The next month and a half passed like a relentless tide—one that never truly receded, only shifted direction.
I didn't stay in one place long enough to grow comfortable.
One day I was standing knee-deep in the marshlands of eastern India, facing a territorial evolved Swampert whose presence had displaced three villages. The next, I was high in the dry plateaus of central India, trying to negotiate a territorial Braviary that had decided highways were its hunting ground. Then forests, ravines, abandoned industrial zones, collapsed tunnels, fractured coastlines.
Everywhere the world had cracked, something new had taken root.
And not all of it wanted to coexist.
At first, there were meetings.
Long ones.
Careful ones.
I spoke the same way I always did—calm, firm, respectful. I explained borders. Explained balance. Explained what humans were willing to tolerate and what they weren't. I offered safe zones, food routes, non-aggression agreements, monitored breeding grounds.
Many Pokémon listened.
More than humans ever expected.
Pokémon leaders—true alphas—weren't beasts ruled purely by instinct. They understood territory. Understood loss. Understood cost. And most of them, once shown undeniable proof of human capability, chose stability over endless conflict.
But some didn't.
Some alphas ruled through fear alone.
They injured their own packs to maintain dominance. They attacked surrounding zones not out of need, but habit. They killed without purpose, drove prey species to extinction pockets, and turned ecosystems into unstable pressure cookers.
Those zones couldn't be left alone.
So the pattern changed.
No more speeches.
No more repeated warnings.
When my team and I entered a mid-level zone and identified an alpha that refused all forms of peaceful cohabitation, the process became swift and decisive.
We would demonstrate force once.
Not excessive.
Not cruel.
Just absolute.
The alpha would fall.
The pack would be shown that dominance didn't have to come from brutality.
Then they were given a choice.
Submit to structured cohabitation.Accept monitored territory.Or be relocated—or removed entirely.
Most chose the first.
Some needed time.
A few… chose neither.
Those zones were marked on the map in deep red.
Red Zones.
Not destroyed.
Not cleansed.
Contained.
Because even overwhelming power had to respect long-term balance. Some leaders were simply too strong—too entrenched, too deeply woven into the fabric of their zones.
Pokémon above Level 50.
Creatures that had ruled their territories long before Arrival into this world.
For them, we settled for non-aggression pacts. Borders drawn with care. Surveillance instead of confrontation.
For now.
The map of India slowly changed color.
Orange zones stabilized.Yellow zones negotiated.Green zones integrated.
Red zones waited.
I couldn't be everywhere anymore.
And for the first time, that didn't terrify me.
Because I wasn't alone.
When my core team returned from their respective assignments—law enforcement integration, rescue unit support, zone stabilization, border patrol—we didn't sit around congratulating ourselves.
We restructured.
Reassigned.
Built layers.
Captain Sethi had proven himself repeatedly. Calm under pressure. Clear in command. Unwavering when it mattered. So when the volcanic island appeared off the coast near Mumbai—a jagged mass of black rock, magma vents glowing faintly at night, ash drifting across the sea like fog—I knew exactly who to send.
The Strike Squad.
New recruits.
Young.
Disciplined.
Nervous in the right way.
The island was dangerous, but controlled. Harsh terrain. Extreme heat pockets. Volcanic gases in some areas.
And most importantly—
Houndoom territory.
Fire- and Dark-type Pokémon with pack structure, loyalty, and an instinctive understanding of hierarchy. Perfect partners for enforcement units—if approached correctly.
Disastrous if mishandled.
I didn't go with them.
That was the point.
Sethi handled the briefing himself. Explained risks. Explained expectations. Explained that Pokémon partnerships weren't rewards—they were responsibilities that could kill you if you disrespected them.
Watching the transport leave from the coastline, I felt something unexpected.
Relief.
India was no longer relying on one person to hold everything together.
The system was beginning to breathe on its own.
Growth Beyond Numbers
What surprised me most over those weeks wasn't the scale of the operations.
It was my Pokémon.
They had grown.
Not just in levels.
In Strength.
Mankey, once volatile and explosive, had settled into something sharper. Level 25, muscles denser, movements more deliberate. He didn't lash out anymore—he waited, watched, then struck with frightening efficiency.
Rhyhorn had become a living bulwark. Level 36, his hide thick enough that even evolved Pokémon thought twice before charging him. When he moved, the ground responded. When he stopped, things reconsidered.
The younger Rhyhorn—once skittish—had reached Level 19. She followed her father constantly, mimicking posture, testing strength, learning patience the hard way. Pride had replaced fear.
Pikachu's growth worried some observers.
Level 20 already.
But what mattered wasn't the number—it was control.
Her electricity no longer leaked.
No random sparks. No wasted output.
Every discharge was intentional. Precise. Measured.
She didn't fight for fun anymore.
She fought to end things quickly.
Grookey's evolution came quietly.
One night, after training, his rhythm shifted. The playful beats became steady, deliberate strikes. His body stretched, posture straightened, and by morning—
Thwackey. Level 19.
Nearly a meter tall, expression calmer, eyes sharper. He still smiled—but there was intent behind it now.
And then there was Pidgeot.
My shadow in the sky.
She evolved during a suppression operation in the Western Ghats. Storm clouds overhead, winds tearing through the valley. When the moment came, it wasn't dramatic—it was inevitable.
Wings spread.
Air bent.
Lightning framed him as he rose.
Level 36.
Standing beside me now, Pidgeot was nearly as tall as I was—about 1.6 meters, wingspan stretching 11 to 12 meters when fully unfurled. When he stood still, people felt watched. When he flew, the sky seemed smaller.
All my Pokémon were larger than standard metrics.
Stronger.
Denser.
Their attack output exceeded baseline expectations.
Endurance tests ran long before fatigue set in.
The answer wasn't mystery.
It was care.
Balanced Pokéblock nutrition. Controlled battle exposure. Adequate rest. Emotional stability. No rushed evolutions. No forced growth.
This was what Pokémon became when they weren't treated like weapons or trophies.
This was the difference between power and mastery.
The Countdown
June loomed closer every day.
The Intensive Trainer Course was almost here.
Across Maharashtra—and soon, across India—hundreds of thousands of students were preparing for something no generation before them had ever faced.
Not just exams.
A new way of living.
My friends were ready.
Apoorv had changed the most. Responsibility had settled into him quietly. No more jokes at the wrong time. No more pretending things weren't serious. Piplup matched him perfectly—stubborn, smart, adaptable.
Arpit trained with discipline born from fear and respect. His Poochyena responded to encouragement better than commands, growing steadier with every session.
Neha observed more than she spoke. Her Spearow learned quickly—fast, alert, already watching instead of reacting.
Their Pokémon hovered around Level 13–14.
Exactly where they should be.
Strong enough to survive.
Weak enough to still learn.
That balance mattered more than anyone realized.
I came home a day early.
No escort.
No scheduled meetings.
No maps waiting to be updated.
Just home.
The villa felt different when I wasn't rushing through it. Quieter. Warmer. Alive in a gentler way.
Chansey greeted me first, expression soft but searching—checking for injuries out of habit.
Happiny waddled over next and hugged my leg like she hadn't seen me in years, stone gleaming faintly. She looked healthier. Stronger. Tired in a good way.
Tangela rustled happily in the backyard, vines swaying lazily in the open space they'd claimed as their own.
Even the air felt steadier.
I sat down on the steps and let the evening breeze wash over me.
For the first time in weeks, my body noticed how tired it was.
The constant vigilance. The endless decisions. The weight of knowing every mistake could cost lives—human or Pokémon.
Tomorrow, the course would begin.
Tomorrow, India's first true generation of trainers would take its first step.
But tonight—
Tonight, I rested.
Because storms don't begin loudly.
They gather.
And deep down, I could already feel the pressure building.