The Poké Ball felt heavier than it looked.

  Not physically. But in her hand, it pulsed with something more than weight—like the hum of potential, coiled inside the capsule. It was smooth, red-and-white, almost too familiar from a life spent on screens and strategy guides.

  But now it was real.

  Her Pokémon was inside.

  Professor Sycamore gave her an encouraging nod as she stared down at the ball.

  “Go on,” he said. “Introduce yourself properly.”

  Rhea took a breath, turned the ball in her palm, and pressed the center.

  A fsh of white light burst onto the b floor, and Froakie nded in a crouch, blinking up at her. His body tensed like he was always ready to dodge, but his eyes were calm, focused.

  She knelt, holding out her hand.

  “Hey.”

  Froakie didn’t flinch. He studied her for a second, then reached forward and touched her fingertips with his.

  It was enough.

  She smiled and returned him to his ball—not with a showy flourish, just quiet purpose. She didn’t need to act like the world’s greatest Trainer yet. But she’d get there.

  Professor Sycamore stepped forward and handed her a sleek bck satchel.

  “Everything a Trainer needs to start,” he said. “Pokédex, five Poké Balls, a local map, ID papers. And your League registration’s confirmed. Route 4 should be open—once you’re ready.”

  She bowed slightly, more out of habit than anything. “Thank you, Professor.”

  “Rhea,” he said, pausing, “I’ve seen all kinds of Trainers start their journeys. Some are reckless. Some are cautious. But you… you’ve got calcution behind your eyes. Just don’t forget to feel things too.”

  She didn’t answer. Not yet.

  She had a bus to catch back to Vaniville. She had something more important to do.

  The ride home was silent, her thoughts churning as Lumiose shrank behind her. Froakie’s Poké Ball stayed in her hand the whole time—like a reminder, or maybe a promise.

  By te afternoon, she stepped off the bus into warm, fading light. The familiar dirt road led up to her house. She could already hear Rhyhorn snorting in the barn and smell her father’s stew on the air.

  Her mother stood outside, arms crossed, watching her approach with an expression somewhere between pride and reluctance.

  “You picked Froakie,” she said, before Rhea even reached the gate.

  Rhea smirked. “You spying on my files?”

  “No. Just saw it in your walk.”

  Rhea held up the ball. “He’s got potential.”

  “That he does.”

  They walked inside together.

  Her father looked up from the kitchen table. His relief at seeing her home turned quickly into understanding when he saw the Poké Ball in her hand.

  “So it’s official,” he said quietly.

  Rhea nodded.

  She let Froakie out into the living room.

  The Water-type took one cautious gnce around, then hopped onto the low table and sat like a stone statue, observing everything.

  Her parents exchanged a look.

  “You picked a sharp one,” her father said.

  “Good instincts,” her mother agreed.

  “I want to leave tomorrow.”

  The room went still.

  Her father put down his spoon. Her mother leaned back against the wall.

  “You just got him,” her father said.

  “I’ve been preparing for weeks,” Rhea replied. “My bag’s packed. I’ve got a route pn, a training schedule, and I’ve reviewed the League rules twice.”

  Her mother narrowed her eyes. “You want to take on the League immediately?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alone?”

  “I’m ready.”

  There was a long silence.

  Rhea didn’t back down.

  Her mother studied her, slowly. “You know, when I was ten, I said those same words. Different town. Different time. But the look in your eyes… it’s the same.”

  Her father sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “We knew this was coming. But Rhea… you just hit ten. Most kids wait. They train locally. They take time to bond with their starters.”

  “I don’t want to wait,” Rhea said firmly. “Every day I sit here, I feel like I’m wasting time. I have a chance—a real chance—to make something of this. I know more than most rookies. I’m not pying at being a Trainer. I’m being one.”

  Her mother didn’t smile. But her eyes softened.

  “Then you’d better listen carefully,” she said, stepping forward. “Because once you leave, we won’t be there to keep you upright.”

  They cleared the table.

  The next hour was a crash course in survival—not the basics, but the kind of field wisdom only former Trainers knew.

  Her father opened his medicine kit and id out items.

  “These aren’t just for show. Antidotes for Poison-types. Burn Heal is your best friend against Fire and Dragon moves. And if you see a wild Pokémon using Toxic, run—don’t try to be brave.”

  Her mother added, “Watch Froakie’s movements. He’ll signal when he’s stressed. Don’t just shout commands—learn his rhythm. He’s fast, but fragile. You need to strike before the opponent adjusts.”

  “Keep a second set of shoes,” her father said. “And socks. Wet feet are worse than any Zubat.”

  They walked her through terrain dangers—wild Pokémon patterns on each route, how to spot an ambush, which berry trees attract aggressive species. Her father warned her never to sleep near a Tauros herd. Her mother demonstrated how to deflect a Bite attack using a backpack as a shield.

  Then they gave her her first aid kit—packed with wraps, sprays, wipes, and even calming balm for Pokémon.

  “This is the difference between your Froakie fainting and your Froakie surviving,” her mother said, handing her the satchel.

  Rhea took it all in—quiet, intense. Every word was knowledge. Every item was trust.

  Finally, her mother sat back and looked her straight in the eye.

  “You’re going to get scared. You’re going to get hurt. You’re going to lose sometimes. But if you stop treating this like a series of problems to solve, and start treating it like a life to live—you’ll be okay.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Rhea said.

  “I hope you do.”

  That night, she couldn’t sleep.

  She y in bed, fully dressed, bag packed at the foot of the bed. Froakie rested on the windowsill, arms crossed, watching the wind stir the leaves outside.

  She stared at the ceiling.

  Not from fear.

  From energy. Like static building under her skin.

  This was it.

  Her real journey began at dawn.

  She wasn’t a pyer behind a screen anymore. She wasn’t a worker stuck behind reports. She was a Trainer now.

  Not because she had a Pokédex.

  Not because she had a starter.

  Because she chose to be one—and tomorrow, she’d start proving it.