"Not every puppet knows it's dancing."
---
Ash walked.
But the land beneath his feet had changed.
What was once lush, green wilderness had crumbled into ash and gravel. Trees stood like skeletons, charred and groaning in the hot wind. The skies—cloudless, yet dark—hung low, as if pressing down upon the world.
Pikachu trotted beside him, but slower than usual. His paws trembled. The fur along his spine was matted with blood—some Ash's, some not.
They had walked through the Forge of Ends. They had slain the Alternate. They had seen the Sea of Memory burn.
But the price…
Ash could barely stand without feeling the tremor of souls he had trampled to reach this far.
Misty.
Brock.
Professor Oak.
Even Charizard.
Gone.
Some forgotten.
Some... erased.
The road ahead cracked with every step. Not because of weight—but because this place wasn't built to hold truth.
---
Ash stopped walking.
There was no path anymore—only a field of silence.
And at the center, a tree.
Tall. Pale. Rooted in nothing.
Its branches shimmered like spiderwebs of moonlight, and from each limb hung fragments—echoes of a thousand lives.
A ribbon marked with Serena's perfume.
A Poké Ball with Gary's name scratched out.
A single Thunder Badge, cracked in half.
And as Ash stepped forward, they began to whisper.
Not in words.
In feelings.
Guilt.
Loss.
Hope.
And beneath it all—
Design.
---
> "It's been a long time coming, hasn't it?"
The voice tore through Ash like a blade laced with nostalgia.
He turned.
And saw the figure—tall, inhumanly still, wrapped in living threads that pulsed and shimmered.
No face. Only a porcelain mask carved with the alphabet of the Unown, each symbol shifting subtly, as if spelling different fates every second.
The Hand That Pulled the Thread.
"I've killed gods," Ash growled. "I've buried friends. I've walked through memories that weren't mine and lost pieces of myself. And now you show yourself?"
> "Because now, you're ready," the figure said calmly. "Ready to see the stage for what it is."
He gestured—
—and the world peeled away.
---
Ash now stood in a grand theatre.
Rows upon rows of frozen spectators. Gym Leaders. Pokémon. Rivals. Friends. His mother.
All still.
All wax.
The stage ahead was drenched in shadows and blood.
And on it lay—
Versions of himself.
One, curled into a fetal ball, murmuring "I failed them all…"
One, crucified on a rack of broken Poké Balls.
One, grinning madly, holding a blade to his own Pikachu's throat.
Ash felt bile rise in his throat.
"No," he whispered. "This isn't real. This is some illusion—"
> "It's your truth," the masked figure said. "Every iteration of you that couldn't bear the weight. Every failed protagonist. You are the last."
> "And the final act must be performed."
---
Pikachu leapt toward the figure.
Lightning roared.
But the man raised one hand—and strings of silver danced in the air, snaring Pikachu mid-flight.
He froze. Limbs suspended. Sparks dying in his cheeks.
"No!" Ash screamed, charging forward.
But the moment he crossed onto the stage, the floor rippled like liquid shadow and pulled him to his knees.
"You made me live through pain. You used my friends. You turned my journey into a horror show!" Ash spat.
The man nodded.
> "Yes. To test if you were worthy. A hero must bleed, Ash. A champion must break. You broke… beautifully."
---
> "Now choose," the figure said. "Kill me—and become the one who ends it. Or take my place. Become the writer. The one who pulls the threads."
Ash stared at his own hands.
They had caught Pokémon. Held dying teammates. Punched tyrants. Cradled his mother after she forgot his name. Dug graves. Set fires. Drew lines in the sand.
He had become something no trainer was meant to become.
Not a master.
A weapon.
Ash stood.
"I won't be you," he whispered. "I won't let this keep going."
He unsheathed the dagger—the one shaped like a broken Thunderbolt.
"Then choose oblivion," the man said.
---
But Ash did something different.
He turned the blade inward.
And stabbed it into his own chest.
Reality howled.
Threads snapped.
Blood poured.
Ash grabbed the thread of fate inside him and ripped it out.
The tree screamed. The theatre shattered.
And everything—
went white.
---
When Ash opened his eyes—
He was ten again.
Palet Town. Clean. Unbroken.
Outside his window: Pikachu.
Alive. Whole. Smiling.
Ash looked down at his chest.
No wound.
But in his palm—he still held the faint shimmer of a thread.
One he had broken.
One no one else could see.
And in his mind—faint, fragile, but burning bright—
He remembered everything.
---