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irlkisukeurahara · 3 months ago

Text

Scratch On Wood

Pokémon Unown Legends Tale x The Magnus Archives AU/Crossover. ~30k words. Words in bold are from the Archivist, who is reading/recording Nemona's statement and adding their own two sense.

Statement from Nemona Peréz, regarding the mysterious death of the boy who lived in the lighthouse. Audio recording by Nico Valks, head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. Statement begins.

I didn’t really know him that well. I mean, I knew of him—everyone did. His parents were famous. Professors Turo Cardoso and his wife, Sada. You couldn’t live in Mesagoza and not know who they were. Geniuses, both of them. People said they were on the cutting edge of research, working on things that were way ahead of their time. But their son, Arven… well, that’s another story.

We went to the same school, Mesagoza Academy. It was this really fancy private school, the kind of place you only get into if you’re from old money. Arven was there because, well, his parents could afford it without a second thought. But he was different from the rest of us. I mean, on the surface, he looked like just another rich kid. Same uniform, same detached expression that most of the others had. But… there was something off about him. I could feel it, even back then.

I’ve always been the type to make friends easily—overly hyper, they used to say, always smiling, always making sure nobody sat alone during lunch. But Arven? He was… unapproachable. He wasn’t mean, not at all. It was more like there was this invisible wall around him, something that kept everyone at arm’s length. And trust me, I tried. I went up to him more than once, tried to strike up a conversation, but it always ended with him giving me this look, like I was speaking a different language. Eventually, I just stopped trying. But to anyone who didn’t go to school with us, he seemed normal enough. He kept to himself, sure, but that wasn’t so strange in a place like Mesagoza. A lot of the kids there were focused on their own things, too wrapped up in their own little worlds to really notice anyone else. And honestly, I might have been wrong about him. I mean, what did I really know about his life? Just because he didn’t talk to me, didn’t mean he was hiding something. Right?

Or… maybe he was.

Arven was… well, aloof. That’s just how he was, even as a little kid. He didn’t speak to anyone, ever. And I don’t just mean he was quiet—he was completely silent. He’d sit there, not saying a word, even when everyone else was chatting away. It was strange, you know? In a place like Mesagoza, where most of the kids were either arrogant or obsessed with showing off their wealth, it was easy to mistake his silence for snobbery. A lot of people thought he was that kind of kid, too good for the rest of us. But I could tell he wasn’t like that. He just… didn’t know how to talk to people. Or maybe he didn’t want to. It was hard to tell with him because he never seemed interested in any of the things the rest of us cared about. The fancy clothes, the parties, the status—it was all meaningless to him. He was more interested in the outdoors. I’d see him staring out of the windows during class, watching the trees sway in the wind, or looking up at the clouds as if he wished he could be out there instead of stuck inside with us.

There’s something else, too. Arven was Jewish. Not that his parents ever talked about it much. Turo and Sada—well, they had more important things to share with the world, I guess. Their research, their breakthroughs, that’s what they were known for. But Arven... I remember hearing about it. Maybe it was from him, or maybe it was from some bully trying to make fun of him for it—I can’t really remember. What I do remember is that the school’s director tried to accommodate his faith during the holidays. It wasn’t much, just a few gestures here and there, but I wonder if it made any difference to Arven. He never showed emotion, so who could really tell? Then there was the weed. Yeah, you heard me right. Arven smoked a lot of it, even when he was just seven years old. Can you believe that? I remember the day he hotboxed the bathrooms and set off the fire alarm. It was chaos—everyone had to evacuate, and there was this awful smell that lingered for days. After that, he quit smoking altogether. But I’m pretty sure I saw him high in class once or twice after that, so maybe he switched to edibles. I’ve always wondered how Turo and Sada allowed it, how they didn’t notice, or maybe they just didn’t care.

The thing is, no one really knew anything about that kid. He was a mystery, even to the people who tried to get close to him. And now... well, now he’s gone, and we’re all left wondering who he really was.

If he had just died, I wouldn’t be writing this. I mean, people die, right? It’s a part of life, especially in a place like this where we hear all sorts of strange things. But the thing is… his death, it just—it couldn’t have been a death. Could it? I can’t wrap my head around it. I was there. I know what happened, I saw the damn thing, but..! No. No, Arven is alive. But he’s also dead. It doesn’t make any sense. None of it does!

Sorry… Maybe I should back up a bit.

I didn’t know Arven all that well, but we did meet a few times. It was always outside of school, though. Maybe he just didn’t like being there, or maybe the outdoors were just more his thing. I can’t blame him for loving nature—the breeze, the grass beneath your feet, the open sky. It’s freeing in a way that the walls of Mesagoza Academy never were. But still, I never understood his disdain for school. I loved school. It was my place to be, where I thrived. But I guess that makes me the weird one, right? For me, school was home, and for him, maybe nature was.

The first time we met alone was on the outskirts of Mesagoza. We were both out walking our dog Pokémon—my Rockruff and his Maschiff. You know how dogs are; they’re so excited to see another dog that they just ram right into each other. That’s exactly what happened. As we scrambled to collect our things, I realized I recognized the kid standing in front of me. ‘Hey, I know you,’ I said to him. Arven’s reaction to me was… kinda strange. I mean, he looked at me like he’d never talked to another human being before. His movements were stiff, almost like he was trying to copy what I was doing but wasn’t sure how to do it right. He didn’t really make eye contact, and when he did, it was brief, like he was checking to see if he was doing something wrong. I was a master of eye contact, though. And I noticed every little thing about him. He had dirty blonde hair and brown eyes. He wasn’t exactly super pale, but he wasn’t as dark skinned as his mother for sure. I remember this so clearly because it changed.

That doesn’t really make sense, does it? I’ll get to that.

You know, at the time, I just chalked his behavior up to him being socially awkward. I mean, he was, right? He never talked to anyone, kept to himself—of course he was awkward. But I wasn’t deterred by that. I was just a kid, and I didn’t think too deeply about it. I invited him to play, maybe a Pokémon battle. Something simple, something fun. He hesitated, though, like he was going to say no, but then his Maschiff nudged him, and suddenly he agreed. I could tell he didn’t really want to, but it was like he didn’t know how to refuse, especially with his Pokémon practically insisting.

And then, the next thing I knew, he was taking me to his home. A lighthouse. A goddamn lighthouse. It wasn’t even one of those big, impressive ones you see on postcards, either. Just a regular, small lighthouse. Who lives in a lighthouse? And especially, what kind of Mesagoza student lives in a tiny place like that?! It was… really, really weird. I remember standing there, looking up at it, and thinking that something was seriously off about the whole thing. Arven led me into the lighthouse, asking if I wanted something to eat. I said sure, not really knowing what to expect. I was a kid, after all, and food was food. But the moment we stepped inside, I felt uneasy.

The inside of the lighthouse was… well, kind of scary, at least to an eight-year-old. It was almost pitch black, the only light coming from a blue computer screen somewhere in the corner. Arven didn’t bother turning on any lights, and it was clear that the darkness was intentional. I could barely make out the shapes of boxes piled in every corner, scientific equipment, and various electronics scattered around the place. Everything felt like it was watching me, recording me, like I wasn’t supposed to be there. But, being the kid I was, I found the dining room table and took a seat, trying to ignore the unsettling feeling creeping up my spine. Arven, on the other hand, moved around in the dark like it was nothing. He hopped up onto a stool and started preparing a meal for us, his movements smooth and practiced.

I remember asking him if he cooked a lot. He said he did because his mom and dad were hardly ever home, so he’d always had to take care of himself. I could hardly comprehend that. Sure, my parents were pretty hands-off, but they at least made sure I was fed. But for Arven, it was like his parents hardly even acknowledged his existence. As he continued to cook, he explained that his Maschiff had kind of raised him in a way—like a twisted version of a parent. As I sat there waiting, the silence in the lighthouse was almost unbearable. The only sounds were the mechanical whirring of the computers and the occasional shuffle or creak of the floorboards. Every noise seemed amplified, like it was mocking the quiet around me. It felt like I was in a different world entirely, one that stretched time into what felt like years. It was only a few minutes, really, but it felt like hours. Arven moved around in the darkness, busy with his cooking, but he didn’t say a word. It was like he was deliberately ignoring me, and the silence just dragged on. His movements seemed almost eerie, like his bones creaked with every step he took. I couldn’t tell if it was just my scared child self imagining things or if there was something genuinely unsettling about the way he moved.

He kept insisting there was nothing of note in the lighthouse, but the atmosphere made me feel otherwise. It was as if the place was holding its breath, and I was the only one there who didn’t belong. It was a strange, uncomfortable feeling, and I couldn’t shake it off, no matter how hard I tried.

And then… I met the thing.

I felt this hot, foul breath on my neck, and I screamed, falling off my chair in shock. Rockruff started barking wildly, his tiny body vibrating with the intensity of his cries. My heart pounded as I shakily turned around, only to see a pair of glowing eyes staring at me from the darkness. I cried out to Arven, my voice trembling, but he seemed strangely indifferent to the thing behind me. Without warning, Arven turned and started scolding it. The way he did it was anything but gentle—more like he was tearing into a misbehaving puppy, but with a level of fury that felt disproportionate. It was as if he both hated and feared this thing but couldn’t quite get rid of it. His scolding was harsh, filled with an anger that seemed almost out of place.

‘What the hell is that thing?’ I demanded, my voice barely more than a whisper. I couldn’t even see it properly, just its glowing eyes, and it seemed huge—way too huge for me to make sense of. Arven sighed deeply and went to open the front door of the lighthouse. Light spilled in, and as the darkness receded, I finally saw it.

The thing. That wretched thing.

It was like a giant mechanical dragon, a bizarre hybrid of a motorcycle, neon signs, and… God knows what else. The design was sleek yet chaotic, a creature that looked like a disaster of engineering gone wrong. It was a Pokémon I’d never seen before. Normally, I’d be excited to see something new, but all I felt was sheer terror. The thing was monstrous, and every part of it screamed that it didn’t belong in the real world.

Arven explained that this… thing was the reason his parents were never around. They were always off studying it, leaving him alone with nothing but this monstrous creature. He went on and on about how much he hated it, his anger almost palpable. It was clear that this neglect had been a constant in his life, and as scared as I was, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy. That was a pretty shitty living situation, to be honest. Arven huffed and handed me a plate of food, and despite my nerves, I hesitantly started eating. But the whole time, I felt like the dragon was staring straight into my soul, its gaze cold and menacing, as if it were ready to eat me alive. Every bite I took felt like a gamble. Arven sat down next to me, picking at his own food with a kind of tired, detached expression. He ate slowly, almost as if he was too exhausted to care about the meal. His behavior was odd, too—he was just so subdued, as if everything had drained the energy out of him. It was all very unsettling, and the whole atmosphere felt like it was pressing in on me from all sides.

As we ate, in walked Turo and Sada. There was no mistaking them—Sada had dirty blonde hair that Arven had inherited and teal eyes, while Turo had brown eyes like Arven’s and brown hair. I’m absolutely sure Arven’s eyes were brown when we met; I was staring right at him. …

[Sigh]

Turo immediately went to pet the dragon creature. He remarked that “Miraidon” has made a new friend. He was so upbeat about it, like this creature was a beloved pet rather than the terrifying beast I’d been eyeing. I looked at the dragon again, and it was still glaring at me with what felt like a deathly stare. Friendly? I hardly considered it. By this point, I’d already begun to see the Cardoso family as a bunch of terrifying freaks, so their apparent misjudgment of their own creature seemed par for the course.

[Soft chuckle.]

I’ve never been this judgmental in my life. I’ve always prided myself on being open-minded and eager to connect with people, no matter how strange they might be. But as a kid, this whole experience was genuinely disturbing. I didn’t think I had it in me to be so critical, but here we are.

Turo and Sada went about their day, almost entirely focused on Miraidon. They barely acknowledged Arven beyond a casual, ‘How are ya, squirt?’ It was clear that the creature was the center of their attention. Watching them, I began to understand why Arven was so aggressive towards Miraidon. But it also seemed unfair to pin all his frustrations on the creature. After all, Miraidon hadn’t done anything to him—it was his parents who had caused all this chaos. Still, given how touchy the subject was for Arven, I didn’t dare bring it up. It was clear that Miraidon was a sore spot, and I wasn’t about to add fuel to the fire.

I can’t really be too defensive of Miraidon, honestly. At that point, it hadn’t done anything to me, sure… but that was just at that point. Things changed, and maybe, if I’d been around longer, I might have grown to hate Miraidon too.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. It’s time to get into the real reason I’m here: Arven’s death. Or rather, the strange circumstances surrounding it.

It was just like any other day. Arven and I were outside, by a small fire he’d set with a boiling pot on top. It was a calm, peaceful day—one of those rare, quiet moments where everything just felt right. We were chatting, enjoying the warmth of the fire, and completely unaware of what was about to unfold…

Arven was more talkative than I’d ever seen him. He still had that strange demeanor, but he was actually holding a conversation, which was unusual for him. We were enjoying the calm of the day, when Miraidon showed up. At first, Miraidon seemed really friendly. It sniffed gently at the pot, like it was just curious about what we were cooking. But Arven didn’t take kindly to the intrusion. He told it to go away and hang out with his parents since they clearly loved it more than him. His voice rose in frustration, and he started yelling at the creature. In the background, I could hear Turo and Sada, but their words were drowned out by Arven’s shouting and the mechanical whirring of Miraidon. It was all very chaotic.

Then, without warning, Arven grabbed a rock and threw it at Miraidon. That’s when everything went sideways. Miraidon, previously just observing, suddenly… lunged at Arven.

[Long pause.]

…The creature’s mechanical claws raked across Arven’s face. It… it tore out his right eye. The blood was everywhere, splattering around in a horrific scene of violence. I was so overwhelmed by shock that I nearly passed out right there. Miraidon let out this awful, mechanical screech that pierced my ears, making them ring painfully. In sheer panic, I collapsed backwards, covering my ears and shutting my eyes tight, sobbing uncontrollably. The noise, the sight—it was all too much. Turo and Sada came running. Turo hurried to Arven, cradling him in his arms, trying to make sense of the chaos. I managed to open my eyes again, just in time to see Arven’s lifeless body. It was clear he was unmistakably dead. That sight was too much for me to bear, and that’s when I truly lost consciousness. I passed out properly, overwhelmed by the horror of what I had witnessed.

When I woke up, everything was gone. The field was empty, and I wasn’t taken anywhere—just completely disregarded. I didn’t know what to do. I was terrified, shaking, and overwhelmed. I ran all the way home, sobbing uncontrollably. When I finally reached my house, I told my parents through my tears about what had happened to Arven. They immediately called the police and an ambulance, but I couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t believe what I’d just witnessed. When the emergency services arrived at the lighthouse, they didn’t find Turo, Sada, or even Miraidon.

Instead, they found Arven.

Arven was there, alive, standing at the door. I couldn’t believe it. I had watched him die, I saw him dead. Yet there he was, perfectly alive and seemingly confused when asked about what had happened. It was like the whole event never occurred.

I was bewildered and needed answers. I decided I had to visit the residence. There had to be some explanation, something that made sense of this nightmare. I needed to understand how Arven was alive, despite everything I’d witnessed. I went to the lighthouse later that day, my heart pounding with a mix of fear and confusion. I knocked on the door, hoping for some kind of explanation or reassurance. When the door creaked open, I was met with a sight that nearly made my heart stop.

The person standing there couldn’t be Arven. His skin was darker than before, and his once dirty blonde hair now had brown streaks running through it. His eyes—those eyes I was so certain were brown—were now teal. At least the one I could see was. His right eye was hidden beneath his hair, but his left eye, the one I could see, was teal and had an unsettling, glossy, doll-like quality.

‘Who are you?’ Arven asked, his voice unfamiliar.

Shakily, I asked, ‘You’re not Arven, are you?’

He seemed genuinely confused. ‘I am Arven. Who are you?’

I tried to explain that we were friends from school, desperately asking questions about what had happened earlier that day. But he grew increasingly hostile, claiming that he never attended classes and had no friends. With a final, cold remark, he slammed the door in my face.

I stood there, stunned and terrified, my mind racing with unanswered questions. Who was this person, and what had happened to the Arven I knew? He was dead, right? Then who on earth was THIS?! I vowed to get to the bottom of who this… Arven, or Not-Arven, really was. I had to figure out what had happened and why he seemed so different.

In the days that followed at school, I watched him closely, trying to pick out anything new or different about him. I hoped to piece together some clue about where he came from, who he was, or what he had become. If his lack of eye contact wasn’t already awkward before, it was worse now. He seemed only capable of looking straight ahead, his eyes fixed in place as if they were painted on and couldn’t move. It was as though he wasn’t truly there—more like some eerie doll being manipulated by a force beyond understanding. There was no way he could be human; he just didn’t seem real.

Well, how could he be real? He was dead. He was dead! This—this thing I was looking at couldn’t be a person. It was like some strange, unsettling doll that had replaced him. But why? Why would someone create a doll to replace him and try to avoid suspicion? If it was a replacement, why the hell is it so different? Why is the eye color different? Why does it act so unnervingly detached? It doesn’t make any sense! I mean, the Arven I knew was dead, I saw him die! And now, this… this thing is walking around with his name, looking almost like him but so completely wrong. Why go through the effort of making a replacement if it’s going to be so obviously different? It’s like someone tried to make a perfect copy but forgot to get the details right, or maybe they didn’t care. But if that’s the case, why bother at all? I just don’t get it. It’s like everything I knew was being twisted into some sick joke. How is this possible? What happened to Arven? What’s happened to this… whatever it is?

It’s the eyes—his eyes. I’ve been so fixated on them. I always was with Arven. Eyes are supposed to be the window to the soul, and Arven’s eyes always seemed to reflect something interesting, something deep. But this thing, this teal-eyed… wooden freak, it has no soul. It’s like a lifeless doll, not even resembling anything human. I can’t shake the feeling that it lacks internal organs, skin, or anything that makes a person real. It’s just a doll, lifelike in appearance but utterly lifeless. Why the teal eyes? They’re so specific, so oddly significant. It’s a change that doesn’t make sense. Any change is odd because it’s unwarranted, but this—this change feels particularly important. Maybe it’s because I stared into Arven’s eyes for so long, or maybe it’s just that this new detail stands out in such a disturbing way. Whatever the reason, the eyes have become a focal point, a symbol of everything that’s wrong and unsettling about this whole situation.

At some point, I approached this… Arven-Not-Arven creature, my determination pushing me past my fear. I demanded to know what it had done with Arven. It responded in that unsettling voice, which didn’t quite match the young boy I knew, insisting that it was Arven. In a moment of sheer desperation, I reached out and pulled back its hair to look closer. What I saw made me flinch in shock. There was an empty socket where an eye should have been, and an indent in the eyebrow, as if a piece of the doll had broken off. It was a horrifying sight—proof that this wasn’t just a human, but something far more sinister and artificial.

Arven—or whatever this thing was—scolded me harshly for touching it. With an edge of menace, it told me to get lost, threatening me if I didn’t comply. Despite the threat, I stood my ground. I wasn’t going to leave without answers. I demanded to know what had happened, what this thing really was, and where the real Arven was. Arven continued to insist, with a growing edge of irritation, that he was who he said he was. His insistence felt hollow, lacking the conviction of the Arven I had known. As our confrontation escalated, people began to gather around us. Students whispered and gossiped among themselves, their curiosity piqued by the scene unfolding before them. Their murmured conversations filled the air, creating a backdrop of confusion and speculation. It felt like I was on display, my desperation and the unsettling reality of this situation laid bare for everyone to see. As the crowd grew, the murmur of voices turned into outright mockery. Students began to make fun of both me and Arven—or whatever was standing in for him.

One student shouted, ‘Look at Nemona, still chasing ghosts! What a loser!’

Another chimed in, ‘And who’s this creep? A bad imitation of Arven with his plastic eyes? What a joke!’

The insults kept coming, hitting both me and the thing. ‘Why don’t you get a life, Nemona?’ someone taunted. ‘Can’t even tell a real person from a fake one!’

The thing—Arven or not—seemed to grow increasingly agitated. It flinched at the laughter and taunts, its composure cracking. In a sudden burst of panic, it turned and fled, disappearing into the crowd and leaving a trail of confused whispers and laughter behind. I stood there, the sting of the crowd’s jeers mixing with my own frustration and fear.

Ever since that day, Arven’s reputation solidified into something almost mythic. He became the loner loser, the uncanny freak abandoned by his parents. The narrative that followed him was one of mockery and derision—who wouldn’t abandon such a monstrosity? I started to feel a deep pang of guilt as the bullying worsened. It was all because I drew attention to him, to this situation. But… it wasn’t really Arven, was it? So how upset should I really be? I mean, this thing wasn’t my friend. It was an imposter. Right?

Of course, it was an imposter. It looked nothing like the Arven I knew. And Arven is dead. Dead. I watched it happen, and there was no way to forget that. Arven is dead. I saw him die, and this thing was not him.

Not that I could ask Turo and Sada about it. They had vanished completely since that day, abandoning Arven—if that’s even what you could call it. They were gone, leaving behind questions and an unsettling void. And here I am, trying to make sense of it all while the ghost of Arven lingers in my thoughts, haunting me with every unanswered question. I’m still haunted by this tangled mess of feelings and questions about what really happened to Arven. It’s been years since that day—both I and this… ‘Arven’ are nineteen now. It’s so long ago, and maybe it’s futile to even make a statement to the institute at this point.

But why not try? Why not share what I know and see if someone, anyone, can figure out what truly happened? Maybe the Institute has answers or at least a different perspective on this nightmare. The confusion and guilt haven’t faded, and if there’s any chance of finding out what really happened, of putting some kind of truth to this twisted story, I need to take it. Maybe they can shed some light on what I’ve been struggling with for all these years. So here I am, still searching for answers, even if it seems like chasing shadows at this point. Maybe—just maybe—there’s something left to uncover.

I keep coming back to one last, maddening detail. I remember exactly what the old Arven looked like. The real Arven. He was slightly pale, with blonde hair and sad brown eyes that had some semblance of life in them. But this… thing? It’s got dirty blonde hair with brown streaks, soulless teal eyes, and much darker skin. The differences are stark and unsettling.

What’s more disturbing is that when Arven was replaced, it wasn’t just him—every picture of him seemed to change. Yearbooks from past years, photos in the school hallways, all of them shifted to reflect this new, altered appearance. I swear I’m not misremembering. I know what Arven looked like. I know what he was supposed to look like. This thing that replaced him is not the Arven I knew! The memories clash with the images now, creating this terrible dissonance. The real Arven, the one I saw die, is gone—replaced by this… imposter. And as much as I try to reconcile it, I can’t shake the feeling that something deeply wrong has happened. I need to figure it out, no matter how many years have passed. It’s the only way to find some semblance of closure.

I apologize if this statement seems disjointed or rambling. It’s hard to put into words the jumble of emotions and thoughts that have been swirling around in my head for years. All I’ve wanted is to solve this problem, to piece together what really happened to Arven, and maybe, just maybe, find some way to give his soul a chance to rest. The confusion, the guilt, and the haunting images of that day have never really left me. I keep replaying everything in my mind, trying to find clarity in the chaos. I know it’s been years, and I’m aware that this might seem like a futile effort. But the truth is, I can’t let go of this. I owe it to Arven to seek the truth, to uncover what really happened and to put this right if I can.

So, I’m reaching out to the institute in the hope that someone, somewhere, might be able to piece together the fragments of this story. If there’s any chance to understand what happened and perhaps give Arven’s soul the peace it deserves, I need to take it. It’s the least I can do for him.

Thank you for listening to my ramble. I hope it’s not in vain and that some light can be shed on this dark mystery.

Statement ends.

Reading Nemona’s statement, I’m struck by how disjointed and haunting it is. Her account, if we take it at face value, presents a disturbing sequence of events. I’ve consulted with Levy and Emmet, who have been digging into the details of this case, and here’s what we’ve uncovered:

Firstly, there are absolutely no records of Arven ever being admitted to a hospital, let alone dying there. This lack of documentation could cast doubt on the legitimacy of the death claim. But it also might support Nemona’s account if, as she suggests, Arven was replaced by some sort of doll. If he was never truly alive after that day, he wouldn’t have needed medical attention, would he?

Additionally, there’s no proof that Miraidon, the creature described, ever existed. This raises further questions about the veracity of Nemona’s encounter with it. As Nemona describes, Sada and Turo Cardoso, have completely vanished, and thus are unable to be questioned on the matter. They’ve been unreachable for eleven years, which conveniently aligns with the day Nemona claims Arven died.

Moreover, the description of Arven’s appearance matches every available image of the boy. Images from Mesagoza Academy show Arven with dirty blonde hair, brown streaks, teal eyes, and darker skin. There’s no sign he was ever lacking these features.

It’s worth noting that Mesagoza Academy has come up in other statements before. There was a teacher there described as a radiating ball of death who seemed to cause a string of mysterious deaths among the staff before disappearing. It makes me wonder if Mesagoza Academy is a particularly haunted place—or perhaps, as Nemona’s account suggests, a locus of something far more sinister.

All of these elements—missing hospital records, the potential non-existence of Miraidon, the disappearance of Arven’s parents, and the altered images of Arven—paint a chilling picture. The consistency of these details across different reports adds weight to Nemona’s disturbing story. We need to delve deeper into this to uncover the truth, if there is one, and understand what really happened to Arven.

Recording ends.

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