The summit was silent. No wind howled, no Pokémon cried, and no life stirred at this altitude. The snow lay undisturbed, blanketing the peak like a shroud. The only sign of presence, of something living, was the lone figure sitting upon the frozen rock. Cloaked in red, unmoving, like a statue weathered by time itself.

  No one knew how long he had been there—days, months, years? Time did not matter atop Mount Silver. It ceased to hold meaning when there was no one to keep track of it.

  Red sat alone.

  His breath did not tremble in the cold. His fingers, though exposed to the freezing air, did not waver. He simply existed—watching the world from the highest point in the land, where few could follow.

  And then, for the first time in what felt like eternity, someone did.

  He came as many before him had tried and failed.

  Ethan climbed higher than ever before, each step crunching into ice, each breath growing heavier with the altitude. The altitude gnawed at his lungs, but his spirit refused to falter. The stories had led him here—the whispers of a trainer unlike any other, a man who had conquered the League and then vanished. The summit’s silent guardian.

  And as he reached the final stretch, the moment his boots dug into the last patch of untouched snow, his eyes locked onto the legend himself.

  Red.

  He sat there, unmoving.

  Ethan exhaled, steadying himself. The weight of history sat between them. He hesitated, then spoke, offering words of greeting, admiration—perhaps even challenge.

  "I finally found you," Ethan said, his voice steady despite the cold. "Everyone says you disappeared, but I knew you'd still be here. Watching. Waiting."

  Red did not respond. His expression remained unreadable, his eyes locked on something distant, something beyond Ethan's reach.

  Ethan tried again. "People say you're the strongest trainer alive. But no one really knows why you're here, sitting on this mountain alone. What are you waiting for?"

  Nothing. The silence between them stretched, heavier than the mountain’s frozen air. It was not rejection. It was something else entirely.

  Then, Red’s gaze finally shifted—locking onto Ethan’s.

  Ethan felt it then—something ancient, older than the League itself. A law unwritten, yet understood by all who had walked this path.

  When two trainers meet eyes, they must battle.

  No words were exchanged, no challenge spoken. Red simply rose to his feet, his cloak shifting like the breath of the mountain. His hand moved, and in an instant, a Poké Ball was in his grasp.

  Ethan’s heart pounded. He had trained for this. He had defeated the Johto League. He had faced the strongest trainers the region had to offer. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for what came next.

  The Poké Ball snapped open, and in a flash of white light, the battle began.

  The air between them thickened with tension, an unspoken understanding crackling like static before a storm. They clashed like titans, their Pokémon colliding with an intensity that shook the frozen peak.

  Flames roared as Charizard’s wings carried it high above, locking talons with Typhlosion’s unyielding blaze. Pikachu moved like lightning, weaving through attacks that should have been impossible to dodge. The air crackled with energy, the battlefield shifting with each devastating blow.

  Ethan pushed himself beyond his limits, but Red…

  Red barely seemed to try.

  His expression never changed. His breathing remained calm, effortless—an unsettling contrast to Ethan’s ragged breath and trembling limbs, his muscles burning from the sheer effort of keeping up. Each move was precise, executed without hesitation, without waste. The pressure was suffocating. It was not the strength of his Pokémon alone, but the sheer understanding he wielded—the kind of mastery that could only come from walking the path of battle for longer than any could imagine.

  And yet, against all odds, against the impossible storm of Red’s skill—Ethan endured. His vision blurred, muscles screaming in protest, but he refused to fall. Every attack he countered felt like the last he could muster, every moment a test of his willpower. Was this what it meant to face a legend? To stand at the peak and feel the weight of everything before him? Ethan gritted his teeth, pushing through the exhaustion. He gave everything. And somehow—

  Somehow, he won.

  The battle ended as it had begun.

  No words.

  Only the soft fall of Red’s last Pokémon as it returned to its Poké Ball. Only the slow rise of his hand, tucking it away, as if the outcome did not matter.

  Red stood still, staring at Ethan. There was no anger. No regret. No sadness. Only acknowledgment.

  A step forward.

  A slow walk past the new victor.

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  And then—

  He stopped.

  Ethan, still catching his breath, barely had time to react as Red turned his head slightly. His mouth moved.

  One phrase. One sentence.

  Whatever was said, Ethan’s eyes widened. His breath hitched. Something in his expression shifted—understanding? Shock? Or something more?

  But the words were lost to the howling wind.

  And just like that, Red continued walking. Down from the summit, disappearing into the mist below. Leaving behind only silence.

  A legend never seen again.

  For years, no one knew where he went. Some say he returned to Kanto. Others claimed he wandered the world in search of something greater.

  The truth was stranger than fiction.

  Far in the northern lands of Sinnoh, the people of Celestic Town whispered of a stranger.

  One who had come and gone without a word.

  He had passed like a shadow, unseen by most, unbothered by all. Only the eldest of the town had recognized him—the red cloak, the sharp eyes, the presence of someone who did not belong.

  “He was real?” a younger villager asked.

  The elder only shook her head. “Real? Perhaps. But men are men. That one was…something else.”

  “Then what was he?”

  “A step far too vast for us to fit into.”

  Cynthia arrived in Celestic Town days later.

  The rumors had reached her long before she set foot in her ancestral home, yet she had not rushed. There were too many battles being fought at once—some on the field, some in shadows, some behind the veiled curtains of government chambers.

  And then there was this one.

  The village had not changed since her last visit. The scent of damp stone and old parchment clung to the air, familiar and grounding. A soft mist curled through the ancient paths, winding between homes that had stood for generations. Few noticed her arrival—fewer still approached.

  But one had expected her.

  The door to the old home of Professor Carolina was slightly ajar, as if inviting her in.

  Inside, lantern light flickered over the walls lined with scrolls and tomes of history. Books filled every available space, stacked on wooden tables where parchment and research notes had long since claimed dominion. The scent of tea and ink mixed in the warmth of the room, a contrast to the cold world outside.

  Sitting at the central table, waiting as always, was her grandmother.

  Cynthia closed the door behind her, shaking off the winter chill from her coat. The old professor looked up, keen eyes sharp despite her age. There was no surprise in them.

  “I should have known you would come,” Cynthia remarked, shrugging off her gloves as she stepped forward.

  Professor Carolina offered a small, knowing smile. “I don’t need to know. You always return when the past calls to you.”

  Cynthia exhaled, unceremoniously dropping into the seat across from her. She hadn’t even fully settled before she spoke.

  “I heard the rumors.”

  Her grandmother hummed in response, taking a slow sip of her tea. “So did I.”

  Cynthia studied her carefully. “You saw him?”

  Professor Carolina’s fingers drummed lightly against the worn wooden table.

  “I did.”

  For a woman who rarely dealt in absolutes, that was all Cynthia needed to hear.

  She leaned forward slightly. “And?”

  Professor Carolina let the silence stretch before answering.

  “He did not speak. But he listened.”

  Cynthia frowned. “Listened?”

  “To what, I do not know.” Carolina’s gaze drifted toward the shelves, filled with records of myths and truths too blurred to separate. “But I could feel it. He was searching for something.”

  Silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant hum of wind beyond the old wooden walls.

  Cynthia wanted to believe this was just another story—a wandering trainer passing through, a fleeting legend that meant nothing in the grand scheme.

  But she knew who he was.

  Red.

  A name spoken in reverence, whispered in corners where trainers gathered, passed between challengers and historians alike. A name that no longer belonged to a person, but to an idea.

  And now, of all times, he was here?

  Her fingers curled around the cup in her hands, the warmth grounding her. This was the worst possible moment for a mystery to unfold.

  The region was unstable.

  She had spent the last week standing on the edge of Lake Valor, searching for Azelf, for answers, only to find nothing. The legends said the Guardian of Willpower slumbered in the depths, but if it did, it was either well-hidden or already disturbed.

  And she didn’t have the time to keep searching.

  Team Galactic was moving.

  She could feel it, like a shift in the wind before a storm. Their attacks at Valley Windworks had been only the beginning—an early movement in a game whose end she had yet to see. Their agents were becoming bolder, their influence spreading beneath the surface.

  And their leader—Cyrus.

  She had his name. His face. His ideology, in fragments. But he was a ghost in his own right. No traceable past, no real presence, just whispers and consequences.

  Looker was on the case, and the League had their eyes on the movement, but neither had found anything solid. That made Cynthia the last line of defense.

  She couldn’t afford distractions.

  And yet.

  Red had come to Sinnoh.

  Cynthia set down her cup with a quiet clink. “Where did he go?”

  Her grandmother’s answer was immediate.

  “North.”

  Cynthia’s gaze sharpened.

  North.

  To Snowpoint.

  She let out a slow breath. That complicated things.

  Snowpoint Temple was under government jurisdiction, officially deemed a historical site, but she knew the truth. The doors may as well have been sealed with iron, its true depths locked away behind permissions granted only to those in power.

  And Regigigas lay beneath it.

  It was no coincidence.

  She rose to her feet, her coat settling around her like a shadow. “If he’s heading there, I need to know why.”

  Carolina nodded slightly. “The same way you needed to know why you stood before deities?”

  A small smirk crossed Cynthia’s lips. “It’s worked so far.”

  Her grandmother chuckled, shaking her head. “Be careful, Cynthia.”

  She turned to leave, but Carolina’s voice stopped her before she reached the door.

  “One day, the weight of the world may rest heavier than even you can hold.”

  Cynthia didn’t turn back, but she paused for just a second.

  Then, she exhaled.

  “I don’t intend to let that happen.”

  And she stepped into the cold once more.