Kael Rivenhart died with the taste of city smog in his mouth and the smell of scorched rubber in his nostrils.
It happened on a cold, wet Tuesday—he remembered the rain more than the pain. The world had blurred into white headlights and the squeal of tires. He didn't think, he just moved. There was a child. Small. Blue raincoat. A dropped toy.
He pushed the kid out of the way, barely hard enough. That was all.
Then came the impact. Bone snapping. Soundless heat. Then, nothing.
He expected oblivion. Or some old cliché about tunnels of light, ancestors waiting, harp music. Instead, Kael found silence.
Not metaphorical silence—real, viscous quiet. Like the air was holding its breath.
And then… breath. His own. Deep and alien. He opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him shimmered with crystals that pulsed a faint, aquatic blue. The cave was enormous, cathedral-like, and perfectly still. Dust motes hung in the air like stars in jelly. Roots curled through stone. Bones—animal, maybe human—were half-buried in the rock. He blinked.
And blinked again.
His eyes didn't move like they used to. The light bent oddly. The colors were too vivid. His senses were… split, layered. Sound, smell, vibration—he could feel the echo of his own breathing across the stone, taste the decay in the moss.
He stood.
He didn't mean to. His body just… rose.
Four paws pressed into stone. He wasn't standing on two legs. His limbs were massive, yet balanced. He felt the movement of fur, long and silk-smooth, cascading around his shoulders. Something behind him shifted—his tail? His jaw tightened, not in confusion, but in automatic poise. There was weight beside him, but not touching: a sword, floating near his flank like it belonged to him.
Kael walked forward. His claws clicked like blades on stone. He reached a pool—natural, smooth as glass. And there he saw it:
A wolf, but not a wolf.
Graceful and immense, with a coat of liquid sapphire and streaks of glinting silver. A mane shimmered around its face like pink mist in moonlight. Its eyes were gold, ancient and knowing. A sword—elegant and brutal—hovered beside its head, inscribed with glowing runes. The image rippled in the pool. He blinked. It blinked.
Him.
He was this creature.
"...Zacian." The word didn't come from his mouth—it echoed in his thoughts, as if remembered from a story. He had read about this Pokémon—legendary, noble, feared. But that had been in another world.
This wasn't a game. This wasn't a fandom.
This was Ashfall.
He stumbled back. His paws cracked stone as he moved too quickly, unused to the size and power. The sword responded, rising defensively beside him.
Kael's mind reeled. Why? How? He wasn't summoned. There was no god. No system screen. No glowing entity saying, "You have been chosen." It just... happened. Like the world hiccuped and spit him out.
As he breathed, something shifted in the air.
Far away—so far it shouldn't be possible—he felt something respond. A ripple. A hush. Like the world noticed him.
And not just the people.
On the distant peaks of the Halgen Spine, a thunderbird lifted its head, eyes glowing, then took flight without a sound.
In the swamps of Dredmoor, Vundra, the Hollow Wyrm, uncoiled from its sludge-womb and hissed, "Impossible…"
A crystal deer blinked in the silvergroves and whispered to the moon, "One walks again."
Zacian exhaled, and frost danced across the cave floor.
He stepped out.
The cavern mouth yawned wide onto a hilltop shrouded in mist. Below, trees stretched endlessly. He could smell bark, birds, rot, and blood. This was the Vale of Ashbones. He knew the name well—it had been a cursed, forgotten place in the book. The edge of the world.
He could feel power humming inside him. Not just muscle or magic. Something vast. Like he was made of wind and steel and prophecy. He closed his eyes. Reached inward.
The sword sang—no, resonated. His aura spread, uncontained. Birds fled the trees. A distant howl echoed. A dozen lesser beasts across miles froze in place.
He could feel their fear.
He could also feel a human town—not far. Lantern smoke. Iron. Horses. And… him.
Thalen Corveil.
The boy from the book. The "hero." The chosen one.
Kael—Zacian—chuckled, if such a sound could exist in this form. It came out more like a low, celestial growl. "Of all places…"
He lowered his head. Not in defeat. Not in worship.
In weariness.
He didn't want war. Or worship. Or prophecy.
He wanted to sleep. Maybe eat something wild and meaty. And not be bothered.
He padded forward, the mist parting before him.
The world would not let him rest. Not for long.
But for now, he walked with grace, ancient and unclaimed, into the quiet unknown.