His head throbbed like it was about to explode, as if countless bizarre illusions and buzzing auditory hallucinations were echoing through his brain in fragnts.
A sharp, phantom alarm scread through his neural pathways, warning him of his body's current danger and urging his consciousness to return. But the overwhelming ss of chaotic information rampaged like a herd of wild horses, flooding deep into his sea of consciousness.
Who knew how much ti had passed before that maddening headache finally began to fade. The connection between brain and body was reestablished at last—and with it ca a wave of crippling weakness that instantly crushed his montary burst of clarity.
Still, the weakness, though unbearable, was at least a sign that his body was beginning to respond to his mind's commands.
His eyelids twitched. Sothing as simple as opening his eyes—a reflex he'd never thought twice about before—now felt like lifting boulders. After a long and exhausting battle, a faint sliver of light managed to pierce through the cracks between his lashes.
The sudden brightness stung his retinas, but after a few monts of painful adjustnt, he finally saw a vaguely familiar figure pacing restlessly just a few feet away.
"...Water…"
It took all his effort to utter that single, hoarse word. He'd seen it in countless novels and dramas—how people waking from comas always gasped for "water." Back then, he never understood why. But lying here now, throat burning like it had been scraped raw by a desert sandstorm, he understood perfectly.
But right after the word left his lips, Logan froze.
That wasn't English. It wasn't any language he spoke—
It sounded like Japanese… but not exactly. It had strange, subtle differences. The most terrifying part? He understood it. Spoke it. Fluently.
And that's when it hit him. A single, burning thought carved through the chaos:
I've transmigrated.
Of course. He'd read enough webnovels to recognize the signs. And as he reached deeper into his mories, he realized sothing terrifyingly clear—
His old mories were still there, intact. His life as Ethan Gray, a young man from modern-day, was vividly rembered.
But now, mixed in with those mories, were scattered fragnts—alien, broken images, half-mories and flickers of a life that wasn't his. Though they refused to form a complete picture, one truth was undeniable:
He'd transmigrated into the world of Pokémon.
Or to be precise, he had beco soone else—Logan.
Fifteen years old. Born in Viridian City. An orphan.
That was all he could recall of Logan's background—basic personal data and nothing more. Everything else was a blank. Still, one thing was now certain:
This was the Pokémon world.
There were so many different translations—Pokémon, Pocket Monsters, Pocket Beasts—but Ethan (now Logan) had always liked the old-school term "Pokémon" the best. The series had begun in the '90s with a Ga Boy release, sparking a cultural phenonon that exploded across the world. Ani, trading cards, toys—if a kid didn't know Pokémon, they probably didn't have a childhood. Just hearing the na "Pikachu" was enough to bring back waves of nostalgia.
Logan accepted his new na and situation without resistance. Anyone who had read transmigration webnovels for ten years would know—if you got transported and started freaking out, you weren't worthy of the genre. So instead of panicking, Logan took a deep breath and began assessing his current predicant.
In his forr life, he'd been just another 20-sothing corporate slave with three years of work experience. He had no idea how or why he'd transmigrated. One mont he was sleeping… the next, he was here. From the looks of it, this was a soul transmigration—his consciousness had taken over soone else's body.
The previous "Logan" was probably gone for good. Whatever language ability or identity this body had was all that remained of the forr inhabitant. Sadly, no detailed mories ca with the package. Logan didn't even know why the body was so weak or where exactly he was—
Though it looked more like a lab than a hospital room.
"The Pokémon world… Well, at least it's safe. For now."
He rembered the days when he was a little kid, glued to the TV at 5 or 6 p.m. every evening, watching the Pokémon ani. He spent his allowance on Pokémon gum just for the collectible cards. His first handheld console? A Ga Boy, naturally, and he was completely hooked on the gas.
The Pokémon world had passion, emotion, laughter, heartbreak… so many unforgettable monts. But the thing that gave Logan hope was this:
Compared to other fantasy worlds full of war and death, Pokémon was—at its heart—a place for children.
He was holding on to that hope like a lifeline.
"Logan… You—you're awake?!"
The man pacing nearby froze when he heard Logan's voice. He spun around, rushing to the bed with relief and emotion written all over his face—as if the world had been saved.
"Water…"
Logan repeated, his throat dry as sandpaper.
The man sprang into action, hurrying to a nearby table to pour water. He gently helped Logan sit upright, propping him against a pillow before slowly tipping the cup to his lips.
Cool water trickled down Logan's parched throat, and his mind cleared just enough for him to focus on the man. Unfortunately, it wasn't a beautiful nurse or mysterious girl.
Instead, it was… an old man. Late sixties, maybe. Gray hair, stern square face, thick eyebrows. He wore a white lab coat, khaki pants, and a tucked-in shirt underneath. Though not tall, he looked sturdy and strong. Despite his serious features, the genuine worry in his eyes made him seem warm and kind.
That was Logan's first impression of him:
A kind, wise elder.
And if this really was the Pokémon world, Logan already had a good guess at the man's identity—
Professor Oak, the legendary Pokémon researcher.
"Thank goodness… You're alive, Logan…"
Professor Oak clutched his chest in relief, then turned and called out to soone offscreen.
"Please—help him."
"Luuuucky~"
A soft, cheerful voice chid in.
Logan turned his head slightly—and finally noticed the round, pink Pokémon beside his bed.
A Chansey.
She stood a little over a ter tall, with a soft, egg-shaped body, hair-like tufts on either side of her head, and a pouch on her belly cradling a single egg. Even if Logan wasn't a Pokémon encyclopedia, he recognized Chansey imdiately—
A common face in Pokémon Centers, known for caring for the sick.
At Oak's request, Chansey's hands began to glow green. The healing aura washed over Logan, and the pain in his body began to fade. He still felt weak, but at least he didn't feel like he was dying anymore.
"Thank goodness…" Oak sighed, wiping sweat from his brow. "Her healing finally worked. Earlier, no matter what Chansey did, you wouldn't respond. You really scared , Logan."
Logan didn't reply right away. Now that his body had a little strength, he took the opportunity to scan the room. Just as he'd suspected—
This wasn't a hospital. It was a lab.
Sterile, clean, and sparsely furnished—just a bed, two chairs, and a desk. The upper walls were made of glass, allowing full visibility both in and out. It felt more like he was under observation than receiving care.
Besides Professor Oak and Chansey, there was another man present—an older gentleman also wearing a lab coat. Bald, with a thick white mustache, and sunglasses that hid his eyes. He looked younger than Oak—maybe in his fifties—and his broad shoulders hinted at surprising strength. But when Logan's gaze landed on him, the man quickly looked away…
Almost like he was guilty.
Logan frowned.
He didn't have this body's mories. He didn't know what "Logan" had been like before, nor what his relationship with Oak was. Judging by Oak's concerned words, Logan had been close to death. But why?
With no answers, Logan decided to play the classic transmigrator card—
Fake amnesia.
"I… I'm sorry," he said softly. "Who are you? And… why am I here?"
Oak froze.
He glanced at the man with the sunglasses, then turned back with a bitter smile. "So… it's mory loss after all. When the cells entered your brain through your arm, I feared there might be lingering damage. It's a miracle you survived at all. Honestly… maybe forgetting the bad mories is a blessing in disguise."
That line only deepened Logan's unease.
He turned his head toward the glass wall—and his eyes widened in horror.
Inside a giant glass tank on the other side of the lab…
A shadow floated.
His pupils dilated. His left arm throbbed with a stabbing pain that pierced to the bone. Trembling, Logan clutched it and whispered in shock—
"…wtwo?"
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