The Pallet Town Mart was a modest building tucked between the Pokémon Center and a small residential block.
Snow accumulated on its sloped roof, and warm yellow light spilled from the windows onto the darkening street.
I pushed through the door, a small bell chiming overhead to announce my arrival. The interior was warmer than outside, heated by vents along the walls.
Shelves lined the space, stocked with Potion sprays, Antidotes, Paralyze Heals, Pokéballs, and various traveling supplies.
An elderly woman stood behind the counter, reading a magazine. She glanced up as I entered. "Welcome! Let me know if you need help finding anything."
"Thank you." I moved toward the camping supplies section, Gible trotting beside me with his usual curiosity.
I needed the basics for tonight's expedition to the beach. The system had given me a window—9 PM to midnight, low tide—and I intended to use every minute of it.
That meant being prepared for an extended stay on the coast.
I grabbed a bundle of dried herbs suitable for seasoning, a compact fire-starter kit, cooking oil in a metal container, lamp oil for sustained light, several varieties of berries that would keep well, and packets of stew base that just needed water and heat.
As I carried my selections toward the counter, the door chimed again behind me.
"Oi! Samuel!" A gruff voice called out.
I turned to see a weathered man in his fifties entering the mart. He wore fishing gear—waterproof boots, a heavy coat with numerous pockets, and a wide-brimmed hat crusted with ice.
A fishing rod was slung over his shoulder, and he carried the distinctive smell of salt water and fish.
"It's Samael," I corrected automatically.
"Right, right. Samael Oak." The fisherman approached with a friendly grin that showed several missing teeth.
"I knew your grandfather back when he was still doing field research. Used to bring him specimens from the coast. Name's Fisher—well, everyone just calls me Fisher. Me and my brothers run the fishing operations around here."
'The Fisherman Brothers,' I realized. 'From the games. There were three of them scattered across Kanto, each with fishing rods to give away.'
Except this wasn't a game.
"Nice to meet you," I said, shifting my supplies to offer a hand.
He shook it with a grip strengthened by years of hauling nets. "Heard you became a trainer today. Got yourself a Gible, yeah?" He looked down at the crimson dragon, examining a display of Repel spray. "That's a fine specimen. Dragon-type, if I'm not mistaken."
"Dragon and Steel," I confirmed.
"Steel too? Now that's something." Fisher scratched his stubbled chin thoughtfully. "You planning on traveling Route 1 soon?"
"Tomorrow morning. Heading to Viridian City first."
"Long journey. You'll pass plenty of water—streams, ponds, the river crossing near Viridian Forest." He unslung the fishing rod from his shoulder and held it out for me to examine. "You know how to fish?"
I looked at the rod—a simple but well-maintained piece of equipment with a basic reel and sturdy line. "Some. Not extensively."
"Fishing's a valuable skill for trainers," Fisher said, warming to his subject. "Provides food when you're low on supplies, gives you something to do while camping, and you'd be surprised how many Water-types you can encounter with a good rod and patience."
He paused, studying me with shrewd eyes. "Tell me, boy—do you like to fish?"
The question felt weighted somehow, like a test. In the games, the Fisherman Brothers just handed over their rods freely to anyone who asked. But this was Extreme Mode, and nothing came free here.
"I think I could learn to appreciate it," I answered honestly. "Seems like a useful skill to develop."
Fisher grunted with approval. "Good answer. Too many trainers these days just want everything handed to them. No patience, no appreciation for the simple things." He extended the rod toward me.
"Tell you what—since you're Professor Oak's grandson and you gave me a straight answer, I'll sell you this Old Rod. Normally, I'd charge ten thousand Pokédollars, but for you? Five thousand."
I blinked. 'He's selling it. Not giving it. And even discounted, five thousand is a significant amount for basic equipment.'
But I needed a fishing rod for tonight. The system mentioned food offerings, and fresh-caught fish would be more effective than store-bought.
"Deal," I said, pulling out the trainer card Oak had given me yesterday. It doubled as a debit card linked to my League account.
Fisher produced a small card reader from one of his many pockets—apparently, even fishermen had modernized their payment systems. I swiped the card and entered my PIN.
TRANSFER COMPLETE: -5,000₽
CURRENT BALANCE: 99,995,000₽
I stared at the display screen.
Ninety-nine million, nine hundred ninety-five thousand Pokédollars.
'What.'
My brain stuttered as it tried to process the number. I'd known Gary Oak came from wealth—Professor Oak was famous, his research funded by the League and private donors, his laboratory a premier institution. But I hadn't realized the family was this rich.
'One hundred million Pokédollars. That's...'
I did quick mental math. A standard Pokéball cost 200₽. A Potion costs 300₽. Budget hotels charged around 1,000₽ per night. The average Kantonian household earned about 50,000₽ annually.
I had generational wealth in my account. The kind of money that could buy a house outright, fund a small business, or sustain a person comfortably for years.
'Gary's parents were murdered,' I remembered. 'This is probably an inheritance. Life insurance, assets, investments—all liquidated and placed in trust for their son.'
The weight of that realization settled over me like a heavy cloak. This wasn't just game currency. This represented two lives ended violently, converted into cold numbers in a bank account.