StoneWall City

The gates of Stonewall weren't tall or gilded. There was no marble archway, no grand League insignia etched into a polished arch. But they were thick—layered iron panels reinforced with spiked supports, mounted into weathered stone. Practical. Heavy. Built to stop something, not impress anyone.

Orion stood at the edge of the outer trail, staring up at them.

The outer walls ran wide around the hillside, dotted with watch towers, old lookout points now converted into signal stations. From this angle, Stonewall didn't seem like a city at all—it looked like a fortified settlement too stubborn to die.

But once he stepped past the checkpoint, he understood why it was different.

The inner city was dense.

Buildings climbed high, layered atop one another like geological strata—stone foundations, wood-beamed second levels, metal-roofed shops crowded into side alleys. The streets twisted and forked, never straight, like the place had grown sideways instead of upward. People moved quickly here, not rushed, but used to motion. Couriers wove between carts. Vendors called out prices above the crowd. Trainers stood on corners, talking with quiet intensity, gear strapped tight across their backs.

No one looked twice at Tyrunt.

That, more than anything else, told Orion this wasn't Fallcreek.

He kept to the right side of the main avenue, eyes scanning for signage. A few blocks in, he found what he was looking for—an official League post, marked by a steel-framed door and a glowing panel etched with the familiar symbol: a Pokéball superimposed over a regional map.

Inside, the air smelled like paper and disinfectant. A tired-looking attendant glanced up from her console.

"Trainer ID?" she asked, without prompting.

Orion offered the stamped card.

She scanned it, then handed him a folded info packet. "You're eligible for beginner services. You'll find the Pokécenter three streets south, left at the triple fountain. Public listings for tutoring, part-time work, and supply auctions are posted there every morning."

"Thanks."

She nodded once. "Welcome to Stonewall."

The Pokécenter was built into a slope near the city's middle tier, a wide structure with terraced balconies and sun-bleached stone steps. Not as fancy as the ones he'd seen in League advertisements, but large, well-kept, and quiet inside.

He checked Tyrunt in for a routine scan. The nurse—a no-nonsense woman with buzzed hair and a pale coat—raised an eyebrow at the pokéball's data signature but didn't say anything. She typed something into her terminal and led Tyrunt into the back without ceremony.

Orion sat on a bench in the waiting atrium and stared at the list board across from him.

Dozens of postings.

Some offering tutoring services—"MOVE TRAINING: SAND TOMB / HEADBUTT / SCARY FACE. Reasonable rates. Experienced trainer. Book early."

Others looking for labor—"Pack haulers needed. Road clearing. 150 credits/day. Must provide own partner."

A few for buying and selling—rare berries, crafted gear, even a clean capture-rated pokéball still in its seal wrap.

He didn't take any jobs.

Not yet.

But he wrote a few names down.

Tyrunt came back an hour later, scan complete.

"Vitals are strong," the nurse said. "Slight muscle strain in the left hind limb, but nothing serious. Keep him off vertical terrain for a day."

"Got it."

She handed over the capsule. "You're cleared for gym registration when ready. They'll see that on your file."

Later, Orion found a spot under the second-tier bridge near the water market and set up a small corner with his notebook. Tyrunt lay beside him, tail twitching lightly, watching the street without tension.

He flipped to a new page.

Stonewall: Day One

Pokécenter clean, staff competent.

Tutors exist, not cheap.

Prices: Potions 180–250 credits. Pokéballs 120 standard. 220 for specialty types.

Ore-rich stone (high trace) costs extra. 40–70 credits/kilo.

One shop sells fossil-specific blend—"Volcanite Meal." 95 credits/pack.

Orion underlined the last one.

Tyrunt was hardy. He could eat rocks. But the right rocks? That could change his growth curve.

He circled it again.

He also asked around about move tutors.

There were no TMs. That was the stuff of fiction and science labs. But some trainers—usually older, often former gym aides or ex-League handlers—had the experience to guide a Pokémon into mastering techniques outside their instinctual set.

It wasn't magic. It took time. Repetition. Incentive.

But it worked.

If you could afford them.

The cheapest listing he found was 300 credits for a two-hour session.

"Teaches basic ground-type fundamentals. Requires rapport with the Pokémon. No refund if your partner bites me."

Orion wrote it down anyway.

He found a side stall that sold heavy-duty pokéballs—reinforced latches, thermal-coated linings. Designed for aggressive Pokémon.

He didn't buy one.

But he stared at the price tag long enough to memorize it.

That night, Orion didn't sleep in the Pokécenter hostel, even though he was eligible.

Instead, he made his way up to a quiet ledge on the east side of the city wall. Not for the view, not for privacy—just to think.

The city still buzzed below, even this late. Light spilled from windows and rooftop chimneys. Some trainer was laughing too loud in the upper tier, and something rumbled once in the alleys like a Pokémon pushing over a trash crate.

Orion sat on the ledge, notebook balanced on his knee.

He flipped past his gear list, his price notations, his circuit sketches.

Then he turned to a blank page and started writing.

Tyrunt — Move Progression

He didn't need flashy attacks. Not yet. No elemental beams or hard-to-master slams. But Tyrunt had raw strength. A crushing jaw. A low center of gravity. He already responded to fight scenarios with biting. That meant something close-range, fast, and scalable.

He wrote: Bite (→ Dark-type channeling?)

It was a theory more than a plan. But he'd seen trainers enhance elemental attacks before. Not with TMs—those didn't exist. But through repetition. Through controlled environments. With the right technique tutor, a Pokémon could learn to push beyond their natural type limits. Even channel external energy—like fire, steel, or in rarer cases, darkness.

Orion underlined the word darkness.

Tyrunt had the temperament for it. He wasn't cruel, but he knew how to dominate. He responded to threats instinctively. If Orion could teach him to focus that instinct, guide it, maybe Bite would become something more.

He circled the move again.

It would make him more effective in battle. More flexible.

More dangerous.