"It seems the results of this meeting are clear," the blonde girl said, rising from her seat. "I need to take care of my preparations."
The elderly man—Alvion—nodded slowly. "Very well. Make sure you and your companions are ready by tonight."
Without another word, the girl turned and left the crystalline chamber, her footsteps echoing softly against the shimmering floor.
As the door closed behind her, one of the remaining members raised a hand hesitantly. "May I ask something?"
Alvion's aged eyes shifted toward the speaker. "What do you wish to know?"
"If we're searching for something that functions as a symbol… why that painting specifically? What's the reason?"
Alvion was silent for a moment. His fingers traced the edge of the blue crystal pendant around his neck. When he spoke, his voice was quieter, more personal.
"To be honest… this may simply be my own selfish desire. There are surely other symbols out there. But I chose this painting because… my father created it."
Another member leaned forward, curiosity piqued. "If you don't mind me asking… how old are you, exactly?"
A faint, wistful smile crossed Alvion's weathered face. "If I recall correctly… I am 500 years old. My father painted that piece when I was just eight years old, with his Murkrow perched on his shoulder."
One of the members did some quick mental math. "Then the painting itself would be… 492 years old now."
Alvion shook his head slowly. "No. It's older than that."
Confusion rippled through the group. "How is that possible?" another member asked, genuinely puzzled. "Logically speaking, the painting can't be older than 492 years—it was created when you were eight."
Alvion's gaze grew distant, as if looking through the crystalline walls into a time long past. "You already know this, don't you? Time in this world has never been normal." He paused, folding his hands on the table. "Let me tell you a story."
---
*The memory washed over him like a tide, vivid and warm despite the centuries.*
Young Alvion sat nestled in his father's lap, the two of them outside their modest home near the edge of a vast forest. The evening light filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows across the wooden porch where they worked. His father's hands were steady as they guided a brush across the canvas.
"Alvion, look," his father said, a gentle smile in his voice. "Your father is trying to create a symbol."
Alvion tilted his head, wide-eyed. "Create a symbol? Can someone really do that?"
His father chuckled softly. "Of course. Do you think only the ancients can create symbols?"
Curious, Alvion leaned forward to get a closer look at the painting. But before his small fingers could touch the wet canvas, his father's Murkrow swooped down with a sharp *caw* and pecked him on the hand.
"Ow! That hurt, Murkrow!"
The bird ruffled its feathers smugly, keeping a watchful eye on the painting.
Alvion rubbed his hand but his curiosity wasn't dampened. "Father, how are you going to turn this into a symbol? And why do you want to do it?"
His father set the brush down for a moment and looked at him with eyes that held both warmth and solemnity. "I want to create this because… someday, I hope you will receive this symbol. For yourself. And for those you come to trust." He reached out and ruffled Alvion's hair. "You see, in this world, nothing is certain. Nothing is guaranteed. I hope that one day, you will discover the meaning of this symbol—and that it will make your life better."
A voice called from inside the house. "Time to eat!"
Alvion's mother appeared in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the warm glow of lantern light. Father and son rose together, Murkrow fluttering onto Father's shoulder.
*Those days were peaceful,* Alvion thought, the memory aching sweetly. *Simple. Whole.*
The day the painting was finally finished, Alvion could barely contain his excitement. He bounced on his heels as his father applied the last stroke.
"It's done!" Alvion exclaimed, his small hands clapping together. "The painting is finished!"
His father set down the brush, exchanging a warm look with his Murkrow. "Yes. Finally, it's complete."
Alvion looked up at him, hope shining in his young eyes. "Can I keep it?"
His father's expression shifted slightly—not unkind, but serious. "No. You must earn it."
Alvion's face crumpled in confusion. "Earn it? What do you mean, Father?"
Without warning, his father raised his hand. A shimmering warp energy swirled around the painting, and with a flick of his wrist, he cast it into the currents of time itself. The canvas vanished in a flash of light, sent hurtling through the ages to the very first exhibition ever held.
"Father! Why did you send it away?!" Alvion cried out, his voice cracking with frustration.
His father knelt down to meet his eyes. "That is one of the ways to make it a symbol. Perhaps it will become a myth. Or something supernatural." He placed a gentle hand on Alvion's shoulder. "I hope that someday, you will retrieve it. And once it has become what I intended… you will be able to use its power."
"But how am I supposed to chase it?" Alvion protested, gesturing wildly. "You threw it *backward*—hundreds of years before now!"
His father's smile didn't waver. "You will find your own way. Once you begin your own journey. I found my path during my travels… and I believe you will succeed in yours."
Alvion bit his lip, still frustrated but unwilling to disappoint his father. "Fine. Then I will obtain that painting."
His father's eyes crinkled with pride. "That's a fine ambition."
---
*In the months that followed,* Alvion threw himself into preparation. He devoured books—history, esper theory, temporal mechanics, anything that might help him understand how to retrieve the painting. He conducted his own research late into the night, candles burning low as he scribbled notes. He trained his esper abilities relentlessly, pushing past limits he hadn't known he had.
At first, he considered simply using his powers to take the painting immediately. But one passage from his readings gave him pause: *If taken now, it will not yet have become a symbol. It will not yet have acquired supernatural weight.*
So he waited. The painting needed time. Time to gather interpretations, to accrue meaning, to transform from a simple work of art into something more.
When he turned ten years old, the age of departure, he stood at the threshold of his childhood home with a traveling bag over his shoulder. His mother and father watched him from the doorway.
"I'm leaving," he said simply.
His mother nodded, her smile bittersweet. His father gave a short, firm nod—proud, but holding back words unsaid.
As Alvion walked down the path into the wider world, his esper abilities brushed against the surface thoughts of his parents behind him.
His father's thought came first: *I've created many paintings like that one. But I know—I must be truly serious for this one to succeed. I can only hope that you will claim it once it has become a true symbol.*
Then his mother's, softer but no less weighted: *I know you can hear us, Alvion. But with this, I hope you will someday understand what your father and I truly wished for you through that painting.*
Alvion kept walking. He didn't look back.
---
*Years passed.* The boy became a young man. The young man became a scholar. And finally, after decades of study and searching, he discovered how he might retrieve the painting: he would need to use Alcrypna. Only by merging two timelines could he obtain it at the precise moment it had matured into a true symbol.
Eager to share the news, he returned to his childhood home. The forest had grown thicker around it. The porch where he'd sat on his father's lap was weathered now.
He knocked. Softly at first, then louder.
No answer.
He reached out with his esper abilities, sensing for life within. His heart clenched.
*Empty.*
He pushed the door open. The house was silent. Dust layered the surfaces. His parents' belongings remained, untouched—but his parents themselves were gone.
*No.* His mind raced. Espers don't simply die. Not like this. He knew they could reincarnate, but… they wouldn't have left without reason. Not without saying goodbye. The only way an esper could truly die was by their own choice, through self-sacrifice—or by something that could kill an unwilling esper.
*Supernatural beings.*
His eyes hardened. *They must be responsible.*
He stormed into the forest, searching for any trace of the supernatural. Hours passed. Nothing. No spirits, no anomalies, no entities. The forest was eerily ordinary.
*How?* Frustration gnawed at him. *If no supernatural creature was here, then how—*
A familiar *caw* broke through his thoughts.
His father's Murkrow landed on a low branch, its dark eyes watching him.
Alvion's breath caught. He reached out with his abilities, reading the Murkrow's surface thoughts.
*"Krow."* (You've returned.)
"I'm fine, Murkrow," Alvion said quietly. Then, with a tremor in his voice: "How did Father and Mother… pass?"
The Murkrow's thoughts answered simply.
*"Krow."* (Fate.)
Alvion's hands curled into fists. Tears stung his eyes—hot, unwilling. "Fate? What do you mean, *fate*? Do you think fate could kill them?!"
The Murkrow took flight, vanishing into the trees. Alvion pursued, teleporting through the forest, but the Murkrow slipped into the Shadow Realm—a place Alvion couldn't follow. He had no Pokémon capable of accessing that dimension. In truth, he had no Pokémon at all. He had been so consumed by research that he'd never set out to catch one.
He stood alone in the forest, breathing hard, and for the first time in his long life… he felt lost.
---
*The years that followed were a blur of obsession.* He traveled the world, seeking answers. The more he searched, the more possibilities he uncovered. Too many possibilities. Each new theory contradicted another. Each clue led to a dead end. Despair began to settle into his bones like a cold he couldn't shake.
Then, at an exhibition in Ariestal City, he saw *him*.
A man with blonde hair and sharp blue eyes, dressed in immaculate business attire that marked him as someone of considerable means. He checked a golden pocket watch, its face set with a blue crystal at the center.
Something about the man drew Alvion forward.
"Excuse me, sir," Alvion said, approaching. "I know this is forward, but… do you know of any reason an esper might die without being killed by a supernatural force?"
The man closed his pocket watch with a soft *click*. When he looked at Alvion, his gaze was calm—knowing.
"If I'm not mistaken," he said, his voice measured, "an esper can die if they sacrifice themselves."
The words struck Alvion like a physical blow. *Sacrifice.* Yes. That made sense. But *why* would his parents have sacrificed themselves? For what purpose?
The complexity of it crashed over him anew. He felt the weight of centuries pressing down. *It's too much,* he thought. *I can't… I can't keep chasing this.*
"I give up," he said aloud, the words tasting like ash. "I'm done with this."
He turned to walk away.
A glint of gold arced through the air. Instinctively, Alvion caught it.
The pocket watch.
He opened it. Inside, beneath the crystal face, was a photograph—himself, his mother, his father. Together. Whole. The image was old, worn at the edges, but unmistakable.
He looked up sharply. The blonde man was straightening his jacket, approaching with measured steps.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Alvion," the man said smoothly. "I know you're talented. And I can give you the means to discover what your parents truly intended."
Alvion's mind raced. *How does he know my name? How does he have this photo?*
The man seemed to read his thoughts—or perhaps simply anticipated them. "If you search on your own," he said, "even to the ends of the world, you will never find the answer. And this world has no end. That is why I'm making you an offer."
"No." Alvion's voice was firm. "I don't want to be involved in such things anymore."
The man smiled slightly. "It seems you've lost your ambition. And yet… your father once said you had a fine ambition when you began your journey."
Alvion froze. "How do you know that? What is your connection to my father?"
"It's basic esper ability," the man replied with a slight shrug. "Seeing the past is easy enough. As for your father… he was one of us."
"One of 'us'?"
The man's blue eyes gleamed. "Team Utopia."
Alvion's mind went blank. *Team Utopia?*
The man continued, his tone almost casual. "You seem to know nothing. Let me enlighten you: this world has too many mysteries, too many possibilities. It is in chaos. I want you to join us—to help create a world with more stability."
Alvion's brow furrowed. "You want to create a utopia?"
The man chuckled softly. "That's reaching a bit far. A stable world—one where we have at least some certainty, some peace. That's enough."
*Certainty. Peace.* The words echoed in Alvion's mind. They reminded him of his father's hope—that the painting, once a symbol, might make his life better.
Perhaps this was the path.
The man extended his hand. "Do you agree to join us?"
Alvion looked at the outstretched hand. Then at the pocket watch in his own—the photo of his family, frozen in a moment of happiness.
He clasped the man's hand.
"I accept."
Later that night, Alvion examined the pocket watch more closely. The mechanism was broken, its hands frozen at 10 PM—the hour of that exhibition in Ariestal City. A memento. A reminder.
---
*Four hundred years passed.* Alvion remained with Team Utopia, learning, growing, waiting. Eventually, he formed his own sub-team. He called it Team Epitaph.
And now, after centuries of patience, the painting—his father's painting—had finally become a symbol. Known by many names, carrying the weight of countless interpretations, it was ready.
This was the moment.
One of the members broke the contemplative silence. "So that's why Team Epitaph was formed. It was all for that painting. No wonder you're so determined to obtain it."
Another member nodded slowly. "That explains your radical approach in Viora City. Acquiring Alcrypna, merging two histories… all of it was leading to this moment."
Alvion looked around the table at the faces of his comrades—the people who had followed him across centuries, through chaos and danger, toward this single goal.
"I want to know," he said quietly, "what that painting truly means. For myself."
One of the members raised a hand, a fierce grin spreading across their face. "Then we'll make this mission a success. For Captain Alvion!"
The others echoed the sentiment, voices rising in unison. "For Captain Alvion!"
Alvion allowed himself a small, weary smile. He looked down at the blue crystal pendant around his neck—the same one his father had worn.
*Father, Mother… after all this time, I'm coming for it.*
He could only hope that this time—the one chance he had before waiting another unknowable span—he would finally succeed.