One month.
Thirty days of climbing, fighting, surviving. Thirty days of pushing through conditions that should have broken them a dozen times over. Thirty days of wondering if they were going to die on this frozen hellscape of a mountain.
And now, finally, impossibly, they had reached the summit.
Ash stood at the edge of the final clearing, his body trembling with exhaustion, his clothes torn and stained with dirt and blood from countless encounters. His jacket was shredded in places where claws had come too close, his jeans were soaked through from falls into hidden snow drifts, and his iconic cap—miraculously still on his head—was bent and battered almost beyond recognition.
Pikachu clung to his shoulder, its fur matted and dull from weeks of inadequate grooming, its cheeks sparking weakly with electricity that had been drained and recharged so many times it was a wonder the little Pokémon could produce any power at all. But its eyes were still bright, still determined, still fixed on the figure standing at the far edge of the summit.
Behind Ash, Misty and Brock looked even worse.
Misty's hair had escaped its ponytail days ago, hanging in tangled orange strands around a face that was gaunt with hunger and pale with cold. Her clothes were in tatters, held together more by willpower than stitching. She had lost one of her shoes somewhere in the caves below, replacing it with a makeshift wrap of bandages and torn fabric that did little to protect against the frozen ground.
Brock was hunched over, favoring his left leg where a particularly aggressive Ursaring had gotten too close three days ago. The wound had been treated as best they could with their depleted supplies, but infection was a constant worry in these conditions. His eyes, usually so warm and kind, were hollow with exhaustion—the look of someone who had been pushed far beyond their limits and was running on nothing but stubbornness.
They had run out of food five days ago.
The last of their provisions—a handful of berries and half a protein bar split three ways—had been consumed during what they thought would be the final push to the summit. They had been wrong. The final push had taken another two days, during which they had survived on melted snow and sheer desperation.
Their Pokémon were in no better shape. Most of them had been recalled to their balls after sustaining injuries too severe to continue fighting. Only Pikachu, Starmie, and Geodude remained battle-ready, and even they were operating at a fraction of their normal capacity.
The journey had been a nightmare.
The caves at the base of Mt. Silver had seemed manageable at first—dark and cold, yes, but nothing they hadn't dealt with before. Then the territorial Pokémon had started appearing. Golbat by the dozens, attacking in swarms that forced them to fight constantly just to make progress. Graveler that rolled out of nowhere, forcing them to dodge or be crushed. Misdreavus that haunted their rest, making sleep impossible for nights on end.
But those had been nothing compared to the Tyranitar.
They had encountered the beast on the fifth day of their climb, in a large cavern that they had hoped would provide shelter from a sudden blizzard. The Tyranitar had other ideas. It had emerged from the shadows like a living mountain, its armored hide gleaming with barely contained fury, its eyes fixed on the intruders who had dared enter its domain.
The battle had lasted hours.
Ash had thrown everything he had at the creature—Pikachu, Charizard, Bulbasaur, Squirtle. One by one, his Pokémon had fallen to the Tyranitar's devastating attacks. Rock Slides and Crunches and Hyper Beams that carved new tunnels into the cave walls. Misty's Water-types had provided some advantage, but even super-effective attacks seemed to barely scratch the monster's hide.
In the end, it had been Brock's Onix that had saved them. The rock-snake had wrapped itself around the Tyranitar, pinning it long enough for the group to escape deeper into the caves. They had run for what felt like hours, the Tyranitar's roars of rage echoing behind them, until finally they had emerged onto the mountain's upper slopes.
Onix hadn't come with them. It had stayed behind, holding off the Tyranitar so that its trainer could escape. Brock had recalled it eventually, once they were far enough away, but the rock-type was in critical condition. It needed a Pokémon Center desperately, but the nearest one was at the bottom of the mountain—a descent that was almost as dangerous as the climb had been.
They had pressed on anyway. What else could they do?
The upper slopes had brought new challenges. The cold was more intense, the air thinner, the wind more brutal. Pokémon that lived in these elevated regions were stronger and more aggressive than anything they had faced below. Sneasel packs hunted them through the snow, Ursaring defended their territories with violent fury, and Donphan charged out of nowhere to send them tumbling down slopes they had spent hours climbing.
But they had survived. Barely, impossibly, through a combination of luck and determination and the kind of stubborn refusal to give up that defined Ash Ketchum at his core. They had survived.
And now they stood at the summit, looking at the figure who had drawn them here.
Red.
He stood at the far edge of the clearing, his back to them, silhouetted against a sky that was surprisingly clear. His black jacket with its blue flame patterns was unmistakable, as was the fluffy hood that protected against winds that didn't seem to bother him. His stance was relaxed, almost casual, as if he had been waiting here for hours without any discomfort.
On his shoulder sat a Pikachu—but not like any Pikachu Ash had ever seen. This one seemed to glow with barely contained power, its fur sleek and lustrous despite the harsh conditions, its cheeks sparking with electricity that made the air itself seem to crackle. Around its neck was a small collar with a lightning bolt charm that caught the light and gleamed.
Red didn't turn around. He didn't acknowledge their presence at all. He simply stood there, staring out at the endless expanse of mountains and sky, waiting.
The silence stretched on, heavy and oppressive. The wind howled around them, filling the void where words should have been. Ash opened his mouth to speak—to announce himself, to issue his challenge, to say something—but the words died in his throat.
For the first time since deciding to climb this mountain, he wondered if he had made a mistake.
The thought was foreign, uncomfortable, completely at odds with his usual unshakeable confidence. Ash Ketchum didn't doubt himself. Ash Ketchum charged forward regardless of the odds, trusting in his Pokémon and his own determination to see him through. Ash Ketchum had faced legendary Pokémon, criminal organizations, and world-ending threats without ever questioning whether he was doing the right thing.
But standing here, looking at the still figure of the Silent Champion, doubt crept in like the cold that should have been freezing him to death.
Red was different. Everything about him radiated a power and presence that Ash had never encountered before. It wasn't like facing a gym leader, or even the Elite Four. Those battles had stakes, yes, but they had also felt... manageable. Like challenges that could be overcome with enough effort and strategy.
This didn't feel manageable. This felt like standing before a force of nature and wondering why you thought it was a good idea to challenge the storm.
"Ash?" Misty's voice was barely a whisper, hoarse from days of breathing frozen air. "Are you okay?"
He didn't answer. He couldn't answer. His eyes were fixed on Red's back, on the casual confidence of his stance, on the way he seemed completely unbothered by their presence despite surely being aware they were there.
How long had Red been waiting? Had he known they were coming? Had he watched their struggle up the mountain, observed their battles and their suffering, and simply... waited? The thought was unsettling in a way Ash couldn't articulate.
Pikachu shifted on his shoulder, pressing closer against his neck. "Pika pi?" it asked softly, concern evident in its voice.
The sound of his partner's voice broke through the paralysis that had gripped him. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the thin, cold air, and forced his legs to move.
One step forward. Then another. Then another.
The snow crunched beneath his feet, the only sound besides the wind. Misty and Brock followed behind, their movements slow and pained but determined. They had come this far together. They would see it through together.
He stopped about twenty feet from Red, close enough to be heard but far enough to maintain the respect that such a legendary trainer deserved. He opened his mouth to speak, to announce his challenge, to deliver the declaration he had been rehearsing in his head for a month.
Nothing came out.
His throat was dry, his voice stolen by a combination of exhaustion and awe. He stood there, mouth open like a Magikarp, unable to produce a single word.
Red still didn't turn around.
The silence stretched on, becoming almost unbearable. Ash's face flushed with embarrassment—what kind of challenger couldn't even issue a challenge? What kind of trainer stood mute before his idol, unable to string together a simple sentence?
But then, slowly, Red turned.
And Ash forgot how to breathe entirely.
Red's eyes were the first thing he noticed. They were dark, almost black, but they held a depth that seemed to go on forever. There was wisdom in those eyes, and power, and something else—something almost gentle, almost kind. They were the eyes of someone who had seen everything, experienced everything, and come out the other side transformed.
His face was young—younger than Ash had expected. He couldn't have been much older than twenty, maybe twenty-one. But there was an agelessness to his features that made guessing impossible. He could have been sixteen or sixty, and it would have seemed equally appropriate.
The partner Pikachu on his shoulder turned to look at them as well, its expression curious and alert. It was clearly assessing them, evaluating their condition, their strength, their worthiness. The judgment in its eyes was unmistakable.
Red's gaze moved from Ash to Pikachu to Misty to Brock, taking in their battered condition with a single, comprehensive glance. His expression didn't change—it remained neutral, unreadable—but something shifted in his eyes. A flicker of... something. Recognition? Concern? It was gone too quickly to identify.
Then he did something completely unexpected.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a bag—a small, weathered satchel that had clearly seen years of use. From it, he withdrew items that made Ash's empty stomach clench with desperate longing.
Food. Real food. Wrapped sandwiches and containers of rice and bottles of clean water. He set them on the snow between himself and the exhausted trio, then stepped back, gesturing for them to take it.
No one moved.
"Is this..." Misty's voice cracked. "Is this a trick?"
Red shook his head slightly. Just once, a simple negation that somehow conveyed absolute sincerity.
"We can't," Ash forced out, his voice barely above a whisper. "I came here to challenge you. I can't accept... I need to battle you first..."
Red's expression shifted, and for a moment, something almost like amusement flickered across his features. He pointed at Ash's Pikachu—the exhausted, barely-standing electric-type that was clinging to its trainer with the last of its strength. Then he pointed at his own Pikachu, sleek and powerful and practically vibrating with contained energy.
The message was clear without words: You're in no condition to battle. Eat first.
Ash wanted to argue. Every fiber of his being screamed that accepting food from his opponent was wrong, that it would undermine the purity of his challenge, that a true Pokémon Master would never show such weakness.
But his body had other ideas.
His legs gave out, sending him collapsing into the snow. Pikachu tumbled from his shoulder, too weak to maintain its grip, landing in a small yellow heap beside him. Misty and Brock rushed forward—or tried to, their own exhaustion making the movement more of a stumble—but Red was faster.
The Champion moved like water flowing downhill, smooth and effortless and impossibly fast. Before Ash could register what was happening, Red was beside him, one hand pressed against his forehead, the other supporting his back. The touch was surprisingly warm, almost hot, as if Red's body temperature was several degrees above normal.
"Pika!" The partner Pikachu had hopped down from Red's shoulder and was now hovering over Ash's Pikachu, its expression concerned. It produced a small berry from somewhere—an Oran Berry, Ash recognized dimly—and gently pressed it against the other electric-type's mouth.
Ash's Pikachu accepted the berry weakly, chewing with obvious effort. Almost immediately, some color returned to its cheeks, some spark to its eyes. The berry's restorative properties were working, slowly pulling the exhausted Pokémon back from the edge.
"Ash!" Misty had reached them, falling to her knees beside her friend. "Ash, are you okay? Talk to me!"
"M'fine," Ash mumbled, though he clearly wasn't. "Just... tired..."
Red was already moving, retrieving the food he had offered and bringing it to the collapsed group. He pressed a sandwich into Misty's hands, guided a bottle of water to Brock's lips, and—with a gentleness that seemed completely at odds with his legendary status—helped Ash sit up and take small sips of water.
"Why..." Ash managed between sips. "Why are you helping us?"
Red didn't answer. Of course he didn't—he couldn't. But his actions spoke louder than any words could have.
He produced more Oran Berries, distributing them to Misty and Brock's injured Pokémon. He pulled a blanket from his satchel—how did so much fit in there?—and wrapped it around Misty's shivering shoulders. He examined Brock's injured leg with practiced hands, his expression darkening at what he found, then retrieved a Super Potion and applied it to the wound with careful precision.
This wasn't how Ash had imagined meeting his idol.
In his dreams, he had arrived at the summit strong and confident, ready to battle. He had issued his challenge with dramatic flair, his Pikachu sparking with anticipation. Red had nodded in acknowledgment, accepting the challenge with the stoic dignity befitting a champion. They had battled, an epic clash of titans that would be remembered for generations.
Instead, he was lying in the snow like a half-dead Magikarp while the strongest trainer in the world nursed him back to health.
"This is humiliating," he muttered, too tired to filter his thoughts.
Red looked at him, and for just a moment, Ash could have sworn he saw a smile tugging at the corner of the Champion's mouth. Then it was gone, replaced by the neutral expression that seemed to be his default.
The partner Pikachu, having finished tending to Ash's Pikachu, climbed back onto Red's shoulder and surveyed the scene with obvious satisfaction. It chirped something in Pikachu-speak that Ash's own partner seemed to understand, because the exhausted electric-type let out a weak "Pika" of gratitude.
Time passed—Ash wasn't sure how much. The food and water and berries did their work, slowly restoring strength to bodies that had been pushed far beyond their limits. Misty stopped shivering. Brock's leg began to look less inflamed. Ash felt the fog in his mind start to clear.
Eventually, he was able to sit up on his own, propped against a snow-covered rock with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Pikachu had crawled into his lap, still weak but recovering, its breathing steady and its color improved.
Red sat across from them, cross-legged in the snow, apparently immune to the cold that should have been devastating even for someone acclimated to the mountain. His partner Pikachu mirrored his posture, sitting in his lap with an expression of alert contentment.
"Thank you," Misty said finally, her voice stronger than before. "We would have died up here without your help."
Red inclined his head slightly—an acknowledgment, if not exactly a "you're welcome."
"We came to challenge you," Brock added, his tone apologetic. "We pushed too hard, didn't bring enough supplies. It was foolish."
Another slight incline of the head. Agreement? Understanding? It was hard to tell.
Ash forced himself to speak, pushing past the embarrassment that was threatening to choke him. "I still want to battle you."
Red's gaze shifted to him, those fathomless dark eyes studying his face with unnerving intensity.
"I know I'm not ready," Ash continued, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I know I probably never was. But I came all this way because I want to be strong like you. I want to be a Pokémon Master. And I thought... I thought if I could just battle you, even if I lost, I would learn something important."
He paused, struggling to articulate feelings he barely understood himself.
"But I was wrong, wasn't I? Coming here before I was ready, almost getting my friends killed, pushing my Pokémon past their limits... that's not what a Pokémon Master does. That's not strength. That's just... stupid."
The word hung in the air, harsh and self-critical. Pikachu stirred in his lap, pressing closer as if to offer comfort.
Red was silent for a long moment. Then he reached into his satchel once more and withdrew something that made Ash's breath catch.
A photograph. Old and worn, its edges soft from years of handling. Red held it up so that Ash could see.
The image showed a young boy—Red himself, Ash realized, though much younger—lying in a Pokémon Center bed. He was covered in bandages, his face pale and drawn, clearly in the aftermath of something terrible. A Charmander sat beside him, looking equally battered, its tail flame dim and flickering.
Red's message was clear: I was you, once. I made the same mistakes.
He turned the photograph over. On the back, written in faded pencil, were words that made Ash's eyes sting with unexpected emotion.
"Victory Road. First attempt. Almost died. Learned: strength isn't about never falling. It's about always getting back up."
Ash stared at the words, reading them over and over until they were burned into his memory. Red—the legendary, undefeated Champion—had almost died on his journey. Red had made mistakes, had pushed too hard, had learned painful lessons the same way Ash was learning them now.
It was strangely comforting.
"So what do I do?" Ash asked, his voice small. "How do I become strong enough?"
Red didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked up at the sky, at the clouds drifting past the summit, at the endless expanse of blue that stretched to the horizon. His partner Pikachu followed his gaze, and for a moment they seemed lost in contemplation.
Then Red looked back at Ash and did something unexpected.
He pointed at Pikachu—Ash's Pikachu—with obvious significance. Then he pointed at his own Pikachu. Then he touched his chest, right over his heart.
The bond. It's about the bond.
Ash looked down at his partner, at the small yellow creature that had been with him since the beginning of his journey. Pikachu looked back up at him, its dark eyes full of trust and affection despite everything he had put it through.
"The bond," Ash repeated softly. "Between trainer and Pokémon."
Red nodded once, firmly.
"That's what makes you strong? Not training, not strategy, but... the bond?"
Another nod.
Ash fell silent, processing this. It made sense, in a way. His strongest moments had always been when he and Pikachu were perfectly in sync, when their connection transcended the normal boundaries between human and Pokémon. His weakest moments had been when that connection was disrupted—by doubt, by arrogance, by anything that came between them.
"I think I understand," he said slowly. "Or at least... I'm starting to."
Red's expression softened almost imperceptibly. He reached out and placed one hand on Ash's shoulder—a gesture of approval, of encouragement, of the kind of wordless support that only someone who truly understood could offer.
Then he stood, brushing snow from his pants, and looked toward the path that led down the mountain. His meaning was obvious: it was time for them to leave.
"Wait," Ash protested, struggling to his feet. "I still want to battle. Even if I lose—even if I lose badly—I want to try."
Red turned back to him, head tilted slightly to one side. The partner Pikachu on his shoulder mimicked the gesture.
"Please," Ash continued, his voice gaining strength. "I came all this way. I almost died getting here. I know I'm not ready, I know I'll probably lose, but... I have to try. I have to know."
For a long moment, Red simply looked at him. Those dark eyes seemed to peer into his very soul, evaluating something that couldn't be measured by badges or victories.
Then, slowly, Red nodded.
Ash's heart leaped. Despite everything—the exhaustion, the doubt, the humbling realization of how far he had to go—excitement surged through him. He was going to battle Red. He was going to challenge the strongest trainer in the world.
"Thank you," he breathed. "You won't regret this."
Red's expression suggested he very much doubted that, but there was something almost like approval in his eyes. He walked to the opposite side of the clearing, putting appropriate distance between himself and Ash for a proper battle. The partner Pikachu leaped from his shoulder, landing in the snow between them, its cheeks already sparking with anticipation.
Ash's Pikachu stirred in his arms, weakly pawing at him with clear intent. It wanted to fight. Despite its condition, despite the obvious disadvantage, it wanted to stand beside its trainer and face this challenge.
"Pikachu..." Ash looked down at his partner, torn between gratitude and concern. "Are you sure? You're not exactly in peak condition."
"Pika pi!" The electric-type's voice was determined, its eyes bright with the same fire that burned in Ash's heart. It wasn't at full strength, might not even be at half strength, but it would fight. It would always fight.
Ash felt tears prick at his eyes. This was it. This was the bond that Red had spoken of. Not just friendship, not just partnership, but something deeper—two beings who would face anything together, no matter the odds.
He gently set Pikachu down in the snow before him. The yellow Pokémon planted its feet, its tail raised, its cheeks sparking with what electricity it could muster.
Across the clearing, Red's partner Pikachu assumed its own battle stance. The difference between the two electric-types was stark—one sleek and powerful, practically glowing with energy; the other battered and exhausted, running on willpower alone.
But Ash didn't care. He had come here to challenge a legend, and that was exactly what he was going to do.
Misty and Brock had moved to the edge of the clearing, watching with expressions that mixed concern with reluctant admiration. They knew how this battle would end. They all knew. But they also knew that Ash wouldn't be Ash if he didn't try.
The wind died down, as if the mountain itself was holding its breath.
Red raised one hand, then brought it down in a sharp gesture—the signal to begin.
"Pikachu!" Ash shouted, his voice strong despite everything. "Quick Attack!"
His partner launched forward, a blur of yellow against white snow. It was slower than usual, hampered by exhaustion and injury, but it moved with the same determination that had carried it through a hundred battles before.
Red's Pikachu didn't move. It simply stood there, watching the approaching attack with almost casual interest. Then, at the last possible moment, it stepped to the side—just slightly, just enough—and Ash's Pikachu went sailing past.
The speed was unreal. Red's Pikachu hadn't dodged; it had simply moved at the exact moment, with the exact distance, necessary to avoid the attack completely. No wasted motion, no unnecessary effort.
"Again!" Ash commanded. "Thunderbolt!"
His Pikachu spun, unleashing a bolt of electricity at the opponent. It was weaker than normal, the exhausted Pokémon unable to generate its usual power, but it was still a solid attack.
Red's Pikachu didn't dodge this time. Instead, its cheeks flashed, and it absorbed the incoming Thunderbolt with what looked like satisfaction. Its fur stood on end for a moment, crackling with the additional charge, then settled back down.
Lightning Rod. Or something like it. The attack hadn't just failed—it had made Red's Pikachu stronger.
"What..." Ash stared in disbelief. "How?"
Red offered no explanation. He simply waited, giving Ash time to process what had happened, to adjust his strategy.
But what strategy could work against something like this?
"Iron Tail!" Ash called out desperately. "Close range!"
His Pikachu charged again, its tail glowing with steel-type energy. This time, it would be a physical attack—something that couldn't be absorbed or redirected.
Red's Pikachu met the charge head-on. Its own tail began to glow, the same metallic sheen indicating the same attack. The two Iron Tails connected with a clang of metal on metal, sending both Pokémon skidding backward.
But while Ash's Pikachu stumbled, clearly dazed by the impact, Red's Pikachu landed gracefully, completely unaffected.
"Pika pi!" Ash's partner refused to give up, launching another Thunderbolt even as it struggled to regain its balance.
Red finally issued a command—not with words, but with a slight gesture of his hand. His Pikachu responded instantly, vanishing in a blur of motion that was too fast for Ash to track. One moment it was across the clearing; the next, it was behind Ash's Pikachu, its paw already raised for an attack.
"Look out!" Ash screamed, but it was too late.
A single strike—not a Thunderbolt or an Iron Tail, just a simple, precise tap to the back of Ash's Pikachu's head. The exhausted electric-type crumpled instantly, unconscious before it hit the snow.
The battle was over. It had lasted less than a minute.
Ash stood frozen, staring at his fallen partner. He had known he would lose. He had accepted that coming into this battle. But some part of him had still hoped—still believed—that the bond he shared with Pikachu would be enough to at least put up a fight.
It hadn't been. Not even close.
Red's Pikachu hopped back to its trainer, climbing onto his shoulder with casual ease. It didn't look triumphant or smug—just matter-of-fact, as if this outcome had never been in doubt.
Because it hadn't. Not for a single moment.
Ash walked forward on numb legs, kneeling beside his unconscious partner. Pikachu's breathing was steady—it wasn't injured, just defeated. The strike had been perfectly calibrated to end the fight without causing harm.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, gathering the small body into his arms. "I'm so sorry."
Tears fell freely now, freezing on his cheeks in the cold mountain air. He had failed. He had pushed his partner to its limits, demanded everything it had to give, and still it hadn't been enough. Not even a fraction of enough.
He heard footsteps in the snow and looked up to see Red standing over him. The Champion's expression was unreadable, but his eyes held something that might have been compassion.
Red reached into his satchel once more and withdrew a Max Revive—an incredibly rare and valuable item that could restore a fainted Pokémon to perfect health. He offered it to Ash without hesitation.
"I can't..." Ash shook his head. "I didn't earn this."
Red's eyes hardened, and for the first time, Ash saw a flicker of something like disapproval in that neutral face. The Champion pushed the Max Revive into Ash's hands, closing his fingers around it with gentle but insistent pressure.
Take it. Take care of your partner. That's what matters.
Ash looked down at the item, then at Pikachu, then back at Red. Slowly, reluctantly, he used the Max Revive. The spray enveloped his partner, and within seconds, Pikachu stirred.
"Pika?" The electric-type blinked open its eyes, looking confused but healthy. All traces of exhaustion and injury were gone, replaced by the vibrant energy of full restoration.
"Hey, buddy," Ash said softly, hugging his partner close. "I'm sorry for pushing you so hard. I'm sorry for being such an idiot."
"Pika pi." Pikachu nuzzled against him, offering forgiveness without reservation. Because that was what partners did. That was the bond.
Ash looked up at Red, who was still watching them with that inscrutable expression. "How?" he asked, his voice raw. "How do I become strong like you? I understand the bond now—I think—but what else? What am I missing?"
Red was silent for a long moment. Then he knelt beside Ash, bringing them to eye level, and did something that shocked everyone watching.
He pulled Ash into a hug.
It was brief—just a few seconds—but it conveyed everything that words couldn't. Encouragement. Understanding. A promise that Ash would find his way if he kept trying.
When Red pulled back, he pressed something into Ash's hand. Another photograph, this one newer than the first. It showed Red standing at this very summit, surrounded by his Pokémon, with the words written on the back:
"The mountain isn't the destination. It's the journey. Keep climbing."
Ash stared at the photograph, at the words, at the man who had given them to him. And despite the devastating loss, despite the tears still drying on his face, he felt something kindle in his chest.
Hope.
"I'll be back," he said, his voice steady despite the emotion threatening to overwhelm him. "I'll train harder. I'll get stronger. And someday—someday I'll climb this mountain again. And next time, I'll give you a real battle."
Red smiled.
It was the first genuine smile any of them had seen from the Silent Champion—small and fleeting, but unmistakably real. He nodded once, an acknowledgment of Ash's promise, then turned and walked back toward the caves that served as his home.
His partner Pikachu paused at the cave entrance, looking back at Ash with an expression that might have been anticipation. Then it followed its trainer into the darkness, and they were gone.
Misty and Brock approached, their faces a mixture of relief and lingering concern.
"That was..." Misty trailed off, unable to find the words.
"Incredible," Brock finished. "Humbling. And a little bit terrifying."
Ash stood slowly, Pikachu climbing onto his shoulder with renewed energy. He looked at the cave entrance where Red had disappeared, then at the photographs clutched in his hand, then at his friends who had followed him through hell to reach this moment.
"Let's go home," he said finally. "I have a lot of training to do."
They began the long journey down the mountain, but this time it felt different. The path seemed clearer, the obstacles less daunting. Red had given them supplies before they left—food and water and healing items that would see them safely to the base.
As they walked, Ash looked at the photographs one more time. Red's young face, battered and determined. Red's older face, surrounded by legends. The journey from one to the other.
He would make that journey. He would climb his own mountain, face his own challenges, forge his own path. And someday—maybe not soon, maybe not for years—he would return to this summit.
And next time, he would be ready.
Behind them, watching from the mouth of his cave, Red stood in silence. The partner Pikachu was on his shoulder, and together they observed the three trainers making their way down the mountain.
He remembered being like Ash. Remembered the passion, the determination, the refusal to accept limitations. It was rare to see that kind of fire in someone so young. Rare and precious and worth nurturing.
He'll be back, Mewtwo's voice echoed in his mind. The psychic legendary had been watching from within its ball, observing the encounter with its typical intensity. And when he returns, he may actually be worthy of a real battle.
He nodded slightly, acknowledging the observation.
You were soft with him, Mewtwo continued. You could have crushed his spirit completely. Instead, you gave him hope.
He thought about that for a moment. Then he touched his chest, over his heart, the same gesture he had used to explain the bond to Ash.
Hope is what keeps us climbing, he thought back. Without it, the mountain is just a cold, empty rock.
Mewtwo was silent, processing this. Then, almost grudgingly: You are wiser than the original Red was, in some ways. He would have simply defeated the boy and sent him away.
I'm not the original Red.
No. You are something new. Something... interesting.
The partner Pikachu chirped softly, pressing against his neck with affection. He scratched behind its ears, taking comfort in the simple gesture.
The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of fire and gold. Far below, three small figures continued their descent, growing smaller and smaller until they vanished into the trees.
He would see Ash Ketchum again. He was certain of it. The boy had the same spark that Red had possessed—the same refusal to give up, the same love for his Pokémon, the same endless drive to become stronger.
Given time, given training, given the right experiences... Ash might actually become something remarkable.
He turned and walked back into his cave, the partner Pikachu warm against his shoulder. Tomorrow, he would train. Tomorrow, he would continue pushing himself and his legendaries toward ever greater heights.
But tonight, he would rest. He would think about the boy who had climbed a mountain just to lose, and he would smile at the memory of a fire that refused to be extinguished.
The world was full of trainers like Ash—young and foolish and wonderful in their determination. It was worth protecting, this world. Worth fighting for.
And when the time came, he would be ready.