The settlement of Northwall sat like a stubborn outpost at the edge of Aurelis County, the northernmost county of the country of Valeria—a nation carved into twenty-six counties and ruled from its oversized, overprotected capital, Crownspire. Crownspire was a fortress-city so massive that people joked it could swallow ten regular settlements and still have room for a parade. For the rest of Valeria, that was both comforting and infuriating. Comforting because Crownspire had never once fallen during a Pokémon Tide; infuriating because no one else got even a fraction of that safety.
Northwall didn't have luxury. It had walls. Thick, ugly, steel-reinforced walls that hummed at night when the electrical barrier kicked in. Walls that every resident touched at least once a day just to reassure themselves they were still standing. The forest beyond was dense, dark, and far too alive. You didn't wander outside unless you had a death wish or a government order.
Inside this settlement, the Northwall Orphan Home scratched out a quiet existence against the western wall. It housed twenty-three kids, one exhausted matron, and one problem no one wanted to acknowledge yet: today was Testing Day.
Fifteen-year-olds didn't celebrate this day. They dreaded it.
The government of Valeria had a simple rule—blunt, cold, and completely non-negotiable:
At age 15, every citizen must take the Trainer Qualification Test. Those who pass become state-assigned Pokémon trainers. Those who fail become laborers—farming, sanitation, mining, wall maintenance, whatever the settlement needs.
People pretended the "honor" of becoming a Pokémon trainer was a good thing. It wasn't. Passing meant being thrown into the frontline when the next Pokémon Tide crashed into Valeria's borders. Tides hit anywhere from two to six times a year, and while the walls absorbed most of the chaos, something always slipped through. That's when trainers were expected to stand between monsters and civilians.
So no—no sane person wanted to pass.
But the test didn't care what you wanted.
Uriah, the kid who never quite fit the orphanage mold, sat on the edge of his bunk lacing his boots with more force than necessary. He was fifteen today—legally obligated to show up at Northwall's central square at 9 AM and let the government decide his fate. He wasn't scared. Not in the way people expected. Fear implied uncertainty. Uriah understood exactly how the world worked: predictable, unfair, and brutally efficient.
He tied the laces tight and stood.
The dorm was quiet. The other kids—some fourteen, some younger—watched him the way you watch someone walking toward a firing squad. No one said "good luck." That was pointless. Luck had nothing to do with it.
On the bottom bunk, a younger kid named Fen whispered, "Do you… do you want to pass?"
Uriah snorted. "Want has nothing to do with it."
It was the closest thing to honesty anyone had ever given Fen.
Northwall's central square was a flat stretch of reinforced stone surrounded by guard towers. Three administrators from Crownspire stood behind a folding table, wearing the same stiff gray uniforms every inspector wore. No warmth. No smiles. Just pens, tablets, and the air of people who wished they were anywhere else.
A crowd had gathered—not to cheer, but to witness. Because no matter how many years passed, Testing Day always felt like a public execution for someone.
"Candidate 17: Uriah Hale."
He stepped forward.
The test ran in three segments:
Physical capability — not athleticism, but survival metrics. Could you run? Could you lift? Could you dodge? Could you stay conscious under pressure?
Willpower assessment — a psychological evaluation designed to identify flight risk, mental collapse tendencies, and latent aggression.
Behavioral stability under Pokémon pressure — the worst part. A controlled encounter with a low-tier Pokémon behind reinforced glass. Still terrifying.
The physical tests were easy enough; growing up in an orphanage that barely received government funding meant chores were constant and heavy. Uriah moved through it like someone completing tedious work.
The willpower test caught him off guard only because of its bluntness.
The inspector leaned in. "If we told you to abandon a civilian to protect the settlement, would you obey?"
"Yes."
"No hesitation?"
"No point hesitating."
The inspector raised a brow—either impressed or concerned. Hard to tell with these types.
Then came the Pokémon exposure.
They brought out a Houndour, low-tier but still dangerous. Its crimson eyes locked onto Uriah through the glass. A test of fear response.
Uriah didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Didn't move at all.
The inspector scribbled something. "Candidate remains stable."
Stable. That was the word they liked for people they could throw into danger without expecting them to break down screaming.
When the tests concluded, the administrators stepped aside to deliberate. Uriah stood alone in the square while the crowd murmured.
Fifteen minutes later, an inspector approached him with a sealed white envelope.
"Uriah Hale," the man said. "You have passed the Trainer Qualification Test."
The crowd didn't cheer. They pitied him.
Because passing didn't mean glory. It meant three months in the Trainer Academy of Crownspire, followed by years of fighting creatures strong enough to tear steel.
Uriah accepted the envelope without a word.
He expected fear. Or anger. Or something.
But all he felt was a strange, heavy certainty.
Northwall had nothing to offer him anyway.
If the world wanted to throw him toward danger, fine. Let it.
At least it meant he was finally leaving this place.