The endless grasslands stretched to the horizon, painted gold beneath the morning sun.
As Silas crossed the plains, he saw herds moving in rhythm with the wind-Tauros thundering in the distance, Beautifly and Swellow weaving gracefully above.
He stopped atop a small hill, gazing at the open expanse.
Here, the law of the wild was harsher than anywhere else he'd been.
Only a few dominant tribes ruled the grassland.
For lone Pokémon, survival was almost impossible.
Yet something had changed lately.
The once-fearsome herds no longer roamed freely-their movements had grown cautious, fragmented.
And scattered across the plains, more and more Trainers had begun to appear.
"It must be migration season," Silas murmured, opening his Pokédex. "For Jumpluff and Cottonee… the winds are strong enough now to carry them across the continent."
His hunch was confirmed as he scrolled through the League news feed. Every few years, the gentle grasslands came alive with clouds of migrating Grass-type Pokémon–an event that drew Trainers from across Hoenn.
Both Jumpluff and Whimsicott were beloved among casual Trainers.
They needed little care-able to survive off sunlight and the energy they drew from soil alone.
"Of course," Silas smirked, "Jumpluff's the more popular pick. Flying-type coverage, solid support moves, and almost no weaknesses."
Cottonee, on the other hand, was less sought-after. Its evolution into Whimsicott required a Sun Stone, a luxury few average Trainers could afford.
He flicked open his Pokédex to double-check the entry.
"Hmm. Grass-type only," he muttered. "So Fairy typing hasn't been discovered yet…"
Indeed, the League still classified Whimsicott as pure Grass-type.
Even the energy readings in the environment lacked any trace of Fairy energy-the soft pink aura Silas remembered from his previous life was missing, replaced by the dull white glow of Normal-type resonance.
He leaned back on the hill, thinking aloud. "No Fairy-type energy… probably means Xerneas hasn't awakened yet. Makes sense."
A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Guess that explains why the world still feels… incomplete."
His thoughts drifted back to the games of his past life-to the torment of battling those mischievous Whimsicott with Prankster ability, and the sheer chaos they could cause.
Now, reality had given him a chance to meet them in the wild.
The afternoon wind grew stronger. Across the plains, small green shapes began to drift through the air-fluffy, round Cottonee, their cottony bodies glimmering like dandelions in the sunlight. Two small leaves on their sides helped them balance as they floated with the wind.
Silas's eyes narrowed. "That breeze… the main flock's coming."
He crouched on the slope, facing the wind.
All around, other Trainers were doing the same–watching, waiting, poised to strike. None disturbed the others; every capture opportunity mattered.
Silas raised his monocular, scanning two nearby Trainers on distant mounds. Satisfied that they weren't threats, he settled down quietly to wait.
Cottonee and Jumpluff always migrated in massive clusters-dozens, sometimes hundreds,clinging to one another for safety.
Rain immobilized them, so they avoided storms at all costs, floating in great white flocks that from afar resembled drifting rainclouds.
Then–a flash of lightning split the sky.
Silas snapped to attention. "Someone's already engaging."
A few hundred meters away, a bolt of electricity struck through the drifting swarm. The startled Jumpluff tribe scattered, releasing glittering clouds of powder in defense before the wind carried them off–right into another Trainer's range.
A pillar of fire erupted in response.
"Typical," Silas muttered. "They'll burn half the plains for a single catch."
He stayed still, waiting for the scattered Cottonee to drift closer.
Murkrow was already poised for flight—the only one of his team who could strike airborne targets. Sharpedo and Crawdaunt were grounded; their ranged attacks would only stir the wind.
"Murkrow," Silas commanded softly, "Tailwind-then go after that one."
"Kraaaaw!"
The raven flapped its wings, the air twisting into twin gusts that boosted its speed before it dove toward a lone Cottonee.
The wind struck true-the Cottonee spun wildly, tumbling downward before catching the breeze and floating back up. Then, in a flash, it expelled clumps of white fluff from its body-each one identical to itself.
Silas smirked. "Trying to trick me, huh? I've seen that move before."
Cottonee often spat out decoy cotton to confuse attackers. But Murkrow's keen eyes cut through the disguise immediately.
"Drill Peck!"
The dark shadow streaked through the air, striking the true Cottonee cleanly.
A cry echoed—"Cottooo!"—as the small Pokémon fell, its cotton scattering like snow.
Silas threw a Poké Ball.
One shake.
Two.
Click.
"Got it."
He didn't stop to check the stats. "Keep going, Murkrow-hit the stragglers."
The sky filled with bursts of cotton fluff as Trainers all around launched attacks of their own.
Umbreon and Crawdaunt joined in from below, sending supporting ranged attacks into the air, though Sharpedo could only circle impatiently on the ground-out of range and frustrated.
"Alright, that's enough. Murkrow, fall back."
"Kraaaaw…"
The last wisps of white drifted past as the main migration moved on.
Other Trainers mounted their Pokémon and gave chase, but Silas stayed put.
"Let's see what we actually caught."
He returned to camp on his grassy ridge and ducked into his small tent. Crawdaunt stood watch outside while Murkrow rested-its feathers singed and ruffled from battle.
Silas activated his Pokédex.
_______________________________________
Cottonee, the Cotton Puff Pokémon.
When attacked, it releases cotton from its body to distract the enemy and flee on the wind.
Level: 11
Gender: Female
Type: Grass
Ability: Prankster
Moves: Absorb, Helping Hand, Fairy Wind, Leech Seed, Stun Spore.
Height: 0.3 m
Weight: 0.6 kg
Status: Stable development.
_________________________________________
He checked the other Poké Balls-four captures in total.
Only one possessed the Prankster ability; the rest were ordinary, lacking even inherited moves.
"Figures," he sighed. "Mass-migrating Pokémon rarely produce elites."
He stored the Poké Balls back in his pack and leaned against the tent wall, watching the wind ripple across the endless green plain.
"Tomorrow," he murmured, closing his eyes, "we head east."
Outside, Crawdaunt's claws clicked softly in rhythm with the passing breeze.
The migration had ended, but the plains were far from silent.
Somewhere above, a single tuft of white cotton drifted against the moonlight-proof that the wind never truly stopped.
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(End of chapter)