The road connecting Kaer Vaelen to Velridge Town finally came into view—but for Riven Valehart, bloodied, bruised, and barely conscious, it was a distant salvation wrapped in torment. Every inch of his body screamed in rebellion. His legs threatened to buckle beneath him with every agonizing step. His lungs clawed for air, burning with each shallow breath, and his mind frayed at the edges, unraveling like a thread pulled too tight. A dull, relentless ache throbbed behind his eyes, pounding in time with his ragged heartbeat—a war drum announcing his slow descent into darkness. Shadows flickered at the edges of his vision, twisting and writhing like restless phantoms. Yet still, he ran.
Staggering. Limping. Stumbling. But he ran.
Not for himself.
For the Pokémon that had stood beside him, bled for him, and now lay barely breathing, their life hanging by a fragile thread.
Hours had passed—how many, he didn't know. Time had blurred into a haze of pain and exhaustion. But the suffocating, malevolent pressure of the Dark Woods was beginning to loosen. The trees thinned, allowing slivers of light to pierce through the canopy like fragile promises. The twisted chorus of unseen things—whispers and rustles that had haunted his every step—faded into a low, distant murmur.
He emerged from the treeline into a small clearing. Wild grass brushed his trembling legs, soft beneath his battered feet. The dirt road, scarred and weathered, stretched ahead like a faint lifeline cutting through the earth. He should have stopped. He needed to stop. His body screamed for rest, for mercy.
But the danger was far from gone.
The cultists. The man he'd killed. The whispers in the dark.
They were still out there.
Hunting.
Riven forced his legs to carry him onward. Every step was a battle against collapse, every breath a sharp stab of pain and iron taste of blood and bile. His vision flickered in and out, and the world tilted dangerously with each agonizing stride.
Hours slipped by in a cruel, endless march.
Then, through tear-stung eyes and a mind slipping closer to oblivion, he saw it—the outer wall of Velridge Town. Old, weather-worn stone. Sturdy bricks baked by the sun and reinforced with cold steel plating. A wall built to stand against the wilds, to protect those who had nowhere else to run.
His heart thundered in his chest, a ragged drum of hope and despair.
Safety.
Shelter.
Civilization.
He clenched his fists and found a desperate reserve of strength. With a sudden burst, he sprinted the last stretch—barely more than a shadow, a ghost fleeing from death's cold grasp.
Two guards at the town gate spotted him. They raised their spears in alarm, eyes narrowing as they watched the lone figure approach—staggering, broken, barely recognizable as a boy. Dirt and dried blood smeared his face; his clothes hung in tatters; his eyes were empty, distant, lost.
Before they could call out, he collapsed.
---
Morning came soft and golden to Velridge Town.
One of the larger settlements in this corner of Tenebria, Velridge stood proud beneath the looming Mourning Mountains. It was a town born of balance—where tradition met technology, where the old ways mingled with the new.
Unlike most, it was not governed by a noble family. Instead, a Tier 4 research institute—the Velridge Institute for Fusion Studies—held sway. Though modest in size, the institute wielded considerable influence, drawing scholars, theorists, and experimental trainers from across the region.
Velridge's streets reflected this blend of past and future.
Sunlight spilled over cobbled paths and clay-tiled roofs. Ivy crept like green veins over ancient stone walls, intertwining with the gleam of glass windows. Wooden signs, weathered by wind and time, creaked outside artisan shops—each bearing symbols of crafts passed down through generations. Blacksmiths hammered beside apothecaries; clothiers chatted with guild masters. Flowering trees lined the streets, their blossoms scattering petals on the gentle breeze.
Despite its focus on research and progress, Velridge held onto its soul.
Children laughed and chased Pokémon through the market square, their joy ringing clear as bird Pokémon cawed from rooftop perches. Merchants called out in cheerful barter, selling fresh berries, hand-stitched cloaks, and Pokéballs faintly pulsing with embedded energy.
Temples to forgotten guardian Pokémon stood beside laboratories and libraries, and farmers shared stories with inventors.
This was a town forged in resilience—built on unity, self-reliance, and the quiet strength of those who refused to bow to the wilds.
---
Riven awoke in one of Velridge's hospitals—quiet, sun-drenched, and tucked between a chapel and a ranger outpost.
The first thing he saw was the sterile white ceiling, blurred and wavering as consciousness slowly crept back. His muscles felt stiff and heavy, as if forged from stone. Every breath sent sharp flares of pain through his ribs, each movement a test of endurance.
His body was swathed in bandages—from shoulder to ankle. Bruises and cuts peeped through torn fabric, reminders of the battle still fresh beneath the healing.
Slowly, shakily, he turned his head.
The room was simple—curtains drawn halfway, soft light filtering in through a small window. Machines hummed quietly, their steady rhythm a lullaby in the stillness.
At the foot of his bed sat a chair holding his belongings: his pack, his satchel, and his DexBand. But one thing was missing.
His trainer card.
Panic twisted cold fingers through his chest. That card wasn't just a piece of plastic. It was his license, his proof of survival, his only protection from being treated like a criminal or rogue in this harsh world.
His hands trembled as he searched every pocket, every fold of cloth.
Nothing.
The door creaked softly.
A woman stepped inside.
Late twenties, crisp white nurse's attire, with tired eyes softened by quiet experience.
"You're awake," she said gently, approaching the bed.
"Don't move too much. You've been unconscious for nearly a day."
Her voice was calm, measured, but carried an undercurrent of concern.
She checked his vitals, speaking as she worked.
"You were found just outside the town gate. The guards brought you in. No signs of infection, but your body was exhausted, severely bruised. You were lucky."
She paused, meeting his gaze.
"They found your trainer card on you. The town security is holding onto it until you explain what happened in the wilds."
Riven could only nod faintly, too dazed to form words.
The nurse gave a sympathetic smile.
"Rest now. We'll take care of the basics. When you're stable, someone from the Ranger's Office will want to ask you some questions."
She hesitated at the door, then added quietly,
"By the way… your Pokémon. They're safe. But the officers said your Pokéballs… were unusual. Different."
She didn't explain further.
She didn't need to.
Once alone, Riven's hand instinctively reached for his belt.
The familiar weight of his Pokéballs wasn't there.
Gone.
The tension in the room returned, creeping in like the cold fingers of a nightmare unfinished.
He closed his eyes.
He was safe—for now.
But not for long.