Pokemon: Primatus

It was over.

The battlefield—if you could still call it that—looked like a crater left by gods.

Charred roots clawed up from scorched earth. Trees lay in splinters, entire trunks shattered like matchsticks. Ice jutted out of the ground in crooked spears, catching the moonlight like glass knives. Smoke curled from broken stones, and fissures split the forest floor where Slaking's fists had struck. Even the canopy above was torn wide open, a jagged mouth gaping toward the stars.

Slaking stood in the center of it all, chest heaving, its massive fists limp at its sides. Its fur was scorched and torn, but it remained upright, looming like a monolith over the fallen titan.

Snorlax was down for good—its body sprawled across the clearing like a collapsed mountain, its final groan fading into stillness.

The battle was won—but the cost was plain. Some Vigoroth limped, others sniffed at the ground where blood had already dried. One crouched beside a still body, low keening rising from its throat.

I looked around and remembered the one from earlier—the injured Vigoroth. It was up now, staggering on all fours, sniffing the air wildly.

Searching.

Its eyes darted through the smoke—toward the place I'd last seen the Pokéball land.

Damn.

I started searching again. I found it half-buried under a curl of scorched ferns—the Pokéball. Scuffed. Cracked. Still pulsing faintly in my palm.

I thumbed the release.

The Pokéball clicked open in my hand, and red light spilled onto the scorched ground.

The shape that formed… wasn't what I expected—maybe it was the darkness, or maybe I just wasn't focused in that moment.

It unfurled slowly, blinking against the haze. At first, I thought it was just another Slakoth curled tight like a lump of fur and claws—but as it stretched and rose to all fours, my breath caught.

It was… huge.

For something that was supposed to be a baby, it was easily four feet tall—almost the size of its mother, the Vigoroth I had seen fighting earlier. Its limbs were thicker, built with surprising bulk. Its fur was paler than the others, streaked with faint, darker lines. And when it looked up at me, I did not catch its color earlier but...

Its eyes were red.

Not just tinged—red. Deep, sharp, and alert. Not sleepy. Not dull like the others.

I stepped back instinctively.

The creature blinked at me, slow and curious, then turned its head.

The injured Vigoroth, the mother—let out a sharp chuff and surged forward. She moved fast, stumbling a bit on her wounded limb but driven by something deeper.

She rushed past me, straight to the Slakoth, and without hesitation, pulled it into her arms.

She sniffed it all over, pawed gently at its shoulders, then let out a soft, rolling growl—a mother's relief. The Slakoth leaned into her without protest, burying its snout against her neck.

For a moment, it felt like a normal reunion.

Until the others noticed.

Vigoroth from every direction—limping, bloodied, soot-streaked—turned one by one toward the pair.

They watched in silence. No welcoming chirps. No cries of celebration. Just… stillness.

Their stares weren't hostile—but they weren't kind, either.

Wary. Tense.

Like something about the young Slakoth unsettled them.

I didn't get it. I had no idea what made it different—besides its size and eyes. Maybe this was normal? Maybe some were just born larger? But the way the others shifted, the way a few even stepped back...

I felt the hairs rise on my arms.

The Slakoth didn't seem to notice. It stayed close to its mother, clinging to her fur, occasionally glancing at the others with quiet confusion. Like it was trying to understand why they wouldn't come closer.

Why they looked at him that way.

I didn't understand either.

But I could feel it, too—that weight in the air again. Subtle. Low.

Something about that little creature pulled at the forest like gravity.

And for a second, I wondered if I had just returned more than a lost child.

Maybe I had released something the rest of the troop didn't know what to do with.

Not yet, anyway.

*

The silence after the storm wasn't peaceful.

It was the kind that prickled at your neck—too quiet, too tight, like the whole forest was holding its breath.

Some of the Vigoroth paced, limping with tense, clipped steps. Others stood still, staring not at the fallen Snorlax—but at the young Slakoth still nestled beside its mother.

Their expressions were hard to read, but not without meaning. Eyes narrowed. Ears twitched. Bodies subtly angled, as if bracing for something—waiting.

Waiting for what, though?

I looked toward the Slaking.

The titan hadn't moved much since the end of the fight. It sat now like some battered statue, hunched forward slightly as it cradled one arm against its chest. Its fur was torn in places, bits of soot clinging to the singed edges, but it wasn't in pain. No. It was watching.

Quiet. Unmoving. But very much awake.

Its gaze never left the pair—mother and child. And it hadn't made a sound.

Was it... thinking?

The Slakoth, oblivious to the scrutiny, was trying to explore. It wriggled free of its mother's grip and padded forward on awkward limbs, pausing near one of the resting Vigoroth.

A low snarl met it.

The baby froze, blinking.

It didn't understand. It only tried to nuzzle forward again.

This time the Vigoroth bared its teeth—not quite attacking, but warning. Sharp and clear.

The Slakoth recoiled. Hurt. Confused. It slumped backward and let out a soft mewl, then turned, heading back toward the safety of its mother's arms.

My breath was shallow. I hadn't realized I'd been inching backward, step by step. The troop hadn't turned on me—yet—but the tension was rising, and I wasn't sure if this fragile peace would hold.

What was it about this Slakoth?

Its red eyes?

Its size?

Or was it something deeper—something they could sense but I couldn't name?

Even the mother was on edge now. Her limbs trembled faintly, not with fear but restraint. She growled low and constant when others came too near, her arms protectively encircling her child. Her eyes never left the surrounding troop.

Then the Slaking stood.

It was slow, deliberate—the rise of a creature that knew it didn't have to hurry.

And suddenly every head turned.

Even the air felt heavier.

The Vigoroth fell still. The mother tensed, stepping forward, just enough to block the Slakoth from view. Her hackles rose. Her claws dug into the dirt.

She was ready to fight.

But Slaking didn't rush.

It stepped forward with calm, almost lazy precision. One massive footfall after another. And when it stopped just in front of them, it didn't growl, didn't raise a hand. It simply looked down.

The mother snarled, half-lunged—

And stopped mid-motion when the Slaking made a sound. A single grunt—deep, resonant, like stone grinding against stone.

Not a threat.

Not quite a command, either.

But the meaning was clear enough.

The mother hesitated. Her muscles locked… then slowly, reluctantly, she stepped aside.

The child looked up.

Slaking lowered its head and sniffed once—deep, rumbling.

It held the pose longer than I thought necessary, as if trying to read something in the scent. Maybe memory. Maybe instinct.

Then, to my surprise—

Slaking gave a single nod.

No roar. No display. Just acceptance.

And with that, it turned.

Walked away.

Just like that.

No fear in its posture. No doubt. Not even caution. It didn't care what the others thought. The message was clear:

This was his son. Blood was blood.

If the child grew stronger—so be it.

Let him challenge the throne someday. That was the way of things.

But until then… he would live.

And the troop? They followed.

Slowly. Uneasily.

Just when I thought the moment had passed, the Slaking stopped again.

But this time… it turned its gaze on me.

And everything inside me went still.

Its eyes weren't wild. Not feral. Just… old. Measured. Like a boulder that could roll downhill at any moment and didn't care what got flattened in its path.

I didn't move.

Didn't blink.

I knew—one flick of that massive arm, and I'd be nothing but a red stain on the forest floor. No time to scream. No chance to dodge.

The Slaking stepped forward, nostrils flaring.

It sniffed at me.

Inspecting.

Sizing me up, maybe.

My hand slowly curled around the hatchet on my belt, not to raise it—just to feel something solid. The other slipped into my satchel, fingers brushing the cold surface of a Pokéball. It wasn't much, but if things went south, I could throw it. It probably wouldn't catch him, not with his level of willpower and size. But it will still suck him inside—just for a second—it might be enough to blind him.

Just enough for me to bolt.

Just enough to live.

I didn't breathe.

And then—

A sound.

Soft. Familiar.

The Vigoroth mother had stepped forward again, baring her teeth—not at me this time, but at Slaking. Her voice wasn't angry, just firm. Protective.

She was speaking. Not in words, but in whatever language they used. A deep growl, low gestures, body language, like she was… explaining.

Slaking listened.

And then, to my disbelief, it nodded.

It grunted again—louder this time—then raised one massive arm and motioned toward me.

Forward.

It was giving me a sign.

Not a warning.

A summons.

To follow.

Behind him, the troop had already started to move, vanishing into the thick underbrush, their figures rippling between shadows and vines like ghosts with claws. I could hear them—low chirrups, branch-cracks, restless grunts—but I couldn't see them anymore.

The Slaking waited a beat.

Then turned, and walked.

I stood frozen for half a heartbeat longer, adrenaline still clawing at my ribs.

*

We are way past the outpost now, I noticed we did not even encounter a single pokemon other than Slakoths and Vigoroths.

The deeper we moved, the more the forest changed.

The trees grew thicker here—wider, older, layered in moss and tangled vines. The canopy above turned the world dim and green, and the very air felt… owned.

Like I was crossing some invisible border into their world now.

A world that didn't belong to humans.

Not anymore.

Here, every broken branch was a trail marker. Every claw-gouged tree meant something. I passed hollowed-out trunks used as shelters, bones stacked neatly beneath roots, fruits and berries were stored inside.

This wasn't just a gathering spot.

It was a home.

And now, for better or worse, I'd been invited in.