Late autumn.
The withered yellow leaves spiraled down from the sky, adding a touch of color to the harsh, coarse streets.
A few crows croaked hoarsely atop the mottled electric poles, but no one paid them any mind.
In a dark and narrow alley somewhere in Goldenrod City.
Among the scattered heaps of garbage, in the filthy, stagnant water, lay a gaunt figure.
A withered face, tattered clothes, and mud-covered bare feet.
The figure lay still, seemingly with a heart that had ceased to beat.
Only in the hand at their chest, they clutched tightly to a red and white ball.
Fingertips pale, veins protruding starkly.
Suddenly.
The person's eyelids fluttered, accompanied by rapid breaths, and they abruptly sat up.
In eyes clouded by a haze was an expression of bewilderment, which gradually turned clear.
Memories surged like a rushing spring, battering their consciousness.
After sitting for a moment.
They slowly grasped their situation.
His name was Natsuhiko, born to a poor family in Goldenrod City. His parents worked themselves to an early grave. He's rummaged through garbage, eaten scraps, stolen, and slept on streets. He was a quintessential underclass resident of Goldenrod City.
Since birth, his only goal had been to survive.
And now, the original Natsuhiko was dead. What awakened was an ordinary person from a distant world.
"I'm still alive?" he said, with disbelief.
He looked down at himself.
The dirt under his fingernails, the ribs just visible beneath his skin, and the hand that had stiffened from clenching, gripping that Pokeball.
Through the transparent red glass, a small yellow figure could be seen inside.
"Pokémon..."
The rain suddenly began to drizzle down from the sky, casting a veil over the entire city.
Raindrops pattered against his frail body, the cold biting into his bones, slowly sapping his already dwindling body heat.
The penetrating cold swept through his consciousness.
Natsuhiko felt a twisting pain in his stomach and the dryness of his lips.
But more than these, the biting chill was his greatest concern.
He stretched out his hand, caught some rainwater in it, and brought it to his mouth, slightly alleviating his parched condition.
"I can't go on like this. I need food, shelter, warm clothes."
Natsuhiko fully understood his current state.
His frail body couldn't withstand any kind of sharpening.
Not even a single rain.
"Boss, that kid ran over here..."
Abruptly.
A faint voice pierced through the thin rain and reached Natsuhiko's ears.
Then came the hurried sound of footsteps.
Natsuhiko squinted, struggling to prop himself up on his knees, staggering up from the filthy water, his soaked feet gradually going numb and stiffening.
Through the curtain of rain, three figures approached from afar.
Tapping softly...
Stepping through the rainwater.
Swiftly traversing the misty haze, they appeared before Natsuhiko.
Among them walked a fierce-looking man, with a grim scar slashed across his face, his vicious gaze as though ready to devour him.
When his roving eye landed on the Pokeball in Natsuhiko's hand, his greed became uncontrollable.
"Boss, it's him!" The thug beside the scarred man sneered arrogantly, pointing at Natsuhiko, his narrow eyes glinting, with greed etched deep within his gaze.
This scarred man was known to Natsuhiko.
He was a thug haunting the streets, notorious for his ruthless methods and brutish conduct, considered a leader among the hoodlums.
But ultimately, he was still just one of the dregs of Goldenrod City.
For them, lurking at the bottom rung, the only way to change their fate was to acquire a Pokémon, thus stepping into the world of Trainers.
Trainers were the mainstream of this world.
And Pokémon were this world's strongest fist.
Without Pokémon, they remained merely a brawling group, fighting just to survive.
And now, Natsuhiko held a Pokeball in his hand.
Crack, crack...
The scarred man clenched his fist, his gaze vicious as he approached Natsuhiko.
With his frail body now, he couldn't possibly endure the punches honed by years of fighting.
No words, no need for words.
For people like them, whether it's for territory or food, having a hard fist is the way.
Natsuhiko understood this well.
Watching the scar-faced man approach closer, he tightened the Pokeball in his hand.
This Pokeball was a hot potato, but also a chance to change fate, and his only reliance at present.
His mouth slightly open, as his throat moved, the foul air slowly inhaled into his lungs.
Holding his breath, focusing.
Enjoying the burning pain in his lungs.
Pressing the button on the Pokeball, accompanied by a flash of red light, the Pokeball opened, and a small, earth-yellow segmented bug-like Pokémon with spikes on its head and tail, having seven pairs of pink feet, appeared between the two.
Weedle.
A very common Pokémon.
To Trainers, it's synonymous with weakness, but to ordinary people, their group behavior and toxicity make them a presence not to be trifled with in the forest.
Such a weak Pokémon, even smaller than the scar-faced man's fists, isn't favored by Trainers, yet it became a desirable asset in the eyes of these low-level residents.
Seeing Weedle, the scar-faced man was startled at first, but was soon overtaken by greed.
Desire can warp a person's perception.
"Do you know what Pokémon this is? Do you know how to command Pokémon?"
His demeanor brutal, his voice harsh.
A Trainer is not just someone who owns Pokémon, but also needs the corresponding theoretical knowledge, understanding the abilities, habits, and characteristics of Pokémon, knowing how to command them to fight and unleash their potential.
In the scar-faced man's eyes, someone like Natsuhiko has expended almost all his energy just trying to survive, how could he possibly understand Pokémon, let alone command them to fight.
Even though it's a very common Weedle.
Natsuhiko's face remained cold.
Through the memories of his past self, he already understands that this world is indeed the Pokemon Realm, but not the utopian Pokémon world in his impression where "you are good, I am good, he is also good".
Here, humans fall prey to evil Pokémon, and treasured Pokémon become food on human tables, not a rarity.
Between people, there is no absolute friendship, but treachery and conniving abound.
His former self wasn't a good person, having experienced the harsh realities of society, deeply understanding humanity's ugly side, hence he quickly adapted to the current situation.
"Weedle, Spinning Silk." Natsuhiko said coldly, his voice weak yet firm.
Upon hearing his command, Weedle paused for a moment, turned to search for the source of the voice.
Its pair of black small eyes met Natsuhiko's indisputable gaze.
Its small body trembled slightly.
The scar-faced man was initially taken aback, but seeing Weedle's reaction, his smile turned even crueler.
Striding forward, he charged ahead.
Deep down, there is an obscure apprehension, seemingly unwilling to let the person in front of him say any more.
The calloused fists drew nearer.
But Natsuhiko stood still, unable to move, or unwilling to move, and simply commanded again:
"Spinning Silk!"
Sssssss—
Suddenly.
Just as the scar-faced man's fist was only inches from his face, a white, seemingly feeble thread shot out rapidly, wrapping tightly around the fist.
The scar-faced man was startled.
He wanted to exert more strength, but found that the silk spun by the tiny Weedle tightly bound his fist, making it hard to continue swinging swiftly.
Natsuhiko stepped back, his voice sounding again, so piercing to the scar-faced man.
"Weedle, Poison Needle."
Whiz! Whiz! Whiz!
Weedle's spike glowed with a purple aura, several needles flashing coldly were fired, embedding into the muscular arm.
In an instant, the scar-faced man's face flushed, sweat as big as beans beaded on his forehead, and on the arm hit by the poison needles, circles of purple rapidly spread and swelled.
Poisoned.
The toxin spread rapidly, and the scar-faced man staggered and collapsed before Natsuhiko.
With Weedle's current ability and toxin, it wasn't lethal, but losing mobility was undeniable.
The two cronies behind him sensed the situation wasn't right and wanted to run.
But then Natsuhiko's calm voice resonated, "Run?"
The two froze mid-step, turning rigidly, faces ingratiating.
"This brother, no! This Trainer..."
His words were cut short by Natsuhiko, "Money, food, clothes, or death, pick one."
The frail body exuded an unquestionable chill.