Riven kept walking, his steps uneven but steady, pushing himself forward in the general direction he believed Velridge Town lay. Every step sent a dull throb through his side, where blood had dried against torn fabric. The forest seemed endless, an ancient, gnarled sea of twisted bark and dense canopy. The sunlight, so warm and radiant outside these woods, filtered through the thick leaves above in broken, scattered fragments, dappling the ground in shifting shadows.
The air was damp, heavy with the earthy scent of moss and rot. Every breath he drew felt thick, like it clung to the inside of his lungs. His body ached with each movement—muscles pulled taut from overexertion, joints stiffening with strain. And yet, his senses—razor-sharp—guided him like they hadn't before. It wasn't just caution now; it was something deeper, something forged in the crucible of fear and pain.
The recent encounter hadn't just wounded his body; it had reshaped his mind. Pain had carved away the last pieces of comfort. It had stripped him down to something raw, something real. A new instinct hummed inside him now—quiet, but persistent. Alive. He couldn't shake off a strange feeling that had settled in his chest. It gnawed at him softly—not pain, not fear, not exactly comfort either. It was alien and yet familiar, like a half-remembered dream or the scent of something long lost.
He slowed, then paused altogether, boots crunching faintly against the underbrush. His breath caught in his throat as he closed his eyes briefly, trying to decipher the sensation. His fingers twitched near his belt. Then it clicked.
These weren't his feelings—at least, not entirely.
His eyes drifted toward the Pokéball hanging from his belt. "...Aron," he whispered, voice raw from thirst and silence.
The realization hit him like a wave crashing through his exhausted thoughts.
These emotions—foreign yet clear—were coming from Aron.
Somehow, some way, he was beginning to feel his partner's presence in a way that transcended mere words. It wasn't like hearing a voice, or seeing a vision—it was a subtle understanding. An unspoken bridge of meaning. Intuition magnified.
Emotions not his own surfaced like ripples in a still pond: anxious resolve, fierce protectiveness, and a flicker of loyalty that warmed his chest despite the cold ache in his bones. His hand instinctively brushed against Aron's Pokéball. A soft throb of pain echoed in his shoulder at the movement, and he hissed under his breath, knees wobbling slightly. He could feel dried blood cracking against his skin beneath the shredded sleeve of his jacket.
Still, he ignored the pain.
There was something else now. Something more important.
His mind drifted back to the words of Professor Halden and his grandfather Gideon:
"To achieve true strength, a trainer must connect with their Pokémon—not just physically or psychologically, but wholly. Only through complete understanding can power truly manifest."
But they had also warned him that such a bond took decades to form. That even then, many failed. It was a rarity, not a promise.
So why now?
Why him?
He didn't know. But it was real.
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't fully clear. But it was there—and that alone was enough to light a small flame of hope inside him. Amidst the darkness and uncertainty, it was enough to keep him moving.
Before he could dwell further, the forest stirred.
A faint rustle. A crack of a twig. A whisper of movement too purposeful to be the wind.
Riven's body snapped into motion without thought. His instincts screamed. He dropped low and slipped behind a thick bush, the pain from his side flaring up as he crouched. He clenched his jaw, biting back a groan, and forced himself to slow his breathing—deep, silent inhales.
Become the forest. Be still. Be unseen.
His heart thudded in his ears, fast and loud, like a war drum. But his mind remained sharp, focused. He parted the leaves with care, peering through the green veil, breath held.
A figure.
A cultist.
The same twisted attire, draped in cruel patterns and bone-wrapped cloth. The same aura of wrongness that seemed to bleed into the air around them. He was walking slowly, scanning the area.
Riven's body froze completely.
A cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck. Every survival instinct screamed in warning. His thoughts spun.
What now?
He couldn't afford a direct confrontation. His body was already at its limit, screaming with every motion, and Froakie—his newest partner—was still unconscious, tucked safely in his bag like a fragile treasure.
The memory of the previous battle burned behind his eyes. That monstrous Mightyena. The overwhelming power. The helplessness.
He could not face something like that again. Not in this state.
But beyond the cultist—just behind him—Riven could see it. A break in the trees. A narrow trail, mostly hidden but unmistakable.
The path to Velridge.
His only way out.
His breath caught in his throat. He began to think. Rapidly. Weighing every possibility.
Could he try another distraction like before?
No—too risky. If it failed, he'd be trapped.
What if the man had another Pokémon?
He wouldn't stand a chance.
There was only one real option left.
He needed to remove the threat.
His fingers trembled as he reached for Aron's Pokéball. The cool metal felt like ice against his skin. He released it silently, crouched low. The red glow bloomed faintly between the trees—and then Aron stood beside him, materialized in the thick shadow.
The moment Aron appeared, Riven felt it again—stronger now. Clearer.
The connection.
His thoughts, unspoken, flowed like water into his partner.
No words were needed. The message passed between them not in commands, but in shared intention. A silent pact.
Riven's pulse slowed. The pain faded into the background. Aron understood.
He could feel it in the way Aron looked at him—a low, steady growl vibrating in the Pokémon's throat. Not of hostility, but of readiness. Of trust.
Then, Aron nodded.
A mutual affirmation passed in that glance. No hesitation. No doubt.
And as Aron turned, crouched low, and began to climb a tree with surprising quietness, a faint silver shimmer pulsed around his form—a soft, brief flicker of aura.
Riven didn't notice.
His mind was too locked in on the plan. Every muscle was coiled, ready to act. Every breath measured.
But the aura pulsed once, like a quiet heartbeat of something awakening.
Aron vanished into the canopy, nestling himself among thick leaves. Silent. Waiting. A sentinel of steel.
Riven braced himself, the bark of the bush pressing against his cheek. His wounds ached. His shoulder throbbed with each passing second, the blood soaking into his clothes like a slow poison. The sting crept up his spine, but he welcomed it now.
The pain reminded him that he was still alive.
The tension in the forest grew heavy again. Time slowed. Even the birds had gone silent.
The next move was his.
And if it went wrong, there would be no second chance.