Chapter 2
The morning came softly, golden light spilling across the wooden floor of Alaric's room. He awoke before the servants stirred, his mind sharp, his body restless. The boy he had become needed rest, but the man within him—the politician, the strategist, the fanatic—hungered too much for knowledge to waste time in sleep.
After washing and dressing in clothes set out the night before, he stepped quietly into the corridor. The Astraeus household was neither a palace nor a cottage. It was what one might expect of minor nobility: elegant but modest, designed with refinement rather than extravagance. Portraits of ancestors lined the walls, their stern gazes watching him as he passed, each name etched on plaques beneath—proof that this family, though not mighty, was old.
The manor's heart was the library.
When Alaric pushed open the heavy oak doors, the scent of parchment and ink welcomed him like an old friend. Rows of shelves stretched high, filled with tomes on history, economics, philosophy, and—most importantly—Pokémon. His small hand trailed along the spines as he walked, violet eyes scanning titles. The Legends of Johto. Treatises on Pokémon Husbandry. A Beginner's Guide to Battle Techniques.
He pulled one free and sat by the window where sunlight pooled on the table. The book was worn, its corners softened by years of study, but the words within were alive. It spoke of Johto's traditions: the Bell Tower and Burned Tower, the dances of Ecruteak, the guardians said to rest in distant shrines. It described how nobles once measured their prestige not only in land and wealth, but in the Pokémon they commanded.
Alaric's lips curved into a thin smile. Just as he suspected—politics here was not separate from Pokémon. It was intertwined, inseparable. A man with a thousand acres but no strong partners was weak. A merchant with a Gyarados at his call could rival a lord.
He turned the pages slowly, savoring every detail. The writing confirmed what he already believed: this world was a chessboard, and Pokémon were the pieces. But unlike chess, where pawns could only advance step by step, even the weakest piece here could evolve into a queen.
"Alaric, dear, you're up early again."
He looked up to see his mother entering the library, her steps graceful, her smile soft. She carried a tray of tea, setting it on the table beside him.
"Knowledge rises with the sun," he replied smoothly, almost reflexively. Then he caught himself and softened his tone, remembering he was supposed to be a boy. "I just… wanted to learn more about Pokémon."
His mother chuckled. "Astraeus children have always been fond of books. But remember, the world cannot be lived through ink alone."
Her words struck him more deeply than she knew. In his old life, he had lived too much through ink—through documents, contracts, treaties. Now, this world demanded more. To command Pokémon, to shape destiny, he could not only study. He would need to step into the field himself.
After breakfast, Alaric ventured outside again. The town bustled as it had yesterday, but this time he observed more closely. He watched how the baker's son delivered bread with the aid of a cheerful Pidgey, darting above rooftops to drop loaves swiftly. He noted how the guard at the gate stood taller with a Growlithe at his side, citizens offering him deeper bows than they did his partner without one. Even the merchant who bargained with foreign traders displayed a Machop at his stall, a silent warning against dishonesty.
Power wore many faces, but here, it always came paired with a Pokémon.
"Hey, move it!"
Alaric turned just in time to step aside as two boys ran past, their laughter loud. A Sentret scurried after them, balancing on its tail as it squeaked. One boy tripped, and the Sentret immediately stood between him and a passing cart, chittering loudly until the driver reined in his Ponyta.
The boy laughed, hugging his partner. Alaric's chest tightened.
He had seen loyalty in soldiers, obedience in servants, but this—this was different. This was devotion, pure and instinctive. It was what he had longed for in the shadows of his old life.
"Someday," he murmured under his breath, "I'll have that, too."
The day wore on, and as evening neared, he returned to the manor. His father had come home by then—a tall, stern man with hair beginning to gray, his posture radiating authority. Dinner was held in the great hall, the family gathered around a long table.
"Alaric," his father said between sips of wine, "I hear you've been visiting the library every morning."
"Yes, Father."
The man's eyes were sharp, weighing him. "A fine habit. Knowledge is the foundation of strength. But remember, our family's duty is not only to study. We are to serve—both the people and the court. Books will prepare you, but one day, you must act."
Alaric bowed his head. "I understand."
Of course he understood. He understood better than anyone at that table. His father spoke of duty as though it were a burden. To Alaric, it was opportunity.
That night, after the family retired, Alaric slipped outside once more. The moon hung high, silver light washing over the fields. Fireflies danced above the grass, and the river whispered as it flowed.
He sat by the bank, hugging his knees to his chest, and simply watched. Pokémon stirred in the night—Hoothoot calling from the trees, Wooper splashing in the shallows, Zubat weaving patterns in the sky.
It was not just power. It was beauty.
Alaric exhaled slowly. His life here was only beginning, but already the path stretched before him, long and glittering with promise. He would need patience, cunning, and strength. He would need partners—true partners, who trusted him not as a noble or a master, but as something greater.
And when the time came, he would not simply walk the path of a trainer. He would shape the very path itself.
The boy who had once been a political genius smiled faintly, eyes reflecting the moonlight.
"I'll build a world," he whispered to the night. "A world where the name Astraeus will stand among legends."
The Wooper splashed again, as if in answer, and Alaric felt the faint stirrings of destiny in his chest.
His journey had not yet begun. But it would.
Soon.