My eyes snapped open, but the ceiling above me wasn't the shifting, oily clouds of the Distortion World or the emerald canopy of Eterna Forest. Instead it was a flat, sterile expanse of blinding, artificial white—a color so pure and devoid of texture it felt hostile to my sight.
My lungs burned as I sucked in a panicked breath of air that tasted of chemicals and filtered stillness, devoid of the wild, frosty, earthy scent of Hisui I had known since my birth.
Instinct, honed by years of surviving the predatory whims of the Highlands, took over before my mind could even begin to process my location. I felt things—thin, translucent serpents—clinging to my skin with a cold, invasive grip.
I looked down, my pulse hammering against my throat, to see clear tubes snaking into the veins of my forearms. They were tethered to hanging bags of clear fluid that dripped with a rhythmic, mechanical precision that made my skin crawl.
"Get... off!" I snarled, the words tearing from my throat as a jagged rasp.
I didn't just pull the lines; I ripped them. The adhesive backing tore at my skin, and the needles slid out with a sickening, metallic slickness. Blood flowed.
To my surprise, the punctures didn't bleed for long. The silver ichor humming in my marrow—the divine gift from the Great Serpent—raced to the surface of the wounds.
Within seconds, the holes in my flesh didn't just clot, but visibly melded. I watched, breathless, as the skin knit back together with an unnatural speed, leaving nothing behind but faint, shimmering silver scars.
My body, forged in an environment where a single untreated scratch could lead to a lethal infection, was overreacting to the "help" of this strange future, sealing itself shut against the unknown.
I rolled out of the high, cushioned cot, my bare feet hitting a floor that was too smooth, too level.
I felt a surge of panic—where was my gear?
I found my satchel slumped on a nearby metal chair, looking like a discarded carcass. I tore through it, my breath hitching until my fingers brushed against the cool, familiar spheres of my five other Pokémon.
They were buried beneath a mess of raw crafting material and valuable relics collected throughout my expeditions in the Survey Corps, silent, dormant in their heavy, iron-wood balls, but they were there.
And then, there was Kishin.
The katana didn't rest in a corner, but leaned against the side of the bed, his obsidian sheath absorbing the harsh overhead light.
His purple eye was closed, but the moment my hand closed around his golden hilt, I felt the spectral thrum of his soul greeting mine, the low vibration anchoring me.
"Hello?"
The voice was followed by a soft, melodic chirp from the corner of the room.
I spun on my heel, Kishin half-drawn from his scabbard, the blade singing a low, vibrating note of lethal warning. A woman stood in the doorway, framed by the white light of the hall.
She was dressed in a pink-and-white uniform that looked as though it had never seen a single day of hard labor.
Her hair was a perfect, looping swirl of bubblegum pink, and her face held a practiced, professional kindness that made my skin slightly crawl.
"Oh! You're awake!" she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth in a gesture of surprise. "You shouldn't be out of bed! You had internal trauma that—"
"Who are you?" I stepped back, my bare feet clicking against the sterile tile. I bared Kishin's blade just enough to show the sharpened, gleaming steel. "Is this a cell? Are you a warden of a Clan? Answer me!"
I felt my emotions rising, a turbulent tide of adrenaline and confusion that clouded my decision-making. I was like a cornered beast in a cage made of glass and light.
"I'm Nurse Joy," she said, her voice dropping to a soothing, rhythmic tone. She took a cautious step back, her palms open and her arms raised in a universal gesture of surrender. "You're in the Eterna City PokéCenter. Those travelers brought you in. You were... you were in a terrible state, Corvin."
I didn't trust her. Her smile was too static, her eyes too bright and vacant. To me, she looked like a doll carved from candle wax, designed to put a victim at ease. But then, my gaze shifted to the creature standing faithfully behind her—a large, pink, egg-shaped Pokémon with a central pouch and a gentle, rounded face.
A Chansey.
In Hisui, Chanseys and Blisseys were rare, shimmering blessings of the high peaks. Known as the angels of Almighty Sinnoh, they were said to stay the hand of death for even the most mortally wounded scouts.
They were the only Pokémon truly considered by the Galaxy Expedition Team as a protected species; standing orders required all guild members to assist a Chansey in distress, a duty we performed with genuine reverence.
I looked into the creature's black, beady eyes and saw no malice—only the ancient, biological urge to heal. If a creature of such purity stood by this woman, then perhaps she was trustworthy. I eased the tension in my arm, though I kept my hand firmly on Kishin's hilt.
"What is this 'PokéCenter' you speak of?" I demanded, my gaze darting around the room. "And why is the air so... dead here?"
"The air?" She looked genuinely confused. "It's just the air conditioning and the climate control to keep the facility sterile. Please, sit down and let me at least check your vitals. Brock said your chest... he said there was something wrong with your heart."
I instinctively touched my chest. They had cleaned me while I slept. The gore of the void and the crusted blood of my fall were gone, replaced by a fresh, charcoal-gray shirt made of a strange, stretchy material that clung to my frame.
I felt for the Rift-Eye. It was closed—the silver ridges of the wound were still present, a raised, metallic topography on my skin, but the violet light had dimmed into a dormant, jagged scar. It looked like a lidless eye in a deep, dreamless sleep.
Nurse Joy approached with a small, glowing device that hummed with a soft, electronic purr as she passed it over my chest. I stiffened, every muscle coiled to strike, but the device only emitted a cheerful chirp.
"This is impossible," she whispered, her eyes widening as she stared at the flickering screen of her tool. "Your cellular regeneration... it's off the charts. Your ribs are already fused. Your heart rate is stable, though it's... significantly slower than a human's should be."
"I am a Surveyor," I said, my voice cold and flat. "Our bodies don't have the luxury of slow healing. In the wild, the slow are eaten."
She looked at me with a mix of awe and genuine confusion, as if I were a puzzle she couldn't solve. "You're... cleared for discharge, I suppose. Physically, you're healthier than anyone I've ever seen. But you need rest, Mr. Corvin. Real, natural rest."
"I will rest when I find what I am looking for." I gave her a short, sharp nod before standing straight and bending my body in a respectful, shallow bow.
Though she was a suspicious stranger in an alien land, she had preserved my life and prevented the festering of my wounds.
For that, I was grateful.
With one last glance and a small, tentative wave at the Chansey—to which the creature returned a happy, trilling chirp—I grabbed my satchel, shouldered Kishin, and pushed past her. The doors of the room slid open automatically with a pneumatic hiss that made me jump, my hand flying instinctively back to the hilt of my blade.
I stepped out into the main lobby of the Pokémon Center.
It was a cathedral of glass, plastic, and artificial light. Brightly colored screens flickered on every wall, displaying maps and moving images of people and Pokémon I didn't recognize.
People sat on padded benches, laughing and talking with a casual ease, as if the world weren't a jagged, dangerous rock hurtling through a dark void.
Pokémon were everywhere, coexisting in a way that made my stomach turn with phantom fear. I was forced to pause, my breath hitching as I took in the sight of a young boy sleeping soundly on the massive, furred belly of a slumbering Ursaring.
I forced myself to stay put, gripping my satchel until my knuckles turned white, reminding myself over and over that this wasn't Hisui's Crimson Mirelands.
In my world, that Ursaring would have ripped the boy in half before he could even dream.
I walked past the confusing, colorful sights, moving past the reception desk and out through the sliding glass doors. I didn't jump when they hissed open this time, simply stepping through them and into the cool morning air.
And there, standing near the building's entrance, were the three children from the woods.
Ash, Dawn, and Brock turned in unison as I emerged from the infirmary.
I stood there—the ghost of Hisui—looking less like a dying man and more like a lost wanderer trying to find bearings in a world that had forgotten the need to bleed.
"You're up!" Ash shouted, a wide, genuine grin breaking across his face.
I looked at him, then at the bright lights of the city behind him, and felt the immense weight of the time I had lost.