The bandit camp sat just outside the edges of the Jura Forest, its ragged tents and smoking fires lined up like vultures around a carcass. They camped here for two reasons: protection and intimidation. The monsters of the forest made chasing them difficult, and any foolish traveler who wandered too close rarely came back.
Inside one of the caravans—half cage, half coffin—dozens of prisoners huddled together, chains clinking every time someone shifted. Most stared at the dirt, but one man leaned back against the wood, his hands still bound, yet his voice oddly casual.
"Hey," he said, breaking the silence, "ever wonder what's outside this world?"
A few heads turned, though most glared at him like he'd gone mad.
"When I was… back in my room—that was my 'personal world,'" the man said with a weak grin. "Yeah, yeah, not funny. But I always wondered if the stuff I saw on screens could ever be real. Guess the joke's on me, huh?"
Some of the fear in the prisoners' eyes softened. He had that effect—part foolish, part reassuring.
"The name's Alfred Fosters," he added, lifting his chained hands slightly. "But you can call me Al—"
BANG!
The whole caravan jolted as a shout rang out from outside.
"Keep it down in there!" a bandit barked, and silence fell again. The prisoners shrank back into themselves. Al just sighed and rolled his eyes.
Resting his chin on his bound fist, he traced the strange collar at his throat. A chain dangled from it, the links twisted like a strand of DNA. To most eyes, it was just white iron, but faint lines of red, blue, and green pulsed through it.
Man, life's been rough, Al thought. The first thing I get in this world isn't food or clothes, but a slave collar. Figures.
A faint ding echoed in his head.
[User has acquired new DNA. Transformation Unlocked: Venusaur.]
And yet… the Voice of the World never announces my transformations. Weird.
He flexed his magicules unconsciously—and the air shifted. Weak monsters lurking at the forest edge scattered in fear, while stronger ones pricked their ears, and hunger awakened.
And one in particular answered.
Far beyond the campfires, a hulking silhouette feasted. Its body was man-shaped, but its head stretched into the twisted maw of a bat. Its fangs sank into the side of a dying direwolf, not just drinking its blood but draining its very magicules. When the wolf's corpse crumpled, the creature paused, nostrils flaring. A stronger scent. Closer prey.
The mutant bat licked its fangs, then vanished into the shadows.
Back in the caravan, Al was still mulling over his so-called gift.
Unique Skill: Pocket DNA. Sounds cool, right? Except it feels like I've got every Pokémon form locked away in here. If this collar wasn't filtering me, I'd probably explode before I got to Charmander.
Before he could sigh again, a shriek tore through the night. Then another.
The prisoners jolted, terror in their eyes. Outside, bandits scrambled, drawing blades. A guttural roar answered them.
Al strained to hear. Crunching bones. Flesh-tearing.
The bandit leader raised his bow, shouting, "Monster! Stay away from my goods!"
Goods. He meant them.
A shadow blotted out the firelight. The bat-creature raised its claws—and a volley of blood-forged spikes shot forward. They punched through the leader like arrows through parchment, dropping him before he could scream.
The collar around Al's neck went cold. The control spell—broken.
For a heartbeat, the world was still. Then light burst from his body, chains snapping like twigs. When the glow cleared, a hulking green form crouched where Al had sat: thick legs, broad back, a massive bloom sprouting from his shoulders.
A Venusaur.
"Finally," Al muttered, his voice a low rumble now, "something useful."
Leaves shimmered sharp as blades, and with a flick of his mind, {Razor Leaf} sliced through the prisoners' bindings. They stared at him wide-eyed—half in awe, half in terror.
"No time to gawk. Move."
He shoved them toward the exit, using {Vine Whip} to keep the weakest from falling. But before they could flee, the entire caravan tipped, crashing onto its side.
The Bat stood there, wings spread, red eyes locked on him.
Al narrowed his gaze.
"Man," he growled, lowering his stance as magicules gathered, "can't I get one damn break?"