The sun broke late over the valley, veiled in a haze of low mist and cold wind. I left the ruins without ceremony. Honedge didn't ride at my side, not yet—not like the others. But I felt him. The sword had accepted me, after a fashion. Or maybe it had just recognized something familiar in the jagged corners of my will. A second soul wasn't something you could fake.
Luxio trotted ahead, ears flicking every few steps. Grotle followed at an easy plod, his massive weight settling in with each step. Tyrunt, though, walked differently—alert, tail swaying, like he still expected something to come lunging out from the trees.
He wasn't wrong.
I didn't speak much that morning. I was thinking too hard about how to begin training Honedge.
You couldn't exactly tell a haunted sword what to do. Honedge wasn't like the others. There were no eyes to read, no breath to sync with. Just energy. Presence. Intent. I had to figure out what it responded to—commands? Movement? Pressure? Did it fight by instinct or memory?
I decided to start simple.
We made camp early that afternoon, just before the ridge trail bent east. I took Luxio and Tyrunt aside and marked out a small ring of stones—my makeshift sparring ground. Honedge hovered at the edge of the circle like a reluctant ghost.
"Alright," I said quietly, standing just outside the ring. "We're not sparring today. We're watching."
I didn't release Grotle. This wasn't about overwhelming force. It was about observing patterns. Tyrunt stood in the center, confused but patient. Luxio took up his usual stance to the right.
"Honedge," I said. "Attack."
Nothing.
Then, like a shift in the light, he moved.
The blade hovered forward, slow at first. Then it tilted—almost a bow—and slashed.
Tyrunt barely dodged.
"Again," I said, eyes narrowing.
This time, Tyrunt countered with a shoulder shove. The sword parried mid-air, twisting unnaturally fast. It responded to pressure. Not orders.
I adjusted. "Tyrunt—force it to react. Keep it moving."
They circled. Honedge was fast, but only in bursts. It didn't float like a balloon or dance like a bird. It moved like a tethered weapon—sharp, exact, bound to old instinct. The more I watched, the more I realized it was waiting. Reacting.
It didn't want to lead.
It wanted to respond.
Good.
I could work with that.
We trained for another half hour before I called it. Honedge returned to his ball without protest. Progress, if you squinted.
I packed up, nerves humming.
The air had changed.
I didn't hear the ambush. I felt it.
A shadow detached itself from the trees just ahead. A trainer—older than me, maybe mid-twenties, lean, sharp-faced, dressed like a scavenger. His belt held three balls. His eyes were wrong. Flat. Desperate.
"Your Tyrunt," he said. "Give it."
I didn't answer.
He sent out a Muk.
I didn't hesitate. "Tyrunt. Grotle."
Muk surged forward, sludge bubbling. Tyrunt met it with a bone-crushing leap, jaws wide. Grotle followed, launching a barrage of leaves that hissed on contact. The enemy trainer didn't flinch. He threw another ball.
A Dugtrio.
The ground exploded.
I staggered. Grotle took a hit and reeled.
"Tyrunt—tail sweep! Grotle, Vine Bind!"
The next few seconds blurred—muck, roots, fangs, blood. But we held.
The Dugtrio fell. The Muk split apart under Tyrunt's second charge. Still, the trainer didn't call it.
"You're not strong enough to own that team," he said. "You don't deserve them."
He reached for a third ball.
I reached first.
Honedge.
The blade burst forward, a streak of steel and whisper. His final Pokémon barely emerged—a Weavile—before Honedge struck.
Not clean. Not precise.
But final.
The Weavile hit the ground twitching.
The trainer ran.
I didn't chase.
Instead, I called Luxio.
He intercepted the man five seconds later.
When I caught up, the trainer was on the ground. Breathing. Bleeding.
He looked up at me with that same dead gaze. "You're the same," he said. "You'll end like me."
"No," I replied. "You picked a fight you couldn't finish."
And then I finished it.
No one else was around.
I burned his ID and buried his balls.
Honedge hovered nearby, silent.
I didn't feel good. I didn't feel bad.
I felt… ready.
We walked on.
The road wasn't safe.
But it was mine.