Welcome to Johto, New Save?

[Bladesunder]

Why the hell was Bugsy using electric attacks on a ground type?

Click to shrink...

It's to stagger and disrupt he is also water type.

 

[Lillie Jones]

thanks for the chapters
The Journey continues
Cheers!

 

[dxdragon]

Thanks for the chapter!
Just started reading this like 20 mins ago, I love it!
Especially from Chapter 10 onwards.

Keep it up! Looking forward to where this goes

 

[Xcell]

So the main character has the Pokemon team he used through most of the playthrough in emerald. So I assume most the Pokemon in the team had a level of 60 or so. As that's about the level you'd need for most pokemon in your team to beat the Pokemon League. As the main character didn't indicate that he had any 90 to 100 level Pokemon on his team the kind of Pokemon that crush legendaries under their boot and take out the entire Pokemon League single-handedly. I personally don't know about other people but I always make it a point when I play the games to max out a couple of the Pokemon in their stats and level because I like crushing the league with one Pokemon I even watched a guy on YouTube do it with a magickarp that was pretty funny because he only had two move splash and tackle are probably the weakest moves in the game.

 

[Bladesunder]

[AN: Short post battle chapter. Next up, Interlude 2 which will be lengthy as we see what Al's overwhelming win has stirred.]

The dust of the final blow still clung to the Gym's rafters as the League official raised her hand.

"Heracross is unable to battle. The winner is Swampert."

The cheer came late—less like an explosion, more like a release. A breath the entire building had been holding finally exhaled.

But Al didn't hear it.

He knelt at the edge of the cracked floor, meeting Swampert's gaze. His partner's breathing was ragged. His stance wavered, one knee dipping, the other trembling from effort.

But his eyes were still sharp.

Still steady.

Al nodded.

That's enough.

A flash of red light swept across the arena, and Swampert disappeared into the safety of his Poké Ball.

Al clipped it back to his belt and turned, the fractured floor giving a soft groan under his boots.

(break)

The recovery wing of Azalea's Pokémon Center was a small, quiet ward removed from the usual bustle of treatment. It was designed for Gym challengers—equipped not just to heal, but to preserve privacy.

Al stepped inside alone.

The doors sealed behind him with a soft hiss. Cool white light glowed over the recovery tank as the automated assistant reached for Swampert's ball. Al handed it over without a word.

The tank opened slowly, filling with a shallow pool of temperature-controlled water.

Swampert reappeared in a flood of red light.

The second he hit the water, his muscles uncoiled. His head tilted back. His eyes stayed open.

He wasn't asleep.

Just still.

The hydrotherapy system began to hum. Arms unfolded from the tank's edge—scanners, tension analyzers, sub-dermal massagers.

Al pulled a chair up beside the tank and sat.

For a long time, neither of them moved.

(break)

Al leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, watching the monitor scroll.

Swampert's pulse rate was already returning to baseline. Minor internal bruising. Severe fatigue. But the system marked his overall state with a green bar labeled "Stabilizing."

"Of course," Al murmured.

His reflection blinked back at him in the tank's glass.

And then—

Swampert's arm twitched.

Not from pain.

The movement was short, tight.

It looked like a punch.

Not a real one.

Just muscle memory.

A blow remembered, even in sleep.

Al didn't smile.

But he nodded, faintly.

(break)

Some time passed.

Then Al reached to his belt and tapped Gardevoir's ball.

She emerged in a soft, quiet shimmer of light.

No sound. No question.

She stepped beside the tank and laid her hand gently against the glass.

Swampert didn't stir.

She stayed there a moment—eyes closed, head slightly bowed.

Al watched them without a word.

Then, after a minute, he returned her to the ball.

(break)

As he stood to stretch, he walked over to the console in the corner and keyed in his access.

The team's vitals appeared—clean, efficient summaries, scrolling one after the other.

Al read through them all.

Then back again.

He paused on Metagross's chart.

"…We'll need a quiet place for him," he muttered to himself.

(break)

Sometime later, a quiet knock announced Nurse Joy's arrival.

She carried no clipboard—just a small data slate and a faint smile.

She glanced once toward the tank, then to Al.

"I've rarely seen muscle and healing patterns like this," she said.

Al raised an eyebrow.

"Swampert?"

Joy nodded, tapping her screen. "Him, yes. And the rest of your roster. Not just strong—they're efficient. Every system reads like they've been optimized for performance. No wasted energy. No strain beyond calculated levels."

She looked from the data to Swampert.

"There's pride in him. Not ego. Just… ownership. It's rare."

Al didn't respond.

But Joy didn't expect him to.

She checked a few boxes, then offered a small bow.

"He'll be fully mobile by tomorrow night. I'll have the final report sent to your room."

And she left.

(break)

Later, as the lights dimmed and the ward shifted into its evening cycle, Al leaned back in the chair again.

He let his head rest against the wall.

And without meaning to, a memory surfaced—

The moment Swampert had taken Heracross's Reversal.

The blast of red light. The way he staggered.

And still stood.

Al hadn't said much then.

Just one thing.

"Hold. Just hold."

He hadn't needed to say more.

Swampert had understood.

(break)

He stood a little later, collecting the team's Poké Balls from the cabinet.

As he clipped each one back to his belt, he paused on Metagross's.

The ball was cold.

But it hummed faintly when he touched it.

Alive. Waiting.

"We'll get you moving again," Al said softly.

He tucked it away and turned toward the exit.

(break)

Outside, the Pokémon Center courtyard was quiet. Moonlight lit the cobblestones and the tops of the lampposts. The town had long since settled. Even the wind was still.

Al walked slowly.

No destination in mind.

He circled the block once—hands in his coat, boots whispering against the stone.

There was nothing to say.

But he carried the silence like a badge.

Not emptiness.

Just peace.

(break)

As he reentered the Center, a trainer no older than fifteen stood by the front desk—half-asleep, still wearing a hoodie and mismatched shoes.

The boy looked up when Al passed.

His eyes widened.

He didn't say a name.

Just said "He didn't flinch."

Al paused.

Looked at him.

The boy nodded.

"Your Swampert. I watched the match. He didn't even flinch when Heracross hit him."

Al held the boy's gaze for a second longer.

Then nodded once.

And walked on.

(break)

Back in his room, the lights were dimmed.

Al placed each Poké Ball in its slot on the desk rack, pausing for just a second over Swampert's.

Then Metagross's.

He tapped the activation panel, watching the blue light pulse faintly within.

Not dead.

Just resting.

He stood there for a long moment.

Then turned off the lights.

 

[Phylonemios]

Damn, he got that Red feeling with him ! Is he aura farming (heh) ?

Thank you for writing ! Can't wait for more !

 

[MidsizePig]

I don't think anyone can say shit about Buggsy after that match. His Pokemon went toe to toe with some TOP contenders. Any bug that manages to hurt a Metagross to that extent deserves recognition.

 

[PenguTengu]

Almost forgot this fic existed and had to binge read the newer chaps, holy shit dude is just aura farming i love it

 

[Bladesunder]

The Old Guard - Azalea Town Café, the Morning After

The smell of hot broth and steeped tea drifted through the open windows of the Azalea Café.

It was still early. The sun was just climbing past the treetops, the streets still damp with morning mist. Inside, locals had already taken their usual seats. No one rushed here. The place was old, settled, the kind of spot where conversations stretched slow and the chairs creaked comfortably beneath the weight of memory.

A small crowd had gathered around the main screen.

The broadcast was on loop—no commentary now, just raw footage. A camera angle from above the battlefield played on mute. Swampert, drenched in mud hammering Heracross through a cracked stone floor. Heracross refusing to fall. Then the moment when both Pokémon collided—Focus Punch and Megahorn—and the entire arena seemed to buckle.

From the counter, an older man stirred his tea slowly.

"Bugsy didn't embarrass himself," he said, voice low but clear. "Not one bit."

Across from him, a woman in a thick-knit shawl nodded. "Heracross almost took it."

"He had to Rest," said a younger voice nearby, a trainer barely out of his teens. "That fight drained him. You could see it."

"Still got back up," the older man muttered. He turned slightly toward the screen, where the final moments of the match played again.

"He got up," he repeated. "But so did Bugsy's team. You all forget—this was Bug-types going blow for blow with an elite-tier team. You think Scizor, Durant, Heracross made it easy? That wasn't a wipe. That was a brawl."

The teenager quieted.

The woman sipped her tea. "Swampert was terrifying."

The man nodded. "He was. But you know what? It's about time someone remembered what Bugsy's crew can do."

Someone else chimed in from across the room. "You see the replay where Illumise kept dodging? Got two clean hits in during Rest?"

"Yup," the older man said, smiling faintly. "Bugsy had them fighting like their lives were on the line. And they almost held."

The footage looped again.

This time, they all watched in silence as Swampert took Heracross's Reversal and didn't fall.

Then the hammer arm.

Then the dust.

Someone murmured, "He's not from around here."

The old man didn't answer right away.

Then he said:

"No. But I think we'll be hearing his name again real soon."

(break)

Clicks and Crits - Live Battle Breakdown

"Alright, alright, quiet in chat, we're going frame-by-frame!"

The screen split cleanly between two feeds: on the left, a paused freeze-frame of Swampert slamming through Bugsy's Stealth Web battlefield; on the right, a rapid-fire chat scroll full of emojis, capital-lettered gasps, and slow-mode warnings.

A man leaned in close to the webcam. His bright green hoodie bore the words "Clicks and Crits" across the chest. His eyes were wide with disbelief, mouth twitching between a grin and a slow shake of the head.

"This—this wasn't even the climax," he said, jabbing his stylus toward the Heracross exchange. "He used Rest. In a Star Badge match. Got pelted by Thunderbolt and Signal Beam mid-cycle, and still came up swinging. Tell me that isn't the coldest thing you've seen all month."

The chat burst again.

>"REST STRATS ARE REAL??"
> "LMAOOO that Heracross held tho"
> "Swampert's built like a truck made of other trucks"
> "LOL he is immune to thunderbolt wtf was bugsy doing"

Clicks took a breath, flipping his view to a new slide. This time, it was a still of Bugsy's face during the final Earthquake.

"People keep sleeping on Bugsy," he said. "But look—Bug-types don't last long against this kind of pressure. And he took down a Metagross, nearly dropped a Swampert that tanked three full sets of utility pressure, and made the guy actually rest in the middle of a match."

He tapped the screen once.

"Respect."

Then he switched again—this time to a rotating 3D scan of Swampert's final charge.

"Okay. Look here. That Hammer Arm? That's after a Close Combat, a Megahorn, and Reversal. He's limping. He's bleeding. But he's still punching through defense like a freight car."

He pointed.

"Watch his eyes. He never blinks."

Someone in chat typed:

>"Champion-tier composure."

Clicks paused.

Then leaned back, arms crossed.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'd believe it."

He looked into the camera directly.

"This dude? Whoever he is? He didn't come to play badges."

(break)

League Circle - Johto Gym Leader Roundtable, Private Channel

The League call was muted at first—just flickers of video feeds and the faint sound of coffee being poured.

Bugsy's face was drawn but calm, eyes sharp as ever. He'd cleaned up since the match, dressed now in a deep green hoodie with sleeves rolled past his elbows. Across from him on the screen grid, Falkner sipped something from a porcelain mug and didn't hide the frown between his brows.

"Let me just say it outright," Falkner said, voice even. "You let him take all six with just two Pokémon?"

Bugsy raised an eyebrow.

"He signed up for a Star Badge match."

Falkner's eyes didn't leave the screen. "That doesn't mean you roll over."

In another corner of the call, Whitney leaned back in a plush seat, hair in a loose braid. She kicked a sneaker up on the desk, smirking faintly.

"I think it was hot," she said. "Not like, cute-hot. But intense. That Swampert? I felt those hits through the screen."

Bugsy nodded once. "So did I. So did Heracross."

Morty hadn't spoken yet.

He sat in dim lighting, face half-shadowed. The only light came from a candle beside him and the slow flicker of the replay playing in his periphery.

When he did speak, his voice was soft.

Morty nodded. "That's not just strength. That's message. Intent."

Falkner snorted. "Or arrogance."

"Or discipline," Bugsy cut in.

There was a pause.

Whitney glanced toward the screen, where the feed paused on Swampert standing bloodied but tall over Heracross's fallen form.

"You think he'll come to Goldenrod?" she asked.

Bugsy gave a half-smile. "If he does, he's not bringing Swampert."

That drew a couple raised eyebrows.

"He told me. Quietly, after the match. He's rotating his team. Wants every one of them at the same level. No repeats unless necessary."

Falkner scoffed. "Good. Because if he throws a Salamence or Metagross into another mid-Gym, I'll file a complaint."

Whitney laughed. "You won't."

Falkner didn't answer.

Morty's gaze was fixed elsewhere now, somewhere none of them could see.

"I want to see how the others react."

Bugsy leaned back in his chair.

"They're already watching."

(break)

League Strategic Oversight - Indigo Plateau, Internal Operations

The footage played silently across a wall-sized holo-screen. No sound. Just angles. Overhead. Side view. Slow motion. Thermal.

Swampert's Hammer Arm landed.

Heracross folded.

Dust rose.

And the playback looped.

A small group sat at the far end of a dark-paneled conference room, lit only by dim overhead projectors and the quiet pulse of data terminals. Badges shimmered on their lapels—some plain, some gold, some deep black.

At the head of the table, Director Aleva narrowed her eyes.

"Pause."

The feed froze with Heracross mid-collapse.

She glanced down at the file in her lap. No last name. No origin flag. No regional transfer paperwork. No League-accredited mentorship.

Just a name: Al.

Age listed as unknown. Registration ID: Manual override from the Hoenn database. Flagged as anomalous.

"Trainer experience?"

"Unknown. There's no pre-record of his badge journey. It starts cold."

Another voice added, "No Gym tracking data prior to Falkner."

The Director stared at the frozen image on screen.

"Metagross. Swampert. Salamence. Gardevoir. Breloom. Manectric."

She recited the list slowly, like cataloging weapons.

"Half of those are League-response tier."

Silence followed.

A second analyst chimed in. "We've tagged the match under Code Gray: Unaffiliated Elite. Not a threat classification, just watchlist."

Aleva nodded.

"Leave it at Gray. No escalation."

Another pause.

Then: "What about intent?"

A third analyst shrugged slightly. "He's not grandstanding. No post-match declarations. No social tracking. Zero media presence. But…"

He flipped a screen.

"…every battle has been decisive. Clean. Minimal commands. The Pokémon aren't just powerful—they're disciplined. They've been trained to think."

Someone muttered, "Could be military. Or former League."

"No matching registry," said the analyst flatly. "None we can access, anyway."

Aleva didn't look away from the screen.

"Do we expect him at Goldenrod?"

A beat.

Then a murmur of consensus.

"Yes."

She tapped her stylus lightly against the edge of her folder.

"Fine. Assign a taskforce. Passive observation only. No contact."

She turned her gaze once more to the frozen frame on the screen—Swampert's bloodied silhouette, still upright in the dust.

"And flag it for remote trace if another Elite-type battle surfaces."

The League room remained still, the air tense with possibility.

Then a soft ping echoed across the table—a secure notification.

Director Aleva glanced down.

Her brows lifted.

She tapped her console, expanding a seal only a handful of League officials ever saw.

International Police Directive — Priority Classification: Yellow Spiral.

The room shifted.

Aleva straightened in her chair.

"This just escalated."

A voice crackled softly over her terminal. Calm. Clipped. Unmarked accent.

"Indigo Oversight. We've reviewed the Azalea footage."

Aleva didn't respond—just waited.

"We've seen teams like his before. But not untagged. Not without origin. Not without trail. You have no trainer logs. No developmental records. No League grooming or combat schooling. And you're telling me he shows up cold in Johto running a team like that?"

Aleva's eyes narrowed. "We're not saying he's hostile."

"We're not saying he is."

Another pause.

"We're sending someone."

"Under what classification?"

"Interview only."

Aleva tapped her screen once.

A list of field agents appeared.

The one selected was already en route.

The voice continued, quiet as ever.

"We need to know where he came from. Because people like him don't just appear. Not with those Pokémon. Not with that strength without any history."

Aleva closed the message and sat back.

Silent agreement passed across the table.

The League would keep watching.

But the International Police were moving.

(break)

Sinnoh – Battle Tower Observation Lounge, Fight Area

Rain tapped against the thick windows of the tower's upper floor.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of ozone and copper—disinfectants, polish, and pressure. Monitors lined the walls, each displaying high-tier replays from active League and Frontier circuits.

A woman with cropped silver hair sat cross-legged in one of the back chairs, a data pad resting on her knee.

She wasn't watching Sinnoh matches.

Her eyes were fixed on Johto.

Specifically: Azalea Gym. Star Badge Match. Unedited Cut.

The screen looped again. Swampert stepped through the Wide Guard into a full-body Hammer Arm that folded Heracross backwards. Not a lucky hit. Not brute panic.

Calculated pressure. Executed under exhaustion.

She tilted her head.

"Two Pokémon," she murmured. "Six takedowns. Star-tier."

A voice buzzed from the pad at her side—her assistant, piping in from the briefing room.

"You're supposed to be reviewing the Kalos bracket."

"I will," she replied. "After I figure out where the hell this guy came from."

Another pause.

"Do we have his League tag?"

"Nothing confirmed. Johto says he's 'Al'. That's it."

The silver-haired woman smiled faintly.

"Well then."

She leaned forward and flagged the match file under "External Tier-3 Review."

"If he crosses into Sinnoh, I want to know."

(break)

Kalos – Trainer's Lounge, Lumiose Outskirts

Sunset poured golden light through the open-air pavilion of a private trainer compound just outside Lumiose City.

A slim young man in a dark blue jacket leaned over a wall-mounted holo-screen, a glass of citrus tea forgotten in his hand.

He wasn't the kind to stare.

He'd fought in Unova. Trained in Hoenn. Watched battle footage like others breathed.

But he'd rewound this one.

Twice.

Now, as the final moments of the Azalea fight unfolded—Swampert's roar, Heracross crashing down, the field collapsing—he paused the frame and stared at the dust cloud rising beneath the blue titan's boots.

He tilted his head.

"You don't see that in Gym circuits."

A voice behind him—his coordinator—looked up from a tablet. "What?"

He tapped the screen. "This guy. Two Pokémon. Six knockouts. And not a rookie sweep. Bugsy Star Badge."

"That match was yesterday."

He set the tea down without drinking it.

Then quietly added:

"If he ever comes to Kalos, I want the first match."

(break)

Professor Elm's Lab, New Bark Town

Stacks of notes littered the edge of the terminal. Elm leaned over the main monitor, glasses perched halfway down his nose, fingers dancing across the touchpad as regional data logs flowed by in rapid succession.

He wasn't watching the battle like the others.

He was reading the raw telemetry.

Every Gym battle in Johto fed data into the regional net—movement stats, pressure calculations, biofeedback from League-monitored Pokémon. It was a treasure trove for developmental theory.

But this one—

This one had made his system stutter.

He tapped again, isolating the Swampert's vitals. Then the Metagross. Then the timestamps for how long each one remained on the field.

Thirty-nine minutes of combat.

Two Pokémon.

Six knockouts.

He squinted at the stress markers from Swampert's file.

They spiked—sharply—then leveled.

Not because damage had decreased.

Because Swampert had adapted.

Elm leaned back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"This isn't just power," he murmured. "This is stress buffering. Mental fortitude aligned with muscle memory."

Elm turned slowly to his assistant.

"Pull the neural signature data."

"From the Swampert?"

"From all of them."

The assistant blinked. "That'll take days to collate."

Elm nodded. "Do it anyway."

He looked back to the screen.

"They don't move like recent partners," he said quietly. "They move like they've known each other longer than they've been alive."

His voice dropped lower.

"I want to know where he got them."

(break)

Team Rocket Internal Monitor, Unknown Location

The room was low-lit and windowless, painted in shades of rust and gray. Screens lined the far wall, flickering with filtered League broadcasts, surveillance nodes, and coded file requests.

A single operator sat at the primary desk. No name tag. No uniform beyond a black collar shirt and a wrist chip bearing Rocket credentials. A half-empty mug of instant coffee steamed quietly next to the keyboard.

He tapped twice. Opened a flagged folder.

MATCH ID: JHT-STAR-2287
Location: Azalea Town Gym
Classification: Star Badge Challenge – Tier 3
Trainer Alias: AL
Team Composition: [Metagross, Swampert, Breloom, Manectric, Gardevoir, Salamence]

The Rocket operator narrowed his eyes.

He let the footage play—audio off. The full match, no edits. Swampert standing alone against Bugsy's last four. Roar. Rest. Wide Guard. Earthquake. Hammer Arm.

The operator said nothing.

He simply highlighted the word "Swampert" and cross-referenced every known League performance file tied to that species in the last two decades.

Nothing matched.

Not the stance.

Not the endurance curve.

Not the move set density.

Certainly not the precision.

He switched to thermal overlay.

Watched the body heat pattern remain steady even under damage load. No flinches. No spike-and-crash fatigue.

He tapped once and brought up the threat classification interface.

Target Status:
→ Non-Affiliated. Not Rocket. Not League.

Threat Potential:
→ Team Power: High
→ Tactical Sync: Unverified, likely Military or Rogue Elite
→ Strategic Value: Unknown
→ Engagement Protocol: DO NOT ENGAGE (Passive Tracking Recommended)

At the bottom of the screen, the file was tagged with a bright orange header:

UNREGULATED ENTITY — STRENGTH CONFIRMED
MONITOR AND WAIT.

He leaned back in his chair.

The match ended.

But his eyes stayed on that final frame—Swampert half-kneeling in the rubble, still awake.

And hit save.

Absolutely—perfect for a bit of levity and flavor in this otherwise serious interlude. Here's a brief POV from a random guy who made a wild bet on Al going 2-for-6 in the Star Badge match… and walked away rich.

(break)


Some Pub in Ecruteak

"Alright, alright, listen—I didn't know he was gonna win like that."

Koda grinned as he leaned back against the sticky booth cushion, pint in one hand, the other waving as three friends crowded around his table, all wearing expressions somewhere between jealousy and disbelief.

"You bet what? Like—actual coin? On a sweep?"

"No, no," Koda said, laughing. "That would've been stupid. I put down 1,000 on 2-for-6. You know, just for laughs. I figured—new face, weird name, guy walks in with a Metagross and a thousand-yard stare? Something's either gonna break him or he's gonna break the floor."

He tapped his phone and pulled up the digital slip.

Wager: AL (Challenger) defeats 6 Gym Pokémon using only 2 Pokémon.
Odds: 88.7 to 1
Payout: 89,700₽

"And what happened?" he said, raising his glass. "That Swampert came in and dug a grave with his bare fins."

His friends stared at the slip.

"You... really just guessed?"

"Swear on my Jolteon," Koda said. "I just looked at him and thought—'That dude's either gonna vanish in two minutes or commit structural war crimes.'"

One of the others groaned and slammed their head into the table.

Koda just toasted the ceiling and took another sip.

"To wild guesses," he said.

"And to the walking earthquake who made me rich."

 

[Yindel]

Im kinda curious whether he's rockin megastones, or has access to his P.C.

 

[Bladesunder]

Im kinda curious whether he's rockin megastones, or has access to his P.C.

Click to shrink...

I mean, if you want spoiler I can answer that; I'm hoping to answer those two questions soon, hopefully in the next week-ish worth of chapters just trying to make happen at the right time. I am traveling for work this week but hope to still do at least 1 chapter a day to the best of my ability.

 

[Lillie Jones]

thanks for the chapter
The Journey continues
Cheers!

 

[ctrap90]

Not bad author bro, but you really need to tone down the way literally everyone is nonstop praising the mc and behaving all philosophical, people just don't act like that. The whole interlude chapter was just too much, you should've just kept the parts with Will, Lance, and the end section tbh, everything else was pretty cringe. Hope this helps you in the future chaps, I've just seen this ruin so many fanfics it's not even funny.

 

[Bladesunder]

Not bad author bro, but you really need to tone down the way literally everyone is nonstop praising the mc and behaving all philosophical, people just don't act like that. The whole interlude chapter was just too much, you should've just kept the parts with Will, Lance, and the end section tbh, everything else was pretty cringe. Hope this helps you in the future chaps, I've just seen this ruin so many fanfics it's not even funny.

Click to shrink...

Thanks for the feedback yeah, I'll tone it down - this last chapter I thought was warranted due to the overwhelming match win but in general it should be dialed back. I was pretty heavy handed at the earlier chapters for sure Thanks for reading and the feedback always helps!

 

[Dromeosaur]

A very, very nice story. You captured the Red vibes, which, respect.

 

[Bladesunder]

The room was quiet.


Al sat on the edge of the Pokémon Center bed, one hand resting beside his PokéNav, the other bracing a notepad against his knee. The screen glowed softly in the dim light, open to the main menu. His eyes flicked across the familiar icons. He tapped twice out of habit—expecting the PC box function.


It wasn't there.


He scrolled. Checked again. Nothing. Frowning, he opened the system utility menu, expecting an error. There wasn't one. He keyed into the support logs. A block of text populated the screen:


"Johto League protocol requires stabling for Pokémon not assigned to a trainer's belt. All non-active Pokémon must be housed in registered care facilities or private stables."


Below that, a verification query:


"Trainer stable contracts: 0."


He stared at it. No box system. No offsite storage. Just his six.


Al shut the PokéNav and sat back. Tension crept behind his eyes. He hadn't thought to check. Not once since waking up in this world. He'd assumed—wrongly—that the mechanics were the same. But this wasn't a game. There was no buffer, no digital limbo. Only what you could carry with you.


He let that settle. Not long. No point in brooding. Instead, he flipped open his notepad.


Page 1: Accessible Power Systems

• Mega Evolution
  
  
• Keystone: Required, location unknown
  
  
• Mega Stones: species-specific, not region-tied
  

Page 2: Not Available

• Z-Moves – Alola region exclusive
  
  
• Dynamax / Gigantamax – Galar-locked
  
  
• Terastallization – Likely Paldea region
  

He paused, then started a list beneath the first block.


Possible Candidates:

• Salamence (Mega confirmed)
  
  
• Gardevoir (confirmed)
  
  
• Manectric (edge case, regional?)
  
  
• Swampert (confirmed)
  
  
• Metagross (confirmed)
  
  
• Breloom (no known Mega)
  

He wrote a line underneath:
Stones and keystone unknown. Confirm presence in Johto. Determine acquisition method.


He flipped the page.


Page 3: Johto Legendary Pokémon

• Entei / Raikou / Suicune – roaming; uncertain activity
  
  
• Lugia – Whirl Islands?
  
  
• Ho-Oh – Bell Tower region
  
  
• Celebi – Ilex Forest shrine (unconfirmed)
  

Status: Real. Unscripted. Behavioral unknown.
He paused again, then added: If they're real, they can be found.


Page 4: Leads

• Ilex Forest – shrine, forest spirits
  
  
• Ecruteak – towers, monks
  
  
• Route trainers with myth knowledge
  
  
• High-tier Gym Leader access (later)
  
  
• League archives (locked?)
  
  
• Monitor battle forums for rumors
  

He set the pen down and leaned back in the chair.


After a minute, he stood and retrieved one Poké Ball from the belt rack—Manectric's. He released him in a quiet flash of light. The electric-type materialized in a half-crouch, sharp eyes scanning the room. Sparks curled faintly along his fur. Al gave him a once-over. Still sharp. Still responsive.


"Good," Al said simply.


Manectric stepped forward and nudged once against Al's side. Al reached over and scratched behind one ear, brief and wordless.


Back at the desk, Al flipped open the PokéNav again—this time navigating League articles and archived battle data. He searched for Mega Evolution sightings, battle anomalies, unverified transformations, and regional folklore. Results trickled in.


One caught his eye—a clipped report from three years prior:


"Trainer Claims Pokémon Changed Form Mid-Battle — League Denies Incident."


Attached was a grainy image of a glowing Salamence mid-air. Distorted, unclear. He tapped through the metadata. Location: Ecruteak, just outside the city. Old tower.


He bookmarked the file. No proof. But it was a start.


As the room dimmed into the night cycle, Al released Gardevoir. She appeared soundlessly, casting a faint light in the room. She didn't speak. Didn't need to.


Al didn't look at her. Just stared at the PokéNav's darkened screen.


"Should've known the boxes weren't here," he said. "Didn't think to check."


Gardevoir tilted her head but didn't pry. He nodded toward the notepad.


"Mega Evolution might be local. If not, we move."


She just stood beside him until the light faded.


(break)


Al left the Pokémon Center before the sun had fully breached the treetops. The town was still half-asleep, shutters drawn, shop signs swinging gently in the wind. His boots struck the worn stone in even strides. No one called after him. No one stopped him.


That was the way he preferred it.


The Poké Balls on his belt pulsed with faint light—internal recovery nearly complete. Swampert's was slower.


He reached the edge of Azalea without looking back. The road narrowed into gravel, then dirt. And then, into roots and leaves.


Ilex Forest waited.


(break)


He released Manectric first. The electric-type appeared in a quiet flash, shook himself, and immediately scanned the canopy ahead. Sparks trailed faintly along his tail. Gardevoir followed, calm as ever.


Neither spoke. Al didn't issue commands. They walked.


The transition wasn't sudden. Trees thickened gradually until the road seemed to disappear behind them. Shadows lengthened. Birdsong faded. The air cooled—denser, heavier. Not hostile. But watching.


Manectric's ears twitched, but no threats approached.


They found a small clearing an hour later—half-ringed with mossy stones. Dry. Flat. Good enough for a short rest.


Al sat against a stone and checked his PokéNav. No GPS. No League beacons. He pulled up an old League bulletin from Johto's research files:


"The shrines of Ilex are rumored to be sensitive to intention. Movement. Silence. Some believe only those who pass through the forest without disruption may witness the deeper paths."


He stared at it for a moment, then closed the file. He didn't believe in superstition. But he understood systems. If the forest had one, he'd learn it.


He released Breloom. The fighter appeared mid-hop, sniffed the air, then began pacing the edge of the clearing. Gardevoir moved to mirror him—not sparring. Just movement.


Al observed. Breloom adjusted constantly to the uneven floor. Gardevoir kept an exact distance, always rotating with him.


They didn't need orders. They adapted to each other.


That was enough.


(break)


By midafternoon, the forest changed.


Al heard rustling—measured, rhythmic. A group of wild Pokémon appeared on the opposite tree line. Aipom. Pidgeotto. Dustox. They didn't approach. Didn't flee. Just watched.


The forest was testing him. Not through threat. Just presence.


Al didn't react. After a moment, he looked away. The wilds could keep their distance. He wasn't here to claim ground.


That evening, he prepped camp. No fire. Just rations, a thermal mat, and enough cover for dew. He rotated the team—Breloom and Gardevoir returned. Swampert came out, sluggish but stable, crouching low near a stone. No injuries flared. Manectric patrolled slowly.


Night settled. Light fell in layered shadows. Something large moved far off, past the trees—no threat, but the air shifted after it passed.


The next morning, Al rose early. He continued east.


Half a mile into the next stretch, he saw it: stone, covered in ivy, cracked at the base.


A shrine.


He didn't approach. Just made a note and kept walking.


(break)


The next morning, Al returned to the shrine.


He followed the same route as before, cutting slightly off the main wildlife paths. The forest was damp with early dew, and the air clung to him as he moved—cool, still, and just heavy enough to notice. Drops settled on his sleeves, and condensation beaded on the edge of his PokéNav. He wiped it off with a thumb but didn't bother turning it on.


Gardevoir moved silently at his side. Manectric trailed behind, ears flicking with each shift in the leaves, but neither of them made a sound. They passed no wild Pokémon. No trainers. Just trees. Just that lingering pressure, like the woods were waiting to see what he would do.


When they reached the shrine again, the clearing felt smaller. Nothing had changed physically, but the space pressed in differently now—more focused. Like it recognized him.


The shrine itself was no more than a cracked stone arch, barely waist-high, overgrown with ivy and rooted so deeply that even the forest had shaped itself around it. No inscriptions. No League tags. Just presence.


Al stepped forward without a word. He rested a hand on Manectric's ball. The Pokémon tensed, low growl barely audible. Al glanced back—Manectric's eyes were fixed on the shrine. Alert, not fearful. Al gave a nod. "Stay."


He approached alone.


The moss underfoot was warm—not sun-warmed, but insulated, like it had retained heat overnight. Gardevoir floated just behind him, posture neutral, eyes steady.


Al stopped in front of the arch, stared at it a long moment, then knelt and touched the base of the stone.


It was rough, weathered, cold beneath the surface warmth. As his fingers settled against it, the wind stilled. The forest fell silent. No birds. No motion. Even the filtered sunlight dimmed slightly, the shadows forming a soft ring around the shrine.


Al didn't move. The air pressed in around him, not heavy but deliberate. Present.


He wasn't under threat.


But he wasn't alone.


After a few seconds, he withdrew his hand. The silence lingered, then slowly lifted. The breeze returned. Leaves rustled again. Gardevoir stepped back—not defensively, but with subtle focus, like she was watching something unseen.


Al crouched again, opened his pack, and removed a small ration bar. He unwrapped it halfway and placed it on the moss at the foot of the arch. Not as an offering of belief—just a marker. Respect. Acknowledgment.


The moss beneath it rippled slightly, like disturbed water.


He didn't react. Just stood, gave the shrine one last glance, and turned to go.


His boot clicked against something small under the moss. He paused, crouched, and brushed it aside to reveal a small, seed-shaped object. Veined with green crystal and streaked with faint copper, it was cool to the touch and lighter than it looked. Not a stone. Not a berry.


He turned it in his fingers once.


No glow. No pulse. But it didn't feel inert.


Without a word, he slipped it into a side pocket.


Gardevoir joined him as he left.


The shrine remained behind them—unchanged.


But as they moved, the forest felt different. Not colder. Not darker. Just… aware.


(break)


That evening, Al stood at the edge of another clearing. The sunlight was fading, the canopy tinted gold. Long shadows cut across the moss. He recalled Breloom with a short command. Across the clearing, a Nuzleaf that had mirrored him earlier stood and echoed the motion, then stilled.


It didn't follow.


Al didn't acknowledge it.


He packed the mat, tightened the straps on his bag, and gave Manectric a glance. The electric-type rose smoothly and fell into step as they departed.


They left the space quietly, without disturbing the wilds. The trees didn't shift behind them, but the tension returned—less welcoming now, more distant. The moment had passed, and the forest had resumed its boundaries.


He didn't look back.


Tomorrow, they'd reach the edge of Ilex.


It would be time to reenter the world again.

 

[Lillie Jones]

thanks for the chapter

 

[Bladesunder]

—Gardevoir—

The forest had grown quiet again. The kind of quiet that wasn't absence but stillness. Like breath held. Like waiting.

Gardevoir stood beneath the canopy, her posture serene, veil-like arms folded loosely. Her eyes remained half-lidded—not in sleep, but in watching. The kind of watching that reached through sound, air, and motion. She didn't need sight to feel when the forest changed its rhythm.

Al sat by the base of a tree, legs drawn up, not writing. Not speaking. Just still.

That was when she understood him best—when he said nothing. His mind, shielded and disciplined, didn't offer her thoughts unless he allowed it. But there were tremors. Echoes. Not words, but weight. Fatigue not of body, but of choice.

He carried everything like it was tactical data. Pain. Memory. Worry. Categorized and shelved.

He never asked for comfort.

So she didn't offer it in the way humans did. She didn't kneel beside him or reach for his shoulder. Instead, she stood nearby. Present. Balanced. He never looked her way, but she felt the corner of his focus adjust—he knew she was there.

That was enough.

The others didn't always understand his silences. Breloom vibrated with motion. Manectric waited for permission like a held bolt of lightning. Even Swampert, reliable and grounded, responded better to structured order.

But she understood patience. She understood pauses between actions, not just the actions themselves.

When he stood and continued walking, she followed.

He didn't need to call her.

He never had.

(break)
—Salamence—

The air shifted.

Salamence opened his eyes.

His wings rustled against the rock beneath him—old stone warmed by the sun and still holding its heat. He lifted his head, sniffed once, and looked across the ridge. Far below, Al moved quietly through the brush. Alone. Not hunting. Not training.

Just walking.

Salamence didn't rise immediately. He watched.

The forest had grown quieter in recent days, but not in the way prey fell silent. This was a deeper quiet. Measured. Ancient. He felt it in his bones. In his wings. Whatever lay beneath the ground here was old enough to demand respect, and so he had given it.

But now that feeling was fading. The forest was letting them go.

He stood, stretching his wings fully for the first time in hours. His joints cracked like thunder. He rolled his shoulders, turned in a half-circle, and took a short glide down to the clearing Al had just exited.

He landed with enough force to stir dirt.

Al didn't flinch.

Salamence respected that.

This man was small. Weak in form. No claws. No armor. No wings. But he walked with precision. Measured. Never frantic. Never hesitant. That mattered.

Salamence had once been untethered. No Trainer. No commands. He remembered the wilderness—battles without meaning.

Al didn't bark orders.

He spoke with purpose.

Every command fit the moment.

And when he said nothing, Salamence chose for himself.

That was power. Shared power. Not dominance.

He could've left at any time. Could've crushed that ball in his jaw if he wanted.

But he didn't.

He fought because he chose to.

And when the time came again, when the next battle rose up like a storm over a cliff, he would stand beside this man and destroy whatever stood before them.

Because Al didn't demand obedience.

He earned it.

(break)
—Gardevoir (Later, by firelight)

That night, Gardevoir sat closest to the edge of the firelight, listening to the low sounds of the others settling around camp.

Breloom had curled into the moss. Swampert rested near the embers, half-submerged in a shallow patch of earth he'd shaped with one strike. Salamence had taken the high ground—always watching, even when at rest.

She didn't sleep. She watched Al.

He sat quietly, checking gear. His expression unchanged. But his mind was moving. That much she could always tell.

He didn't let her read him. But he didn't stop her from being near.

That mattered.

Whatever lay ahead—cities, gyms, shrines—she would walk into it with him.

And she knew, without needing to ask, that he would never take her choice for granted.

(break)
The forest had finally given way.

The path ahead stretched wide and dry, framed by low brush and grasslands. The sky, unfiltered by canopy, looked too open after days beneath trees. Al stepped out onto the packed dirt trail without a word. The air felt thinner. The wind touched his face directly for the first time in days.

Behind him, the team followed in a staggered line. Gardevoir walked just behind, silent as ever. Manectric's gait was looser now that the trees weren't boxing him in. Breloom bounced lightly on his toes, scanning the terrain as if daring something to make itself a target. Swampert moved steadily at the rear, posture relaxed but grounded.

A few hundred meters off the main route, Al found what he was looking for—flat land, dry, open, with enough cover at the edges to keep it contained. He checked the wind, then nodded once.

"This'll do."

He didn't say more. The team already understood.

(break)
Training began with precision drills.

Manectric went first, set thirty meters back from a painted target marker. Al didn't speak. No signal beyond a raised hand and the flick of two fingers.

Manectric launched. Dust kicked up behind him as he surged across the field and struck the marker dead-center. Al checked the time, logged it, and gestured again.

The second run was tighter. The third was clean.

"Good," Al said, and Manectric circled out of formation.

Swampert was next—not for speed, but impact control. Al placed markers in a loose semicircle. Each zone demanded a different force: a water burst to the left, a ground strike low center, an ice punch on a target to the right. Swampert completed the sequence with deliberate movements, controlling each output precisely.

No wasted motion. No overkill.

"Hold."

Breloom moved into position.

His drills focused on burst mobility. Short sprints, sudden pivots, explosive turns. Al adjusted his own stance during each sprint, forcing Breloom to correct his vector mid-motion.

The fighter missed a pivot once, skidded wide, then recovered in less than a second.

"Again," Al said. "Focus on the corner, not the arc."

No pushback. Breloom reset and ran it again—tighter this time.

(break)
After rotations, Al ran a short team drill: Breloom and Manectric against Swampert.

No real strikes. Just pressure. Positioning.

Breloom led with feints and lateral movement. Manectric darted in, tracing close arcs around Swampert's anchor point. Swampert shifted with each pass, making no aggressive move—just blocking angles.

Three passes. One graze.

Al raised his hand to signal the end of the round.

Reset. No one panting. No one pushed too far.

Good.

He stepped back and opened his notepad.

Swampert: recovery steady. Power distribution normalized.
Breloom: fast—needs tighter control on curved approaches.
Manectric: acceleration curve improving. Controlled bursts optimal.

He closed the file.

"Rest."

Swampert immediately dug into a patch of dry earth and settled low. Manectric trotted to the edge of the field and dropped into a crouch. Breloom climbed a low boulder and stretched out along its slope.

Al sat, opened his pack, and distributed basic rations.

There were no orders, no speech. Just a quiet reset.

But not all of them were finished.

(break)
Gardevoir stood just outside the field in her own quiet space. Around her, six small stones orbited at precise intervals, suspended in a soft psychic field. Then, in a flash of silence, she vanished—reappearing several meters away midair.

She caught the stones before they hit the ground.

Teleportation under load.

She repeated it again. And again. Each time with different angles, offsets, speeds. Sometimes she allowed stones to fall before intercepting them. Sometimes she reappeared upside-down. A test of motion and memory, not just power.

She didn't miss.

(break)
Further out, Salamence exploded into flight.

Not high—not for altitude—but in tight aerial loops around the ridgeline. He wasn't testing speed. He was testing control. Directional reversals mid-glide. Sharp climbs. Controlled dives.

Each time he passed near the southern marker, his tail clipped a boulder Al had positioned months ago. The indentations from previous training sessions were deeper now.

He didn't look toward the others.

Just banked. And launched again.

(break)
Metagross didn't move from his stone platform.

He stood locked in a square stance, each leg grounded like a pillar. At set intervals, his claws lifted and struck embedded stones with precise, repeating movements. The angles adjusted between each strike—slight changes in degree, speed, weight.

He wasn't training for power. He was training for optimization.

Every few strikes, he paused and pulsed a wave of psychic energy—recording patterns, running simulations. Scanning probabilities.

His training wasn't reactive.

It was predictive.

(break)

Al watched without speaking.

They trained not because he ordered it.

They trained because each of them understood what came next.

He didn't need to push them.

He just had to be ready when they chose to cut loose.

And Goldenrod would give them that chance.

(break)

The route to Goldenrod stretched in a slow, winding path of grass-lined dirt and packed stone. Al walked at a steady pace, the sunlight warm on his shoulders. The terrain was even, the kind that asked nothing and gave back just enough momentum to keep moving.

Gardevoir drifted silently at his side, veil-arms folding and unfolding with the rhythm of her movement. Manectric padded slightly ahead, ears rotating with every distant sound—no alertness, just habit. The rest of the team remained in their balls. There was no need for numbers out here.

They were a few hours from the edge of Goldenrod's outskirts when Al spotted a figure sitting on a sloped rock near a bend in the trail.

An older trainer, mid-fifties by the look of him. Thick boots, worn cargo pants, and a navy vest over a long-sleeved travel shirt. His white beard was trimmed close, and a sturdy walking stick leaned against the rock beside him. A red thermos sat on the ground near his feet.

As Al approached, the man looked up with an easy smile and nodded.

"Afternoon," he said. "Heading to Goldenrod?"

"Yeah," Al replied.

"Mind if I tag along for a stretch?"

Al paused, gave the man a brief once-over. No tension. No curiosity in his expression. Just the kind of calm that came with experience—and no recognition in his tone.

"Sure."

They walked together.

(break)
The trail curved gently as it climbed. The older man kept pace without trouble, his steps steady, walking stick swinging lightly at his side.

"Name's Hunter," he offered. "Been walking Johto trails since before a lot of the kids trying for badges were born. Used to travel full-time when I was younger. These days I just take a week or two each season to stretch the old legs."

Al nodded. "You still battle?"

Hunter chuckled. "Sometimes. Usually just friendly matches, nothing high-stakes. My team's half-retired. One of them still thinks she's twenty, though." He grinned to himself. "A real spitfire of a Blaziken."

Al raised an eyebrow slightly but said nothing.

Hunter didn't seem to mind the quiet.

"Goldenrod's busy this time of year. Trainers flood in trying to get a feel for city life before heading north. The department store's got a whole new shipment rotation—some rare TMs showing up. Saw someone mention Dragon Claw being on sale. That caught my attention."

His eyes flicked briefly toward Manectric.

"Nice one you've got there. Good posture. Sharp footwork. Bet he can cut tighter arcs than most."

"He can," Al said simply.

"Figured."

They walked in silence for a bit longer. The outer silhouette of Goldenrod's skyline was beginning to emerge—dark, solid shapes against the pale blue sky.

Hunter tapped his walking stick lightly against a stone as they passed.

"Gym scene's changing too. Whitney's trying to shake the old rep, from what I hear. Word is she's testing new setups—more coverage, trickier tempo plays. Not official League stuff yet, but people are paying attention."

Al took that in without a word.

Hunter kept talking, his tone casual.

"Lot of League movement in the area lately, too. Heard from a nurse in Ecruteak that they've been quietly evaluating trainers who've been asking about alternate Gym formats. Star Badge tier matches. Special clearance types."

He glanced over, as if gauging Al's reaction, then smiled again.

"Probably nothing that concerns a traveler like me."

They reached a fork in the path not long after. Hunter slowed and pointed down the smaller trail.

"My camp's off that way. Won't slow you down any more."

He offered a polite nod and a smile. "Safe travels, young man. If Goldenrod gives you a headache, take the eastern garden trails—less people, better coffee."

Al gave him a slight nod. "Thanks."

Hunter turned and walked off down the winding path, his walking stick ticking rhythmically against the ground.

Al watched him go for a second longer, then resumed his pace toward the city.

 

[Lillie Jones]

thanks for the chapter

 

[Mystero]

Gj author for crossposting the fic into the correct category!

 

[Bladesunder]

The Goldenrod Gym wasn't subtle.

Its entrance was wide, set into a tiered plaza lined with glass tiles and stylized Normal-type insignias. The building looked more like a performance venue than a traditional Gym—part stadium, part showroom. Bright banners hung from the awning above the doors, advertising upcoming exhibition matches and League-sanctioned merchandise.

Al stepped through the main doors into a well-lit lobby filled with touchscreen kiosks, League banners, and a wide reception desk where a pair of Gym staff coordinated the flow of trainers and spectators.

He didn't wait in line.

Instead, he approached the nearest staffer with quiet purpose. The woman behind the desk gave him a quick once-over—coat, belt, no flash, no badge lanyard—then turned professional.

"Gym challenge inquiry?" she asked.

"Star Badge," Al replied.

That changed her posture. She didn't nod—just motioned for him to follow. "Right this way."

They passed the main waiting area and took a short hallway to a side office where a secure terminal waited behind a League-locked door. She scanned her ID, keyed a few commands, and gestured for him to step forward.

"Trainer ID?"

Al keyed it in manually.

The system took a second to process before the match intake screen loaded. The woman glanced at it, then looked back to Al. "Your team's cleared for Star Badge tier. Any changes since Azalea?"

"No substitutions."

"Preferred format?"

"Standard six-on-six. No swaps. No assist items."

She input the final entries.

"Soonest available match window is in three days. Open slots again two and a half weeks from today. Whitney's team will be rotated by then."

Al didn't hesitate. "Two and a half weeks."

The staffer raised an eyebrow. "Deliberate prep?"

Al nodded. "I want time to recondition one of my starters."

The woman finalized the entry. "Done. Match scheduled. League confirmation will be sent to your PokéNav tonight. You'll need to check in an hour before the match—standard protocol."

He nodded once.

As she stood, she paused briefly. "Star Badge trainers usually don't delay."

Al didn't answer.

He didn't need to.

(break)

The commons area behind Goldenrod Gym was less a training yard and more a garden designed for high-functioning Pokémon. Open-air courtyards, reinforced sparring circles, and a few elevated walkways crisscrossed a multi-level green space built into the back of the Gym complex. Trainers moved through at their own pace—some in casual wear, others in gear that marked them as recent victors or long-term Gym associates.

Al stood near the northern platform, where the terrain flattened into a circular field marked by practice zones. No crowds. No League reps. Just sunlight, low wind, and space.

He released his team one at a time.

Swampert took a seat near a shallow pool fed by a slow-running water line. Breloom immediately wandered to the edge of the nearest obstacle path and began testing his movement across the uneven stone. Manectric stretched his legs and sniffed the air, catching traces of unfamiliar scents. Metagross hovered in place a few meters off the ground, rotating slowly with methodical pulses of his central field.

Then Gardevoir appeared.

She landed quietly, posture steady, arms folded lightly at her side.

Al gave her a brief glance, then turned toward the inner sparring circle. "With me."

She followed without question.

The others knew what that meant. They scattered—not far, but enough to give space. Swampert closed his eyes, resting. Breloom dropped into a low rhythm against a wooden post, training strikes. Manectric paced. Metagross... watched.

Gardevoir stepped onto the field beside Al.

"You've been ready for a while," he said.

She tilted her head.

"But we haven't moved past formation drills. Not really."

Gardevoir didn't reply, but her field shifted subtly—acceptance.

He tapped his PokéNav. A timed sequence initiated: floating light markers, motion paths, projection lines. The field lit with simulated movement patterns. A complex dance of anticipation.

"Today, we train. Properly."

He stepped back, gave her the field.

"Start phase one."

She moved instantly—teleportation sweeps, control orbs circling like tethered stars. She wasn't just fast. She was exact. Each flicker of displacement aligned with the path Al had set. No wasted movement. No hesitation.

But it wasn't power he was looking for.

It was connection.

He crossed his arms. "Add a delay between phase shifts."

She paused mid-teleport. Adjusted. Reappeared half a second slower. Again. Again. Her form flickered like a heartbeat now, not a machine.

That was what he needed.

Timing aligned not to tempo—but to instinct.

He watched, eyes narrowed.

He could feel something stirring beneath the technique. Not psychic output. Not raw force.

Resonance.

Something was beginning to sync. And it wasn't from commands.

(break)

The Gym commons emptied as the sun dipped behind Goldenrod's skyline. Lights along the upper walls glowed dim yellow, casting long, slanted shadows across the training field. Most trainers had cleared out—either headed to meal halls or rest wings. Only a few silhouettes remained, sparring in near-silence.

Al stayed.

Gardevoir hovered just outside the sparring ring, arms drawn close, veil flowing lightly in the cooling breeze.

He stood across from her now—no distractions, no equipment. Just space.

"We're done training the mind."

He raised his hand, palm outward. "Now we train the link."

Her eyes glinted faintly. She stepped forward.

The battle wasn't explosive.

It was quiet. Purposeful. Gardevoir moved not in arcs of power, but intention—soft feints, short teleports, orbs flickering out just enough to push Al to step or shift. Al didn't call attacks. He moved—adjusting his own posture, gauging spacing, nodding as if answering questions only they understood.

Midway through, she dropped her next movement to half-speed.

Al moved with her—walking a line, tracing the projected arc of her strike, and ending it without impact.

They repeated that again.

And again.

Until the flow wasn't a sequence—it was a rhythm.

At one point, she hesitated. Not a mistake. Just a break in the cycle.

He stepped into the pause. No order. Just presence.

Her field pulsed—gentle, like a ripple across a pond. Not pressure. Not alarm.

Just acknowledgment.

Al took a breath and reached out—not with his hand, but with intention. He didn't command her power. He met it.

A soft pulse of psychic light gathered at her chest. Not an attack. Not a shield.

Something else.

He didn't speak it out loud.

But the thought brushed between them—an understanding. A convergence. A bond that didn't require explanation.

Whatever the future held—whatever shape that energy might take—this was the beginning of it.

They stepped back. Together.

The training session ended without a single word.

And neither of them needed one.

(break)

Gardevoir's POV

The world quieted when he stepped into the ring.

Not because of the noise—there had been little of that to begin with—but because of the intent. The shift in rhythm. The way his eyes settled, steady and unreadable, as they always were.

But this time, they weren't distant.

This time, he wasn't testing her reactions or tracking power output. He was watching her. Engaged, not as a commander, but as a partner.

She felt it the moment he raised his hand—not to order, but to meet her motion. The signal was clear. They weren't training control today. They were training something else.

Something deeper.

Each movement she made was received, not countered. When she pivoted, he shifted. When she hesitated, he waited. She projected a thread of thought—half-formed, reflexive—and he moved as if he'd heard it out loud.

It wasn't speech.

It was trust.

They had fought together before. But this was different. There was no enemy here. No victory to claim.

Just alignment.

Her thoughts reached gently—never invasive, just enough to brush against the outline of his focus. He didn't open the door. But he didn't close it, either. That mattered.

When she slowed the tempo, testing the feel of his response, he adapted without resistance. She felt the difference in his stance: not sharp, not wary. Just... open.

She knew what this was.

Bondwork. The kind of training that didn't teach techniques, but taught presence. Feel. The kind that shaped something stronger than strategies.

And then it happened.

That flicker—quiet and bright. A pulse of something nascent. Familiar. The same kind of energy she'd felt in ancient lines, myth-bound texts. Not magic. Not mystery.

Potential.

She held it for a second longer before letting it fade.

And in that silence, as they both stepped back, she understood:

He wasn't just training her.

He was trusting her to go further than they knew how to explain.

And she would.

(break)

The private field Al had reserved sat quiet beneath a low-slung sky, clouds heavy but dry. The city noise was a distant hum, muffled by hedgerows and training partitions. Gardevoir stood at the center of the grounds, veil-arms folded, feet just above the grass. Her eyes were half-closed—not in meditation, but in calculation.

Al stood fifteen meters back, one foot on the edge marker. His coat was off, sleeves rolled. He didn't speak. Just watched.

The first command came silently. A subtle hand motion—barely a flick.

Gardevoir moved.

A glimmer of psychic energy sparked around her, flaring in delicate rings before tightening into an orb no larger than a marble. It hovered midair, steady, then shot forward toward a set of balanced stones—target markers, aligned by weight.

The first burst struck clean. The top stone flew. The others remained perfectly stacked.

Al raised his hand again.

Gardevoir pivoted, sent another pulse—this one split mid-flight, two smaller projectiles cleaving off and striking paired markers on opposite sides of the field.

One left standing.

Al frowned slightly. Adjusted his stance.

"No flair. Control the recoil," he said.

Gardevoir gave a faint nod and repeated the sequence—slower this time. Her fingers moved in tight, refined gestures, as if shaping the energy instead of projecting it.

This time, all targets fell. Clean.

He nodded once. "Again."

The cycle continued—long enough for the clouds to shift overhead, for sweat to bead on Al's brow and fine tremors to start showing in Gardevoir's shoulders.

But she didn't falter.

They transitioned next into combat form drills—teleport pivots, feint illusions, energy compression. Al walked through every motion, never raising his voice, always tracking the slight delays and adjusting spacing with chalk and quiet notes.

"Left too wide on the second fade," he murmured after a sequence.

Gardevoir exhaled, adjusted.

By the time they stopped, the air around them hummed faintly from residual energy. Not dramatic. Not overwhelming. Just… potent.

They stood in silence for a long minute.

Then Al stepped forward, knelt, and drew a small curve in the dust with his finger—a training symbol from Hoenn. Focus, sharpen, repeat.

He didn't speak it aloud. Didn't need to.

Gardevoir looked down at it, then slowly mirrored the shape with her psychic field, suspending it in light.

It didn't vanish. It hung there. Stable. Shared.

Al let himself exhale.

They were getting closer.

(break)

Goldenrod City moved at a different rhythm in the late afternoon. The shops buzzed with their last wave of customers, cafés spilled quiet music into the streets, and the park near the south district softened under the gold wash of the setting sun.

Al sat on a low stone wall just off the main walking path, Gardevoir beside him, silent.

His eyes followed a group of kids running after a bouncing Skitty. They laughed—loud, unrestrained. It echoed faintly off the trees.

He said nothing at first.

Then quietly, to no one in particular: "You ever wonder how I just… did this?"

Gardevoir turned slightly toward him.

"I shouldn't be this comfortable here," he said. "This world. These rules. I shouldn't have known how to train. How to give commands. How to plan a Gym rotation."

His voice didn't waver. Just puzzled, not distressed.

"I've been here a little over a month, maybe more. No panic. No real fear. Just... adapted. Like muscle memory for a life I didn't live."

He rubbed the back of his neck, watching the kids disappear around a corner. "It's not normal. No waking up lost. No real freakout. Just me, with a full team, knowing exactly what to do."

He glanced at Gardevoir.

"You felt it too, didn't you? Like we didn't have to learn each other."

She didn't speak, but she didn't need to. The way her focus lingered said enough.

Al looked up toward the distant skyline, where the radio tower stood tall and gleaming.

"I'm not afraid of it. Just… starting to wonder what I'm missing."

He stood after a long pause.

"Come on. We've got places to be."

(break)

The days leading up to the Gym match took on a quiet pattern.

Each morning, Al rose early, stopping at the same corner vendor for fresh bread and a cup of strong, bitter coffee. Gardevoir waited with him under the café awning while commuters passed. He never spoke much, but the vendor learned to recognize him quickly enough—no fuss, just a nod, and his usual order was ready.

Afternoons were reserved for training. Not drills, not sparring—refinement. A park bench became their planning table. A fountain plaza their tracking ground. Gardevoir adjusted her control in public spaces, not hiding her presence but never overwhelming. Al followed with notes and pacing, watching her interactions with sound, space, motion.

In the evenings, they walked.

Through department store side streets, across bridges lit with soft lanterns, past outdoor food stalls that served dishes he'd never heard of but instinctively ordered. Sometimes they sat and watched street performers; once, Al gave a coin to a girl doing ribbon acrobatics with a Plusle and Minun. He didn't smile often, but something about it kept him still for longer than usual.

Once, near the greenhouse district, he paused in front of a display about the history of Johto's Gym circuit. He read the entire plaque. Then moved on without comment.

(break)

Goldenrod's nightlife glowed behind shuttered stores and train station platforms. The city wasn't loud—it was constant. Al walked along the edge of a bike path, hands in his coat pockets, gaze distant.

He passed trainers chatting on benches, Pokémon resting in the grass, a boy leaning against a lamppost practicing Poké Ball throws.

No one paid him much attention.

And for now, he preferred it that way.

 

[Lillie Jones]

Thanks for the chapter
The Journey continues
Cheers!

 

[Bladesunder]

Goldenrod moved slow at dawn.
Not because the city was ever truly quiet—but because even a city of its size had to breathe. The overhead trams weren't running yet. The storefronts that blared music and sales pitches through the afternoon were dark and shuttered. The only sound was the soft thrum of automated delivery carts and the scrape of brooms over sidewalk brick.


Al walked with purpose, but not urgency.
He took the side path that wound through the old district—the one not meant for tourists or commercial foot traffic. It curved behind a row of independent cafés and repair shops, places that opened early for working-class regulars and closed long before nightlife ever started. Steam curled from a bakery vent, rich with flour and heat. Someone inside was kneading dough with quiet, practiced rhythm.


He passed without drawing attention.


Gardevoir just behind him. Her focus was inward, but her attention never wavered from him.


At the edge of the alley, the Gym tower came into view.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't gaudy. It was clean, professional, and built like a League asset first and a local landmark second. The white stone and glass reflected the pale morning light in broad planes. The entrance banner simply read:


GOLDENROD GYM — LEADER: WHITNEY — STAR BADGE MATCH TODAY


Al paused at the end of the road.
Didn't speak for a moment.
Then he exhaled.


"She's not going to go easy," he said softly.


Gardevoir didn't answer. But he felt her shift—not in position, but in presence. Ready.


He rolled his shoulders once. Adjusted his coat.


"She's smart. But so are we."


And then they walked forward together—toward the Gym's main gate, toward the match that had waited two weeks in the wings.


(break)


Inside, the Gym was already awake.


League staff moved briskly through digital interfaces. Trainers queued at terminals to check bracket status or register for lower-tier matches. The space was sleek—far more tech-heavy than Azalea or Violet, designed for scale, not intimacy.
But it wasn't impersonal. It just didn't linger.


Al passed through the main scanner with a muted chime—his ID syncing with the building's system automatically. Gardevoir remained at his side, the shimmer of her presence registering faintly on the field sensors. A few people glanced over—not because they recognized him, but because of how still he moved.


He reached the central desk, where an attendant tapped through a League terminal.


"Name?"


"Al. I have a scheduled match."


She checked the log. "You're early. Match confirmed for nine a.m. Whitney's team has cleared the format restrictions.


Al nodded. "No changes to my roster."


The attendant marked it down. "We've noted your previous match performance. Whitney's staff has reviewed the footage. The arena will be set to Regulation Tier 3."


A pause. Not skeptical. Just protocol.


"You're welcome to stay in the waiting hall. Or return at briefing time. Whitney will meet you fifteen minutes prior."


Al looked toward the long corridor that led to the Gym floor—just visible past a frosted-glass barrier. The lights beyond were dim, the arena unoccupied. But he could feel the weight behind it. Not dread. Just readiness.


He looked back to the desk.


"I'll step out. I'll be back by briefing."


The attendant nodded. "See you at 8:45, then."


Al turned, Gardevoir behind him once more.


As the doors slid shut behind them, he didn't look back.


(break)





Goldenrod Gym – Leader's Lounge – Whitney POV


The hum of Goldenrod City filtered through high windows, muffled but constant—a city always moving, always rising. The rhythm of traffic, the occasional blare of a distant horn, the sharp laugh of early shoppers—it all blended into the background, steady as a metronome.


Inside the lounge, Whitney sat in a low-backed chair, legs crossed, one hand absently spinning a Poké Ball between her fingers. Her other hand drummed the armrest in a restless staccato. The battle was scheduled for tomorrow. Noon. No substitutions. No mercy.


She hadn't slept much.


The Gym had been quiet this past week, but she'd kept training long after the doors closed. No media invites, no livestreams. Just her, her team, and the weight of expectation.


She stood and crossed to the trophy case. Her reflection warped in the polished glass, flanked by silver medals and a League certificate framed in white and pink.


"You don't get to stay a Gym Leader in a city like this by being cute," she muttered.


(Flashback)


It was four nights ago. The lights were off in the Gym, save for the overheads on the battle floor. She'd stood at the edge of the arena barefoot, hair tied up, sleeves rolled to her shoulders. Miltank faced her in the center, muscles tense, sweat streaking her flanks. She'd just finished tanking a brutal combo from Ursaring—a loaned training partner from the Violet rotation.


Whitney had shouted herself hoarse that night. Not out of anger—out of frustration. Out of the need to get it right. Because no matter how much she smiled on camera, no matter how many badges she gave away with a wink and a heart, she knew what people said:


"She's just normal-types." "That Gym's a breather." "Real challenges start after Goldenrod."


And now he was coming. The one who walked into Violet and Azalea and left nothing standing.


Her Clefable had watched her with soft eyes from the sidelines. No judgment. Just waiting.


"One more set," Whitney had said through gritted teeth.


They trained until dawn.


(Back to Present)


Now, staring at the battlefield through the lounge's tall windows, Whitney let the Poké Ball stop spinning. She held it still, pressed against her chest.


"Let them think I'm cute. Let them think I'm easy," she murmured.


Her eyes narrowed.


"But this time… they're gonna remember what a Normal-type can really do."


She released Clefable quietly. The Pokémon emerged with a faint shimmer, looking up at her with calm focus.


"Al's strong. He's calm. But I want him to feel what we've built here. I want him to know—this Gym isn't just some milestone."


She took a deep breath and glanced toward the challenge floor.


"He's got to earn it."


[A/N: How one sided should this battle be? should Al use 1, 2, or 3 Pokémon?]

 

[Phylonemios]

Aren't they building a totally wrong image of him the more it goes ?

Thank you for writing !

 

[MostOwlLLC]

Honestly, you exaggerate everything in the story. Simple moments are drawn out, too. Like, I get trying to set a serious/epic tone, but you force that shit too much. Not every other sentence needs to be you setting up a "cool" quotable moment.

I just thought up the best way to describe this. You're aura farming. Badly. Lmao.

 

[RegularReader21]

[A/N: How one sided should this battle be? should Al use 1, 2, or 3 Pokémon?]

Click to shrink...

Could just let rng decide, roll a dice!

 

[MidsizePig]

Meh. I rather like the constant aura farming in this fic. It takes itself TOO seriously which is amusing to me in the same way Eminence in Shadow's Cid's Chuuni shit is amusing. It's kinda dumb but it has its own charm. Least this MC doesn't make me wanna hit him upside the head with a pipe. It's also the first Pokemon fic I've seen that does things like this so I still give it props for being unique.

 

[Bladesunder]

Honestly, you exaggerate everything in the story. Simple moments are drawn out, too. Like, I get trying to set a serious/epic tone, but you force that shit too much. Not every other sentence needs to be you setting up a "cool" quotable moment.

I just thought up the best way to describe this. You're aura farming. Badly. Lmao.

Click to shrink...

I'll try to dial it back some I guess, less theatrical, more natural but the theatrics are part of the fun so they wont go away completely. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Could just let rng decide, roll a dice!

Click to shrink...

Tempting but I wanted a bit of thought to go into it since it could affect his next steps :3

Meh. I rather like the constant aura farming in this fic. It takes itself TOO seriously which is amusing to me in the same way Eminence in Shadow's Cid's Chuuni shit is amusing. It's kinda dumb but it has its own charm. Least this MC doesn't make me wanna hit him upside the head with a pipe. It's also the first Pokemon fic I've seen that does things like this so I still give it props for being unique.

Click to shrink...

Thanks for the feedback.

 

[MidsizePig]

Damn I'm the only one who wants Whitney to be something of a challenge? Why does everyone want a Whitney stomp? I hate her Miltank as much as the next guy, but come on? League level normal types are fucking annoying to fight.

 

[Bladesunder]

Damn I'm the only one who wants Whitney to be something of a challenge? Why does everyone want a Whitney stomp? I hate her Miltank as much as the next guy, but come on? League level normal types are fucking annoying to fight.

Click to shrink...

You're definitely not the only one—plenty of people outside this forum actually do want Whitney to be a challenge. A polls and comments elsewhere lean toward her putting up a fight, mostly because of how memorable (and borderline traumatic) that original Miltank battle was. Normal types can be a pain when built right, and Whitney having a tough, gimmicky team again would totally fit. Making her a complete pushover would just feel like a missed opportunity.