Because the day's trip would be long, Ethan set out before dawn. Under the moonlight he headed for the second-to-last village on his route—about ten kilometers out. No cart today; just a decent burlap sack slung over his shoulder.
(He had his system Backpack anyway—the sack was for show.)
Buying went about as poorly as expected. With wild Pokémon cutting villages off from one another, outsiders weren't welcome. A roaming "antiques buyer" was the least welcome of all.
By noon he'd picked up a hundred-odd cash coins, a well-kept oil-paper umbrella, a rust-flecked army tunic, a matching officer's saber, and a spearhead without its shaft.
He "fed" the lot to the birthmark, netting 600+ Ancient Energy.
After lunch he packed the leftover odds and ends. Plan: head into the city, crash with Ava for the night, then hit the dojo for starter eggs in the morning.
He'd just swung the sack onto Houndour's back when a shabby-looking teen called out.
Closer up, "shabby" wasn't quite right. The kid's shirt was patchy, shoes split to the toes—but his skin was fair, eyes bright, posture steady. Good bones.
"Bro, you buying antiques too?"
Business face on, Ethan smiled. He wasn't the type to look down on people—especially not someone with eyes that sharp. Reminded him a little of himself: dragon stranded in a puddle, but still aiming for the sky.
Houndour: shameless much?Abra: co-signed.
"I don't own antiques," the kid said bluntly. "I don't even have a home."
"Then why'd you stop me…?"
"I know where to find them. Question is—do you have the guts?"
Ethan almost flicked him on the forehead. He knew where to find antiques too—the museum—but that didn't mean you could just walk in.
"A bronze idol—at least a thousand years old—worshiped for two, three centuries. Do you dare?"
Ethan's heartbeat kicked. He knew exactly what the kid meant.
"Liao era?" he asked.
"Yeah. Nobles built it for rain prayers. Should be a 'Dragon King.'"
Zhaoyang region had drought nine years out of ten. Most villages kept a Dragon King shrine—though "dragon" usually meant some rain-working Pokémon: Ludicolo, Politoed, Poliwrath… Over in coastal Bin City they revered a different kind—real storm callers—to keep the rain away.
"You want me to steal your village's Dragon King statue?" Ethan snorted. "I like my bones unbroken. Hard pass."
His own village had one. He was shameless about picking the nest clean—but not that shameless. Anything upheld by a whole village's faith was hands-off.
The kid shook his head. "Not that one. Ours is decades old. I'm talking about a shrine deep in the mountains. It got taken over centuries ago by something powerful. Place is cursed now. People who go in don't come out. The shrine's abandoned. If you're hunting 'energy' things, it's stacked."
That made Ethan pause. The kid wasn't trying to trick him; if anything, he was warning him.
"What do you want for leading me there?" Ethan asked.
"Everyone knows the shrine exists. No one will guide you—too many deaths. I'll take you to the edge. But first you help me with something. After that, what happens to you in there isn't my problem."
"What something?"
"You're a trainer. I can feel that Houndour's strong. Take me to the Spinarak colony and help me catch their leader. It should be level six or seven. I've got my own Poké Ball, so I won't count against your six."
Fair terms. Ethan agreed on the spot. "Now?"
"Now."
They cut through the village into the woods. First stop: the Spinarak grounds—eight spiders total, mostly level 4–5, with one larger leader around level 7. So the kid hadn't lied.
Houndour wasn't the level-6 pup he'd been. Yesterday's pills and that professional-grade Ninetales hellfire had finished digesting—he'd popped to level 12.
He stepped forward and let the malice roll. The Spinarak froze. Under the pressure, the leader let itself be caught. Breaking them in together was the kid's problem now.
Pleased, the boy—"Noah," he finally offered—kept his promise and led Ethan to a dead forest. "Listen," Noah said.
"My adoptive father—he's gone now—told me this strip of forest appeared 600 years ago. It runs about two kilometers, maybe five hundred meters wide at the widest, crooked like a snake.
"Back in the Liao days the first thing to claim it was probably a Trevenant. I don't know if it's still around or if something else took over.
"The Dragon King shrine—or call it a mountain god hall—sits dead center. Once you're inside, the trees move. It's a living maze. Don't mark bark—anyone who did died. Trevenant won't forgive damage to its woods.
"If you get lost, stay still. As long as you don't hurt trees and you've got supplies, one day the grove might spit you out.
"Might. No one's made it back yet.
"My parents were trainers. They died in there. The shrine exists, and I'm sure there are relics. It's your choice.
"I hope you come back."
He bowed and left without looking back.
Ethan watched him go, then studied the woods anew.
Trunks stood tight—barely a meter between them—tall and thin, branches warped and hooked, just a few green tufts far overhead. Every tree looked like a Trevenant silhouette; what were the odds the hidden residents weren't Phantump or Trevenant?
He glanced at the birthmark on his wrist.
Ping.
Plenty of Ancient Energy inside—he didn't need to confirm the shrine's existence to know something was waiting.
He popped a ball and woke Abra.
"Walk the perimeter with me. Mark the trees."
He'd already tested Abra's Teleport. With a pre-placed psycho mark, max hop distance was ~500 meters in a straight line. Without marks, it was a cramped 10 meters.
Lay a net of marks outside the grove; if things went south, Abra could jerk them to safety—unless the enemy had Mean Look or Taunt ready.
An hour later, with a ring of contingency points set, Ethan stepped into the Strange Forest with Houndour leading, himself in the middle and a ball ready to recall, Abra watching the rear—hand on Ethan's shoulder, primed to blink them out.
"Still feeling the outside marks?" Ethan asked.
Yes, Abra's thought brushed his mind.
Good. Fifty percent escape odds at least. The other half depended on whether the grove fought dirty.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
A hundred meters in, the "trees" weren't trees anymore—just pale, twisted pillars. No birds. No bugs. No Caterpie, no Weedle. A dead zone.
Vertigo punched him. The ground shivered. Trunks shifted.
Ethan clamped a hand in Houndour's scruff; Abra's palm dug into his shoulder.
"The trees are moving—what now?" Abra's young mind-voice wavered.
"Can you still feel the outer marks?"
Some. Others dragged beyond range.
"Then we wait. The owner knows we're here."
After ten seconds the tremors stopped. The trunks settled. Silence fell again.
Ethan squinted at their new surroundings—then caught the grim set of Abra's face and felt his stomach drop.
"Don't tell me…"
"I've lost part of the grid," Abra admitted. "We've been shifted outside several marks' range. Some points remain. But… Ethan—"
"We're lost."
"Huh?"
He stared into the maze of identical trunks.
Lost? With coordinates?