The Academy didn’t waste time after the tournament.
Top performers like Ren were expected to capitalize on their momentum — not sit back and celebrate.
No one said it outright.
They didn’t have to.
Ren stood quietly in the administration wing, Charmander at his side, facing the curt League officer handling voucher redemptions.
A simple transaction.
One TM voucher.
One special training session voucher.
It could change everything.
Or it could change nothing, if he chose poorly.
The screen flickered to life as the officer tapped through options.
"Confirmed eligibility.
Choose your TM from the current authorized set for base-stage Pokémon."
Ren scrolled through the list calmly.
No crazy moves.
No overpowered techniques that would cripple Charmander’s development.
He already knew what he wanted.
Metal Claw.
Simple.
Efficient.
Perfect for building battle versatility — especially against Rock-types that would otherwise cripple a Fire-type starter.
He selected it without hesitation.
A few minutes later, after signing the necessary waivers and formalities, he walked out into the training compound, new session schedule in hand.
The TM training would happen today.
The personalized training session tomorrow.
Charmander chirped excitedly beside him, sensing the upcoming challenge.
Ren smiled faintly.
"Ready to work?"
Charmander stomped one small foot firmly into the ground in response, tail flickering sharply.
The TM sessions weren’t just "install the move and go."
In this world, learning a technique required true discipline.
An instructor stood waiting at one of the outdoor metal platforms — a woman with a lean, powerful frame and sharp eyes.
Her partner, a sturdy-looking Scizor, stood silently behind her.
Ren stepped forward, bowed politely.
The woman gave him a short nod.
"Metal Claw, huh?
Good.
Not flashy.
Practical.
You might just survive after all."
Ren took that as the highest compliment he would get.
Training began immediately.
No lectures.
No over-explanations.
Just drills.
Charmander was shown the principle: focusing energy into his claws, hardening the structure temporarily into a sharp, steely edge.
The Scizor demonstrated it with blinding speed — but Charmander’s first attempts were... rough.
Claws half-formed.
Edges dulled.
Movements clumsy.
The instructor didn’t coddle.
Didn’t shout, either.
Just made them repeat.
Again.
And again.
And again.
By the third hour, Charmander was trembling with exhaustion, smoke curling from his mouth as he struggled to maintain focus.
Ren knelt beside him quietly, offering water and calming words, letting him recover —
then starting again.
Charmander didn’t complain.
Not once.
Even though his body screamed, even though the metallic coating on his claws flickered and broke half the time.
He kept trying.
Ren kept coaching.
Together, stubborn and slow and painful, they started to shape the first real steps of the new technique.
At some point, Lance, Steven, and Cynthia passed by on the distant fields —
each engaged in their own grueling training sessions.
None of them waved.
None called out.
They understood.
This was the work no one saw.
The blood and sweat that decided future championships.
By the time the instructor finally barked a stop for the day, Charmander could reliably form Metal Claw for two or three seconds at a time before the steel energy collapsed.
Not perfect.
Not ready for real battle.
But real progress.
As the sun dipped low and the compound lights flickered on, Ren sat on the edge of the training platform, Charmander half-dozing against his leg.
The instructor walked over, arms crossed.
"You’ll need another dozen sessions like this to master it fully. Maybe more."
Ren nodded.
No complaints.
No false bravado.
Just quiet acceptance.
The woman regarded him for a long second.
Then, surprisingly, she spoke again:
"Good work today.
Most quit before this point."
She turned sharply, Scizor following, vanishing into the gathering dusk.
Ren sat for a long time after that, feeling Charmander’s slow breathing against him, staring up at the sky.
Tomorrow was the special training session.
But it didn’t feel impossible.
Not anymore.
He leaned back, letting the stars come into focus overhead.
Quietly, he spoke — not loud, not for anyone else to hear.
"We'll keep getting stronger.
No shortcuts."
Charmander mumbled agreement without opening his eyes, tail flame curling protectively around them both.
The night deepened.
The work continued.
The journey had only just begun.
The League Training Hall was built like a fortress.
No grand decorations.
No bright banners.
Just hard walls, reinforced fields, and silence that weighed on your shoulders the moment you stepped inside.
It wasn’t there to impress.
It was there to forge.
Ren adjusted the strap of his travel bag as he stepped through the reinforced double doors, Charmander padding along quietly beside him.
At the check-in desk, a League clerk barely glanced up before waving him toward one of the side corridors.
"Third room on the left. Instructor Richter."
Simple.
Efficient.
No fanfare.
Ren liked it.
The training room was bigger than it looked from outside — high ceilings, padded floors, adjustable terrain features half-set into the ground.
At the far end, a tall man stood with his arms crossed, watching Ren approach with sharp, assessing eyes.
Graying dark hair, scar across one cheek, stance like a coiled steel spring even at rest.
No name badge.
No friendly smile.
Just a presence that said clearly:
I’ve seen real battles. I survived them.
Ren stopped a respectful distance away and nodded slightly.
The man nodded once — curt, but not unfriendly.
"Ren Oak?"
"Yes, sir."
A small grunt in response.
"You did well in the junior tournament. But doing well against students isn’t the same as surviving in the real world."
Ren stayed silent, absorbing it without flinching.
The man — Richter, he assumed — watched him a moment longer, then gestured toward the far end of the field.
"Release your partner. Let’s see what you’ve got."
Charmander stepped forward as Ren unclipped his ball, tail flame flickering sharply in the cool air of the room.
The evaluation wasn’t long.
A few practice maneuvers.
A mock battle sequence against Richter’s own partner — a lean, sharp-eyed Sandslash that moved with brutal efficiency.
Ren pushed hard — switching tactics on the fly, trying to predict, trying to stay mobile.
Charmander struggled at first to land clean hits.
Metal Claw was still shaky, forming well under calm conditions but crumbling under pressure.
Ren adjusted tactics, shifted to baiting, using feints to open windows for quick Embers and swift strikes.
He wasn’t perfect.
Not even close.
But he was flexible.
Focused.
And he didn’t panic.
After ten minutes, Richter called a halt.
Sandslash retreated without a sound.
Ren recalled Charmander, breathing steadily.
No boasts.
No apologies.
Just quiet readiness for whatever came next.
Richter studied him for a long, uncomfortable moment.
Then finally spoke.
"Your instincts aren’t bad.
You read pressure better than most. You don’t overcommit. You adapt fast."
Ren said nothing, simply absorbing it.
The man’s voice sharpened slightly, like a hammer tapping steel.
"You’re still sloppy with footwork. Your partner wastes motion. Your timing is half a second too slow when switching move sets."
A pause.
A beat.
"But that can be fixed."
Richter stepped closer, folding his arms behind his back.
"You have something most kids don't:
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Tactical patience."
Ren blinked.
It wasn’t what he expected to hear.
"Most new trainers charge. They throw out moves and hope they hit. You don’t.
You watch. You think."
Richter’s gaze hardened even more.
"Maximize that strength.
Build around it.
Cover your weaknesses, but never waste your gifts trying to be something you’re not."
Ren nodded slowly.
Those words sank deep — not just into his mind, but into his core.
It wasn’t about chasing some imaginary ideal.
It was about sharpening the tools he already had into something undeniable.
The rest of the session was brutal.
Movement drills.
Target practice.
Reaction training — dodging controlled attacks from Richter’s Pokémon under time pressure.
Charmander struggled at first, but stubbornly refused to give up.
Ren struggled too —
not with the drills themselves, but with sustaining sharp thinking under constant stress.
By the end of two hours, his shirt was plastered to his back, his legs aching from constant motion.
Charmander collapsed into a panting heap beside him during the last set, tail flame still burning fiercely despite exhaustion.
Richter finally called a halt, walking over with slow, deliberate steps.
He crouched, checking Charmander briefly, then gave a small nod of approval.
"Tough little bastard."
Ren allowed himself a ghost of a smile.
"He is."
Richter stood up, fixing Ren with a final, piercing stare.
"You’ve got a shot, Oak."
The faintest twitch of a smirk crossed his scarred face.
"Most don't."
He turned sharply, striding away without another word, Sandslash trailing behind him.
Session over.
Lesson delivered.
Ren sat down heavily beside Charmander, letting the silence settle around them.
Every muscle in his body ached.
His hands shook faintly from adrenaline drain.
Charmander pressed close to him, eyes closing tiredly.
For a few minutes, Ren just breathed.
Not thinking.
Not planning.
Just existing in the aftermath of hard, honest work.
Finally, he opened his eyes, staring up at the training hall’s steel-ribbed ceiling.
Quietly, he spoke — low enough only Charmander could hear:
"We're not there yet.
But we will be."
Charmander murmured agreement without lifting his head.
Not hope.
Not arrogance.
Just certainty.
Forged the only way that mattered —
through fire, sweat, and unbreakable will.
The days after the tournament break settled into a different rhythm.
Sharper.
Heavier.
The Academy wasn't content to let its best students plateau.
Every class, every training session, every field drill — pressure ratcheted up another notch.
You either rose with it, or you fell behind.
No excuses.
No mercy.
Ren felt it the moment classes resumed.
Instructors were harsher.
Feedback was more surgical.
Sparring sessions stretched longer, forced students to battle exhausted, to think under pressure.
Mistakes were punished swiftly — not cruelly, but without coddling.
It wasn’t malice.
It was preparation.
The world beyond these walls wouldn’t wait for anyone.
Inside battle theory lessons, the tone shifted too.
In one morning session, an old League veteran named Okabe barked across the lecture hall:
"Talent is cheap.
Discipline isn’t.
You want to live past your third year as a trainer?
Learn to think, not just fight."
He slammed a thick file onto the desk with a heavy thud.
"Here’s reality:
80% of Junior License holders wash out.
10% make Standard.
1% go Pro."
A heavy silence fell.
Ren, sitting beside Steven, Cynthia, and Lance, simply absorbed it without flinching.
After classes, training dominated their lives.
Light drills gave way to real sparring matches — not just inside their group, but across all classes.
Instructors began to pair students up based on performance, not randomness.
The goal wasn’t to win.
The goal was to adapt, and grow.
Ren applied everything Richter had beaten into him.
Footwork adjustments.
Move economy — no wasted gestures.
Battlefield awareness — controlling space, not just reacting to it.
Metal Claw, once shaky under pressure, was stabilizing.
Not flawless.
But functional.
Charmander’s strikes began cutting cleaner paths, sharper arcs, quicker recoveries.
Ren wasn’t dominating.
He wasn’t overwhelming.
But he was unmistakably improving —
moving cleaner, thinking faster, punishing mistakes without overextending.
Sparring against Steven’s Beldum taught him patience — the floating steel Pokémon could absorb direct hits better than any early-stage battler.
Trying to brute force it was useless.
He learned to bait, to angle, to trap.
Fighting Lance’s Dratini taught him about sudden speed bursts — how overconfidence left openings.
Facing Cynthia’s Gible...
That taught him something else entirely.
Pressure.
Real, suffocating pressure.
Cynthia fought with a cold, relentless precision that forced Ren to sharpen his movements just to survive a few exchanges.
And she only got better each time.
Ren didn’t mind.
Pressure built diamonds, after all.
Outside training, their group dynamic deepened naturally.
Lunches together.
Strategy discussions late into the evening.
Casual bets on who could beat whom faster in practice rounds.
Not friends — not yet.
But something close.
Something building.
In history lectures, Ren learned how the Kanto, Johto, Hoenn, and Sinnoh regions formed the Four Pillar Alliance after the Dark Decades —
an era marked by trainer deaths skyrocketing when League oversight had collapsed, when rogue trainers, poachers, and ancient Pokémon alike had run unchecked.
It had been brutal.
It had forced the world to change.
The Academy system was born from that chaos — a way to prepare future generations properly, not throw children into battles they couldn’t survive.
The League tiers were born too.
Junior League.
Standard League.
Professional League.
Only those who climbed step by step would stand among the true elite.
Only those who survived, adapted, and sharpened themselves would one day be called Pokémon Masters.
Ren felt it all — not as pressure, but as fuel.
Every lecture.
Every drill.
Every sparring match.
It wasn’t about surviving anymore.
It was about climbing.
Late one night, after a brutal sparring session left him flat on his back beside Charmander on the dew-soaked grass, Ren stared up at the stars.
The others were scattered nearby, sprawled out in similar states of exhaustion.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Just breathing.
Just silent acknowledgment of the weight each of them carried now.
Ren smiled faintly, letting Charmander's warm presence press against his side.
They weren't kids playing with Pokémon anymore.
They were sharpening themselves into something new.
Into something worthy.
Into something unstoppable.
One day at a time.
One battle at a time.
One breath at a time.
Weeks passed.
Not in the sluggish way they did when you were waiting for something.
Not in the frantic way they did when you were scrambling to survive.
No — now every day carved itself deep into Ren’s mind.
Classes.
Drills.
Sparring.
Sharper, faster, heavier.
The Academy didn’t slow down after the first tournament.
It sped up.
Ren sat in strategy class,his chair tilted slightly back, arms folded, Charmander quietly dozing under his desk.
Okabe, the grizzled veteran instructor, paced across the front of the room, speaking without notes.
"Not everyone makes it.
Some of you won’t climb to Standard League.
That's reality."
He stopped, sharp gaze sweeping over the students.
"But that doesn't mean you failed life.
Civil services always need trained handlers.
Rangers need reliable support.
Pokémon Centers recruit battle medics.
Infrastructure companies pay well for transport guards."
No one in the room spoke.
Even Lance, who usually had some wisecrack loaded, stayed silent.
Ren listened carefully.
It wasn’t fear that kept him quiet.
It was focus.
This was the world they were stepping into — whether they were ready or not.
Okabe continued, his voice harder now.
"But there’s another path."
He didn’t need to raise his tone.
The weight of his words made every student lean forward instinctively.
"If you fail and you can't stand being normal — if you refuse to accept your place — others will come knocking."
His mouth twisted, somewhere between disdain and pity.
"Poachers. Smugglers. Black market battle rings. Rogue groups offering easy money for dirty work."
Steven’s hands tightened slightly around his pen.
Ren caught Cynthia’s golden eyes narrowing just a little.
Lance looked like he wanted to spit on the floor.
Okabe saw it all — and nodded approvingly.
"Good.
You should hate it."
He turned, pacing again.
"Falling short isn’t shameful.
Losing your soul to desperation is."
After class, Ren found himself walking with Cynthia, Steven, and Lance toward the training fields.
No one spoke at first.
The lecture clung to the air around them, heavier than the morning mist.
Finally, Lance broke it, voice a little rough.
"No way I’m ending up some thug’s errand boy."
Steven snorted quietly.
"They wouldn’t be able to pay you enough to shut up."
Lance barked a short laugh, tension bleeding off his shoulders.
Even Cynthia allowed a small, almost imperceptible smile.
They stopped at one of the open fields, stretching out lazily as they prepared for afternoon drills.
Charmander hopped out beside Ren, shaking his body out and baring small claws — now properly hardening into gleaming silver tips.
Not fully mastered yet.
But closer.
Stronger.
Ren crouched beside him, running one hand down the sleek scales of his back, feeling the warmth pulsing beneath.
The drills that afternoon were grueling.
Rotating battle rounds — each student facing two opponents in a row without rest.
Charmander battled through a Machop and a Zubat back-to-back, managing to eke out victories through smarter positioning and careful pacing.
Ren applied Richter's teachings instinctively now:
Control the pace.
Force openings.
Punish mistakes — but never rush recklessly.
He wasn’t winning every match.
But he was surviving every match.
Growing sharper, harder, better.
And others were starting to notice.
Later that night, after the group finished a light sparring session among themselves, they collapsed in the courtyard — staring up at the stars, breaths misting in the cooling air.
Lance tossed a pebble up and down in one hand.
"You ever think about it?"
Ren raised an eyebrow.
"Think about what?"
Lance shrugged.
"What we’ll do if we don’t make it."
Silence stretched.
Steven folded his arms behind his head, staring upward.
"I have a backup plan.
My family's company always needs researchers. Field experts. Trainers to handle experimental mining tech."
He said it casually, but Ren caught the faint tightness in his voice.
Cynthia closed her eyes, voice even.
"I'll carve my way forward. One way or another."
Not arrogance.
Simple fact.
Ren leaned back, feeling the cold stone against his back, Charmander curled quietly beside him.
He didn't need to answer.
They all knew.
Failure wasn’t an option — not because someone was forcing it —
but because none of them could imagine settling for less.
As the stars thickened overhead, a few stray conversations floated between other students nearby — rumors, half-truths, myths.
Of failed trainers lured into dark paths.
Of smuggling rings operating beyond Hoenn’s southern border.
Of recruiters who approached desperate students with promises too sweet to refuse.
Ren listened quietly, eyes half-lidded.
He didn’t believe every rumor.
But he believed the core of it.
This world wasn’t a game.
It would chew you up if you let it.
Or you could sharpen yourself until even the world couldn’t break you.
He glanced at Cynthia, Steven, and Lance lying nearby — their Pokémon scattered around them, breathing slow and even.
Strong.
Focused.
Driven.
A future generation rising under pressure.
He closed his eyes finally, letting exhaustion take him.
Tomorrow would come soon.
And when it did, he would meet it head-on.
With steel in his bones.
And fire in his blood.
Time passed in steady, grinding rhythm.
Classes sharpened.
Drills hardened.
Students matured.
Days became weeks.
Weeks became months.
Without fanfare, the Academy shifted into its final quarter of the year — the end already in sight for those who could endure it.
By the time the new notice appeared — announcing the Second Half Survival Trial — Ren realized just how far they had already come.
The announcement came with no warning.
One morning, as students filtered into the Academy's main lecture hall, the tension in the air was already thick enough to cut.
Instructor Okabe stood waiting at the front, arms folded, his expression severe.
Behind him, a large map of rugged terrain was projected onto the wall — a sprawling expanse of forest, hills, rivers, and open plains.
Without preamble, he spoke:
"Listen carefully.
In three days, your Second Half Survival Trial begins."
No murmuring.
No questions.
Everyone simply listened, breathing tighter.
Okabe gestured toward the map sharply.
"You'll be dropped into this designated field zone in teams of two.
Your goal: survive, navigate checkpoints, and return to base camp after seven days."
He let the words hang heavily in the air.
Seven days.
In the wild.
No outside aid.
He continued, voice iron-hard:
"Carry limit restrictions are hereby lifted.
You may now carry up to three Pokémon."
Small glances were exchanged across the room — quiet, tense excitement brewing beneath controlled faces.
"That said," Okabe’s voice hardened even further, "you are required to catch at least one new Pokémon during the trial."
He scanned the room, daring anyone to protest.
No one did.
"This is not optional. A trainer who cannot catch Pokémon under real conditions isn’t a real trainer at all.
If you can’t bond with new partners, adapt your team, or survive the unexpected, you will fail out there — permanently."
The weight of his words pressed down like a storm front.
Okabe shifted tone slightly, explaining further:
"Some of you," he said, "will receive Pokémon from your families after the trial.
Gifts. Support. Reinforcements.
That’s acceptable. That's life.
But until then — in this trial — you earn your team yourself. No handouts. No interference."
Steven, sitting two rows down from Ren, gave a small nod of acknowledgment.
Lance cracked his knuckles silently beside him.
Cynthia remained as still as a stone, golden eyes narrowed in concentration.
Ren simply absorbed it all without a word.
This was what he had been waiting for.
Real trials.
Real pressure.
Later that evening, before final deployment orders were issued, Ren received a communication request — an official Academy dispatch.
It bore the Pallet Town Research Lab seal.
Professor Oak's calm voice played over the small screen:
"Ren — when you return from the trial, if you wish, I can arrange for another partner to be ready for you.
Another starter from Kanto. Or perhaps an Eevee.
It's not weakness to accept help. Survival, at the higher tiers, demands more."
The message ended without expectation.
Just an offer.
A path Ren could choose, if he wanted it.
He stared at the darkened screen for a long moment.
Then smiled faintly, almost to himself.
Maybe it’s stupid, Ren thought, but if I’m going to reach the top — I want to do it with my own hands.
His path wouldn’t be easy.
It wouldn’t be safe.
But it would be his.
The next day, partner selection was finalized.
Steven and Lance declared early, almost immediately after the announcement.
Their styles meshed too well not to.
Which left Ren.
He wasn’t worried.
He had trained alone before.
He would do it again if he had to.
But then Cynthia approached him quietly after sparring drills, Gible prowling at her side.
No hesitation.
"We’re the only ones left," she said simply.
Ren smirked.
"Guess that makes the choice easy."
Cynthia gave the faintest, most imperceptible smile in return.
Just a slight shift of the lips.
But it was enough.
The tension from the announcement had faded into a new rhythm.
The Academy gave them three full days to prepare before the Second Half Survival Trial officially began.
Three days to plan.
Three days to gather supplies.
Three days to steel themselves for what was coming.
It wasn't enough — it would never feel like enough — but it was what they had.
Ren, Cynthia, Lance, and Steven naturally gravitated toward each other over those days.
Not by formal agreement.
Not by forced grouping.
Just… naturally.
The top of their year.
The ones who understood without needing to say it aloud.
Their usual meeting spot became a quiet courtyard tucked behind the eastern wing of the Academy.
A simple stone table under the shade of towering trees.
Enough distance from the louder groups strategizing out in the open.
It became their unofficial war room.
On the first afternoon, Ren dropped a heavy bag onto the stone bench with a thud.
"Alright. Medical kits. Extra Pokéballs. Water purification tablets. Portable shelter tarp. Dried food good for at least seven days."
Steven gave a rare approving nod, carefully scanning Ren’s haul.
"Efficient. Light. Covers basic necessities."
Lance grinned, tossing his own field pack onto the table — slightly overstuffed.
"I might've gone a little overboard," he admitted, pulling out far more ration bars and spare canteens than necessary.
"A little?" Cynthia murmured dryly, one eyebrow arching slightly.
Ren chuckled quietly, beginning to organize everything into neat piles.
They spent the next hours checking and double-checking gear lists.
Not just what they were allowed to bring — but what they might be able to find or craft once inside.
Even Cynthia, usually reserved, offered subtle suggestions here and there.
Steven, naturally, had memorized half the field manuals already.
Lance insisted he could just punch through any obstacles they ran into — until Ren threw a ration bar at his head and told him to act his age.
Between the serious talks, laughter bubbled up — low and real.
Jabs were thrown.
Bets were made.
"Whoever catches the rarest Pokémon wins bragging rights," Lance said, nudging Steven with his elbow.
"Define 'rarest'," Steven replied coolly without missing a beat.
"We'll know it when we see it."
"Very scientific," Ren drawled, earning a soft huff of amusement from Cynthia.
At some point, their conversation turned serious again.
They sat around the stone table, nursing cans of chilled drinks from the Academy vending machines, the sun sinking lower in the sky.
"What're you aiming for?" Lance asked, glancing around.
Steven shrugged lightly.
"Something sturdy. Durable. I value reliability over flash."
Typical.
Cynthia tilted her head thoughtfully.
"Something with the will to grow with me"
No elaboration — but no need for it either.
Ren thought for a moment, staring up at the pale blue sky filtering through the leaves.
"Something that fits," he said finally.
"A partner that... matches the path I want to walk."
The others fell silent for a few moments.
Not uncomfortable — just thoughtful.
It wasn't about catching the strongest.
It wasn't about showing off.
Not for them.
It was about finding the Pokémon who could walk beside them to the peak.
Who could survive the journey ahead.
The days bled together in a comfortable, tense rhythm.
Training.
Supply runs.
Strategy sessions.
Classes were lighter — most instructors understood that little more could be taught at this point.
It was time for application, not theory.
Some students spent their days frantic, running drills or rushing to vendors for last-minute supplies.
Others lounged around, falsely confident.
Ren and his group fell somewhere in between.
Serious.
Focused.
Prepared — but knowing preparation could only take them so far.
The evening before deployment, they gathered one last time at the same courtyard table.
No plans.
No strategy.
Just a shared, quiet meal.
Simple food.
Simple company.
Charmander lounged lazily by Ren’s feet, occasionally flicking his tail to nudge Gible or Steven’s Beldum, who hovered stoically nearby.
Even Lance’s Dratini coiled contentedly around the bench legs, soaking in the final moments of peace.
The sunset bathed the Academy grounds in gold and crimson.
Ren leaned back in his seat, arms folded behind his head, soaking it all in.
The quiet before the storm.
The calm before they were thrown into the wild.
"Tomorrow," Lance said, breaking the silence with a grin, "it’s time to show what we’re made of."
"We'll see," Steven replied calmly.
Cynthia simply nodded once, golden hair catching the dying light.
Ren smiled faintly.
He didn’t say anything.
He didn’t need to.
The battle for the future was about to begin.
And they were ready.
As ready as anyone could ever be.
