Sunlight reached the eastern half first, catching on the bioluminescent canopy where the glow had dimmed overnight. The mushrooms no longer pulsed in unison; instead, they shimmered irregularly, as if relearning their own rhythm. Pink grass lay flattened in wide arcs where emergency crews and Pokémon had passed through, blades bent but not broken. Fairy-types lingered in quiet knots, movements slower, more deliberate, as though instinct told them not to celebrate balance too loudly.
Black trees that once leaned inward now stood straighter, their bark matte instead of glossy, the red and yellow veins dulled to ember-lines rather than warning flares. Grey grass bore scars—patches bleached pale where shadow had pooled too long—but new growth threaded through it already, thin and stubborn. Dark-types emerged one by one, not prowling, not hiding. Just present. As if the night had reminded them what stillness felt like.
Along the Divide Line itself, the ancient boundary no longer burned.
The air shimmered faintly, not a hard divide but a soft distortion, like heat rising from stone after rain. Sensors mounted along its length recalibrated endlessly, unable to agree on a single reading. Humans moved carefully there, voices low, while Pokémon crossed in hesitant steps, testing a permission that had never existed before.
Cracked windows were sealed with transparent shielding. Streetlights flickered, some replaced with temporary constructs humming at lower frequencies. Drones hovered in disciplined patterns, mapping stress fractures in reality rather than stone. Emergency banners fluttered without urgency, bearing phrases like Stability Maintained and Phenomenon Contained—words chosen to soothe rather than explain.
No weight pressed inward on thought. No subtle dread threaded through conversation. People stood straighter. Laughed softer. Reached for one another like they were confirming they were still real.
Cyrus leaned his head back against the seat as the transport began its ascent, shoulder protesting quietly.
From the window of the medical transport, Cyrus watched crews dismantle temporary barriers along the Divide Line. Fairy-types lingered in clusters where bioluminescence had dimmed to a soft, natural glow. On the darker half, shadows no longer pressed inward; the black trees stood still, no longer leaning like they were listening.
Cyrus leaned his head back against the seat, shoulder immobilized, ribs tightly wrapped. Every movement reminded him of how close the margin had been.
Ditto rested across his lap as a loose blue blanket, edges imperfect, like it hadn't quite settled on a final shape yet.
Gengar hovered near the floor, half-faded, eyes tracking the passing city. Its shadow didn't wander far from Cyrus's feet.
"Gen."
"Yes Gengar," Cyrus murmured. "We're leaving."
Gengar's grin softened, just a fraction.
The transport hummed steadily as it lifted, banking gently away from the Axis Atrium. Cyrus caught a final glimpse of the central spire where it all converged.
Joseph sat across from him, arms folded, posture rigid in a way that suggested he'd been holding tension for days and hadn't yet decided it was safe to release. His gaze stayed fixed on the window, tracking altitude, trajectory, escape routes—old habits resurfacing now that the immediate threat had passed.
Maren sat beside Cyrus, tablet balanced on her knee, reviewing scan after scan even though she'd already memorized the results.
"Your dreamwave levels are stable," she said without looking up. "Still elevated, but no longer escalating."
"That's the nicest way anyone's ever told me my brain survived," Cyrus replied.
She allowed herself a small half smile.
"We'll continue monitoring once we're home. Meltan's resonance readings spiked during the correction, I want to cross-reference those with your neurological data."
Joseph finally turned. "No field work."
Cyrus raised an eyebrow. "That wasn't the deal."
"That is the deal," Joseph replied evenly. "Recovery isn't optional."
Cyrus sighed. "I wasn't planning on picking a fight with another nightmare god on the way back."
Joseph's stare was level. "You didn't plan on the last one either."
Cyrus paused before stating ".....Fair....".
The transport broke through cloud cover, sunlight flooding the cabin. Divide City slipped beneath them, smaller now slowly slipping away, becoming more distant as time pasted.
Cyrus watched until it vanished.
The journey home was quiet.
Not tense, intentional allowing everyone to reflex on the weeks events and the plan moving forward.
The King estate rose from the landscape like it always had: stone and glass woven together, old architecture reinforced by modern design. The mansion-museum hybrid stood nestled against rolling terrain, research wings extending discreetly behind the main structure.
It looked the same.
As the transport settled onto the landing platform, Cyrus felt something he hadn't since arriving in Divide City.
Ground. Actual ground. Cyrus never understood, but in a place that was overrun with ghost type Pokémon, where you would expect it to feel fleeting, Cyrus found himself the most grounded.
Joseph stood first, offering a hand without comment. Cyrus took it, steadying himself as he rose.
Ditto reshaped instantly into a proper jacket, snug and warm.
"Show-off," Cyrus muttered.
The doors opened.
Home air carried familiar scents—stone warmed by sun, ozone from distant generators, faint traces of old paper and polished metal.
The PoryHome system activated the moment they crossed the threshold.
"WELCOME BACK, CYRUS!" K-01 chimed, holographic form flickering cheerfully into existence. "YOUR VITAL SIGNS INDICATE YOU ARE—OH. OH NO. YOU ARE VERY INJURED."
"Good to see you too," Cyrus said dryly.
"I WILL PREPARE, SEVENTEEN, RECOVERY PROTOCOLS," K-01 continued, glitching briefly. "AND ONE SOUP."
"Just one?" Cyrus asked.
"MEDICALLY OPTIMAL."
Joseph snorted quietly.
Gengar drifted through the foyer, shadow stretching across familiar artifacts, maps from Frostveil, geological samples from Bloodmoon Mountain, archived expedition footage frozen mid-frame. It paused near a display case housing an old, ring-shaped relic.
The air warped faintly.
Hoopa didn't appear.
But Cyrus felt the attention.
A presence, distant now. Watching. Satisfied.
He exhaled.
Maren guided him toward the medical wing, hand light but steady at his back.
"We'll debrief later," she said. "After rest."
"Define 'later,'" Cyrus muttered.
"After you sleep without a nightmare trying to peel your thoughts apart."
"Low bar," he admitted.
The recovery room was dim and quiet, lights adjusting automatically as Cyrus settled onto the bed. Monitors synced seamlessly, projecting soft, non-intrusive data.
Gengar took position near the wall, shadow pooling protectively.
Ditto slid off Cyrus's shoulders and formed a small pillow beside his head.
Joseph lingered at the doorway.
"You did what needed to be done," he said finally.
Cyrus looked at him. "I didn't fix everything."
Joseph met his gaze. "You prevented collapse."
Different metric.
Maren stepped beside Joseph. "Divide City will recover," she added. "Balance has a way of asserting itself—when given space."
Cyrus closed his eyes.
"I felt… small," he said quietly. "At the end."
Neither of them spoke immediately.
"That's appropriate," Maren said at last. "You were standing between forces that predate our understanding of fear."
Joseph nodded once. "And you didn't flinch."
Cyrus exhaled, tension finally draining from his shoulders.
Outside, the mansion settled into its familiar rhythms, systems humming, research wings alive with quiet activity, history and future coexisting without urgency.
No alarms.
No pressure.
Just time.
As sleep claimed him, Cyrus felt a final ripple in the air—rings brushing the edge of reality without crossing through.
A sing-song whisper echoed faintly, just for him.
"Home is good~."
Cyrus smiled faintly.