Chapter Text
I woke up irritated at the fact I had to exist at five in the morning.
Sleep was still tugging at me, warm and heavy, whispering that I could just sink back into the sheet and forget the exam waiting for me. For a second, I almost did. My bedsheet felt exactly like mine: the black one with the white-and-red tennis-ball dots. Same softness, same faint rough texture, same comforting weight, I’ve used for nearly a decade
That tiny comfort kept me from being annoyed when dryness scratched the back of my throat.
Water.
Left side.
Same place every day.
I reached out.
Nothing.
My hand waved through empty air like someone had stolen the whole left side of the world. I frowned, forced myself upright, and reached again. Still nothing. No bottle. No table. No wall.
That was my first real jolt of confusion.
Fine. Glasses next. I needed to actually see if I wanted to function at all.
I reached to my right.
Again, nothing.
My hand drifted over bare space, and for a second, my tired brain couldn’t make sense of it. My glasses always sat there, perfectly placed. I blinked into the dim room, squinting at shapes I couldn’t fully process.
When I finally forced myself to sit all the way up, I froze.
The room around me wasn’t mine.
Clothes littered the floor in heaps.
Junk food wrappers leaned against the leg of a chair.
A crooked bikini model poster hung on one wall, flapping a little in the morning breeze.
And across from it, a massive poster of of freaking Bruno from pokemon glared down like he was judging my entire existense.
Not Bruno Mars..
But a weirdly real human man who looked exactly like Bruno from Pokémon—massive muscles, intimidating scowl, the look of someone who could break a rock by flexing.
I stared at it, stunned.
“Why… why is this the Bruno I get?” I muttered. “Why not the singer? Why not literally anyone I actually like or even think about?”
The computer sitting on it made me recoil internally.
It looked ancient.
Beige tower.
Monitor so thick it cast its own shadow.
Fan whirring like it was preparing for war.
Mouse shaped like a plastic coffin.
This wasn’t just old tech.
This was “your uncle refuses to throw it away” tech.
My heartbeat ticked faster.
I stumbled to the monitor—the only reflective surface in the whole room—and pressed the power button.
The screen flickered to life.
That was wrong.
I used a laptop.
I rubbed my eyes harder, because all of this looked so wrong it had to be my barely-awake brain messing with me.
With a sigh, I reached for the switch beside the door and flipped on the light.
The brightness hit immediately—and my eyes adjusted.
Perfectly.
Not sharp-sharp, but clear enough to see every detail in the room without effort. No blur. No double edges. No need to squint.
My breath slowed in my chest.
I never saw this well without glasses.
I looked around again, more carefully this time. The posters. The mess. The computer. The cheap chair. The clutter. The absolute lack of anything resembling my life.
And finally, my hand.
Smaller. Younger. The skin smoother than it had any right to be.
When that truth finally clicked, it hit like cold water dumped over my head.
This wasn’t my room.
This wasn’t my setup.
This wasn’t even my body.
Just my bed sheet, sitting there like a cruel joke, pretending I belonged in this place.
And my exam?
That suddenly felt like the least of my problems.
I hovered in front of the monitor, not calm, not collected—just stuck in this weird pocket of disbelief. The kind where your brain keeps whispering, maybe I’m still asleep, even though everything feels too sharp for a dream.
It wasn’t panic.
It wasn’t logic.
Just that foggy, uncertain awareness where you question reality in slow motion.
I kept trying to convince myself I’d just wake up in a minute, back in my actual bed, my spoiled shih tzu hogging one side like the little fur emperor he is. At home, he’d be curled against my leg only if he felt like it, because he knew he owned the house and everyone in it. My mom would probably be fussing over him right now.
But here?
The bed was wrong.
The room was wrong.
Everything was wrong.
The size matched mine just enough to mess with my head, but the dimensions bent in strange ways, like someone stretched my room and painted over it with teenage chaos. A big window instead of my glass-door balcony. Dark, loud, messy walls instead of the comfortable white and blue. Clothes exploding out of the closet. AC blasting cold air even though it was autumn.
And the pajamas on my body?
That alone was enough to make me blink in disbelief. I never wore pajamas. Shorts and a baniyan, that was it. But this body… this body didn’t follow my habits.
The computer monitor was the only reflective surface in the whole room, and that bothered me too. My room had a bathroom mirror right within reach. This one didn’t.
I stepped closer, hesitating—not from fear, but the uneasy feeling that the second I looked, the dream-excuse would disappear for good.
The dark screen showed a blurry outline: shorter, narrower, hair a mess. I squinted without my glasses… and still saw better than I should’ve.
More doubt crawled up my spine.
My hand hovered over the Camera App.
Everything in me whispered, Don’t do it, because once the screen turned on, whatever I saw would be real.
But disbelief only lasts so long.
I pressed the button.
The camera feed settled, and I finally got a full look at the face staring back at me.
And yeah, it was me.
Just… not my age.
Same black eyes.
Same black hair, though here it was uncombed and sticking out like it had lost a fight with a pillow.
Same overall features, the same lines of my face, but softened, rounded in the way teenagers tend to look before life sharpens everything.
The skin tone was still mine—light brown, warm, familiar—just a touch lighter. Maybe two shades at most. Not pale. Not mixed up with anything else. Just a younger version of the same colouring, like someone had turned the brightness up slightly. Enough to look different, but not foreign.
I leaned closer.
This wasn’t some stranger.
It wasn’t some alternate person.
It was me.
Just Twelve or Thirteen maybe, with a rounder jaw and zero facial hair. The lack of stubble was unsettling for one reason: at my age and background, even a fresh shave leaves some evidence behind. But this face hadn’t grown any yet, and I only started needing glasses when I am around fourteen and my vision was just little blurry before that so the fact I can see like I have my glasses on, Twelve or Thirteen made sense.
I shifted the Monitor slightly and angled the camera down to check the rest of the body.
A skinny frame.
Not malnourished, just untouched by effort.
Arms with no definition.
Shoulders narrow.
The kind of build you see in boys who haven't hit their late-teen muscle phase or even full puberty.
I pressed my lips together, breathed out slowly, and let the reality settle properly instead of fighting it.
This wasn’t a different person.
Just a different version.
Younger, Shorter, raised differently, clearly living messier like I was at that age.
But the face, the features, the skin tone—everything lined up with mine.
It was like someone had taken me, rewound a few years, and dropped me into a completely different lifestyle.
Because I definitely wasn’t this obsessed with Pokémon growing up. I liked it, sure, but the level of obsession in this room was something else entirely. Stickers of Dragonite, Gyarados, Machamp—covering the desk, the closet doors, even the edges of the monitor. I didn’t remember ever decorating anything like this in my childhood.
I didn’t panic.
I didn’t freeze.
I just stared for a moment, trying to process the fact that somehow, I had woken up in an earlier, alternate-life version of myself… who apparently didn’t care about haircuts, routines, or cleaning anything ever and ridiculously obsessed with pokemon.
I was still gobsmacked when a literal blue light emerged making me lean back and stare, jaw somewhere around floor because there was a freaking blue screen, appeared so suddenly it washed the whole room in color.
A rectangle of bright blue floating right in front of my face, maybe half a meter away, exactly at my eye level.
White text.
Simple.
Welcome
For about ten seconds, something warm flickered inside me—pure instinct, the kind of excitement you get when something impossible finally happens.
Then reality punched straight through it.
I wasn’t in my room.
I wasn’t in my body.
And my family…
This is not my life….
The happiness drained out instantly, replaced by a tight, heavy feeling in my chest. My fist clenched before I even noticed. My breathing sharpened. Not panic, not crying or freaking out—just that solid, cold tension that settles in when something important is missing.
My mom.
My elder brother.
My grandma, soft and gentle even when she scolded me.
My grandpa, annoying half the time but still warm in his own stubborn way.
And my shih tzu—my spoiled, sleepy fluff ball who acted like royalty and got treated like it.
None of them were here.
The room didn’t smell like home.
The air didn’t sound like home.
Nothing here belonged to them.
Nothing here belonged to me.
A slow breath escaped me, controlled but shaky around the edges.
I forced my shoulders not to tense too much, just enough to stay grounded.
The screen didn’t move or react. It just floated there, patient, like it was waiting for me to stop thinking about the people I cared about.
But the thought wouldn’t leave.
My mom fussing about breakfast.
My brother laughing with his girlfriend on the Phone.
My grandma humming something old while folding clothes.
My grandpa muttering complaints about everything but still smiling at me.
My tiny dog curled up somewhere warm, pretending he owned the entire house, treated like a princess due to his sheer lovable spoiled personality.
Were they safe?
Did they even exist in this world?
The fear wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It was quiet and solid, like a stone lodged under my ribs.
I swallowed hard and finally said, steady but clipped:
“Continue,” I said.
My fist stayed tight, my jaw stiff, that quiet fear about my family pressing at the back of my mind.
The blue panel appeared bright, I don’t feel the strain despite the brightscreen so close to my eyes and the first line appeared:
Welcome, Rihan
I stared at it, my brain doing that slow, irritated spin like when you wake up and someone says something that technically makes sense but feels wrong anyway.
Rihan.
Not my name.
But… familiar.
Common enough back home, close enough to my own first letter that my sleepy brain didn’t immediately reject it. So fine. Maybe that was his name.
The kid whose life I’d apparently crashed into.
I exhaled quietly.
“Okay… so that’s your name. Great.”
The panel didn’t react. It just hovered politely like some overly helpful assistant.
Another line blinked underneath, text forming clean and white:
Profile Active.
I frowned.
Profile.
Active.
Right.
So this kid had some kind of futuristic reminder system or gimmicky device that popped messages in the air. Made sense, considering he decorated his room like he worshipped every Pokémon in existence.
I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling the unfamiliar smaller bones, lighter muscles.
Whoever this Rihan was, he definitely wasn’t me.
Or… wasn’t my version of me.
The glowing panel pulsed once, as if preparing something.
Then the next line appeared.
Clean. Calm.
Completely out of place.
Welcome to the Pokémon World
I blinked twice.
Then once more, slower.
Yeah.
Sure.
Okay.
Past-me definitely installed some cringe “immersive experience” mode into his alarm system. Probably synced it to his posters or something. Pokémon World, seriously?
What next? Pikachu jumping out of the closet?
I dragged a hand down my face, trying not to groan at how dramatically nerdy this younger version of me apparently was.
“That’s… cute,” I muttered. “Very dedicated to the theme.”
But a tiny, cold part of me—the realist, the careful one—didn’t completely like how real the panel looked. How solid the light felt. How it didn’t flicker or glitch like a projector should.
Still.
I wasn’t buying whatever theatrics this thing was selling.
I stepped back, the words lingering in the air like they were carved into the room itself.
“Welcome to the Pokémon World,” I repeated under my breath, unimpressed.
“Yeah. Sure. Let’s not go that far.”
But the panel didn’t disappear.
And something about that made the room feel a little too quiet.
The blue panel suddenly flared—bright, harsh, almost accusing.
It wasn’t just glowing anymore.
It was fed up.
Open LeagueWatch.
I frowned.
“League… what? I don’t even know what that is.”
The panel pulsed harder, lighting the entire room in sharp blue.
OPEN LEAGUEWATCH. NOW.
The “NOW” slammed into me like someone yelling in my face.
I winced.
“Okay! Fine! I’ll open your stupid thing!”
The glow dimmed slightly, like it finally got what it wanted.
I moved toward the PC—an old, bulky desktop setup that looked like it came straight from early-2000s cyber cafés. The mouse was so cheap I was afraid it’d crack if I clicked too hard.
I scanned the desktop for something named LeagueWatch.
There it was.
A dull red icon with a black pokéball symbol and a name I’d never seen in my life.
“League… Watch,” I muttered again. “Sounds like a streaming app or whatever.”
My finger clicked it.
The video window popped up, grainy and old-school.
The title bar made my stomach tighten.
Indigo League Championship Match – 2007
Lance vs Pryce
I didn’t even get to finish reading before the footage started.
And the moment Dragonite appeared… every excuse I had left evaporated.
It wasn’t a cartoon dragon.
It wasn’t game art.
It was a massive reptilian beast—bright orange scales, a broad, muscular chest, thick arms, long tail, and small horned head—dropping from the sky like a living missile. Its wings beat once, sending dust swirling.
Dragonite slammed into its opponent with earth-shaking force.
Piloswine—a huge bulky creature covered in thick brown fur, with two curved ivory tusks jutting from its face—skidded backward, hooves digging trenches into the stone. Its entire body rippled from the impact; the fur was dust-smeared and trembling.
My breath hitched.
When Dragonite struck, Piloswine skidded backwards, fur rippling, hooves carving trenches in the stone.
When Piloswine roared, the ground vibrated through my spine.
Lance—cape flaring behind him—raised his arm sharply.
“Dragonite, finish it!”
The dragon inhaled deeply.
I froze.
Then—
A torrent of blinding orange flames erupted from its mouth, engulfing Piloswine. Not a clean beam. A chaotic wave of fire, thick and violent, the kind that distorted the air and scorched the ground black beneath it.
The speakers on the PC rattled with the roar.
When the flames died, Piloswine collapsed in a smoking heap—burned, shaking, clearly in pain… but alive.
The stadium went quiet for a heartbeat.
Then the referee cried out:
“Lance has defeated Pryce—four to Pryce’s six!
Lance is the new Champion of Indigo!”
The crowd erupted like the world was ending.
Dragonite lifted its head and let out a triumphant roar that vibrated through my chest despite being just a recording.
A Chansey—a round, pink creature with stubby arms and a medical pouch—hurried across the arena, checking Piloswine with urgent, practiced motions. Its expression was focused, almost stern.
Nothing in this video was cute.
Nothing was safe.
These were wild animals shaped into weapons.
I felt my breath leave me in a slow, shaky exhale.
“…This can’t be fake.”
But the truth sat heavy, undeniable:
Dragonite was real.
Piloswine was real.
This entire world was real.
And I wasn’t on my Earth anymore.
I swallowed hard, the words barely escaping:
“…I’m actually in the Pokémon world.”
The blue panel brightened again, glowing in this annoyingly satisfied way, like it had been waiting for me to finally catch up to reality. The light settled, and the text began forming—not chopped apart this time, but in proper sentences that felt almost conversational.
“Let’s start from where this truly begins,” the system wrote.
“You were moved here by a Fourth-Dimensional Being.”
That alone made my pulse slow in a very uncomfortable way.
The panel continued, calm and unnervingly casual:
“This Being isn’t bound by time or space the way anything here is. It knows everything about you—your memories, thoughts, habits, fears… all of it. Nothing about you is hidden from it, and nothing you do will ever surprise it.”
I swallowed.
Hearing that spelled out so plainly made it worse than any dramatic warning ever could.
“It wasn’t acting out of kindness or cruelty. It simply had the power to move you and the interest to do so .”
Great. Just what everyone wants: to be a curiosity for something that sits above dimensions like a bored student rearranging furniture.
The glow shifted slightly, and the system moved on.
“Now, about Arceus.”
The air around me actually felt heavier when that name came up.
“Arceus is fully aware of you. Not just that you’re here—It’s aware of everything. Intentions, choices, impulses. Omniscience isn’t a title; It genuinely sees all.”
My breath caught for a moment before the next part softened the blow.
“But It isn’t looking for an excuse to smite you. Arceus won’t interfere with your life unless you do something evil. Not a mistake, not a bad day—actual evil. As long as you stay on the right side of morality, you are safe from Its judgement.”
Stern.
Intimidating.
But not unfair.
It was strangely comforting in the most unsettling way possible.
The text shifted again, finishing the last part with a tone that almost felt instructional:
“What you cannot do is repeat your old life. The same path, the same future—especially your education route—must change. You’re meant to build something different here.”
Something new.
Not a rerun.
The final statement appeared with no drama, no heavy pause—just a clear condition:
“Your transmigration must remain secret. No human, no Pokémon, no Legendary can know. Arceus is the only exception.”
And that was it.
The glow faded, the panel dissolved, and the room settled into silence again.
Everything I’d known—all the routines and paths I once followed—were closed off.
A Fourth-Dimensional Being had full access to everything about me.
Arceus watched every intention I had but wouldn’t act unless I crossed into darkness.
And my new life could not look like my old one.
It wasn’t a prophecy.
It wasn’t a threat.
It was simply… the rules.
And now I had to live by them.
The system didn’t give me time to breathe before more text settled across the panel, steady and matter-of-fact:
“You were born in Pewter City.”
That alone felt strange — knowing my birthplace here before I even knew my own reflection properly.
The panel continued in the same calm tone:
“Your father was never part of your life.”
Not dead.
Not missing.
Just… absent.
A blank space in the story.
Then came the part that actually hit:
“Your mother stayed until you were three.
She left to journey.”
The system didn’t decorate it with excuses or comfort.
It didn’t soften the truth.
She left because she wanted to travel.
Because a Pokémon journey wasn’t just adventure here — it was opportunity.
Freedom, fame, wealth, power… all of it wrapped into one path.
In this world, setting out with a partner Pokémon was as life-changing as becoming a millionaire back where I came from.
People didn’t hesitate.
They didn’t debate it.
They chased it the way others chased fortune.
And she had chased it too.
I felt a quiet ache for the kid whose life I’d stepped into.
Three years old, left behind.
Not because of cruelty — but because journeys in this world were tempting enough to leave everything for.
The system let the moment sit only for a breath before it moved on, like it knew I didn’t need time to cry over a stranger’s past:
“Since then, you’ve lived at Bethany House Orphanage.”
Pewter City.
No parents.
No complicated hidden family waiting for me.
Just a clean slate that had grown up without me.
I exhaled slowly.
The system’s glow softened, shifting toward something more… practical.
“Today marks the age where you may legally receive your first Pokémon from Pewter City’s authorized program.”
Then, before I could react:
“Alternatively, you may accompany a licensed Pokémon Ranger outside the city to safely catch your first partner.”
I stared at the fading text, the meaning settling in like heavy dust.
Born here.
Raised in an orphanage.
Mother gone to chase the dream everyone here worshipped.
A world where even a regular journey promised a future brighter than any college degree I once chased.
And now today —
my life in this world truly began.
Not with school.
Not with parents.
With a Pokémon.
My first partner.
My first step into a world where strength, survival, and ambition shaped everything.
And nothing about this felt like a dream anymore.
In this world, strength, survival, and ambition shaped everything. And nothing about this felt like a dream anymore.
The system moved on without hesitation, its glow settling into a steady, instructional rhythm. According to its next lines, most children in Pewter City received their first Pokémon directly from their families. A parent, older sibling, or guardian usually ventured into the mountains or nearby routes to obtain a partner for their child — a tradition built on pride and responsibility.
But some children never had that privilege.
The system displayed the next message with clinical clarity:
“You fall under the Pewter Partner Program.”
This program, the system explained, existed for two groups: children raised in orphanages, and children whose parents lacked the skill or means to secure a Pokémon for them. The Pewter Gym, working under the authority of the Pokémon League, handled the entire structure.
Each season, gym trainers conducted supervised captures of beginner-suitable Pokémon. These weren’t random creatures; they were selected specifically for stable temperaments, manageable strength, and long-term training potential. After capture, each Pokémon went through a short evaluation period to ensure it was safe and properly prepared for a new trainer.
The system’s glow pulsed once, shifting to the present.
“Today, ten children from Bethany House will gather at the Pewter Gym auxiliary hall.”
Gym trainers would present the roster — a curated selection of Pokémon ready for assignment. There would be no battles, no tests of dominance, no hazards. Instead, the trainers would match each child to a suitable partner based on temperament, compatibility, and overall readiness.
It was a system designed to give every child a fair beginning, regardless of birth or circumstance.
The message ended with a final note, simple but absolute:
“No child in the Partner Program leaves without a partner.”
The blue panel remained steady as new information appeared.
“Because you carry the System, you are not limited to the Pewter Partner Program.
You may obtain your first Pokémon independently.”
A single rule followed:
“Any Pokémon you befriend on your own will be recognized as your official starter.”
The System listed the three available domains:
Local, Flying, Water.
Local referred to Kanto species naturally found around Pewter City: the Viridian Forest outskirts, Route 3’s rocky stretches, and the lower Mount Moon terrain.
Flying types were allowed because migratory species regularly crossed Pewter’s mountain airspace.
Water types were available through Pewter’s trade canals and transport lines, where river and supply routes brought aquatic Pokémon into the area.
Another line appeared:
“The System will arrange an encounter with a Pokémon from the domain you choose.
The encounter will occur naturally.”
No conditions, no battles, no ceremony restrictions.
The final instruction stood alone:
“Present the befriended Pokémon at the Pewter Gym on Partner Day.
It will be registered as your starter.”
I lifted my hand a little, still hesitant.
“So… if I pick a Pokémon, can I tweak it? Add a trait? Adjust something small?”
The reply hit instantly.
“No.”
Another line followed, sharper this time:
“You cannot modify a Pokémon.
You cannot add traits.
You cannot alter typing.”
A faint pause, then the System added something that felt suspiciously like sarcasm.
“At least you did not request a Legendary.
Your intelligence is… acceptable.”
I stared at the text. “Wow. Thanks?”
More text appeared, ignoring me completely.
“You will receive the species as it naturally exists in this world.”
Then the explanation flowed in, this time with the weight of actual world logic.
“This world does not follow game restrictions.
A Pokémon is not limited to four moves.
It may learn any technique its physiology and experience allow.”
So the real limits were muscle, instinct, training, and time — not arbitrary move slots.
The System continued:
“Trainer growth here is realistic.
Children do not reach the top.”
One more line clarified it completely:
“Lance obtained his first partner at age ten.
He became an official trainer at thirteen.
He reached Champion at Eighteen— the youngest in history.”
I lifted my hand toward the screen.
“Can I alter traits? Give a Pokémon abilities or moves it normally shouldn’t have?”
The System answered instantly.
“No. Traits cannot be altered.
Typing cannot be changed.
Biology cannot be rewritten.”
I clarified the question.
“Then what about moves? Can they learn things outside the official movelist?”
The next answer came smoothly.
“Yes. If a move is biologically possible for the species, it can be learned.”
I pressed further.
“So impossible moves would be…?”
The System listed them plainly.
“Water-type and Rock-type techniques are impossible for Growlithe or Arcanine.
Their physiology cannot produce those effects.”
Then the System explained what was possible.
“However, Ground-type techniques are feasible due to body mass and physical force.
Electric biting techniques are feasible due to jaw structure and nerve conduction.”
I asked directly:
“So Bulldoze and Thunder Fang?”
“Both are possible.”
The System finished with a clean rule:
“Choose a species.
Choose a small set of egg moves that make biological sense.
Only moves within the species’ natural capability will be inherited.”
“I can’t pick anything that draws attention,” I said. “No Ralts, no Eevee, no Larvesta. Pokémon like that don’t just get stolen—they make adults start asking questions I can’t answer.”
That narrowed things down more than I liked, but at least one option still fit.
“I’ll choose Spheal.”
“Spheal is confirmed.”
“A young Spheal may wander into a cold-storage container aboard a marine transport ship.
When the cargo is inspected at Pewter Harbor, it will emerge naturally.
This will be your encounter.”
I nodded once, then asked, “Can it have the King Gene?”
“Full King Gene is denied.”
“The System can grant it.
New trainers are not allowed full King variants.
Full King Gene requires five Major Badges.”
A moment passed before the next clarification appeared.
“Diluted King Gene is permitted.”
“It awakens gradually as the Pokémon evolves.
It cannot be detected.
A Spheal with diluted King Gene will appear normal.
As it becomes Sealeo and then Walrein, its final size will exceed the average.”
“Species selected: Spheal.
Diluted King Gene available.
Proceed to egg move selection.”
“I want her to be female,” I said, and I couldn’t help the small smile tugging at my mouth. “And really young. A proper juvenile. I want her to bond with me from the start.”
“Female confirmed.
Juvenile confirmed.”
That alone sent a flicker of excitement through my chest. A young partner meant she’d grow up with me, trust me instinctively, latch onto me the same way kids bond with the first person who cares for them. It felt… good. Solid. Like the beginning of something real.
The excitement pushed another question out of me before I even thought twice.
“…How long do people live here? And how long do Pokémon live?”
The System answered with the same clean certainty as always.
“Humans in this world have an average lifespan of one hundred years.”
Then the part that made my eyebrows rise:
“Most Pokémon live significantly longer than humans, except many Bug-types.”
I leaned forward a little as the next line appeared.
“Mammalian species, elemental species, reptilian species, avian species, and most evolved forms commonly live well over a century.”
So she wouldn’t fade early.
She wouldn’t weaken halfway through my life.
The System finished the explanation:
“Pokémon maintain strength through most of their lifespan.
Physical decline begins only near the final stage of life.”
I let that sit with me for a moment.
A very young Spheal.
Female.
Easy to bond with.
And she’d be strong for decades—
longer than I’d even be alive.
The smile stayed on my face this time.
This wasn’t just a starter.
It was a lifetime partner.
The smile lingered, but it didn’t stay unbroken.
Something about the lifespan answer made the world feel bigger… heavier… and I found myself growing a little quieter, a little humbled.
If Pokémon stayed strong for most of their long lives, then the people who stood beside them had to be even tougher than the stories suggested.
Bruno.
Lorelei.
Agatha.
The Elite Four weren’t just strong because of power or talent. They were strong because they survived in a world where their partners kept getting stronger, year after year, decade after decade.
And Lance—
The thought hit hard.
He became Champion at eighteen.
Eighteen.
A kid.
Barely out of school by my old world’s standards.
Now he was twenty-three.
Five years later… and still rising.
Still becoming stronger.
Still nowhere near his peak.
In my old world, a twenty-three-year-old being at the absolute top of any field was almost unheard of. You didn’t become the best doctor, the best scientist, the best athlete, the best anything at that age. At twenty-three, you were still figuring out your life, stumbling through early mistakes, pretending adulthood wasn’t a scam.
But here?
Twenty-three made you a seasoned warrior.
A veteran.
Someone who commanded dragons.
Lance was barely a man by the standards I grew up with.
But in this world?
He was already one of the strongest people alive
I let out a slow breath.
A young Spheal at my side, a lifetime ahead of her… and champions who kept climbing long past the age where humans back home burned out.
This world wasn’t built for shortcuts.
It was built for the long game—
and the people who survived it.
I shook my head, clearing out the thoughts about how terrifying they are That was a problem for future me. Right now, I finally had something exciting to focus on.
“Okay,” I said, leaning in a little. “What moves will she actually know? What does a juvenile Spheal start with?”
The answer formed instantly:
“A juvenile Spheal begins with Growl, Powder Snow, Rollout, and Water Gun.”
A spark of excitement shot through me before I could stop it.
Walrein… actual Walrein.
Not the useless, bottom-tier competitive Pokémon I remembered from the games.
In the old world, Walrein wasn’t even OU — barely used at all. Bad movepool, mediocre stats, too slow to matter.
But here…
with real biology, real training…
and the diluted King Gene awakening later…
A fully grown Walrein could easily touch power levels that rivaled or Surpass pseudo-legendaries.
Moves weren’t limited to four neat little boxes anymore.
If she could learn it, she could use it.
The System continued:
“You may select up to four egg moves for your Spheal.”
A list followed:
“Available egg moves include:
• Rest
• Ice Shard
• Aqua Ring
• Signal Beam
• Hail
• Stockpile
• Mud Shot
• Curse”
I felt it—real excitement.
Not the childish kind, but the kind that buzzes deep in your bones.
This wasn’t just some underpowered, forgotten Water/Ice type anymore.
With proper training…
With a slow-awakening King Gene…
With a full movepool…
Walrein could become terrifying.
Breakfast was chaos wrapped in noise and sprinkled with disaster.
The eleven kids getting their first Pokémon were vibrating with excitement, practically levitating off their chairs. The younger kids swarmed them like they were rare exhibits. And the matron… the matron was fighting for her life.
She moved through the dining hall like a storm disguised as a person—snatching spoons from kids who turned them into swords, redirecting bowls before they hit the floor, and somehow managing to maintain a very strained smile that said she was seconds from screaming.
At one point she actually clapped her hands and shouted,
“No one is evolving before breakfast! Sit down!”
I had no clue what that was supposed to mean, but it worked.
Three kids sat instantly.
With all of that going on, she barely noticed me. I picked the quietest corner and dug into my breakfast—a bowl of fresh greens and mixed berries. Red, blue, orange, and a few deep-purple slices that tasted like sweetness fused with energy. No meat, of course. Not in this world. With every animal being a Pokémon, berries carried all the nutrients humans needed.
I finished quickly, staying invisible by simply… not existing emotionally. If I didn’t react, no one would bother me. With the matron wrestling excitement out of a room full of children, it worked perfectly.
When I placed my bowl away, I knew I couldn’t just leave. No child ever “just leaves” during morning chaos. So I approached her while she was in the middle of pulling two boys apart—one was crying, the other insisting he “did nothing” even though his face was covered in berry juice.
“I’m going out for a bit,” I said calmly. “Not the park. The library.”
She froze mid-scold.
Her eyes lit up like someone had just handed her a vacation brochure.
“The library? Yes. Good. Go. Wonderful choice. Very responsible.”
Then she resumed dragging the berry-covered boy back to his seat.
No kids volunteered to follow me.
Of course they didn’t.
The library was the natural enemy of childhood.
I stepped outside without a single question trailing behind me.
Pewter City looked beautiful under the morning sun—broad stone streets, low-rise homes built from pale mountain rock, small hanging gardens from balconies, and open spaces that made the air feel light. Not a miniature town, not a massive sprawl—just a calm, lived-in city.
The Pokémon Center and its attached Hospital stood taller than everything else. A landmark. The gym wasn’t in sight, which probably meant it sat near the mountain’s edge—far enough not to disturb the rest of the city with training noise.
My pace slowed as I got closer to the harbor. The air shifted—mountain freshness giving way to sea breeze, salt, and the unmistakable smell of the fish market. Vendors shouted over each other. Crates thumped. Water-types splashed in shallow inspection pools.
And somewhere among all that—
A young Spheal, recently spilled out of a cold-storage container, would be bobbing nervously in the water near the ledge.
You might wonder how a world filled with sentient Pokémon could have something like "fish" or "poultry" on the menu without it being a moral nightmare.
The answer is simple: normal animals from my old world still exist here. Chickens, turkeys, and various species of non-Pokémon fish are a staple of the human diet. You won't find cows or pigs—those niches seem entirely filled by Pokémon species—but the common livestock that does exist is very much protected. Because they lack the supernatural power, intelligence, and "Aura" of Pokémon, they are incredibly weak in this world. The League and local governments maintain strict protections over them; they are essentially a sheltered, non-sentient food source that keeps humanity from having to make the choice of eating their neighbors or more likely get eaten by them. I am definitely going to brush up on history on how on earth humans survived if the animals or rather pokemon here are smart and powerful.
I walked up to a vendor arranging the small red fish on crushed ice. He barely spared me a glance, far too busy shouting prices at passing customers.
“Four,” I said quietly. “Cleaned. No head. No Bones.”
He grunt and quickly did as I asked and wrapped four pieces in leaf-paper and handed them over with practiced movements. People bought these all the time—cooking, feeding pets, training. Nothing suspicious.
I dropped a quarter of my allowance onto the counter. It hurt, but this was worth it.
The vendor swept the coins into his apron without counting, already turning to the next buyer. Perfect.
I tucked the wrapped pack into my pocket and headed toward the stone ledge overlooking the harbor. The sea breeze hit me—cool, salty, mixed with the sharp scent of the fish market—and the shouts of workers blended with the splash of Water-types being checked at the inspection basins.
And somewhere among those pools…
A young Spheal—scared, confused, rolled here by accident but calmed by the smell of food—was waiting for me.
My pace slowed without thinking.
This was the moment.
I was about to meet her for the first time.
Bright blue fur shimmered under the sunlight, broken by soft white speckles scattered across her back. Her belly was a smooth, clean white—round and plush-looking, like a snowball dipped halfway into the sea. She had no legs at all, just two stubby blue flippers on her sides and a single rounded tail like a baby seal’s, flicking up and down with uncontrollable excitement.
She looked up at me the moment I approached.
Dark blue eyes bright.
Tiny white teeth showing in a clumsy, delighted grin.
Then she barked—a high, enthusiastic sound that echoed off the harbor walls.
Her little seal-tail slapped the water, sending droplets flying as she paddled toward me in frantic, adorable bursts. Every flap of her blue flippers made her whole spherical body wobble like she was rolling through the water rather than swimming.
I crouched down by the edge of the basin, keeping my smile soft—no teeth, nothing threatening.
“Hey there,” I murmured.
She barked again as if that counted as a conversation, inching even closer, bumping gently against the stone.
I pulled one of the wrapped boneless fish pieces from my pocket, unfolded the leaf-paper, and tossed the small red fillet toward her. She caught it instantly—a wet little plop—and scarfed it down in seconds, chomping with such fierce enthusiasm I almost laughed.
Her seal-tail thumped the water again.
Her blue flippers slapped wildly.
She barked, wiggling in place like pure happiness given round, fluffy form.
I grinned before I even realized it—one of those unfiltered, stupidly genuine smiles that slipped out on their own.
The kind every pet owner knows.
The kind that hits when you come home exhausted and your dog sprints at you like you’re the greatest thing that’s ever existed.
That warm, grounding pull in the chest.
That little spark of Oh. You’re happy to see me.
It washed the stress out of my system like it had never been there.
She barked again, flippers splashing, seal-tail thumping the water with enough force to drench the stone. I pulled out a second fish and tossed it to her. She caught it mid-bounce and devoured it just as fast, eyes shining with the kind of joy that made the whole harbor feel brighter.
“Good girl,” I whispered, unable to stop the softness in my voice.
I held my hand out slowly, palm up, letting her come to me if she wanted. She sniffed it first—tiny nose brushing my skin—then nudged her head into my palm like it was the most natural thing in the world.
My chest melted.
I rubbed her head gently, fingers sinking into the thick, cool fur. She closed her eyes and leaned harder into the touch, letting out a low, pleased rumble that vibrated through her round little body. She bumped her forehead against my hand again and again, as if telling me to keep going.
I almost… almost scooped her up and hugged her right there.
The urge was that strong.
Instead, still rubbing her head, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the third fillet. I slid it toward her hand-to-mouth, and she gobbled it with happy chomps, tail flapping so hard she nearly rolled onto her back.
Her eyes opened again—brighter, warmer, fixed on me.
And for the first time since waking up in this world…
I felt something quietly click into place.
She trusted me.
And I already adored her.
She was smarter than she looked.
Even while wobbling with joy, her eyes kept flicking to my left hand—the one I used to unwrap the fish and toss it to her. Every tiny movement I made drew her attention, her head tilting just a little, as if she was trying to anticipate where the next treat would come from.
Curious.
Alert.
Already connecting actions and rewards.
I let out a soft breath, rolled up my sleeves, and stepped closer to the edge. The stone was cool under my knees as I sank down and let the lower half of my legs slip into the water. It was cold, but not painfully so—just enough to sharpen my senses.
Slowly, I opened my left hand.
Palm up.
Still.
Inviting.
For a few seconds, she didn’t move. Her dark blue eyes flicked between my face and my hand, evaluating in that innocent-but-thoughtful way baby Pokémon always did. Her flippers twitched. Her seal-tail dipped.
Then—
she swam toward me.
A tiny, determined wobble.
A little splash.
A bark that sounded like she was reassuring herself.
When she reached me, she bumped her round forehead into my palm again, and that was all the permission I needed. I slid my arm under her and lifted.
She was heavy, but not overwhelming—solid in that comforting way round animals tend to be, all blubber and fluff and soft, cool fur. She settled into my lap with a small chirp, flippers resting against my stomach, tail draping over my knee.
I exhaled slowly, unable to hide how warm that felt.
I took out the next piece and held it near her mouth. She leaned forward with no hesitation this time, eating it with eager chomps while her eyes stayed half-lidded from the head rubs I kept giving her.
Her fur was unbelievably soft—like cool velvet mixed with down feathers. My fingers sank in gently, and she let out a pleased rumble, pressing her head harder into my hand
And without even trying, it spread straight through me—washing away whatever fear or confusion still clung to my chest from waking up in a new world.
She trusted me.
She liked me.
For the first time that morning, the world didn’t feel unfamiliar.
It felt… right.