Victory was a fact, not a feeling.
It settled over Ethan like a well-worn coat—comfortable, inevitable, and not the least bit warm. Emotions had no place in his analysis, not when every decision was a calculation, every result another variable accounted for. He dissected his recent battle with Riven the way a seasoned surgeon might examine a corpse—methodical, unflinching, detached.
Each misstep cataloged with precision.
Every advantage weighed and stored.
His friend's stubborn brilliance was not a problem of the present—it was a challenge for Future Ethan. The version of himself who would need to be more, sharper, better.
Because Riven would grow.
That much, Ethan knew as truth.
So he had to grow faster.
The saltwind from the coast combed through his tousled hair as he walked the ragged trail that hugged the cliffs near the edge of Dark Wood. The forest behind him was already fading into memory, swallowed by mist and the grinding pull of forward motion. He had stayed close to the sea on purpose—here, the air was clearer, sharper. It smelled of brine and salt and sky, not the cloying rot that hung heavy in the deeper woods. There was freedom here, in the sound of waves hissing against distant rock, in the cry of gulls overhead. His breath came easier in this cleaner world.
Pebbles crunched beneath his boots, their muted grind oddly soothing.
His legs ached slightly—residual strain from days of near-constant motion—but he ignored it with practiced ease.
He hadn't rested much since the battle. Two days had passed in a blur of movement. He had spent both forging ahead, battling any wild Pokémon foolish enough to cross his path, testing himself without mercy. But none had been worth capturing. None had sparked that fire of tactical instinct in his chest. This part of the wilds was transitional—a buffer zone between Kaer Vaelen and the place that truly mattered. A corridor. A means to an end.
Duskwatch Bay Town.
A sleepy harbor settlement perched on the jagged edge of nowhere.
It wasn't much.
But it had supplies.
And more importantly, it marked the turn—where his real journey would begin.
Two years ago, he could've left Kaer Vaelen early. In fact, by all conventional measures, he should have. His skills were advanced, his mind already leagues ahead of most peers. But he'd waited.
Not for family. Not for comfort.
For Riven.
Some part of him had been curious—hungry, even—to see what kind of trainer that wide-eyed, star-chasing boy might become. And now, with their first real clash behind them, with the taste of competition still sharp on his tongue, Ethan could afford to focus again. Not on friendship.
Not on memory.
On the path.
His path.
After Duskwatch, he would travel deeper inland. Not to any known city or marked outpost. But to the bones of a place that hadn't existed in decades.
A village with no name.
Swallowed by disaster, cloaked in silence.
The locals had a word for it: Hollow's End.
No maps marked its borders.
No travelers lingered near its decaying remains.
Some whispered it was cursed.
Others claimed it had simply vanished—lost to history's neglect.
But Ethan knew better.
Because where most saw ruin, he saw opportunity.
Ghost-types clustered there. Not by chance. Not by nature. Something drew them. And where Ghosts gathered, so too did power. He didn't want one for novelty's sake. Not for aesthetics. But for synergy.
For type coverage.
For unpredictability.
For the way a well-chosen Ghost Pokémon could disrupt even the most calculated opponent—fray nerves, force errors, conjure fear from the air itself.
He imagined the edge it would grant him. The control. The mind games.
Yes.
It was the next step.
The sea's scent began to blend with something else now—pine resin, damp moss, and the faint, sweet tang of decay. A signal that the coast and the forest were bleeding together. Transitional terrain, again. A reminder that no border was ever truly fixed in this world.
He was close. If he kept the pace, Duskwatch was less than a day away.
His thoughts spun like gears. Rotating team formations. Predictive battle simulations. Probabilities stacked atop psychological profiles. His mind flicked through strategies like a well-worn deck of cards—layer after layer of tactics built atop shifting variables.
Then—
A sound.
Voices.
Distant. Fractured. From somewhere past the treeline on his left. Male, aggressive, sharp-edged.
He slowed, not out of concern—out of curiosity. Normally, he wouldn't bother.
People yelling in the woods? Not his concern.
He wasn't a rescuer.
He wasn't a fool.
But then, through the wind, another sound carried across the gap.
High-pitched. Raw.
A Pokémon's cry.
Not pain. Not rage.
Desperation.
He paused.
Still, he didn't move.
Not until the next words snapped across the air:
> "This is a regional variant Pokémon! No wonder it's this strong! But damn it—why won't it stay down?"
A second voice followed, raspier, darker:
> "The mother's injured and still guarding the hatchling. Don't let her escape. Hit the baby if you have to—but don't kill it. That one's worth more than the adult."
That stopped Ethan cold.
A regional variant.
Injured. Fighting with maternal ferocity.
Protecting its child.
Even without seeing it, the puzzle pieces locked together in his head. A powerful species, one adapted by the region's cruel ecosystem. Strong enough to stand its ground while wounded.
And it had offspring.
Young. Impressionable.
Trainable.
Value.
His eyes narrowed.
Not in pity.
Not in anger.
In calculation.
He didn't care about the mother's pain.
Didn't care about poachers or cruelty or balance.
That was the world.
Always had been.
But a child bred from strength, forged in trauma, born into desperation?
That was potential.
He closed his eyes for a moment. And for a heartbeat, he pictured Riven.
Charging in like a fool, courage blazing in his veins, ideals flaring behind his eyes, probably yelling something ridiculous like "We have to help!"
And Ethan?
He opened his eyes.
Cold. Clear.
Still.
"This world will chew him up," he murmured under his breath, voice as steady as stone. "I just hope it doesn't twist him into something it can't contain."
His fingers twitched, adjusting the glove on his right hand. The gesture was small, but it grounded him.
"Because if it does…"
His voice trailed off. The wind carried the thought forward, away from him, as if the world itself was listening.
"…the world won't survive him."
He turned off the path, steps deliberate, unhurried.
Not for justice.
Not for kindness.
Not for any illusion of morality.
But for what lay ahead.
For the prize.
The woods swallowed him whole.
The trees closed in like teeth.
And the wind, ever faithful, whispered the truth:
Let Riven play the hero.
Ethan would be the wolf.