.

Only one will be King. The lost sons of man now compete for a throne. Zane Bastard of the Rangers seeks to lead humanity into a golden era, where the Pokemon threat no longer impedes mankind's advancement. As for Theron of House Halcyon...

...The Devil of Kalos foresees a different era looming on the horizon.

The Saga of Kings concludes. The Hero. The Prophet. This is their story…

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The Saga of Kings, Book III: Succession

Written by,

Vile M.F. Slanders

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"...There is one race of men, one race of gods; and from a single mother we both draw our breath. But all allotted power divides us: man is nothing, but for the gods the bronze sky endures as a secure home forever. Nevertheless, we bear some resemblance to the immortals, either in greatness of mind or in nature, although we do not know, by day or by night, towards what goal fortune has written that we should run…"

-Pindar, Born 518 BC, died 438 BC. Excerpt taken from Epinikion: Nemean VI, "For Alcimidas of Aegina Boys' Wrestling."

-v-

Prologue: The Third King

"Feed."

"His vitals are still erratic! We can't operate until we've figured out what qualifies as stable!"

"Feed."

"Listen to me! There's no telling what that thing is doing to him! The mutations arising from the point of injection are projecting malignant protein structures across the board!"

"Feed."

"Yes, we removed the zygote! Or what was left of it! The zygote started to assimilate with his cells the instant it defrosted within his cervical cord!"

"Feed."

"We've sent samples to the lab for analysis! Preliminary observations suggests a seventy-four percent RNA compatibility ratio! If the mutations don't outright kill him, then the resulting cancer will!"

"Feed."

"No. The zygote is unsalvageable. His DNA has irreparably tainted the culture. If he was trying to destroy it, then he most certainly succeeded-"

"Feed."

"-Director! I can't possibly begin an operation with a prayer of success if I can't identify what I'm operating on!"

"Feed."

"You have no idea! The area around the point of injection is in a state of evolutionary flux! He has a foreign digestive tract growing into his carotid artery!"

"Feed."

"Yes, I can remove it! But we don't know if that organ structure is essential for future mutations! The proteins are completely out of whack! His cells are randomly producing cancerous tissues for completely uncorrelated complex organ systems!"

"Feed."

"Director, it's going to be a miracle if a laminoplasty can save him, but you're asking me to perform a lobotomy beforehand?!"

"Feed."

"Yes, I know what he is now! I know what the mutations are doing to him! That's why-!?"

"Doctor Tiller! Doctor Tiller, he's regaining consciousness!"

"-Alright, I understand! He just woke up! I have to operate now, Director! The technicians will setup a live stream for you! I have to hang up now!"

"Feed."

"He just opened his eyes! Pupils are dilating when exposed to light! His ocular reflexes are still functional."

"Can he speak?"

"Feed."

"He's barely coherent-"

"...The preacher hollered from his pulpit, spewing a dogmatic froth of venom and retribution to the congregation before him. A boy sat between his mother and his father in the first row of pews, this same boy was both enamored and terrified by the preacher's searing sermon. The mother glanced down at her wide-eyed and quaking child, before a glow of pride rose within her eyes. Her son had been born into the faith, and by her maternal guidance, he would live by it. But the mother's pride in her child was misplaced. A zealot's arrogance had blinded the mother to the reason behind her son's fear. For it was neither the uplifting words of rapture nor the dire promise of perdition that had filled her son with emotion, but rather: it was the hate-filled monster on the pulpit that had inspired the child with horror..."

"Feed."

"Doctor Tiller, are we really going to-?"

"Yes. Prep the patient for a cerebral operation. We're putting the laminoplasty on the back burner for now."

"Feed."

"...The boy ran through the heavy foliage, tears streaming down his face. They were fighting again. He had woken up to the sounds of them screaming at one another. He had laid curled within his bed, quietly sobbing. Praying that they would stop arguing and just love each other again. But then he heard mommy shriek, and the sound of daddy's hand hitting her across the face. Abandoning his rough sheets, the boy ran from his bedroom. He ran away from the fighting. He ran away from the screaming. He ran away from the hitting.

He ran away from his home.

Falling into the wet and cold grass, the boy huddled against the moist earth and wept. He wept for his mommy. He wept for his daddy. He wept for himself, and then he wept some more. And just when the boy felt as if he couldn't cry anymore…

...Darmy found the boy.

Warm and red. Furry and round. Darmy pushed himself into the boy's arms, and nestled himself below the boy's chin. Curling in around Darmy, the boy pressed his wet eyes into Darmy's hot and bristly fur. Softly chirruping from the boy's hold, Darmy placed three rough fingers across the boy's trembling lip.

No more crying, Darmy said. The boy's throat tightened as he repressed his grief, even while the sounds of his parents' fighting rose from recent memories to torture him. But Darmy was here, and Darmy would take care of the boy.

...Just like Darmy always had…"

"He's succumbing to a seizure! Fasten the restraints! He's going to hurt himself!"

"I'm prepping the anesthetic now-!"

"No! No anesthetic!"

"Doctor Tiller! You can't be serious-!"

"Feed."

"I'm deathly serious. The rampant mutations are evolving in accordance to his natural biochemistry! If we introduce an anesthetic, it will alter his biochemistry! We have to proceed dry! Otherwise, there's no telling what manner of mutations will arise from exposure to an anesthetic!"

"Feed."

"Daddy told the boy that he loved him. It was with a quiet voice. It was with a guilty voice. The boy pushed his sundae away, and looked at his father with watering eyes.

Do you love mommy too? The boy asked. Daddy tensed, but quickly answered.

Yes, daddy loves mommy too. The boy sat back in his booth and swallowed. Something didn't seem right about daddy. Daddy looked so tired. Daddy looked so old.

Daddy looked so hurt.

The boy told daddy that he loved him, and that he loved mommy too. Then Darmy pushed his way into the boy's lap with an indignant squawk, and Daddy chuckled silently.

Yes, daddy loves Darmy too. The boy squeezed his Darmy fondly, and the red ball of fur chirruped happily. Daddy began to laugh.

Darmy loved the boy, and daddy found it funny. This made the boy laugh, and soon both daddy and the boy were cackling.

Darmy makes everything better, the boy said.

Yes. Daddy said.

Yes, Darmy does…"

"Feed."

"The surgical area has been shaved and sterilized. Cranial blood vessels have been located and marked. Awaiting your first incision, Doctor Tiller."

"Feed."

"...The boy stood on the sidewalk alone. Mommy said that he wasn't coming back, and she had screamed at the boy when she had last caught him waiting on the sidewalk yesterday. But the boy didn't care, because mommy was wrong.

Daddy would come back. He was just busy at work. He would come back. Daddy would always come back, because that's what daddies did.

Daddy would come back to them…"

"Okay, start the clock and standby with suction. I'm making the first incision now."

"Feed."

"...Why did it all hurt so much?"

…

I don't know why I'm writing this. It will never be printed. Hell, if I even tried to publish this, then I'd get ganked by an ACE Whitetail right in front of my potential editor.

So why am I writing this?

-Hell if I know.

But I just… I feel…

...Conflicted…

...Which isn't a sensation that I customarily feel when embarking on a new project. And I've worked on plenty of highly controversial developments before without hesitation or reflection, so a "conflicted" sentiment qualifies as unusual to me.

I know that this particular project is weightier than anything I've ever worked on prior, and I know that my predecessors nearly wound up dead as a result of their failure, but still…

...That's never stopped me before.

Maybe it was that week I spent with Zane Bastard. Quite a few of the discussions we exchanged during that time frame registered on some pretty personal levels.

Maybe it was that chat I had with Theron Halcyon. All I wanted to do was petition him for a chance to research his Aegislash, but that googly-eyed sumbitch seems to have an innate disposition towards making every Goddamn thing personal.

Maybe it was that spazzy interviewer, and her whole shitstorm about me not having a story…

Maybe I'm just having my midlife crisis a decade early. Who knows? Either way, consider this my autobiography. Which is kinda funny in itself…

...Because I really don't like talking about myself.

And with that awkward self-reflection addressed, let's start this off with the boring details.

I was born in Kanto's Vermilion City to the daughter of two Sinnohian immigrants and a recently naturalized Unovian father. This was back in 1489, mind you: so the Indigo Confederacy was practically my fraternal twin. Our family lived in Vermilion's Civilian Sector, right over in the Immigrant's Quarter.

I hear that the Immigrant's Quarter isn't so bad anymore; but Vermilion's civil reformation advocate, good ol' Lieutenant Jackie Surge, was still being tortured in a Johtonese detention facility back in my early childhood: so my memories of Vermilion's Immigrant's Quarter pretty much define it as a slum.

That said, it was home. For me, my dysfunctional parents, and my little Darmy…

...Darmy. Heh. Dad's birthday gift for the five-year old me. Trust a five year old to conceive of such an original name for a runt of a Darumaka…

...Gawddamn, I miss him…

...Sorry 'bout that. I miss all of them. Even mom… even dad.

Sob story made short, my parents didn't get hitched because they loved each other. They only put rings on one another's fingers because they were young and dumb, and my dad knocked my mom up with me on their very first date.

Yep. A traditionally romantic start for the traditionally unromantic family.

Whoa, I actually feel like shit for selling it off like that…

-I guess I can't make everything sound funny, can I?

...Why the hell am I even writing this?

Well, fuck it. If I'm gonna do this, then I'm gonna do it right. So here's to round two.

My mom and dad did not get along, and that should've been obvious to the both of them at their first encounter. Mom was a hardcore hierophant and dad was a bloody heathen. Mom worshipped Palkia as if that freaky mon was the only God there ever was, while dad could only bring himself to worshipped the God of grapes. Actually, dad worshipped the God of barley. I never once saw my dad touch wine, but he sure as hell loved his whiskies.

I rarely imbibe alcohol myself, and you've probably already figured out why.

As well as being destitute for most of my life, I also received first hand examples on how not to deal with your issues. The two greatest lessons that my parents taught me clearly states the following:

One: You can't kick a gambling addiction by drowning yourself in booze.

Two: You can't rely on the Gods for shit.

Thanks dad. Thanks mom. You both miraculously managed to fulfill your parenting obligations by providing your son with a pair of model human beings that should never be emulated. And I still love you for it. I hope that you're both resting in peace, 'cause neither of you ever seemed to give peace a chance in life. I barely know what peace is myself, but even so, I know that our family would have liked it.

My early life's highlights? Hmm… Let's see here…

Well, my dad left home when I was eight. And he never came back. I was pretty sore about it for a couple of years, but I got over it when I turned fourteen.

At fourteen, my mother died of pneumonia, and I adjusted my emotional priorities accordingly.

Yep, orphaned at fourteen. Sucked to be me. The last words I said to my mother were "fuck you," and the last words that I heard from my father were "I'll be back at seven. Have a good day."

Yeah, I stormed out on my mother in an prepubescent tantrum about a week before her lungs filled with fluid. I lived off the streets for that week, avoiding the fuzz and filching dumpsters for my shelter and grub. When I finally caught wind of my mother's condition, I put aside the self-righteous anger and rushed for home. But all that was waiting for me was an empty house and her filled grave. I still regret that I wasn't there for mom in her final moments. Sometimes I wonder if my mother could have avoided the sickness altogether if I had been there to suffer the cold with her…

...And I know that I will go to my own grave, lamenting the tasteless words that constituted as my goodbye to the woman who bore me unto this earth.

So to elaborate: I didn't really get along with my mother on the whole religion front, and the most powerful memories that I have of my old man were of him yelling at my mom. But mom selflessly nurtured the crazy me into adolescence, and dad was my buddy when we both managed to escape the nag, so…

...I can still dig up something worth loving the both of them for.

Anyways, fourteen years old. As soon as my mother had been laid within the ground, the bank took away my family home in order to pay off dad's gambling debts; mom's family just upped and moved back to Sinnoh without their heathen grandson; and the Military's recruiter laughed his ass off when the scrawny adolescent me tried his luck at making the soldier's cut.

No money, no home, no family, and no foreseeable future.

Just an addled teenager and his beloved Darmy.

We had nothing to look forward to, and nothing to hold us back.

So I fudged the date of birth on my identification, illegitimately snagged a Novice Trainer's Licence at fourteen, and headed out into the grey yonder without a clue as to what I was gonna do, or why I was doing it.

But when I sorted it all out, it all came together. All nice and chaotic like.

I wasn't always an overnight success story. Before I made gold in the League's hierarchy and cobbled together my first official lab, there were plenty of nights where both Darmy and I went to bed hungry. Losing a Pokemon battle results in a loss of money, and if you ain't got much money in the bank, then two or three losses can render your next supply trip into town pointless.

...But there were the nights where both Darmy and I gorged like Kings, after we'd spent the spoils of our victories on an excess of creature comforts.

Those were the days. I was so caught up in the daily struggle that I didn't notice how awful my life really was. But as I invested myself into the League's competition scene for want of a hot meal and a dry bed, I began to realize that certain mental disciplines of mine could give me an edge over my opponents. And as I honed that edge, I became all the more proficient at procuring a steady diet.

Was it a difficult life? You had better believe it. But early on, it was all worth it. It gave Darmy and I an escape from our shared sordid history.

It almost feels unreal, looking back at it all. It almost feels profane, sleeping in a house with a roof.

It feels absolutely wrong to dine on aged Mamoswine shanks as though they're considered casual fare.

So when I realized that I was beginning to take the high-life for granted, I knew that I was stepping down the wrong path. There are plenty of people in the world who are currently living just like I did.

And after having lived at the bottom for so long, I can't justify all the excessive indulgences for myself, when I know that others are suffering from a lack of need.

...Wow.

I didn't expect that I'd actually take this seriously, but I might have just explained something to myself by writing this. Huh…

...Maybe that's why writing this…

...Maybe I can find the answers that I'm looking for by writing this…

It's crazy, you know? This big project that I'm working on? When it comes to scientific development, I'm no stranger to the connotations of the word "Latchkey". I've been bending the rules of nature and overstepping the boundaries of ethical progress ever since I undertook my post-Analyst career. But this project…

This one project…

...This could change the entire world for all time to come.

I'm a humble man by nature, contrary to my reputation, so this isn't some some self-glorifying decree that I'm spouting. This is a scientist's objective observation of action and reaction. An impartial breakdown and prediction of cause and effect.

Maybe every man who stood at the border of a new dawn felt this trepidation. Maybe every pioneer first viewed their new worlds with a mix of hope and dread. Maybe every agent of change feared the outcome of their revolution…

...I mean, we're only human.

And every pioneer of humanity must have asked himself: If his new world of his was gonna bring mankind into the province of Gods.

Man and Gods just don't mix. We never have, and we never will. Look at the history books. Analyze the numerous scriptures of the countless religions that mankind has engineered throughout the ages. Wherever mankind has met the divine, man was unjustly subjugated and culled in the name of an intangible entity. But you can't blame the Gods for that. I mean: man created the concept of an omnipotent identity, so technically, man is to blame for the cruelty of the Gods.

But this project that I'm heading…

...This… new world…

...Is taking mankind closer to the Gods than we've ever been before.

Is mankind really prepared to create a true God? Are we ready to meet a tangible omnipotent identity?

My euphoric heart says that we are…

...But my rational brain knows better.

So why am I writing this? Why do I believe that the desired answer lies somewhere within this obscure path of self discovery? How could this personal record possibly bring me to such a weighty enlightenment?

...Well, I guess it's because... when faced with the absence of palpable Gods, I find myself turning towards humanity for guidance.

My name is Enzo Davinci, and this…

...This is my story.