"Lucian is completely locked in," Dawn whispered, her eyes glued to the screen as the Elite Four member adjusted his glasses with that familiar, frustratingly calm precision. "That Bronzong's defense is like a fortress."
"That Flash Cannon is so precise!"
Ash leaned forward, his teeth gritted in vicarious concentration. "It doesn't matter! Cynthia's Garchomp is just waiting for the right opening. Look at that Giga Impact! It's like a meteor hitting the ground!"
I stood in the shadows at the back of the room, the glow of the television flickering across the polished floor.
Each flash of Bronzong's attacks painted the walls in brief pulses of silver. The low hum of the broadcast mixed with the distant chatter of trainers in the lobby outside.
To them, it must have been a spectacular display of modern coordination, but in my eyes the flashing lights and fire of the battle were a haunting parade of familiar faces.
"The Warden of the Coronet Highlands," I stared, my voice a low whisper that didn't carry my thoughts of the past back to Ash's chair.
I watched Lucian on the screen. The long, lavender hair and that insufferable, high-born tilt of the chin—he was the spitting image of Melli.
Even the way he adjusted his sleeve between commands mirrored the idle, superior fidget Melli used when he believed victory was inevitable
But where Melli had been a jagged edge of poisonous arrogance and the annoying shrieking of self-importance, this descendant had tempered that raw ego into something colder—psychic, controlled and sharp.
"Legacies in motion," I muttered.
Then the camera panned.
The Rift-Eye beneath my clothes throbbed, a sudden spike of freezing pressure. The bandages tightened across my ribs as if the wound itself were trying to breathe.
Cynthia.
She stood with the untouchable, ethereal grace of Madam Cogita. Seeing her was like looking at a ghost of the Ancient Retreat stepping into the harsh glare of the stadium lights.
Cogita had been the one person who could look up at the end of the world and calmly pour a cup of tea.
She had been an anchor when the sky broke.
Seeing her likeness here—Champion of an entire region, heir to the remnants of our home—felt like a strange, quiet justice.
"She has Cogita's eyes," I whispered to the shadow at my feet.
But there was something else—a flicker of that familiar, burning ambition in the way she commanded her Garchomp. I recognized that blazing intensity and the way her golden hair caught the light.
Volo.
I remembered him as that eccentric merchant, a man who spent his days chasing myths and dusty ruins, a sly, practiced smile constantly masking his true intentions.
Occasionally, when Akari and I would unearth a new relic or piece together a fresh fragment of history relating to Almighty Sinnoh, a wide, jubilant grin would break across his features.
Yet, even in those moments of shared discovery, the warmth never quite reached his eyes; they remained cold, calculating, and fixed on a horizon we couldn't see.
We considered him a friend during those long treks through the wilds of Hisui. I can only hope that sentiment was truly returned, and not just another layer of the elaborate mask he wore so well.
To see his bloodline fused with the wisdom of the Ancient Retreat... it was a frighteningly powerful combination.
"Whoa! Garchomp won!" Ash yelled, jumping to his feet as Lucian's Bronzong finally fell, crashing to the ground. "Corvin, did you see that?! She didn't even break a sweat!"
"Strength isn't measured by how much you sweat in battle, Ash," I said, not moving from the dark. "You see a Champion. I see the result of years of shed blood and tears. The descendant of the people who held the world together when it was falling apart.
"That woman... she's the daughter of a seeker and a sage."
I shifted my weight, Kishin at my hip. The sword hummed, a low vibration that thrummed against my thigh, and one of his long purple tassels began to coil lazily around the scabbard like a snake.
"Strength like hers isn't forged in a day. It's tempered in steam and fire, in the quiet moments when the world isn't watching. Think about the years spent training, fighting, reaching for the peak while others were out playing."
"That 'Champion' title is just a label the world gave her to make her power feel less terrifying, less human. But beneath the poise and the black coat... there is a sword that's been wrought for generations."
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
The rumor that the Champion was nearby investigating the local ruins acted like a flare in the night for Ash.
He didn't even finish his meal before he was out the door, sprinting toward the outskirts of the town with Dawn and Brock trailing in his wake.
I followed at a much more deliberate pace, my boots clunking heavily on the modern pavement. Every step toward the ruins felt like walking into a localized pressure pocket.
The Rift-Eye was waking up, pulsing with a slow, rhythmic violet light that I could see glowing faintly through the gaps in my tunic.
After a short walk, we found her standing before a stone tablet inscribed with ancient Unown script.
Moss clung to the lower half of the tablet, and centuries of rain had softened the edges of the carvings. Small motes of dust drifted through the afternoon light, disturbed only by Cynthia's careful movements.
She looked small against the backdrop of the monoliths, but her aura was massive. A small crowd gathered around her, maintaining a respectful distance, whispering of her strength and name.
She traced the carvings with a light hand, her expression one of deep, scholarly peace. A behavior that reminded me all too much of Volo's lifelong obsession.
The ice cream cone was different touch, though.
Then, a voice cut through the quiet of the site.
It wasn't Ash's. It was cold, flat, and carried the weight of a whetstone on steel.
"Your Cynthia, aren't you?"
Hearing her name, Cynthia turned to the source of the sound, finishing her cone of vanilla with one final bite.
"Yes?"
"My name is Paul. I'm from Veilstone."
Paul's cold gaze turned resolute as he stared Cynthia down. "I'd like to challenge you to a battle."
I stopped in the shadow of a nearby cedar, my hand resting on the hilt of the katana.
Out of the crowd stepped the boy with the purple hair, his boots crunching over broken shale. He didn't hesitate, didn't slow — he walked straight into the Champion's space as if the gravity of the situation didn't apply to him.
Paul.
I had heard of him before, from Ash's and Dawn's recounting of his rude, aloof exterior, but seeing him stand before Cynthia was a different revelation.
He didn't bow. He didn't offer a fan's praise. He looked at the Champion of Sinnoh and saw a mountain to be climbed, an obstacle in his path, one to be dismantled.
The faint flame of genuine respect reignited in my chest once again. In an era of hobbyists and children who treated Pokémon like pets, here was a boy who understood that a battle was a reckoning.
He had the stomach for the high-altitude air of a real fight.
Cynthia turned, her expression neutral. She didn't look annoyed or amused, instead she looked at him with the same analytical gaze she had given the ruins. "A battle? It's been a while since I took a field challenge."
After a short exchange of words, she took a step down from the altar of the ruins, a carefree smile appearing on her face.
Cynthia took a position opposite of Paul, meeting his gaze. "Very well, Paul. I accept your challenge."
"What?"
"The Champion is going to battle him?!"
"He's got guts alright."
"But he sure doesn't have brains."
The crowd around the two began their useless murmurs. I looked at them in disgust, at their lack of courage and at their quick response to judge others that did what they could not.
"Just shut up." I snarled as I released a sliver of my bloodlust at the crowd, amplified by Kishin's spectral energy.
A short wave of darkness flooded over the people around me, casting them into a short period of silence as their bodies broke out in a cold sweat.
Several trainers stiffened, hands tightening around Poké Balls. One woman dropped her drink, the plastic cup rolling across the stone with a hollow clatter.
As the crowd quieted down, the match began with a clinical efficiency that made Ash and Dawn look like toddlers playing with blocks.
Paul led with Chimchar, as Cynthia sent out a…
Ugh… a Garchomp.
The dragon's shadow stretched across the ruins, swallowing half the battlefield in a single step.
I had known that she had one, but seeing the dragon in person brought back unwanted memories and feelings of rage.
Volo had one too. Is this a genetic trait that's passed down or something similar?
Scenes of Volo flashed through my head, forcing me to remember the time period when I was still a young, naive boy.
I had trusted Volo due to the man's friendly demeanor.
Armed with nothing but thin leather armor and a unsharpened Honedge, I watched with bitter tears of rage as Volo rolled on the earth of the Security Corps training fields, dying of laughter, as his Gible continuously stomped Kishin into the ground with Bulldoze.
It was the first of many losses throughout my entire life, but I could still hear the dull thud of Kishin hitting the training yard dirt, over and over, while Volo's anger-inducing laughter echoed against the wooden walls.
He would randomly bring up the event to mess with me and not before long, Akari joined in on the teasing as well.
I clenched my jaw, my grip tightening around Kishin's sheathe.
The start of the battle shook me from my dark trauma.
"Chimchar, standby for battle!" Paul barked.
The small fire-type materialized, its flames flickering with a nervous energy, feet shifting in place, eyes darting between Paul and the towering dragon.
The expression was one I recognized instantly—the look of a recruit who knew his commander did not tolerate failure.
"Garchomp, battle dance," Cynthia said, her voice like a calm snowfall.
The battle erupted with a sudden, violent grace. Paul didn't waste a breath.
"Chimchar, Fire Spin!"
A vortex of flames erupted, swirling around the Garchomp, a cage of heat meant to trap the dragon. But Cynthia didn't move. She watched the fire with a scholar's patience.
"Now, Dig!" Paul commanded.
Chimchar vanished into the earth. A heartbeat later, the ground beneath the Garchomp buckled. But the Champion's dragon didn't flinch. It plunged into the same hole, its massive claws churning the soil.
To my surprise, the flames from the Fire Spin weren't extinguished; they were sucked into the tunnel, fueling the Garchomp's descent.
When the explosion came, it wasn't the Chimchar that surfaced—it was the Garchomp, rising like a titan through a pillar of flame, carrying the charred, dazed monkey in its wake.
Chimchar hit the dirt, trembling. Paul didn't offer a word of comfort. He reached for his Poké Ball, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure, cold disgust.
"Useless," Paul muttered as he recalled the Pokémon. "You're weak."
The Rift-Eye on my chest narrowed in a sharp glare. I felt the bite of the insult rise in my throat. Calling a partner "weak" with no instructions of improvement was the death sentence for a bond. It wasn't a critique.
It was a betrayal.
One that fueled many deaths in the wilds of Hisui. When scouts ran for their lives, leaving their partners behind as bait for Alphas.
"Next. Weavile, standby!"
The dark-type appeared, its claws clicking like ice on stone. Paul was already in the next phase of his manual. "Use Blizzard, followed by Ice Beam!"
I watched the multiple gales of frost shrieked across the battlefield. They were powerful, technically perfect special attacks.
But as the Garchomp simply lowered its head and ignited into a blue-white aura of Dragon Rush, the ice shattered like glass against a shield. The Garchomp tore through the frost, the impact sending the Weavile sliding across the stone like a discarded toy.
"What a fool," I whispered, my criticism only audible to Kishin.
Why was he using special attacks? He was using a physical speedster, a creature built to take down lumbering monsters of earth and scales.
Are those razor-sharp claws just for show? He didn't bother to retreat either.
He was trying to use Splash on an opponent and expected damage. Paul was fighting against the "type" of the opponent, and not the opponent itself.
But Paul didn't blink as Weavile went down. He reached for his belt, grabbing his third Pokéball. "Murkrow, stand by for battle!"
The familiar bird took flight, but Cynthia was already accelerating. Garchomp coiled its muscles, the air around it vibrating as it prepared a Giga Impact.
It was a high-commitment strike, a move that would leave the dragon stationary for a heartbeat afterward.
Paul saw it.
I saw him see it.
He didn't call for a dodge, nor did he call for a counter.
"Hold your ground," he commanded. The Giga Impact hit with the force of a tectonic shift. Murkrow was erased, a plume left in the wake of the explosion as the bird was launched back, smashing into the wall of the ruins.
Gasps rippled through the crowd as feathers drifted down like black snow.
I felt a small spark of interest. It was a sacrifice—a soldier's gambit. He had given up a scout to force the Champion's Pokémon into a moment of stagnation.
Interesting, I thought, my hand tightening on Kishin's hilt.
He better make use of this opening.
Cynthia's Garchomp stood still, its chest heaving as it recovered from the massive exertion. This was the moment. The "fortress" was vulnerable.
"Torterra, standby!" Paul shouted. The massive land-turtle slammed onto the field, shaking the ruins. "Now Giga Drain!"
…
…
…
What.
I paused as I watched the Torterra bellow, as vines grew from its earthen shell, wrapping the Garchomp, weakly sapping away at its vitality.
Are the people of the future stupid?
"Use Frenzy Plant!"
The earth tore open. Massive, thorned vines erupted, racing toward the stationary Garchomp. It was a heavy artillery strike—one that sought the total destruction of its opponent.
But Cynthia didn't panic. She didn't even raise her voice.
"Garchomp, Brick Break."
By the time Paul had commanded Frenzy Plant, Garchomp had already recovered from the strain of Giga Impact.
The dragon's hand glowed with a white, focused light. It didn't try to outrun the vines. It simply stepped forward, Garchomp caught the massive vines, using its own momentum to slide through the gaps, before delivering a Brick Break that sent the Torterra crashing into the dirt.
This was the final test. Paul had the opening. He could have ordered a withdrawal, a defensive stance, or a counter-rotation.
Instead, he just stood there. He watched with a cold, stony face as the Brick Break shattered his Torterra's defense. He gave no orders.
No "defend." No "move." Not even a "dodge it!"
He let the mountain fall just to see if it would break the dragon's claws.
It didn't.
Torterra crashed into the dirt, unconscious. The silence that followed was absolute. Paul stood there, his face a mask of bitter, silent fury as he recalled his team. The crowd around him jeered, mocking his efforts.
I stepped out from the shadows of the cedar, my boots echoing heavily on the stone. I didn't care about Ash rushing in with his soft words.
I blocked the boy's path, the Rift-Eyeflaring a sharp, piercing violet through my tunic."You have the heart of a commander," I said, my voice cutting through the air.
"And you have the stomach for a reckoning. Most in this era wouldn't have the courage to even draw a Pokéball against a woman with that bloodline."
Paul's flinty gaze met mine. He didn't speak, but I saw the spark of a warrior recognizing praise.
"But you're still weak," I continued, stepping into his space.
I stopped just short of his shoulder, close enough to see the faint tremor in his clenched jaw.
"You have potential, but you have no discipline. You sacrificed that Murkrow for an opening you were too afraid to effectively use. You stood by while your Torterra was executed because you wanted to prove a point, that your Pokémon weren't weak, not to win the fight."
"I don't need a lecture," Paul snapped.
"You train for power, but you have no technique or skill to use it. You treat your partners like expendable scouts, and because of that, they will always fail you when the mountain truly begins to move."
I looked down at the Poké Balls on his belt. "Your Torterra is a mountain, but you use it like a training target. Your Chimchar is a spark, yet you're trying to make it a sun."
"You may have the effectiveness of a soldier, but the training style of a butcher. If you want to challenge a woman who carries the blood of the lorekeeper, you need to learn that a weapon is only as strong as the hand that honors it."
Paul's eyes flared with a cold, impotent rage, but he didn't move. I could see the conflict in him—the realization that for all his "strength," he had been utterly dismantled by a woman who treated the battle like a walk through a garden, and now he was being admonished by a man who sounded like he'd crawled out of the history of Sinnoh.
I glanced over at Cynthia.
She was watching us, her arms crossed, her fingers tapping lightly against her arm — not impatience, but analysis.
A knowing, scholarly light glimmered in her eyes, but she didn't intervene.
She looked at me with a curiosity that made the Rift-Eye pulse—a look that she shared with her ancestors.
"Go to the Pokémon Center," I said, adjusting the bandages wrapping my body as I turned my back on Paul.
"Heal your wounded. The next time you step onto the battlefield, try to remember," I paused, glancing back over my shoulder with a narrowed eye. "A commander who doesn't respect his troops is just a man waiting for a mutiny."
"In a real war, those mistakes aren't just 'losses.'" I lightly touched the six ancient Pokéballs that lined my satchel's handle with a cold frost in my eyes.
"It's your funeral."
I walked toward Cynthia, leaving the boy standing in the silence of his own defeat.
The Rift-Eye settled into a dull hum as I stopped before the Champion.
Up close, the scent of her was like the mountain air after a storm—clean, sharp, and pure.
"You have her grace and his ambition," I told her somberly, watching as her face scrunched up in confusion.
"…I'm sorry?" Cynthia questioned, while Garchomp gave me a worried look from behind her. "What?"
Right. I got to stop talking like that. I thought as a rush of shame flashed through me. That must've looked extremely strange from her perspective.
"Nevermind. If we meet again… may I request a battle?"
That sentence Cynthia understood, a smile replacing her confused frown. Her eyes sparkled with joy.
"Gladly, if we have the chance."
Garchomp shifted behind her, watching me carefully — not as an enemy, but as something it hadn't decided on yet.
I walked away, my back turned from the descendent so she wouldn't see the genuine, fervent grin creeping over my lips.
My grip on Kishin hardened, his tassels pulsing in expectation. Five Pokéballs rattled on the strap of my satchel, reacting to the surge in battle-lust bleeding from my soul.
For the first time since arriving in this era…
I found myself looking forward to an answer.