Riven walked steadily along the beaten path that stretched beyond Velridge Town, each step pressing lightly into the warm earth. The morning sun loomed low on the horizon, veiled behind a curtain of pale mist. Its light spilled over the dirt trail in hazy bands of dull gold, glinting off dew-laced blades of grass and the occasional broken cobble buried in the soil. The air was thick with the scent of damp greenery and faint, wild pollen that drifted like invisible motes from the edge of the Mourningveil Jungle. The chorus of distant chirps and rustling leaves gave the landscape a sense of quiet, alert life.
Though Riven's ribs still throbbed beneath his shirt with the memory of bruises, the herbal salves and slow-release painkillers prescribed by the town's medic dulled the sting enough for motion. He walked with an instinctive caution, neither rushing nor dawdling. His mind sharpened on his destination—his first real mission, one sanctioned by the guild, just half a day ahead.
His breath slowed into a rhythm with his stride.
But then—he felt it.
A subtle shift in the air. The kind of wrongness that prickled up your spine and whispered to your gut. That weight behind the eyes, like something just out of view was watching.
He stopped.
Just up ahead, where the path bent and sunlight broke through the trees in sharp, pale beams, stood a figure—no, a presence.
The man was massive, a slab of flesh wrapped in dirty rags, arms folded across a chest like stacked crates. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, but his smile was not. It was too wide. Too toothy. The kind of smile that only ever meant trouble.
"Oi, boy," the thug called, voice low and gravelly, like rocks being ground beneath an old wheel. "Hand over all your coin, your 'mon, and anything else worth a damn."
Riven stared. He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand across his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as if warding off a growing headache. "Seriously? Already?"
The man chuckled, the sound cruel and lazy. "What, didn't think the world was that welcoming, did ya?"
Riven's gaze drifted to the thug's stance—centered, confident, calloused hands suggesting years of work, or fights, or both. The man was strong. Likely stronger than him. But not by an insurmountable margin.
"What happens if I say no?" Riven asked calmly.
The thug's grin widened into something feral. "Then I'll show you what regret feels like. Don't worry, it'll be quick." He cracked his knuckles, a harsh popping sound like distant fireworks. "You're not the first greenhorn I've dealt with. Been a lot of folks passin' through lately. Mostly kids with big dreams and empty skulls."
He took a step forward, but hesitated, eyes narrowing bitterly.
"Times've been tough since that damn general rolled into town. With him breathing down everyone's neck, all the fun's been choked out. Barely any whisper of underground work left. So, yeah—gotta get by somehow."
He shrugged, as if that explained everything. As if robbing travelers was just part of his job description.
"Of course," Riven sighed. "Why does everyone I meet talk like a villain from a cheap comic?"
The man snorted. "Maybe 'cause it works."
With practiced ease, he reached for a Pokéball and clicked it open. A flash of red light shot forward, materializing into a shrieking Zubat that circled the thug's head with erratic flaps of its veined wings.
"You're lucky, kid. My good 'mons ain't with me today. But this one's more than enough for a brat."
Riven moved to his belt, fingers brushing Aron's ball—but paused as Froakie stepped in front of him. The small amphibian Pokémon stood tall—well, as tall as he could manage—his wide yellow eyes fixed on the enemy.
He glanced up at Riven and gave a subtle nod.
"You want this one?" Riven asked, surprised.
Froakie didn't answer with words. He didn't have to.
There was a calm in his stance—a focus.
Riven's lips twitched. "Alright then. Let's dance."
The thug wasted no time. "Zubat! Wing Attack!"
Zubat screeched and dived, wings glowing a pale silver as they cut through the air like razors. The sound of flapping filled the space between them like a swarm descending.
"Dodge left!" Riven barked.
Froakie leapt with ease, the shimmering wings slicing empty air where he'd just stood. He landed in a low crouch, limbs tense, eyes following every twitch of the enemy's path.
The thug growled. "You fast, huh? Let's see how long that lasts. Supersonic!"
Zubat shrieked again, unleashing a pulse of disorienting sound. The air shimmered with the attack, and Riven felt his ears buzz with static.
"Move, Froakie! Keep circling!"
Froakie darted right, then left again in an unpredictable pattern, the sonic wave narrowly missing him. Riven's heart thudded. He had to take the offensive.
"Water Pulse!"
Froakie extended his webbed fingers, calling forth a rippling sphere of compressed water that spun with increasing speed. It shimmered like a living mirror—then launched forward with explosive force.
The Water Pulse smashed into Zubat mid-flight. The bat screeched as the attack sent it spiraling into the canopy. It righted itself a second later, dazed but not down.
"Quick Attack!" Riven called.
Froakie blurred into motion, appearing behind the Zubat and slamming into its wing joint. The enemy tumbled again, this time barely managing to stay aloft.
"Use Lick!" Riven followed.
Froakie's tongue lashed out like a whip, coated with ghostly energy, and struck Zubat squarely. The bat spasmed in midair, wings faltering.
"Paralysis," Riven muttered with a small smile. "Nice."
"Shake it off!" the thug roared.
But Zubat could barely keep flight. Its wings twitched erratically, its body spasming in place.
"Water Pulse. One more time."
The second blast hit true, smashing Zubat into the dirt with a wet, meaty thud. It let out a final squeal before collapsing in a heap.
The thug snarled and returned the fainted creature with a beam of red light.
"Tch... damn runt."
His expression twisted. Without warning, he began to storm forward, fists clenched, eyes wide with bruised ego and intent to harm.
But before he could reach Riven, a silver blur shot past the boy's side. Aron—silent, unnoticed until now—charged in with a metallic growl.
He hurled a glowing stone from his jaws.
Crack!
The Rock Throw struck the thug in the shin with a nasty, echoing impact.
The man howled in pain and dropped to his knees, clutching the bruised limb.
Riven stepped forward, now casting a long shadow over the defeated man. His eyes were steady, cold with resolve that belied his age.
"Try someone else next time," he said flatly.
He reached into the man's coat and took a small wad of bills—likely stolen from others—and turned away without another word.
Behind him, the trees swayed in the wind, uncaring.
The rest of the day passed in fragments of green and gold as Riven pressed deeper into the wilderness. The trail became less distinct, the trees taller, more tangled. Wild Pokémon appeared at intervals—each encounter a test. Froakie darted between claws and fangs with increasing grace. Aron's defenses solidified. Every battle honed their coordination, their trust.
His ribs ached. His boots were caked with dust and crushed leaves. But something inside him—something raw and flickering—grew stronger.
He was no longer the boy who had stepped out of Kaer Vaelen full of dreams.
Now, he was shaping into something real.
The wind carried strange sounds as the sun dipped lower. Distant howls. The crackle of leaves crushed by something unseen.
Riven didn't flinch. He kept walking.
The path ahead was uncertain.
But he would meet it, step by step.
And somewhere, hidden in the dark weave of ruin and jungle, far crueler challenges waited.