The helicopter touched down at the ranger station with a roar of displaced air, its rotors kicking up snow and debris in a whirlwind that forced everyone nearby to shield their eyes. The sleek black aircraft bore the insignia of the Pokémon League—a stylized Poké Ball surrounded by laurel leaves—marking it as official business of the highest order.
Lance stepped out before the rotors had even stopped spinning, his crimson cape billowing dramatically in the artificial wind. The Dragon Master moved with the coiled grace of someone who had spent decades training alongside the most powerful creatures in existence, his sharp eyes scanning the ranger station with an intensity that made the on-duty Rangers snap to attention.
He had come as soon as he heard the reports.
Three trainers—children, really, none of them older than fifteen—had attempted to climb Mt. Silver. They had survived, apparently, rescued by Red himself in an act of mercy that seemed completely at odds with everything Lance knew about the Silent Champion. The reports were fragmented and confused, passed through multiple channels before reaching him, but the core facts were undeniable.
Someone had climbed Mt. Silver. Someone had reached the summit. Someone had faced Red and lived to tell about it.
Lance needed to know more.
He found them in the station's small cafeteria, seated around a table covered with the remnants of what looked like their third or fourth meal since arriving. The boy—Ash, according to the reports—was talking animatedly, his hands gesturing wildly as he recounted some story to his companions. A Pikachu sat on the table before him, munching on a bottle of ketchup with disturbing enthusiasm.
The girl—Misty—was listening with an expression that mixed fondness with exasperation, occasionally interjecting comments that made the boy splutter with indignation. The older one—Brock—watched them both with the patient amusement of someone used to mediating between strong personalities.
They looked... normal. Tired and a bit battered, certainly, but otherwise unremarkable. Nothing about their appearance suggested they had just survived one of the most dangerous locations in the known world.
And yet they had. They had climbed the mountain, reached the summit, faced Red himself.
Lance felt something cold settle in his stomach.
"Excuse me," he said, his voice cutting through the chatter with practiced authority. "I'm looking for Ash Ketchum and his companions."
All three trainers looked up, their expressions shifting as they registered his identity. Ash's eyes went wide with recognition—the Dragon Master was famous enough that even young trainers from Kanto knew his face. Misty's mouth fell open slightly. Brock simply stared, seemingly frozen in place.
"Y-you're Lance!" Ash stammered, nearly knocking over his drink as he scrambled to his feet. "The Dragon Master! The Champion of Johto! What are you doing here?"
"I heard about your climb," Lance said, pulling out a chair and sitting down without waiting for an invitation. "I wanted to speak with you personally. To understand what happened up there."
The three trainers exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them. Then Ash nodded, his expression becoming more serious.
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything." Lance leaned forward, his cape pooling around him like a crimson shadow. "Start from the beginning. Don't leave anything out."
And so they told him.
They spoke of the caves at the mountain's base, of the endless Golbat swarms and the territorial Graveler. They spoke of the Tyranitar that had nearly killed them, of Brock's Onix sacrificing itself to buy their escape. They spoke of the upper slopes, of the Sneasel packs and the Ursaring and the cold that seeped into bones no matter how many layers of clothing you wore.
They spoke of reaching the summit, of seeing Red for the first time—a silent figure standing at the edge of the world, his back to them, waiting.
And then they spoke of what came after.
"He helped us," Ash said, his voice soft with lingering wonder. "We were dying—literally dying—and he gave us food and water and healing items. He treated Brock's leg and wrapped Misty in blankets and fed berries to our Pokémon."
"He saved our lives," Misty added quietly. "We would have died up there without him."
Lance listened in silence, his expression carefully neutral. But inside, his mind was racing.
Red had helped them. Red had saved them. The same Red who had defeated Lance himself three years ago, who had looked at him with those empty, unreadable eyes and systematically destroyed every Pokémon he sent out. The same Red who had retreated to the top of a frozen mountain and refused all contact with the outside world.
That Red had nursed three half-dead trainers back to health?
"There's more," Ash continued, oblivious to Lance's internal turmoil. "After he healed us, I challenged him to a battle."
Of course he did. Lance suppressed a sigh. Young trainers were all the same—so eager to prove themselves, so blind to the dangers they faced.
"And?" he prompted.
"I lost." Ash's voice was matter-of-fact, without shame or self-pity. "Badly. His Pikachu took out my Pikachu in less than a minute. It wasn't even a real fight—more like a demonstration of how far I have to go."
"But he didn't humiliate him," Brock interjected. "He could have. He could have crushed Ash's spirit completely, made him feel worthless. Instead, he... he was kind. He gave Ash a Max Revive for his Pikachu. He gave him advice—well, not advice exactly, since he can't speak, but guidance. Through gestures and photographs."
"Photographs?" Lance's eyebrow rose.
Ash reached into his pocket and withdrew two worn pictures, sliding them across the table. Lance picked them up carefully, studying each in turn.
The first showed a young Red—barely ten years old—lying in a Pokémon Center bed, covered in bandages. A Charmander sat beside him, equally battered. On the back, faded handwriting read: "Victory Road. First attempt. Almost died. Learned: strength isn't about never falling. It's about always getting back up."
The second showed an older Red at the summit of Mt. Silver, surrounded by his Pokémon. The back read: "The mountain isn't the destination. It's the journey. Keep climbing."
Lance stared at the photographs for a long moment, something shifting in his chest.
He remembered his own battle with Red, three years ago. The newly crowned Champion had come to challenge the Elite Four, to prove that his victory over Blue wasn't a fluke. Lance had been confident—he was the Dragon Master, after all, trained since childhood in the art of dragon taming. His Dragonite alone had defeated hundreds of challengers.
Red had swept his entire team without losing a single Pokémon.
It hadn't been a battle. It had been an execution. Red's Pokémon moved with a precision and power that bordered on supernatural, responding to commands that were never spoken aloud, anticipating strategies before Lance could even formulate them. Each attack was perfectly calculated, each defense flawlessly timed. There was no weakness to exploit, no opening to take advantage of.
Just overwhelming, absolute dominance.
Lance had stood in the shattered remains of his championship arena, his Dragonite unconscious at his feet, and looked into the eyes of the boy who had defeated him. He had expected to see arrogance, or triumph, or even simple satisfaction.
Instead, he had seen nothing. Red's eyes were empty—not cold, not cruel, just... vacant. As if the battle had meant nothing to him, as if Lance's total defeat was no more significant than swatting a fly.
It was the most terrifying thing Lance had ever experienced.
And now, three years later, these children were telling him that Red had shown them kindness. That he had saved their lives, given them gifts, offered guidance and encouragement.
What had changed?
"He flew us down the mountain," Misty was saying, drawing Lance back to the present. "On his Dragonite. We would have died trying to make the descent on foot, but he just... scooped us up and carried us to safety."
"He didn't have to do any of it," Ash added, his voice filled with obvious admiration. "He could have just let us die. Or beaten me in battle and sent us away. But he didn't. He helped us. He made me want to be better."
Lance set the photographs down, his mind still churning with implications he couldn't quite grasp.
"Did he say anything?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. "Give any indication of why he helped you?"
"He can't speak," Brock reminded him gently. "But he communicated through gestures, through expressions. When Ash asked how to become stronger, Red pointed at the Pikachus—both of them—and then touched his chest. Over his heart."
"The bond," Ash said, his voice soft with reverence. "That's what he was trying to tell me. The bond between trainer and Pokémon. That's what makes someone truly strong."
Lance closed his eyes, the words hitting him with unexpected force.
The bond. Of course. That was what had made Red's victory over him so absolute—not just superior training or strategy, but a connection with his Pokémon that transcended normal understanding. Red's team hadn't just been obeying orders; they had been acting in perfect harmony with their trainer, two halves of a single consciousness working toward a shared goal.
Lance had thought he understood that bond. He had trained with dragons since childhood, had formed connections with his Pokémon that he believed were unbreakable. But compared to what Red had demonstrated...
He had been a novice. A child playing at mastery while the true master watched with empty eyes.
"Thank you," Lance said finally, rising from his chair. "You've given me a lot to think about."
"Wait!" Ash scrambled to his feet as well. "You're a member of the Elite Four—you've challenged Red before, haven't you? What was it like? How did you—"
"I lost." The words came out sharper than Lance intended, cutting through the air like a blade. "I lost completely and utterly, in a battle that made me question everything I thought I knew about training Pokémon."
Ash fell silent, his eyes wide.
Lance took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. "Red is... beyond anything you can imagine. I've spent three years replaying that battle in my mind, trying to understand what he did and how he did it. I've trained harder than I ever have before, pushed myself and my Pokémon to new heights. And I'm still not sure I could beat him."
"But you're going to try again, right?" Ash's voice was eager despite the sobering words. "You're going to climb the mountain and challenge him?"
Lance hesitated. It was a simple question, one that should have had a simple answer. Of course he was going to try again. He was the Dragon Master, the Champion of Johto. His pride demanded a rematch, demanded the chance to prove that his defeat had been a fluke.
But every time he thought about climbing that mountain, every time he imagined facing Red again...
The fear came back.
Not fear of losing—he had lost before and would lose again. It was part of growth, part of becoming stronger. No, what he feared was something else entirely.
He feared those empty eyes. The vacant expression of someone who had moved so far beyond normal human concerns that victory and defeat had become meaningless. The absolute, unshakeable confidence of a being who knew—with perfect certainty—that nothing in the world could challenge him.
Lance had faced legendary Pokémon. He had battled criminal organizations and rogue trainers and every threat that the Pokémon League could throw at him. He had never been afraid.
Until Red.
"Someday," he said finally, his voice carefully controlled. "Someday I'll challenge him again. But not today."
He turned and walked out of the cafeteria, his cape swirling behind him. The three trainers watched him go in confused silence, not understanding the turmoil that churned beneath his composed exterior.
Outside the ranger station, the evening air was crisp and cold, carrying the bite of the mountain even at this distance from the summit. Lance stood at the edge of the clearing, his eyes fixed on the peaks that rose above the clouds like the fingers of a sleeping giant.
Mt. Silver. Home of the strongest trainer in the world.
What was Red hoping to find up there?
The question had haunted Lance for three years, ever since the day Red had walked out of the Championship Hall without a word, without a backward glance, without any indication of where he was going or why. Everyone had expected the new Champion to bask in his glory, to accept the accolades and responsibilities that came with the title. Instead, he had simply... vanished.
When rumors began circulating that Red had been seen climbing Mt. Silver, Lance hadn't believed them. The mountain was too dangerous, too remote, too utterly hostile to human life. Why would the strongest trainer in the world abandon everything to live on a frozen peak?
But the rumors had proven true. Red was up there—had been up there for three years now, training in solitude, waiting for challengers who rarely came and never succeeded.
What was he searching for?
Power? Red was already more powerful than anyone else. No amount of training could make him significantly stronger than he already was.
Peace? Perhaps, but there were easier ways to find solitude than climbing a death trap of a mountain.
Purpose? That seemed closest to the truth, but what purpose could be found in eternal isolation?
Lance had no answers. He had only questions, and a fear that gnawed at him like a Raticate at a cable.
The fear wasn't just about Red's strength, he realized. It was about what Red represented—the endpoint of a journey that Lance himself had been walking his entire life. Red had achieved everything a trainer could achieve. He had beaten every challenge, conquered every obstacle, reached heights of power that should have been impossible.
And he had found it empty.
That was what Lance saw in those vacant eyes—not arrogance or cruelty, but something far worse. Emptiness. The void that waited at the end of the path, when all goals had been accomplished and all victories won. The terrible question that every driven person must eventually face: What now?
Red had answered that question by retreating to the top of the world, by continuing to train for battles that would never challenge him, by waiting in silence for something—anything—to fill the void.
But now, according to these children, something had changed. Red had shown kindness. Had saved lives. Had offered guidance to a young trainer who had come seeking his wisdom.
Was Red finally finding what he had been searching for? Or was he simply finding new ways to distract himself from the emptiness?
Lance didn't know. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
What he did know was that he couldn't climb that mountain. Not yet, maybe not ever. The fear was too strong, the memory of those empty eyes too vivid. Every time he imagined facing Red again, his hands began to shake and his heart raced with a panic that no amount of training could overcome.
It was shameful. He was the Dragon Master, feared and respected throughout the world. He should be above such weakness.
But he wasn't. And acknowledging that truth—accepting his own limitations—was perhaps the hardest thing he had ever done.
"Lance?"
He turned to find Ash standing behind him, the boy's expression uncertain. The Pikachu was on his shoulder, its eyes bright with curiosity.
"I'm sorry if I said something wrong in there," Ash continued, his voice hesitant. "I didn't mean to—"
"You didn't say anything wrong." Lance managed a smile that probably wasn't entirely convincing. "You were just honest about your experience. I appreciate that."
"It's just... you looked really upset. When you were talking about your battle with Red."
Lance was quiet for a long moment, considering how much to share. This boy was young—so young—with so much of his journey still ahead of him. He didn't need to be burdened with the fears and doubts of a trainer who should have been past such things.
But there was something in Ash's eyes—a spark of genuine concern, of wanting to understand—that made Lance reconsider.
"Can I give you some advice?" he asked finally.
"Of course!" Ash's eagerness was almost comical.
"Never stop climbing." Lance turned back to face the mountain, its peaks glowing in the fading light. "No matter how high you get, no matter how many victories you achieve, never convince yourself that you've reached the top. The moment you believe there's nothing left to strive for... that's when the emptiness sets in."
Ash was silent, processing the words.
"I think that's what happened to Red," Lance continued softly. "He reached the summit too quickly. Beat every challenge, conquered every obstacle, achieved everything there was to achieve. And when he got there, when he looked around at the view from the top..."
"He found nothing," Ash finished quietly.
"Or maybe nothing that he expected to find." Lance shook his head slowly. "I don't know. I may never know. But you—you have the chance to do it differently. To enjoy the journey, not just the destination. To find meaning in the climb itself, not just in reaching the summit."
"Red told me something similar," Ash said, pulling out the photograph of Red on the mountaintop. "The mountain isn't the destination. It's the journey."
Lance looked at the photograph, at the words scrawled on the back, and felt something shift in his chest. Perhaps Red had learned that lesson too—learned it the hard way, through years of isolation and emptiness. Perhaps his kindness to these trainers was his way of passing on that wisdom, of helping others avoid the trap he had fallen into.
Perhaps there was hope for the Silent Champion after all.
"He's different now," Lance murmured, more to himself than to Ash. "Something has changed."
"What do you mean?"
"The Red I faced three years ago... he would never have helped you. He would have defeated you and sent you away without a second thought. But the Red you describe—giving you food, healing your injuries, flying you down the mountain..." Lance shook his head in wonder. "That's not the same person."
"People change," Ash said simply. "Maybe he's found what he was looking for."
"Maybe." Lance didn't sound convinced. "Or maybe he's still searching, and helping you was part of that search."
They stood in silence for a moment, both gazing at the mountain that loomed above them. Then Ash spoke again, his voice filled with the irrepressible optimism that seemed to define him.
"I'm going to go back. Someday, when I'm stronger. I'm going to climb that mountain again and give Red a real battle."
"I know you will." Lance smiled, and this time it was genuine. "That's the kind of trainer you are."
"What about you?" Ash asked. "Will you challenge him again?"
The fear stirred in Lance's chest, familiar and unwelcome. He pushed it down, forced himself to consider the question honestly.
"I don't know," he admitted. "Part of me wants to—needs to—prove that I can face him as an equal. But another part..."
He trailed off, unable to articulate the terror that still gripped him when he thought about those empty eyes.
"Another part is scared," Ash finished, without judgment.
Lance looked at the boy in surprise. "How did you—"
"I was scared too," Ash admitted, his voice soft. "When I saw him standing there, when I realized how powerful he was... I almost turned around and left. Almost gave up on everything I'd worked for."
"But you didn't."
"No." Ash's jaw set with determination. "Because being scared doesn't mean you should run away. It just means you need to try harder."
Such simple words. Such childish wisdom. And yet somehow, coming from this boy who had climbed a mountain and faced a legend and lost without losing hope...
They meant something.
"You're going to be a great trainer someday," Lance said quietly. "Maybe even as great as him."
Ash grinned, the shadows of their conversation lifting. "That's the plan!"
A call from the ranger station drew his attention—Misty's voice, announcing that dinner was ready. Ash waved a quick goodbye and ran back toward the building, his Pikachu clinging to his shoulder with practiced ease.
Lance watched him go, a strange mixture of emotions swirling in his chest. Hope and fear, admiration and envy, a dozen conflicting feelings that he couldn't quite untangle.
Then he turned back to the mountain one last time.
What are you hoping to find up there, Red? What keeps you climbing when there's nothing left to climb toward?
The mountain offered no answers. It simply stood, eternal and implacable, guarding its secrets behind walls of ice and stone.
But somewhere up there, at the very peak, a silent figure watched the sunset with eyes that weren't as empty as they used to be.
And perhaps that was answer enough.
The helicopter lifted off as darkness settled over the ranger station, its lights cutting through the evening gloom as it carried the Dragon Master back toward his duties. Lance sat in the passenger compartment, staring out the window at the mountain that grew smaller with each passing second.
He had come seeking answers and had found only more questions. But he had also found something else—something unexpected.
Hope.
Not for himself, necessarily. The fear was still there, coiled in his gut like a Seviper waiting to strike. He still didn't know if he would ever be ready to face Red again.
But watching Ash—seeing the boy's unshakeable determination, his refusal to be broken by defeat—had reminded Lance of something important.
The journey wasn't over. For any of them.
Red was still up there, still searching, still climbing toward something only he could see. Ash was just beginning his journey, with countless challenges and victories and defeats ahead of him. And Lance himself...
Lance was somewhere in between. Not at the beginning, not at the end, but moving forward. Always moving forward.
That had to count for something.
He pulled out his phone and dialed a familiar number. It rang twice before a voice answered.
"Champion Lance. How can I help you?"
"I want to increase my training regimen," Lance said, his voice steady despite the trembling in his hands. "Double sessions, starting tomorrow. And schedule a meeting with the other Elite Four members. We have things to discuss."
"Of course, sir. Anything else?"
Lance hesitated, looking out the window at the distant mountain one last time.
"Yes. Put Mt. Silver on my calendar. Six months from now. Tentative."
"Mt. Silver, sir? Are you sure?"
"No," Lance admitted. "But I need to try."
He ended the call and leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. The fear was still there, but it was quieter now. Manageable.
The mountain isn't the destination. It's the journey.
Maybe Red had been right all along.
And maybe—just maybe—Lance was finally ready to start climbing again.