The fire had long since smoldered to blackened bone and breathless coal, and yet Riven sat beside it as if he feared what might rise in the silence when the last ember gave out. The night was still, save for the faint murmur of insects and the occasional flutter of Echo's levitating form beside him. His thoughts were not so quiet.
They rolled over and over in his skull, jagged and restless like storm waves scraping the ocean floor. He saw the future again—the sky ripped apart by divine wrath, the earth scorched by flame not born of any volcano but of something higher, older. Arceus, the Origin, driven to madness by human ambition and the twisted echo of war, had torn apart the balance He had once so delicately spun. Riven remembered the moment the sky itself had bled silver, and the world beneath it had begged, only to be drowned in light.
And then, nothing. And then… this.
Time had spat him out like gristle in a god's teeth.
Riven pulled his coat tighter around him, more out of ritual than cold, and muttered under his breath, "It wasn't supposed to be this way."
Echo floated closer, brushing lightly against his shoulder. A silent question, a quiet comfort.
"No," Riven murmured. "Not this early. But we'll need to move fast. Knowledge alone won't be enough. We need leverage. Allies. Money. Strength."
The fire exhaled a final puff of heat and died, leaving him in the hush of the dark. He stood slowly, boots crunching into the brittle grass, and turned toward the trail that led into the sleeping veins of Rustboro City.
He did not know, as he walked away, that far above, beyond the stars his eyes could not yet see, something vast was watching.
And considering.
And moving its pieces.
---
Elsewhere—where "else" was not a direction but a threshold, and "where" was more concept than place—a conversation stirred not with sound but with force. The Hall of Origin was a dream that only the divine remembered: a chamber made of uncut ideas, shimmering with raw intent. In its center, a form without form considered a singular ripple in the timeline, one that should not exist.
Riven.
The boy with ash for memory and blood for resolve.
He had slipped past what fate had written. He had seen too much. Lived too long. The war, the blood, the judgment. It clung to his spirit like soot. And though he bore no crest, no divine mark, he was an anomaly. Left alone, he would change everything.
But balance demanded counterweight.
And so, the Origin God considered the other side of the scale.
From the tattered edge of another realm, from a soul untainted by grief, plucked like a dandelion on the wind, came a fool. A loud, bright, grinning fool. A wanderer of worlds. A boy who had died laughing at a video game meme and awoke humming a sitcom theme.
He would not remember why he was here. He would not need to. He would follow joy like a compass. He would break solemnity like a hammer to glass.
He would be Riven's opposite in every way.
And as the golden light of a divine will wrapped around the transmigrator's sleeping soul, the Hall of Origin whispered:
"Bring chaos to the one who remembers too much."
---
Rustboro was half-asleep when Riven arrived, but its underbelly never rested. The Guild outpost near the industrial quarter stayed lit through all hours—its fluorescent glow pale and flickering like it, too, resented insomnia. Mission Boards buzzed with rotating listings. Job slots. Courier runs. Recon. Escort. Collection.
It was all part of a bigger system. One Riven knew intimately from a future that now only he remembered.
He strode through the front doors like he belonged there, coat soot-stained, eyes sharp.
The woman at the desk didn't even glance up from her ledger. "Name?"
"Riven."
"Trainer ID?"
"None. I'm here for black contracts."
Now she looked up. Tired eyes, laced with suspicion. "Not legal. Not smart."
"Neither is what's coming," Riven said flatly. He pulled a folded parchment from his coat and slid it across the desk. "I know where the Devon smuggling channels open near Meteor Falls. I know who they bribe. And I know exactly when they'll stop needing to."
She opened it. Skimmed. Froze.
"You shouldn't have this."
"And yet," Riven said, "I do."
A long pause. Her fingers tapped the edge of the counter like she was playing poker with a ghost. Finally, she sighed.
"I'm Reyna. You didn't get this from me."
"I didn't even see you," Riven said.
Two hours later, he had temporary registration through her override code, a low-interest coin advance, and first pick on courier postings heading toward the west range. He wasn't a full-fledged Trainer—still underage by League standards—but as a registered contractor, he could take part in minor-risk missions.
The plan was already forming. In Meteor Falls, within a narrow crescent of untouched cavern, lay a cluster of unstable Moonstone and Stardust veins. They wouldn't be valuable for another year, not until the Black Market index was manipulated by the Kalos embargo. But Riven would be early. Ahead of history. With the right gear and Echo beside him, he'd extract enough to fund months of preparation.
Maybe even hire someone. Gods knew he couldn't carry the whole future alone.
He booked a room above a dim hostel near the Guild's edge, the kind of place where the wallpaper peeled just enough to suggest character. He laid out a regional map, marked veins, and fed Echo the last of their jerky ration. The little psychic hummed happily and curled up in the corner, glowing faint blue with contentment.
Riven stared at the map long after his eyes began to blur. Tomorrow, they'd set out. Tonight, he'd try to forget the sound of cities dying.
Just as he reached to extinguish the light, something shifted.
It was barely a flicker. A ripple in the air, like someone pulling a curtain between breaths. He turned sharply—but there was no one in the room.
And yet—something felt off. As if the timeline had hiccuped.
From an alley four blocks away, laughter echoed.
Not cruel. Not haunting.
Just... cheerful.
Too cheerful.
Like someone had just arrived in a new world, delighted by the chance to screw it up.
---
At the edge of Rustboro, where the lamplight gave way to uneven fog, a figure stumbled out of thin air.
Literally.
He landed face-first into a pile of cabbage crates, let out a yelp that sounded suspiciously like "Wahoo!" and then burst into hysterical laughter.
"Well," he said to no one. "That was... incredibly fun. Ten outta ten would die again."
He looked around. Eyes wide. Grinning like an idiot.
"Okay. Okay, brain. Not a dream. New body? Check. World smells like fried onions and moral ambiguity? Double check. Is this—wait, is this Pokémon?"
He fished around in his coat. No Pokéballs. No phone. Just a bag full of useless trinkets and a paperclip with a smiley face drawn on it.
Somewhere, far above, something divine sighed.
Balance had arrived.
Late, slightly concussed, and completely unaware of his mission—but present nonetheless.
The boy stood, brushed off his jacket, and beamed.
"Alright, world. I'm here. I don't know why, I don't know how, but I swear to Arceus—this is going to be fun."
He ran off in the wrong direction.
And somewhere, in the quiet room above a crumbling Rustboro hostel, Riven felt the tiniest chill run up his spine—like the universe had just shrugged and said, "Good luck."
---
End of Chapter 13