Orion woke with the first grey light filtering through the gap between the buildings. The city hadn't fully woken yet, but the early noises had started—metal grates shifting open, carts rolling over uneven stone, the clipped bark of commands as day laborers moved out from the lower dorm tiers.
Tyrunt shifted beside him, stretching his limbs out wide before rising with a huff. His eyes scanned the quiet street like he expected something to come crawling through it.
Nothing did.
Orion packed his things quickly and moved out before the crowds built. Today wasn't about distance or drills.
Today was about information.
Stonewall was built in tiers—old mining ridges that had been reinforced and expanded upward over time. What had started as a series of makeshift walkways carved into rock had grown into a layered city, each tier defined more by function than status.
The lower tiers were utilitarian: residential strips, outdoor laundry lines, repair sheds, apprentice workshops, and back-end markets. Nothing fancy. Nothing dressed up. But efficient. People here looked strong in the arms and tired in the eyes.
The middle tiers were where the commerce lived. Goods came in and out from external routes, but money moved here. Street markets wrapped around alleys. Couriers wore patch-sewn uniforms. Local gyms—not League-sanctioned ones, but private dojos and battlehouses—advertised classes for those who couldn't or wouldn't join the official circuit.
And the upper tier… the upper tier held the League outpost, the Pokécenter, and a scattering of polished storefronts built into stone-arched walkways. The buildings had balconies. Trimmed shrubs. Even windows that weren't cracked.
Orion walked all three by noon.
He didn't rush. He studied.
He watched how the trainers dressed—layers, tough-fiber fabric, protective plating on the arms or legs depending on their partner's type. He watched the way they moved through crowds—eyes high, one hand always close to their belt.
He stopped at a stall that sold pokéball enhancements—tighter locks, extra insulation, sensor upgrades. He didn't buy anything, but he asked questions. What helped contain a creature like Tyrunt? What about later evolutions?
The vendor answered without hesitation, like he'd seen it all before.
Later, at the open trainer boards, he scanned for bounties, side jobs, even salvage contracts. The most promising one paid 400 credits for escorting a cargo caravan down the west ridge. Dangerous, sure, but the pay was solid.
He didn't sign up.
But he memorized the contact name.
By mid-afternoon, Orion stopped at a small café built into the edge of a square where three streets converged. Trainers came and went freely—some with Pokémon trailing them, others alone, always alert. The tables outside were basic—stone slabs with bolted metal legs—but the seating gave a full view of the plaza.
He took out his notebook.
Started a new page.
Stonewall — Economic Viability (Adjusted Plan)
He drew a box and labeled it Move Tutor — Dark-type Application / Bite Enhancement
Next to it:
Avg. cost: 300–500 credits (dependent on tutor)
Session length: 1–2 hrs
Progression: 2–4 sessions expected for control-level usage
Total est. cost: ~1,200 credits
He wrote beneath it:
Unrealistic to fund by scavenging only. Will need steady work or sponsor support.
Orion underlined it twice.
He wasn't leaving this city in a day or two.
Not if he wanted results.
He headed back toward the middle tier as the sun began to drop low behind the west ridge. Tyrunt walked beside him, unusually quiet but still attentive, scanning corners, twitching when carts scraped too close.
"Not yet," Orion murmured to him.
Tyrunt gave a grunt but didn't push ahead.
There was a small training ring near the lower corner of the ridge, built half into stone and half out over a reinforced wooden platform. It wasn't crowded. Just two trainers sparring—a wiry teen with a scruffy Growlithe and a taller girl with a Nidorino that looked like it didn't care about pain.
Orion watched from the sidelines, noting the way commands were given—not yelled, but tight, clipped. No wasted breath. He could see now how things would have to change when it came to battles here. People weren't impressed by power. They were impressed by control.
Later, in one of the street-side alleys, Orion saw a tutor working with a Luxio.
The trainer—mid-thirties, quiet, scarred from the cheek to the collar—was showing it how to angle a body-feint just before contact. Not flashy. Just efficient. The kind of thing that made a good attack into a decisive one.
Orion stayed long enough to memorize the motion.
When the Luxio's bite lit with sparks and hit a full target dummy hard enough to shake the stand, the tutor smiled—barely.
"That's it," he said.
He didn't yell. Just stepped back and nodded once.
Orion made a note in his journal.
Study control through micro cues.
By the time the sun dipped below the ridge and the upper tier lights began to flicker on, Orion was back at the central board, scanning the job postings again.
One listing stood out this time.
"SEWER INFESTATION – 5 CR PER HEAD – RATTATA EXTERMINATION – REPORT TO SANITATION POST 3"
No escort duty. No scavenging. Just hunting. In the dark. Tight spaces. Dirty work. But simple.
Tyrunt could handle that.
He tore off the tag and stuffed it into his pocket.