The jungle was alive with rot and silence, a paradox that screamed in Ethan's ears. Damp moss clung to the roots of towering blackwood trees, and the canopy above blotted out the moonlight like a suffocating veil. A humid stench of blood and decay hung thick in the air, and every leaf seemed to drip with silent judgment. Somewhere in this twilight underworld, death was taking its slow, inevitable steps.
Hidden behind the thick trunk of a twisted tree, Ethan crouched like a shadow carved from hatred. He wasn't hiding out of fear. He was waiting—calculating. Watching.
The opportunity had to be perfect.
Not far ahead, the once-proud mother Arcanine stood on trembling legs. Her side was torn open, bleeding heavily, her breathing ragged. The Feraligatr that had ambushed them had been relentless, and though it too bore deep wounds—jagged slashes along its belly, broken scales and a gouged eye—it remained terrifying. Powerful. Dangerous. Too dangerous for Ethan to face directly. Especially not with just his Sandile.
But that Arcanine... she was a weapon. A dying, furious, desperate weapon. And he needed her alive long enough to kill the monster in front of her.
If she died now, he'd have to take on the Feraligatr and the robed man alone.
That was not a risk he intended to take.
Ethan narrowed his eyes, the eerie crimson glow of his DexBand faint against his wrist. With a subtle flick of his finger, he gave Sandile a silent order.
Strike. Fast. Brutal.
Sandile burst from the underbrush with a hiss, its fangs aimed straight for the man in crimson robes—another servant of the cult. Just like the woman earlier.
But this man was no fool. He sensed the ambush a heartbeat before it landed. He twisted, avoiding the fatal blow, but not fast enough. Sandile's fangs sank deep into his side, shredding flesh and sending him sprawling with a howl of pain.
Ethan exhaled slowly. That wound would do.
Distraction.
He repeated the maneuver—ambush, retreat, ambush again. Always from the shadows. The man, now bleeding and staggering, kept his focus split between Sandile and the battlefield, exactly as Ethan intended. The Arcanine, given that brief reprieve, lunged forward again with renewed rage, crashing into the Feraligatr in a whirlwind of flame and fang.
But time was slipping through Ethan's fingers like blood-soaked sand. The jungle would not forgive delay. Every second he remained here, more predators would stir. Human and otherwise.
He would have to end this.
No more games.
Ethan stepped from the shadows, his cloak catching the moonlight for just a second before vanishing into the gloom once more.
The cultist turned, eyes wide. "You—stay back!" he snarled, voice quivering with anger and hidden fear. "You don't understand who you're dealing with! I'm part of the Crimson Eclipse! Do you know what that means, boy?!"
Ethan was silent at first. Then he smiled. Not a kind smile. Not even a cold one. It was something worse—a smile without empathy.
Then, he laughed.
A low, mocking chuckle that echoed too long through the twisted trees.
"I'm not blind," he said quietly. "You think I didn't see your ridiculous robes? Your so-called 'insignia of fear?'" He tilted his head. "You must be new."
The cultist froze. That laugh—that laugh—was colder than any blizzard, darker than the jungle itself. And then Ethan spoke again, voice as soft as a whisper and as cutting as a blade.
"I don't give a damn about you. Or your cult. Or your pathetic belief in borrowed power. I'm taking the Growlithe."
His eyes narrowed.
"You can keep your friends company... up there."
Before the man could respond, Sandile struck again—sinking its teeth deep into Feraligatr's wounded leg. The reptilian beast bellowed in pain, stumbling as its body began to falter. That was all the Arcanine needed.
She surged forward in a final act of fury, jaws locking onto Feraligatr's thick neck. The jungle echoed with the crunch of bone as she bit down with all her remaining strength.
Feraligatr roared, claws raking at her flanks in desperation, but her grip only tightened.
Ethan observed those wounds with calculated gaze for a moment .
Until—
Sandile turned again. This time, it lunged at the Arcanine.
The moment of betrayal was quiet. Brutal. Perfectly timed.
Its fangs sank into the already-torn flesh of the Arcanine's neck—right where Feraligatr had left its mark—and ripped a chunk of meat free with savage glee.
The Arcanine's eyes widened in shock and betrayal. She had thought they were allies—partners against a greater enemy.
She was wrong.
Blood sprayed across the leaves as both she and Feraligatr collapsed, twitching, choking, dying. Neither rose again.
Only the cultist remained.
Frozen.
He never got the chance to scream.
Sandile's jaws closed around the man's skull with a wet crunch. For a heartbeat, his body stood headless—then collapsed like a marionette with cut strings.
Silence fell.
In the clearing, three corpses bled out under the jungle's cruel canopy.
And then, there were two.
Ethan stood motionless for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Blood dripped from his face, soaked into his clothes, painted his Sandile like war paint. The little crocodile padded over to him and stood at his side, eyes gleaming with savage pride.
Ethan looked down.
"Well done," he said simply.
Then, he walked toward the small, trembling form half-buried in the undergrowth.
The Growlithe.
It was covered in ash and blood—its mother's blood. Its small chest rose and fell with sobs it no longer had the strength to voice. Its eyes met Ethan's, and in them were two emotions tangled together like fire and wire:
Fear.
And hate.
Ethan knelt beside it, crouching low so they were face to face.
"You know," he said softly, "I was just like you once."
The Growlithe whimpered.
"I watched my parents bleed out too. Watched them die on the floor, begging, crying. For what?" His voice darkened. "Some coins. A few scraps. They were killed by bandits like they were nothing."
He smiled again. It didn't reach his eyes.
"That was the day I learned: weakness is the greatest sin. The greatest crime. The only one this world truly punishes."
He leaned closer.
"So I made a promise. I would become strong. No matter what. No matter who I had to hurt. And do you know how I started?"
The Growlithe blinked, tears still falling.
"I begged those bandits to take me in. Licked their boots. Slept in the dirt. Spent a year doing everything they told me to do.why ? Because i want to learn how to survive in this world and what better teacher than those who lived by looting others. I robbed with them. Killed with them. Learned everything about them."
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"And then I poisoned them. Paralyzed them. Killed twenty-three of them in under a minute. Not for revenge. But because I could. And they forgot how to survive."
The Growlithe's breathing slowed.
Ethan extended a blood-smeared hand.
"I see it in your eyes. You want strength. You want power. I'll give it to you. And when you think you're strong enough—when you believe you're ready to kill me—you're welcome to try."
He held out a Pokéball.
The Growlithe stared.
Then, slowly, with a trembling growl, it bit Ethan's hand—hard. Blood ran down his wrist. He didn't flinch.
The Growlithe held his gaze... then tapped the Pokéball with its paw.
A red light swallowed it whole.
Ethan stood, staring at the blood on his palm.
He smiled.
Ethan smiled, cradling his bleeding hand.
The jungle remained silent.
But something new stirred in its shadows—a predator born.
The jungle watched in silence as the boy and his blood-soaked Sandile vanished into the trees, leaving behind corpses and a story that would never be told.