Riven crouched low in the underbrush, his breath shallow and his mind spiraling. The forest around him had grown unnaturally still, as if even the wind dared not speak. He'd escaped one threat, only to stumble into another—his clothes torn, muscles sore, and heart pounding like a war drum. He was tired. And yet he knew the moment he allowed fatigue to take him, it would be his end. He stared into the darkness of the Mourning Veil Wilds and asked himself again: What now?
2.
His options were few and fleeting. Aron was strong for his size and young age, loyal to the core—but he wasn't ready for whatever abomination hunted them now. Riven felt it in his bones. That thing coming after them... it wasn't normal. He could run deeper into the woods, but that would only prolong the inevitable. He had no allies nearby, no town to retreat to, and no time to wait. The corrupted zones were unpredictable. This wasn't a place for hesitation.
3.
His hand brushed against the cold soil. The weight of the earth felt grounding, but also like a reminder of the grave that might await him. His thoughts flickered to his sister, Mira. Did she feel fear like this too? And to his grandfather Gideon, whose words had echoed in his head ever since he left Kaer Vaelen: "There are no hopeless situations—only hopeless thinking." Riven gritted his teeth. He couldn't let panic win. Not here. Not now.
4.
Then, he heard it—heavy footsteps, erratic but deliberate. Branches cracking. Leaves shifting. The man was close now. Too close. Less than thirty meters away. Riven held his breath as the sound of frantic pacing pierced through the stillness. The man was searching—desperate, almost unhinged in the way his voice muttered and cursed. And then, a snap of a Poké Ball echoed through the trees.
5.
From that ball emerged a creature Riven recognized... but not entirely. Mightyena? The silhouette was right. The stance, the snarl. But the details—it was all wrong. Horribly wrong.
6.
This Mightyena was monstrous in size—nearly double the height and bulk of a normal one. Its fur, instead of being a sleek black, was a grotesque swirl of ghostly white and unnatural purples. Veins pulsed beneath the surface of its flesh, glowing faintly with a sickly hue. Its body rippled like something unstable, as if its form hadn't fully settled into one reality.
7.
The jaw was the worst part—jagged, oversized, and protruding in a way that made Riven feel like it had been stretched by force. Teeth jutted out at odd angles, each one too long, too sharp. Even closed, its mouth couldn't hide the fangs that glistened with some dark, sticky fluid. A low growl vibrated through the air, almost sounding like a laugh.
8.
There was something in its eyes too—something beyond rage or hunger. A knowing. A dark, cruel intelligence. As it turned its head, Riven could swear it looked right at him, though logically it couldn't have seen him through the brush. It was smiling. Or at least, something close to it. That half-lifted lip, that twitching expression—it was the kind of smirk that nightmares wore.
9.
"Find that Froakie," the man growled, turning and stomping off in the opposite direction. He trusted the beast to do the work. That alone chilled Riven deeper than the night air.
10.
The Mightyena began sniffing, slow and deliberate, its distorted muzzle twitching as it processed the air. After a few seconds, it began to move—straight toward Riven's hiding spot. There was no doubt anymore. It had found their trail. And it was enjoying it.
11.
As the creature stalked forward, Riven's mind raced. He could feel how outmatched he was. Even without battling, that thing's presence screamed danger—more than any wild Pokémon he had ever encountered. Aron wouldn't stand a chance. To send him out would be to send him to die. And Riven knew that. He hated that he knew that.
12.
His heart pounded so loud he feared the creature might hear it. No escape plan came to mind. Panic clawed its way back into his chest. He could barely breathe. But then, as if from the depths of memory, his grandfather's voice returned again: "There are no hopeless situations—only hopeless minds."
13.
He clung to that thought, forcing the panic down like bile. He couldn't run. He couldn't fight. But maybe—just maybe—he could trick it. A dangerous plan began to form. His hands moved to his backpack, fingers trembling but precise. He pulled it open slowly, silently, searching for something specific. Something small. Something vital.
14.
His fingers closed around a Chesto Berry—blue and yellow, bitter with a pungent scent. And next to it, tucked safely in a small vial, was a sleep seed, rare and fragile. He remembered his professor's voice back in the academy, explaining how, when mixed correctly, these ingredients could create a sedative strong enough to drowse even an active Pokémon. Not fully unconscious—but just enough to slow them.
15.
He began to mix. Every movement deliberate. Every stir, every grind, exactly how he'd been taught. He used to scoff at these lessons—call them a waste of time. Now, he thanked that old professor with every breath. Meanwhile, he whispered to Aron, instructing him carefully: dig a pit. Deep, but narrow. Wide at the top but tapered at the bottom, just enough to trap but not allow escape.
16.
Aron nodded and began at once, claws tearing through dirt with urgency. Riven continued the alchemical process, crafting the sleep mixture with shaking hands but laser focus. When it was ready, he held the small container in his hand, the dark liquid inside swirling with danger and desperation.
17.
Aron finished the trap quickly—far faster than Riven hoped. The earth was turned, the pit hidden by nearby foliage. All that was left was to lure the monster in. But a problem loomed ahead, one Riven hadn't wanted to acknowledge: the mixture wouldn't knock the Mightyena out. Not fully. Best case? It would make it sluggish. Drowsy. Slow to react. And that would only buy seconds.
18.
What then? he asked himself. He couldn't run—it would catch him instantly. Couldn't distract it—it was too smart for that. Only one option remained. The one he had tried to avoid. The one that made his stomach twist and his soul recoil.
19.
He would have to kill it. Not wound it. Not delay it. Kill it. Fast. In one blow. If it survived—even a moment—it could alert the man. And that would mean the end. For him. For Aron. For everything.
He looked down at the vial, then at Aron's wide, trusting eyes.
He would have to kill it.
Not stall. Not wound. Not outsmart.
Kill it.
The word echoed like a tolling bell in his mind. A word that once felt impossible. Foreign. Now it stood at the center of his reality—sharp, final, and cold.
His hands trembled as they clutched the improvised drug. The weight of what he was about to do bore down on his chest like a mountain. This wasn't training. This wasn't theory or a classroom simulation. This was survival—raw, brutal, and real.
The corrupted Mightyena took another step forward, claws raking the soil, those grotesque, oversized jaws flexing as if savoring the scent of prey. The monstrous glint in its pale purple eyes hadn't dimmed—it had sharpened. It knew.
Closer. Closer still.
Its growl was low and guttural, more machine than beast. Each vibration made Riven's skin crawl.
He swallowed back the bile rising in his throat. His knuckles whitened around the vial. His legs screamed at him to run. But he didn't move.
He couldn't.
Not yet.
He glanced at Aron again. His partner stood firm, eyes narrowed, waiting only for Riven's command. No fear. Just faith. And that faith made it all worse.
Tonight, blood would spill.
Whether it would be the monster's or his own, that depended on what he did in the next few heartbeats.
The Wilds did not forgive hesitation. The Mourning Veil watched in silence, hungry for stories cut short.
Tonight, there would be death.
And Riven had made his choice.
He whispered a prayer he didn't fully believe in.
Let it be the monster.