October 1st was supposed to be a day of celebration—streets crowded, stations packed, families traveling like the whole country had decided to move at once.
But in a small rented room, one independent game developer sat alone at his desk, staring at his screen like it might give him answers.
His name was Jason Pierce.
He wasn't famous. He wasn't rich. He wasn't even "successful" in the way people brag about online. He was just an indie dev who had managed to survive.
His best-selling game was a roguelike card title inspired by Night of the Full Moon. It sold a little over thirty-two thousand copies—enough to keep him afloat, not enough to change his life. No fancy office. No team. No investors calling him "visionary."
Just him.
A laptop.
A fan that sometimes made a grinding noise like it was dying.
And a mind that had recently hit a hard wall.
Jason knew his own weakness. If he described it kindly, he was "good at referencing." If he described it honestly, he was good at copying what worked, polishing it, and slipping it back into the market with a new coat of paint.
But now he had a problem.
There was nothing left to "reference."
Indie trends had slowed. The market was shifting. Big studios were swallowing attention. Jason tried to "create from scratch," but every idea he wrote down felt dull, half-dead before it even breathed.
So, on a day when everyone else was outside living, he opened Skybound—the game platform he used like a hunting ground.
Maybe he could find something.
Maybe he could imitate something.
Maybe he could survive one more year.
He clicked into Skybound's homepage.
And froze.
A banner ad sat right at the top like a neon slap across the face:
"Northstar Games' New Title — Pokémon — Officially Launched!"
Jason's brain stalled.
"…Huh?"
A new Northstar game?
Today?
Right now?
His hand moved automatically, as if his body didn't trust his mind.
He clicked the banner.
And what appeared on-screen made his mouth go dry.
The cover art was a cute yellow electric mouse—big eyes, rosy cheeks—wearing a baseball cap like it owned the world. One hand curled into a tiny fist, the other pointing dramatically at the bold title:
POKÉMON
Game Info:
Game: Pokémon
Developer: Northstar Games
Genre: Collection & Nurturing / Strategy Battle
Price: 35
Sales: 81,902
Jason stared at the sales number like it was a personal insult.
Eighty-one thousand… already?
On day one?
Without a big promotion campaign?
He swallowed.
Then clicked Buy without thinking.
Northstar didn't need promotions anymore. Not really. They had something more powerful than ads.
They had an army.
They had millions of players who waited for their releases like hunger.
Word of mouth was their marketing.
Jason, meanwhile, had to scrape through forums and communities, posting fake "recommendation" threads just to sell thirty thousand copies in a year.
The gap between developers was… embarrassing.
The download was small. Ten minutes later, the game finished installing.
Jason launched it.
Soft, relaxing music flowed into the room—calm and clean, the kind of melody that instantly told you the studio didn't cut corners on sound.
Northstar's music was always like that.
People online even joked that their lead planner, Ethan Reed, personally breathed life into every soundtrack.
Then the familiar Northstar logo appeared.
After that, a simple menu.
Start. Save. Settings.
And something that made Jason pause:
Pokédex.
The art style was 2D. Bright colors. Clean shapes. It reminded him slightly of Night of the Full Moon—but more vivid, more "alive." The backgrounds were lush green and warm-toned, like someone poured Stardew Valley comfort into a cartoon world.
Jason clicked Start Game.
A cutscene began.
A middle-aged man in a white lab coat appeared.
"My name is Oak. People call me…"
"This world is full of mysterious creatures. We call them—Pokémon."
Then came the character selection.
Jason blinked.
The customization was… minimal. Hair. Outfit. A name.
And one preset option:
Ash.
Then another portrait appeared—confident grin, vibrant hair.
Oak's voice continued: "This is my grandson, Gary. He is also your rival."
Jason leaned back slowly.
"…Is this seriously Northstar's tech level?"
The opening felt like something from a cheap studio. The animation was stiff. The presentation was simple—almost childish.
This didn't look like a "Northstar Games" product.
Not after their recent hits.
Jason forced down the uneasy feeling and kept playing.
The cutscene ended.
Control started.
His character—named Invincible Handsome Guy—was a chibi-style figure on screen. Cute. Small. Almost toy-like.
But the environment had detail. Houses. Trees. Furniture. Pathways. Little touches in the scenery that gave the world charm.
Okay.
That at least felt like Northstar.
There was no tutorial. Jason wandered around, testing interactions. He walked past Gary, who was reaching toward something on a table.
No reaction.
No dialogue.
Jason clicked again.
Nothing.
So he left the house and headed upward.
He reached tall grass and guided his character toward it.
Then Oak suddenly appeared, blocking the way.
His voice acting sounded anxious, almost scolding:
"Hey! Don't enter the jungle casually!"
Jason stared at the screen.
"…Jungle?"
It was a patch of grass. A lawn.
But Oak continued, dramatic as ever:
"You don't have a Pokémon! Entering the jungle is dangerous!"
Jason felt his soul leaving his body.
This dialogue… felt like it was written to babysit children.
The models were childish.
The art style was childish.
The entire vibe was childish.
Jason's disappointment started creeping in like cold water.
Was Northstar… finally slipping?
Even though the sales number was insane, this quality didn't feel like something they should be releasing.
Then—
The screen flashed.
The art style shifted like someone flipped a switch.
And in the center of the screen appeared a fully animated, adorable yellow electric mouse—alive, expressive, smooth.
A message popped up:
"A wild Pikachu appeared!"
Jason's eyes widened.
Oak shouted:
"Ash! Use a Poké Ball to catch it!"
Jason leaned closer.
"…Wait."
This wasn't just cute.
This was dangerous.
Because even Jason—thirty-three years old, tired, cynical—felt his heart soften.
It was cuter than the promotional images.
Way cuter.
Jason opened the Item menu and selected a Poké Ball.
His character threw a small red ball forward in a clean arc.
It bonked Pikachu right on the head.
"Pika~!"
Pikachu stumbled, fell backward, and sat down, covering its forehead with both tiny hands like it was personally offended.
Jason laughed under his breath.
Then the Poké Ball glowed.
A soft pull effect.
Pikachu was absorbed.
The ball shook.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then—
"Pikachu was caught!"
Jason's expression changed.
That wasn't just a capture mechanic.
That was satisfaction.
Simple, clean, rewarding.
His brain immediately asked the next question:
So what about battles?
What about strategy?
What about the "nurturing" part?
The game returned to the simple chibi world. Oak escorted him back to the lab.
Then a small drama played out.
The Poké Ball that "should" have been given to the player was snatched by Gary.
Oak sighed, annoyed.
With no other choice, Oak handed Jason's character the Pikachu he just caught.
Jason didn't even care about the story logic.
He cared about one thing.
Pikachu was his now.
When he summoned Pikachu, it appeared behind him—chubby, bright, and bouncing like a living plush toy.
Every step Jason took, Pikachu hopped after him, tail flicking.
The childish art style suddenly didn't feel like a flaw.
It felt like a choice.
Because it made Pikachu look even cuter.
Then Jason clicked Pikachu with the mouse.
A little interaction box popped up.
Pikachu stared at him with visible disdain, turned its head away, crossed its arms, and huffed:
"Pika! Pika!"
Jason blinked.
"…It can be annoyed?"
Oak commented from the side like it was normal:
"This Pikachu is shy. Electric-types are like that. Also… it doesn't seem to like Poké Balls. Maybe it knows how you caught it."
Jason sat up straighter.
That tiny detail—Pikachu having an attitude—hit him harder than any "high-end graphics" ever could.
Because it suggested something bigger.
A system.
Personalities.
Behavior.
Bonding.
After that, Jason went to the shop to pick up a package—only for Gary to jump him into a forced battle.
And that's where Jason met the second Pokémon that changed everything.
A small fox-like creature with a fluffy mane.
Soft eyes.
Gentle cry.
Eevee.
It was cute enough to stand beside Pikachu without losing any charm.
Jason stared at the screen and muttered, half serious:
"…There's another king."
He fought Gary.
He won.
Pikachu gained experience.
Jason understood the core mechanics.
Pokémon had skills.
They learned new moves as they leveled.
And suddenly Jason didn't want to stop.
He dragged Pikachu straight into tall grass again.
He encountered a proud bird Pokémon—Pidgey.
Then a purple rodent with huge teeth—Rattata.
Rattata was a "real mouse."
Not the Pikachu kind.
But something else bothered Jason.
He battled again and again… and only saw Pidgey and Rattata.
No second Pikachu.
Which made the world feel real.
Like Pikachu wasn't just "common loot."
Like it mattered.
Like it was special.
As the hours passed, Jason sank deeper into the game.
Was it childish?
Yes.
But it was fun.
Was the dialogue childish?
Yes.
But it was charming.
And the biggest hook?
The Pokédex.
Jason opened it and saw only a handful of Pokémon unlocked… and beyond them, endless question marks.
A huge catalog.
A mountain of mystery.
A target.
He felt the urge rise in his chest like hunger.
To unlock everything.
To collect them all.
To build a team.
To grow stronger.
To evolve.
To master strategy.
Jason realized something with a bitter smile:
He had been wrong.
This was absolutely a Northstar game.
Only Northstar would do something like this—simple on the surface, addictive underneath.
Fifteen attribute types.
Countless creatures.
Different personalities creating different outcomes.
And this was only single-player.
If this foundation ever became multiplayer?
It would explode.
But Jason wasn't thinking like a developer anymore.
Not right now.
Right now, he was a player.
And his goal—his only goal—was clear:
To become a Pokémon Master.
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