader found the truth. Research notes. Theories. And one precious relic."
He looked at Riven again, and Riven could swear he felt something stir inside him. As if that gaze touched something buried deep and long forgotten.
"A vial," the man said. "Of blood. Not fossilized, not degraded. Preserved—alive. The blood of that Pokémon."
The silence that followed felt alive. Heavy. Dense. It swallowed sound and thought alike.
"Our leader returned and founded our organization. He gathered minds—some brilliant, others twisted. Some did it for power. Some for gold. And a few… simply to see what would happen when man reached beyond what nature allowed."
He exhaled slowly, almost reverently.
"We began the experiments. Hosts of every species. Countless failures. So many screams. So many corpses."
Riven flinched. His stomach churned. The images that rose in his mind were not of this forest—but metal walls, tubes, broken bodies, and eyes that never closed.
"But through suffering, there was progress. Every generation brought us closer."
The man's eyes gleamed with some hidden truth beneath the veil of forgetfulness.
"And now, here you are."
He gestured toward Froakie again.
"The latest result. The closest we have come to success."
He stepped back. Lifted his right hand.
With no flash, no sound, five small vials shimmered into existence above his palm. Their contents glowed with soft, swirling light—blue with streaks of silver, pulsing like living essence.
He flicked his wrist.
The vials drifted toward Riven like falling feathers. Riven reached out instinctively, catching them with trembling fingers. They were cold. Colder than glass should be. They burned against his skin, but he held on.
"Administer these when the creature's condition worsens," the man said. "They will help. For a time."
He turned. His footsteps left no mark. His robes stirred no leaves. He moved deeper into the woods, fading like a bad memory.
But after only a few steps, he paused.
"You are familiar to me, young man," he said softly, voice now distant, like it came from behind a door half-shut. "Stay far from the white robes. Stay far from what we represent."
A pause.
"But I suppose that is impossible now."
He chuckled.
Not warmly. Not humanly.
It was the sound of hollow bells in the dark. Of laughter that didn't come from a throat.
"Not with that thing by your side."
And then—he was gone. No flash. No crack. Just gone, as though he had never been.
The shadows reclaimed him.
Riven stared at the place where the man had vanished, eyes wide, chest heaving. The forest remained still. But it was no longer just quiet—it was empty. Hollow.
His fingers clenched the vials tightly. They pulsed in his grip, faintly glowing against the gathering gloom. His thoughts spiraled. Who was that man? What did he mean by forbidden legendary? What had Froakie become?
The cold crept into his bones, and the silence pressed down again.
Minutes passed.
Maybe hours.
Riven remained there, crouched in the shadows of trees that no longer felt familiar, no longer safe. Froakie whimpered faintly, and Riven finally blinked, the spell breaking just enough for him to cradle his partner close.
The vials in his hand glowed softly.
He didn't understand.
But one thing was certain—nothing would ever be the same again.