...
The thick fog grew even deeper, reaching a point where one could barely see their own hand in front of their face.
"Is anyone following us?" a man asked, looking back. His eyes warily scanned the chaotic white behind him, his voice kept extremely low as if he were afraid of disturbing something in the fog.
Another man, who had been keeping watch, circled back from the other side and also lowered his voice:
"It's safe. Those fools left a long time ago."
As soon as he finished speaking, Yale, who had been carried on the man's back, suddenly straightened up and jumped down.
"Ouch!"
The man nearly threw out his back from her sudden movement and grumbled in dissatisfaction.
Yale ignored him completely, landing steadily on both feet.
First, she stretched, her joints letting out a series of crisp "pop-pop" sounds. Then, she did a few jumping jacks on the spot, her movements sharp and agile. There wasn't a hint of a leg injury.
That thigh, which had been wrapped in bandages and looked so pitiable before, was now full of healthy, firm strength.
She rubbed her slightly numb leg, her face no longer showing any sign of weakness. Instead, it was replaced by an undisguised look of disgust and irritability.
"Damn it, my leg's gone numb from sitting!"
She spat,
"That guy Masaki has wandering hands. He took the opportunity to grope my thigh several times. I'd better not run into him outside again!"
Her voice wasn't loud, but in the silent fog, it was exceptionally clear, carrying a certain streetwise pungency.
Just then, a dark figure emerged from the fog; it was the Fisherman.
He trotted over, a sycophantic smile plastered on his face. He rubbed his hands together at the two men, his eyes full of expectation.
"Lord Trainer..."
The tall man seemed a bit impatient. He pulled a stack of crumpled Pokedollars from his pocket and stuffed them into the Fisherman's hand without even counting.
"You acted well this time. I'll look for you again when there's more work."
"Eh, alright! Thank you, milord!"
The Fisherman took the money, greedily thumbing through the bills one by one. He stuffed them into his shirt with a beaming face, then turned and disappeared back into the thick fog, his figure quickly swallowed up.
Having dismissed their tool, the atmosphere on the scene finally became truly lively.
"Where is it? Hurry up and take it out so we can see!"
The man urged, his eyes shining.
Yale snorted triumphantly and pulled a gray velvet pouch from her inner clothing.
The pouch was exquisitely crafted, embroidered with complex patterns in silver thread. It was clearly no ordinary item.
As soon as the pouch appeared, the two men's breathing grew heavy. They immediately crowded around, their three heads pressed close together, their gazes burning with greed.
"He looks like a rich sucker at first glance."
"This pouch feels Advanced just touching it; the stuff inside must be great!"
"Hurry up and open it! Oh, the suspense is killing me."
The three of them chattered away, their faces filled with uncontrollable ecstasy.
Yale carefully untied the drawstring at the mouth of the pouch, her movements carrying a nearly sacred sense of ritual.
She turned the pouch upside down.
"Clatter..."
Instead of the expected crisp sound of clashing jewels or the energetic glow of rare items, only a pile of dusty, oddly shaped broken stones tumbled to the ground with a dull thud.
The air froze instantly.
The smiles on their faces stiffened, and their eyes stared fixedly at the pile of plain stones on the ground, as if time had stopped flowing.
"This... what is this?"
The man muttered to himself, reaching out to pick up a piece. He turned it over and over, trying to find even the slightest hint of anything unusual.
However, these were just ordinary stones, the kind found everywhere by the roadside.
"Damn it!"
A sharp roar broke the dead silence.
Yale's face turned the color of pig liver. She grabbed the pouch and slammed it onto the ground.
"I went through all that trouble, acting and letting myself be groped, just to get this pile of fucking junk?!"
She was shaking with rage, her chest heaving violently.
"Aaaaah—!"
Just then, a piercingly shrill scream echoed from deep within the thick fog. The sound was sharp yet muffled by the mist, sounding exceptionally eerie, like an echo from another world.
It came from the direction the Fisherman had just left.
The trio's anger was instantly extinguished by the scream, replaced by a chill that crept up from the soles of their feet.
"Wha... what's happening?"
The man's voice trembled.
"Could he have run into some fierce wild Pokémon?"
Before they could finish, a round object slowly rolled out of the fog with a "gurgle-gurgle" sound and a faint, wet friction.
The object rolled to their feet and stopped, blocked by a protruding tree root.
By the faint light in the fog, they saw it clearly.
It was a human head.
It was the very Fisherman who had just left with the money and a face full of joy.
His eyes were wide and bulging, his mouth agape, his face frozen in the terror and confusion he felt before death.
The cut was smooth, and blood was still slowly seeping out, staining the surrounding fallen leaves a dark red.
"Aaah!"
Yale let out a short scream and slumped onto the ground, her face as pale as paper.
The two men were even more terrified. They scrambled backward several steps, only stopping when they hit the tree trunks behind them.
Fear instantly gripped their hearts.
"Poké Ball! Quick! Get out your Poké Balls!"
One of the men was the first to react. His voice shook uncontrollably as he fumbled frantically at the belt on his waist.
His most prized Pokémon should have been hanging there.
However, he felt nothing.
His hands searched frantically at his waist and in his pockets, the color draining from his face.
"Where are my Poké Balls?"
The other man and Yale also snapped out of it and hurriedly checked themselves.
The result was the same.
Empty.
Their Poké Balls—the things they relied on for survival and to act so arrogantly—were all gone!
A despair deeper than death enveloped them.
Just then, a blurry figure slowly emerged from the thick fog.
The figure wasn't tall, swaying as it walked with stiff movements, like a worn-out doll controlled by strings.
Unhurriedly, step by step, it walked out of the thick fog.
It was a Banette.
Its body was sewn from old fabric, with several strange nails driven into it.
Most hair-raising of all was its mouth.
It was a zipper sewn with coarse thread, now pulled open in an eerie arc, grinning as if laughing.
A smile filled with malice and mockery.
It just stood there quietly, tilting its head, silently watching the three terrified prey before it with its hollow button eyes.
"Aaah!"
"Aaah!"
"Aaah!"
One after another, shrill screams echoed in the thick fog. When the fog gradually thinned, the figures of the group were gone, leaving only Steven's solitary velvet pouch.
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