Chapter 1
The world had always been a game to Alaric von Astraeus.
In his first life, he had been born into nobility—descended from a house whose name carried weight across courts and chambers. Politics had been his arena, and he had mastered it with frightening precision. By the time he was a man, he had turned allies into pawns, pawns into knights, and knights into kings. He was the one who whispered into ears that wrote laws, the one who orchestrated treaties without lifting a blade. He could sway a council with a look, dismantle an enemy with a word, and bind a nation with his signature.
Yet for all his triumphs, his soul had never truly belonged to that world. When the chandeliers went dark and the meetings adjourned, he always returned to a private chamber littered with things no noble should have been proud of—worn guidebooks, handheld consoles, scribbled notes of strategies, and fan-made illustrations of worlds where creatures of wonder existed.
Pokémon.
That word, that dream, had been his sanctuary. He could be ruthless in the morning and calculating in the afternoon, but at night he was a boy again, eyes shining at the thought of trainers standing shoulder-to-shoulder with companions who were more than beasts—they were partners, legends, friends.
But fate had denied him that dream. His first life had ended in betrayal, a slow-burning poison hidden in a toast of victory. He died as he had lived: in a hall of whispers, surrounded by smiles concealing knives.
When the darkness came, he thought it final. But then there was light.
The warmth of the sun kissed his face, and the scent of lavender tickled his nose. His eyelids fluttered open, and what he saw was not marble, nor tapestry, nor the golden chandeliers of his house. It was a wooden ceiling, plain yet polished, with faint beams of morning sun creeping through a curtain.
Alaric sat up sharply. His body was different—small, slender, fragile. He turned to the mirror by the bedside, and the reflection that greeted him nearly stole his breath.
A boy of about ten stared back. His hair was silver, falling in soft strands that caught the sunlight like threads of starlight. His eyes were violet, deep and bright, as though some celestial fire had been kindled in them. His face carried the softness of youth, but his posture—the way he instinctively straightened his back, the way his gaze measured the world—was unmistakably noble.
This was not the man he had once been. This was someone new.
And then he heard it.
"Koo!" A Pidgey cooed somewhere outside, followed by the rustling flutter of wings. The faint splash of a river carried the playful call of a Poliwag. And then, a cry so familiar it made his chest ache—"Maree-eeep!"
Alaric stumbled to the window, pulled aside the curtain, and his world shattered and reformed in the span of a heartbeat.
A hill rolled gently in the distance where two Mareep grazed lazily, their wool glowing faintly with static. A Butterfree drifted across the sky, its wings like fragments of a rainbow. In the cobblestone street below, children laughed as a Rattata darted between their legs, bread in its mouth, while a Growlithe barked and gave chase.
It was real.
Alaric gripped the window frame so tightly his knuckles turned white. This was no dream, no fevered fantasy. He had been reborn. Reborn into the world of Pokémon.
His breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. His mind wanted to spiral into the giddy, reckless joy of a fanatic finally touching his obsession—but his instincts, the steel discipline honed in his first life, snapped him back. If this world was real, then it was not simply a playground. This was a world of power, of danger, of gods that walked the earth disguised as legends.
If entire nations in his old world had been shaped by mere armies, then what of this one, where a single trainer could command creatures capable of sundering mountains? What of regions where the balance of peace rested on the goodwill of legendaries?
This was not merely fantasy. This was politics with stakes beyond imagination.
The door creaked open.
"Alaric, dear, you're awake?"
A woman entered—a vision of grace, carrying the kind of presence that could only belong to nobility. Her hair was a pale gold, her eyes a gentle blue, her smile warm enough to melt even Alaric's carefully trained guard. She set down a tray of warm bread, honey, and milk.
"Yes, Mother," Alaric said automatically, the word rolling off his tongue with unexpected ease. He bowed his head slightly—a reflex from his old life.
She tilted her head at him, bemused. "You're such a peculiar child sometimes. Always so formal." But she laughed softly and brushed his hair from his forehead.
Alaric masked his calculating gaze with a smile. Already, he was learning. His family name was Astraeus, she explained, an old but modest line of scholars and minor aristocrats in the Johto region. They were respected, though not powerful. His father served in the provincial court, overseeing matters of trade and governance.
Johto. The name stirred something fierce in him. A land of ancient towers, of myths carved in stone, of legends sleeping beneath the soil. A region where tradition and history intertwined with the present.
As he ate the bread and drank the milk, Alaric's thoughts ran ahead. A family of minor nobility. A region steeped in power and myth. A world where Pokémon dictated not just survival, but status. He had been given not only rebirth but position—a foundation upon which to build something greater.
Later that day, he ventured out into town. His mother walked beside him at first, greeting merchants and acquaintances with the ease of one respected by her peers. The town itself was vibrant, nestled between fertile fields and a wide river. The marketplace bustled with life—stalls selling berries and herbs, blacksmiths repairing Poké Balls and farming tools, children darting between Pokémon as if they were playmates.
Alaric's eyes missed nothing. A Machop lifted crates twice its size with ease for a trader. A Sentret stood on its tail, acting as a lookout on the rooftops. A Chansey worked at the local clinic, humming as it handed supplies to the nurse. Every action, every role, every service—Pokémon were the foundation of labor, economy, and power.
And where foundations existed, hierarchies were built.
He saw it in the way townsfolk greeted trainers with Poké Balls on their belts with subtle respect. He saw it in the way merchants offered small discounts to a man accompanied by a confident Arcanine. Even here, in a quiet town, strength translated into status.
Later, when his mother left him to his own wandering, Alaric lingered near the training grounds. Children younger than him practiced with their first partners, mostly simple creatures—Pidgey, Sentret, Wooper. They laughed, stumbled, fell, and rose again. To them, this was play. To Alaric, it was revelation.
This was where power began.
As evening approached, he walked to the riverbank. The water shimmered with orange light, reflecting the sinking sun. A Magikarp leapt, splashing back with little grace. To a child, it was weak. To Alaric, it was potential incarnate—a symbol of transformation, of strategy, of strength hidden beneath ridicule.
He clasped his hands behind his back, posture straight, gaze fixed on the horizon.
This world was magnificent, but it was not kind. It would not be enough to wander and collect badges like a carefree child. He would need strength, yes—but strength wielded with wisdom, strategy, and vision. His past life had taught him the cruelty of ambition without purpose. This time, he would forge something lasting.
"I will rise again," he whispered to the river, his voice low, steady, filled with conviction.
Alaric von Astraeus would not be content with being a trainer, nor a scholar, nor a noble. He would be more. He would weave politics and power together until even the Champions and the gods themselves acknowledged him.
And yet, as the wind rustled and a Butterfree drifted past, a softer thought stirred in his heart. Perhaps, in this new life, he could also find what he had once been denied—freedom, wonder, and the bond of friendship that had only ever existed in dreams.
The boy who had once been a political genius in a cynical world now stood reborn at the dawn of his journey. His eyes shone with purpose, his lips curved in a small, knowing smile.
The game had begun again.
And Alaric intended to win.
Alaric lay awake that night, long after the lights of the Astraeus estate had dimmed. The soft crackle of the fireplace in his room was the only sound, the warmth just enough to drive away the chill of the Johto evening. Yet no matter how he turned, sleep refused to come.
His body was that of a child, but his mind was not. His thoughts swirled, dragging him backward—back to a life that seemed like a dream now, but was far too vivid to dismiss.
In that old world, he had been a noble, a politician, a man who maneuvered nations with careful words. But when the halls of power fell silent and the ink of treaties dried, he had always returned to something else. To Pokémon.
He could still remember the glow of the screen in his study, the soft hum of a console booting up when the rest of the manor was asleep. His aides would have laughed if they had known. To them, he was the sharp, untouchable von Astraeus, the man who could negotiate circles around ambassadors twice his age. Yet in the quiet of night, he was a boy again,