The sliding glass doors of the Pokémon Center hissed open to a lobby that was a frantic mess of incessant noise and neon lights.
Trainers crowded the counter three deep, their voices raised in a cacophony of minor complaints and impatient demands.
The constant, rhythmic chiming of the healing machines filled the air—a digital heartbeat that felt thin and artificial compared to the heavy silence of the mountains I remembered.
Nurse Joy didn't even look up from her monitors as her hands moved in a blur across the glass interface. "I'm only one person, and we're at capacity for the next hour," she called out over the din, her voice strained. "If it's not an emergency, please use the self-service stations or wait in the lounge."
Beside me, Paul's jaw tightened until the bone threatened to pop. He looked down at the six Poké Balls resting in the plastic tray—the broken, scorched tools of a failed crusade—and then at the crowded, indifferent desk.
His eyes were like flint, sparks of a cold, trapped fury burning behind them. He looked ready to turn on his heel and walk out into the night, leading a team of wounded soldiers into the dark rather than wait for a machine.
"I guess there's no other choice. Let me," a voice said.
The crowd parted as if a blade had cut through the curtain of people. Cynthia stepped into the clinical light of the lobby, her long black coat trailing behind her like a shadow.
In that moment, she didn't look like a Champion or a televised celebrity. She looked like someone who had stepped straight out of Hisui, carrying the grace of the old world in her stride.
Without a word, she reached out and took the tray from Paul's numb fingers. She didn't head for the high-tech mechanical healers in the back.
Instead, she turned and led the way toward the quiet, recessed lounge where the scent of medicinal herbs and the hum of an indoor garden began to settle the air.
Cynthia sat at a low wooden table and began to unpack a small, weathered kit of natural salves and dried berries. It was old-world medicine that I recognized instantly.
Oran Berries were being mashed into a thick, pulpy paste. Revival Herbs were crushed with a stone mortar and pestle, their bitter, grounding scent filling the small alcove.
It was same care the Medical Corps had shown as they tended to the scouts back in Hisui after a run-in with an Alpha.
Ash, Dawn, and Brock hovered around the edge of the table, watching in a hushed, reverent silence. Paul stood apart, his back pressed against the far wall, his flinty gaze fixed entirely on the Champion's hands.
I stayed in the deeper shadows of the room, my eyes tracing the methodical way she worked.
She released the Chimchar first. The small fire-type was a mess of singed fur and shivering limbs, its tail-flame a guttering spark.
No spray, no digital scan, Cynthia took a dollop of the blue Oran paste and began to rub it into the creature's wounds with her bare fingers.
The Chimchar whimpered, a sharp, pained sound that made Ash wince, but then it relaxed. I watched its breathing shift from a frantic pant to a steady, rhythmic rise and fall.
Its flame flickered, then began to burn with a steady, warm glow as Cynthia spoke to it in a low and melodic whisper—a language of comfort that transcended the modern trainer relationship.
It was a scene of quiet, focused recovery that felt completely out of place in this high-tech century.
Paul's fingers twitched against the seam of his trousers, but he remained silent. He didn't look away, not even for a second. He was watching the Champion of Sinnoh personally tend to the creatures he had just dismissed as "useless" on the battlefield.
The rift on my chest settled into a dull and sympathetic hum, the ache in my bones subsiding for the first time since we had reached the ruins.
For a moment, the modern Pokémon Center faded away, replaced by the memory of Jubilife Village's infirmary.
It was a quiet and sacred space where even the ego of the Commander had to yield to the needs of the front line.
Her poise reminded me of Madam Cogita—that same clinical yet profound empathy for the living that only those who have lived through the end of things can truly possess.
"She's a good woman, Corvin," Brock swooned beside me, his voice thick with passionate admiration for her.
"Indeed. She's a keeper of the old ways," I nodded, my hand resting idly on the hilt of Kishin.
"But please stop this behavior, Brock." I sidestepped as he began to dance, twirling dramatically, arms flailing wildly with his "love." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw as his Crogunk flashed out of its ball, its fist glowing a noxious purple as it charged up a Poison Jab.
The first time I witnessed this scene, I thought I'd stepped into the middle of a fever dream—silent in disbelief as Brock went from woman to woman, praising their beauty and confessing his "undying love" to people he had just met.
It wasn't until the third round that I realized that Brock was either mentally impaired or simply abnormal—the lovesick man so different from his usual professional self.
Sighing in disapproval, I stepped aside as Brock collapsed, the coursing venom in his veins taking affect. His Crogunk took one tired look at me, orange cheeks puffed, before dragging Brock's unconscious body away.
My attention returned to Cynthia's procedure.
I watched as she moved on to the Weavile, then the Murkrow. Her movements were patient and methodical, devoid of the rush I saw in the trainers outside.
She was treating them with the respect due to a soldier who had held the line, regardless of the outcome of the battle. Not bothering to lecture Paul, and she didn't offer the easy, hollow praise that Ash was so fond of.
She simply did the work.
As she reached for the Torterra's Poké Ball, she paused, looking up at the boy standing against the wall. For a heartbeat, their eyes locked—the cold, analytical steel of the challenger meeting the deep, wisdom of the Champion.
She didn't say a word, but the message was clear: Power. This is what it costs.
Paul looked away first, his gaze dropping to the floor, but he didn't leave. He stayed in the room, anchored by the gravity of her presence.I leaned my head back against the pillar and closed my eyes.
The scent of the crushed herbs brought back the Highlands—the smell of the campfires and the cold, sharp air of the peaks.
I was a man out of time, a ghost in a world of neon and glass, but in this quiet lounge, watching the descendant of the Retreat work her craft, I felt a spark of something I hadn't felt since the sky tore open.
"Shogun and the others would like her," I thought, feeling the heavy balls on my belt rattle in a low, respectful frequency.
I stayed there in the dark, a silent observer of a ritual as old as the mountains themselves. The modern world could keep its machines and its televised leagues.
As long as there were people like Cynthia who still knew how to mash a berry and whisper to a wounded heart, maybe the world I had fought for wasn't entirely gone.