By evening, the camps had emptied.
Students filtered out in orderly lines—some clutching Pokéballs like fragile treasures, others cradling eggs with a reverence that bordered on fear. Instructors moved among them, repeating instructions patiently: temperature control, handling protocols, sleep cycles, warning signs during hatching.
Most of the random egg recipients had received exactly what probability dictated.
Caterpie.
Weedle.
A handful of Pidgey.
Lillipup.
Goldeen.
Poochyena.
Nothing flashy.
Nothing weak either.
Foundations.
I watched from a distance as one boy stared at his Caterpie egg like it might explode. Those reactions mattered more than the species themselves.
Expectation management was half the battle.
Once everything was settled and final care instructions were issued, I left quietly.
No speeches.
No announcements.
No escort.
Just home.
The villa felt… different.
Not quieter—Pokémon were never quiet—but warmer. Lived-in. Real.
Sagar's school had already started, and for the past week he'd been sending me short voice notes every evening—updates about the Pokémon curriculum being integrated into regular classes.
"They made us identify moves today."
"Bro, the teacher messed up Dark-type resistance and I corrected him."
"We're doing first aid next week. With Oddish."
He sounded… happy.
When I landed in the backyard, the sight waiting for me grounded everything at once.
Sagar was sitting cross-legged in the grass, laughing as Pikachu darted around him in tight circles, sparks snapping harmlessly into the air. Murkrow perched on his shoulder, cawing proudly every time Pikachu tripped over her own tail.
Happiny stood a little distance away, clapping enthusiastically like this was the greatest show she'd ever seen.
The moment she spotted me, her face lit up.
"Happi!"
She waddled toward me at full speed—stone clutched tight, tiny legs pumping with determination.
I crouched just in time to scoop her up.
"There you are," I murmured.
She hugged my neck and immediately started poking my cheek, as if checking whether I was actually real.
I laughed softly and sat down on the grass, leaning back on my hands, Happiny settled comfortably in my lap.
For the first time in weeks, my mind slowed.
No maps.
No threat assessments.
No contingency plans branching endlessly into worse-case scenarios.
Just grass.
Just Pokémon.
Just family.
I looked up at the sky, letting the tension drain out of my shoulders.
Checklist.
Wars halted — check
Legal framework established — check
Trainer system operational — check
Education integration underway — check
International cooperation — on hold, intentionally
Every urgent variable was contained.
For the next month and a half…
I was going to be a normal teenager.
I wasn't attending the final camp tournament.
That decision was already made.
Merit mattered.
Context mattered more.
Different Pokémon had different growth curves. Different trainers had different ceilings. Handing out blanket rewards would only distort development.
The system needed consistency now—not spectacle.
I spent the rest of the day inside the villa.
With my parents.
With the Eevee siblings.
With food that didn't come from ration packs or field kits.
That evening, I sat down with both Eevee in the living room.
"So," I said casually, "have either of you thought about evolving?"
Both Eevee looked at me.
Then at each other.
Then shook their heads in perfect synchronization.
I smiled.
"Alright. No rush."
Still, decisions had to be made eventually.
For Dad's Eevee, the path was clear.
Umbreon.
Patience.
Stability.
Protection.
For Mom's Eevee… Sylveon.
But that path required something different.
Emotional resonance.
Fairy-type alignment.
A move like Baby-Doll Eyes.
I slipped an Everstone onto her gently.
"Take your time," I told her. "There's no deadline."
Later that night, I contacted the Jigglypuff family.
They agreed without hesitation.
Teaching Baby-Doll Eyes wasn't just about technique—it was about expression, intent, and control. Sylveon required empathy, not power.
As I ended the meeting, something clicked in my mind.
Four locations across Mumbai.
Finalized.
Trainer Halls.
Pokémon Centers.
Not temporary tents.
Not emergency shelters.
Permanent infrastructure.
Places where humans and Pokémon would walk in together—not afraid.
I leaned back on the couch, Happiny asleep against my side, Pikachu curled at my feet, Murkrow perched quietly near the window.
For the first time since the Merge…
The world wasn't on fire.
And that, more than any victory, felt like success.
The next morning, I did something I hadn't done in a long time.
I went to check on my shop.
No briefings.
No escorts.
No crisis waiting on the other side of the door.
Just business.
The storefront was already open when I arrived. The familiar scent of fresh milk, herbs, and processed berries drifted out onto the street. A short line had formed—nothing chaotic, just people waiting patiently.
Inside, the shelves were modestly stocked.
Milk.
Basic potions.
Pokémon food—clearly labeled "Limited Quantity" in bold red letters.
That limitation wasn't artificial.
It was deliberate.
We were still scaling production, and I refused to let demand outpace stability. Hoarding would cause panic faster than any rumor ever could.
Workshop behind the shop, my mother was speaking with few women from the neighborhood—housewives, all of them—carefully measuring ingredients at a long stainless-steel table.
Tangela vines lay drying on racks nearby.
I watched quietly for a moment.
After the Tangela relocation, I'd given Mom the refined recipe for vine-based Pokémon food. She hadn't treated it like some revolutionary discovery.
She treated it like a recipe.
Adjusted portions.
Tested consistency.
Checked digestibility.
And then she'd done what she always did—she involved others.
Women she trusted.
Women who needed income.
Women who worked carefully and took pride in doing things properly.
Production had already begun in small batches.
Not factory-scale.
Community-scale.
Good.
"This will hold," I murmured to myself.
As long as supply grew with trust, the system would remain stable.
Later that afternoon, I finally allowed myself to think about something I'd been postponing.
My team.
Specifically—
A weakness.
Water-type coverage.
I didn't have it.
That wasn't ideal.
Rhyhorn and Pidgeot handled terrain and air.
Pikachu covered speed and precision.
Thwackey handled control and adaptability.
Mankey provided raw pressure.
But water?
Nothing.
When I'd obtained the Totodile egg, I'd considered it seriously. For a brief moment, I'd even imagined raising it myself.
But I'd decided against it.
At the time, my focus had been too scattered. A Water-type deserved attention, patience, and a clear role—not to be slotted in as an afterthought.
Now, though…
I found myself considering it again.
Froakie.
Squirtle.
Both had advantages.
Froakie meant speed, adaptability, future synergy with stealth operations.
Squirtle meant durability, leadership potential, and battlefield control.
I didn't rush the decision.
Instead, I spent the next week resting.
Truly resting.
Training lightly.
Bonding deeply.
No operations.
No travel.
Happiny grew more confident, practicing healing with Chansey and Oddish groups.
Pikachu relaxed, becoming playful again.
Thwackey learned restraint.
Pidgeot enjoyed flying without purpose—just wind and sky. training pidgeys and pidgeottos at Aarey in free time.
That rest mattered more than any capture.
The rankings came in a week later.
Aarey Camp — Final Results.
I wasn't surprised.
Apoorv: First Place
Rakesh Malhotra: Second Place
Neha: Third
Arpit: Fourth
I smiled faintly.
Apoorv had earned it. Discipline, adaptability, emotional control—he'd grown into the role naturally.
Neha and Arpit had proven consistency mattered more than flash.
As for Rakesh…
The kid had clawed his way upward with nothing but effort and care. Circumstances hadn't broken him—they'd sharpened him.
For Apoorv, Arpit, and Neha, I didn't make a show of rewards.
No ceremonies.
No speeches.
Just practicality.
Pokéblocks.
A full year of Pokémon food subsidy.
Enough support to let them focus on growth without stress.
For Rakesh, though—
I called him personally.
"You've worked harder than most," I told him. "And you've done it without advantage."
There was silence on the other end.
Then a quiet, careful, "Yes, sir."
"When the Academy opens," I continued, "I want you under my direct mentorship."
Personal discipleship.
The line went dead silent.
Then—
"I won't waste it," he said, voice shaking slightly.
"I know," I replied.
He accepted immediately.
With that settled, my focus shifted forward.
The Academy.
Everything now funneled into that.
If all went according to plan, by the new year, India would begin opening controlled international cooperation channels.
And cooperation always followed the same unspoken rule:
First, you prove value.
Then, you prove strength.
India's value was already obvious.
Stability.
Structure.
Integration.
But strength?
Strength needed to be shown.
Publicly.
Cleanly.
Decisively.
Not through war.
Through competition.
A controlled, international-standard event.
The first step toward a Pokémon League.
Not for spectacle.
Not for ego.
But as a declaration.
India was not following this revolution.
India was leading it.
I leaned back, eyes on the ceiling, plans already aligning in my mind.
The calm phase was ending.
But this time—
We were ready for what came next.
__________________________
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