Time Flow Resolve Grow

Two years passed in a blur of routine, and now I was eight years old. Not a lot had changed in the orphanage—same cold mornings, same tasteless porridge, same Jared shoving me around any chance he got. Life felt like one long, repetitive grind, yet somehow, in the midst of it, I found myself getting stronger. Not by much, but enough to notice. It was like trying to grow a tree in a cracked flowerpot—it wasn't pretty, but it was happening.

School had become my escape. Not just from the orphanage, but from the reality of my current situation. It was a place where I could learn about Sinnoh—this world that was still so foreign and strange to me. It was where I found out just how different things were from the Pokémon games I remembered. This world wasn't a playground; it was something much sharper and more unpredictable.

The teachers talked about Sinnoh like it was a place of opportunity, but it didn't take long for me to realize that those opportunities came with some pretty big catches. They told us about the power structure here—how Pokémon trainers weren't just people who went on adventures. They were the backbone of society. If you weren't a trainer, you were at the mercy of those who were. And if you didn't have a Pokémon to protect you, well, you were just trying not to get stepped on—sometimes literally.

At the top of it all was someone I'd heard about countless times in the past two years: Cynthia. She wasn't the Champion yet, but everyone seemed to think it was just a matter of time. She was already famous—one of the strongest trainers in Sinnoh, and someone who was breaking the mold. She had managed to train a Gabite, a dragon that was on its way to becoming a Garchomp. That alone would have made her powerful, but she also had a half-legendary Pokémon—something rare and mysterious. The rumors were all over the place; some people said it was a Togekiss, others whispered that it might be something even rarer. Whatever it was, it gave her a level of influence that most people only dreamed of.

Cynthia wasn't just strong. She was smart, calculating. The Gym Leaders spoke about her with a mix of respect and wariness. And the Gym Leaders themselves were a whole different kind of power. People like Roark in Oreburgh and Gardenia in Eterna weren't just glorified badge dispensers—they were protectors, the ones who kept the balance between people and Pokémon. They were leaders, responsible for making sure the wild Pokémon stayed in check and didn't pose a threat to the cities under their watch.

The Gym Leaders had different teams depending on who they were dealing with. They weren't just hanging around their gyms, waiting for kids to show up and challenge them. They handled everything from novice trainers to experienced battlers, each with different teams prepared for the challenge. And getting badges wasn't about speed. It was normal for trainers to take their time—two to three years, sometimes even more, to travel the region, train, and collect badges at their own pace.

What I learned was that the badges weren't just a ticket to challenge the League. They were proof that you could handle yourself—that you had skills. And people collected them for all kinds of reasons. Some trainers wanted to battle in the League, sure, but others did it to prove they could manage Pokémon well enough to get jobs. I learned that someone looking to work in agriculture, for example, would be way more successful if they had a Pokémon like a Miltank or a Machoke to help with farming. Pokémon weren't just for battles—they were tools, partners, ways to make a better living.

But with all this potential came a lot of danger. People liked to talk about the glamorous side of training Pokémon, but the teachers at school didn't shy away from the darker stories. Like the kid from Jubilife who lost both his parents when an Onix accidentally fell on them. The poor thing probably just lost its balance on a cliffside, and that was it—two people gone in an instant. No malice, no intent, just the raw reality of living in a world where creatures as big as houses could decide to nap on the wrong ledge.

Then there were the Pokémon that people called the "Unkillables." Pokémon that had once been tamed but lost their trainers and went rogue. They were the ones everyone feared the most—strong, smart, and angry. They commanded other wild Pokémon and held sway in different parts of Sinnoh, and they weren't the kind of problem you could just throw a Poké Ball at. Gym Leaders often avoided them unless absolutely necessary, and no one wanted to be the one to stumble across them accidentally.

Jubilife City had its own rules to protect people from Pokémon. Only registered trainers could have Pokémon within the city limits, and there were strict regulations on what kinds of Pokémon could be brought into populated areas. Pokémon that were too big or too aggressive had to be kept outside or under strict control. The idea of just wandering around with a Pokémon like people did in the games was more of a fantasy here—real life came with rules and consequences.

For kids like us at the orphanage, though, those rules didn't matter much. We didn't have Pokémon, and most of us probably never would. The orphanage wasn't the kind of place that was going to invest in giving us the resources to become trainers. We were more likely to end up working whatever jobs we could get—if we were lucky, maybe one of us would end up helping a trainer at some point.

But then there was the scholarship test. Once a year, the Jubilife Poké Center offered a scholarship to one kid from the orphanage—a chance to receive a Pokémon and the resources to become a registered trainer. It was like a fairy tale, the kind of opportunity that seemed too good to be true. Most of the kids didn't even try. They figured it was just a dream, something unattainable. But for me, it was everything. It was my way out, my shot at becoming something more.

I threw myself into preparing for that test. Every day, I worked at it—staying up late in the orphanage's cramped, dusty library, reading about Pokémon behavior, battle strategies, survival skills. I filled notebooks with my scribbles, memorized type matchups until they were second nature, and did everything I could to prepare myself. It wasn't just about knowing facts. I trained my body too—running laps in the courtyard, doing push-ups until my arms felt like they were going to give out. I knew that if I wanted to make it as a trainer, I couldn't just be smart. I had to be ready for anything this world threw at me.

Jared, of course, noticed. He always had a nose for finding something to make fun of, and my constant studying became his new favorite target. He didn't like the way the teachers were starting to call on me more, the way they'd nod approvingly when I answered their questions. So he made it his mission to remind me that I was just another orphan, nothing special.

"You really think they're gonna pick you?" he'd sneer, shoving me into a locker or knocking a book out of my hands. "You think they're gonna give you a Pokémon? Get real, Jack. You're nothing."

And every time, I'd grit my teeth, pick up my books, and walk away. Fighting Jared wouldn't help me. He wanted me to lose control, to fight back, to prove that I wasn't ready. I had to be smarter than that. I had to stay focused on my goal, no matter what he said.

Sam, my only real friend in the orphanage, never asked why I worked so hard. He didn't need to. He just helped me when he could—covering for me when I needed extra time to study, sharing his bread when the kitchen staff decided to be stingy. In return, I helped him with his schoolwork. Sam didn't have the same fire I did, but he understood why I needed to do this, and that was enough.

Two years after I first woke up in this strange new world, I was eight years old, and the scholarship test was approaching. The pressure was building, and I could feel it in every bone in my body. This was my chance—the one shot I had to change everything. I wasn't interested in the adventure or the glory of being a trainer. I wanted something simpler: freedom. The ability to walk through this world without fear, to protect myself and the people I cared about, to never have to cower behind the city walls or take whatever scraps life threw at me.

I looked out of the window of our classroom one day, staring at the trees in the schoolyard. A Starly hopped between branches, pecking at something before taking off into the sky. Watching it, I felt something stir in my chest—a strange mix of hope and determination.

This world was dangerous, unpredictable, and full of things that could kill you without even trying. But it was also beautiful. Full of creatures that defied imagination, of opportunities that, if you could just reach out and grab them, could change your life. I wasn't there yet. I was still just a kid—a small, bony kid stuck in a grim orphanage. But I was getting stronger. Smarter. And one day, I'd be ready.

One day, I'd leave this place behind. I'd have a Pokémon of my own. I'd walk through Sinnoh with my head held high, not because I was fearless, but because I had the strength to face whatever came my way.

I just had to be patient. One day at a time. One step closer to freedom.