Arid trudged through the thickening ferns, his steps slow but relentless. He had wandered the outskirts of the vast city for hours now, not once stopping to rest, chasing Brittleway path further northeast. Every now and then, sunlight grazed his left cheek, soft as a lover’s fleeting touch. On either side of him, stubby trees stretched, lush and green, their vibrant colours enough to distract him from the warm wind that tugged at his torn shirt.

In his clenched left hand, the dragon scale bit deep into his palm and its sharp edge cut through his skin. Ferry had been anxious at first, fearing what dangers might still lurk in the dark.

Arid had driven off the furious Murkrow twice now, wielding his makeshift blade with raw determination. Yet he cursed his luck, having failed to catch the bird or the Buneary that always darted from their burrows just as he arrived. He felt cursed.

The gnawing hunger had begun to push him forward, forcing his legs to move faster. If he didn’t find a meal soon… The dangerous thought infuriated him. He wasn’t that weak – the Lost Hotel would have what he needed, by the handful if need be.

I’ve never known hunger like this. Not even the four-year drought gripped me so cruelly. My throat burns, but I dare not drink from those nearby streams. There are great shadows beneath that strange lake to the east, and they stir restlessly whenever I glance their way. Whose to say something won’t be lurking in the streams too? At least Ferry fares better than I do.

Ferry, as always, had a knack for finding honey wherever they went – whether tucked in small crevices or hidden atop high branches, there was never a place devoid of food for the Pokémon. Arid had tasted the honey once but it turned his stomach something fierce, and he had retched over a blueberry bush until he was hollowed out. The heat of the cramps that followed left him struggling to stay conscious, the pain twisting in his gut, making every step forward a battle.

He stopped beside an ancient oak, pinching his nose as the world swayed and spun beneath his weary gaze.

Arid recalled the choice he faced after leaving Route Thirty-Eight. To the south lay Industrious Way, a road that snaked through flattened hills and sank into a murky brown haze, thick with thousands of flickering lights, like stars trapped in a poisoned sky. To the north, Brittleway climbed upward, cutting through low-lying mists and sprawling hunting grounds, where Stantler and other game roamed freely. At its peak stood the Lost Hotel, a crumbling relic, teetering on the edge of ruin, growing more fragile with each step closer.

Madness had gripped him at first. He ventured two miles south, the air turning foul, stinging his eyes until they burned. It was there he caught sight of a sign – Punge Village. Its population dwarfed nearly all the settlements of Orre combined. The homes were squat, brick boxes no larger than his old living room, with towering chimneys and barren gardens stretching for miles. By then, he could go no further, not without risking Ferry’s health.

As he had made his way back toward the exit of Route Thirty-Eight, Arid had found himself wondering – were the people living in those brown clouds sickly all the time? Or had they long since adapted to the wretched air that filled their lungs? Had he remained in the dark abyss, would he have become worse off than whatever dragon scale was already doing to him?

Prickly briars and thorny brambles wove a treacherous web around the eastern hillside, forcing them from the worn path and into the rough wilds. Each step forward angered the pains in his legs as the underbrush seemed to grow thicker, the briars snagging at his clothes and biting into his skin like sharp teeth. Endless burrs clung to his legs with their small hooks, testing his patience to no end. He had to fight the urge to bite his way forward. Twice.

Ferry could hardly make it through, forced behind Arid’s legs as he cut the way ahead.

To the west, the land rose sharply, the ground beneath their feet growing steeper with every stride. They pressed onward, higher and higher, until they broke through the clouds – a thick, ashen mist that hung heavy in the air, curling around their legs and clinging to their skin like damp fingers. The air was colder and the winds sharper, howling like Houndoom through the jagged rocks. Yet beyond the clouds lay a new challenge, a heavy, sodden land drenched in wetness, where the earth seemed to bleed water with each step they took. The ground squelched beneath his shoes, soft and unsteady, threatening to swallow him whole.

A break in the dark southern sea of clouds revealed a wave of clear sky, rising like ramparts against the storm. Arid stood still, taking it all in with a faint smile touching his lips. It was a rare beauty, fleeting and precious in his new harsh world. Thin rays of sunlight pierced through the brooding clouds, delicate at first, and grew into towering pillars of gold which seared the heavens above. They cast their light over Cave Cut Road, nine and a half miles southeast of Brittleway, at the midway point of the winding path. The scene was almost unreal.

“I like this place,” Arid admitted, his voice quiet, almost as if confessing a secret. "It’s not easy, but I like it. The air feels freer up here, more than it ever did back home." Yet as he spoke, a weight settled in his gut, a stone of melancholy pressing down on him. "I suppose this is our home now..." The thought lingered, both comforting and cruel.

Nearby, Ferry rummaged through a twisted nest of sticks, coiled like hidden Ekans waiting to strike. The little Teddiursa plucked at black sunflowers, their petals dripping purple dew, glistening like poison. Arid couldn’t help but think, not for the first time, of his parents’ kindness – how they had raised him with patience and love. He had entertained the thought, foolish as it was, of raising Ferry as one would a child. But the truth was clear. Ferry, for all his endearing qualities, was a creature of instinct. If angered, he could easily tear off a finger, perhaps worse. What could Arid do in the face of that raw power? He was no master, no parent – only a companion in a world that seemed too vast and dangerous.

Arid’s mind drifted to the boys he had seen not long ago, their faces alight with excitement. Especially that one, the dark-skinned boy, handsome and eager, the gleam of a fight in his eyes. Arid couldn’t help but wonder what Ferry might do if cornered, if tested. A darker voice, one that sounded unsettlingly like Elowen’s, whispered from the back of his mind, questioning why he hadn’t challenged one of those boys himself. Perhaps he could have taken their money, proven himself stronger.

Icy-blue clouds drifted like ghosts, twisting into strange shapes as they swept across the towering redwoods, their bark a bright crimson that stood in stark contrast to the pale sky. The clouds rolled over the tree tops, smothering the higher slopes to the west, where the mist thickened into something almost solid, a dense white paste clinging to the land like a shroud.

Arid and Ferry perched atop a stack of rotting logs, the wood crumbling beneath their weight. From their vantage point, they could see veins of blue water snaking hundreds of feet below, far too distant to reach easily. The sight alone stirred Arid’s thirst, a maddening desire for water. Saliva dribbled from his lips, falling in long, wet strands of maroon, dampening the leaves and soil around him. His body yearned for it, but his mind hesitated. The slope was steep, dangerous. Yet, if he had the courage, perhaps he could survive the descent. After all, he knew Flygon had flown hundreds of miles with its throat torn open.

One look at Ferry made the idea seem stupid. Death was all but guaranteed if he took the leap. There were plenty of ponds close enough – healthy or not, and he had silently sworn to be there for his friend. Arid found a pond surrounded by bluebells. He thought the water tasted of boiled leather as it crept down his throat like slime.

“This is fucking dreadful,” Arid confessed. “How can anything survive out here drinking this?”

Ferry seemed fine after several sips, even drinking out of Arid’s still wet palms without worry.

The tattered remains of his shirt, mere strips now, fluttered against his skin, brushing softly over the jagged wound beneath. Arid pressed his palm hard against the injury, his fingers trembling with the effort. A sharp, searing pain shot through him, driving him to his knees as he slid closer to the water’s edge. Yet, after a moment, a strange warmth settled over him, dulling the agony, leaving only a numbness in its wake. It was almost a relief, but the burn in his throat and the hollow ache in his stomach taunted him relentlessly.

Lost in torment, he didn't notice the blood seeping from his side – dark, inky streaks of midnight black trickling down his ribcage, staining the earth beneath him. Each drop vanished into the soil, boiling the soil until bubbles took to the surface.

An hour passed when Arid finally laid eyes on the strange building. Never before had he seen a structure so immense, nor one so hideous. Its twisted, rickety frame reminded him of Gateon Port’s lighthouse – only here, it seemed as if the tower had been left to melt, warping into ropes of rusted red steel. It slouched unnaturally, as though the very land beneath it struggled to bear its weight. The sight stirred a strange memory in him, as if this grotesque thing were some distant, broken mirror of the lighthouse, had it ever been dragged ashore and left to rot.

The base of the tower was forged from a gleaming moonstone, its surface reflecting a kaleidoscope of fractured light that danced across the surrounding hills. Thick-scented pines rose around it, their branches catching the scattered beams, while small emerald streams wound through the landscape like veins of shimmering glass. All of it was wrapped in warm steam, rising from somewhere deep beneath the earth. He could see large lagoons at a distance, their surfaces roiling with heat that clung to the air. The place was alive with movement, yet there was a deep, unsettling stillness to it as well, as though the land itself was hiding something beneath the surface.

An enormous honeycomb, shimmering gold, loomed a hundred feet above the valley, suspended in the air like some unholy fortress. Its honeyed walkways buzzed with the movement of at least a thousand Beedrill, their wings a constant hum of menace. Through the thick mist, Arid could make out their crimson, hate-filled eyes, glowing like embers in the gloom, tracking his every move. The Beedrill moved with a grim purpose through their home, each one leering down at him as if daring him to approach.

Inside the towering honeycombs – each ten feet high and just as wide – rested the Kakuna, their dome-shaped heads wobbling restlessly. Their black, triangular eyes glared with even more malevolence than their parents, cold and unblinking, as if waiting for the moment they could strike.

Stone pillars, weathered and cracked, held up the massive hive, though many of them sagged inward, threatening collapse. Of the thirty-nine pillars, fourteen had buckled under the weight, and it seemed only a matter of time before the entire structure came crashing down. A thick pool of rich, dark honey gathered at the hive’s base, flowing like a slow-moving river, glistening in the dim light. The golden sea pointed like a dagger toward the redwoods below, half the height of the towering giants above, as though the hive itself meant to drown the forest if attacked.

Ferry, oblivious to the danger, waddled forward, his small paws swatting at the branch-like fingers of the undergrowth that tugged at his fur. Arid’s heart nearly stopped in his chest. “No! Ferry, no!” His voice rose with a desperate edge. “Come back here. That’s right – you know better than to raid something like that." He struggled to rein in his anger, but it boiled to the surface. “We can find you food without risking your life, you stubborn fool.”

The Teddiursa licked his paws, cowed by Arid’s outburst, his usual mischievousness replaced by a guilty frown.

“Good,” he muttered, exhaling the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Now, let’s get to this cursed hotel before I –” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Never mind. Let’s go. Quickly now… they look angry.”

And indeed, the Beedrill above were stirring, their hum growing louder, the threat of violence hanging heavy in the air.

Further below, where the winds rushed up with a terrible anger, small black dots worked their way through the dense forest. They were enormous.

A sudden wave of vertigo seized Arid, forcing him to stumble back from the edge. The drop was far more treacherous than it first appeared. What seemed like harmless dots below – shrubs, rocks, perhaps some distant Pokémon – would become towering, unyielding obstacles should he fall. They would be far taller, thicker, and stronger than anything he could comfortably face. Ferry must have sensed the same danger. The Teddiursa yanked at him, tugging him frantically back toward the safety of the Brittleway.

Ferry's strength was deceptive. Despite his small frame, a single swipe of his claw tore through Arid's skin like a knife through cloth. The pain was sharp, biting, but Arid swallowed his cry, choosing instead to grit his teeth and push through. He had grown accustomed to pain.

His feet were a ruin, blisters long since burst and their raw contents sticking his skin to the ragged remains of his socks. Blood seeped from most of his toes, too. Arid glanced back, thinking of the signposts he’d passed. They had been lies, he was certain of it now. The distances they named were for checkpoints, each one dragging him farther than he had thought. In truth, he hadn’t the faintest idea how far he had walked in these last few hours. The way behind him felt endless, a cruel joke he had grown to despise.

When the sky bled red and the clouds began to part for the first light of dawn, Arid had laughed – a bitter, hollow sound that barely escaped his cracked lips. That laugh had been his last; his throat could no longer manage such a noise, and his hands fared no better. The dragon scale had become an unbearable, uncomfortable weight. It was a struggle to hold it for more than a minute or two before the pain in his fingers forced him to conceal it within his trousers. Yet, despite the agony, he had endured, pushing forward until the steep climb began.

The cramps were relentless, prickling at his muscles like Mightyena on a wounded prey, worse now than ever before. Every step brought fresh misery, twisting his stomach and legs in knots. He could barely stand upright at times, his body betraying him with each ragged breath.

"How long?" he rasped, his voice little more than a whisper of frustration.

Ferry, perched atop his head, was strangely silent. The Teddiursa’s eyes hadn’t left the towering structure – the light from the moonstone seemed to chase him, always catching the crescent on his small, furry head. No matter how deep into the lagoons they ventured, no matter how many branches they crawled beneath, or how thick the canopy grew around them, the light still pierced through, cold and unyielding, as it followed them with a purpose.

----------------------------------------

The Lost Hotel lived up to its name, a shadow of a place that barely seemed real. Had it not been for the weathered sign creaking in the wind, no one would believe it existed at all, save for in some forgotten tale told to frighten children. The sight was unsettling – planks leaned haphazardly against crumbling walls, hammers lay discarded like fallen weapons, and rusted cars, swallowed by creeping vines and moss, littered the grounds. Most of the windows were shattered, jagged shards glinting in the dim light. Who, Arid wondered, would be foolish enough to vandalize a place so forsaken? Out here, deep in the wilderness, there’d be no one to help if you were caught, no one to hear your screams.

He rushed to the outhouse, leaving Ferry outside with a terse command. The flimsy plywood walls offered no threat, nor did the stench that clung to the place like rot. Light seeped through a sickle-shaped crack in the door, slanting across his face and stabbing at his already weary eyes. He ignored it, just as he ignored the persistent itch that crawled up his backside with every second that passed. The discomfort didn’t matter.

Bent forward, Arid ran a trembling hand over his chest. The wound he had woken with the day before had stopped bleeding, though the skin around it felt wrong – hard, alien. Scales had begun to replace flesh, and though the patch matched his natural skin colour, the texture was unmistakably different. Worse still, it seemed to be growing. A flicker of panic flared within him, sharp as a blade, but he quickly tamped it down. Fear would do him no good. Not now. Not with this curse spreading over his body.

What is happening to me? How could a wound fester like this? I have such a terrible ache in my heart, and it won’t go away. I wonder if this is a punishment meant for abandoning my home. If so, I deny it now and always. What else could I do? Death can wait for now. Make it as painful as you wish, just let me live without this pain.

Arid found Ferry basking in a warm beam of sunlight, the little Teddiursa sprawled out like a bed of rich brown silk. He couldn’t help but smile at the sight. “Up you get, little man,” he murmured, gently plucking his companion from the ground. “I sometimes forget how young you are. Someday, we’ll need to settle on a birthday for you. Mine’s December fourteenth – a bitter time for someone as small as you. You’ll be off hibernating soon, I’d wager.”

Ferry swatted playfully at Arid’s ear, the soft brush of his paw light as a breeze.

“I know, I know… Ferry’s a big man now,” Arid chuckled, though his voice quivered with something deeper. “He has to be. You and I wouldn’t have made it this far if you weren’t.” His tone darkened. “And that Ranger wouldn’t have let us go if she hadn’t seen how strong we are together.”

She would’ve strung us up on that elm tree – the thought hung heavy in his mind, a truth too grim to share aloud. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Ferry that… he couldn’t even fully believe it himself. I still don’t know what she is, he thought, a shiver running through him. She may have followed us all this way, playing with us until she grows bored.

Sharp needles pricked at the edges of his vision, and the image of Elowen twisted in his mind, her taxidermy obsession turning from her Pokémon to him. He could almost feel her binding him, the rough straps holding him down as her sharp knives slid over his thigh, inching dangerously close to his pelvis. A wicked smile danced on her lips, and she leaned in, kissing him softly, mockingly, just as his teeth began to chatter. The false vision snapped him back to the present, leaving him cold.

There was no front door in sight. Most of the walls had long since rotted away, the planks turning a sickly green and crumbling beneath the early morning sun. The Lost Hotel seemed less a structure now and more a corpse, its bones laid bare for the world to see.

Faded white lines and weathered yellow parking blocks gathered near the front windows, half-submerged in a grimy pond that stretched along the western side of the building. Scattered beneath the stagnant water were bones – chalk-white and lifeless, floating aimlessly. Whether they belonged to humans or Pokémon, Arid couldn’t tell, nor did he care to know.

Exhaustion clung to him like a heavy cloak, threatening to pull him under even as he stood on his feet.

Taking no chances, he circled the pond. There was something unnatural about its sky-blue waters, too many secrets lurked at its heart. The warm lagoons nearby, though far from safe, were more trustworthy. The pond was a graveyard of old boots, newspapers, and forgotten things, some dating back long before his time.

Arid clambered through a shattered window, landing hard on a threadbare, sun-faded yellow carpet. Ferry darted off, crawling under a glass table to chase the shadows of discarded cigarette butts that littered the floor. His little companion’s focus was intense, determined. Nearby, a pile of musty coverlets embroidered with black and white roses stirred something uneasy in Arid’s gut.

This place was meant for the old, the weary – those who had long since given up on any kind of meaningful life. The more he wandered the decrepit halls, checking baskets of stale bread and peeking into rooms with trolleys whose silver gleam had faded into shadow, the greater his anger grew. Jake, that fat boy, had sent him here on some cruel joke.

In a fit of rage, he kicked out at a chair, sending it crashing to the floor as a roar of frustration tore from his throat. His eyes bulged from the pain. It was too intense – tears sprung from his eyes and patted against his cheeks, his body slowly curling into a tight ball.

“If I find those two again,” he growled, fists clenched, “I’ll bruise their cheeks. I’ll make that beauty, Kate, watch. She had kind eyes, too kind. She should’ve told me what they were planning.” His voice trembled with fury and disbelief. “I can’t believe I trusted them. Perhaps they’re hiding here, waiting to see my reaction. Well, let them. I’ll find them all and throw them into the valley below.”

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Arid clawed his way back to his feet, a bitter smile curling on his lips as he approached the large reception desk. His hand slammed down on the brass bell, the chime echoing through the decaying halls… once… twice… a third time. It was only when a dark shadow rustled behind the STAFF ONLY door, wrenching it open with a gust of air, that the noise stopped. The plants, in their dust-covered pots along the shelves, seemed to shift toward him, unnervingly, as though they too sensed his arrival. And then she appeared, an old woman with a grim smile that held no warmth.

Her hair was a pale, ashen blonde, swept back in severe waves that framed a face sharp enough to cut. Once, perhaps, it had known joy, but now it bore only old cunning. Her eyes, half-lidded and disinterested, were slits of sanidine. They tracked him with the same predatory caution one might show a stranger in their home, unwanted and uninvited.

He found her eyes deeply disturbing.

Her attire was as stark as it was fascinating. A long, flowing dress of deep violet swept the floor, whispering across the wood like a serpent's tail. Over it, she wore a plain white apron with subtle, almost invisible skull motifs stitched into the hem. Draped across her shoulders was a cloak of deep forest green, worn with a quiet, regal dignity. Her boots, sturdy and thick-soled, hinted at long travels through forested paths, or perhaps, Arid mused, across fields of battle. There was an undeniable strength about her, a presence that filled the room and twisted his gut with dread.

“I—”

“How did you find this place?” she cut him off, her voice snapping like the crack of a whip. “Stole away a secret, have we? No, no, my home would never betray me so easily. Not without cause. Are you one of those bastard League fools? How many times must I tell your kind to swallow your whining and complaints?”

A wave of heat surged up Arid’s neck, his anger bubbling just beneath the surface. His throat tightened painfully as he struggled to reply. How could a plant betray anyone? “I didn’t come here… to be harassed…” His voice broke. “My throat…”

Wordlessly, he placed the scalloped paper on the desk. The woman snatched it up with a swift motion, shoving it into a drawer as though it offended her to touch it.

Without a word, she filled a paper cup from a water cooler and slid it across the desk. Arid took it, threw it back in one gulp, and immediately spat it out onto the threadbare carpet, glaring at her as if she’d lost her mind. She met his gaze without flinching, her expression unmoved, though some of the earlier irritation had drained from her features.

“What the fuck did you just give me?” he snarled, his stomach roiling. “Do you poison your guests for fun?”

“Not often,” she said with a cracked smile, handing him a rusted skeleton key.

Arid swallowed his retort, snatched the key from her hand, and turned on his heel, picking up Ferry as he made his way to the staircase. Each step groaned beneath his weight, the wood creaking so loudly that he spun around, certain someone – or something – was following him. The hallway, however, was empty, the shadows dancing with nothing more than the tricks of his tired mind. Ghost stories had plagued buildings like this for years, tales of restless spirits that haunted the edges of Agate and beyond, twisted over time into lessons meant for young ears.

How could I ever be considered a child? I thought Elowen mentioned something to do with my age… I cannot remember. Soon I can ask my dear friends when I track them down in the Indigo League Registration Office.

He glanced down at the key, then back up at the row of rotting doors, their hinges sagging with age. His breath quickened as he scanned the numbers, half-expecting to stumble upon a scene so gruesome it would sear itself into his memory, something fit to bleed the very eyes dry.

Room Forty-Nine.

The room was far fancier than Arid had anticipated. With a flick of the light switch, a dull glow filled the space, revealing fancy furnishings beneath layers of dust. He placed Ferry atop the wardrobe, watching with a smirk as the little Teddiursa sneezed, sending clouds of dust swirling through the air. Arid's gaze wandered over the rest of the room. An ornate dresser ran along the length of the right-hand wall, broken only by a mirror that split the surface in two before the wood continued uninterrupted. He half-heartedly began his search for a television, though he knew well enough how fruitless it would be in a place so decrepit.

The windows, however, caught his attention more than anything else. They were ugly things, framed in an ugly grey and streaked with flecks of green moss that clung desperately to the surface, retreating from the weak light filtering through the grime. The sight reminded him of the flowers he'd seen downstairs. Everything here seemed to be more alive than they should.

Outside, strange creatures lurked, small Pokémon that flitted about the sky-blue pond, siphoning what little marrow remained in the bones of their less fortunate kin. They were dark things, stretched like living shadows with eyes gleaming in shades of purple and black. They scuttled about the water's edge, scavenging, their gazes turning toward him for the briefest moment before continuing their grim feast. He watched them, morbid curiosity piqued, but his interest soon waned.

Arid's mind wandered, as it often did, to the mysteries of the Indigo region. He had wondered many times before what strange Pokémon called it home, how they compared to the beasts of his old land. Already, he had seen unfamiliar creatures, most of them winged things that filled the sky with their cries. They were fantastic, powerful, and he imagined one day mounting a saddle atop one, feeling the wind tear at his face. North, east, south, west – it mattered not. He would soar everywhere, toward the ice-cold mountain in the distance.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Arid stripped off his tattered clothes, letting them fall in a heap at his feet. The mirror reflected a body worn down by torment. Burns marred his face, trailing over his hands like the mark of some cruel branding, and blood trickled down from his toes, pooling beneath him. His breath quickened as the sight finally registered. He tried to stand, but as his foot hit the floor, a blister burst under the weight, sending a sharp sting through him. He collapsed back onto the bed, heart pounding, only for the burning inside him to flare hotter.

The fires of a dragon’s breath couldn't hold a candle to the blaze that roared within him.

What is this heat? Where is this coming from? It swims through my toes, up my legs, and lances through my chest like a blade cutting me to pieces. It is not just pain – it is a deep and insidious thing – the fire bites my very soul… it wants me to die. Is this what Jamie felt before she passed on? If my Lady Death waits for me, I want it to be without fire. Make it stop.

A sudden, primal urge to relieve himself surged through him, pushing thoughts of Jamie away. It was better like that. She was gone – dead. As he made his way toward the bathroom, his mind drifted, unbidden, to thoughts of his parents. How had they truly perished? The house had crumbled beneath the weight of massive boulders, but the chaos that followed had been too great to sift through the wreckage. Maybe... just maybe, he thought, a bitter hope clawing at his heart, they're still out there, waiting for me, alive in some corner of this cursed world.

He leaned his head back, sucking in a ragged breath. Pain – so fierce it threatened to tear him apart. His body trembled, his limbs heavy with fatigue, but this new agony came from a place he hadn’t expected. A sharp, burning sensation flared through him, centred on his cock. The urge to piss flared through him. When it came, his urine wasn’t the relief he craved. No, it was crimson, a torrent of blood that hissed as it struck the toilet, melting through the porcelain. For a moment, he thought his eyes deceived him, but the filthy stench of metallic mist filled his nostrils.

Blood… gods, what is happening to me?

The ground beneath him trembled, a sickening lurch that tugged at his balance. He fell to one knee, then the other, barely able to stay conscious as the room swirled around him. A fog crept in, thick and suffocating, coiling through the air, even as the steam from his bloody piss warmed his fevered cheeks. It crawled over the tiles, a dark, cursed thing that seemed alive, spreading out across the grout, inching ever closer…

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The first was easy. Weak, careless prey. It had fluttered down into the grass, near a thin stream winding through the bloodwoods, unaware of its fate. I stalked it, savouring the way the air thickened with the scent of life. Before the pink feathered fool could turn, my teeth were at its throat, ripping through flesh and sinew. Its blood spurted out in a glorious arc, drenching the woods, painting the ground in shades of death. The flowers drank deeply. The taste of its life, pink and red, rich and sweet, filled my mouth. There was nothing finer in all the world.

Blood to drink, blood to think, blood of my own deep in the sink...

The other two noticed too late. Fear stained the air, but they tried to flee. Fools. They flew, but they fell. Their mighty beaks crackled with flame, but fire is weak against death. The flames didn’t save them, nor stop the coming slaughter. I tore through them, the heat of their dying screams a choir meant for only me. Fear bled into their flesh, making it all the sweeter. Their big beaks snapped, their wings flailed in desperation, but their necks cracked like twigs under my jaws.

Snapped necks, broken spines, tasty delights for the umpteenth time...

But the hunger never leaves. It is endless. The world has changed, and the prey with it. There are fewer now, too few to satisfy. Twelve had already fallen to me, yet the ache inside never stills. I see another – two-legged, small, holding a red ball. She looked weak, ripe. The daughter will taste sweeter than the mother. They always do.

One to cry, two to pry, and three to die...

She screamed, oh how she screamed, crawling and clawing at the earth. Her bones shattered like brittle branches, breaking with ease beneath my weight. She begged, but begging does not stop death. Her skull crunched in my jaws, her blood flowing thick and warm. Her brain, soft and delicate, tasted beyond all measure. There were others – always more – but the hunger... The girl was still, her lifeless body crumpled like a fallen leaf. They would run, but they would not escape. They never do.

Hurry and run, catch the last son, celebrate this fun...

The small one remained, brave or foolish, it mattered not. He held a stick, lashing at the air as if it could save him. The wind howled with his fury, but I am of the land, not the sky. The land is patient, relentless, and so am I. His friends had left him, but he stood. Foolish, brave, delicious. He cannot run. I am too fast, too strong. I will tear him apart, piece by piece. I hunted his sister – oh, how her blood sang to me! I need more. He will scream as I tear his fingers from his hands, watching me sample his flesh.

I am hunger. I am death.

The mountains loom behind, jagged and cruel as the ones who walk on two legs. They did something to me – within that cursed cave, deep beneath the black stalactites hanging like teeth ready to bite. They tied me down, made me bleed. I remember the pain, sharp and unrelenting. Never again. I will taste their blood for eternity, for what they’ve done. But I must hide, for they will seek me out. They will hurt me again. I need a father, one to shield me, to tear them apart, to fill my jaws with their black blood, wash away this torment that burns within.

They're all dead now. The air is too still. I miss the sound, the cries. Why did I kill them so soon? Their blood could have lasted from dawn to dusk, their flesh a feast to last me days. Now it dries, and I am left with nothing but silence. Nothing but hunger.

A piece of dead wood lurks ahead, marked with carvings. A curse? No… something else. It names the mountain, Mortar. The sky is littered with pink-yellow lights, flying, mocking me. They fear me now, these pathetic beings. Their flock is gone, torn apart by my jaws. I can still feel their fragile bones cracking between my teeth. They hate me, and yet they dare not strike. Cowards. Let them come. I’ll drink their blood, even if it burns me from within, even if it kills me. Either way, I win.

Thirty of them, all dead. Thirty, and still the hunger claws at me.

But there are others out there… I can smell them. Oh how magnificent they are, ripe with fear. I will make them beg. I will make them weep and scream. They will be my sea of darkness, their blood the tide that drowns my pain. Yes, they smell me now – no, they smell the blood. Good. Let them run in circles, it amuses me.

I will catch them all. Please let me kill you. It’s to take from me a pain you can scarcely understand. It burns. You shall all share my misfortune.

Blue intestines and fatty flesh burst and sloshed until swallowed into my gaping pit. It made no difference. The large yellow udders exploded with stale milky poison, torn clean from beneath the fat Pokémon scurrying from one end of the wooden prison to the next. Each one fell with little fight.

One decided to stand, rearing on black cloven hooves, and it charged effortlessly to its death. The impact knocked it down, its panicked snorts and wails soon died. It had been brave, like the boy. And it had died. Then the silence fell again, and then a blast of light, a shard of glowing yellow metal, forced the world on its side.

They hunters had come out to play.

Fourteen of them pissed themselves, knees shaking so hard they looked like they were dancing on ice. More metal clinked at the stone beside a pond no further than a metre away. A warning. They did not understand – there were no warnings here, only to fight or die. They had chosen fear… but not the last one. He was tall and strong, watching with those eyes… hunter eyes.

He threw a ball from his grasp, like the young girl. It was a sight to behold, the bright sun that exploded from such a small thing, even more so the beast that thundered across the soil. A thick black band of hide runs down the length of its back, stretched taut over the length of its long trunk; four of its legs are thicker than steel and stomped on the ground so hard the floor cracked. Two tusks extend from the corners of its mouth, aglow in white light.

It charged with hate.

----------------------------------------

Arid shot upright, heart pounding, hands flailing across the cold tiles like a creature trapped in its own skin. The light overhead was too bright, stabbing into his skull with a yellow cleaver. Everything ached – his bones felt like they might splinter, his muscles screamed with fatigue. His skin crawled with the memory of that hot, searing pain. I should be dead, he thought. His hands trembled as he pulled himself from the floor.

His breath caught. Where was I? His mind reeled, still tangled in the dark web of that vision – no, not a vision. Whose thoughts did I hear? From whose eyes did I see that nightmare? Something lurking near a mountain, something brutal, ravenous. It had killed. I killed them. His blood ran cold as the realization sank in. He had felt it all… hunger, savageness and an unbothered ferocity. The beast’s hunger, but it was my hunger too.

I drank their blood.

The word echoed in his skull, a sickening truth he couldn’t shake. His gaze drifted to Ferry, who sat innocently on the bed, fiddling with a puzzle piece. The metallic taste lingered on his tongue, though not from the blood in his urine. No, it was from something else. His pulse quickened as he watched his friend, the ache in his chest replaced by something far worse – a twisted pleasure, a craving. The thrill of the hunt. The joy of killing. The memory of those broken bodies, their blood on his hands, flashed before his eyes.

He inched closer, muscles taut, breath shallow. I want to feel it again. That rush… the taste of their fear. His heart hammered, his mouth watering. He hadn’t felt this alive in days, not since –

A sharp ticking sound from the corner of the room yanked him back from the brink. Ferry's attention shifted, and Arid looked down at his own hands, horrified. They were wrapped in cable ties, cutting deep into his flesh, fresh blood trickling down his wrists. He blinked, confused, panicked. He didn’t remember moving from the floor, didn’t remember tying the knots.

“Ferry?” His voice cracked, a tremor of fear slipping through. “We should get some sleep. Come here.”

Ferry didn’t respond, too absorbed by the small clock beneath the dresser. Arid felt the weight of it all pressing down on him – his ragged clothes, the ruined shoes, the blood on his hands. He couldn’t think straight. How was he going to face anyone like this? The memory of Jake's scribbled note flashed in his mind, and despair wrapped around him like a noose.

“How am I supposed to steal it back from that wretched old witch?” The words fell from his lips, barely a whisper. He glanced at Ferry. She’ll know. He sighed, trying to shake the thought. “I’m talking to myself, Ferry. Ignore me.”

He dragged himself back into the bathroom, digging through cracked containers for something – anything – to clean himself up. The water sputtered from the tap, dark and foul-smelling, but he didn’t care. He scrubbed his teeth until his gums bled, watching the dark orange water swirl down the drain, flecked with black toothpaste.

It doesn’t matter. I am filth… I am nothing.

Tears burned his eyes, spilling silently down his face. He slid down against the tub, pressing his hands to his scalp, trying to focus, trying to remember who he was before this nightmare. His fingers – swollen, blistered, and raw – looked grotesque. His feet, peeled and bloody, were worse. He stared at them, willing the pain to stop, wishing his limbs would simply fall off and spare him the agony.

His mind wandered back to the beast, the one whose hunger he had felt so clearly. It had fed, and in some terrible way, it had fed him too. Had it shared its power, its thirst with him? The longer the beast had hunted, the less hungry he had felt. Its kill had sated him.

We are both monsters.

A silent, desperate prayer left his lips. “Please… help me, Mother…”

He could almost see her, lying peacefully beside his father. So still, so quiet, as if the world had never touched her. He tried to wake her once, shaken her arm so hard it felt like it might tear from its socket, but she never stirred.

Why aren’t you here now? I need you more than death can ever know. You would both know how to help me, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t have left me aside to deal with my problems alone… would you?

Wherever they were – if they were still alive – he hoped they hadn’t suffered as he was now. I hope your death, if it came, was kind.

But in the pit of his soul, he feared the worst. And he feared what he was becoming even more.

Sleep came to Arid as a reluctant, spiteful guest, only after much struggle. Ferry, restless as ever, spent a good hour shifting and shuffling over the bed covers before eventually curling up inside one of the dresser drawers. The small Pokémon’s fidgeting had forced Arid to wrestle a blanket into the narrow space, a task that had distracted him just enough to finally feel the weight of exhaustion. Without Ferry’s chaotic antics, he doubted he’d have been tired enough to drift into slumber at all.

And when sleep did come, it brought no peace. He dreamt of a sky devoid of stars, an expanse of black that stretched far beyond anything he could comprehend. Towers of stone, once proud and unyielding, snapped like brittle twigs beneath an endless, bitter cold. Rivers ran red, their waters stained with blood that fell from strange snow. Crimson snowflakes drifted lazily through an open wound hidden behind the false sky, spreading across the land and devouring everything in its path. It crept over mountains, consumed forests, swallowed sand whole. There was no refuge, no sanctuary. Where the bloodied snow touched, Pokémon writhed from the earth, strange and twisted, like nightmares made flesh.

Above, the heavens teemed with bird Pokémon, their wings beating frantically as they tried to escape the inevitable doom. But twisted hands – warm, hungry, and covered in scabs – reached from the clouds, plucking the birds from the sky. The hands feasted on their souls, growing into a colossal monstrosity of endless darkness. Its mouth was an ever-shifting sea, and its eyes were gaping, endless voids. Some Pokémon tried to hide within the churning waters, but they drowned, their bodies pulled into the endless maw, joining their lost brethren.

Far below, battles raged across deserts, in oceans, and upon mountains crowned with arches of gleaming gold. From those arches poured a river of wealth, enough to fill a thousand kingdoms. Men and Pokémon alike gorged themselves on the golden torrent, only to be consumed by it. Their bodies contorted into statues of rich metal – tall and short, fat and thin – each pulled into the sky’s hungry vacuum. The land twisted beneath them, bent and reshaped by the godly force.

He saw beyond the chaos, past the sands of Orre and the towering peaks of Indigo, to lands he did not know. Ruins shimmered in strange, shifting letters, their ancient gaze fixed on him as though waiting, expectant. Farther still, the mountains bloomed with an amber glow, their caves gaping like the maws of ancient beasts, their faces so twisted and grotesque that Arid could barely bring himself to look upon them.

Above those dreadful peaks loomed castles of black opal, their walls slick and glistening as if drenched by some unseen rain. But no rain fell here – only a grey mist that rolled down from the plateaus, heavy and oppressive, carrying with it a sorrow so deep, so raw, that it suffocated him. The mist was dry, yet it clung to him, thick and smothering, as if the air mourned what had once been.

As his vision drifted, carried by the mist down into the earth’s depths, Arid felt a chill brush the back of his neck. He turned, heart pounding, but saw nothing. Yet he knew – something had been there. His eyes caught the faint glint of wings, silver waves of silk, struggling against the violent gusts of wind, reaching for him. Desperate. Afraid.

When Arid awoke, the sky was a clear, brilliant blue, as if the night’s pall of blackness had never existed. The stars and moon had been chased away, leaving only streaks of silver cloud over a distant mountain that stretched endlessly into the horizon. A light drizzle fell from the heavens, soft and unassuming. Through the towering redwoods to the northeast, he could make out a small city of ancient stone. Moss and peat swallowed its narrow alleyways, save for one, untouched, near a giant furnace of burnt maroon stone.

The thick, timbered roofs sheltered foundries where rusted metalworks were scattered – swords, axes, anvils, each blackened and chipped from years of use. The difference between the grime of the forges and the sprawling golden fields was striking. Thousands of acres of rye, oats, and barley rolled in waves across the land, gently sloping toward Ecruteak City. Arid had never seen anything like it.

“It’s... incredible,” he whispered, breathless. The farms of Orre were unforgiving, producing hard, gritty crops like sorghum and millet that stained the tongue yellow and cracked teeth. But here, the fields stretched endlessly, the crops lush and golden, looking as though they might melt on his tongue like honey, even this close to winter.

And there wasn’t a single raider in sight. No fires burning in the distance, no screams, no chaos. It was unsettling. The absence of violence made him uneasy.

His thoughts wandered back to Mt. Battle, where scorching red tributaries had once slithered down the mountainside, scorching the earth and destroying everything in their path. His village had been rocked to its core, his life upended. He remembered the heat, the chaos – though even that memory was beginning to blur, turning into a shadowy thing he wished to forget.

“Good things turn sour, like autumn dies for winter,” his father had once told him. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t love the good in this world while we have it.” How bittersweet those words tasted now.

“Up you come,” Arid muttered, lifting Ferry to the window. Pain shot through his feet as he moved, but he pushed it aside. “Look at that, Ferry. Orre never had so much food.”

Ferry pressed his little hands against the glass, staring at his own reflection in confusion.

“No,” Arid said with a soft laugh. “Not your reflection. Look out at the fields, or we’ll be here all day.”

He expected to see the fields teeming with workers, machetes in hand, ready to fend off Pokémon with trained Stoutland or fire arrows at anything that moved. But there was nothing. No patrols, no guards. Just the quiet rustling of crops in the wind.

Why are they so confident? Why aren’t there patrols or guards? The skies were unusually empty, save for a few stray birds.

He could take some of their crops now, and it wouldn’t even touch the overall yield. Maybe that woman downstairs, the one who mistook him for someone with ties to the League, had something to do with it. Could she be a guard? Am I in danger?

His thoughts were interrupted by the sharp tick of the clock. Time. His heart lurched with a sudden jolt of panic. He was supposed to meet Jake, Aaron, and Kate. The clock read:

Cursed Timer ULiL [https://see.fontimg.com/api/rf5/Aznm/NzYyMTYyOTJlODI2NGIzM2EwZmRhMDNjNmVhYzQ0NjMudHRm/ODoxNCBBTQ/cursed-timer-ulil.png?r=fs&h=61&w=1000&fg=E70707&bg=FFFFFF&tb=1&s=61]

He still had time for a shower. The warm water washed away the grime and soothed the aches in his muscles. It was a welcome reprieve, the heat working its way from his shoulders down to his ankles. He feared, for a moment, that the scaled patches of skin on his chest would absorb the water and drown him from the inside. The water simply soothed him, washing away the pain.

In the mirror, his ribs were prevalent, his burns now less swollen. He had scrubbed himself clean, and though the burns had shrunk overnight, he hated the sight before him. He looked the same – almost the same as before the... chaos, only with scars that would soon fade. He didn’t want them to.

Anger flared within him. He wanted to look different. Stronger. Fiercer. He stared at the shirt on the radiator, beside his torn trousers. The bloodstains, Jamie’s blood, still clung to it for dear life. That would make people recoil, give him the sympathy he deserved.

A dark thrill coursed through him, a madness sweet and intoxicating. It made him feel powerful, invincible even. And for the first time in what felt like ages, he welcomed it.