It had taken an eternity to walk towards the house, no mansion.
The mansion was hidden within a translucent mist that gave way as soon as he had come near it.
It was vast, sprawling, built from a warm, reddish stone that seemed to glow softly in the unearthly light. The entrance was a colossal archway, impossibly tall, with heavy wooden doors that were dark as night, yet gleamed with brass inlays that seemed to shift and writhe.
He could make out carvings in them.
One was a quadruplet Pokémon with stripes and a blank underside. It has a thin tail with sharp angles and a spark-shaped formation at the end. Most of its face is made of thick fur, with shorter fur around its eyes. Its muzzle has an "X", and it has a faceplate with bumps that cover its forehead, nose, and ears. It has two long fangs. Its large claws each converge to form a single point. Extra fur hangs off its body in front of its thighs. It has a mane across its back that resembles rain clouds.
The other one is a massive, leonine, quadrupedal Pokémon with some mastiff qualities. It is covered in fur, and a long cloud runs along its entire back. It has plates on either side of the cloud and a plate beneath the belly fur on its chest. It has paws with pads and cuff-like bands on its legs. Its main faceplate is shaped like fins or a six-sided star. A plate, resembling a horseshoe mustache, covers its muzzle. It also has a crest with three sloped points on its forehead.
He also saw the delicate flowers blooming in stone.
It was a small, bipedal Pokémon. It has three thorns on top of its head, and it has eyes with long eyelashes. Visible from the back is a small stretch around its neck, much like a collar. Leaves are extending from its shoulders like epaulettes. It has a leaf skirt with a stripe running down the front. It holds a rose in each of its hands.
The doors had brass Arcanine heads as handles with knockers on them. He took one and knocked.
THUD...THUD...
After some time, the doors opened into the mansion with an ancient creak to reveal a dark passageway.
After calming down his heart, he went inside. On the walls, candles with blue flames lit up with his approach of steps.
Space and time seemed to bend.
A central courtyard beckoned, bathed in an impossibly serene light that wasn't from the sky above, but seemed to emanate from within the space itself. There was a large, still pool, reflecting the mist-shrouded sky. And then, a ripple, and a flash of green- a small, blue plant Pokémon with six stubby legs. It has large eyes and a wide, yellow mouth similar to a bill, and a large leaf that resembles a lily pad covers its back.
The Pokémon was floating as if on air, and beneath the surface, there was a faint wiggle of a Poliwag. The air was heavy with the scent of jasmine, cloying and sweet, mixed with something else, a faint, earthy Gaian aroma.
Every window, every balcony, was adorned with intricate screens of carved stone. They were like lace, casting dancing shadows that looked like symbols and letters, drifting and reforming with every breath of the unseen breeze. Above, on the rooftops, were graceful domes and little pavilions, possibly for flying Pokémon.
Inside, the silence was profound. The rooms stretched on, cool and vast, with ceilings that soared. Walls and corridors were lit by blue-flamed lamp-like Pokémon.
The furniture was dark, polished wood, but on closer inspection, patterns of Poké Balls were subtly inlaid, catching the faint light.
Drapes of heavy silk, dyed in hues he had never encountered, hung motionless.
On the walls, vibrant frescoes whispered tales he couldn't quite grasp, of battles and bonds, of Pokémon he felt he should know but couldn't name.
He felt his legs take him in a direction that just felt right in calling him.
A change in destiny, fate, and maybe something more...
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Ash looked around and found that he could not go into any of the rooms. Some unseen force, heavy as stone yet as intangible as fog, barred his way at every threshold. Through the gaps he caught only glimpses of bookshelves crammed to bursting — libraries without end, all sealed away from him.
Only one door allowed him passage.
Inside, it felt like a living room from a dream. Chandeliers glowed with blue flames overhead, their light falling on shelves lined with books whose spines gleamed faintly as if alive. Against one wall, a great hearth smoldered, warmth spilling across the dark wood floor. A strange contraption — a massive screen mounted above a low cabinet with wires, a microphone, padded objects like ear-cushions — sat oddly among the timeless furnishings.
And there, by the fireplace, a man sat.
He was not asleep, but resting — elbows on knees, hands folded loosely, eyes sunk into shadow. His hair was long, silver-white, tied back without care, loose strands falling into a lined face. A beard, full but not wild, framed his mouth. Deep creases etched his skin, the marks of one who had spent decades frowning in thought, sighing at disappointments, waiting for something that never came.
He did not look frail, but there was a tiredness in the way his shoulders sloped, in the deliberate stillness of his body. A man who had long ago given up rushing.
Ash swallowed, his curiosity outweighing his unease."Hello…?"
The man stirred. Slowly, he lifted his head and turned. His eyes met Ash's — dark, impossibly deep, with that faraway look of someone who had lived too long, yet in that moment, a spark flickered.
"Hello, young Ash Ketchum."
Ash stiffened. "How do you know my name?!"
The man tilted his head, the motion weary but precise, like a surgeon once accustomed to delicate movements. "Why should I not know," he said with a faint roll of his eyes, "the name of the boy whose mind I am sitting inside?"
Ash blinked. "What—"
"This is your mind. Your soulscape." The man spoke as though it should have been obvious.
Ash's heart thumped. "Who… who are you?" he asked, voice small, edged with fear.
For a moment, the man didn't answer. His gaze drifted, as if searching memory. His lips moved around a muttered word — something about a name, about an old story of a teacher guiding a boy, giving him the strength to grow. Ash caught only fragments. "Roshi…"
Ash frowned. "So your name is Roshi, right?"
At that, the old man's eyes tightened, pain flickering across his features. It was the look of someone remembering a life he no longer belonged to — and a role he thought he had already finished playing.
-------------------------------------------
Roshi had woken in agony, his very soul stretched and torn before being pulled into this strange place. The pain had been too much, enough to smother his awareness. Could a soul even fall unconscious? Apparently so.
When clarity returned, he had braced himself to find a body — perhaps stolen, perhaps borrowed. He dreaded that possibility. To live again by casting aside another life felt abhorrent to him.
But instead, he discovered himself bound within another's soul. Not the master of the body, but a presence beneath it. A shadow. A whisper.
And that, at least, was a mercy.
The mansion around him was not real, not in any earthly sense. He understood instinctively — this was a construct of memory and thought, a soulscape where all that he was had been shelved into rooms and corridors. Books upon books, lifetimes of knowledge. And here he sat, not young, not renewed, but as he had been at the end: worn down, lined with years, body bowed by time.
He had expected death. He had welcomed it. Yet here he was again.
By the hearth, he caught sight of a mirror. A face stared back — his own, aged, weary, the long silver hair, the beard, the same creases that had deepened over decades. No tricks, no false masks. Only himself, pulled from the grave he had longed for.
"Why?" he murmured, though no answer came.
The hearth crackled, the silence filling his chest like an old ache. And then the thought occurred, sharp and sudden: this was Ash Ketchum's soul.
The boy's name echoed in his mind. Ash Ketchum. The Chosen One, marked by fate. He had heard enough whispers of that name to know the weight it carried.
So this was the vessel he was bound to. A boy just beginning his journey. A boy who could have been his grandson, had life taken a kinder path.
Roshi closed his eyes, breathed in, breathed out. Slowly. Steadily. He had no say in this turn of destiny. But perhaps he had a choice in what to do with it.
If he must walk once more, then he would walk as a guide. If the world demanded too much of this boy, he would not let him bear it alone.
It was a purpose. And for the first time in years, purpose was enough.
"Hello…?"
The voice cut through his thoughts. Roshi opened his eyes. There stood Ash — the boy himself, dressed in the colors of Kanto, eyes wide, uncertain.
For a heartbeat, Roshi only stared. Then, with a heaviness that surprised even him, he answered:
"Hello, young Ash Ketchum."
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AN: Please give reviews and comments. Specify the specific issues if you have any. Constructive criticism is encouraged. This not only helps me becoming a better writer but also increases the valuable experience you all have in reading.
Rest of the conversation will be covered in the next chapter.
Should I have reduced the descriptive side much or is it alright?