Ash stared at the floating black book—his book now.
It pulsed with a silent, foreboding rhythm, as though it had a heartbeat. Or perhaps it echoed his own. Threads of shimmering script snaked across the surface, rewriting themselves over and over—names, dates, battles—all flickering too fast to read.
Pikachu lay in his arms, bruised but alert, eyes fixed on the ominous tome as if recognizing it not as a gift… but a challenge.
The Narrator stood in the fading light of the theatre's curtains, face shadowed beneath his top hat, voice soft and knowing.
> "This is your burden, Ash Ketchum. Your pen. Your legacy."
Ash stepped forward.
Each step was heavier than the last.
With every inch, the air grew thicker—as if the world was holding its breath.
> "If I write in this…" Ash said slowly, "the world remembers?"
The Narrator nodded.
> "Yes. But memory is a double-edged sword. What you bring back… may not stay obedient. Not every story deserves revival."
> "That's not your choice," Ash growled.
"It never was."
Pikachu sparked faintly in his arms, eyes blazing.
Ash placed his hand on the book.
> "This is ours now."
---
Contact.
And the world—fractured.
Light spilled from the pages like a dam broken. Unwritten history surged through Ash's body—too vast, too ancient. His mind split into countless memories, time lines fusing into a chaotic storm.
Flashes. Emotions. Names.
Red, silent atop Mt. Silver.
Dawn crying at a lost friend's grave.
Charizard roaring against a god.
Serena's lips trembling as she stepped away from the platform.
Greninja fading.
Butterfree flying toward the sun.
And then—
The Reset.
---
Ash crashed into a field.
He gasped as real air filled his lungs. Fresh, green, alive.
His body shook as he sat up. The world was vibrant. More vivid than anything in the theatre.
> "We made it…?"
Pikachu stirred beside him. He was glowing faintly, as if still carrying remnants of that surge. He sniffed the air, ears twitching.
Ash stood and turned.
Across the hill—Pallet Town.
But not the way it was before.
The buildings were cleaner, the sky younger. Children's laughter echoed from somewhere close.
And there—riding a bike, red hair tied back—was Misty.
> "Ash! Come on, don't be late again!"
Ash's breath caught.
> "No…"
It was a memory. Alive.
And behind her, running down the trail, a young boy.
Himself.
Ten years old.
Determined. Clumsy. Hopeful.
Ash stepped forward, eyes wide.
> "Is this... the first day?"
The sky was clear.
The grass was real.
Everything was perfect.
Too perfect.
---
Then—the sky ripped open.
A tear. Like reality had been sliced with a blade of static.
Through it stepped a figure: robed in shifting language, a silhouette made of broken alphabets and inverted punctuation. Its face was unreadable—a constant blur of rewritten dialogue. A being not made to be understood.
> "What is that?" Ash whispered.
Pikachu's fur bristled.
The Narrator's voice returned, this time in his head.
> "That is the Editor. Born from abandoned drafts. A creature who exists only to correct… deviations."
> "You mean erase," Ash snapped.
The Editor raised a single finger.
And the world began to unwrite itself.
---
The trees bent backward, leaves sucked into time.
Misty froze mid-pedal, her smile cracking like porcelain.
The younger Ash looked up—confused—then began to fade.
Ash screamed.
> "NO!"
He ran toward him—his younger self—watching as the memory disintegrated, pixel by pixel.
Pikachu leapt into action, launching a Thunderbolt at the Editor.
But the Editor absorbed it, the attack swallowed by invisible code. It raised its other hand.
A wave tore through the field—shattering grass, sky, memory.
The world collapsed.
And again, Ash and Pikachu were hurled into the void.
---
Silence.
Only flickers of shattered memories floated in the dark—Misty's bike, Oak's lab coat, a piece of a broken Poké Ball.
Ash floated there. Lost. Breathless.
The black book was still in his hands.
The Editor loomed above them, larger now, the void his domain.
> "This isn't just a story, is it?" Ash whispered.
"It's a prison."
The Editor descended.
Ash stared at him—not as a god, but as a thief. A thief of moments, of bonds, of meaning.
And in that void, holding the last written page of his life…
Ash made a decision.
---
> "You want to erase me?"
He opened the book.
> "Then I'll write faster than you can destroy."
The pen formed in his hand—his will made real.
And he began to write.
---
"Chapter One: We Begin Again."
A storm erupted.
The black void trembled. Sparks of gold poured from the page, igniting memory.
Mountains. Towns. Forests. The Indigo Plateau.
And voices—
So many voices.
"Use Iron Tail!"
"We believe in you!"
"Pikachu, dodge!"
"Trust your Pokémon!"
"Ash!"
Each name he'd met. Every rival. Every friend. Every battle.
Remembered.
The Editor shrieked—not in sound, but in corrupted code. It struck down with a blade made of black ink—
Blocked by Pikachu.
The little mouse stood in front of Ash, cheeks blinding, sparking like a dying star reigniting.
> "Pikachu…" Ash breathed.
"You ready?"
> "Pika. Pi."
Together, they leapt.
Ash struck the page again—
"Chapter Two: No More Scripts."
And with that, the Editor cracked.
A scream like burning pages. The void splintered.
And a light—pure, untamed—poured through the cracks.
---
Ash landed in a new place.
Stone beneath him. A battlefield of memory and meaning.
And around the edges of that space…
He heard the faintest whispers of other trainers.
Familiar ones.
> "Red?"
"Serena?"
"Brock…?"
He looked up.
The battlefield awaited.
And the Editor was far from done.
But Ash was no longer alone.
---