The wind hit my face the moment the helicopter doors slid open.
Below us, the island stretched out in uneven shades of green and black—dense forest broken by rocky clearings, patches of scorched ground, and narrow streams cutting silver lines through the terrain. It didn't look hostile at first glance, but that only made it worse. Places like this never showed their teeth immediately.
The rappelling line dropped.
One by one, students clipped in and went down.
Most of us didn't hesitate.
Training camps had a way of stripping hesitation out of you, replacing it with muscle memory and quiet acceptance. Heights stopped being dramatic after you'd been dragged up towers at dawn and told to jump before your legs finished shaking.
A few students—mostly junior college kids who hadn't gone through the camps—froze at the door. Their knuckles went white around the harness straps, eyes darting between the instructor and the ground below. The soldiers didn't yell. They waited. Eventually, every single one of them went down.
There was no applause.
No encouragement.
Just the sound of rope sliding and boots hitting earth.
When it was my turn, I clipped in, checked the line once, and stepped back into empty air.
The descent was smooth. Controlled. Familiar.
I landed lightly, unclipped, and stepped aside as the next entrant came down. Around me, others were already regrouping, voices low, eyes scanning the tree line instinctively.
The moment everyone was down, something shifted.
Teams began forming almost immediately.
It was subtle at first—two people standing closer together, a brief exchange of glances, quiet nods. Then clearer alliances took shape. Threes. Fours. Small groups clustering with purpose.
Arpit found me quickly.
"Rakesh," he said, walking up with an easy smile. "You want to team up?"
I considered it for a moment.
Teaming up made sense. Safer. Faster point accumulation. Less risk if something went wrong. It was the smart choice.
Which was exactly why I shook my head.
"Not yet," I said. "I want to spend at least the first day solo."
He studied my face, searching for doubt, then nodded slowly.
"Fair," he said. "I was thinking the same, honestly. First day tells you a lot."
We clasped forearms briefly—not dramatic, just acknowledgment—and then split in opposite directions without another word.
No one chased points immediately.
That surprised me.
But it made sense.
At zero points, there was nothing to protect and nothing to lose. Everyone was reading the island, testing the air, listening for movement that didn't belong to wind or water.
I released Meowth first.
She landed lightly, eyes sharp, ears twitching as she took in the surroundings. Charmander followed, tail flame steady but controlled, his gaze lingering on the undergrowth with focused curiosity rather than excitement.
"Slow," I murmured. "We don't rush today."
Meowth flicked her tail once in agreement.
I moved deeper into the trees, choosing a path that avoided obvious clearings. The forest floor was uneven, roots breaking through soil, fallen leaves damp underfoot. This island had been alive long before we arrived, and it wasn't impressed by us being here.
I wasn't looking for a big fight.
Not yet.
I wanted my first opponent to tell me something—about the island, about how the Pokémon here behaved, about whether I was thinking clearly or just reacting.
Somewhere ahead, branches snapped softly.
Not clumsy.
Not careless.
Deliberate.
I raised my hand slightly, signaling both Pokémon to slow and stay close. Meowth moved ahead just enough to scout without disappearing from sight, while Charmander stayed half a step behind me, flame dimmed just enough to avoid announcing our presence.
Whatever was out there—
It wasn't hiding.
And that meant it was either confident… or curious.
Either way, it would make a good first test.
I adjusted my grip on my bag strap, breathing steady, heart calm.
As I walked farther inland, the air changed subtly. The salty breeze from the coast faded, replaced by the damp, earthy smell of thick vegetation. Trees grew closer together, their canopies overlapping enough to block out most of the sunlight, and the ground became uneven with roots and fallen leaves. Meowth moved ahead of me with practiced ease, eyes sharp and alert, occasionally stopping to paw at the ground or sniff the air.
That was when I noticed the berries.
They weren't in neat clusters like the ones shown in guides, but scattered naturally along the forest edge—half-hidden behind leaves or growing near old tree trunks. Meowth chirped softly and began gathering them with surprising care, separating the edible ones from those that looked questionable. I helped where I could, stuffing what we collected into a cloth pouch. Food mattered here, not just for survival but for maintaining trust with our Pokémon.
A little farther in, we came across a cluster of movement near the branches.
Wurmple.
Not one or two—an entire small tribe clung to tree bark and low-hanging vines, some crawling lazily, others hanging upside down. Every single one of them wore white scarves. None reacted aggressively. They watched us pass with simple curiosity, some tilting their heads as if memorizing our shapes.
I slowed, but didn't stop.
Seeing them like this made something click in my mind. These Pokémon weren't acting like startled wild creatures. They were aware. Prepared. Expecting us. That realization sent a strange mix of unease and reassurance through me. If the Pokémon leadership on this island had already agreed to the exam terms, then this wasn't chaos—it was controlled danger. Someone, somewhere, had explained the rules to them, the same way Aakash once had in Aarey.
That knowledge didn't make the island safe.
But it made it fair.
We continued deeper until Meowth suddenly froze, tail flicking sharply.
Something tugged at my pocket.
I looked down just in time to see a small, raccoon-dog-like Pokémon darting backward with impressive speed, berries clenched between its teeth. It was striped, quick-eyed, and far bolder than it had any right to be.
Before I could react fully, it turned and hissed.
Charmander stepped forward instantly.
The Pokémon lunged first, forcing the engagement. Even though I noticed the white scarf around its neck, the battle had already begun. Charmander responded with a Scratch that pushed it back rather than slamming it down, claws grazing instead of tearing. The raccoon Pokémon recovered quickly and darted around, surprisingly strong for something classified as white-scarf. Its movements were sharp, practiced, almost bordering the lower edge of blue.
Charmander finished the exchange cleanly, forcing it onto its back with another controlled strike.
The Zigzagoon lay there panting, strength spent but not broken.
I hesitated, then reached into my pouch and took out a couple of Oran berries. I placed them a short distance away and stepped back. After a moment, it cautiously approached, sniffed, then began eating with visible relief. When it finished, it glanced up at me, chirped softly, and disappeared into the underbrush without another attempt at theft.
That encounter stuck with me.
White scarf didn't mean harmless. It just meant untested.
A few minutes later, the forest opened into a small clearing dappled with light filtering through the leaves. Something shifted near the base of a tree, releasing a faint cloud of spores into the air.
Shroomish.
A blue scarf was tied neatly around its body.
This one didn't wait
The clearing was quiet, but not calm.
The Shroomish bounced once in place, small body compressing and expanding like a coiled spring, red eyes fixed on Charmander with a cautious intensity that immediately set it apart from the weaker Pokémon I'd seen earlier. The blue scarf around its body fluttered slightly as it shifted its weight, clearly ready to fight but not reckless enough to rush in blindly.
I raised my hand slightly. "Easy. Let's feel it out."
Charmander stepped forward, claws digging lightly into the soil, tail flame steady and controlled rather than flaring wildly. He didn't attack immediately, and neither did the Shroomish. For a few seconds, both Pokémon simply circled, each testing the other's reactions.
The Shroomish moved first.
It sprang forward suddenly, body low, attempting to close distance quickly. Charmander reacted on instinct, sidestepping and slashing forward with Scratch, the blow grazing the Shroomish's side instead of landing cleanly. The Shroomish tumbled, recovered faster than expected, and retaliated by slamming into Charmander with a short, blunt Tackle that pushed him back a step.
Not bad.
Charmander shook it off, eyes narrowing, and answered with another Scratch, this one sharper and better placed. The Shroomish grunted as it was forced back, its bounce losing some rhythm as it landed near the base of a tree.
The exchange continued for a while like that—short lunges, quick retreats, testing strikes rather than full commitments. The Shroomish was durable, far tougher than its size suggested, and it clearly understood that prolonged close combat against a Fire-type wasn't ideal.
That's when it changed tactics.
The Shroomish hopped back and inhaled deeply, body swelling slightly as it released a thick cloud of greenish spores that spread outward in a widening arc. Poison Powder. Not aimed directly at Charmander, but positioned to limit his movement and force him into a corner of the clearing.
"Charmander, back—don't rush through it," I called.
Charmander skidded to a halt just short of the spores, heat from his tail flame making the air shimmer. The poison cloud drifted slowly, persistent and dangerous, threatening to box him in if he stayed still.
I could see the Shroomish watching carefully, waiting for him to panic or charge blindly.
He didn't.
Instead, Charmander lowered his stance and exhaled sharply.
A thick Smokescreen burst outward, dark and heavy, rolling across the ground and swallowing the poison cloud at its edges. The two mixtures collided, visibility dropping to almost nothing as smoke and spores mingled and dispersed unpredictably through the clearing.
The Shroomish hesitated.
That hesitation was all we needed.
"Now," I said quietly.
Charmander moved.
He didn't charge straight ahead. He shifted sideways through the smoke, using the cover to reposition while keeping his flame controlled to avoid revealing himself too early. The Shroomish sensed movement and released another short burst of Poison Powder, but it scattered uselessly into the smoke, unfocused and rushed.
Charmander emerged from the haze at an angle the Shroomish hadn't anticipated.
"Ember."
This time, he didn't hold back.
A focused stream of fire surged forward, not wide or explosive, but precise. It struck the Shroomish squarely, heat overwhelming spores and damp moss alike. The Shroomish cried out and bounced backward, rolling once before collapsing onto its side, scarf singed but intact.
The smoke thinned.
The poison cloud was gone.
The Shroomish struggled for a moment, then stilled, clearly defeated but not critically injured. Its breathing slowed, and it let out a small, tired sound before relaxing fully into the ground.
Charmander stood where he was, chest rising and falling steadily, tail flame flickering but stable. He glanced back at me, eyes bright, waiting.
I nodded.
"Well done. That was clean."
We didn't linger. I gave the Shroomish space, letting it recover naturally, and marked the encounter mentally before moving on. The battle hadn't just earned points—it had taught me something important.
Strength mattered, but control mattered more.
And on this island, hesitation could be just as dangerous as recklessness.
The day was far from over.
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