The Dark Woods stretched like a living nightmare under the twilight sky, a suffocating web of gnarled trees and creeping fog. The moon had just begun its ascent, its silver light struggling to pierce the dense canopy. Shafts of pale illumination danced across the forest floor, fractured and thin like the remnants of a dying dream. The trees whispered with the wind, carrying with them a silence that felt almost sacred—interrupted only by the shallow breath of something alive, something watching.
Beneath that ghostly glow stood a Pokémon.
Small in stature, yet unmoving like an ancient sentinel, Aron stood silently at the center of a blood-stained clearing. Its iron body reflected the faint moonlight with an ethereal gleam. A silver aura clung to its form, faint but growing steadily more defined with every passing second. It wasn't dramatic or divine—no thunder cracked, no god watched. But it was real. The kind of power that didn't need to scream. The kind that simply was.
Blood, fresh and vivid, painted its crimson claws. The stain was sharp against its metallic hide. But Aron's expression held no trace of regret or fear. Only one thing filled those eyes: a burning, unwavering resolve. Its body was tense, chest rising and falling slowly, but its gaze never wavered. It had done what needed to be done—not out of hate, but to protect the one it had chosen to trust, to follow. Its partner. Its friend.
Riven was still crouched near the corpse.
His hands trembled, barely able to hold the limp Froakie in his arms. His eyes locked onto the slack, lifeless face of the man Aron had just killed—an expression frozen in pain, rage, and terror. The same man who had tried to hurt Froakie. The same man Riven had wanted to stop. But this wasn't a simulation. This wasn't a training scenario. This was real.
For a moment, a terrifying kind of stillness engulfed him. The world around him faded—no wind, no sound, no time. Just him. And the man whose life had been erased.
And then—
The realization hit.
It wasn't slow. It was a crushing avalanche, a thousand thoughts screaming in his skull all at once.
I killed him.
He was human.
Not a Pokémon. Not a monster. Not an experiment.
A man.
His breath hitched. Then again. He tried to look away, but his eyes were glued to the corpse. He couldn't blink. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't escape it. And then—
Riven vomited.
Fiercely. Violently.
He fell forward, retching into the grass and dirt, hands trembling so violently he couldn't support himself. His entire body convulsed. His arms shook. Tears blurred his vision, though he hadn't realized he'd begun crying.
The stench of blood mixed with bile. His stomach heaved again.
He clutched his chest, gasping, like something inside was trying to tear itself free.
It wasn't just the blood.
It wasn't even the body.
It was himself.
He felt disgusted—disgusted not just at the sight, but at the part of himself that hadn't hesitated. That had allowed it. That had wanted it, even if just for a second. Some part of him—the dark, primal part—had welcomed the kill. And that was the part that terrified him most.
This wasn't like the lab. Back then, he had told himself it was different. The creature wasn't human, it was a failed experiment, a mercy kill. He'd convinced himself.
But this time? There was no illusion to shield him. No moral loophole. This was a human being.
A man.
And he was dead.
Because of him.
"I—I'm a murderer," Riven choked. His voice sounded foreign, raw. "What the hell have I done…?"
He curled in on himself, arms wrapped around his knees, body shaking in the blood-soaked grass. Froakie stirred faintly in his arms, but Riven barely noticed. His mind was unraveling.
He didn't know how long he stayed like that. Minutes. Hours. It didn't matter.
Then, a gentle tug at his leg.
Riven flinched. He turned, startled, expecting the worst—some ghost of conscience, some avenging shadow.
But it was Ron.
His Aron stood beside him, eyes firm and focused, not cold but resolute. It looked at him—not with pity, not with fear—but with absolute, unshakable loyalty. Its body trembled slightly from exhaustion, but it stood tall.
Riven stared.
He could feel it—Ron's resolve, as tangible as the moonlight between the trees. A promise made in silence: I will protect you. I chose you. I trust you.
And here he was, collapsing into himself, disgracing that resolve with weakness and self-loathing.
Riven exhaled shakily.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so—so damn sorry."
He shifted Froakie gently to the ground. The creature was stable now, though its skin had gone pale. The bubbles around its neck had shifted to a sickly purple and pale green—a side effect of whatever that man had done to it. Riven tucked it gently on a bed of leaves before turning to Ron.
And then he did something he hadn't done in years.
He hugged his partner.
Wrapped both arms tightly around the small steel-type and pulled it close to his chest. Ron didn't resist. It rested its head against him, accepting the embrace.
For the first time, Riven cried without trying to stop himself.
And then a voice echoed in his memory—so sharp, so sudden it felt like it was spoken beside him.
"Riven, your indecisiveness will cost you out there," Ethan had said. They'd been in the academy courtyard. Riven remembered the way Ethan leaned against a tree, arms folded, voice calm but intense. "If you're going to survive in the real world, you need to accept that blood will stain your hands. The longer you deny it, the more it'll destroy you when it finally happens."
Riven had laughed back then, tried to change the subject. He hadn't believed it. He hadn't wanted to.
But now?
Now he understood every word.
Because Ethan had been right.
And more than that—if he didn't change, it wouldn't just be him who suffered.
It would be his Pokémon.
The ones who believed in him.
The ones willing to bleed for him.
Riven wiped his face with the back of his hand. The trembling didn't stop completely, but it lessened. The storm in his mind began to quiet. Not because the pain was gone, but because he understood it now.
He looked at the body one last time. There was no forgiveness there. No justification. But there was also no regret.
Because what he'd done was not right. And it was not wrong.
It was necessary.
"I get it now," he whispered to himself. "I can't run from this. Not anymore."
He rose to his feet, body heavy but mind clear.
As if sensing his clarity, Froakie stirred and opened its eyes. It was weak, swaying slightly, but conscious. Riven moved forward to pick it up gently.
But Froakie took a step back.
Their eyes met.
Riven froze.
And in that moment, he felt it—that same clarity mirrored in the Pokémon's gaze. Froakie had seen what he'd done. Had witnessed the man's death. And still… it didn't turn away.
It stepped forward, nudged its head weakly against his leg.
Riven smiled faintly.
"You want to stay," he murmured.
He reached into his belt and pulled out a Poké Ball, then gently tossed it toward Froakie.
Nothing happened.
Confused, Riven hesitated. But then he remembered—the strange black Poké Ball the man had tried to use. He retrieved it, heart pounding. He held it in front of Froakie cautiously.
"If this hurts you—if it feels wrong—I'll throw it away right now," he said softly.
But Froakie didn't flinch.
It stepped forward and pressed the button on the ball.
In a flash of light, it vanished inside.
The ball shook once.
Twice.
Then clicked still.
Riven released it again immediately, just to be safe.
Froakie emerged, slightly dazed but unharmed. He scooped it into his arms gently, then turned to Ron and met his eyes.
A nod of gratitude.
A nod of apology.
Ron gave a slight nod in return, then collapsed to his side, too exhausted to do more.
Riven packed their supplies quickly and lifted Froakie securely in his arms. The weight of what had happened still lingered in the air, thick and unforgettable.
But for now, he ran.
Toward the path that would take him to Velridge Town.
And away from the boy he had been..