Edward rubbed his temples. "So, you're telling me somebody submitted a script internally… but none of you know how to review it?"
He was in the middle of filming The Victim, fully focused on the scene, when the production staff suddenly came over, holding a script with an unusually eerie vibe to it. One glance at their expressions and Edward already understood this wasn't an ordinary submission.
With a resigned sigh, he called out "Cut!" and told the entire team to break for lunch and rest. Meanwhile, he stepped aside, picked up the mysterious script that had given the staff so much grief, and decided to read through the full contents. While he skimmed through it, he asked the staff where this script had come from, who delivered it, and what exactly the issue was.
After seeing the script, Edward understood why they couldn't make a decision. It was a relatively special script, mainly about a strange culture called "black magic."
In the Pokémon world, something akin to black magic did exist, but mostly in the form of ancient legends circulating in the Alola region. Their status was similar to old folklore in his previous life. And due to the presence of Pokémon, the spread of Pokémon knowledge, and rational explanations for phenomena, these kinds of curses rarely worked—most people didn't believe in them. They dismissed them as exaggerated myths.
Even Edward himself, while reading, felt that people would always have their own imaginative interpretations. He had even considered making a film about black magic before… but he had never expected someone else's black magic script to reach him first. That alone piqued his curiosity.
He flipped to the cover page.
The title read: "Art of the Devil: Beginning."
…
Panor was born in a remote mountain village in northern Alola, a place surrounded by dense rainforest and shrouded in mist year-round. Her mother had suffered through an excruciating three-day labor. The birthing room echoed endlessly with her tortured cries.
When Panor finally came into the world, the midwife froze in terror—
The newborn's pupils were pure black, without the slightest trace of white.
In the same instant, every candle in the birthing hut blew out. Outside, the clear daytime sky abruptly swallowed itself in rolling clouds; thunder boomed as if something ancient had awakened. Villagers gathered beyond the doorway, whispering uneasily. Old elders sighed, shaking their heads—
"This is an omen."
"That child is shadow-touched."
"Something evil rode in with her birth."
On the bed, Panor's mother lay weak and pale, tears slipping silently down her cheeks as she listened to the voices outside. Her husband a simple farmer, earnest and steadfast despite the fear in his eyes, held her trembling hands tightly.
"No matter what she is," he whispered, "she is our child."
But as Panor grew, strange happenings multiplied.
She never cried. She never laughed.
Yet every night, the moment darkness fell, faint murmuring voices drifted from her room—whispers that no one could understand, as if unseen things were speaking directly into her ears.
Village poultry began dying mysteriously, their bodies marked with unsettling purple imprints. Fear spread. Some villagers even suggested sacrificing the girl to the jungle spirits to appease whatever curse she carried.
When Panor turned five, a group of black-robed sorcerers appeared. They called themselves followers of the Pasong Cult, and claimed Panor was not possessed but was instead an extremely rare "vessel", someone capable of absorbing and controlling black magic energies.
They warned her parents:
If left unrestrained, the power inside her would one day erupt and destroy the entire village.
Terrified yet unwilling to surrender their daughter, the parents refused.
But that same night, the black-robed men infiltrated the home, kidnapped Panor, and vanished into the mountains.
They brought her to a hidden temple deep within the rainforest and began a merciless form of cultivation.
At first, she was locked inside a pitch-black stone chamber. The walls were carved with twisting, ominous symbols. The sorcerers pierced her skin with sharpened bone awls, forcing her to absorb corrosive black magic energies. Each session wracked her body with overwhelming pain.
But because her body was a "vessel," she could adapt.
She could endure.
She could survive.
And little by little…
She began learning how to control that power.
In time, Panor realized she could sense black magic in people, objects—even curses floating in the air. She could absorb them, unravel them, and convert that energy into her own strength. The sorcerers both revered and feared her. They called her the Daughter of Passong, believing her to be a weapon bestowed by their dark deity.
Panor spent ten years within the cult.
Ten years mastering corrosive enchantments.
Ten years watching the cult destroy anyone who opposed them.
By sixteen, she had seen enough.
During a ritual, the cult leader ordered her to absorb the curse placed upon a traitor. Instead, Panor deliberately unleashed the power backwards, causing the ritual to collapse into chaos. Amid the confusion, she fled the temple and ran back toward her childhood village.
But when she arrived, the place was dead—houses rotted, fields abandoned, the once-lively grounds swallowed by silence. Her parents were gone.
Amid the ruins, she found a tattered diary documenting their final days—
They had been killed by the cult…
Because they had tried to protect her.
Grief and fury surged through her entire being.
Her powers roared to life.
A wave of destructive black magic burst outward from her body, tearing through the forest in the direction of the cult's temple.
From that moment on, Panor dedicated herself to hunting them down. She wandered across Alola, seeking those harmed by the cult, undoing the curses placed on them, and dismantling the cult's influence piece by piece.
Whispers of the Cursed Hunter spread far and wide.
Years later, she learned that the cult's true master, the Grand Sorcerer Praka was preparing an enormous ritual aimed at controlling every major black magic faction across Alola. If successful, countless innocents would fall under his thrall.
Panor made her decision.
She headed alone to Praka's stronghold, an ancient temple hidden deep within the Alola River basin.
Praka was waiting.
An elderly sorcerer marked with vivid tattoos etched across his face, his eyes glimmering with unnatural crimson light.
"You think you can stop me?" he sneered. "You were born as my vessel. In the end, your power belongs to me."
The battle erupted.
Praka summoned swarms of cursed creatures, serpents, scorpions, and convulsing humanoid shapes that crawled from the darkness. Panor countered each one, absorbing the poisonous energies and dispersing them. But Praka's strength was relentless.
Finally, he invoked the forbidden spell, Ten Thousand Souls Black magic, splitting his own soul into countless shards and forcing them into Panor's body.
Panor dropped to her knees, her consciousness torn apart. Memories that weren't hers, screams of long-dead victims, and a crushing tide of pain crashed into her mind.
She nearly broke.
Until she remembered her parents.
Remembered the people she saved.
Remembered why she survived.
With the last thread of her will, she reversed every ounce of black magic in her body.
A blinding white light exploded outward.
The ancient temple collapsed.
Praka's scream twisted through the ruins before dissolving into silence, his corrupted soul purified entirely.
When Panor awoke, she lay on the banks of the Alola River, the sky above pale and quiet. In her hand lay a single black feather—the shattered remnant of Praka's core.
She had survived.
Not as a vessel.
But reborn.
Months later, in a small restaurant in Alola, she met Piak, an ordinary travel writer documenting Alola lore. He became fascinated with her story. Their connection was immediate: his gentle sincerity, her quiet resilience. For the first time, Panor felt the warmth of a peaceful life.
They traveled together, exploring ancient ruins, helping the weak, writing down forgotten legends.
And thus the legend of black magic spread through Alola—distorted by time, stripped of its original darkness, reduced to just a whisper of what once existed. Because of Panor's actions, the arts themselves faded into obscurity, buried beneath the sands of history.
…
Edward finished reading and had a strange expression.
Overall, the script was… decent. Not extraordinary, but solid. With the addition of the black magic element, it had potential—though it wasn't particularly terrifying by modern horror standards. Still, Edward could accept it. It was worth trying.
He approved the script. Zoroark took the paperwork and headed off, while Edward returned to filming. With The Victim progressing smoothly, he estimated the entire production could be completed soon.
Sunlight filtered through gaps in the coconut trees, scattering into golden patches across the set—an illusion of a lively foreign street. A towering golden pagoda shimmered in the distance; colorful stalls and carved pavilions lined the set. Coconut aroma mixed with spices lingered in the warm air, accompanied by upbeat Thai-style music.
But all of this was merely movie scenery.
Crew members rushed about with props, cameras, and light stands. Actors in Thai clothing stood before the cameras, shifting their expressions from joy to sorrow, embodying every emotional beat of the script. Their vivid performances made the artificial street feel startlingly alive.
"Cut!" Edward's voice pierced the air.
The tension dispersed instantly. Crew hurried over to ease the actors out of heavy costumes and hand them drinks. Edward discussed the next shot with the cinematographer while the cast chatted, laughing softly, enjoying a brief moment of rest amidst the heat.
Yet Edward still felt something… strange.
This haunted location was always full of unsettling details. But perhaps that was part of its charm. Smiling faintly, he admitted there were always odd little surprises in this world.
At least the dancers he hired were exceptionally professional, achieving exactly the atmosphere he wanted. Shooting progress was excellent. He did tweak parts of the script, especially since in the original, Mei's fan hardly appeared in the early acts, something that would definitely draw criticism later. He had to revise it.
He exhaled, thoughtful. There were still many decisions to make, many directions to choose from. But those could come later. For now, he simply observed the set, supporting his chin with one hand as he watched everyone move about.
Being a director wasn't so bad.
And seeing Ghost Films grow day by day filled him with genuine pride.
He had already given everything he could.
The rest… would unfold naturally.
(End of Chapter)