Chapter 0: From Hereafter, All Will Fall Into Place

A bright star peeked its way through the pink clouds of sundown, daring to take a peek at the orange-tinted waves below. A near-limitless amount of seawater filled the expanse, with hazy shapes of landmass visible on the distant horizon.

In the middle of the infinite blue, a lone ship was adrift, lazily bobbing to the rolling waves. The galleon was abuzz with activity, a hearty celebration taking place. Pokémon intermingled with each other, some talking merrily with one another, some dancing to the melody of the medley of instruments, and many drinking to their hearts’ content.

Far below the deck, peeking through one of the reinforced portholes of the floating cage, a figure watched the star twinkle, before it was obfuscated by the billowing clouds. They extended their shackled arms skyward in a futile attempt to guide the vapor away with their fingertips and reveal the heavenly body, before swiftly giving up and smacking themselves on the forehead. Beneath closed eyelids, they would continue to pretend: just them and the star, floating in an empty void with nothing but each other for company. They would give the star their affection, and in return, the star would provide them with its warmth.

A muffled yet boisterous cheer from above would break them out of their trance; how could they feign solitude when the social gathering mere meters away taunted them? The figure pried their eyes open and off the sky, back down and over their shoulder onto the crowded room they were trapped in. Young children were scattered about the room, huddled around each other for any semblance of comfort and warmth. Tears streaked down their faces, some had run out of tears days ago; cuts and bruises were visible on their bodice, fur ripped out to reveal bare skin; blood pooled beneath them, staining the oak floor.

The figure sat down in one of the corners and cradled themselves in an attempt to soothe the lacerations that littered their back. The action did little to ease the pain, their vision beginning to blur and their mind becoming groggy. In their haze, they prayed that any higher being would let them rest eternally, swiftly, and painlessly, while they dreamed of a life now far beyond their reach. That was until a loud boom —

The door closed shut with a soft click, as the figure pressed their head against the door, mind swirling and overwhelmed as they recalled the events that had led up to now. In their solitude, expressions of doubt and uncertainty freely flooded their face; after all, one could only keep a calm demeanor in the face of fear for so long.

A heavy sigh escaped their lips, as they spun in place and faced their bedroom chambers. Calling it gaudy would be a severe understatement: the room was big enough to pass as a modest house, a four-poster bed far too large for a figure so small, a vanity desk full of tasteless ornaments and ornate accessories, and a chandelier of crystals that reflected the warm light of the evening sun onto every crevice. The figure took it all in; for as much as they expressed their distaste of the garishness of it all, they had spent their entire life here and made countless memories. It soothed them to think of all the cherished moments they had shared with their family here, even though it felt as if those times have long since passed them. These thoughts comforted them nonetheless.

It was also the last time they would ever see this room — unless, by some miracle, they survived their upcoming trial.

A deep pit formed in their stomach the moment that thought came to mind. They had asked for some privacy to escape the creeping dread that writhed up their back, but the isolation did nothing but intensify the feeling. In an attempt to ease their nerves, they made their way to the massive window on the opposite side of the room, hopped up onto the windowsill, and sat down on a cushion to gaze at the cityscape.

Spires towered over the surrounding mountain peaks, towers spiraled up into the clouds, a weave of stone walkways bridging all of them together, the usual gray walls tinted a faint yellow by the evening sun, their architecture minimalist yet imposing with its hard lines and well-defined angles. It was a stark contrast to the lavish interior of their bedroom, yet the figure called both of these their home.

It pained them to think that they would have to leave this all behind, but they had no one to blame but themselves. They knew the dangers of the trial ahead and were even given the chance to back down, but the thought of finding out the truth was too tantalizing to them. In another attempt to clear their head, they opened the windows to let the cool breeze inside —

A chill shot down the Sliggoo’s body as she trudged through the freezing cold. She’d been traversing the endless white for the past week with seemingly no end in sight, only able to get her bearings because of the light from the noon sun creeping through the dense clouds of snow wherever it could. She brought her free hand back into one of the many pouches of her rucksack and fished out a compass, making sure that she hadn’t been running in circles again. However, she failed to account for her other luggage as she tussled with the sack on her shell, for she began to hear the telltale sign of a tantrum about to burst in her other arm.

She whipped her head back and cradled a tiny mewling figure wrapped in a thick blanket on a makeshift sling. Her attempts at shushing the baby back to sleep were of no use, as the figure cried out to the heavens, wails piercing the heavy winter winds. As a slight trickle of panic began to creep in and beneath her gelatinous skin, Sliggoo carefully undid the strap keeping the rucksack on her shell, and gently placed it on the snow. She dug through its contents and grabbed the waterskin that held the makeshift baby formula, made out of the crushed remains of the few berries she found in a mystery dungeon she passed by. She gently placed the opening on the figure’s lips and slowly fed them the contents while hushing their cries down, hoping it would be enough to bring the peace back. Her hopes were for naught, however, as the figure pushed the waterskin away and began to bawl their eyes out once more.

At this point, Sliggoo really began to panic, waves of despair washing over, just as unrelenting as the snow on this mountain. She would have never expected to find a baby in the middle of nowhere, their mother’s corpse draped around them in an attempt to keep her child safe. How could she not take the baby under her care, after being moved by the mother’s conviction? She would come to realize, however, how severely unprepared she was to take care of a baby in the middle of a snowstorm, the fire that sparked inside of her snuffing out as soon as it was formed.

Then an idea struck her — a half-baked idea, but an idea nonetheless. She gently rocked the figure back and forth, humming the familiar lullaby she had learned from her own mother. Her gruff voice struggled to hit a few notes; she was never much of a singer, but she hoped to do the serenade justice.

It took a while, but when it worked, it worked like a charm. The figure was out like a light, light snoring barely audible. Sliggoo breathed a sigh of relief before a large gust of wind threatened to push her over —

They managed to catch themselves with the shovel they had planted into the ground before they slammed into the dirt. A few quick breaths were spared in order to get their bearings before the figure attempted to stand up once more, but their attempt was abruptly cut short as their legs gave out beneath them. They stumbled forward and got on their hands and knees, gasps escaping their mouth and exhaustion plaguing their muscles, yet the figure refused to believe their own fatigue. After all, in their mind, they had only just begun.

They sat upright, eliciting a sharp gasp of discomfort from them, and looked towards the clear sky and saw the sun rising above the canopy of trees. Light began to gradually pour into the clearing, first crawling through the dense thicket and then flowing freely in the open air as the star rose above the grove. The luminescence seared onto their tired eyes and they were forced to look away, but not from the truth: the night had passed and a new day was upon them. And this fact did not sit well with the figure, for last they recalled, the evening had only just begun.

Their gaze drifted down onto the clearing they found themselves in. What once was a field of lush grass and wildflowers was now cluttered with dozens of mounds of freshly dug-up soil, all marked with a simple flat stone on top. The scene was hypnotizing to an extent, nearly all of the heaps lined up in a neat grid, but the figure seemed to pay no heed to this detail. They racked their brain, trying to recall when the transformation had taken place and why they found themselves so entranced by the view, but their addled mind could not connect the dots — or perhaps, it outright refused to.

The figure once more attempted to stand, propping themselves up with the shovel acting as a crutch, when they noticed a strange feeling that enveloped their hands. The figure brought them within eyesight and found their palms covered in blood and splinters. They looked towards the shovel, still in their grasp and stuck in the ground where they left it, and their gaze met the red-stained wooden shaft and grip. And this all but confirmed their suspicions and fears, as their memories — fractured — became whole.

Whatever strength was left in their arms dissipated, as the figure tumbled to the ground. They curled up into a ball and began to —

Cry, for how long they knew nor cared not. The figure remained immersed in quiet sobs, carefully shifting their weight to alleviate the discomfort of the damp fur that clung onto their arms and pressed against their face; drawing their knees towards their chest, they held onto them tightly, seeking solace in the security of their own embrace. Though their neck and back ached from being hunched over for so long, the figure adamantly refused to lift their gaze, fearing the scene that awaited their vision.

So they remained there, whimpering softly and clamping their eyes shut, as time continued to pass. They could still feel every blade that stabbed right through their armor and pierced their skin, the phantom pain leaving sore, aching throbs despite having already been healed by their hands. They could still feel the blood dripping through every cut and staining their fur. They could still hear their own screams as they tore through their hoarse throat and reverberated through their head. They could still hear the screams of their comrades, muted by the blood that flooded their ears. They could still hear the cries of mothers and the wailing of children before their necks met steel. And those screams would never leave them, even though those voices had long since died out.

The figure had fallen asleep at some point, the fatigue had won them over in the end. They thought that it was the end for them, but then they woke up an indeterminate time later, still frozen in the same position. They considered staying that way until the fatigue would take them over once more, repeating the cycle until their eyes never opened again. After all, just as they’d found themselves, they were lost in the blink of an eye; the figure wished that they had never opened their eyes to the truth of this world.

So they remained there, still, silent, and eyes clamped shut, running away from reality. And they’d run for as long as their mind would take them; they’d run until their vision was filled with darkness blending into nothing, until their psyche stopped tearing itself apart, until all breath left their chest. Where they would end up, they knew nor cared not. And it shouldn’t have bothered them; they, the fool that fled from life, had no say in the matter. So it shouldn’t have bothered them — but it did.

The figure raised their head and they were met with the rising sun —