I Don't Like Raticate

By the end of the first week, the trail had changed.

The dirt road that had once felt packed and wide had narrowed into something rougher—less traveled, more natural. Branches crept lower across the path. Stones jutted from the earth like the spine of something long dead. And the air, though not cold, had the scent of wildness again. Moss, damp roots, and something faintly metallic. The kind of smell that said, If you're not strong, you shouldn't be here.

Orion was already adjusting their pace. Each morning, before they packed up camp, he ran Tyrunt through drills—quick-response turns, controlled bursts of speed, bite restraint against logs and padded targets. It wasn't always successful. Tyrunt still preferred crushing to precision. But the repetition was helping.

After training, they'd walk. But not just to make distance. Orion turned the walk itself into practice.

When the terrain rose, they used it to strengthen Tyrunt's climbing endurance. When the trail dropped into tight gullies, they practiced silent movement—low steps, no stomping. Every time Tyrunt stumbled or growled without warning, Orion made him restart.

And when they had time and energy, they fought.

It was on the fifth evening of that training rhythm that they met their first real challenge.

They'd just finished crossing a narrow ridge, sun dipping low behind the trees, when Orion spotted movement off the trail—small, darting. Not enough mass to worry about, but enough to test Tyrunt's awareness.

He gestured.

Tyrunt didn't bark or charge.

He crept forward.

When the wild Pokémon emerged—a wiry looking Ekans with dull scales and a crooked fang—Orion gave the signal for feint movement. Tyrunt obliged, darting left, then right, baiting the creature into lunging.

When it struck, Tyrunt was ready.

He didn't crush.

He pinned.

Just one claw to the neck. A low, guttural growl to show dominance.

The Ekans hissed, twisted free, and disappeared into the underbrush.

No kill.

No injury.

Just a message sent.

Orion didn't praise him aloud, but his grip on the pokéball tightened slightly in approval.

They were getting somewhere.

The next day, things were less controlled.

Orion had diverted off the main route slightly, hoping to find a stream he'd marked on his map from an older guide. They needed water, and he wanted a quiet place to test reaction time drills in open space.

They found the stream—but they weren't alone.

As they descended into the ravine, the brush thickened. Tyrunt stopped before Orion said anything, claws flexing.

Then the sound came—low, deep, not a growl but something more primal.

Orion pulled back and crouched.

From the thicket ahead, a massive Raticate burst out. Its fur was patchy, its eyes red with something more than instinct.

Territorial.

Tyrunt moved without waiting for permission.

The fight was short, messy.

The Raticate had speed, but it was reckless. It aimed straight for Orion, not Tyrunt. A mistake.

Tyrunt tackled it sideways mid-charge, jaw snapping shut on the Raticate's flank and flinging it into a tree with a sickening crunch.

Not dead.

But it wouldn't chase them again.

Orion watched in silence as Tyrunt stood over the stunned creature, breathing hard, head low.

"Back," Orion said firmly.

Tyrunt hesitated.

Then stepped back without finishing it.

Progress.

But still close.

That night, they rested near a hill cave, fire low and hidden.

Orion cleaned a small cut on Tyrunt's hind leg, not deep, but worth tending. He pulled a basic healing tincture from his pack, only to realize it was his last one.

And he didn't have many pokéballs left either.

He leaned back against a rock and stared into the fire.

"Alright," he muttered. "We need money."

The world didn't give things freely. Not even to League-licensed trainers.

Healing salves, pokéballs, better gear—none of it was cheap. And while Pokémon Centers offered basic services, they only provided free treatment after sanctioned matches, and even then, only to a point. Everything else required payment.

Tyrunt wasn't a drain—not yet. He ate stone, after all. But Orion was already noticing how certain rocks—dense ore, high in trace minerals—gave Tyrunt more energy than simple trail gravel. If he wanted to bring out Tyrunt's full growth, he'd need to feed him the good stuff.

And if he caught new partners?

That was a whole new category of needs.

He ran through the possibilities in his head.

Selling resources? Maybe. Some rare stones. Some salvaged parts from old ranger trails. Tutoring was out—for now. He had no name. No credibility.

Fighting for prize money? Risky.

But maybe… maybe in the next city, he'd have options.

Some gyms hosted exhibitions. Some towns had bounty boards. If nothing else, he could start collecting valuable forage. Rare herbs. Trainer-supply scrap.

It would have to do.

The next morning, Orion caught a glimpse of silver.

Just a flicker. A flash behind a tree.

When he turned, it was gone.

But he knew what it had been.

A shiny.

They were rare. So rare, most trainers never saw one in their entire lives. But when they did—everyone noticed.

Shiny Pokémon weren't just different in color. They were different inside. Some people said it was luck. Some said it was genetics. But Orion knew better.

Shinies had stronger potential. Better instincts. Faster learning curves. Higher ceilings.

And that made them valuable.

Trainers paid fortunes for them. Breeders even more. Because owning a shiny wasn't just a brag—it was an investment. Some gyms even used shiny-born Pokémon as core pieces of elite teams.

He'd never even consider selling one if he caught it.

But he understood why others did.

Later that day, as they continued, Orion sat by a spring and looked down at his notes.

He had listed several Pokémon as possible future catches—carefully researched, planned, balanced.

But his mind kept drifting back to Ghost-types.

He hadn't put one on the list yet.

And he didn't have a plan for what he'd do at night if he ran into one.

He was tired of sleeping with a blade under his arm.

Ghost-types were a special kind of problem.

They didn't think like other Pokémon. They didn't feel like them either.

Some were mischievous.

Others were cruel.

Many simply didn't care about human rules. Or pain. Or survival.

They were dead, after all.

Death didn't scare them.

Which made them dangerous.

Some trainers loved them. Swore by their utility. Their versatility. Their unpredictability in battle.

But most avoided them unless they had something to keep them in check.

A Dark-type could help. Not because they were strong, but because they understood danger. Darkness wasn't alien to them. They didn't want to kill, but they recognized it.

Psychic-types were another answer.

But psychic-types came with their own issues.

Many were stable. Controlled. Even gentle.

But the ones who weren't?

They were nightmares.

Psychics could feel thoughts. Influence emotions. Crush minds.

And once they decided they didn't like you, they didn't need claws.

That's why most people who owned a psychic-type had raised them from eggs.

Baby psychics were easier to train. Easier to bond with. More likely to imprint.

But psychic eggs were expensive.

Orion had seen a listing in a catalog once—just one. For a Ralts egg. It had cost more than everything he owned.

He wasn't getting a psychic.

Not yet.

Still, if he wanted a Ghost...

He'd need to think it through.

Pick carefully.

Plan for containment. Protection. Compatibility with the rest of the team.

He didn't want to be one of those trainers who died because they brought a Haunter into camp and woke up floating ten feet above the ground without a spine.

He needed control.

He needed balance.

And more than anything else, he needed time.

They reached a crossroads late that evening.

Not a town. Not a camp.

Just two trails diverging, both heading toward Oreburgh but from different angles.

Orion looked down one path, then the other.

Then back at Tyrunt.

"We'll take the high road."

Tyrunt didn't answer.

But he followed.

As always.