The sky wasn't stormy—it was breaking. Torn by jagged purple light, as if something monstrous was clawing through space itself.
Far below, the ground cracked open. The earth looked unstable—lava-veined and trembling—as explosions of fire and shadow clashed in every direction. A massive, twisted shape moved overhead, gliding through shattered clouds—its body long, scale-ridged, unnatural. Its wings were wrong. Its eyes glowed like distant stars full of rage.
Down below, lights flickered—gold, blue, silver—as figures fought back. Small compared to the beast, but fierce. Attacks lit the sky. Energy surged beneath roars that bent the world around them.
Then came a sound—like the sky screaming as it shattered.
A deafening crack. A rush of shadow. The world folded in on itself—
—and he woke up flat on his back, blinking against sharp spears of sunlight breaking through the trees above.
His breath caught—unsteady, shallow. The chill of the dew-soaked grass clung to his skin. For a moment, he didn't move. The forest around him was so still it didn't feel real.
Eventually, he sat up, slow and stiff, muscles aching like he'd run for miles in his sleep. He instinctively brushed dirt from his arm—and paused. Just beneath the sunlight, something dark marked his skin.
A tattoo.
Thin, curling lines wound around each other on his left forearm—symbols and sharp shapes he didn't recognize. He stared at it, brows furrowing. When did he get this? It felt permanent. Familiar. But he couldn't place it.
His gaze lifted slowly to the forest around him. Tall, hushed trees stretched forever in every direction, their tops shrouded in mist. There was no clear path. But something in him moved anyway—one foot in front of the other, through twisting roots and damp leaves, farther into the quiet.
Time slipped by, measured only by the soft beat of his footsteps and the rustle of leaves.
Then a sharp, clicking chirr broke the silence.
A Kricketune burst from the tall grass up ahead. Its red shell shimmered in the light. Bladed arms rose, shivering with warning.
He froze. Then stumbled back—and hit the ground hard.
The bug Pokémon screeched and started forward.
Suddenly, a flash of white light burst through the trees as a sleek Floragato leapt between them. The Grass-type's claws glinted, tail lashing. The Kricketune hissed, then disappeared into the underbrush without a fight.
A woman stepped into view a moment later, white lab coat brushing the brush at her knees. Her expression was calm, unbothered—but her eyes scanned him quickly, alert and focused.
"Are you hurt?"
He shook his head, still catching his breath.
"I… no. I'm okay."
She glanced toward the trees, then back at him.
"You're lucky. Wild Kricketune don't usually pick fights during the day unless you walk too close to their burrows."
She crouched beside him, offering a calm smile.
"What's your name?"
He hesitated.
"…Alchem. I think."
She nodded.
"I'm Professor Sycamore. There's a cabin nearby—I came out to do some research, but it's safe enough for now. You should come with me."
—
The cabin wasn't much, but it felt like safety. Wooden, weathered, and tucked into a clearing. Shadows whispered along the edges, kept at bay by a few windows and slants of warm light.
Alchem stepped inside and took a look around. Books, field notes, Poké Balls, a half-packed bag by the door. There was no clutter—just motion frozen in the middle of purpose.
Sycamore moved toward the bag, checked the buckles, then glanced back at him.
"I'm heading to Vaniville City tomorrow," she said. "Since it seems like you don't have any Pokémon, you'd better come with me. It's not safe to travel alone out here."
Alchem nodded, slow but sure.
Sycamore smiled and led him down a short hall.
"Here's your room. Get some rest—we'll head out when you're ready."
The space was small and quiet. The bed was clean, the window just barely open. A line of afternoon light stretched across the quilt.
Sycamore leaned in the doorway.
"Rest up. We can talk when you wake up."
She gave him one more nod, then quietly closed the door behind her.
Alchem sat on the edge of the bed in silence. His hands rested in his lap. One drifted down to his forearm again, tracing the inky patterns with gentle thought.