Underground Mt. Mortar – 00:37 hrs.

  The air was thin in the bunker beneath Mt. Mortar.

  Cold, sterile, and pressurized like the silence before an avalanche.

  Steel walls stretched long and narrow, lined with dark consoles and flickering holo-panels. Overhead, strips of pale lighting hummed, barely holding back the shadows. The heart of Johto’s military command had once pulsed with structure and pride—now, it felt like a mausoleum. Functional. Final.

  At the center of the war room stood General Juan Santos, silent beneath the pale glow of the central display. His military coat hung open, its brass buttons dulled by age and war. His eyes, however, remained sharp—calculating, unreadable.

  To his right stood his eldest son, Major Pedro Santos, uniform still streaked with battle residue, face unshaven, eyes rimmed red from sleepless fury. One hand rested on the hilt of a standard-issue combat Pokéball—always ready. Always taut.

  To the left, his second son, Captain Jorge Santos, crisp in appearance but shaken in spirit. Younger, quieter. His eyes flicked between screens, his jaw clenched not in anger—but in guilt. He didn't speak yet. Not with Pedro in the room. Not with their father watching.

  Around them stood six officers, veterans and rookies alike, arranged in half-formation. The younger ones avoided eye contact. The older ones stared at the screens with the weight of men watching history die in real time.

  Ping.

  A new alert shimmered across the main display. The red flash pulsed like a wound.

  —Razzo Clan: Annihilated. All senior members confirmed dead. Under-20s exiled by League decree. Property seized. Estate destroyed.

  No one spoke.

  Another alert arrived.

  —Saffron Fighting Dojo: Leader executed by League strike team. Surviving fighters taken into custody for interrogation. Gym placed under temporary League control.

  Jorge’s lips parted. “That’s two in under an hour.”

  “They’re teleporting,” murmured one of the lieutenants. “They’re not moving in patterns. They’re blinking between cities. It’s… unpredictable.”

  Pedro scowled. “Teleporting where they please, when they please. The League never used to fight this way.”

  “They’ve never had to,” Jorge muttered.

  Another red flash.

  —Cherrygrove Maki Family: Entire leadership eliminated. Younger members exiled. Properties burned.

  —Tanren Exorcist Clan of Ecruteak: Purged. A minor exorcist branch aligned with the League appointed as replacement.

  One of the junior officers cursed under his breath.

  “Gods…” the youngest said. “They’re erasing us. Bloodline by bloodline.”

  Pedro growled. “Good. They’re showing their hand.”

  “No,” Jorge said, shaking his head slowly. “We showed ours first.”

  For the first time in several minutes, General Santos stirred.

  He stepped toward the center table, casting a long shadow across the war room. The light made the lines of his face seem carved in stone. He did not look surprised.

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  Only… interested.

  “Oak,” he said, voice like gravel in steel, “has more allies than I gave him credit for.”

  “Too many,” Pedro snapped. “This isn’t just revenge—it’s a massacre.”

  “It’s surgical,” Jorge added quietly. “He had these targets ready. Locations. Names. He’s not striking in rage. He’s executing a strategy.”

  The General nodded once, slowly. “He was always efficient. But what impresses me… is how many pieces he kept hidden.”

  He gestured at the red map.

  “He spent twenty years smiling. Teaching. Preaching reform.”

  His voice hardened.

  “And all this time, he was feeding his wolves.”

  The silence twisted into tension.

  Pedro stepped forward, unable to hold back.

  “This is because of Phoenix,” he spat. “You all saw what he became. If we let him grow, he would’ve crushed Johto under his heel just like his master did.”

  “He wasn’t Oak,” Jorge said, jaw tightening. “He was his own man. He didn’t want a throne.”

  “He was a throne,” Pedro shot back. “The common people would have followed him anywhere. Phoenix Ketchum was the most dangerous man I’ve ever seen.”

  “And we made him that way,” Jorge said.

  Pedro’s eyes burned. “He killed more of us than any League member. You saw what he did to our frontlines. More than twenty prodigies and their teams killed by a single trainer.”

  “He was defending his family,” Jorge snapped.

  “He was a weapon, and we broke him before he could turn to us.”

  Their voices rose, sharp enough to cut the air.

  Then—Juan Santos raised a single hand.

  And silence returned.

  His eyes flicked between his sons.

  “You speak of ideals and dangers,” he said, “but neither of you understand legacy.”

  He turned his gaze to the screen.

  “We killed Oak’s son. His disciple. His future. He responds with fury because he remembers what we forgot.”

  A long pause.

  “That nothing is more dangerous than a man who loses his legacy.”

  Juan Santos turned from the display and walked toward the center of the room. His boots echoed on the cold steel.

  “The time of Johto’s clans is over.”

  The words fell like a decree.

  One of the younger officers flinched. “General—”

  “We lost. Politically. Strategically. And now, physically.”

  He scanned their faces.

  “No more illusions. No more final stands. That belongs to ghosts like the Razzo and the Makis.”

  He stood tall, voice sharpening like a blade.

  “All Johto military cells are hereby dissolved.”

  Murmurs. A wave of disbelief swept the room.

  Santos continued.

  “Every soldier is to assume civilian identities. You are to scatter. Orre. Unova. Alola. Hoenn. Kanto, if you dare.”

  He looked to Pedro. “You’ll go to Unova. Build there. Quietly. Find the disenfranchised. The disillusioned.”

  Then, to Jorge:

  “You stay here. Keep your mother and Javier safe. You’ll rebuild what little we can hold.”

  Jorge’s expression faltered. “You’re splitting us up.”

  “I’m preserving us.”

  One of the officers stepped forward. “What about fighting back? We still have squads—”

  “If you want to die for honor,” Juan said coldly, “do it far from here. I will not waste another soldier on a lost battle.”

  He looked to each of them in turn.

  “Tonight, the old clans die,” he said. “But the military? We adapt. We vanish. And one day—when they’ve grown fat and arrogant—we return.”

  Ping.

  Another alert. The room went still.

  —Sightings of Oak above Blackthorn City. Dragonite confirmed. No hostile activity yet.

  Pedro scoffed.

  “Alastair,” he muttered. “The snake didn’t even lift a finger. And now Oak is at his door.”

  Jorge frowned. “You think Oak will strike them too?”

  “He won’t have to,” Juan said, voice low but deliberate. “The Blackthorn line is already unraveling.”

  He paced slowly, eyes narrowed on the war map as if tracing the veins of a dying body.

  “Their heir—Draco—was the most promising of them. Strong. Proud. But pride makes fools of children. He should have died facing Phoenix.”

  He turned to Pedro.

  “You interfered.”

  Pedro’s jaw tightened. “He wouldn’t have made it. Phoenix had him—no way out. I made the call.”

  Jorge turned away, eyes lowered. His thoughts were louder than any words he could say.

  “And now the Champion flies above their skies, and the clans will think it’s for Draco’s sins.”

  The General stepped closer to the console, hands behind his back.

  “Their second son buried himself in research—too soft for war. The third sided with Oak. Paid the price.”

  A beat of silence.

  “Blackthorn was once a pillar,” Juan muttered. “Now it’s a mere monument. The storm will knock it down, and they’ll never understand why.”

  Juan reached for his coat. Buckled it across his chest. Then looked to the room one final time.

  “I’m going to Orre,” he said. “Only the hardest survive there.”

  He turned to the officers.

  “Who’s coming with me?”

  A pause.

  Then two older officers stepped forward. Then another. Four total.

  The others stayed silent.

  Juan nodded once.

  Without ceremony, he walked out.

  Pedro followed.

  Jorge stayed behind, staring at the last image of Oak’s Dragonite in the sky above Blackthorn, and the thunderclouds rising with it.