The man paced the moonlit clearing like a caged beast, every movement laced with agitation. His shoulders were hunched, hands twitching at his sides, and his breath rasped in sharp bursts. Though his face remained hidden beneath a thick black hood, his voice betrayed him—high-strung, panicked, and on the verge of collapse.
"Shit… where did that little piece of shit go?" he snarled under his breath, teeth gritted so tightly they ached. "If the higher-ups find out—if they know I lost it—I'm dead. We're all dead!"
Every sound sent him spinning on his heel. The whisper of leaves in the wind. The crunch of twigs beneath his boots. Shadows flickered like phantoms around him, and he scanned the trees with eyes wide and wild, lips twitching in grim desperation.
Dry undergrowth cracked under his feet as he stalked through the clearing's edge, boots grinding against old leaves and gravel. The forest was quiet—too quiet. No insect buzzed, no distant cry of a bird. Just the soft rustle of wind weaving through skeletal branches. Even the moon looked pale, sickly, half-hidden behind drifting clouds.
Then came the noise.
A subtle, deliberate rustling ahead, just behind a copse of ferns.
His head whipped around. Instinct flared. One hand flew to the Poké Ball clipped at his waist, thumb ready to release his partner. But before he could react—someone stepped into the clearing.
It was a boy.
He emerged slowly, stumbling as if barely conscious, his gait uneven and shuddering. The moonlight caught on his form—tall for his age but visibly hunched, shoulders drawn inward. His raven-black hair spilled in messy tangles around his face, matted with dirt, sweat, and streaks of dried blood. Scratches lined his exposed arms like thorns had clawed at him endlessly.
His face was smeared with grime, but it was his eyes that stunned the man. They glimmered—dark, abyssal eyes not with rage or defiance, but with something brittle. Something raw. Pain. Fear. Exhaustion.
The boy—Riven—took a faltering step forward. Then another. His breath hitched, lips trembling. He swayed on his feet and finally collapsed to his knees, hitting the forest floor with a soft thump.
A strangled sob escaped him.
It wasn't loud or theatrical—it was quiet. Too quiet. But the silence of the woods made it echo like thunder. His shoulders shook violently with each shallow breath, tears cutting clean lines through the dirt on his cheeks. Cradled in his arms was a limp Froakie, the small blue Pokémon unconscious, battered, its limbs hanging loosely.
"S-Sir…" Riven's voice was barely a whisper, broken and hoarse. "Please… please help… this Pokémon—he's hurt. He's dying…"
He blinked hard, forcing the words through his throat. "I—I don't know what to do… I lost my bag, my gear… I can't even help him. We were attacked—by wild Pokémon. I ran but... but he tried to protect me. And I couldn't… I couldn't protect him back…"
His hands trembled as he held Froakie closer, as if trying to shield the small Pokémon from the cold. His head bowed lower, and he pressed his forehead into the dirt. His voice cracked again, the weight in it far too much for someone his age.
"Please… I don't care what happens to me. Just… help him…"
The man blinked, hesitation flickering in his stance. Slowly, his grip around the Poké Ball loosened. He took a single cautious step forward, then another.
This boy—he was just a lost, panicked trainer. A weakling who'd wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time.
A faint grin tugged at the corner of his lips. "There you are," he murmured. "That Froakie… that's the one. Finally. Now I can finish this and—"
But then something twisted in his gut.
Attacked by wild Pokémon?
No. That couldn't be right.
They had already cleared this sector. There were no wilds left here. No nests. No scouts reported signs of living things.
His eyes narrowed. The tension returned.
Something's wrong.
That was the last full thought he ever had.
A whisper of movement—a breeze, a shadow, a flicker of steel—and then agony.
Something slammed into him from behind with such force he staggered forward, coughing. A sound like tearing fabric echoed through the trees, followed by a wet, visceral squelch. His throat constricted as a searing pain erupted across the side of his neck and jaw.
He stumbled, hand rising to clutch at his face—but it wasn't there. Not completely.
Warm blood sprayed in a violent arc, painting the leaves crimson.
The man gasped, but no sound emerged. His vocal cords had been severed. A scream remained trapped in his chest, bubbling in blood. His knees buckled. Eyes wide, he turned, his vision splitting. His breath came in short, desperate bursts as the world swam and tilted around him.
He saw the glint of silver in the moonlight.
A shadow stepped from the brush. Compact, armored. Low to the ground. The beast's metal mask gleamed like polished bone, red eyes glowing faintly.
Aron.
The man's mouth worked wordlessly, horror dawning across what remained of his face.
His head fell from his shoulders in the next second.
It hit the forest floor with a thud, the expression still frozen in a look of disbelief. His body stood twitching for a heartbeat longer, blood spurting from the stump in chaotic rhythm, before it finally crumpled beside it like a marionette with cut strings.
Silence returned. Heavy. Suffocating.
The scent of iron hung thick in the air.
The boy—Riven—rose slowly from the dirt. His arms still cradled Froakie gently, carefully, as if he were the most precious thing in the world.
But his expression had changed.
Gone was the trembling, the helpless fear.
His eyes were cold now. Hollow.
He looked down at the headless corpse, then at the severed head, and tilted his own slightly.
He spoke—not with hatred. Not with satisfaction.
But with judgment.
"Now… who's the scum?"
No answer came. The forest remained dead still.
The shadows swallowed the clearing once more.