His head throbbed as if it were about to explode, filled with fragmented, surreal hallucinations and a cacophony of phantom noises reverberating in his mind.
His brain sent out illusory yet piercing alarm signals, warning him of his body's perilous state and urging his consciousness to return. But too much chaotic information surged uncontrollably like wild horses, flooding deep into his consciousness.
After what felt like an eternity, the maddening headache gradually subsided. His brain signals finally reconnected with his nervous system, and as they did, an overwhelming sense of exhaustion instantly sapped his heightened mental state.
Though the weakness was unbearable, at least his body now obeyed his brain's commands.
His eyelids trembled. What was once an effortless act—opening his eyes—now felt like an impossible struggle. After a long battle against their weight, a sliver of light finally forced its way through the narrow gaps.
The harsh light stung his eyes. As he slowly adjusted to the sudden brightness, he saw a vaguely familiar figure pacing anxiously nearby.
"Water…"
After much effort, he managed to croak out a single word. In novels and TV shows, people waking from unconsciousness always called for water—something he never quite understood before. But now, lying on this hospital bed, the boy instantly grasped its necessity. His throat was parched and raw, as if scorched by desert winds, the pain unbearable.
Yet, after uttering that word, he froze. The language wasn't his native Mandarin—it sounded more like Japanese, yet not quite. Stranger still, he was certain he'd never learned this language, yet now it flowed from him instinctively.
The moment he realized this, a term he'd encountered in countless Chinese web novels flashed through his mind—transmigration!
Sure enough, when he sifted through his memories, his past life as a Chinese man remained vivid. But now, mixed within those recollections were unfamiliar fragments—broken images and disjointed scenes that refused to form a coherent life. Still, from the chaos, he gleaned crucial details.
Ryuuske—this body's name. Fifteen years old. Born in Viridian City. An orphan. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't recall anything beyond these basic details. But one thing was clear: he had indeed crossed over, and into a world he recognized—Pokémon!
Pokémon went by many names—Pocket Monsters, Pokémon, Pokémon—but Ryuuske had always preferred "Pokémon." The franchise had debuted in the 1990s on Nintendo's handheld consoles, spawning a cultural phenomenon. Countless sequels and spin-offs followed. As a young adult, not knowing Pokémon was unthinkable—just the name Pikachu alone was enough to evoke nostalgia.
Ryuuske accepted his new name and circumstances with surprising ease. Having devoured Chinese web novels for over a decade, freaking out over transmigration would've been embarrassing for a seasoned reader like him. So, he quickly steadied himself and began analyzing his situation.
A twenty-something office worker with three years under his belt, Ryuuske had no clue why he'd crossed over. He remembered simply going to sleep and waking up here. Judging by his condition, this was a soul transmigration—the original owner of this body was likely gone for good. The language ability and basic identity details were the only legacy left behind. Unfortunately, key information—like why his body was so weak or why he was in this sterile, lab-like room instead of a proper hospital—was missing.
'The Pokémon world… At least it's relatively safe here.'
Ryuuske vividly recalled rushing home from elementary school to catch the daily Pokémon anime at 5 PM, spending his meager allowance on bubble gum just to collect Pokémon cards. Back then, he'd gotten his first Game Boy, losing himself in the Pokémon games.
The Pokémon world was full of passion, emotion, and unforgettable stories—both heartwarming and thrilling. But what reassured Ryuuske most was that, as a children's franchise, it was far safer than worlds plagued by war and death.
At least, that's what he told himself.
"Ryuuske… you're awake?!"
The figure pacing by the bed jolted at his hoarse voice, spinning around with a face full of relief—as if the world itself had been saved.
"Water…"
His throat burned, forcing him to rasp out the word again. The man hurried to a nearby table, pouring a glass of water before carefully supporting Ryuuske's back, helping him lean against the headboard as he sipped.
The life-giving liquid soothed his parched throat, clearing his mind. His gaze shifted to the person who'd helped him—unfortunately, not a beautiful young girl, but a man in his sixties. Short gray hair, a square jaw, and thick eyebrows gave him a stern appearance, though the worry in his eyes softened it. Dressed in a simple white lab coat over a tucked-in khaki shirt, he was stocky and broad-shouldered.
A kind, grandfatherly man—that was Ryuuske's first impression.
And now that he'd confirmed this was the Pokémon world, he instantly recognized him: Professor Oak, the renowned Pokémon researcher.
"Thank goodness you're alive, Ryuuske…"
Professor Oak clutched his chest in relief before turning and calling out urgently, "Please, help him!"
"Lucky~~!"
A cheerful voice chimed in. Only then did Ryuuske notice the Pokémon standing beside his bed—a round, pink creature about a meter tall, with a pouch on its belly holding an egg. Even without being a hardcore Pokémon fan, he recognized it instantly: Chansey, the nurturing Pokémon often seen in Pokémon Centers.
At Professor Oak's request, Chansey's hands glowed green. As the light washed over Ryuuske, his pain gradually faded. Though still weak, he no longer felt like he was on death's doorstep.
"Thank heavens! Chansey's healing finally worked. You had me terrified earlier—no matter what we tried, nothing helped."
Professor Oak wiped sweat from his brow, finally smiling.
Ryuuske stayed silent, using his regained strength to survey the room. As expected, this wasn't a hospital but a research facility. The space was clean and minimal—just the bed, two chairs, and a desk. The walls were half-glass, making the room feel like an observation chamber.
Besides Professor Oak and Chansey, another man stood nearby—also in a white lab coat, with a signature white mustache and a completely bald, gleaming head. He looked to be in his fifties, younger than Oak, and wore sunglasses that hid his eyes. When Ryuuske's gaze landed on him, the man averted his, almost… guiltily?
Ryuuske frowned. Though he knew Professor Oak, he had no memories of this body's past. He didn't know Ryuuske's original personality or his relationship with the professor. From Oak's murmurs, he gathered that the previous Ryuuske had nearly died—but the cause remained unclear.
To avoid raising suspicion, Ryuuske decided to employ the classic transmigrator's tactic—pretending to have amnesia!
"Um… sorry, but… who are you? And why am I here?"
His confused words made Professor Oak pause. Exchanging a glance with the bespectacled man, Oak showed no suspicion—only a resigned sigh.
"...The cells invaded his brain through his arm. It's a miracle he survived, but this was bound to happen… Still, as long as he's alive, memory loss is manageable. Forgetting the past might even be a blessing."
From Oak's mutterings, Ryuuske gleaned little. But when his gaze drifted past the glass walls to the research lab beyond—and landed on a massive incubation tank—his pupils dilated.
A searing pain shot through his left arm, straight to the bone. Gritting his teeth, he clutched his trembling limb, whispering a name in dazed realization:
"...Mewtwo?"
To be continued…