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The base was like a city abandoned to hell empty, silent, stripped of all traces of life.
Concrete buildings loomed in rows like gravestones, their windows dark and hollow, their doors yawning open like mouths that had forgotten how to speak.
Metal scaffolding creaked faintly under the push of the sea breeze.
The wind carried the smell of rust, salt, and something faintly acrid smoke, perhaps, though no fires burned here.
If not for the faintest signs of recent movement, loose footprints in the dust, half-drunk cups of coffee left on tables, chairs pulled back from desks, anyone might have believed this outpost had been deserted years ago.
But Max knew better.
The scarred veteran had studied Ashen Isle's history until he could recite it in his sleep. He knew every building's layout, every fuel depot, every laboratory.
He remembered the reports of the volcano on the eastern ridge and the way the organization had invested in the island decades ago.
Back when Darkstar first pushed into Hoenn, resources had been scarce, and resistance from the League and local factions had been fierce.
Progress had been slow, bloody, costly. The island had been the key an isolated, defensible location where they could stockpile weapons, fuel, and food while ferrying reinforcements across the ocean.
The Ashen Isle Base had once been a lifeline. Even after Darkstar carved out its foothold on the mainland, this outpost had remained important, staffed with researchers, engineers, medics, and enough security forces to repel any raid.
Yet what greeted Max now was wrong too wrong.
---
"Reporting, Captain!"
A scout jogged up, boots clanging against the metal floor grates of the central plaza. He saluted sharply. "No humans inside the structures."
Max's scarred brow furrowed. He had a deep, jagged scar that ran from temple to jaw like a canyon cut into his face, and it creased even deeper now. "Bodies?"
"None, sir. Buildings are spotless. Not even blood."
That shouldn't be possible.
Ashen Isle's garrison wasn't elite, but it wasn't so incompetent that it could be erased without resistance.
Even if Team Magma had stormed the place with overwhelming force, there would have been scorch marks, bullet holes, shattered walls, and above all, corpses.
And the distress signal had gone out less than two hours ago. Headquarters had scrambled them immediately.
The Blackhole-II transport choppers were the fastest in the organization, roaring across the sea with military precision.
Magma couldn't have destroyed everything, cleaned it all, and vanished without a trace in such a short span.
No. Something else had happened here.
A chill slid down Max's spine. He didn't like mysteries. Mysteries got men killed.
"And the archives?" he demanded.
"Intact," the scout replied quickly. "No signs of tampering. Files are undisturbed. Power still running."
Max's frown deepened until the scar tissue around his mouth whitened. Archives untouched.
No blood. No bodies. No enemies. It was too neat, too clean.
Then what did Team Magma want?
The unease sat heavy in his gut, like swallowing cold iron.
---
He keyed his comm.
"All squads, listen up. Teams 1 and 2, sweep west. Teams 3 and 4, sweep east. Teams 5 and 6 with me north sector. Everyone else, hold position and secure the landing zone. If you find anything, signal immediately. Do not engage recklessly. Understood?"
"Roger!" crackled the voices of squad leaders.
Darkstar operated with ruthless efficiency. Every soldier here wore matte-black armor with no insignia save the purple-black insignia of a collapsing singularity the emblem of Darkstar stitched over their chest.
At their belts hung custom gray Poké Balls, shaking faintly as the creatures inside sensed their trainers' tension.
To hedge against the unknown, Max had requisitioned rental Pokémon for every squad of monsters too dangerous to be left in the vaults, but too valuable to risk in the hands of ordinary soldiers.
Even he carried one, clipped heavy at his belt, a weapon of last resort should things go wrong.
The search began.
---
The sky above remained oppressive. Heavy clouds pressed low, turning the day into perpetual twilight.
Mist rolled like thin shrouds between the palm trees, wrapping everything in a funeral veil.
The scarred veteran moved at the front, his boots crunching across gravel and ash. His squad fanned out behind him with rifles raised, scanning corners, covering windows.
Sweat beaded on Max's brow. The island was damp and hot, the air thick with humidity. Yet despite the heat, the silence bit colder than winter.
Not a sound of wings. Not a buzz of insects. Not the distant screech of a wild Pokémon.
That was impossible.
Ashen Isle was infamous for its Fire-types. The volcanic soil birthed colonies of Torkoal, Slugma, and Numel, while the skies teemed with bird Pokémon riding the hot updrafts.
In all his years, Max had never known this place to be quiet.
Yet the jungle around them was a grave.
The wrongness gnawed at him. It set his teeth on edge, made his scar itch. His instincts screamed that they were being watched, that every step carried them deeper into a trap.
"Keep tight," he growled to his men. His voice carried the weight of long command. "No stragglers."
---
Forty minutes.
That's how long they had swept the northern sector without finding a single survivor. No people. No Pokémon. No enemy ambush.
He had prepared himself for casualties. He had expected to find blood, fire, torn uniforms, perhaps the remains of an ambush. What he had not expected was nothing.
The absence was worse than any battlefield.
"Too quiet," Max muttered under his breath, his brown eyes narrowing.
The scar that split his face caught the dim light, a pale line of puckered flesh that made his expression harsher still. He turned his head, scanning the jungle.
Tall palms swayed in the sea wind. The underbrush was thick, green, and unremarkable. Nothing moved.
And yet the silence pressed down like a weight.
It was the silence of a predator's den.
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Suddenly, the brush ahead shook violently.
Leaves rattled. Branches snapped.
"Contact!" Max Shouted, his voice sharp as a whip. His entire body tensed, hand snapping to his belt.
Behind him, a ripple spread through the squad. Weapons raised. Safety catches clicked off. Darkstar soldiers dropped to one knee, aiming at the undergrowth.
Max didn't blink. He couldn't afford to.
A ripple of darkness oozed along the ground behind him. From his own shadow, a pair of crimson eyes opened. His ace, Gengar, floated upward, mouth stretching into a razor-edged grin.
The air chilled as the Ghost-type gathered energy between its claws, a pulsing [Shadow Ball] forming, violet-black and hungry.
The leaves shook harder. Whatever was inside was large and close.
"Steady," Max growled. His voice was calm, but his scar twitched. "Don't fire until I give the order."
The squad's rifles tracked the foliage. Gengar's sphere swelled, crackling.
Then—
A glimpse of purple hide.
A glint of wet fangs, white as knives, reflecting the weak sunlight.
A low growl slithered out of the underbrush, deep and guttural.
Max's hand clenched. His scarred face hardened.
Something was waiting for them in the dark.
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~Support with 200 PowerStones = 1 Bonus Chapter
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