Reincarnation is a funny thing.
When you read about it in novels or watch it in anime, the concept usually comes packaged with a specific set of perks. There is almost always a "Truck-kun"—that relentless, interdimensional delivery vehicle that flattens the protagonist into a pancake—or perhaps a whimsical, bored god who kidnaps a soul just for the entertainment value.
In the context of Pokémon fanfiction, the tropes are even more rigid. The reincarnator almost always wakes up with a "Golden Finger." They get a System that displays numerical values for everything, allowing them to see a Pokémon's hidden potential, their IVs, their EVs, and their exact emotional state or they are born with aura powers that would put a Lucario to shame, or psychic abilities strong enough to bend spoons from three towns over.
Most of the time they are walking encyclopedias, blessed with an photographic memory that retains every item location, every obscure piece of lore, every plot , and every move pool for all one thousand-plus creatures. They are usually born into a wealthy family with a pristine pedigree, or conversely, they are tragic orphans who somehow still manage to look like high-end fashion models while living in the woods. By the age of ten, they are already top-tier battlers putting Champions to shame.
That is the norm. That is the cliché.
It was certainly the type of story I used to read in my previous life.
That's right. Previous life.
I didn't die heroically saving a child from a speeding truck. I didn't get summoned by a deity. I died because I was a sleep-deprived college student who lost a battle with gravity. I missed a step, tumbled down a flight of stairs, and snapped my neck. It was a clumsy, unglamorous end to a mediocre existence.
And now? Now I am Aren Hurst.
I am fifteen years old. I am a high school dropout. I am a professional street artist, an odd-job specialist(self proclaimed), and thankfully, in this life, I am not an orphan.
I have been in this world for fifteen years. A world of wonder, monsters, and adventure.
When I first realized where I was, I was ecstatic. Who wouldn't be? As a fan, waking up in the Pokémon world is comparable to winning the lottery ten times in a row. Before I could even crawl, I had my entire future mapped out in my infant brain. I was going to be an overpowered trainer. I was going to conquer the Indigo League. I was going to capture Legendaries and maybe, just maybe, collect a harem of beauties like they were trading cards.
Okay, that last part was a joke. I don't actually aim for a harem. Even in my last life, I found that trope exhausting and unrealistic. One relationship is hard enough to manage; I don't need five.
But the excitement for adventure? That was real.
Because I was a reincarnator, I assumed the rules of fiction applied to me. As soon as I gained the ability to speak, I tried to access my "cheat." I sat in my crib, waving my chubby hands, whispering commands into the empty air.
"System."
"Status Window."
"Menu."
"Open Inventory."
I tried every variation I could think of. I tried to meditate to unlock my Aura. I tried to bend spoons with my mind to awaken my Psychic powers.
The result? Nothing. Absolute silence.
There was no blue screen hovering before my eyes. No robotic voice guiding me. No starter pack waiting in a dimensional storage space.
And as for my "encyclopedic knowledge"? That was another bust. I was a casual fan. I played the games, sure. I watched a few clips of the anime on YouTube. But I wasn't a competitive elitist. I didn't memorize base stats. I couldn't tell you the exact level a Fearow evolves, nor did I have a perfect recollection of every anime and movie plot.
I knew the type chart of course—Fire burns Grass, Water douses Fire, Electric zaps Water. I knew the basics of natures and that IVs existed, but I didn't know the math behind them. I played Pokémon because I loved the creatures and the vibes, not because I wanted to crunch numbers on a spreadsheet.
Is my past knowledge useful?
Honestly, not really.
After living here for fifteen years, one thing has become abundantly clear: this world does not run on numbers. There are no health bars floating over a Pokémon's head. There are no levels. A "Level 5" Rattata doesn't exist here; there is only a Rattata that is inexperienced and a Rattata that has survived in the wild. Even if IVs exist, I have no way of seeing them.
I have no cheat. I have no special powers.
I am just a regular guy in the Pokémon world who happens to have the memories of two lifetimes. Sometimes I wonder why I was the one chosen to reincarnate. Why me, specifically? I wasn't special then, and I'm not particularly special now.
But humans are adaptable creatures. My previous life has faded, becoming like a movie I watched a long time ago—hazy, distant, and emotionally detached. The memories of the art student who fell down the stairs are there, but they feel like someone else's history.
My reality is here. I am Aren Hurst.
And currently, Aren Ishikawa is extremely annoyed.
Scritch. Scritch. CRUNCH.
The sound vibrated through the metal frame of my seat, traveling up my spine and grating against my nerves. It had been going on for thirty minutes.
I glanced down at the floor. The culprit responsible for my rising blood pressure was a Rattata.
In the games, they look like cute, pixelated blobs. In reality, a Rattata is a purple rat the size of a Corgi. It has matted fur, beady eyes, and incisors that look like they could snap a broomstick in half. Currently, those yellowed teeth were gnawing enthusiastically on the metal leg of my chair.
I shifted my weight, trying to get comfortable on the hard plastic seat, and turned my gaze to the boy sitting next to me.
He looked to be about seven or eight years old, wearing a baseball cap that was at least two sizes too big for his head. Let's call him Timmy. He looked like a Timmy.
Timmy was currently in a trance. His mouth was slightly open, his eyes glued to the television screen mounted on the wall above the waiting area. It was playing an exhibition battle between Elite Four members Lance and Bruno. The loop had been repeating for two hours. I had memorized the commentary by now.
Meanwhile, Timmy's Rattata was treating my chair like a chew toy.
I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. I could ignore it, theoretically. I could be the bigger person. But I had been waiting in the Viridian City Administration Bureau for three hours. The air smelled of stale coffee, floor wax, and the musk of various Pokémon. My back hurt, my legs were cramping, and my patience had evaporated somewhere around hour two.
"Hey," I called out.
Timmy didn't answer. His eyes sparkled as Lance's Dragonite launched a Hyper Beam on the screen.
"Hey, Timmy," I tried again, raising my voice slightly to cut through the noise of the waiting room.
The boy blinked, snapping out of his daze. He turned to look at me, confusion written all over his face. "Huh?"
"Your rat," I said, pointing a finger down at the purple rodent. The Rattata paused its chewing to glare at me, whiskers twitching, before returning to its vandalism. "It's eating my chair."
The boy looked down, then shrugged. "He's teething."
"He's teething," I repeated, my voice flat.
"Yeah," the boy said, turning back to the TV. "Rattata have to chew on stuff or their teeth grow too long and go into their brains. Dad said so."
I stared at him. The logic was sound—rodent biology and all that—but the location was the issue.
"It's eating private property, Timmy."
The boy frowned, looking at me again. "My name is Kyle."
"Right. Timmy," I corrected, ignoring him. "Do you know what that means?"
He looked confused. "What?"
I leaned in slightly, dropping my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. I decided to have a little fun. My boredom demanded entertainment.
"This is a government building, Timmy. That chair belongs to the Viridian City Administration. If your Rattata destroys it, that's destruction of federal property." I gestured vaguely at the security guard standing near the entrance. "You know the law, right? If you break government property, you have to pay ten times the price. And if you can't pay..." I made a clicking sound with my tongue and mimed handcuffs around my wrists. "They arrest you. Even kids."
It was pure sarcasm. A ridiculous lie.
But sarcasm is a language that often flies over the heads of eight-year-olds.
Kyle's face went pale. His eyes widened to the size of saucers. He looked from me, to the chair, to the bored-looking security guard, and then panic set in.
"Rattata! Stop!" he shrieked, jumping out of his seat. "Come here! Right now!"
The Rattata froze mid-chew. It looked up at its owner, clearly annoyed at being interrupted during its meal, but the urgency in the boy's voice made it comply. It scurried over to Kyle's leg, chittering softly.
At least it listened to orders. That was better than some trainers I'd seen.
Kyle scooped up the heavy rat, clutching it to his chest as he looked at me with terror. "I—I didn't know! I have allowance money, but—"
I couldn't hold the serious expression anymore. A smirk tugged at the corner of my lips. I waved my hand dismissively. "Relax, kid. I'm just joking. They aren't going to arrest you."
Kyle blinked, the fear slowly replaced by the realization that he had been played. His cheeks turned red. "That's not funny!"
"It was a little funny," I countered. "And hey, at least he stopped eating my chair."
Before Kyle could retort, a man in a rumpled suit walked over, holding a stack of papers. He looked exhausted, the universal look of a parent dealing with bureaucracy.
"Let's go, Kyle," the man said, not noticing the tension. "I got the paperwork done."
Kyle immediately latched onto his father's leg. "Dad! That guy said the police were gonna take me because Rattata bit the chair!"
The father paused. He looked at the chair leg, which now sported distinct teeth marks, and then looked at me. I gave him a slight, polite nod.
The man expression wavered slightly. He clearly understood exactly what had happened. instead of getting angry, he just sighed, looking even more tired. He returned the nod.
"Sorry about the noise," the father muttered to me. "Come on, Kyle. Let's go home."
As they walked away, I caught a glimpse of the ID card clipped to the father's sleeve. It had a distinct green stripe running down the side.
A Class D License.
In this world, the League is strict. You can't just walk into tall grass and start throwing balls at wildlife. The Class D license is the "Civilian License." It allows regular citizens to own Pokémon, mostly as pets or companions. They are strictly regulated. Holders of a Class D license cannot participate in official gym battles, they cannot enter the League, and they cannot use their Pokémon to win prize money.
Kyle's Rattata was a pet. It would live a comfortable life eating chow and chewing on furniture, never knowing the heat of a flamethrower or the impact of a Mach Punch.
That was a safe life. A normal life.
It was also the reason I was sitting here today.
I wasn't here for a Class D license. I had no interest in a house pet.
I looked up at the digital screen hanging above the reception desk. The red LED numbers flickered.
402.
I looked down at the crumpled ticket in my hand.
404.
Just two more.
I took a deep breath, trying to stretch the stiffness out of my spine. I was here for the Class C License.
The Trainer License.
It was the gateway. The piece of plastic that legally allowed a person to carry up to six Pokémon, to challenge Gyms, to accept quests from the League, and to travel the routes without being fined for vagrancy. It was the difference between being a spectator like Kyle's dad and being a participant in the world.
Ding.
403.
One more.
I tapped my foot against the linoleum floor. My heart rate picked up slightly. I had been preparing for this for years—saving money from selling street art, doing odd jobs for neighbors, scraping together enough for the registration fee and the starter kit.
I didn't have a system. I didn't have psychic powers. I didn't have a rich family to buy me a pseudo-legendary egg.
But I had ambition. And in a world where monsters breathed fire and turtles had cannons on their backs, sometimes ambition was the most dangerous thing you could have.
Ding.
404.
"Number 404, please come to counter three," the automated voice announced.
I stood up. The chair wobbled beneath me—courtesy of the Rattata's handiwork—but I ignored it. My back popped audibly as I straightened up.
I smoothed out my hoodie, gripped my ticket, and walked toward the desk.
It was time to start.
I approached Counter Three, the plastic of my ticket damp with sweat in my hand.
The woman behind the desk looked like she had been sitting in that ergonomic chair since the foundation of the Kanto region itself. Her nametag read MARIA, but her face read "eternal exhaustion." She had the kind of deep-set wrinkles and graying hair that came from decades of dealing with impatient trainers, crying children, and bureaucratic red tape.
But she wasn't alone.
Standing directly behind her was a Mr. Mime.
The Psychic-type was leaning against the back wall, perfectly mirroring Maria's slumped posture. When Maria sighed and rubbed her temples, the Mr. Mime sighed soundlessly and rubbed its temples. When she reached for her coffee mug, it reached for an invisible cup, pinky finger extended in a mocking display of elegance.
I let out a short, involuntary snort.
Maria didn't look up. She didn't even acknowledge the mime's existence. Her eyes were fixed on the computer screen, her fingers hovering over the keyboard like vultures waiting to strike.
"Name and reason for visit," she droned. Her voice sounded like sandpaper sliding over gravel.
"Aren Hurst," I said, leaning against the high counter. "I'm here to register for my Class C Trainer License."
I glanced past her shoulder to the small personal touches on her desk. Tucked between a stack of forms and a stapler was a framed photograph. It depicted the fattest Persian I had ever seen in my life. The cat was roughly the shape of a Snorlax, wearing a festive, cone-shaped birthday hat that was struggling to stay on its head. Judging by the frosting smeared on its whiskers, the Persian had not only eaten the cake but possibly the table it sat on and the guest.
"Hurst...Hurst." she muttered, typing slowly. "I don't see a pre-registration file from an academy."
"I'm independent," I said. I reached into my pocket and slid a crisp, white envelope across the laminate surface. "I passed the qualifying exam last week. Here's the confirmation letter."
Maria paused. She looked at the letter, then up at me, her eyebrows raising slightly behind her thick-rimmed glasses. She took the document, opened it, and scanned the contents.
Behind her, the Mr. Mime opened an invisible letter, scanned it, and made a face of exaggerated shock, covering its mouth with both hands.
"Well," Maria said, her tone shifting from bored to mildly surprised. She tapped a few keys, pulling up my full results on her screen. "These are... unexpected."
She adjusted her glasses. "You scored a 96 in Type Interaction. And I don't mean the basic 'Water beats Fire' chart. You nailed the questions on thermodynamic energy transfer and biological resistances."
She scrolled down. "98 in Wilderness Survival. Perfect score in League Law. And a 85 in Battle Theory."
She finally looked me in the eye, and for the first time, she looked awake. "We don't usually see numbers like this from independent examinees. Usually, scores this high belong to the Silph Co. scholarship kids or the brats from the Pokémon Tech Academy who have private tutors."
"I read a lot," I said simply.
It wasn't a lie. While my reincarnation gave me a mature mindset, it didn't give me the answers to a physics test. The games I played in my past life didn't teach me how to splint a broken leg in the woods or the legal ramifications of using a move like Earthquake within city limits. I had spent the last five years haunting the Viridian City Public Library, devouring every textbook I could get my hands on. Fiction and game logic were unreliable narrators; in this world, knowledge was the only thing keeping you from being eaten by a wild Arbok.
"Clearly," Maria murmured. "Well, since you passed the exam with distinction, you are eligible for the Class C License."
She went back to work, her fingers flying across the keyboard now.
Behind her, the Mr. Mime began typing furiously on an invisible typewriter, banging the keys with manic energy.
"Mr. Mime," Maria said without turning around, her voice dangerously low. "If you don't stop that, I am putting you in the PC Storage System for a week."
The Mr. Mime froze. It slowly lowered its hands, looking genuinely terrified, and stood at attention like a soldier.
"Good," Maria grunted. She turned her attention back to me. "Alright, Mr. Ishikawa. Standard procedure. I need your left hand for fingerprints."
I placed my hand on the scanner. A green light swept over my palm.
"Look at the camera."
I stared into the small lens mounted on top of the monitor. Flash.
"Alright, processing..."
The silence stretched for about fifteen minutes. The only sound was the hum of the computer and the distant wail of a child whose ice cream had just been stolen by a Pidgey outside.
Finally, the printer on her desk whirred to life.
Maria cleared her throat. Her demeanor shifted. She sat up straighter, slipping into a rehearsed speech she had probably delivered thousands of times.
"Aren Hurst, you have been approved for a Class C Trainer License," she began, her voice taking on a formal cadence. "This license grants you the legal status of a Pokémon Trainer. You are authorized to challenge the Gym Circuit, enter official League-sanctioned tournaments, accept D-Rank and C-Rank quests from the request board, and collect prize money from official matches."
She paused to let that sink in.
"You are also granted Tier 1 access to all Pokémon Centers. This covers free healing for your team and basic medical care for yourself while traveling."
That was the big one. Healthcare in this world was expensive, but for trainers, the League subsidized it. It was the only way to ensure 10-year-olds didn't die of dysentery on Route 1.
"However," Maria said, her expression hardening. "You need to understand the limitations. The Class C License is not a permanent certification. Think of it as a learner's permit."
She held up a finger. "First, you are limited to carrying six Pokémon. The capture of a seventh is strictly prohibited. If our systems detect you have captured a seventh Pokémon without transferring one to storage, you will be fined heavily. You do not have access to the PC Storage System yet."
"Second," she continued, "you are restricted from entering Red Zones—areas designated as high-danger wilderness. Stick to the Routes."
I nodded. I knew this. The Class C License was the League's way of filtering the population. It was a trial run. They weren't going to give full resources and storage access to someone who might quit in a week.
"Most importantly," Maria said, leaning forward, "this license has an expiration date. You have eight months."
"Eight months," I repeated.
"Eight months to upgrade to a Class B License," she confirmed. "Class B is the standard for a full-fledged professional trainer. It grants you full rights, access to the PC Storage System to own more than six Pokémon, and permission to explore darker zones."
She began counting off on her fingers. "To upgrade, you must meet one of the following criteria within the time limit: Collect three Gym Badges. Earn two Contest Ribbons. Complete enough League Quests to meet the Trainer Quota. Or, receive a direct letter of endorsement from a Gym Leader or a regional Professor."
This was the reality of the world. The sponsored kids—the ones from rich families or academies—usually started with a Class B License right out of the gate. They didn't have to prove they belonged.
For people like me? We had to earn our place.
"And if I don't?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
Maria's face softened, just a fraction. "If you fail to meet the requirements within eight months, your license expires. You will be stripped of your trainer status and revert to a civilian Class D."
She took a deep breath. "Your Pokémon will be confiscated by the League. They will be sent to a rehabilitation center to be re-homed or released back into the wild. And you will be barred from retaking the exam for two years."
It was brutal, but efficient. The League didn't want incompetent trainers hoarding powerful creatures. If you couldn't prove you could handle the lifestyle, they took the weapons away before you hurt yourself or someone else.
"I understand," I said.
The printer beeped. A small, plastic card slid into the tray.
Maria picked it up, inspected it for a moment, and then slid it across the counter to me.
I picked it up. The plastic was still warm.
It was sleek, with a holographic sheen that shifted colors under the fluorescent lights. My name, AREN HURST, was printed in bold black letters. To the right was my mugshot.
I looked at the face in the picture. Green eyes that looked sharper than I felt. Light tan skin, a result of spending my days painting murals under the sun. Messy black hair that refused to be tamed. And an expression that was dead serious.
"Congratulations, Trainer," Maria said, her voice dropping the formal tone. "But don't celebrate yet. The clock starts now."
"Thanks, Maria," I said, pocketing the card.
I turned to leave, my backpack feeling slightly heavier with the weight of the new responsibility. As I walked toward the exit, I glanced back.
Maria was already typing away, ignoring the world again.
Behind her, the Mr. Mime caught my eye. It gave me a thumbs-up, then immediately transitioned into miming a man being strangled by a giant snake.
I shook my head and pushed through the glass doors, stepping out into the bright sunlight of Viridian City.