Pokemon: As Cynthia's Fiance

Want to read ahead, you know where.

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The heavy doors of the Canalave Library creaked closed behind Sam with a hollow thunk that echoed into the quiet night.

He paused on the threshold, letting the door settle before stepping into the fading light of dusk.

Cool ocean air greeted him immediately, brushing against his face with a salt-laced breeze that tugged at the hem of his coat.

The cries of distant Wingull drifted through the air as they soared overhead, circling lazily above the rooftops.

Street lanterns flickered to life one by one along the cobbled roads, casting golden halos that danced across the old stones.

The city shimmered in the twilight, soft and painterly, as if touched by the hand of an old master.

Sam walked slowly, hands tucked into his coat pockets.

His breath came in quiet puffs, lips moving silently as he muttered to himself.

"Ultra Wormholes… Ultra Beasts…"

His gaze drifted upward, where the indigo sky deepened into a violet hue.

A few early stars blinked into view, scattered across the heavens like forgotten embers.

Beneath their cold shimmer, a frown creased his brow.

"In this world… the storm hasn't started yet," he murmured.

"But the clouds are gathering."

It would be easy, too easy, for someone else to believe this world was at peace.

And why wouldn't they? Trainers strolled through Canalave's narrow lanes with their partners at their sides, laughing softly beneath the lantern light.

A group of children chased a cheeky Chatot around a bubbling fountain, their giggles rising into the evening air.

Ferries at the harbor rocked gently, preparing for their next journeys.

All of it radiated a sense of calm, of normalcy.

But Sam knew better.

He hadn't been born into this world.

He had arrived in it with all his memories intact.

Every game, every anime arc, every obscure Pokédex entry he'd ever studied…

It all lived vividly in his mind.

And now, walking through the real thing, it was impossible not to see the undercurrents—the shadows others missed.

Kanto's Team Rocket was still active.

Most thought of them as small-time thugs, but Sam knew they were far more than that.

Giovanni was a patient man, dangerous in his restraint.

He hadn't moved openly yet, but he was preparing—testing the waters, gathering pieces.

In Hoenn, the flames of conflicting ideologies smoldered just beneath the surface.

Archie and Maxie hadn't awakened their ancient titans yet, but both had already begun laying the groundwork.

Team Aqua and Team Magma weren't just misguided—they were fanatics.

The kind who would burn or drown the world to remake it.

And here, in Sinnoh—where Sam now walked—the silence was the most dangerous of all.

Team Galactic had yet to rise, but Cyrus was already watching.

Calculating. Waiting.

It was all coming together.

Inevitable.

Sam exhaled slowly. His breath clouded in the cooling air.

"Lucario and Darkrai may have reached Champion-level," he said softly, thinking of his two most powerful partners.

"But it's not enough."

Not against what was coming.

Not against monsters who had the blood of legends in their veins and the favor of gods behind their eyes.

"If I run into those beings with ancient legacies… I'll be crushed."

His voice was calm, but there was a thread of steel behind it—grim and specific.

"I can't hesitate."

He looked up again. The stars were brighter now.

The wind played with his dark hair, lifting strands across his face. His eyes narrowed.

The people in this world didn't understand.

Giovanni's Beedrill wasn't just a well-trained bug-type—it had monstrous potential, something akin to a pseudo-deity hiding behind twin stingers.

Pryce, the old Ice-type Gym Leader back in Johto, possessed Pokémon like Swinub and Delibird.

Harmless on paper.

But Sam had studied the lore, pieced together the whispers between the lines.

He hadn't used his system's "Eye" on them yet, hadn't even met Pryce in person—but instinct screamed they weren't ordinary.

Those Pokémon weren't just strong.

Some of them… might already be brushing the boundary of Tier Three Divine power.

And they weren't alone.

This world was filled with hidden forces, some sleeping, some simply waiting to be found. But all of them are dangerous.

Sam clenched his fists. No matter how far he'd come, it wasn't enough.

Not yet.

He needed more strength—quickly.

He needed to be ready for the moment the dominoes began to fall.

…

He didn't notice how far he'd walked until the streets behind him grew quiet, and the cobblestones gave way to packed dirt.

Canalave's city lights faded behind him, their warm glow swallowed by trees and shadows.

He passed rusted fences and wind-swept bluffs until the only sound left was the rhythmic crashing of waves and the occasional keening cry of ocean Pokémon in the dark.

Eventually, his steps slowed.

He stood at the edge of the city now, where the land jutted out into the sea like a forgotten tooth.

The wind was stronger here, salty and sharp, tasting of mist and moonlight.

The water shimmered in the last remnants of twilight, copper and rose gold rippling out to the horizon.

Sam paused, hands still in his pockets.

"...Woooo…"

It was almost nothing. A whisper, thin and reedy, carried across the sea breeze.

Not a cry of battle. Not a call for dominance.

It wasn't a posturing or territorial warning.

It was pain.

Sam's eyes sharpened instantly. He didn't question it.

He moved.

One of them had blue skin.

An aquatic Pokémon, roughly three meters long, its large body stranded helplessly on the beach.

The tide lapped weakly at its lower half, as if trying to pull it back into the ocean where it belonged. But it couldn't move.

Its front and hind flippers, shaped like broad paddles, twitched feebly in the sand.

Its long neck drooped limply, arching downward with no strength to lift it.

The Pokémon's eyes were shut tight, and its mouth opened in weak cries that barely carried over the crashing waves.

Groaning. In pain. And alone.

The fishermen who once lived in this region called it the "Beloved of the Sea."

Lapras.

A creature known for its intelligence and its gentle, empathetic nature.

So rare were its sightings that entire coastal communities would consider themselves blessed if a single one came to rest in their waters.

In older days, people sang songs about Lapras ferrying lost souls across stormy seas.

But there were no songs now.

Only cruelty.

"Move already, you damn thing! Didn't you bark at me earlier, huh?!" a young man sneered, his voice full of frustration and venom.

He wore a striped, open-collared suit that looked more fit for a casino than the coastline.

His polished shoe ground hard against Lapras' forelimb.

"Thought you were tough, didn't you? You tried to bite me! You still got the guts to do that?" he spat.

Lapras let out a weak, whimpering moan. Its already injured flipper spasmed beneath the force of the stomp.

Black pus seeped from an ugly wound along the joint—an injury made worse by the blow.

"Woooo…" it cried again, a choked, aching sound that made the very air around it feel heavier.

"Ugh, let me do it!" snapped another of the boys, this one taller and broader, with a wild mop of fluffy hair like an uncombed afro.

He grabbed a heavy branch from the nearby underbrush—thick, knotted, and soaked with dew—and without hesitation swung it down.

There was a sickening thud.

The branch cracked against Lapras' head with brutal force.

The Pokémon flinched, crying out sharply.

Its head lowered even further, mist clinging to its form as if trying to shield it.

"Still not down yet?" the afro-haired youth sneered.

"Stubborn piece of trash."

Lapras' groans grew louder.

Its agony was no longer something subtle—it had become raw, agonizing, suffocating.

Its cries sounded less like a wild Pokémon and more like a creature trying to plead for its life.

"You're so boring," said a third voice, this one more casual, almost indifferent.

A shirtless youth, barefoot, climbed onto Lapras' back like it was nothing more than a piece of furniture.

His skin glistened with sweat and seawater.

His expression wasn't angry or excited—just annoyed.

He raised one foot and kicked down—right onto Lapras' slender neck.

Another cry. This time, hoarse, drawn out. The mist around Lapras wavered as if it were fraying at the edges.

"Tch. It doesn't even fight back anymore," the shirtless boy scoffed.

"What a disappointment. Thought it'd be more fun."

Then his eyes lit up as a new idea came to him.

"Hey, boss," he said, turning toward the striped-suit guy.

"This thing's shell—it looks heavy, right?"

"So?"

"Maybe it's worth something. We could cut it off. Sell it to a collector or something."

The boy with the afro let out a bark of laughter.

"Now you're thinking. Or better yet—get a power drill and take it off while it's alive."

"Hah! We could do a science experiment. Like those professors on TV!"

His eyes lit up with cruel amusement.

"What's that word… when you cut something open while it's alive? V-vivisection? That's it! Let's do that! Role-play a professor, haha!"

The others laughed.

Wild. Loud. Unchecked.

"Hell yeah!" said the striped-suit guy, face twisted in gleeful malice.

"We're Professors now! Conducting cutting-edge research!"

"'Scientific study,' am I right?!" cackled the shirtless one.

"Gotta learn more about Pokémon anatomy!"

None of them was joking.

Their grins widened.

Their shadows grew long in the setting sun, and not one of them paused to question what they were doing.

Their expressions were monstrous—ugly distortions of human faces filled with amusement, not horror.

As if the living, suffering Pokémon before them weren't even alive.

As if it were a toy.

A broken thing.

An object.

Where there is sunlight, there will always be shadow.

It's easy to romanticize the Pokémon world—colorful, vibrant, full of wonder and connection.

In many places, that's all true.

People love their Pokémon, treat them as partners, family, or even friends, closer than blood.

Trainers laugh with them, cry with them, and grow with them.

But the darkness still exists.

And it's not always hidden.

Some people fear Pokémon. Some hate them.

Others… view them as tools to exploit, stepping stones to wealth or power.

And a twisted few—like the ones here—take it even further.

They take pleasure in hurting Pokémon.

Not out of strategy. Not out of necessity.

Out of sheer, sadistic joy.

The worst part? They aren't common, but they aren't unheard of either.

Just as in Sam's previous world, "Earth," there had been people who delighted in harming animals, who recorded their cruelty like trophies.

Who grew addicted to the act of causing suffering.

Here, in the Pokémon world…

They existed, too.

Even in a world full of wonder.

There were still scumbags.

And right now, three of them stood on a beach, laughing and joking while a helpless Lapras cried out in agony beneath their feet.