The next morning, the academy's bell tower rang across the sky like a starting pistol.
Ray stood in front of Classroom 1-C, his hands behind his back, trying to suppress the buzz of anticipation in his chest. Pidgey perched quietly on his shoulder, eyes scanning the other students with casual confidence.
Kira was beside him, bouncing on her heels.
"Today's the day!" she whispered. "I bet we get to punch something."
"Or fill out forms," Ray muttered.
"Boring!"
The doors opened.
Inside, their homeroom instructor stood at the front of the room, arms crossed.
He was a tall man in his thirties, with copper-colored hair, a rugged jaw, and the kind of eyes that saw everything but never gave away a thing. A belt of four Pokéballs hung at his side. His presence commanded attention, even without a word.
"I'm Instructor Fennel," he said.
The room went silent.
"I don't care what dreams you have. I don't care what your parents told you. What I do care about is how you train, how you respect your partner, and how you handle power. Today, we test that baseline."
Kira raised a fist. "Bring it on!"
Fennel's gaze landed on her. "You'll regret that enthusiasm if it turns out empty."
Kira grinned. "Not a chance."
Ray glanced toward the back of the room. The black-haired boy with the Houndour was seated there again, arms crossed, gaze fixed on Fennel without expression.
Fennel raised a hand.
An assistant wheeled in a box—sleek, steel, and sealed tight.
"In this academy, we believe in measured growth," Fennel continued. "As of today, by regional law, all six-year-old trainees are eligible for one registered Pokéball. You may use it to form your first legal bond with a Pokémon. Until you graduate, your limit will be based on your age and academic tier."
Ray and Kira exchanged a glance. They knew the law already—but hearing it again from a professional made it feel heavier.
"Listen closely," Fennel said. "Once you capture a Pokémon in a Pokéball, that partnership becomes official and permanent. You cannot release it. You cannot swap it. You are responsible for its care, safety, and growth. Violation of the Tenancy Law results in a permanent ban from becoming a licensed Trainer."
A long pause.
Then he spoke again—slower, quieter.
"This isn't a game."
Fennel tapped the box, and it hissed open with a mechanical sound. Inside were rows of standard Pokéballs, each tagged with an identification number.
One by one, students were called up. Kira was nearly vibrating in place by the time her name was called.
"Damos, Kira."
She marched up, received her Pokéball with two hands, and gave the instructor a bright, determined look.
"Don't drop it," he muttered dryly.
"I won't," she said proudly, tucking it into the holder on her belt.
Ray's turn came next.
"Virel, Ray."
He stepped forward, accepting the Pokéball with quiet reverence.
The moment his fingers wrapped around it, something inside him stirred. A subtle shift. A weight. A connection, dormant but waiting.
This was real now.
He walked back to his seat, heart steady.
"Now," said Fennel, "your first aptitude trial."
The room stirred.
A second cart was wheeled in—this one filled with small glass capsules, each containing a different low-level Pokémon for observation. Inside were young Rattata, Sentret, Hoppip, Lotad… simple species used for testing in non-combat scenarios.
Fennel handed out Guild aptitude readers—small, handheld devices with a lens and a crystal interface.
"You'll scan the Pokémon, observe the result, and record the color rating on the provided card. This will not affect your record unless you lie."
Ray accepted the reader, suppressing a frown. These devices were useful... but flawed. They only captured the core aptitude—no sublevels. No emotional patterns. No growth insight.
Still, he had to pretend.
His assigned test subject was a Zigzagoon curled up in its capsule, chewing on a strip of wood.
Ray didn't bother to scan first.
He looked directly into its eyes.
Zigzagoon – Yellow (Light)Restless but adaptable. Needs structured behavioral challenges to grow.Reader will likely show only "Yellow."
He raised the scanner, activated it, and watched the reading blink.
[YELLOW] – displayed the screen, just as expected.
He scribbled it down on the form and turned it in with a neutral face.
One by one, the rest of the students did the same.
Kira's scan read Green for her test subject. She looked a little disappointed, probably hoping for a surprise rare find.
When the dark-haired boy from earlier—his name, Ray had learned, was Cael—scanned his capsule, a quiet hum filled the air.
The screen read:
[GREEN]
He said nothing, handed in the form, and sat down.
But his eyes flicked briefly toward Ray.
Ray met his gaze.
Neither of them smiled.
As the class wound down, Fennel walked slowly between rows of desks.
"You've now been entrusted with a tool of bonding—and tested on your ability to interpret growth potential. Some of you may think aptitude is everything. Some of you may believe heart is all that matters."
He stopped.
"Both of you are wrong—if you forget the responsibility that comes with either."
Ray nodded internally.
He had no plans to forget.
Outside, as students filtered toward the training fields for the afternoon drill, Kira fell in step beside him.
"That was so cool," she said. "And intense. I already love this place."
"I expected less fire and more chalkboards," Ray admitted.
"You would like chalkboards."
Ray laughed.
Kira flipped her Pokéball into the air and caught it.
"Guess it's real now, huh?"
Ray glanced at the one on his belt.
Yeah.
It was real.