Riven's hands trembled, but his resolve no longer faltered. He had made his decision—he would kill the beast. There was no alternative now, no middle ground, no escape. The corrupted Mightyena was closing in, a death sentence on four legs, and hesitation would only end in silence and rot. Still, one problem loomed above all: how?
He glanced down at the standard survival knife strapped to his thigh. It had been a gift from his grandfather—meant for cutting ropes, slicing fruit, maybe warding off small wild Pokémon. But against that thing? Against a mutated abomination twice the size of any Mightyena he'd seen, its hide glistening with unnatural strength? The blade might as well have been a twig.
Riven's mind raced, searching, scrambling for options. Aron was strong, loyal, but still too young, too small, too inexperienced. Even if Aron struck with everything he had, even if some miracle doubled his power... it wouldn't be enough. He couldn't ask his partner to throw his life away. Not like this.
And then, that snarl.
Low, guttural, soaked in malice. It pierced through Riven's thoughts like a dagger, dragging his gaze up in horror. The Mightyena was close. Too close. It had closed the distance silently, maliciously. Barely ten meters separated them now.
Its eyes glowed—a sickly, spectral mix of violet and pale white—burning with unnatural hunger. Each step it took made the shadows around them deepen. The very trees seemed to twist and recoil at its approach. The air turned bitterly cold, the wind vanishing into silence.
Time slowed.
Riven could feel his pulse in his throat. Could hear Aron's low, defensive growl, and the tiny shift of the Froakie nestled on his shoulder. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to run. But there was nowhere left to run.
The Mightyena lunged.
Its weight sent leaves scattering and dirt flying. But instead of landing atop them, its heavy front paw slammed into the false earth. The trap gave way. The beast fell—hard—into the narrow, conical pit Aron had dug. For one breathless second, Riven dared to hope.
Without waiting, Aron hurled a volley of jagged stones into the pit, forcing the beast to sink deeper and disorienting it. Then came the clink of glass—a vial, spinning through the air.
It shattered against the Mightyena's snarling jaw. The sleeping draught misted into its eyes, nose, and mouth. The corrupted creature flinched and coughed, trying to shake off the foreign chemical.
Riven moved.
He slung Froakie to safety behind a log, tightened his grip on the knife, and ran to the edge of the pit. His heart thundered in his chest. This was the moment. This was everything. One strike. One chance.
He jumped.
Blade in hand, he aimed for the throat, the eye, anywhere that looked soft. But the moment he descended, his hand faltered. He saw it—those eyes. They weren't just wild. They were filled with something deeper. Rage. Pain. Madness. Something that didn't deserve to exist... but something that used to be a Pokémon.
His hand froze.
And that second cost him everything.
The Mightyena's paw lashed out, catching him across the shoulder mid-air. He was flung like a ragdoll, slamming into a tree trunk with a wet, sickening crack. His vision went white. Then black. Then pain.
Unending, brutal pain.
His shoulder burned. Something was torn—skin, muscle, maybe bone. He could feel the blood soaking into his shirt. He bit down on his tongue to keep from screaming.
He looked up. The creature was clawing its way up the pit, snarling through drugged haze, blood flecked on its lips.
Their eyes met.
And what Riven saw in those eyes wasn't hunger. It wasn't survival. It was hate. A deep, primal hatred. It wanted him dead—not because it needed to eat. But because it wanted to extinguish something human. Something it no longer understood.
He thought of Varek.
The pain blurred his vision, but memory struck sharper than the Mightyena's claws.
*Varek's voice, ragged through the static of their last call: "They're not Pokémon anymore, Riven. They're *wounds*."*
Now he understood.
The Mightyena's breath—reeking of iron and spoiled berries—was the same stench that clung to Varek's final note, delivered by a trembling Pidgeot weeks after his disappearance. The paper had been damp, the ink smeared in places, as if his brother's hands had been shaking too hard to write. Or bleeding.
*"Don't trust the shadows in the Mourning Veil. They *learn*."*
Riven had thought it delirium. Now, as the beast's split pupil dilated with something too *knowing*, he wondered if Varek had faced *this exact creature*—if its claws had carved those same jagged wounds into his brother's ribs. If his last sight had been these same violet eyes, drinking in his terror like nectar.
A guttural sound ripped from the Mightyena's throat. Not a growl.