After leaving my apartment, I made my way straight to the League office, my footsteps light with a newfound purpose. The morning air felt crisp against my face, carrying the distant hum of the city, a sound that now seemed to sing of opportunity.
With all this money now at my disposal, a fortune from a cheat code, what was stopping me anymore? I could finally chase that dream—to become a Pokémon Master, a destiny I'd once thought impossible, a mere childish fantasy.
With cheats backing me up, it wasn't just a dream anymore; it was inevitable, a path laid out before me, clear and undeniable, stretching into a future I could finally grasp.
The town hall stood tall in the center of the district, an imposing structure of polished stone and gleaming glass, a beacon of authority and prosperity. Its architecture spoke of permanence and power, a stark contrast to the fleeting nature of my previous existence.
Compared to the crumbling side buildings where I'd spent most of my life, the forgotten alleys and dilapidated rentals, this place looked like a palace, its polished facade gleaming under the morning sun, almost blinding in its grandeur.
I walked through the grand glass doors, the soft whoosh of their closing echoing in the spacious lobby, a sound that sealed my commitment, and made my way to the counter.
I was greeted by a clerk, a woman in a crisp, professional blazer with a bored expression, her eyes barely lifting from her paperwork, her disinterest almost palpable, as if I were just another tedious task.
"How much does it cost to register as a licensed Pokémon trainer?" I asked, my voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor of excitement in my chest, a quiet thrum of anticipation that vibrated through my very bones.
She looked up at me, her gaze flat and uninterested, her expression unchanging, and answered as if reading from a script, her tone devoid of warmth.
"Trainer League Registration costs 250,000 Pokédollars. You can get a discount if you're sponsored by a Gym Leader, League official, or Elite."
She rattled off the information without a pause, clearly used to this exchange, her words a familiar, cold recitation.
I blinked, the number hitting me with a familiar pang of what would have been despair, had my circumstances not changed so dramatically.
My old self would have recoiled, knowing such a sum was utterly unobtainable.
"And a starting Pokémon package, if you don't already have one, is another 150,000 Pokédollars," she added, her voice monotone, her finger tapping a long, manicured nail against her desk, a subtle gesture of impatience.
Honestly, I almost laughed at the absurdity of it all, the sheer audacity of these fees, designed to keep the poor out.
No—my old self would've cried blood, knowing such a sum was forever out of reach, an insurmountable barrier to any hope of a better life.
Just maintaining a Pokémon costs thousands of Pokédollars a month; food, care, training—it's not something a regular orphan like me could've ever afforded, not in a million years.
The sheer financial burden was crushing for most, explaining the vast social divide. No wonder people in this world looked up to trainers as elites, almost like royalty, their lives seemingly effortless, funded by unseen means.
I remembered how Ash was sponsored by Professor Oak, a thought that brought a bitter smile to my face, a grim reminder of the privileges I lacked, and how unfair the system truly was.
That made all the difference, huh? A simple sponsorship could change a life, opening doors that remained firmly shut for others, creating an elite class.
Anyway, I declined the starter Pokémon package—Treecko already had my back, and he was more than enough, a loyal companion already by my side.
I pulled out my phone, the old, cracked screen now a portal to immense wealth, its familiar weight a comfort in my hand, and initiated the transfer. 250,000 Pokédollars gone from my account, a sum that would have once crippled me, now a mere transaction, a simple digital exchange, almost mundane.
The numbers on the screen changed, a silent testament to my new financial power, a power I was only just beginning to wield.
Oh, but wait, there's more. I also registered for this year's Indigo League, the pinnacle of trainer competition, the ultimate stage for any aspiring Pokémon Master.
This was the dream, the grand goal, the reason I was here. That's another 200,000 Pokédollars, a hefty sum for a tournament entry, a significant investment in my future, a gamble with high stakes.
My wallet screamed in protest, a phantom ache in my empty pockets, but I just muttered under my breath, a fierce resolve burning within me, "Wait you bastards, I'll win every damn prize money you got."
My words were a silent vow, a promise to myself and to the system, a declaration of war on my old life.
The clerk, still impassive, handed me my League ID, a sleek, metallic card that felt surprisingly heavy in my hand, its cool surface a stark contrast to my past. Along with it came a registration certificate, a formal document with official seals, and a small packet of regulations, a thick booklet detailing all the rules and bylaws of the League.
It was done; I was now an official trainer, my name etched into the League's records, no longer an anonymous orphan, no longer invisible.
The ID felt like a key, unlocking a world that had always been closed to me, a world of adventure and opportunity, a future I could finally claim. I ran my thumb over the embossed text, a tangible symbol of my new status.
On my way back, I stopped by a small convenience store, the fluorescent lights a stark contrast to the natural sunlight outside, buzzing with a dull hum that grated on my ears.
I grabbed some readymade food, simple and quick, a luxury I could now afford without a second thought, no longer needing to count every penny or worry about the cost.
It was cheaper than ordering out, and honestly, my mind was already racing ahead, too preoccupied with grander plans to care about a fancy meal. My stomach, once a constant source of complaint, a gnawing emptiness, was now an afterthought, easily satisfied.
My plan was to leave for Pewter City in two days, giving myself just enough time for final preparations and last-minute tests. I needed that Rock Badge, the first step on the traditional trainer journey, a symbol of my progress and official entry into the Gym Challenge.
Until then, I had tests to run, more secrets of the system to uncover, more of its hidden mechanics to understand, to fully grasp its capabilities.
I hadn't even touched the other four Pokémon games available in the system yet—FireRed, LeafGreen, Crystal, and Ruby—each a potential goldmine of resources and Pokémon, waiting to be explored.
For now, I'd plan to continue exploring Pokémon Emerald, its mechanics still holding fascinating mysteries, its familiar world a testing ground for my burgeoning power.
The system was overpowered, no doubt, a true cheat code for life, a miraculous gift, but it had one big flaw: it didn't make me stronger physically or mentally.
I was still just a regular guy, no innate talents, no superhuman abilities, no sudden surge of charisma or combat prowess. But that was okay—I had plans to fix that, to leverage the system to enhance myself in other ways, to become more than just a regular guy.
My mind was my greatest asset, and I intended to use it, to outsmart this world and mold it to my will.
Once I reached home, the familiar squalor of my room felt less oppressive, almost comforting in its familiarity, a private sanctuary for my experiments, a place where the impossible became real.
I laid back on my bed, the thin mattress creaking softly, and booted up the system again, the translucent panel materializing before me with a soft hum.
This time, I had something specific to test—save files, and how they interacted with the real world, a crucial piece of the puzzle that could determine my future. The implications of this test were immense.
I opened Emerald again, but instead of hitting "Continue," I selected "New Game," a bold move that felt like stepping into the unknown, risking everything for knowledge.
I followed the usual pattern—intro cutscene, moving van, meeting Professor Birch—and when it came time to save him from the wild Poochyena, I picked Treecko again, a familiar choice.
I wanted to see if I could duplicate Pokémon, if the system would allow for such a blatant exploit, a true bypass of natural limits.
After saving him, I saved the game, watching the familiar "Saving..." message, the pixelated text confirming my progress, then closed the system, the panel retracting with a soft hum.
A Pokéball materialized on my table, right where I expected it to be, its red and white gleaming, solid and undeniable.
I opened it—and there it was, another Treecko, identical in every way to my first one, its small, green eyes blinking up at me, curious and vibrant, a perfect clone. The duplication worked, flawlessly, a truly astounding feat.
Interesting. The duplication worked, but what about deletion? This was the real test, the potential pitfall, the dangerous edge of this power. I returned the second Treecko to its ball and re-entered the system, my heart pounding with a mix of excitement and trepidation, a knot forming in my stomach.
I went to the menu and deleted the second save file, the one containing the duplicate Treecko, a digital act of erasure. Closed the system.
There was no sound at all not even a notification from the system, but the impact was profound, a silent, internal explosion that resonated within me.
Treecko? Gone.
The duplicate Pokéball on my table vanished into thin air, as if it had never existed, leaving no trace behind, no lingering energy. It never came back.
That second Treecko was erased, utterly and irrevocably, a chilling demonstration of the system's power over materialization and existence.
The realization sent a cold shiver down my spine; the system could take as easily as it gave, a terrifying thought, a reminder of its ultimate control.
Hmm. This was crucial information, a vital rule to understand, a dangerous limitation that could cost me dearly.
Next test, to confirm my theory, to ensure I grasped the nuances of this power and its boundaries. I started another New Game, going through the motions once more, selecting a different starter this time, to see if the outcome varied.
This time, I picked Torchic, the fiery little chick Pokémon, its pixelated sprite full of energy. I saved the professor, exited the game, and took out the Torchic, letting it materialize in my room, a tiny bundle of flickering flames. Then, I deleted the save file, holding my breath, waiting for the outcome.
Result? Torchic remained. It stood there, chirping softly, its tiny flames flickering, completely unaffected by the deletion of its digital counterpart. So it was the position during deletion that mattered, a key distinction, a subtle but critical rule.
If the Pokémon or item is inside the game world while the file is deleted, it's lost forever, erased from existence, a permanent deletion. But if it's already out in the real world, then it's safe, a tangible entity no longer bound by the game's rules, a true escape from its digital prison. This was a vital loophole.
One more trial just to be sure—I did the same with Mudkip, the adorable water-type starter, to confirm the pattern across different Pokémon.
Start game → Pick Mudkip → Save → Take Mudkip out → Delete file. Result?
Mudkip stayed, splashing happily on my floor, its small fins twitching, completely oblivious to the existential threat it had just faced.
My theory was confirmed, solid and undeniable. The system had a clear, albeit harsh, rule about materialization and deletion, a specific protocol for existence and non-existence.
Satisfied, I transferred all three—Treecko, Torchic, Mudkip—into my main Emerald save file, using the in-game PC, a seamless integration that felt incredibly efficient.
It felt good, building a team, a sense of purpose filling me, a true Pokémon trainer now, with a diverse and powerful roster.
Next, I loaded up on rare candies from my infinite stash, withdrawing them from the PC, and fed them to my Pokémon. The digital candies shimmered as they materialized in my hand, a sweet, sugary scent filling the air.
Treecko was already level 10, so I fed him five candies to bring him to level 15, watching his green glow intensify with each one, his body growing visibly, becoming more defined.
Torchic and Mudkip went from level 5 to level 15, their bodies visibly growing stronger, their movements more confident, ready for battle.
They were ready, a formidable trio, their potential unlocked, their power surging. I could feel their increased vitality, a hum of energy radiating from them.
Then, I set off, stepping out of the Pokémon Center and into the familiar tall grass of Route 102, the sun warm on my skin, my team now a formidable force, ready for any challenge.
Wild Pokémon appeared on the route—Zigzagoon, Wurmple, Poochyena. I battled them all, letting my three starters gain experience, observing their new strength, their moves becoming more precise and impactful. Each victory solidified their power.
Then I started challenging trainers, the NPCs with their set teams and predictable patterns, their dialogue repeating with each rematch. Turns out, I could rematch them endlessly, a discovery that sent a jolt of excitement through me, an endless source of experience and money, a true goldmine.
This was perfect. They had stronger Pokémon than the wild ones and gave better EXP and money, a much more efficient grind than battling random wild Pokémon. I grinded my team up to near level 20 in no time, their levels soaring with each victory, their power growing exponentially.
The battles were a blur of commands and flashes of light, a symphony of digital combat, a dance of power and strategy. I watched as Treecko, Torchic, and Mudkip, now seasoned veterans of countless rematches, effortlessly dispatched their opponents, their movements fluid and powerful, their attacks devastating.
Treecko's Quick Attack was a blur, a green streak across the screen, Torchic's Ember scorched the ground, leaving pixelated scorch marks, and Mudkip's Water Gun sprayed with surprising force, knocking opponents back.
The money flowed into my digital account with each win, a steady stream of credits, a constant reminder of my growing wealth. I found myself developing a rhythm, a flow to the battles, anticipating my opponents' moves and countering them with precision, almost instinctively.
My Pokémon, too, seemed to anticipate my commands, their bond growing stronger with every shared victory, a true team now, a cohesive unit. The grind was repetitive, yes, but the constant progression and the tangible increase in my wealth and my Pokémon's power made it incredibly satisfying, almost addictive.
I even started to recognize the patterns of certain trainers, their limited dialogue repeating, their strategies unchanging, making them easy targets. It was like a well-oiled machine, and I was the conductor, orchestrating every victory, every triumph.
The digital world was my training ground, a place where I could hone my skills and my team's power without real-world limitations, a true sanctuary of growth.
Eventually, after hours of relentless training, the sun setting and rising multiple times in the game world, blurring the passage of time, I reached the next city, Rustboro City, its larger buildings and paved streets a welcome sight after the wild routes.
The city lights twinkled in the digital dusk, a beacon of civilization, promising new challenges.
First stop? Pokémon Center. I healed my team, making this place my checkpoint, my safe haven before the next challenge, a place to rest and prepare for what lay ahead.
The familiar hum of the healing machine was a comforting sound, a promise of renewed strength and vitality.
Then, I headed straight for the gym, the imposing structure standing proudly in the city center, its stone facade weathered but strong, a symbol of the challenge within.
The Gym's floor was a grid of stone tiles, cool and smooth beneath my shoes, each step echoing slightly in the vast space, and Roxanne stood at the far end, arms crossed, a picture of calm confidence.
She looked confident, calm—classic rock-type trainer demeanor, unwavering and stern, her gaze piercing, assessing me.
"I am Roxanne, the Rustboro Gym Leader," she said in her dialogue, a formal declaration of her authority. "If you wish to gain the badge, you must defeat me in a proper battle." Her gaze was unwavering, a challenge in her eyes, daring me to prove myself worthy.
"Let's do it," I muttered, gripping Treecko's Pokéball, feeling the smooth plastic warm in my hand, a surge of adrenaline coursing through me.
I was ready, my team was ready, and the system was ready to back me up, to witness my victory. This was my first official in-game challenge, a true test of my abilities.
She sent out Geodude, its rocky form appearing with a flash of light, landing with a solid thud on the battle grid, ready for combat. I didn't even hesitate, my strategy already formed in my mind, honed by countless battles and careful planning.
"Treecko, let's go!" My Treecko dashed out, energized and eager, landing lightly on the gym floor, ready for action, a blur of green.
"Use Absorb!" I commanded, my voice ringing with authority, a clear, concise order. A beam of green energy shot from Treecko's hands, striking Geodude.
Super effective.
Geodude tried to retaliate with Rock Throw, but Treecko dodged with ease, a blur of green, and followed up with another Absorb. Geodude fainted quickly, no match for Treecko's speed and type advantage, collapsing into pixels, a swift victory.
Next up: Nosepass, Roxanne's ace, a formidable opponent that looked incredibly sturdy. This one was tanky, its large, magnetic nose pointing directly at Treecko, a solid block of rock, seemingly unmovable.
Roxanne ordered Rock Tomb, and the chunks of stone hit Treecko hard, kicking up dust and lowering his speed. He winced, but held his ground, showing his resilience, his determination unwavering.
I narrowed my eyes, assessing the situation quickly, calculating my next move, weighing the risks and rewards. "Quick Attack, then follow with Absorb," I ordered, adapting my strategy on the fly, capitalizing on Treecko's speed and his draining move.
Treecko zipped forward, a green streak, landed the first hit, then latched another Absorb before Nosepass could react, draining its energy further, slowly chipping away at its defenses.
Nosepass launched a Tackle, a desperate counter-attack, but Treecko held his ground, taking the hit with surprising resilience, barely flinching.
I ordered one more Absorb—and down it went, Nosepass collapsing with a defeated groan, its large nose pointing uselessly at the ceiling. Roxanne recalled her Pokémon and smiled, a genuine, respectful expression on her face, acknowledging my skill.
"You've earned this," she said in her dialogue box, devoid of its previous formality, a true acknowledgment of my skill and determination.
The Boulder Badge was mine, a gleaming, multifaceted stone that represented my first official victory, a tangible symbol of my progress and entry into the League.
This badge in game was my first badge but it was fine i will get a real one later as well.
Back at the Pokémon Center, I healed up and saved the game, the familiar chime a comforting sound, marking my progress and securing my victory.
I leaned back and sighed, a deep breath of satisfaction and a hint of something else—a growing unease, a nagging feeling I couldn't quite shake, a subtle discord in this world.
Something about this version of the game felt... off. It didn't follow the same layout as I remembered from my Earth days, the familiar landmarks subtly shifted, almost imperceptibly.
Houses were in different places, some NPCs said different things, their dialogue branching in unexpected ways, making the world feel less predictable, more alive, yet also subtly alien. Certain events triggered earlier or not at all, disrupting the familiar progression, forcing me to adapt and rely on my own instincts.
Even the battle mechanics were subtly different, more nuanced, less predictable, requiring more thought than simple type advantage, a deeper understanding and I can just voice command in battle as well.
Also, I noticed something else, a crucial detail that changed everything: there was no four-move limitation here. My Treecko could learn and keep all moves, a revelation that expanded my strategic possibilities exponentially.
No more worrying about HM slaves or agonizing over forgetting useful moves to make room for new ones, a truly liberating discovery that opened up new avenues for training.
I could truly raise my team without restrictions, teaching them every move they could possibly learn, making them incredibly versatile and adaptable.
This was a game-changer, allowing for truly customized and powerful Pokémon, unlike anything possible in the original games. The potential for my team was limitless, a vast canvas for strategic creativity, a true advantage over other trainers.
Night had fallen outside, painting the window a deep, inky black, obscuring the outside world, making my small room feel like a private sanctuary.
I closed the game, the system panel retracting with a soft hum, and gathered my items and Pokémon. Treecko, Torchic, and Mudkip popped out of their Pokéballs, stretching and shaking off the digital confines, full of vibrant energy, their real forms a joy to behold.
Another thing I noticed, a detail that highlighted the blurred lines between game and reality: while inside the game, they didn't feel hunger.
They were sustained by the system, by the digital world's rules, a self-contained ecosystem that provided for their needs. But once they were out, in the real world, they immediately looked for food, their stomachs rumbling softly, a very real need that demanded my attention.
Also, after being healed in the game's Pokémon Center, their bodies felt like they'd been treated by professional breeders—clean, conditioned, and shining with health.
Their fur was softer, their scales gleamed, and their eyes sparkled with vitality, a testament to the system's restorative power. It was a level of care I could never have afforded in the real world, a luxury provided effortlessly by the system.
I smiled, a genuine, unburdened smile, feeling a deep connection to these creatures, my loyal companions, my true friends in this strange world.
"Alright, let's get some food," I murmured, already planning a trip to a proper restaurant, a luxury I could now easily afford, a small indulgence for us. We ate together quietly, side by side, a small, makeshift family in my cramped room, sharing a moment of peace and contentment.
Tomorrow, we rest, a well-deserved break after the intense training and the gym battle, a day to recuperate and plan our next moves.
Day after, Pewter City, the next step on our grand adventure, the next badge waiting to be claimed. The journey to becoming a Pokémon Master had finally begun, and I was ready for whatever came next.
I had the system, I had my Pokémon, and I had a plan. This world was mine for the taking, and I would seize every opportunity it offered, with every cheat and every ounce of my new power.
I close the lights off as we all go to sleep.