Chapter 8
The Astraeus courtyard was quiet at dawn, mist clinging to the stones as Alaric stood with his ledger tucked beneath one arm. Perseus swam in the basin, tail beating softly against the water. To the casual eye, it was the same as every other morning. To Alaric, however, today carried weight.
Seven days of discipline had passed. Seven days of splash after splash, defiance against current and fatigue. Perseus was no longer the same Magikarp he had pulled from the river. Its body, though still frail in appearance, moved with more energy. Its leaps carried slightly more height, its thrashes more force.
Alaric crouched at the basin's edge, eyes sharp. "You are ready," he said simply.
Perseus splashed in reply, droplets spraying across the stone.
"We have trained endurance. Now, we test control. Strength without direction is wasted."
He reached into the basin, not to lift Perseus but to guide his hand through the water. "Focus, Perseus. Do not thrash blindly. Strike forward. Not aimless—purposeful."
The Magikarp's body wavered uncertainly at first. It flicked its tail, splashing haphazardly. Alaric's tone sharpened. "No. Again. Purpose."
Another splash, still wild. Then another. But with each command, Alaric's voice pressed more insistently, a rhythm that demanded precision. Perseus began to move differently—less flailing, more deliberate thrusts. The water rippled in lines instead of chaos.
Alaric's lips curved faintly. "Good. Direct your body. Push, strike forward, not merely upward. Again."
Hours passed in repetition. The servants whispered again, confused as always. Yet this time, the water carried sharper bursts, not just splashes. A shape of motion began to form.
By midday, Perseus lurched forward, slamming its body against the basin wall with an audible thud. The impact startled the watching servants into silence.
Alaric's eyes gleamed. He crouched lower, voice calm but charged with satisfaction. "Yes. Again."
Perseus struck forward once more, body colliding with the wall. This was no mere Splash—it was movement with intent. The beginnings of Tackle.
For the next three days, Alaric honed it. The basin became too small, so he moved training to the river. There, Perseus threw its body forward again and again, ramming against rocks, forcing its instincts to refine. Each failure was corrected, each success reinforced.
By the fourth day, Perseus no longer splashed aimlessly. It lunged, body striking water with force that rippled outward. It was not elegant, nor powerful compared to the Growlithe or Nidoran trained by other nobles, but it was progress—undeniable progress.
On the fifth day, the test came.
A Rattata emerged from the grass near the riverbank, drawn by scattered feed left by villagers. It froze at the sight of Perseus thrashing in the shallows, then bared its teeth with a sharp squeak.
Alaric's eyes narrowed. Perfect.
"Perseus," he commanded softly, his voice steady, controlled. "Your first opponent."
The Rattata darted forward with startling speed, splashing into the shallow water. Perseus flailed instinctively, but Alaric's voice cut through the panic.
"Forward. Strike!"
The Magikarp lunged. Its body slammed clumsily into the Rattata's side, sending up a spray of water. The Rattata squeaked in surprise, stumbling back. It wasn't much damage, but it was contact. A hit.
Alaric's chest tightened with quiet pride. "Yes. Again!"
The Rattata recovered and darted forward with a Quick Attack, slamming into Perseus's body. The fish reeled, nearly swept aside by the river's current. But instead of sinking, Perseus thrashed, eyes burning.
Alaric's tone rose, sharp and commanding. "Endure. Do not yield. Strike again!"
Perseus lunged once more, body colliding with the Rattata's head. This time, the rodent staggered back farther, water splashing violently.
The servants who had followed gasped. It was still rough, still weak compared to the elegance of trained Pokémon battles, but it was undeniable—Perseus was fighting.
The Rattata squeaked angrily, then fled into the grass, unwilling to continue. Perseus floated in the water, sides heaving, but its eyes still sharp, still alive with defiance.
Alaric stepped closer, kneeling at the bank. His voice softened, carrying pride like steel beneath velvet. "You did it, Perseus. Not perfect yet. Not powerful yet. But today, you fought. And you endured."
He extended his hand into the water. Perseus swam close, brushing against his palm once more. The bond deepened further, silent but unbreakable.
That evening, in his chamber, Alaric wrote carefully into his ledger:
Day Twelve: Perseus has learned Tackle. First battle against wild Rattata—victory by defiance. Weak in strength, strong in will. Foundation established.
He set the quill down and leaned back, gaze lifting to the moonlight spilling across the window. His mind, always calculating, already turned forward.
"With Tackle, Perseus is no longer a symbol," he murmured. "He is a tool—small, but sharp. And in the hands of one who knows how to wield it, even a small blade can pierce deep."
He thought of Cedric's laughter, of the whispers among servants and nobles alike. Soon, word would spread of today's small victory. They would dismiss it as chance, as meaningless. Let them.
For Alaric knew better. Every beginning seemed small. But from small cracks, mountains eventually split.
And Perseus was no longer only a Magikarp. Perseus was the first step in proving that Alaric von Astraeus could bend even the weakest beginnings into unstoppable destiny.