Logan felt like he was lying on something unbelievably comfortable—soft, gentle, with a faint scent that was hard to describe. It reminded him of his former everyday life, not long ago. It was as if he were back in his cramped little 40-square-meter apartment, lounging in bed under a thin blanket, scrolling through his phone. He'd occasionally worry about groceries and rent, but for the most part, he was just getting by, drifting aimlessly.
But that peaceful memory quickly shattered, replaced by the nerve-wracking and intense life in the lab—days filled with anxiety, wondering if Team Rocket would decide he was no longer useful and dispose of him. And then, the memory of Mewtwo's awakening... the pain that pierced both body and soul—it still terrified him just to think about it.
Suddenly, Logan snapped back to consciousness. There was no going back to that safe but boring life. What awaited him now was a world of battles between life and death—of grandeur and chaos.
His eyes flew open, every muscle tense with vigilance. Logan bolted upright from his lying position, scanning his surroundings with caution.
The first thing he saw was Professor Oak and Blaine, sitting nearby and resting. When they noticed Logan had awakened from his coma, they both smiled. Professor Oak even stood up and lightly scolded him:
"Logan, you were pushing yourself too hard. If we had been even a few seconds later, your brain would've been completely overtaken, and your genetic structure would've collapsed entirely."
Though his words were harsh, Professor Oak's expression was full of relief. His eyes were soft with concern and affection—like a grandfather looking at his beloved grandchild.
"Professor Oak, Blaine, I'm so glad you're both okay... Wait, where's Mewtwo?"
"I'm right here."
Before Logan could finish his sentence, Mewtwo's voice echoed in his mind. Following the psychic thread, Logan's eyes landed on a Poké Ball resting in Blaine's hand. He instantly knew—Mewtwo was inside.
"I'm glad you're okay too, Mewtwo."
"You need to be more mindful of your own body."
Mewtwo's voice was thick with concern. Ever since escaping that hellish containment vessel, its emotions and expressions had grown closer and closer to those of humans. Perhaps among all Pokémon, Mewtwo was the most human-like—for its genes contained a part of humanity.
"Did you use Teleport to bring us here?"
"No. We fell into the sea. It was this human who used a Pokémon called Lapras to bring us to shore. I don't know where the northwest is, nor how far five nautical miles are. Without that knowledge, Teleport wouldn't have worked properly."
"Ah... That's my bad..."
Logan scratched his head in embarrassment. He had forgotten that, while Mewtwo was highly intelligent, it hadn't been trained in many human terms and systems. He'd thought it would be cool to make a dramatic teleport to their destination—but clearly, reality had different plans.
"It's alright. It shows me that I still have much to learn. And that's... interesting."
Mewtwo's tone carried a hint of excitement—of hope. It was no longer the aimless creature wondering why it even existed.
"Hey! You've been lying on my lap all this time and you're not even going to thank me?"
A lively and slightly playful voice rang out behind Logan. He turned in surprise and saw, to his shock, a beautiful young girl kneeling behind him. She had bright orange, shoulder-length hair, styled into a side braid like a ponytail. Her eyes were a vivid emerald green, twinkling with mischief. She wore denim shorts and a snug orange tank top. Despite the playful pout on her face, there was an undeniable charm to her.
She might not have been Logan's "ideal type," but she exuded the warm and approachable vibe of the girl next door—something deeply comforting.
Only now did Logan realize—the soft pillow he had been lying on was the girl's smooth, fair thighs. And the delicate scent? It had been her hair all along.
"S-sorry! I was just so tense earlier, I didn't even realize someone was nearby... I'm Logan. Thanks a lot for looking after me."
He was clearly flustered. Before he had come to this world, he'd had girlfriends—though he couldn't really remember how those relationships even started. It had all been a blur. Now, being directly addressed by a girl who looked like someone dozens of boys would chase after—it made him nervous. Still, he wasn't completely tongue-tied. He had some social experience, after all.
"Fine, I'll forgive you. Professor Oak and Blaine told me everything about you, Logan. Don't worry, this place is safe now. You don't have to keep your guard up. Try to relax—mind and body."
The girl stood up from her kneeling position and brushed off the dust from her knees. Logan noticed then that her knees were red from sitting on the hard stone surface. Tiny imprints from pebbles dotted her skin. It made him feel even more guilty—she had endured that discomfort just to let him rest.
Her tone had shifted from teasing to gentle. Standing up, Logan could now see she was just over 160 centimeters tall. Judging by her appearance, she was probably two or three years older than his current fifteen-year-old body.
"I don't have a family name like you do. You can just call me Misty. I'm the Gym Leader of Cerulean City. That Lapras you rode here on—it's mine."
Misty smiled radiantly and shook Logan's hand. Her palm was soft, almost like the water-type Pokémon she specialized in—gentle and soothing. But there was a shy glint in her eyes, a flicker of hesitation that made Logan realize—she might not be as extroverted as she seemed. There was a quiet side to her beneath the lively surface.
She wasn't the gentle flow of a stream—she was the playful, dancing energy of the sea.
This world had strange customs, especially regarding names. Most people didn't have family names—only given ones. If someone did have a surname, it usually held special significance. For instance, "Oak" wasn't originally a family name—it was an honorific, something the public began calling the professor. (Though Logan sometimes couldn't help but wonder if it had any connection to that other "Tony Oak"...)
As for his own surname—"Yuuryuu," or "Dragonlord"—it wasn't a sign of nobility, but more a reflection of his abilities.
Society here was shaped in unusual ways by the existence of Pokémon. Class distinctions did exist, but not through wealth. Instead, it was the gap between ordinary people and powerful Trainers. In a world where individual strength could transcend the law, resources and riches meant little to elite Trainers.
Money couldn't buy strength. Nor could it produce a great Trainer. Every Trainer remembered by name had earned it through trials—through talent, hard work, and a bit of luck. You couldn't substitute that with riches or rare Pokémon.
Even trying to pass down strong Pokémon to the next generation often failed. The more powerful a Pokémon, the deeper its bond with its original Trainer—and the harder it was for others to command. Sure, lending them temporarily was fine. But to truly transfer ownership, the new Trainer had to be able to match that Pokémon's level in spirit and strength.
Take Mewtwo, for example. Without Logan's unique bond with it, handing it over to someone else would likely lead to disaster. The first thing Mewtwo might do is destroy whoever tried to control it.
So for any truly great Trainer, they had to raise their own Pokémon—starting from the weak, growing together into power.
As Logan and Misty were talking, Blaine walked over and handed him a Poké Ball.
"Mewtwo is inside. I hope you'll continue treating it well."
It was a special Poké Ball—its top half a translucent purple, its bottom pure white. A bold white "M" marked the top.
"What kind of Poké Ball is this?" Logan asked, surprised by its unique design.
"This is Silph Co.'s greatest masterpiece—and their most closely guarded secret. There are only a few in the entire world. It's a Master Ball," Blaine replied.
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