Kaer Vaelen was a city of edges-perched between civilization and wilderness, progress and ruin,
memory and ambition. From afar, it looked like any other mid-tier settlement, nestled in the cradle of
gently sloping hills and guarded on one side by the towering obsidian cliffs of the Mourning Mountains, and on the other by the whispering, dark expanse of the Mourning Veil.
At its heart, ancient ruins slumbered beneath the surface-forgotten catacombs and weathered stonework
whispered of a time before organized power, before the great cities rose and fell in the never-ending cycle of conquest. Old lamplights cast warm orange glows along cobblestone paths, and moss crawled up the timeworn buildings that clung to the town's heritage. Even in the growing digital age,
Kaer Vaelen remained a place where stories lingered longer than technology, and the past was a
weight everyone carried.
Though a smaller city by the standards of the wider world, Kaer Vaelen had once been known for its
serene beauty and relative peace. It wasn't a hub of commerce or battle-it was a home. Towering
oak trees shaded narrow alleys, and rooftops bore solar tiles over weathered shingles. Children
played in dusty schoolyards while guards in iron-gray uniforms patrolled the outer gates, watching
for wild Pokémon and worse. The Wilds weren't far. Every now and then, a rogue creature would
wander too close, forcing local trainers to respond. But that was part of life here. The real danger lay
not in the forest's teeth-but in the shadows deeper still. Whispers spoke of cults and corrupted
Pokémon, of ruins that held secrets no one dared disturb. Kaer Vaelen thrived because its people
didn't ask too many questions. Until, eventually, the past came looking for them.
Among its inhabitants lived a boy named Riven. He stood tall at eighteen, with raven-black hair that
defied combs, and abyss-dark eyes that never quite stopped scanning the horizon. He had always
been a quiet one-sharp, observant, but prone to daydreams and silent wanderings. His fair skin and
strong build hinted at good breeding, and his gentle smile often masked the storm brewing behind his gaze. To many, he was simply the son of a respectable family. But behind his calm exterior lay
scars: the mystery of a dead brother, a protective upbringing that left him behind when other kids
became trainers. Where others chased badges, Riven waited. Not because he lacked talent-he had
enrolled in the regional Pokémon Academy at age ten, just like everyone else. But his parents,
haunted by the loss of their firstborn, never allowed him to take the Trainer Licensing Exam. They feared the path that had stolen their elder son would claim Riven next.
Riven's home stood on the edge of Kaer Vaelen's southern ring-a modest two-story house adorned
with ivy and the scent of home-cooked stew. Inside lived his parents and younger sister Mira, but the
soul of the house had always been their grandfather: Gideon. Once a top-tier trainer who brushed
shoulders with legends, Gideon now wore his age like a weathered coat-tired, proud, and
unshakably wise. His silver beard flowed down like a river of time, and his voice had the calm gravity
of a man who'd seen kingdoms rise and crumble. He was more than a mentor-he was a living
archive. It was Gideon who first placed a Poké Ball in Riven's hand. It was Gideon who said, "No
matter what, don't forget who you are. This world will try to shape you. Resist it. Or master it."
Despite his retirement, Gideon's stories lit fires in the hearts of his grandchildren. He taught them
how to read the wind before a battle, how to respect the will of a Pokémon, and most of all, how to
endure loss. Riven never forgot the night his older brother Varek vanished during an expedition into
the Mourning Veil. The search turned up nothing-just whispers and guilt. Since then, his parents had
clung to Riven like porcelain. But Gideon... Gideon knew. He understood that some losses couldn't
be mourned forever. And so, as Riven approached his eighteenth year, the old man pushed quietly
from the shadows. He reminded Riven of his strength, his instincts, and most of all, his right to
choose his path. Now, finally, with his parents reluctantly relenting, Riven would step onto the road
that had been calling his name for eight long years.
The Velridge Academy, where Riven had trained, was located just past the Mourning Veil Wilds, in a safer enclave closer to the next tier town. Though not as prestigious as the Capital Academies in the
great cities, it boasted excellent faculty, a grueling curriculum, and live combat simulations that
prepared trainers for the brutality of the wilds. Here, students learned more than just move types and
battle stats-they learned how to navigate the power web of the world, how to broker with factions,
and how to survive when loyalty cost more than gold. Riven had stood out early on. Despite his lack
of field experience, he was a tactician at heart-quiet but decisive, patient but relentless. His
connection with Pokémon, particularly with his starter-an iron-bodied Aron-was deep, and felt less
like command, more like kinship.
But this world was no playground.
The world beyond Kaer Vaelen was fractured and immense, ruled not by nations but by
mega-cities-vast urban leviathans governed by elite families, corporate syndicates, ancient guilds, or
theocratic orders. The continents themselves-like Tenebria, Riven's own-were each controlled by
dominant noble lineages. On Tenebria, the ruling force was House Baifeng, a cold and calculating
bloodline known for their mastery of psychic Pokémon and information warfare. Every city was
tiered, from the gleaming Tier 1 Capitals where policy was shaped and wars declared, to Tier 6
villages barely clinging to recognition. In this hierarchy, power wasn't granted-it was seized, fought
for, and defended with blood.
Trainer ranks followed similar logic. To become a licensed trainer, one had to pass the Global
Licensing Examination-a deadly gauntlet of knowledge, combat, and survival skills. Only then could
one be recognized as a lawful trainer, capable of commanding more than a single Pokémon,
entering protected zones, and registering in tournaments or missions. Those who passed were then
ranked by performance, fusion potential, and reputation. Legendary trainers-those capable of
Fusion, the rare phenomenon where humans could merge with their Pokémon in moments of perfect
unity-stood at the summit. Such power was myth to most, but to the ruling families, it was very real,and often the key to their dynasties' survival.
In this world, strength was everything. The ability to tame, bond, and battle with Pokémon was
currency, status, and survival all at once. Beneath the glittering towers of Capital cities, black
markets traded in corrupted Pokémon, captured fusions, and illegal augmentations. Cults whispered
prayers to forgotten legends, and entire factions operated outside the laws of city councils.
There were no true heroes-only players in a game older and bloodier than most dared imagine.
Riven would soon discover this firsthand. For outside the safe walls of Velridge and Kaer Vaelen, destiny
stirred.
And it would not wait.