The sun was already high when Arata slung his pack over one shoulder, the straps biting comfortably into his tank top. Sweat still clung faintly to his skin from the morning's labor, but it wasn't unpleasant; it was the kind of fatigue that came from honest work at the Morita farm. His beige shorts brushed against his knees as he walked, the leather belt at his waist weighed down not just by his pay pouch, but by two Poké Balls clipped securely to the side.
He paused at the gate of the farm, one hand resting against the wood, and glanced down at them.
Two.
Caesar. Livia.
A strange swell of pride filled his chest.
A week ago, it had just been him and Caesar. Now? He had a team. Small, yes. Raw, untested by the world's standards, maybe. But not weak. Not anymore.
He could feel it in the way Caesar's Dragon Breath had sharpened, each blast carrying more focus and heat, no longer just raw energy but something honed, controlled.
His claws gleamed sharper after their countless practice sessions, each Slash carving deeper into wood dummies and haystacks with frightening ease. His Bite, once clumsy and uneven had become a weapon that forced Arata to train him carefully, not to overdo it, lest he risk crushing through targets altogether. And now… there was something new flickering in him.
When Caesar lunged, when his claws glowed faintly with an energy deeper, older, more primal, Arata knew it wasn't just Slash anymore. It was the beginning of something greater Dragon Claw was still unrefined, but there, sparking at the edges of his strikes.
Even his body reflected the change Caesar was larger than when they'd first met, broader across the shoulders, muscles rippling with a strength that spoke of the constant drills and battles. He looked less like a hatchling and more like the dragon he was meant to become.
And Livia? She was… something else entirely. The little Pidgey had surprised him with her instincts, her speed, and her unshakable will. She carried herself like she had something to prove, and she trained like every day was a challenge she refused to lose. She moved like wind given form her Quick Attack snapping her across the field before his eyes could follow, her Double Team splitting her image into a blur of false selves that even Caesar struggled to track. Her Gusts had sharpened from playful breezes into focused bursts that could stagger opponents twice her size, and her Wing Attack cracked like a whip when it landed, carrying more weight than her small frame should have allowed.
The way she darted between Caesar's attacks during sparring, slipping through spaces that shouldn't have existed, the fire in her eyes whenever she struck true, it was as if she had been waiting for this, for them, for him.
The path into town was quiet, but alive in its own way. Fields stretched wide under the late-morning light, dotted with scattered fences and the occasional rust-red barn. Pidgey flocked overhead, darting between branches. A Rattata scurried across the roadside, vanishing into the tall grass as Arata passed. Somewhere far off, the bark of a Growlithe rang sharp, followed by the frustrated shouts of a herder.
Arata kept his pace steady, sandals slapping softly against the dirt. His mind, however, was restless.
Hailey's words from dinner echoed faintly, still her warnings about the dangers of being a trainer. He had brushed it off at the time. He had to. But in the quiet, walking this road, he let himself think.
She wasn't wrong.
Every step he took toward strength was also a step toward being noticed. Toward risk. Toward battles that could mean more than pride.
But then again this was his second life
His hand brushed the Poké Balls again. No. This was it. His path.
Town came into view by midday, the sprawl of low buildings rising above the fields. It wasn't a city not even close but compared to the farm, it felt alive. Market stalls clustered near the main road, their canvas shades fluttering in the breeze. Children ran past with small Pokémon at their heels, a particularly bossy-looking Machop carrying its trainer's bags.
The walk into town had given Arata time to think, but the building before him tugged his thoughts in a new direction. Tucked just off the main street, the "Vermillion Trainers' Circle" wasn't the kind of establishment that radiated prestige like a League gym, nor did it have the polished, clinical feel of a Pokémon Center. It was… casual. The kind of place people drifted into after work or after school. The front was warm wood with wide windows, a simple sign carved with the Circle's emblem two hands joined around a Poké Ball. Laughter spilled faintly from inside, mixed with the thrum of battle sounds.
Arata pushed open the glass doors, and the space opened up in layers. On one side, a wide lounge area sprawled with low tables and padded chairs, scattered with people chatting over tea or hunched over notebooks. He caught sight of a pair of students sketching battle diagrams, a breeder with a notebook and a baby Oddish resting in a pot beside her, and even a middle-aged man fussing over a clipboard that seemed to track egg lineages. Off to the left, the floor dropped into a sunken practice arena a square ring of soft-padded flooring with clear panels surrounding it. Two kids, no older than him, were locked in a quick battle: one with a Sandshrew, the other with a surprisingly nimble Poliwag. Their voices carried over, bright and competitive, but not the cutthroat kind of official matches. Friendly. Testing grounds.
The crowd itself was a mix he spotted a few trainers around his age, some wearing clothes that screamed wealth designer sneakers, silk jackets with custom embroidery, even a couple of kids whose belts gleamed with polished Poké Balls that probably came from family connections, not effort. There were others, though, not so different from him—nervous, scrappy, wide-eyed. Budding battle analysts scribbled notes, breeders talked lineage, a couple of nurse trainees were gossiping over a Chansey's dietary needs. It wasn't just for trainers. It was for anyone who wanted to live in the world of Pokémon more deeply.
He'd barely taken it all in when a voice pulled his attention.
"First time here?"
The receptionist stood behind a polished oak counter near the entrance. She couldn't have been much older than her early twenties, dressed in a crisp white blouse with rolled-up sleeves and a simple pendant shaped like a Poké Ball. Her hair was chestnut brown, tied back into a ponytail that still had stray strands brushing her cheek, and her eyes had that easy warmth that made people want to open up.
"Uh, yeah," Arata said, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I'm Kana … How old are you?"
"Eleven," Arata said, trying to sound steady.
Kana let out a low whistle and leaned back in her chair. "That's young. Most kids your age are still watching battles on TV or trading cards in the schoolyard." Her tone wasn't mocking but her brow furrowed all the same. "If you're handling Pokémon at eleven, I'm going to need your guardian's name. Non-negotiable."
"My aunt," Arata answered quickly. "Hailey Ishida. She's a ranger."
She ran the name through their system. "Well… that explains it. Rangers don't sign off on just anyone. Guess you're not the average rookie."
She wrote the name neatly, then turned the clipboard toward him. "You need to sign here and pay 50 Pokedollars every month as a fee and before you get too excited, battles here are at your own risk. No League oversight, no safety nets beyond the first-aid station and Chansey. You and your Pokémon take full responsibility."
She finished the necessary paperwork and,
"Congratulations," she said, sliding him a laminated membership card. His name gleamed faintly in silver trim. "You're officially a member of the Vermillion Trainers' Circle."
He turned the card over in his hand, reading the fine print on the back: Respect the arena. Respect the Circle. Responsibility is yours alone.
Arata didn't reply, just slipped the card into his shorts pocket. He could feel Caesar's and Livia's Poké Balls hanging from his belt, heavy in a way that had nothing to do with their weight.
"Go on," Kana said, waving him toward the lounge. "See the place for yourself. You'll find budding trainers, sure, but also breeders, medics, and kids studying battle theory. And plenty of folks who just want to talk Pokémon. "
As he stepped aside, a pair of older teens, sixteen, maybe seventeen strode past him with the easy confidence of boys who had grown up with money. Their blazers were sharp, their laughter louder than it needed to be, and the polished Poké Balls clipped to their belts glinted like trophies.
Arata adjusted his own belt, suddenly aware of how different his path was. His Pokémon weren't family heirlooms or expensive gifts. They were with him because Suzume had trusted him and because he'd earned their bond.
The lounge was busier than he'd expected leather sofas arranged in clusters, tables scattered with books, PokéNavs, and half-empty drinks. A few battles played live on wall-mounted screens, muted but with captions scrolling. Trainers chatted, laughed, argued, or scribbled notes. The air buzzed with that particular kind of energy, half casual, half competitive came whenever people who loved Pokémon gathered in one place.
Arata slipped in, his membership card still warm in his pocket, and scanned for a place to sit. He didn't get far.
"Hey, new face !"
The voice came from a sofa tucked near the wide window. Arata turned, and for a moment, he felt like he'd stumbled into a little world of its own. Four kids were sprawled around a low coffee table, books and half-finished drinks scattered across it.
The first thing he noticed was the girl with the red hair. Long, fiery strands spilled over the shoulders of her crisp white blouse, catching the light like copper wire and her green eyes were alive with mischief, like she was always one clever line away from laughing. Even the way she tilted her head as she looked at him half appraising, half amused felt playful, like she'd already decided he might be entertaining.
Next to her was a boy, older than fifteen, maybe. He had that neat, polished look Arata only ever saw in the town's richer families: dark hair slicked back, uniform blazer cut a little too well to be off-the-rack. His shoulders were broad, his expression cool, the way people got when they were used to being listened to.
Perched on the sofa arm was a smaller boy, maybe seven. His coppery hair matched the girl's, freckles scattered across his nose. He swung his legs restlessly, toes knocking the cushion, like sitting still for more than a minute was impossible.
The last was a girl with chestnut-brown hair cut in a neat bob that framed her face. She had a plain blouse buttoned right up to her collarbone and thin-framed glasses that kept sliding down her nose. She didn't look up as he approached, only pushed her glasses back up with a finger and kept scribbling in the thick notebook balanced on her knees, pen scratching like she couldn't afford to lose a thought.
Arata hesitated on the edge of the scene, suddenly aware of the Poké Balls clipped to his belt. They felt heavier than usual, like toys he'd carried into a room where everyone else looked older, sharper, more in place.
The redhead caught him watching and grinned, eyes bright. She patted the empty chair across from her with a little flourish, like she was presenting a stage. "You're new here, huh? Don't just stand there, sit. We don't bite." A beat, then a sly tilt of her head. "Well, not unless you're boring."
Arata blinked, then shuffled forward and sat, Caesar's Poké Ball pressing against his hip like it was reminding him it was there.
"I'm Mira," the girl said, flipping a lock of hair behind her ear. She said it with the kind of cheer that filled the space without effort. "Future top trainer. No, really. Don't laugh, it's true." She grinned wider, daring him to argue, as though the whole thing was half boast, half game.
The boy next to her leaned back lazily. "Haru," he said. "Trainer." His voice carried that faint lilt of someone who thought the word trainer spoke for itself.
The younger boy perked up. "I'm Taro! I don't have a Pokémon yet, but Mira says maybe next year." His grin was wide and genuine, and Arata found it easier to meet his eyes.
The girl with glasses finally looked up, pushing them higher on her nose. "Rin. Researcher-in-training. Field focuses on comparative move development." She said it briskly, as if reciting from a résumé.
They all turned back to him.
"…Arata," he said after a moment. "Arata Ishida"
Mirei's lips quirked. " Arata, huh? Well, welcome. So, where'd you get your Pokémons?" She nodded toward his belt.
"My aunt," Arata said. "She's a ranger."
The word landed like a pebble dropped in water. Rin's pen paused. Mirei tilted her head with interest. But Haru's eyes narrowed, just slightly, the faintest edge of disdain curling at the corner of his mouth.
"Rangers," Haru repeated, as if tasting something sour. "Guess that explains how you've got Pokémon already. Usually, you'd have to wait a few years. League policy and all."
Mira shot him a quick look, but didn't argue. Instead, she leaned her chin on her hand, green eyes flicking over Arata with renewed curiosity.
Rin adjusted her glasses, interest sparking despite herself. "Which school are you with?"
Arata blinked. "School?"
"Yeah," Haru said smoothly, leaning back with a kind of effortless confidence. "We're all at Crestmont Academy. Best prep in the region. Professors, simulators, breeding labs the whole package." He smirked.
"I don't… go to Crestmont," Arata said carefully. "I just tested out. Study when I want."
Haru's smirk edged toward disdain. "So like a… self-study? Guess that works if you don't have options." He shrugged, as though dismissing the effort entirely.
Before Arata could reply, Mirei leaned forward, her red hair catching the lounge light as she twirled a strand around her finger. "Don't be a snob, Haru. Not everyone gets their path gift-wrapped." Her eyes slid toward Haru with a playful spark. "Though I will admit, despite being gift wrapped, your Chikorita is adorable. When are you starting your journey?"
Haru's smirk softened into something smugger, more self-satisfied. "Soon. Next summer, probably. Dad's already arranging the permits. Chikorita's breeder-certified rare line from Johto. She's going to be my starter."
The tension eased as the talk drifted from schools and tests into lighter things, favorite moves, training mishaps, and the best snacks to bribe stubborn Pokémon with.
Taro leaned forward eagerly, bombarding Arata with questions about his partners, while Rin jotted little notes whenever something caught her ear. Mirei laughed often, her voice bright in the lounge, sometimes teasing Haru, sometimes teasing Arata, always balancing the air between them.
Even Haru, for all his practiced aloofness, found himself leaning in to describe Chikorita's quirks, his hands sketching shapes in the air as he talked.
Arata listened more than he spoke, but bit by bit, the strangeness of sitting among Crestmont's polished heirs began to blur into something simpler: just kids on the same couches, swapping stories about the journeys they dreamed of.
For the first time that day, he felt the knot in his chest loosen. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't completely out of place here.