ABANDONED JOURNAL
Recovered from a bloodstained notebook found beneath an unnamed mountain
There is no sky anymore.
Just a smear where heaven used to be. Like someone dragged their fingers through wet paint and erased the stars.
I do not know if this is happening. I do not know if dreaming still exists. I do not know if I exist.
They did not kill me. They called me Witness. Said the end needs an audience. Said truth must be recorded even if no one survives to read it. I do not know if they meant me or if I am just the last thing here that remembers language.
I am beneath the Spear Pillar. No, inside it. The walls pulse like flesh, like magma-filled lungs. There is no stone anymore. Just breathing architecture. The air stinks of ozone and blood. It hurts to think. My memories come apart when I blink.
I saw Volo.
He does not wear a face anymore. Just the shape of one. He walks like history, weightless and inevitable. He spoke without sound. Said:
"Garithea remembers the First Silence."
"Creation was the original sin."
"Arceus tried to forge permanence in a world born to forget."
"We are fixing it."
Then the summoning began.
Dialga cried first. The sound looped, a scream trapped in a time knot, echoing backward and forward at once. Palkia followed, its body fracturing across dimensions like shattered glass.
And then it came.
A thing dragged from the deep trench of the world’s shadow, fused, molten, and wrong. Groudon and Kyogre, lashed together in a shape that defies reason. Its body weeps oceans that burn, bleeds magma that flows upward. Its roar erases sound for miles.
They call it Deiforme, the prototype of erasure. The spine of contradiction. A husk of primal hatred resurrected to prove the world is flawed.
Above it all, the Lake Spirits watched.
Uxie gouged out its own eyes. Mesprit tore its heart out and laid it bare. Azelf broke its chains and knelt.
Then Arceus descended.
The Alpha. The Origin. The mistake.
And they tore it apart.
Not symbolically. Not ritually. Physically.
They swarmed it. Bound it. Ripped its divine frame open with hands, teeth, relics older than death. It bled stars. It screamed in every language. Its halo shattered. Its plates fell like meteors. The god who shaped all things died begging.
And from its carcass, they called forth the end.
Giratina did not resist. It opened. Its wings unfolded into glass. Its torso cracked like a chrysalis. Through the hollow of its body, Garithea stepped into the world.
It is not a being. It is absence wearing shape. It does not move, the world moves away from it. No eyes. No limbs. No voice. And yet it speaks directly into the bones.
It does not kill. It unwrites.
I can feel it peeling me back like old bark.
I do not remember my name. I do not remember why I was fighting.
I only finish this because I began before I was unmade.
I saw the moon fold inward like a paper sigil closing itself. The sun dimmed, not extinguished. Reverted.
The stars? They were not snuffed out. They were simply never there.
Even light can be forgotten.
The cult cheers silently. Their mouths gape wide but make no sound. I think I am the last one who can still hear anything.
I do not know what hearing is. I do not know what I am.
All that remains is the shape of a story no one will remember.
Then the sky fell. Then
...
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