The first step creaked beneath his feet.
He stopped for just a second—not out of fear, but out of habit. As if measuring the ground came naturally to him. The Pokémon Tower wasn't silent: it breathed. Each floor carried a different pulse, heavy with presences that never truly rested.
Gastly floated at his side, relaxed, slowly spinning in the air. It didn't seem uneasy. To it, this place wasn't hostile.
It was home.
The boy stepped down to the next stair, and something inside him settled into place. He wasn't improvising. He wasn't hesitating.
It was the same feeling as always. The same one he used to have when, as someone else, in another life, he turned on his handheld console and started a new game. He ignored the starter Pokémon, wandered into dangerous routes, went where he wasn't supposed to… all for a single reason.
To find him.
Gastly.
This time, he didn't have to search. This time, Gastly had chosen him.
On the first intermediate floor, the light was dim. Old lanterns illuminated human figures: Lavender Town's mediums, dressed in pale robes, accompanied by Ghost-type Pokémon.
One of them turned his head.
—A child… up here?
The medium raised a Poké Ball—not with hostility, but with caution.
—This isn't a place to get lost.
The Poké Ball opened, and a Gastly emerged, its mist expanding with a low, provoking sound.
Before the boy could even think to react, his Gastly moved.
It didn't wait for a command. It didn't look back.
It advanced as if it knew exactly what to do.
The boy wasn't surprised. He smiled faintly, to the side, with the calm confidence of someone who had done this a thousand times before.
The clash was immediate. Dark energy rippled through the air. The medium's Gastly attacked first, but the other one was already there… and not there.
It appeared and vanished, playing with space itself, as if mocking its opponent. The boy felt the battle as something everyday, familiar. He didn't need to think about the moves. His body remembered them.
—…Now —he murmured, almost by reflex.
Shadow Ball formed instantly. Precise. Decisive. The impact dispersed the opponent, which returned to its Poké Ball in a dull, icy flash.
Silence.
The medium stared at him, eyes wide.
—You didn't give any orders… —he said—. You don't act like a normal trainer.
The boy shrugged.
—He knows how to fight.
Nothing more.
He kept descending.
The next floors were the same. Different trainers. Different Pokémon: Gastly, Haunter, shadows emerging from impossible corners. And in every battle, the connection became more evident.
There were no nerves. No clumsiness.
Only trust.
As if training Pokémon was something he had always done. As if those memories—small screens, worn buttons, hours spent noting natures and routes—had now turned into pure instinct.
Halfway down the tower, the atmosphere changed.
The floor was wider. Calmer. There was no immediate battle there. Only an elderly medium, leaning against the wooden railing, gazing toward the lower floors.
—You've descended from the highest level —he said without turning around—. And nothing has stopped you.
The boy halted a few steps away.
Gastly floated beside him, calm, yet alert.
—You don't seem lost —the old man continued—. But you don't seem to belong to this world either.
At last, he turned, studying him carefully.
—Tell me, child… —he asked—. What is your name?
The boy hesitated.
For the first time since awakening, something stirred deep within him. Echoes of another life: tournaments, martial arts, discipline, a body that had gone too far, too fast… and a heart that couldn't keep up.
All of that was gone now. Yet it hadn't vanished completely.
He lifted his gaze.
—Ren —he answered calmly—. My name is Ren.
The old man smiled faintly.
—Then, Ren… the tower has acknowledged you.
Gastly let out a soft laugh, spinning around him as if in celebration.
And on that intermediate floor, between the living and the dead, it became clear that this boy was not beginning a journey.
He was resuming it.