The road to Mt. Silver was no longer a path—it was a scar across the earth.
Ash walked it alone.
Every step forward echoed with ghosts. Trees, once full of Pidgey and Taillow, now stood like sentinels, charred and mute. Craters dotted the ground like the fingerprints of forgotten titans. Even the air had changed—thin, sterile, and too quiet.
He passed the skeletal remains of a Pokémon Center—its red roof collapsed, the Nurse Joy hologram glitching on and off like a dying candle.
> "Welcome… to… P—P—Pallet—Center… please… regi—" Static.
A broken voice, left to echo through a grave.
Ash ignored it. He'd stopped mourning long ago.
---
The map was burned into his mind.
Mt. Silver.
A forbidden zone—cordoned off by the World Reclamation Authority, the faceless regime that had replaced the League after The Fall.
They claimed it was unstable.
Toxic.
Dead.
But that was a lie.
It had always been a lie.
The truth was buried deep beneath its roots.
They called it:
The Theatre of Memory.
A place whispered about in code and song—where moments refused to die.
Where the lost could still speak.
Where time was not linear, but preserved.
And deep within that theatre… the script.
The Last Act.
---
He reached the gates by nightfall.
Barbed wire curled around massive stone doors, covered in rust and warnings:
> ENTRY FORBIDDEN.
REALITY UNSTABLE BEYOND THIS POINT.
ALL VIOLATORS WILL BE REFORMED.
Ash chuckled under his breath.
> "You think I haven't already been reformed?" he muttered.
"I bled for this world. And it chose to forget me."
He placed his palm against the stone.
Nothing happened.
Then—a flicker.
A humming sound.
The Poké Ball at his side began to vibrate faintly—so softly it almost felt like breathing.
The doors parted.
---
The Theatre of Memory was not what he expected.
No grand hall. No curtains. No seats.
Only darkness, and a staircase that spiraled downward into the void.
With each step, memories surfaced—not in his mind, but around him. Holograms. Echoes. Projections.
—A young Ash, screaming at a wild Spearow storm.
—Pikachu, standing defiant, electricity surging despite wounds.
—Brock offering him advice.
—Misty slapping him for being reckless.
—Charizard refusing to obey.
—Butterfree flying away into the sunset.
Each step was a scene.
Each breath a line.
Each heartbeat a stage direction.
> "They're not just memories," Ash whispered. "They're chapters. Pages."
Then he saw it.
At the center of the spiral staircase:
A pedestal.
And resting on it—a book.
Bound in silver. Trimmed in gold.
Its title:
The Last Act.
He reached for it—
> "HALT."
A voice. Cold. Hollow. Not quite human.
Ash spun.
A figure descended the stairs above.
Clad in black. No face. A mask like a blank Poké Ball—white with no symbol.
> "Unauthorized access to the Archive is punishable by correction."
"Memories are forbidden."
"The play is over."
Ash stepped in front of the book.
> "The play only ends when the story is finished."
The masked figure extended its hand.
A blade of pure data formed in its grasp—white, pulsing, like anti-memory.
Ash didn't flinch.
He pulled something from his coat.
His cap.
Tattered. Blood-stained.
He placed it on his head and whispered:
> "Let's see if you're strong enough to erase me."
---
They clashed.
Ash's movements were raw—desperate, but precise. Every strike was memory incarnate. Every dodge, every feint, pulled from battles long past: his dance with Lucario, the way he moved with Sceptile, the fire in his eyes from the Kalos League.
But the masked enemy wasn't fighting to win—it was fighting to delete.
Ash was cut once—twice.
Every blow tore at something deeper than flesh.
Images flickered and vanished from the walls. Misty. Brock. Charizard.
Ash fell to one knee, panting.
> "They want to erase me piece by piece…"
The figure raised its blade again.
> "Goodbye, Ash Ketchum."
But then—a sound.
High-pitched. Glitching.
The Poké Ball at his waist burst open—
And light exploded.
---
A shadow landed between Ash and the attacker.
Small. Fierce.
Crackling with golden sparks.
Pikachu.
His cheeks sparked with rage. Eyes narrowed.
Ash looked up, eyes wide. Voice shaking.
> "Pikachu…?"
The little Pokémon didn't turn.
He stared at the masked enemy.
And with a voice that shook the dark:
> "Pika."
Then—lightning.
---