The mist hadn't lifted. If anything, it had gotten thicker—clinging low to the ground, swirling in broken loops that made every tree trunk look twice as wide and every shadow seem to move.
We kept walking anyway.
Luxio padded ahead, tail low, nose twitching. Grotle trudged behind me with slow, deliberate steps. Tyrunt stuck closer than usual, shoulders tense, jaw tight. Honedge floated off to my left, blade tipped forward like a needle on a compass I hadn't asked to read.
I didn't talk much.
None of us did.
Hearthome was still days away, but the road had thinned into a trail again, and now the trail barely looked like anything at all—just packed dirt under rotting leaves, hemmed in by rocks too clean to be natural. Something had swept through this place. And recently.
We hit the first body after midday.
A wild Bibarel. Slumped against a tree. Throat torn out, but no blood on the ground. No signs of a struggle. Just teeth marks, wide and uneven. Like something killed it fast. Or played with it before the end.
Luxio snarled. Grotle growled low.
Tyrunt licked the air.
I checked for tracks. Found none.
Ghost-type?
Maybe. Or worse—something that didn't care to hide.
We pressed on.
An hour later, the ground dipped again, revealing a shallow basin where the mist pooled like water. I stepped down into it with care, watching the trees. Then—
The scream hit.
Not a cry. Not a call. A scream—sharp, ripping, full of hunger and grief all at once. It didn't come from ahead or behind. It came from everywhere.
"Form up!" I snapped.
Luxio sprang to the right. Grotle took center. Tyrunt dropped low, eyes scanning.
And Honedge… vanished.
No time to process.
A blur hit us from the left. Something fast. Thin. Purple.
I caught its face for a second—sharp grin, long tongue, jagged claws.
Haunter.
It passed through Grotle's flank like smoke and tried to rake Luxio with a ghostly hand.
"Luxio, Discharge!" I barked.
The forest lit up—blinding white and crackling with noise.
Haunter vanished in a crackle of static, but I knew better than to think it was gone. It would've felt that. But not from Luxio.
Ground-types? Immune to electricity. Ghost-types? Immune to physical contact from most Normal and Fighting-type moves.
Haunter wasn't weak to what Luxio brought.
But Tyrunt?
Tyrunt lunged left as the shadows coalesced again. Haunter reappeared with a snarl, eyes wild.
I didn't order the move.
Tyrunt used Bite anyway.
Fangs met spectral matter. Not quite skin. Not quite air. But something.
Haunter shrieked.
Tyrunt didn't let go.
"Rip it down!" I yelled.
He twisted his neck, slammed Haunter into the ground, and sent dust flying in a wide arc.
It didn't get back up.
Not immediately.
But I didn't like how the fog curled tighter afterward.
We didn't get more than fifty steps before the next problem showed up.
The ground cracked.
Not shook—cracked. Like something was forcing its way out.
Then I saw it.
A shape rising from below. Thick limbs. Split crest. Dead eyes that stared like they'd already buried me.
Marowak.
Not the Alolan kind. The old Sinnoh line. Bone still clutched in one hand like a forgotten heirloom. The end was wrapped in crimson tape.
Its gaze flicked from Grotle to Tyrunt. Then straight to me.
"Luxio, hold back!" I warned.
No point frying a Ground-type with Electric.
Honedge reappeared, circling the edge of the basin like a vulture.
"You're up."
It dipped its blade in acknowledgment.
Tyrunt stepped beside it. No order needed.
Marowak didn't wait.
It hurled the bone with a whip crack that snapped bark from a tree behind me. Grotle took the brunt, his shell absorbing the impact. He grunted, but didn't flinch.
"Back off, Grotle. Tyrunt—Headbutt!"
He rushed.
Marowak side-stepped and caught him in the ribs with its club.
Tyrunt skidded. Cursed in whatever ancient dinosaur noise he used for pain.
"Honedge—Circle behind. Shadow Sneak."
Blade to shadow. Then blade to form.
It struck low, trying to catch Marowak from behind.
Didn't work.
The bone snapped around mid-air and deflected the blade. The Marowak saw it coming.
"Tyrunt, again!"
This time he faked right, then spun left and leapt.
Claws out. Fangs wide.
He bit down on the Marowak's shoulder, hard.
Honedge used the opening. Dove under the arm. Slashed upward.
No blood.
But Marowak bellowed.
Then it slammed its head down on Tyrunt.
The hit made my stomach turn. Tyrunt reeled, teeth slipping free. Marowak turned—ready to finish.
"Grotle—Razor Leaf, now!"
A storm of blades. Dozens.
They weren't precise. But they were enough.
The leaves struck hard, dense and fast. Marowak snarled, flinched, and staggered.
"Honedge—strike the arm!"
It moved.
And this time—it hit.
The bone club fell.
Marowak did not.
It stood. Panting. Wobbling.
Then it dropped to one knee and waited.
Not dead.
But beaten.
I didn't capture it.
Could've.
Didn't.
It wasn't mine to take.
I stepped close. Nodded once.
It nodded back. Picked up its club. And sank back into the hole it came from like it had never been.
Ghost? Ground?
Maybe both.
Didn't matter.
We won.
That night, I sat with Tyrunt curled tight by the fire, ribs bandaged, still breathing hard. Grotle grazed nearby. Luxio lay with one eye open. Honedge stayed half-embedded in a tree, unmoving.
The fog had thinned.
But the air still held the memory of teeth and bones and screaming.
"Tomorrow," I said, voice low. "We train again."
The blade twitched once.
Agreed.