Amon jolted upright in bed, his eyes scanning the confines of his cramped room as if searching for something.
When he finally realized he was alone, a flicker of disappointment crossed his face—his first expression since the boys had beaten him.
"So, it was just a dream… I knew it. No one would ever be that kind to me."
He masked the sorrow in his voice with self-mockery, grabbed his dagger, and stepped outside his small hut. Yet, his mind lingered on the dream he had just experienced.
In that dream, an older brotherly figure had appeared before him, listening to his pain with quiet patience. The man had radiated a warm, golden light, healing the wounds Amon had accumulated over the years.
That warmth had felt so comforting, so real. Amon had lost himself in it, basking in its embrace—until the figure faded away, and he woke with a start, realizing it had all been an illusion.
Shaking his head, Amon walked toward the village.
By now, it was dinnertime. Mouthwatering aromas of home-cooked meals wafted from every household, but they did nothing to stir Amon's appetite.
He reached a house near the center of the village—the home of the boy who led the gang that tormented him. Amon had spent countless nights observing this place, memorizing his target's habits, waiting for the perfect moment.
As he stood in the shadows, his thoughts drifted back to his past.
After his father, a skilled hunter, had died, his mother had struggled to raise him alone. Then, on a stormy night, she succumbed to illness, passing away in their tiny home.
Not one of the villagers—people his father had once helped—came to their aid. No one even acknowledged them as members of the community anymore.
Amon could never forget that rain-soaked night when he buried his mother alone. Nor could he forget the cold indifference of the villagers, the way they denied ever knowing him or his mother after his father's death.
He especially couldn't forget those parents who turned a blind eye as their children bullied him, the ones who had driven him to the brink of death with their cruelty.
Hatred had taken root in his heart, nurtured by years of suffering. And now, at last, it was time for vengeance.
Footsteps echoed in the quiet street.
Amon clenched his dagger tightly, suppressing all emotion. His mind focused solely on one task—plunging the blade into that boy's heart.
He had mapped out this path countless times. The spot he had chosen was perfect—isolated, with no chance of escape.
Holding his breath, he waited until Luca walked past him.
Then, with all the speed he could muster, Amon lunged, aiming for his target's back.
A moment of silence—then a scream shattered the night.
"HELP! SOMEBODY HELP!"
Luca's wail rang through the village. Even though he was precocious for his age, he was still just a twelve-year-old child. Overwhelmed by shock and pain, he panicked and thrashed about wildly.
Amon gritted his teeth. He had underestimated his own malnourished body and the dullness of his blade. Luca was stronger than expected, and the wound wasn't fatal.
But the boy was terrified. He was acting purely on instinct now, his body convulsing as he screamed. That, at least, made him an easy target for Amon to finish off.
The downside? His cries would soon bring the villagers running.
Amon knew then and there—he wouldn't make it out alive.
But if he was going to die, he would take Luca with him.
Snarling, Amon pressed down on the struggling boy and drove the dagger into him over and over again.
In the dim moonlight, Luca saw Amon's blood-smeared face and, for the first time, felt true fear.
The boy who was 'beneath' him was no longer just a bullied outcast. He was something else entirely—something terrifying, unfamiliar.
Warm blood trickled between Amon's fingers. With each stab, Luca's resistance weakened.
Had his first strike been any weaker, Amon realized, he might have been the one to die instead.
At last, with one final thrust into Luca's heart, Amon let out a ragged breath and slumped forward. The tension in his body unwound, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.
He could feel the corpse beneath him growing cold.
For the first time since his mother's death, Amon smiled. But there was guilt in his eyes, too.
He had once promised his mother he would survive.
Tonight, he would break that promise.
The villagers would arrive soon, and there was no way he could fight them off in his weakened state.
Gripping his bloodied dagger, Amon prepared to end things on his own terms.
Better to die by his own hand than at theirs.
He lifted the blade to his throat—
A firm hand caught his wrist.
"Who are you?!"
Amon's instincts flared as he turned to face the robed figure that had appeared out of nowhere. He tried to wrench himself free, but the stranger's grip was like iron, rendering him helpless.
"Come with me," the man said, his voice calm and unwavering. "You don't belong here."
Before Amon could protest, the figure effortlessly lifted him into his arms.
Behind them, a Gardevoir emerged from the darkness.
With a flicker of psychic energy, the Pokémon activated Teleport, and the world around them vanished in a flash of light.
They reappeared deep within a dense forest. The air was still, untouched by the chaos they had left behind.
Gardevoir had used Hypnosis earlier, delaying the villagers' response. Without that, Amon might never have succeeded in killing Luca.
"Who are you?" Amon demanded, his wariness still intact despite his exhaustion. "Why did you save me?"
The robed man regarded him quietly. "Have you already forgotten your dream? Look at your wounds."
Amon froze. Then, almost mechanically, he glanced down at his body.
His wounds were gone. The bruises, the cuts, the pain—vanished. He hadn't even noticed.
Had he not been healed, he realized, Luca might have overpowered him.
"I've heard your story," the man continued. "But I won't take revenge for you. I will only give you strength. The rest is up to you."
Amon narrowed his eyes. "And what do you want in return?"
Staring at the cloaked figure, Amon displayed a composure far beyond his years as he directed the question toward Ron.
"It's simple. After you take your revenge, you'll work for me from then on. How about it?"
"That's fair. I accept."
This time, Amon didn't hesitate—his response was immediate.
"You're not even going to ask what kind of work you'll be doing for me? What if it means going against the League? Or… could it be that you never intended to keep your promise in the first place?"
The cloaked figure's voice turned cold as he fixed his gaze on Amon.
"When I was suffering—when I begged the League for help—what I got in return was ruthless abandonment. Why should I serve them? If you can give me power… if you can give me the strength to avenge myself… then I'll do whatever it takes!"
Amon dropped to one knee before the cloaked figure, his voice unwavering.
"Very well. I accept your oath!"
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