Blackthorn City – 03:17 hrs.

  The skies above Blackthorn rumbled with unnatural pressure.

  A single shape cut through the clouds. A Dragonite—no ordinary flier, riding on its back, eyes fixed and storm-bound, was Champion Samuel Oak.

  The city below had no warning. No horns. No League transmission. Only the deafening silence of a reckoning arriving.

  But Blackthorn City had its guardian too.

  From the ancient peak above the city, a second Dragonite rose. This one slower, heavier with age, but no less regal. Its scales bore the scars of old battles, and its flight was quiet with authority. Riding it, tall and still beneath the moonlight, was Alastair Blackthorn.

  He said nothing at first.

  Only hovered across from Oak as the two dragons circled slowly above the city—champions of their era, mirrored in the sky.

  At last, Alastair spoke. His voice did not tremble, but it carried the weight of tiredness and truth.

  “We did not join them.”

  Oak’s Dragonite kept its distance, maintaining altitude as its master regarded the man across from him. Oak’s face was hard, unreadable.

  “The Blackthorn Clan,” Alastair continued, “remained neutral. Just like the Celadon Matriarch. We made no pact with Razzo, or Santos, or the Makis. We answered no summons because we believed no war could be won through blood alone.”

  Oak said nothing at first. His gaze, sharp as steel, held Alastair in silence.

  Then, he spoke—his voice level. Controlled. Official.

  “You speak of neutrality.”

  He raised a hand, gesturing to the lands far below.

  “But you forget: you are not merely the head of your clan.”

  Oak’s tone was cold—not angry, not mournful. Just precise.

  “You are one of the Elite Four of Indigo. A title above lineage. A position granted not to serve your bloodline—but to serve the region.”

  Alastair's jaw tightened.

  “When Indigo was attacked—when cities burned and alliances collapsed—you remained silent. You chose your clan over your post. Your name over your oath.”

  Oak’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

  “From this moment forward, Alastair Blackthorn, you are relieved of your title.”

  A pause.

  “You are no longer Elite Four.”

  Alastair didn’t flinch.

  But he didn’t argue, either.

  He lowered his gaze for a moment—not in shame, but in acknowledgment.

  When he looked back to Oak, his voice was quiet. Steady.

  “You’re right.”

  A pause, long and cold between them.

  “I chose my clan. When the summons came, I told myself neutrality was wisdom—that keeping Blackthorn intact would serve Indigo in the long run.”

  He exhaled, the breath leaving him like weight slipping off a blade.

  “But I was wrong.”

  His eyes met Oak’s without defiance.

  “Duty doesn’t wait for comfort. And titles mean nothing if they’re not upheld in crisis.”

  He nodded once, solemn.

  “I accept your judgment.”

  The silence between them held—long enough for the moon to shift slightly behind a curtain of cloud.

  Oak’s Dragonite circled once above them, slow and silent—its wings cutting methodically through the mist-heavy sky.

  Alastair’s Dragonite mirrored the motion, gliding just out of collision range, keeping pace like a predator refusing to blink.

  Far below, the city held its breath.

  The two riders didn’t speak for a long time. The only sound was the soft churn of wind off ancient wings—the aerial orbit of judgment and regret.

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  Oak turned his head slightly, eyes never leaving Alastair.

  “Where is your son?” Oak asked—his voice flat, unwavering. Not a question out of curiosity, but of expectation.

  “Draco.”

  Another slow orbit passed between them in silence. Alastair didn’t flinch.

  Only his Dragonite tilted, ever so slightly—just enough to acknowledge the weight of the name.

  Oak’s voice, when it came, was low. Calm. And utterly final.

  “I don’t want him dead.”

  A pause. The words hovered between them like a suspended blade.

  “I want him to face justice.”

  Alastair’s expression was unreadable, but his Dragonite adjusted subtly—its orbit drawing a half-meter closer.

  He inhaled slowly, the breath of a man who had rehearsed this moment in silence.

  “Then let me offer you something else.”

  Oak said nothing, but his Dragonite’s pace slowed, hovering just enough to signal he was listening.

  “Spare him,” Alastair continued. “Not for his sake. He’s disgraced the name he was meant to honor. He made his choices.”

  Another slow breath. His Dragonite beat its wings once, rising just slightly above Oak’s elevation—not in challenge, but in the weary reach of an aging soldier making his final offer.

  “Spare him… for me. For the Blackthorn name. Let me bear the cost.”

  Alastair paused—just long enough for the wind to slip between them again.

  Then, quieter:

  “I already have to bury one son.”

  His voice didn’t break—but it no longer carried the command of a Dragon Master. It was just a father’s voice now.

  “Don’t make me bury another.”

  He looked directly into Oak’s eyes—no defiance, no plea. Just truth.

  “Draco’s sins are real. I don’t ask you to forgive them. Only… to let me carry the sentence in his place.”

  The Champion tilted his head slightly, his gaze cutting through the mist between them.

  “Are you willing to pay the price to keep your son alive?”

  A beat of wind passed between them—thin, cold, final.

  Alastair met his eyes and nodded once.

  “I am.”

  Oak didn’t speak right away.

  He studied the man before him—the weary weight behind his posture, the guilt buried under years of authority, the desperation no warrior could admit but a father could never hide.

  And then, for the first time, Oak saw the moment for what it was.

  Not mercy.

  Opportunity.

  A way to excise what remained of the old Blackthorn elite—the traditionalists who clung to bloodlines, titles, and silence—and clear the path for something new to rise. Something better.

  Something freer.

  A future unbound by the rot that poisoned Phoenix’s generation.

  Oak’s gaze sharpened, and his voice turned cold again—not out of anger, but purpose.

  He didn’t call it justice.

  Because it wasn’t.

  It was a choice.

  “Then this is the cost.”

  The skies seemed to still.

  “You—Alastair Blackthorn—and every elder who stood idle while the old world cracked—including Draco—will step down.”

  He let the words settle like falling stone.

  “From this night forward, none of you will hold League position. No Gym authority. No council seat. No claim of leadership in Blackthorn.”

  Alastair’s Dragonite shifted in mid-air, unsettled by the tone—instincts honed for battle twitching beneath the weight of surrender. But its rider didn’t move.

  Oak continued:

  “You will leave Indigo. All of you.”

  A cold wind slipped through the mountain pass.

  Alastair’s brow furrowed. “Where?”

  Oak met his question with a quiet nod.

  “The Battle Frontier.”

  He gestured past the eastern ridgeline—toward the lands beyond Johto.

  “Where structure ends. Where the wild still defies the League. Where the monsters that never accepted peace claw at its edge.”

  His voice was steel, not vengeance.

  “You want to defend something? Then go there. Defend the line that keeps the rest of us safe.”

  A long pause.

  Oak’s Dragonite hovered steady, wings slow and deliberate.

  Alastair asked, quiet but clear:

  “For how long?”

  Oak answered without hesitation.

  “For the rest of your lives.”

  Silence fell.

  Not a silence of punishment—but of agreement.

  Two men suspended in the air between past and future, legacy and sacrifice.

  One offering exile.

  The other, accepting it—because it meant his son would live.

  Alastair’s voice cut through the silence, quiet but firm.

  “And… what of the rest of the clan?”

  It wasn’t defiance. Just the final question of a man preparing to let go.

  Oak didn’t answer right away. He looked down toward Blackthorn City—the stone towers, the ancestral Gym, the long shadow of the Dragon’s Den stretching across the sleeping rooftops.

  Then Oak gestured toward the city below, where the towers of Blackthorn jutted from the mountainside like ancient teeth.

  “The Blackthorn Gym will be reassigned.”

  A pause.

  “To Dina.”

  The name landed like a stone between them.

  Alastair flinched—barely—but not from anger. He didn’t speak.

  Oak continued, voice steady and clear.

  “I won’t pretend to know what passed in your halls. That was your world to lead—or fail.”

  He paused, just long enough for the cold wind between them to tighten the moment.

  “But I knew your third son.”

  Alastair’s head tilted slightly. Oak met his eyes.

  “Ander spoke of his mother with respect. With certainty. Said she understood what this world needed better than the ones who claimed to lead it.”

  He gestured toward the city below—toward the quiet stillness of a future waiting to be claimed.

  “She supported him when no one else did. And when he stood with us, I believe she stood with him.”

  Oak’s tone didn’t harden. It didn’t soften either. It simply carried the weight of decision.

  “That’s why she’ll take the Gym. Not as punishment. Not as inheritance. But because she is the only one I trust to raise what remains.”

  A long breath passed between them, like the last warmth leaving a battlefield.

  “She’ll guide Lance. Not as heir of tradition, but as a boy who deserves to grow without the weight of your clan mistakes on his shoulders.”

  Another pause—no longer cold, but heavy with finality.

  “That’s the only future your name has left.”

  Alastair took a slow, deep breath. Restraint curled at the edge of it, but this time there was no bitterness—only recognition. Maybe… she had always been better suited.

  Dina had never needed a title to lead.

  And somehow, knowing the clan would pass through her hands—even for a time—brought him more peace than he expected.

  Oak raised his hand once more, his gaze lifting to the skies.

  “When he comes of age… Lance will be trained. Under League oversight. Without bias. Without your shadows. He will earn the title of Gym Leader—and Clan Head.”

  Alastair lowered his gaze—this time not in defeat, but in acceptance.

  Let the elders fade. Let the war-scarred fathers vanish into exile.

  Let the new generation rise unfettered.