returned to the ruins alone.
It had rained during the night—just enough to darken the stone and stir the smell of moss and ash. My boots left sharp prints as I crossed the threshold. The carved relief on the far wall still pulsed faintly. The sword remained buried where I left it, and the air was colder than before.
Something in the silence felt aware now.
Luxio walked at my side, tail low. Grotle stayed in the ball this time. This was Tyrunt's turn.
I tapped the capsule and let him out.
He didn't roar—just exhaled, eyes fixed on the gloom ahead. His claws flexed into the stone floor as he moved forward, slower than usual, but without hesitation. I followed. Torch in one hand, breath in the other.
The further in we went, the more the pressure mounted. The ruin wasn't deep, but something about the walls made the path feel longer than before. Like walking through memory.
The attack came fast.
From the left alcove, a Sandslash burst out, claws scraping rock, eyes narrowed with hunger. Tyrunt met it head-on.
The impact was loud—scale against hide, weight against muscle. Tyrunt bit hard and didn't let go. The Sandslash flailed, slashing his chest, but Tyrunt twisted and slammed it into the wall.
"Backstep!" I barked.
Tyrunt dropped it and staggered back as a second enemy emerged—a Dugtrio, its heads snarling in a way I didn't know was possible for something without mouths. It moved faster than it should've, tunneling through fractured stone and striking Tyrunt's side.
He rolled and caught himself, eyes burning now.
"Crunch. Center mass."
Tyrunt charged and bit down hard on one of the heads, then whipped the Dugtrio overhead and cracked it into the floor. Dust flew. The creature vanished into the stone.
Luxio growled. I turned.
From behind the broken arch: a shimmer. Violet gas. Floating grin.
Haunter.
"Discharge," I snapped.
Luxio fired, electricity flooding the chamber. Haunter dispersed, dodging in two directions at once, eyes blazing with delight.
"Eyes on!"
It dove—Tyrunt intercepted. His jaws passed through air.
"Bite doesn't work unless you focus!" I shouted. "Channel it!"
Tyrunt growled and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, I saw the glint of energy—not elemental, but learned.
The next time Haunter struck, Tyrunt didn't just snap—he struck with purpose.
Dark energy laced his fangs.
He hit. Haunter screamed, flung backwards, wisps trailing like smoke.
It didn't return.
Silence fell.
Tyrunt stood still, breathing heavily, chest heaving, cut along one flank. I moved to him—checked the wound. Not deep. He was standing on his own.
"Good," I murmured.
He huffed.
We moved deeper, the torch dimming against the carved stone.
Behind us, somewhere in the echo of the ruin, something metal stirred.
The blade was waking up.
But not yet.