Drip, drip, drip. The incessant staccato of seawater met his ears as it reverberated off of the natural labyrinthâs walls, the meek occurrence resonating like a tidal wave within the deathly quiet cavern. Chills danced along the young manâs arms, inspiring goosebumps that came and went with the long minutes, as the scent of sea salt and clay filled his nostrils. He was rather unnerved to be so utterly alone while the rest of the crater town slept, feeling as though no one would notice if the cave decided to fall in on itself and swallow him whole.
 Sitting perched with crossed legs before of the twisted, towering walls of glistening, dewy stone and stalactite, he fastened his azure gaze upon the aged tome in his hands. His brow furrowed with the grueling effort it took to discern the faded calligraphic text and illustrations, the only dimly flickering illumination born from an array of wax candles propped on clay plates in coiled patterns around him, throwing replicas of his distorted shadow upon the walls. Perhaps the most exceptional aspect of the ritualistic atmosphere was the woven shroud he sat upon, fabricated long ago with silken threads of ruby and sapphire, the hues intermingling beneath a distinctive gilded design rumored to have been inspired from the backs of the ancient Pokemon themselves.
 He shifted upon it, appearing perturbed as a small sigh escaped his lips, his features painted with a profound look of worry as he shifted his attention away from the book of lore to the mural before him. It was a frightful and awe-inspiring creation, appearing to have been carved centuries ago from the very pitch hued soot the city was named for. Spanning several feet, the upper portion of the illustration emanated sentiments of harmony: Kyogre, the fearsome titan of the depths, appeared pacific as it peeked its head from the calm waters of the neighboring sea, the indigenous people of Sootopolis showering the creature with tropical flowers and other fruits of their proud civilization as blessed rainfall poured forth from the heavens. Adjacent to this image was Groudon, the hailed creator of the earth, who stood before the summit of what was presumed to be Mt. Chimney, while the people who once inhabited modern Lavaridge and Fallabar raised their hands in exalted praise for its ability to bring constant sunlight to the world.
As his eyes traced the cavern artwork, taking time to admire every brushstroke of whatever ancient artist gave life to its beauty, he still could not wrap his mind around the idea that two fearsome Pokemon created the lands and seas that humans could not survive without. He had read the stories and accounts that Juan had tasked him with nearly a hundred times, and yet he still trembled with intense, mingled fear and fury at the idea that their power could be manipulated for the sake of selfish human intent. Attempting to keep a clear mind, his eyes trailed quickly past the illustration below those of harmony, past the illustrations that conveyed the ultimate destruction and death that eradicated Sootopolisâs ancient ancestors and the remainder of Hoenn. Instead, Wallace fastened his eyes upon the two artifacts positioned before him, each nestled within velvet cloth and gilded boxes inscribed with the peculiar markings of the ancient Pokemon. Â They were the focus of his final vigil, two perfect, iridescent spheres that only Juan himself had access to, and he had brought them all the way back to their place of origin for the purpose of a final lesson.
The trainer frowned at them, disturbed by their beauty as the orbs of deep crimson and bright cerulean glimmered, refracting the candlelight.
âHow could something so destructive be so beautiful?â He mused, the calm bass echoing throughout the cavern as he observed the two objects. With a wistful smile, he supposed it made sense. Demagogues such as those that once attempted to harness the might of the two Pokemon had always used smooth-talking words and beauty to gain the approval of the masses that it was no wonder his people had once been coaxed and tantalized by the two artifacts sitting prettily before him. And yet, the young manâs mind remained distracted; he was too confident that he understood that grave nature of what was before him; that he comprehended his peoplesâ ancient strife, their pain. He was always scolded by Juan for his tendency towards distraction and haughtiness, whether it had been in the pursuit of art or battle. No matter how well he performed or what trainers he defeated, he was always told: you are not ready. And yet the aging man seemed so suddenly confident in his ability to change that he had expedited his final task, a vigil of reflection. Why? Brushing a strand of seafoam hued hair from his face, Wallace glanced up and around the cave in one final attempt to gain some profound sense of spirituality from the experience, and yet he felt nothing, the back of his neck growing hot with frustration. All that met his ears was the sound of echoed, dripping water, and all that met his eyes was murky darkness.
âWhat do you want from me?â
 It was not long before the influence of a grueling week of training, the late hour, and the dark surroundings dragged the young man into an unfit yet deep sleep, the slumber beginning with the occasional, repetitive rise and fall of his head. What was he thinking? He couldnât rest during a vigil! To do such warranted automatic failure, the failure of everything he had worked months for. And yet, particularly lacking in inspiration, he unwittingly dozed off, the loneliness of his surroundings vanishing from his mindâs eye and fading to black.
 It was not the blackness of sleep that met his eyes. His entire lithe form was assaulted by a million icy needles, rendering his limbs numb and useless as he gasped, inhaling a wheezing breath of salty brine that set even his trained lungs on fire. These were not untroubled waters; no, this is what he imagined a whirlpool must feel like at the very core of its raging vortex, barbaric and mindless of everything in its wake. Taking no time to mull over the unfathomable circumstances that led him into near blindness, he did the only thing he knew how to do, his arms reaching far over his head as his legs kicked furiously, his eyes staring blindly into a void as he reached for a surface he was beginning to fear did not exist.
 It was all too real to be a nightmare. His muscles slackened with each push of effort, his lips tightly sealed as they held tightly to the last inkling of oxygen he had left in his system. No matter how strong or persistent he was, he was tossed about as inconsequentially as a leaf in the wind, the direction of his course interrupted by the chaos so many times he began to lose semblance of rational thought. In the process he failed to notice that he was drifting, by some luck, to the surface, as any object would if it was stirred long enough in a figurative pot.
 Eyes beginning to flutter shut in exhaustion, they reopened wide as the blackness turned into a lighter, grayish sapphire hue, designating that he had reached the surface. Emerging from the depths with a long, hoarse gasp for oxygen, he expected to be greeted by the unyielding Hoenn sun. But it seemed chased from the sky entirely, a look of confounded horror overshadowing his fatigue as his body froze with fearful recognition. Colossal torrents of rain pelted from the skies, creating just enough visibility that he could discern waterspouts in the distance, so utterly gigantic and unlike anything he had ever seen, whether they be from Pokemon or nature itself. An ungodly roar of wind and thunder filled the air, the earth feeling as though it would crumble beneath the pressure of the seas as the tectonic plates trembled in correspondence to the surges of electricity that crashed into the depths. Â
 This apocalyptic scene he was bearing witness to; that was not the worst part. No, it was the screams. The screaming of the wind and rain mingled with the screaming of the people upon the gargantuan white rock that he kicked furiously to stay afloat beneath. He stared incredulously up at the damned souls situated around its crater, unable to distinguish their ancient tongue amidst the deafening noise of the disaster. But his heart palpitated and fell simultaneously as he recognized their body language, the way the women held their children to their chest, the way the men threw their arms up in anger and pleading as one man held a solitary orb to the beast that rapidly approached, its enraged roar more potent than the combined forces of nature.
 He felt their horror of the families, the dread of the impending doom that would wait only seconds for them to grab each other by the face and bawl their hurried goodbyes. He felt the ancient peoplesâ fury towards their crazed demagogue and their heavy, ruefully accepted shame as they realized that they had placed their trust in a man whose vision seemed superior to their quaint ways. He felt their grief for their loyal companions, unable to be harnessed by modern devices but loyal all the same, Pokemon that had perished not long after Kyogre had emerged from its aquatic slumber. And perhaps most peculiar of all, he felt hope, a hope cried out in the hearts of a few that their mistakes would not be recreated, and that their proud people would persevere.
 The combined weight of these emotions crashed into him all once, drowning the young man as swiftly as the steely, thousand ton wave that swallowed his form as the ancient Pokemon approached to eliminate its captor and his followers once and for all. His lungs rapidly filled with the salty brine, the lack of oxygen causing his vision to fade to blackness as he awoke with a convulsing jolt.
 Blinking rapidly, he twisted his head several times, peering around at the same, seemingly ordinary cave from before, uncertain of which reality was true. Trembling with trepidation, he rose to his feet, the motion staggering and ungraceful as he longed to separate himself from whatever horrors he had just experienced. He dashed through the darkness towards the exit and towards the idealistic present, tripping over a stray stone in the process, his flurried mind particularly useless as it attempted to process what he had just experienced.
 Emerging into the cool night, his knees buckled, the trainer stopping to take gasping breaths inspired by both horror and the physical effort of his sprinted escape.  Standing, he brushed the dirt and clay from his clothing in a futile effort, slowly taking in the sights of the slumbering city whose beauty and peace he had taken for granted for far too long. His expression twisted with undisguised pain at the reality that the land and all of its people could be eradicated if a soul with cruel intent ever again stepped foot into the cave where the ancient Pokemon slumbered.
Truly humbled and reinvigorated with newfound determination to ensure no soul would ever experience the pain he had in his vision, he turned to head towards the Sootopolis Gym, but not before his eyes met the sight of his mentor, the man he sought, illuminated by pale moonlight.
âI-I understand. I understand everything, what I must do,â he breathed, the words seeming to fall to the ground like an admittance of defeat as the young man bowed respectfully, waiting to be scolded by the man for running out on the vigil in the middle of the night.
Instead, a knowing, warm chuckle filled the still air, Wallace watching as a flowing, ivory garment fell around his form, curving around his body to his feet as the gym leader passed the rite onto his apprentice, fastening the cloak around his neck in one final transfer of responsibility.
âI thought you might.â
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