One week later, the skies over Ecruteak were thick with a bruised shade of gray, clouds rolling like smoke over the peaks of Mt. Mortar in the distance. Rain had come and gone in fits since morning, slicking the stone streets and glazing the tiled roofs of the old city in a silver sheen. The wind carried incense and chimney smoke, and the ever-present tang of petrichor.
Ash pulled his hood tighter around his head as the group approached the base of the hill. His boots made no sound on the wet stone steps, though the occasional drip from temple eaves and overhanging trees gave the city a voice—a constant, whispering hush, as if it were speaking just behind them.
The Burned Tower stood like a blackened rib cage against the sky—its skeletal remains crooked and defiant, charred beams rising from a foundation too stubborn to fall. The air around it was different. Not heavier, not colder. Just… still. As if sound bent around it rather than through it.
They weren't the only ones who had paused. Even the Pidgeotto circling above didn't cry out as they passed overhead.
Professor Elm hadn't joined them this time. He'd remained back at the Johto education facility to review midterm submissions. Nor had any of the Ecruteak locals, save for a monk in indigo robes who met them at the entrance gate, bowed once, and then turned without a word to lead the way. His feet made no sound as they walked the gravel path, as though the land itself refused to mark him.
"Visitors aren't normally allowed this far in," Kris murmured, glancing at the weathered buildings nearby. Her scarf fluttered gently, caught by a damp breeze. "Something about cultural reverence. Or instability. Or both."
"It's both," Ethan said, hands in his coat pockets. "This place is old enough to remember everything that came after it fell."
Ash didn't reply. He was watching the sky—though not in the way the others thought. There was a weight to it today, one that clung to the clouds and pressed gently at his chest. As if something ancient was waiting to breathe.
Yellow had noticed too. She stood beside him, silent, fingers lightly gripping the strap of her satchel. Her sketchbook was still tucked away. She hadn't drawn since they left the Johto trailhead that morning, and she hadn't spoken more than a sentence or two since breakfast.
There was a quiet reverence among them now—though none had spoken it aloud. Even Goh, who'd been left behind on another group's excursion to Olivine, would likely have held his tongue here.
When they reached the tower proper, the monk turned and raised one hand. His voice, when it came, was calm and sure.
"You may enter. But be mindful. This place does not forget."
The door was barely more than a broken archway, draped in chains that hung like a curtain of rusted teeth. Old warding tags, brittle with time and rain, clung to them like scabs. Ash ducked beneath them, boots crunching softly over soot-dusted stone. The air changed instantly—cool, dry, tinged with the faint scent of smoke, though no fire burned.
Inside, the tower's hollow interior yawned above them. Black beams twisted skyward like the limbs of some petrified creature. Sections of the floor had collapsed into a lower level, the pit ringed by scorched stone. Shadows collected in the corners despite the light filtering down from the open roof.
The silence was not empty. It was full of memory.
Yellow drifted toward one of the central support beams—half-burned, its surface blackened but intact. She raised a hand, hesitated, then lowered it again, instead pulling out her sketchbook and flipping to a fresh page.
"I thought it would feel…" she paused, searching, "louder."
"It used to be," Kris said quietly, standing near a collapsed wall. She held her tablet up to scan the surrounding architecture, her voice just loud enough to carry. "The Bell Tower and the Burned Tower were once symmetrical. This place had music, festivals, dances. It was sacred. Still is, technically."
Ash moved near the edge of the pit, where broken tiles gave way to ancient stone. He didn't try to peer too far down—there wasn't much to see. Just broken floor and a long, slow drop into dark water. The lower levels had been cordoned off generations ago, for safety. Still, he could feel something stir beneath the surface, like the breath of a dream long buried.
"It's strange," he said, half to himself. "How something like this… doesn't really get rebuilt. Not all the way."
"Because they weren't trying to fix it," Ethan said, from where he'd crouched beside a scorched column. "They let it stay broken. So people would remember."
Ash's fingers brushed against the stone. Warm, despite the cool air. He glanced at Yellow, who had begun sketching again. Her lines were softer than usual—more hesitant. As if she were afraid to draw too much.
Kris nodded. "There was a fire, centuries ago. Supposedly lightning struck the roof during a storm, and the whole place went up. There were Pokémon inside. They died in the fire. Some say they were revived by Ho-Oh. That's where the legend comes from."
"But there's no proof of that," Yellow added, looking up from her sketchbook. "Just stories. Just belief."
"And belief matters here," Ethan said.
He leaned back on his heels and looked around—not like he was scanning for anything in particular, but simply taking in the structure. The smell of damp wood and ancient smoke lingered in the air, soft and ghostly, not fresh but not forgotten.
Ash thought of Viridian Forest. Of the silence that came before a presence made itself known. Of that moment on the field trip, when Goh had screamed Mew's name into the dark. This place felt older than that. Not wilder, but deeper. As if the forest had been a whisper and this… this was an echo that had never stopped bouncing.
A light drizzle began to patter against the exposed rafters above, falling through the open roof in silver specks. It glittered in the dim light, the raindrops catching on twisted beams and seared stone as they fell silently into the pit.
"I always thought I'd see it from the outside," Ethan said after a pause. "Like in pictures. Postcards. But standing here? It's different."
Yellow looked over at him. "How so?"
"It's not just a ruin. It's… what's left. Of everything." He exhaled through his nose. "Like the part of a song that stays with you after it ends."
Ash's eyes flicked toward him, thoughtful.
Kris stood by a wall where the faded remnants of a mural clung to the surface—barely visible, colors long scorched and blurred by time. She took a photo with her tablet and zoomed in, adjusting the filters. "There used to be a painting of Ho-Oh here," she said. "One wing spread over the tower, the other over the horizon."
"What happened to it?" Yellow asked.
"Mostly smoke damage. But during one of the earthquakes last century, part of the wall cracked and crumbled. They tried to preserve what was left."
She showed them the filtered scan. The image was faint, like a ghost half-surfacing from water. You could almost make out the sweep of a crimson wing, the silhouette of the tower beneath it. But it could have been anything. That was the thing with ruins—what they were often depended on how badly you wanted to see.
Ash stepped back from the pit and joined the others. For a long while, none of them said anything. They just stood there, the four of them, surrounded by silence and rain and the lingering memory of fire.
Then Ethan glanced at Ash and asked, "You think anything actually survived the fire? The Pokémon, I mean?"
Ash's answer came slow. "Maybe not in the way people think. Not as ghosts. Not even as legends. But the story did. People held on to it. Passed it down."
Yellow nodded. "So something did survive. Just not in a Poké Ball."
Ethan smiled faintly. "Guess that counts."
Kris folded her arms, still looking up at the beams. "I always wondered why Johto's legends are so different from other regions. They're quieter. Less about power. More about loss."
Ash's thoughts flickered back to Kanto—to the shrines of Lavender Town, the cold hallways of Silph Co., the wild storms at Seafoam. Power had always stood at the forefront. But Johto felt like it mourned something.
Something ancient.
They stayed in the tower for another ten minutes, moving slowly through the ruin—studying, sketching, documenting. Kris sent occasional photos to the campus server. Yellow traced the outline of the mural in her notebook, even though she could barely make it out. Ethan took a moment to sit quietly on a chunk of fallen stone and just listen.
At one point, Yellow reached out and touched the burned pillar again. This time, she didn't flinch. Her fingers lingered.
"It's like it's waiting," she whispered. "But not for us."
Ash watched her, then looked back toward the pit. He felt the words rise inside him but said nothing. Something inside the ruins was breathing in slow time.
When the monk returned, his presence was silent but clear. He bowed once again and gestured gently toward the exit.
They followed him out into the open air.
——
As they stepped back into the gray air, the monk bowed once more, then vanished silently into the veil of mist that had begun to rise from the streets. There was no fanfare. No farewell. Just the soft hush of old rainwater streaming through the gutters, and the lingering sense that the tower had not let them go so much as watched them leave.
No one spoke for a while.
They descended the hill slowly, the city unfolding below them like a watercolor — pale rooftops, blurred lanterns, the occasional passing figure under an umbrella. The rain had become a fine silver mist, rising like breath from the cobbles, curling at their ankles.
Ash kept glancing back, even after the Burned Tower was no longer visible.
Yellow walked beside him, sketchbook pressed against her chest. She hadn't drawn since they'd exited. Her eyes were wide, distant.
"I thought I'd feel something clearer," she said quietly, almost apologetic. "Something I could understand."
"You did feel something," Ash replied. "It just doesn't always have words."
She gave a small nod. "I think it scared me a little."
"That's not a bad thing."
Behind them, Kris and Ethan were deep in quiet conversation. Kris was tapping through data on her tablet, likely uploading notes and images from their visit. Ethan wasn't speaking much, but his eyes hadn't stopped moving. He was still there, in the tower, in his mind.
They reached the base of the hill, where a narrow tea house with hanging lanterns stood quietly beneath the eaves of a gnarled plum tree. The monk had suggested it earlier — a traditional resting place for those returning from pilgrimage. Yellow's stomach rumbled softly, and Ash felt the ache in his legs for the first time that day.
The wooden door slid open with a low creak, and a woman in a saffron-colored kimono welcomed them with a gentle bow.
Inside, the air was warm and thick with the scent of roasted tea leaves. The walls were dark wood, the lighting soft and yellow-gold. No music played. Just the sound of boiling water and the slow, measured steps of those who moved with intention.
They sat at a corner table near the window. Outside, the mist thickened, curling against the glass like smoke.
Kris ordered for them all — roasted barley tea and a selection of rice cakes — and then sat back, arms folded, eyes still distant.
"I uploaded the scans," she said. "They'll be available on the class drive."
"Anything interesting?" Ethan asked, rubbing condensation off his glasses.
"Just fragments. Mural pieces. Notes on structural decay."
Ash stayed quiet, but it echoed in him.
He remembered. Not the fire itself — that had happened long before his time — but the stories. The legends whispered in the gaps between recorded history. He'd read the manga. Watched the anime. He knew what had supposedly taken place.
But what Kris said now stirred unease.
Because deep down, he'd always believed there had been more to that night. That the tower hadn't just burned. It had been burned.
Their tea arrived, steaming in dark ceramic cups, the heat welcome against Ash's hands. The rice cakes were soft, dusted with kinako powder and accompanied by tiny folded napkins shaped like leaves.
Yellow picked at hers, gaze still turned inward. "Do you think the Pokémon that died there… suffered?"
Ethan looked up, surprised.
"Sorry," she murmured. "I know it's a weird question. I just… the air inside felt so sad."
Kris looked down into her tea. "If the legends are true, then maybe they were only scared. Not lost."
Ethan nodded slowly. "And if Ho-Oh really did bring them back, maybe they weren't afraid for long."
Yellow didn't answer. Her fingers brushed her satchel strap, thoughtful.
Ash stirred his tea. "Even if they were revived… they weren't the same. They came back as something else."
"Entei, Raikou, Suicune," Kris murmured. "The beasts of legend."
"But no one knows which Pokémon they were before," Ethan added. "Some stories say Flareon, Vaporeon, and Jolteon. Others say they were unique."
"Or that they were nameless," Yellow said. "That what matters isn't who they were. Just that they were."
A hush settled over the table again.
Outside, the wind picked up slightly, drawing faint trails of mist across the street. Bells rang faintly in the distance — not electronic chimes, but the old bronze ones, from one of the shrines.
Kris leaned forward. "I've always wondered what really happened that night."
Ash didn't respond. He couldn't. Because part of him knew. Or thought he did.
The story of the three Pokémon lost in the fire — and the golden bird that saved them — wasn't just mythology to him. It was memory, passed through media and alternate worlds. A fixed point in Johto's fabric. But something about today… something had shifted.
The wind outside changed again — subtly, but Ash felt it.
It no longer blew toward them from the mountains. Now, it drifted down from the Bell Tower.
He turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing.
It was a long way from here, the Bell Tower — standing tall across the city, unmarred by fire or ruin. But Ash could feel something distant. A hum beneath his ribs.
Yellow noticed. "What is it?"
"Nothing," he said automatically. Then, after a pause, "Just a feeling."
She followed his gaze, then looked back down.
Ethan, still chewing a bite of rice cake, said, "We should visit it. The Bell Tower."
Kris raised an eyebrow. "I thought access was restricted."
"Only to the upper levels," he said. "Ground floor's part of the city museum now. They have relics. Photos of the Burned Tower before the fire."
Ash considered this. "Tomorrow?"
Kris nodded. "I'll check with our supervisor."
They stayed in the tea house a while longer, letting the mist fade and the warmth seep into their bones. Yellow eventually took out her sketchbook and, for the first time since entering the tower, began to draw. Her hand moved slowly, pencil tracing shadows, curves, and broken beams.
Ash watched in silence.
He didn't need to ask what she was drawing.
When they finally stepped back into the street, the clouds had begun to break. Sunlight didn't pierce through — not yet — but the gray had lightened. The air no longer clung as heavily to the skin.
They returned to their inn in the student district, where traditional architecture met dorm-style practicality. Their rooms overlooked a small koi pond, now ringed with fallen plum blossoms. A few classmates were lounging on the porch, discussing assignments, but they gave quiet nods as Ash's group passed.
Later that evening, as the sky dimmed and lanterns were lit along the walkways, Ash stepped outside alone.
The koi pond rippled gently in the breeze. Fireflies had begun to drift through the garden, their light dim but persistent.
He sat on the stone bench beside the water.
His thoughts returned to the tower.
After a while, Yellow joined him. She didn't say anything. Just sat beside him, the sketchbook on her lap. She hadn't finished the drawing. Ash could see the outline of beams and firelight, but no figures.
"They're hard to imagine," she said softly. "The ones who didn't make it."
Ash nodded.
She looked at him. "You think we'll meet them someday?"
Ash hesitated. "I think we already are. Just not face to face."
Yellow blinked. "What do you mean?"
He tilted his head toward the city. "They're in the stories. The rituals. The way the tower wasn't rebuilt. The way people remember. That's part of them now."
Yellow nodded slowly, then opened her sketchbook again.
This time, she began to draw something else.
Not the inside of the tower. Not the pit. But the city below, as seen from its edge — rooftops glistening, rain in the gutters, smoke curling upward in lazy spirals.
And in the distance, the silhouette of the Bell Tower, untouched.
The air shifted around them.
But none of them noticed the faint pink silhouette hovering near the window—until, with a soft giggle, it vanished into the sky.