Chapter 3
The third morning of Alaric's new life began with rain.
Soft droplets pattered against the windows of the Astraeus manor, blurring the gardens outside into a watercolor of green and gray. Servants bustled through the halls with candles and towels, the house echoing faintly with their voices. To most children, it would have been a dreary day, but to Alaric, it was an opportunity.
He sat at his desk, quill in hand, a sheet of parchment spread before him. The boy who had once been a politician wrote not like a child scribbling fantasies, but like a scholar drafting policy. His small, neat letters formed lists.
Pokémon observed in town: Pidgey, Mareep, Rattata, Sentret, Machop, Growlithe, Butterfree, Chansey.
Roles noted: messenger, labor, guard, healer.
Observation: The strength of even simple Pokémon elevates social standing. Conclusion: Trainer prestige is a currency equal to wealth.
He paused, tapping the quill thoughtfully. Yesterday's dinner replayed in his mind—his father speaking of duty, of service to people and court. Alaric understood now more than ever. Nobility here was not only measured in titles or lands, but in Pokémon. A noble house without powerful partners would wither, its voice drowned by those with stronger allies.
The door creaked open. A servant bowed politely. "Young master, your father requests your presence in the hall."
Alaric set the quill aside. "Tell him I am coming."
The hall was modest yet dignified, its wooden beams polished, banners of the Astraeus crest—silver star over indigo—hanging proudly. His father sat at the long table, speaking with two men dressed in travel-worn coats. Farmers, by the look of them. Their caps were clutched nervously in their hands.
"…the Rattata problem worsens," one said. "They raid our grain stores nightly. We've tried traps, but they're too many. Without aid, the harvest will fail."
Alaric lingered at the edge of the hall, listening silently.
His father leaned back, frowning. "I will send word to the guard. Perhaps they can spare a Growlithe to patrol your fields."
One farmer hesitated. "With respect, my lord… the guard is already stretched thin. If one of your family's Pokémon could…"
Silence. Alaric's gaze sharpened. That was it—the expectation. Nobles were not only rulers, but protectors, their worth measured by the Pokémon they could command in service of their people. His father's hesitation revealed much. The Astraeus family had no such Pokémon of note, at least not nearby. Their prestige was fragile, their power more symbolic than practical.
Alaric stepped forward. "Father."
His father turned, brows raising slightly. "Alaric? You were listening?"
"Yes." He bowed his head politely before continuing. "Forgive my boldness, but perhaps we might approach this differently. The problem is not only the Rattata—it is that their numbers swell unchecked. If we do not act at the root, the guard will be stretched thinner every season."
The farmers blinked, startled by the calm, precise voice of a boy no older than ten. His father's eyes narrowed, studying him. "And what do you suggest?"
Alaric's lips curved faintly. "We should seek a natural deterrent. A predator. Pidgey, perhaps, or Hoothoot. If our farmers are encouraged to raise and train such Pokémon, they will not only guard their fields but also strengthen the community. In time, the burden on the guard will lessen."
One farmer whispered, "Train our own… Pokémon?"
His father's frown deepened, but not with disapproval. "A bold thought. Not without precedent, either."
Alaric bowed again, masking his satisfaction. He had planted a seed. His father would remember this. So would the farmers. Politics was not always grand speeches—it was influence, subtle and quiet, earned one suggestion at a time.
After the men departed, his father regarded him in silence. Then, with a small huff of laughter, he said, "For one so young, you speak like a man twice my age. Sometimes I wonder what spirit truly lives in you."
Alaric smiled faintly. "Perhaps I only listen more than most."
That day, the rain lessened to a drizzle, and Alaric retreated once more to the library. He sought books not only on legends now, but on trainers—on how journeys began, how bonds were formed.
He read of children leaving home with partners chosen from local professors, of trainers battling for badges in cities, of those who returned as Champions or fell into obscurity. He read of the League, that distant mountain where the strongest gathered, and of the politics woven into its structure.
One passage struck him deeply: "A trainer's first partner shapes not only their journey, but their bond with the world. Chosen poorly, it may be a burden. Chosen well, it may become a legend."
Alaric's fingers tightened on the page. He thought of the Magikarp he had seen by the river, of the Sentret shielding a boy from a cart. Weakness and strength were not absolutes—they were context, timing, nurturing. His first partner would be more than a companion. It would be the cornerstone of his vision.
But who would it be?
He closed the book slowly, violet eyes glinting. He could not rush this. He would not settle for mere chance. Every step must be deliberate, every choice aligned with the future he intended to build.
By evening, the rain had stopped, and mist rose from the fields. Alaric slipped out once more to the riverbank, the air cool against his skin. The Magikarp leapt again, stubbornly against the current.
He crouched, watching it splash back, weaker each time. To most, it was laughable. To him, it was a mirror.
"Everyone mocks you," he whispered. "But one day, you'll rise, and the world will tremble. That is your fate."
The Magikarp flopped, then stilled, as if listening. A small smile touched his lips.
"Yes," he murmured, "I think I know where to begin."
For the first time since his rebirth, Alaric allowed himself to imagine it clearly: standing not alone, but with a partner at his side, eyes forward, destiny within reach.
The rain clouds parted, revealing the moon, and its silver light glistened on the river's surface.
Alaric von Astraeus straightened, hands clasped behind his back, noble even in solitude. His heart was steady, his purpose clear. The world of Pokémon was vast, dangerous, magnificent. And he would claim his place within it.
Not tomorrow. Not immediately. But soon.
Very soon.