The forest didn't feel the same on the way back.
It wasn't the path. They were retracing the exact same steps they'd taken to reach Fallcreek. Same trees, same wind, same patches of old frost clinging to shaded rocks. But something was different. And it wasn't just in the world.
It was in Orion.
The town, the Braviary, the kids with Pokémon—it all stuck to him like smoke. Not warm. Not inviting. But thick. Clinging. Refusing to let go.
He walked in silence behind Reid, boots scuffing lightly over hard-packed snow, breath white in the morning cold.
Same road. Same trees. But I'm not the same kid that left.
Reid moved with quiet purpose, like he was part of the terrain. He barely disturbed a single branch, barely cracked a single patch of ice.
They didn't talk. Not at first. Reid didn't start conversations, and Orion didn't push.
But his brain was full. He'd seen too much to go back to pretending survival was enough.
They camped before nightfall under a narrow overhang, using a pile of bramble and canvas for shelter. Houndoom curled up beside Orion with a low, contented rumble. Reid sharpened a skinning knife with long, even strokes. Sparks flickered in the firelight.
"Reid?" Orion asked, finally breaking the quiet.
A glance.
Orion sat forward, elbows on knees. "What makes a Pokémon strong?"
Reid didn't stop sharpening. "Many things."
"That's a non-answer."
Reid didn't respond.
So Orion kept going. "That Braviary we saw—it wasn't just powerful. It was imposing. Like it didn't need to try."
Reid nodded once. "Trained. Experienced. Older than most. Probably part of a Ranger team for years."
"Right, but… there was a kid in town. Had a Beedrill."
Reid kept sharpening. "And?"
"It looked fierce. Like it wanted to fight anything."
"Probably did."
"But I couldn't stop thinking: that Beedrill? Wouldn't last five seconds against that Braviary."
Reid paused. Not long. Just a beat.
"Correct."
Orion looked into the fire.
"So why?"
Reid sheathed the blade. "Species ceiling."
"Meaning?"
"Every species has limits. Some grow fast, hit hard, evolve quickly. Others take time. They're harder to train. Slower to evolve. But they don't hit the same wall."
"Like… Beedrill's fast. Garchomp's slow."
"Exactly."
"And one can't touch the other."
Reid's voice was firm. "A hundred Beedrill couldn't kill a fully grown Garchomp. Not trained. Not controlled. Not built for it."
"That's brutal."
"It's reality."
Orion sat with that.
"Isn't that unfair?"
"Fair has nothing to do with survival."
The wind shifted. The fire popped.
Orion hugged his arms tighter and asked, "Are there exceptions?"
Reid tilted his head. "To the rules?"
"Yeah. Like… could a Beedrill ever be that strong?"
A pause.
Then: "Rarely. There are prodigies. Pokémon that break the mold. A Pikachu once became Champion-level because its Trainer refused to evolve it—and trained it harder than anyone thought possible."
"Seriously?"
Reid nodded.
"But that's not normal," Orion said.
"No."
"So for most… species sets the limit."
Reid met his eyes. "It does."
Orion didn't ask more after that. He didn't need to.
Something had clicked.
Not in a dramatic, lightning-strike kind of way. No music. No cinematic moment. Just a slow, quiet realization setting into his bones.
If I want to matter in this world… I can't settle for easy.
The next morning, they moved through a high ridge cut into stone. Orion nearly slipped once. Caught himself on an outcrop. When he looked up, he noticed something strange in the wall.
Rock… but not just rock.
Fossilized ridges. Impressions.
Scales.
He frowned, ran his hand across the surface. Something about the shape was wrong for a typical wild Pokémon. It looked old. Prehistoric. He didn't recognize the pattern.
But it lingered in his mind as they walked on.
How long has this world had monsters like that buried beneath it?
He said nothing to Reid.
By the time they reached the cabin, the cold had dropped again. The wind carried ice, and clouds moved heavy across the sky.
Home looked the same.
But Orion didn't feel like the same person walking back into it.
That night, while helping Reid clean the gear from their trip, Orion found himself replaying Fallcreek in his mind.
The way people had moved. The bulletin board. The quiet fear everyone carried like a second coat.
They weren't just surviving.
They were preparing.
Constantly.
Because this world doesn't give you time to breathe. You either stay strong, or something stronger eats you.
He watched Reid polish a steel flask. His hands never trembled. Not even when the wind howled through the cracks in the cabin walls.
Orion turned to the fire, resting the staff Reid had carved for him across his knees.
Fast evolution doesn't mean safety. Power that comes easy dies easy.
He gripped the staff tighter.
I want something that lasts.
The next day, they returned to routine. Orion checked traps solo, brought back two half-frozen Sentrets and a Bidoof with a sprained paw. Reid skinned them efficiently, tossing the meat into the smoker without a word.
Later, Reid handed him a whetstone.
"Your knife's dull."
Orion nodded, sitting down by the table.
As he worked the blade in careful strokes, he asked, "Did you ever pick the fast-growing ones?"
Reid looked at him.
"Early on?"
A pause.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"They were easy to control. Obedient. Eager."
"But not enough?"
"Not after the first real fight."
"What changed?"
Reid's eyes flicked toward the fire. "We lost."
That night, Orion stood alone behind the cabin, staring out over the valley.
No stars. Just clouds and wind.
He gripped the staff and swung it once—smoothly, slowly.
Then again.
And again.
There was no target. No form.
Just practice.
He could feel the weakness in his arms. The lack of coordination in his shoulders. But he swung anyway.
If a Pokémon needs time to grow... so do I.
He swung again.
And again.
Until the cold burned in his lungs and his muscles screamed.
He didn't tell Reid.
But the next morning, a second staff—a heavier one—was leaning by the door.
No words.
Just readiness.