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Chapter 3: A Memory
🕑 Added 2025-03-02 17:36:29 +0000 UTCThe island burns beneath the relentless heat, the air thick and suffocating like a furnace set to consume all in its grasp. The very ground trembles, not with fear, but with something more primal—an undeniable response to Groudon’s presence.
The ocean, once an unchallenged titan stretching beyond the horizon, now seems reduced to an unwelcome guest, its rolling waves hesitant against the newborn land. Groudon stands at the heart of it all, an unshakable colossus, its massive form radiating pure, earth-shaping power. The ground beneath its feet pulses, shifting as if the planet itself breathes in rhythm with the Legendary Pokémon.
A lone man watches from atop his Lapras, the gentle Pokémon shifting uneasily beneath him. They should leave. He knows they should leave.
And yet… he can’t look away.
Groudon is watching him. If they made any sudden moves the Continental Pokemon may attack and he does not know if Lapras can fight it head on.
At first, Groudon’s gaze is distant—cold, indifferent, the mere glance of a predator acknowledging something insignificant. But then, its molten eyes narrow.
‘Something about this human is familiar.’
A deep, guttural rumble rolls through the island, neither fully a growl nor a quake, but something in between—a sound that carries the weight of ages. The man doesn’t hear words, but he feels something. A pressure, vast and inescapable, settles in his chest, as though an ancient force is peeling back the layers of his existence, searching for something hidden even from himself.
Lapras whines softly, shifting beneath him, its instincts screaming danger.
“Okay… okay, you’re looking at me really weirdly, big guy.”
Groudon doesn’t move. It only stares. Studying. Searching.
And then, its gaze locks onto the Ultra Ball in his hand.
The realization slams into him like a crashing wave.
His breath catches. His fingers twitch—muscle memory, instinct. Only then does he notice what’s still clenched in his fist.
The Ultra Ball.
The same one that summoned Groudon.
The moment the thought registers, everything changes.
Groudon’s body tenses, an unspoken force surging through the air. The ground beneath it fractures, deep cracks spiderwebbing outward as if the very earth recoils in response. Heat distorts the air, rippling in waves so intense the ocean itself seems to retreat.
Lapras cries out—a sharp, distressed wail—as the water around it churns with unease.
And the man, his gut twisting with dread, finally understands:
Groudon isn’t just staring at him.
It’s staring at the Ultra Ball in his hand.
The legendary Pokémon’s claws dig into the scorched rock, carving deep grooves into the trembling land. Its molten eyes flicker—not with its usual, primal rage, but with something buried beneath the surface. Something deeper.
A memory awakens.
Flashes of red light. A battle waged in the distant past. A force stronger than its fury, pulling it down, dragging it into confinement. A prison.
The same prison that now rests in this human’s grasp.
Groudon remembers.
The temperature spikes. Lava veins beneath the earth pulse with renewed fury. The land trembles, caught between creation and destruction. A low, guttural roar rumbles in its throat—thunderous, restrained—but it does not strike. Not yet.
Its claws flex, the power in its body surging. The rage is there, boiling beneath its armor-like scales, coiling, waiting. The urge to annihilate, to reduce everything to dust, is a force of nature.
And yet… something holds it back.
‘It doesn’t understand. It doesn’t know who this human is or why he holds its fucking prison.’
But its body reacts instinctively—because for the first time since its awakening…
It feels fear.
The protagonist doesn’t need words to understand the message burning in Groudon’s gaze:
‘Why do you fucking have that?
What the fuck did to me?’
But he has no answers.
His fingers tighten around the Ultra Ball. He swears he can feel the weight of history in it.
The air is thick, suffocating, heavy with the heat radiating from the ancient titan before him. His heart pounds in his chest—hard, frantic. Lapras is motionless beneath him, muscles coiled, ready to bolt at the slightest provocation.
And yet—
Groudon does not attack.
Not yet.
But if he makes even one wrong move…
The very land itself will consume him.
Silence.
Not the kind born of stillness—because nothing is still. The ground shifts, restless under Groudon’s mere presence. The air crackles, distorted by waves of heat. The ocean dares not reclaim what was taken.
Yet Groudon stands rigid, unmoving. Its claws remain dug into the blackened stone, its molten eyes—so often filled with unchecked, primal fury—locked onto the Ultra Ball.
And something is wrong.
Something warm.
The Trainer From Long Ago
Flashes of memory flicker through the haze of time—fragments of a past that refuses to stay buried.
A hand, resting against its scales—not in battle, not in domination, but in quiet understanding.
A voice, speaking not with demands, but with respect.
The scent of earth, the warmth of the sun.
And a feeling Groudon never thought it would associate with a human.
Safety.
The flames inside its body flicker—just for a moment.
Was that… this human?
No.
The face is different. The posture uncertain. This one is afraid. Unlike the one from its memories.
But the Ultra Ball—the prison—is the same. The trainer would not give it to just anyone.
A tremor rolls through the island as Groudon lowers its head slightly, gaze never leaving the object that once bound it.
Lapras tenses beneath the man, instincts screaming to flee.
But Groudon does not lunge.
It is thinking.
For the first time since its awakening, it is truly thinking.
The anger is still there—boiling beneath its armor-like scales. The betrayal of being sealed away still burns in its veins.
But… was it truly betrayal?
It remembers the battles fought. It remembers standing as an equal. It remembers choosing to rest.
‘So why…? Why did that end?
Why was it sealed?
And why does this human hold the key to its past?’
The black haired man doesn’t know what’s happening inside Groudon’s mind.
All he knows is that something has changed.
The sheer, suffocating rage from before—the heat that nearly melted the air—has dulled, just slightly. Groudon is no less terrifying. But now, there’s something else beneath the fury.
Hesitation.
Like it stands at the edge of a decision it has not yet made.
“…Do you know me?” The man asks, voice barely above a whisper.
Groudon exhales, a slow, heated gust rolling across the island.
Not an answer.
But not an attack, either.
The man swallows hard. His grip tightens around the Ultra Ball.
“…Or are you remembering someone else?”
A deep rumble rolls through Groudon’s chest, low and resonant, like the very earth itself is considering his words. The ground shifts again—not from aggression, but something deeper.
Lapras lets out a sharp, warning cry. The tension in its body is unmistakable, its instincts screaming to flee.
But the man doesn’t move.
He doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s because Groudon hasn’t moved either.
Maybe it’s because, for all its power, for all its world-shaking might…
Groudon looks conflicted.
The memories are there. Broken. Scattered. Incomplete.
‘It does not know if this human is the same one who once stood at its side.
It does not know why it was sealed away.’
But it does know one thing. It could end this uncertainty. With a single strike, it could erase the question, erase the doubt, erase the human before it.
Would the trainer from its past want that? Would the one who once stood beside it desire such mindless destruction?
The heat inside Groudon flares, then wavers. Its claws, once digging into the stone, finally relax—just slightly.
Its molten eyes soften.
Not in submission.Not in defeat.But in consideration.
Because for the first time in centuries, Groudon is not acting on instinct.
It is thinking. And that alone changes everything.
Oscar’s fingers loosen around the Ultra Ball, just slightly. He takes a slow breath, willing his heart to steady.
Then, against all logic, he speaks.
“…Lapras. Get us closer.”
Lapras lets out a distressed cry, turning its head toward him in disbelief. The heat shimmering over the island, the cracks in the earth, the sheer presence of the ancient Pokémon before them—everything screamed that this was a terrible idea.
Oscar knew that. But something in the way Groudon was watching him, something in the flicker of hesitation in its molten eyes…
It wasn’t just rage anymore. It was something else.
Lapras hesitates, eyes darting between Oscar and Groudon, searching for any sign that this isn’t madness. But Oscar, steadying himself, reaches out and rests a hand on its cool, smooth shell.
“…Trust me.”
Lapras inhales deeply, then lets out a low, uncertain rumble. Slowly, cautiously, it moves forward.
The water around them steams as they drift closer to the shore, the heat from the land distorting the air. Oscar can feel it on his skin, but he doesn’t pull away.
And then—Groudon moves.
Not an attack. Not a warning.
The massive Pokémon takes a single step forward, its claws scraping against blackened stone. It does not snarl or flare its power. It does not drive them away.
It is watching. Waiting.
The gap between them closes, and for the first time, The man speaks his name.
“Oscar. Oscar Lopez.”
His voice carries across the water, swallowed by the heat but not lost.
Groudon rumbles, a deep, thoughtful sound, but does not react beyond that. Lapras remains tense, but Oscar can feel the nervous energy fading—it is still afraid, but it is not running.
He waits, the land beneath Groudon is too hot to stand on yet, and he knows better than to force it. So instead, he watches.
And he wonders.
‘Is this my Groudon and my Lapras?
It sounds crazy. It is crazy. But if he was here, if this world was real… if Groudon stood before him, remembering something…
What if these Pokemon were his? What if, somehow, the Pokémon he caught, the ones he raised—what if they became real, too?
The thought is too big, too impossible. But as Groudon stands there, no longer just a force of destruction, but a being that is thinking, Oscar can’t shake the feeling:
This isn’t the first time they’ve met and maybe Groudon remembers that, too. That does bring to question which Groudon is it or Lapras for that matter. From which game did they come from? If only he got a system to help him. Like come on mysterious god give him at least a bone to help him.’
But nothing came from his internal rant. The man waited but nothing happened. Only the sound of sizzling heat from the water meeting hot land.
‘Damn it. That didn't work. Guess I'll have to think about this? It’s been a while since I played the games. What name did I give myself?’
“Lapras does the name Oz ring any bells.”
Lapras stiffens.
Not in fear. Not in confusion. In recognition.
Its head tilts slightly, eyes widening. A quiet, almost hesitant trill escapes its throat—soft, questioning. It doesn’t move away. If anything, it inches its head closer, its sleek body tensing as if caught between uncertainty and something deeper.
And then Groudon also reacts.
The ground beneath it cracks—not from rage, but from sheer instinct. Its claws dig into the stone. Its molten eyes widen, flickering with something unreadable.
‘So these are mine.’
