Uriah's departure from Northwall was as uneventful as his life there—appropriate, really. Matron Helvia gave him a curt nod at the gate. No hugs. No speeches. No "make us proud." She wasn't heartless; she just knew the truth: attachment was a luxury the poor couldn't afford.
Uriah didn't look back. Why would he? Nothing behind that gate belonged to him.
Two armored vans waited at the settlement's east checkpoint. The insignia of Valeria's Defense Corps—a silver tower encircled by six stars—gleamed on the doors. Two officers stood beside them, both carrying belts with pokéballs clipped neatly across the hip. Full-ranked trainers. The real kind.
"Uriah Hale?" the taller officer asked.
He nodded.
"Get in the rear van. Seat by the window."
Simple enough.
The ride out of Northwall was rough. The forest pressed dangerously close to the roads, and even with tall military pylons humming with static deterrents, the tension never fully disappeared. Pokémon didn't respect borders.
An hour into the journey, the first sign of trouble appeared—a low growl that vibrated through the van's frame. The driver muttered a curse.
"Group attack," the co-driver confirmed. "Type signature… Raticate and Ariados swarm. Small, but fast."
The taller officer didn't waste time. He slid the door open mid-motion, stepped out onto the reinforced running board, and unclipped two pokéballs.
"Aegislash! Talonflame!"
Two fully evolved Pokémon materialized—no theatrics, no roars. Just efficiency. A ghostly blade and a firebird in perfect battle readiness.
Branches snapped. Shadows lunged from both sides of the road.
Raticate—feral, oversized, and aggressive—charged the moving van, claws scraping metal. Ariados fired webs thick enough to jam a wheel if they stuck.
The officer gave one sharp command: "Control."
Aegislash sliced through web strands with surgical precision. Talonflame swept low, wings leaving streaks of heat as it drove the swarm back. The attacks weren't glamorous—they were practical, brutal, and quick. Within two minutes, the swarm scattered.
The officer reentered the van without breathing hard.
"Don't get impressed," he said flatly to the kids. "This is the weakest it gets."
Uriah didn't answer. He wasn't impressed just reminded. The world outside the walls didn't care who passed a test.
The capital was impossible to ignore. Massive walls. Guard towers taller than Northwall's tallest building. Floodlights. Patrol drones. Everything screamed prepared.
As the vans rolled in through the east gate, Uriah saw the scale of the place—wide roads, multiple security layers, and a visible hierarchy enforced by uniforms and badges. No wonder Crownspire never fell. They poured more money into one district than some counties got in a decade.
The Trainer Academy itself was a sprawling complex built like a military campus—open training fields, obstacle courses, dorm buildings, and a fortified stadium-sized arena at the center.
And the plaza in front of the main hall was filled with kids like him. Rough headcount: 120–150. Every one of them wearing the same stiff expression—resentment, anxiety, resignation. Only a few looked eager, which meant they were either delusional or already broken.
An instructor with a steel-gray buzzcut stepped onto the podium.
"I'm Instructor Rowan. Congratulations or condolences—whichever you think applies."His voice carried without effort. "You're here because the system decided you're useful. You'll be assigned your starter Pokémon through randomized allocation. No preferences. No trades."
A wave of uneasy murmuring rolled through the crowd.
"Your first objective is simple: tame your starter within seven days. Not befriend it. Not hug it. Tame it. A Pokémon that does not accept you is dead weight. You fail to gain control? You go home with a laborer assignment."
He raised three fingers.
"First three to complete taming receive priority access to elite instructors. That matters more than you think."
The hall darkened. A machine lowered a transparent tube filled with dozens of pokéballs swirling in rotational stasis.
"Step up when your number is called."
Uriah's was 47.
One kid got a Dratini and nearly fainted only for Instructor Rowan to shut him down instantly. "It's weak. Celebrate later. Not now."
Another got a Larvesta and looked like he won the lottery.
Uriah stepped up when called. The machine paused, a single ball clicked into the retrieval slot.
He pressed the release button.
A pale, fox-like creature materialized, red eyes sharp, fur ruffled from irritation.
Vulpix.
Small. Fast. Fragile. Smart. Emotional. A test of patience more than power.
A perfect starter if you had discipline. A nightmare if you didn't.
The Vulpix snarled at him immediately.
Good. He preferred honesty over fake obedience.
The Taming Week
The academy dorms were plain—steel bunks, lockers, and enough space to not suffocate. Every kid was assigned a containment room for initial taming sessions: padded walls, reinforced floor, and a hatch for food.
Day 1 was a mess.
Vulpix refused food. Refused eye contact. Refused acknowledgment. It sat in the far corner, tail curled around itself, occasionally shooting a glare sharp enough to cut metal. Typical wild-caught behavior.
Most kids tried to play nice.
Uriah didn't.
He followed a principle he'd learned from surviving orphanage politics:
Respect doesn't precede authority. Authority precedes respect.
He set the food down. Vulpix ignored it.He sat still for two hours. Vulpix still ignored him.Fine.
Uriah removed the food.
That got the fox's attention—and its fury. It lunged, fangs out, heat pulsing in its breath.
Uriah didn't flinch. The academy required supervision sensors for a reason; they wouldn't let a kid get mauled.
When the fox realized its attacks accomplished nothing, it retreated and paced the room in frustration.
Day 2 was worse.
Vulpix used Ember repeatedly. Not to hit—just to intimidate. Uriah didn't reward the theatrics. He reintroduced food but only when Vulpix calmed for more than 30 seconds. The fox learned quickly that tantrums delayed meals.
By midday, the shift happened—tiny, but real. Vulpix approached the food while watching Uriah instead of ignoring him.
Day 3 sealed it.
Uriah maintained a strict pattern: steady voice, consistent rules, clear consequences. No soft praise, no childish comfort. Just structure. The fox tested him three more times—fake submission followed by sudden aggression—but each time Uriah responded the exact same way.
Predictability built trust.
By sunset, Vulpix sat beside him—not close, but voluntarily. And when he extended a hand, the fox sniffed it instead of biting.
The supervising instructor tapped the glass and nodded. "Candidate 47: Taming complete."
Uriah didn't react. He just opened the containment door fully for the first time and let Vulpix walk out without coaxing.
The First Three
Later that evening, Instructor Rowan addressed the trainees again.
"Three candidates completed taming already."
A hush fell.
Rowan read the names:
Uriah Hale – Vulpix
Marian Elster – Machop
Riven Cross – Houndour
Marian—tall, athletic, impatient—looked like someone who grew up fighting people instead of stealing bread.Riven—lean, quiet, calculating—had eyes too sharp for his age.
Both glanced toward Uriah.
Not admiration.
Recognition.
Competition.
Instructor Rowan dismissed them with one final line:
"Enjoy the achievement. It only gets harder from here."
Uriah returned to his bunk. Vulpix curled at the foot like it owned the place.
He didn't pet it. Didn't talk to it. Didn't smile.
But for the first time in his life, something in his orbit wasn't trying to leave.