Strangeness and silence seeped beneath her paws as Senga sprung off the monster's ribcage, shearing The Hollow Men from its covers with an expertly-executed Covet. The slender spine fell to the ground, its bindings shredded, as its contents settled back in Chryssa's hands.

In the aftermath, the bodies of books lay massacred, stained by ink and remnants of psychic energy that had peeled the wisdom from their pages. Even now the letters streamed, blurred, trailing like ants from old carcasses.

The tug at her body and mind had closed along with the rift, leaving a resounding emptiness among the people left stranded in its wake. Turmoil. Dissatisfaction. Instead of growing stronger, their Pokemon had grown weaker from the conflict. Instead of proving what they'd learned, they'd proved their ignorance instead. 

"Meew." Her Meowstic gave a strange hiccup. Instead of the light of evolution, a darkness seemed to consume the creamy-furred Pokemon.

"Not you too," Chryssa said as Senga's form shrunk, simplified, and became an Espurr. Remarkably calm despite everything, the girl reached out and caught the gray kitten as it began to levitate unsteadily into the air. "Control yourself, please. We have a situation."

I knew there was more to this church than met the eye, Chryssa thought, eyes passing over the destruction. Her Espurr wiggled in her hands, expression impassive. I knew, but I pretended not to. I wanted to explore anyway. Perhaps even Father Bill hadn't been aware of the catacombs beneath the ruined chapel. If he had, surely he would never have permitted them to uncover its secrets.

Now, they were trapped down here with them.

This was no virtual reality. This was nothing to be battled, to be vanquished in fair combat according to League regulations. Chryssa hesitated to even call it a Pokemon. This was something new. 

Something that doesn't play by the rules.

It made her fingers tingle.

Without a word, not to Doug, not to Chu-e, Chryssa tucked her poem and Espurr under one arm and turned to follow the trailing lines of text deeper into the Archives.

Click. Click. Click. Her cane tapped on the wood, measured as heartbeats. Like her fear, it was part of her. She did not resent it. She just lived with it. On either side of her, dark bookshelves scaled towards the ceiling like textured highways.

Where do I start?

A sound rang through the Archives. It sounded like a cat.

"Prrp?" The Meowstic—no, the Espurr—squirmed in her arms, sensing a rival, or perhaps another threat. "Rroww!" Her high-pitched, kittenish yowl of challenge echoed down the bookshelves, hoping to bait the other feline into showing itself.

"Hush," Chryssa shushed her. "Here, hold this. I want to try something." She put her poem in Senga's paws to keep her occupied.

Then she drew Muir.

The sheath of the cane fell away as Chryssa revealed the blade, bright as day on water. Its tassel slithered around her fingertips. "Help me," she said out loud—softly—and then, "Please."


The words came to her, from Muir or from deep in her subconscious, and Chryssa held the Honedge aloft as three, no, four threads unraveled themselves from the ghost blade, forming a junction of invisible Destiny Bonds. Scattered throughout the Archives, three other people would also feel the strings of fate tugging at their fingers.

Chryssa closed her eyes, trusting in Muir, and followed the closest one.

The tug led her onwards, deeper. She did not know which part of the Archives it drew her towards—her feet turned on their own, finding a path through streams of floating letters. 

No, not floating. Bleeding.

They bled from a single, unmarked book, its title drifting from its spine.

"I solemnly swear," the girl said, resting the tip of the sword on the empty front cover, "I am up to no good."

A black, umbral glow coursed down the Honedge and the trickling words reversed, drawn towards the darkness like iron filaments to a magnet. They swarmed the empty tome, disappearing into its pages and re-forging the name it had lost.


"This is it," Chryssa said.