Through the gentle whistle of the wind, Ash began to hear—really hear—everything that the breeze touched.
Each faint rustle, each creak and whisper was like a musical note in the symphony of nature, and his mind instinctively followed those sounds, dissecting and understanding them one by one.
But what Ash didn't notice… was that something was changing around him.
The hazy gray mist that filled his meditation space began to churn like a boiling sea.
The drifting clouds of energy twisted, folded, and condensed, as if an unseen hand were pouring molten silver onto parchment—forming the outline of a vast, blank canvas suspended in midair.
And then, as Ash listened—hearing, understanding, and reconstructing—the world began to paint itself.
Each sound he interpreted became an image.
Each image bloomed across that canvas like spreading ink on rice paper.
…
Outside, the real wind swept through Pallet Town.
It passed over rooftops, gliding across Ash's small white house with its red-tiled roof. The second-floor windows—painted white, slightly ajar—creaked gently as the air flowed through them.
In the yard below, the flowers and plants Delia had planted swayed gracefully in the breeze, their leaves brushing together with a soft, whispering swoosh.
A few Butterfree fluttered past from a neighbor's garden, wings glimmering in the sun as they chirped happily—"Bada-bada!"—after collecting fresh pollen.
They hovered above Ash's home, tempted by the colorful blossoms inside his garden. But then, remembering that the woman who lived here was afraid of Pokémon, they hesitated and fluttered away.
…
Within Ash's meditation realm, the gray mist surged again, feeding that living canvas.
The more sounds he perceived, the clearer the images became.
The blank scroll expanded—growing wider, fuller—transforming from a foggy sketch into a vivid, flowing scene.
Minute by minute, the world around him was recreated in that painting. It was no longer just his home; it was Pallet Town itself, alive and breathing within the gray space.
The canvas stretched on and on, like a ghostly take on a small-town panorama—
only this one was pure Pallet Town.
Minutes passed.
One minute.
Five minutes.
Ten… Thirty…
An hour… Then three hours.
The painting grew richer and richer—until suddenly, it stopped.
The mist that had been feeding it began to fade, drained of substance.
The color froze. The air grew still. The painting… complete.
And then—
"Ahh!"
A sudden spike of pain exploded in Ash's head.
His entire mind pulsed with agony, like someone had driven a spike through his skull. The next thing he knew, his body tilted to the side—
—and he collapsed onto the bed, unconscious.
…
…
He didn't know how long he'd been out.
When Ash finally woke up, sunlight had shifted across the floorboards. His mind felt foggy, his temples throbbing.
"What… what happened? I was meditating—why did I just black out?" he muttered groggily, sitting up and rubbing his head.
"Was there something wrong with the All Things Listen meditation? Or did I screw something up midway?"
He frowned, puzzled—and completely unaware that he had just brushed against death itself.
Had a member of the Psychic Association been present, they would have screamed at him for his recklessness.
Meditation was not child's play. It was the foundation of psychic awakening, yes—but it also toyed directly with the brain, the spirit, and the soul.
And the first meditation… was the most dangerous of all.
One wrong move could shatter the mind.
A minor slip-up could leave a person permanently impaired—a fool, a husk of their former self.
A major one… could mean total brain death.
That's why no sane person ever attempted meditation alone. Beginners always trained under the supervision of an experienced psychic to guide them through the process.
The purpose of meditation was simple: to consume mental energy, rest, recover, and then emerge stronger.
Consume → Rest → Recover → Strengthen.
That was the fundamental cycle of spiritual training.
But completing that cycle safely required precision—knowing when to stop before the brain exhausted its reserves completely.
The general rule was clear: for every hour of meditation, you needed another hour of rest.
Psychics typically chose to meditate at night before bed—it allowed the recovery phase to overlap naturally with sleep, saving time and maximizing efficiency.
Night was also quieter, making it easier to enter a deep trance. Over time, this practice had become an unspoken rule among psychics worldwide.
The forbidden rule, however, was equally clear—
Never drain your mind dry.
The human brain had limits. When those limits were crossed, there was no going back.
If one's mental energy was merely depleted, it could lead to temporary dizziness or headaches. But if it was completely consumed…
It meant the total collapse of neural activity. Vegetative state. Death.
That was the risk Ash had unknowingly danced with—walking the knife's edge between enlightenment and oblivion.
…
Usually, this kind of accident was nearly impossible.
Humans possessed natural safety mechanisms. Just as a Pokémon fainted when pushed too far, humans too would experience a "shutdown" when their bodies or minds approached their limits.
Even trained psychics, who had already awakened their powers, were equipped with these internal safeguards.
When their mental energy dipped too low, their bodies automatically forced them out of the trance.
But Ash—someone with immense latent potential and a yet-unawakened dual affinity—had crossed into territory no ordinary human ever had.
He had gone beyond the threshold.
And in doing so, he had glimpsed a world he wasn't meant to see.
…
…