Morning broke clean and bright over Lavender Town when Ethan shouldered his pack and tightened his grip on the restless Primeape in his arms. At the gates of the Pokémon House, Mr. Fuji, Reina, and several Lavender Gym students gathered to see him off. Ethan laughed, tossed two Poké Balls high, and brought out Charizard and Munchlax for a proper farewell. Charizard wore an iron ring at his neck set with Charizardite X, and another around his tail set with Charizardite Y—a quiet promise of the power waiting in reserve. "Everyone, train hard while I'm gone. When I'm back, I'll spot-check you in battle," he said, then swung onto Charizard's back with Primeape in tow, and recalled Munchlax to spare his flier the extra weight. With one last roar, Charizard vaulted skyward and vanished into blue.
Cynthia arrived moments later with her luggage, telling Mr. Fuji she'd travel Kanto with Garchomp instead of staying to study ancient scripts alone. "It'll be more meaningful to get stronger first—and surprise him later," she said, leaving the old man to shake his head at youthful logic.
High above Route 10, the wind slapped Ethan's coat and sang in Charizard's wing bones. Primeape's nostrils crinkled—the telltale warning. "Hey, easy. Not in the mood for an airborne tantrum," Ethan murmured, and patted Charizard's shoulder. The dragon slowed to a lazy glide, and Primeape's breath steadied. Before leaving, Ethan had bargained with the hothead: when anger surged, signal first, so Ethan could get his ghostweave suit on or steer him toward a safe sparring target. Primeape had agreed. For now, the sky stayed peaceful.
His Pokégear buzzed. A new client had tapped his profile. Months of results had earned Ethan a nickname in the instructor forums—"One-Glance Coach," the guy who could look at a Pokémon once and tell you if it could learn a move and how many reps it would take. The reviews were near-perfect; he'd even raised his rate to ten thousand to thin the queue. A glance at the itinerary: a 9:00 a.m. video consult in twenty minutes; a 3:00 p.m. ferry out of Vermilion to Johto—plenty of time if he set down now. "Charizard, put us by a lake." The dragon banked and landed beside sunlit water. Primeape scrambled off to a tree branch; Charizard trotted to an open patch to drill Flamethrower precision; Munchlax flopped down by Ethan and held out both hands for energy cubes before promptly dozing.
Nine o'clock chimed. Ethan accepted the call—and blinked. The screen filled with a bald, elderly gentleman in a tuxedo, posture immaculate.
"Good morning," the man said in a cultured baritone. "My young master is recruiting a private instructor for his Growlithe. We hear you can predict training outcomes on sight. Would you be interested in applying?"
Young master, Ethan thought. Old money. Aloud: "Interested. But there's always a catch."
"Naturally. We're selecting the best. You will compete against twenty other candidates in five rounds. In each round, you observe a Pokémon and state precisely what it can learn and how to make it happen. The highest overall accuracy earns an audience with the young master." The butler's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Regardless of selection, we'll pay your fee for five evaluations."
"Fair enough," Ethan said. "Let's begin."
A clap off-screen; a handler led a Staryu into frame. Ethan didn't wait for the prompt.
"Two moves are open right now: Swift and Light Screen," he said. "Swift has had some targeted practice—forty-five more repetitions will finish it. For Light Screen, lay down measured samples of Drowzee fur and Pidgey down—three units each—in front of Staryu. Once it engages, the pathway will 'click.' Ninety-seven practice casts to mastery." He flicked two fingers. "Next."
The tuxedoed man faltered, then nodded for the swap. Bulbasaur rolled in on a cart—no fuss, no theatrics.
"Bulbasaur," Ethan said, already scanning the rhythm of its breath, the tension in the shoulders, the way it tested the ground with its forefeet, "is primed for Leech Seed—needs fifty-three clean launches with proper root visualization to bind reliably. After that, you can chain into Sleep Powder in eighty-one tries if you stage the drills correctly. You're over-watering it, by the way—soil mix looks heavy; back that off, or you'll keep blunting focus."
The butler's lips twitched—as if he wanted to scoff but couldn't quite find a handhold to do it. He waved the next three in quick succession. Ethan rattled off each plan: the viable move, the materials to catalyze learning if needed, and the exact count to hit mastery. The old man's expression shifted from skeptical to wary to openly fascinated. He thinks I'm bluffing, Ethan noted, but he keeps checking, and each time the handlers' faces give me away.
At the fifth Pokémon, something went wrong on their end. Voices rose off-screen; the camera jostled. The butler turned aside sharply, murmuring to someone out of view. The feed stuttered. "We're experiencing an… unexpected situation," he said, tone suddenly clipped. "Please hold." The screen froze on his immaculate bow tie. Cliffhanger delivered.
Ethan ended the call with a wry smile. "Rich families," he said to no one in particular. Primeape dropped from the tree and landed beside him, eyes bright with the fight itch. "Not now," Ethan told him, then jerked his chin at Charizard, who was still carving molten lines into the air. "Save it for Johto."
He checked the time: still hours before the ferry. The lake glittered; a breeze dragged ripples toward the reeds. For a moment—even with Team Rocket's invasion fresh in memory, even with Sabrina's gaze still needling the back of his neck—life felt simple. Train. Earn. Move forward.
His phone buzzed again. A short message from the tuxedoed number: Round One provisional leader: you. Await our summons. The young master is impressed. Ethan's brows rose. He glanced at Primeape. "Ever heard of James? Heir to a fortune, rich parents, very pampered Growlithe?" The butler hadn't said the name, but there were only so many Kanto families old and rich enough to call their scion 'young master' with a straight face. Ethan's grin turned sly. "If it's who I think it is, this job could pay for a dozen Mega Stone hunts."
Primeape grunted, unimpressed by money. He jabbed Ethan's rib: spar now?
"After the ferry," Ethan promised, tossing him a protein bar. Primeape tore into it and wandered back to his tree. Munchlax, still sprawled at Ethan's side, snored like a tiny sawmill.
Ethan leaned against the trunk and let his mind roam. The path ahead was clear: Vermilion → S.S. Aqua ferry → Johto. From there, the trail to Lake of Rage—the forcibly evolved Red Gyarados—and then farther south toward Whirl Islands for the Silver Wing that whispered of Lugia. Ambition thrummed under his skin. With Charizard's twin Mega forms, Munchlax's impossible dice, and a tamed Primeape for the ugly jobs, the world felt, for the first time, like something he could bend. He closed his eyes and pictured the crimson coils of a furious sea dragon exploding from black water. Mine first, he thought. Before Lance. Before anyone.
Charizard finished a crisp sequence—Flamethrower, cut, recover—and lumbered back for a pat. Ethan scratched the base of his horn and fed him a heat cube. "Good work. Keep the edges sharp." The dragon rumbled in contentment; sunlight flashed along the X-stone at his throat and the Y-stone at his tail, a private joke glinting in plain sight.
Ethan checked the ticket again, then pushed to his feet. "Pack it up. We make Vermilion by noon, eat, and board." Charizard spread his wings; Primeape dropped down; Munchlax stretched, yawned, and waddled over. For a heartbeat, the team stood together in the lake's reflected light—black wings, bright eyes, a glutton with crumbs on his lip, a fighter trying to breathe before the next storm.
"Alright," Ethan said, and the three of them answered in their own voices as the wind rose to meet them.