---
The dust had not yet settled.
In fact, the crater still steamed, the grass around it singed and curling like parchment in a slow fire. A twisted circle of earth gouged into the Hoenn countryside, smoke spiraling lazily toward the sky, thick with ozone and the faint scent of scorched pastries. At the center of it all stood a boy—barefoot, blinking, looking around as if this were the most normal place on Earth to arrive in.
His hoodie was lopsided. His hair stuck up like he'd lost a fight with a toaster. And in one hand, impossibly, he held a melted popsicle. It dripped quietly onto the ash.
Zane.
He wasn't a name yet. Not in this world. Not in the way Riven was already becoming a shadow in the backrooms of Hoenn's League record-keepers.
But he would be.
And for now, he laughed.
A small, breathless, relieved sort of laugh. As if crashing into a new world from the void of divine judgment was just another Tuesday for him.
Riven watched from a nearby hilltop, jaw tight, sweat sticky at his temples. His body was low in the grass, not out of cowardice—but calculation. This was not something he wanted to jump into without observing.
A human being falling from the sky wasn't normal. Not in this world. Not even after what Riven had seen.
He could still remember the moment Arceus lost control—when the heavens cracked open like rotten wood, and the Laws that kept the world in place trembled, then snapped. Cities had disappeared. Time itself buckled. Pokémon, once sacred partners, had turned monstrous, unnatural. The divine light that once held the planes together had instead begun to consume.
And yet…
This.
This clown had been sent as Arceus's answer to that?
"I'm dreaming," Riven muttered, rubbing his face with his hands, fingers digging into the skin until pain grounded him again. "I've finally gone mad."
He didn't move, not yet.
Because Zane had just turned and begun talking.
To himself.
Or maybe… to someone else entirely.
"Okay, that landing sucked," Zane said, wiping ash from his face. "But ten out of ten for dramatic flair, right? No broken bones. Clothes intact. Popsicle technically still here."
He paused.
"Oh, right. Mission brief. Got it. Stop evil guy who saw apocalypse, turned cold, tragic, edgy… and now has a head start. Classic."
Another pause.
Then, slowly, his face turned serious.
A whisper of something ancient stirred the air around him.
"But I'm not here to be the hero," Zane said softly. "I'm just here to make sure he doesn't become the villain."
Riven's breath caught.
Was this some kind of divine counterbalance?
He didn't know what Arceus had become—only what he'd witnessed. The god of creation, once distant and holy, had become unmoored, fracturing under the weight of its own omniscience. A thousand timelines pulled in a thousand directions, voices crying out for salvation, and eventually—cracks.
And when Riven had been cast back, alone, seventeen again, with nothing but bitter memories and future knowledge, he thought he'd been given a burden.
But what if…
What if the divine had hedged its bets?
What if it had thrown a wrench into his cold, calculated plans?
That wrench, apparently, wore mismatched socks and was now licking melted popsicle off his thumb.
Zane turned toward the hilltop.
Riven flinched—then cursed himself.
But the boy wasn't looking at him. Not really. He was gazing into the distance, where clouds curled over Mt. Chimney, sun streaking through like golden blades.
"I'm gonna need money," Zane muttered. "And food. And a Pokémon. Preferably one that doesn't eat me."
He stepped forward, stumbled slightly—then caught himself with a grin. "Alright, new world. Let's make a mess."
Riven backed away.
Silently. Calmly.
Because he'd seen this kind of energy before—in people who refused to take anything seriously, until suddenly, they did. And when that time came, they didn't break. They bent reality instead.
He didn't know what Zane was.
Only that he was dangerous in a very different way.
A tool of divine entropy.
Sent not to defeat Riven.
But to stop him from going too far.
---
Two days later, far across the ocean, Brutus exhaled deeply as he pulled himself upright, muscles aching, shirt plastered to his back with sweat.
His reflection in the dojo mirror startled him.
The roundness was still there—make no mistake. But under it, the bloat had started to become bulk. His neck looked a little sturdier. His arms, still thick, had begun to show shape beneath the softness. His thighs, once flabby, were corded with new strain.
Clove growled playfully from the floor mats, tossing a medicine ball with his horns. His coat gleamed in the morning light. There was a bite to his movements now, not just instinct, but intention.
And Yolkie—his baby Cleffa—floated gently on a self-made current of wind from her last Metronome. Her sparkle hadn't dimmed. But there was a new control in her.
They were still leagues away from challenging Pewter Gym.
But Flint had said something last night that stuck with him:
"You're not building strength. You're building shape. Shape of mind. Shape of heart."
Brutus had laughed at the time. Called it poetic nonsense.
But today, as he stretched with quiet discipline, as Clove struck a target clean across the field, and Yolkie hummed herself to sleep in midair, he understood.
They were changing shape.
And soon… the world would notice.
---
Meanwhile, chaos was quietly blooming.
Zane—after failing to buy food with a coupon for "free fries" from a region that did not exist—had somehow charmed a berry merchant into giving him a week's supply in exchange for a song.
The song had been about a Lickitung who fell in love with a Magikarp. It had three verses. None of them rhymed.
Within hours, he'd been chased out of a contest hall, mistaken for a Coordinator, and asked to babysit a Torchic that promptly lit his shoes on fire.
"Okay," he said, hopping on one foot. "First impressions: fire types? Not my vibe."
He was smiling.
Always smiling.
Not because the world was easy—but because it was complicated, and smiling was how he punched back.
That night, he slept under a broken Poké Mart awning, curled up with a wild Zigzagoon that wouldn't leave him alone.
And in the stars above, something watched.
Arceus was no longer the god Riven once feared. It had fragmented—become a prism of itself.
But part of it still watched.
And part of it, somehow, still… laughed.
---
Riven sat at the edge of a lake the next night, skipping stones. He hadn't slept.
Not since the sky cracked open two days ago and spat a fool into his warpath.
He should've ignored it.
Should've kept walking.
But he hadn't.
And that meant something.
He skipped another stone. It sank halfway.
Balance, he thought.
Was that what this was?
Had he already strayed too far from the path, and this was the universe correcting its tilt?
He didn't know.
He only knew that time was running out.
He looked at his PokéGear. The clock ticked. Data blinked.
His plan was still intact.
He had the knowledge. The foresight. The scars.
He would carve this world into a better shape.
Even if it bled for it.
He would not allow Hoenn to fall like Kanto did.
Like he did.
---
And on the other side of a market square, unnoticed and barefoot, Zane juggled three berries and hummed a tune about Lickitung love.
The world was about to burn again.
And this time…
It would burn with laughter.
---
END OF CHAPTER 14