without conflict

<< You are dead. >>

That's it. He's dead. He knows this fact clearly-- the cave-in after that fateful battle against the children who defied his goals; the very goals he himself believed to be just enough to more than make up for his forceful approach. His approach. Yes, that's right. The flower. The Ultimate Weapon. That very event lead up to where he is now. 

It's... a shame, actually. A shame that he had to perish so soon. So soon... ah. His plans would have failed, regardless. The world would remain filthy, doomed to ugliness as time would progress. Right? That's what he clung so dearly to-- the ideal of which he believed so fully and so passionately. Without him, the world would still be hideous. That is what he believed so fervently.

This world, however... No. This afterlife. It's difficult to wrap his mind around. He's dead. Gone. Is he missed? Mourned? Or was his death rejoiced? He can't be so sure. He's never sure. 

A single pokeball clung to his belt. Fingers dragging along the sphere's body, he could recognize just who was housed within-- his beloved Pyroar. So, he's the only one to perish in the cave-in as well, is he? Ah. How he wished Pyroar did not have to be dragged into the afterlife, into what Lysandre believed to be Hell, with him.

Absently, he stepped off the station. Had he ridden a train here, he briefly wonders. This is it. His new home. << Asphodel Valley >> or so the hanging sign says.

This is his new life. However, he does not know how or where to begin this ethereal existence. There must be others who know who are more familiar with these new surroundings than he is. Promptly, he seeks them out with a ginger tap on the shoulder and an authoritarian voice.