In the grey, hopeless world of the Celadon City Municipal Orphanage, Jim felt parts of himself slowly erode away, Nothing could tell that better than, His eyes, which were once warm and curious, had now become flinty chips of brown, constantly scanning, analyzing, judging. The other children, themselves adrift in various states of sorrow and abandonment, learned to give him a wide berth.
The orphanage was a breeding ground for petty cruelties, a closed ecosystem where fist and and muscle reigned .Jim, was initially a target, after all unlike these schmucks his parents have cared for him and not dumped him as an inconvenience , but he quickly proved himself to be a poor choice of prey.
The first incident, as far as he could remember, was over a piece of bread. Rations were meager, and a second slice was akin to a treasure. A lanky, and frankly ugly boy in his opinion named Marco, two years Jim's senior and the dorm's self-appointed bully, snatched it from Jim's tray as he was walking to his seat. It was a casual act , one he'd performed a hundred times before.
Jim didn't say a word. He set his tray down, walked over to Marco, and punched him squarely in the nose. There was no finesse to it, no preamble. It was a sudden, vicious crack of bone . Marco staggered back, howling in pain and shock, blood erupting from his nostrils. Before the supervising caretaker could even rise from her chair, Jim had grabbed his slice of bread from the floor, walked back to his table, and began to eat, his expression as placid, but his eye held a glint of cruelty. He ate the entire meal while Marco was led away, sobbing, to the infirmary. Jim was punished, of course, by a week of scrubbing floors with a stiff-bristled brush. It was worth it, however.
The second fight was more chilling, something he regretted. A younger boy, desperate for any connection, after the death of his parents , had taken to following Jim around, mimicking him. One afternoon, he dared to touch a small, smooth river stone Jim kept in his pocket , a memento his father had given him years ago, telling him it was for good luck. Jim's hand shot out and clamped around the boy's wrist. He squeezed, his eyes locked on the boy's, his voice low.
"If you ever touch anything of mine again," he hissed, the words venomous, "I will break every finger on your hand. Do you understand?"
The younger boy, paled in terror, could only nod, tears welling in his eyes. Jim released him and walked away, leaving the child trembling.
This anger was fuel. It propelled him through the monotonous, soul-crushing days. His life was routine or much more aptly the routine was his life. He woke before anyone else, the first to brave the cold shock of the communal showers. He endured the mandatory, underfunded hours of city schooling, his mind a million miles away from the lectures on basic arithmetic and Kanto history. The moment the final bell rang, he was slipping out of the building before anyone else. He did not go back to the orphanage. He went to the : the Celadon Public Library.
The library was his church, a hallowed place.. Here, the noise of the city, the misery of the orphanage, all of it faded away. There was only the rustle of turning pages and the glow of reading lamps.
He would claim a small, secluded corner in the back, in the section labeled "Pokémon Husbandry and Advanced Training.". The librarians, a pair of kindly old women, came to recognize the intense, silent boy and would often leave a glass of water on his desk without a word.
Every waking moment outside of mandated activities was devoted to a singular, all-consuming purpose: the Trainer Examination. The promise he had made in the dark corner, sobbing, was a binding contract, writ in blood. He would not fail his parents.
He began with the basics, devouring the standard preparatory texts. Pokémon Biology, Vol. I-IV. A Trainer's Guide to the Kanto Region. Type Matchups: An Analysis. He memorized evolution lines, dietary needs, habitat preferences. He learned the difference between a burn and poison, the nuances of sleep versus paralysis. He absorbed it all.
But soon, the basics weren't enough. It was not a simple matter of pass or fail ; it was to be great. He pushed deeper, into the esoteric and the complex. He found collegiate-level texts on Pokémon genetics, spending weeks wrapping his head around the concepts of Inherited Values (IVs) and Effort Values (EVs). He learned how a Pokémon's potential was determined at birth and how it could be meticulously cultivated through specific training regimens. He compiled notebooks filled with charts, detailing which Pokémon to battle to raise a specific stat. It was knowledge far beyond the scope of the exam, but to Jim, it was essential. Greatness lay in the margins, in the details others overlooked.
He became obsessed with breeding and Egg Moves. He spent an entire month studying the webs of Egg Groups, figuring out how a male Marowak could pass the move Iron Head to a baby Cubone, or how a Skarmory could teach a "soft" Pokémon like a Pidgey the move Whirlwind. It was a complex, beautiful puzzle, and he lost himself in it.
His fascination extended far beyond the borders of his home region. While other kids dreamed of Kanto's legendary birds, Jim's imagination was captured by the foreign shores he read about in imported journals and online forums. He was particularly drawn to Galar, a region that seemed to treat Pokémon battling as a sport, with grand stadiums and a culture of celebrity. He read about their unique "Dynamax" phenomenon, the concept of a "Galar form" for familiar Pokémon like Meowth and Ponyta, and the strange, powerful creatures that roamed its "Wild Area." He studied Unova's unique Pokémon, Kalos's Mega Evolutions, and Alola's Z-Moves. He felt that understanding the wider world of Pokémon would give him an edge, a perspective that the Kanto-centric curriculum couldn't provide.
He didn't neglect the practical. He knew a Trainer's life wasn't all glorious battles. It was also about survival. He checked out books on wilderness skills, learning to identify edible plants and berries, an echo of his former life, how to build a shelter from branches and leaves, how to find north using the sun, and first aid for both humans and Pokémon. He read memoirs of trainers who had gotten lost in Victory Road or Seafoam Islands, taking meticulous notes on their mistakes. He was preparing for a world that was hostile and unforgiving, a world where he could rely on no one but himself.
It was during one of these deep dives into the library's municipal archives that he stumbled upon the stark reality of his goal. He found the official statistics for the previous year's Trainer Examination for the Celadon City district. The numbers hit him like a physical blow.
Applicants: 18,342. Licenses Granted: 311.
A pass rate of less than 1.7 percent. It was a terrifying figure. The exam was a culling disguised as a test . And it got worse. He dug deeper, cross-referencing the list of new licensees with announcements from the Celadon Gym. Of those 311, only nineteen were granted the honor of receiving a starter Pokémon from the Gym—usually a Machop, a Mankey, or an Oddish. Reliable, but common.
Then there was the true elite, the silver spoons. A separate, small article in the Celadon Times mentioned that seven students from the city had been sponsored by the Gym itself, and had gotten their hands on rare pokemon, he even heard a few treecko were among them.
The world wasn't a meritocracy,Jim knew this fact but it was a bitter pill to swallow . Some children were simply born closer to the finish line. He watched from the library window as a wealthy-looking couple emerged from the Celadon Department Store, presenting their giggling, ten-year-old son with a Poké Ball. A moment later, a small Squirtle emerged, blinking in the sunlight. They had simply bought their son a starter. But Jim knew, from his research, that this Squirtle, likely bred at a commercial facility, would be a pale shadow of the robust, genetically superior specimens that came from Oak's lab.
The injustice of it all fed his anger, but it did not deter him. It only hardened his resolve. He couldn't afford to be just good. He had to be perfect. He couldn't rely on a famous name or his parents' money.
One rainy afternoon, while researching legal statutes concerning minors, he made a discovery. According to Kanto regional law, an individual granted a Pokémon Trainer License was considered a legal adult, with all the rights and responsibilities thereof. This included the right to inherit and manage property.
The words swam before his eyes. His parents' estate. The shop. The small apartment above it. The modest savings they had built over a lifetime of hard work. It was all being held in a trust by the city, inaccessible, frozen. But if he passed, it would be his. The thought struck him. It wasn't just about honoring their memory anymore. It was about reclaiming his life. Passing the exam meant he could go home.
This revelation ignited a new fire in him, and it was stoked even higher by the thought of his brother. John. He was only eight, but quite unruly. His parents had, with heavy hearts, enrolled him in a boarding school near Pewter City the previous year. It was a strict, disciplined place, meant to temper his wilder impulses. Jim hadn't seen him since before… the incident. He received short, terse letters from him once a month. John didn't know the full truth. He had been told their parents had died in a terrible accident. He won't know.
And he never will, Jim vowed fiercely, his fists clenched. If he passed, if he got the estate, he could become John's legal guardian. He could bring him home. Not to the orphanage, but to their home. John would never have to know this grey, pitiful existence. He would be safe.
The burden on his shoulders doubled, but his back did not bow. It straightened.
The morning of the first exam arrived on a crisp, clear autumn day. The sky was a brilliant, cloudless blue. It felt close to mockery. He showered, dressed, and was gone before the first rays of sun touched the grimy windows of the orphanage. He walked the five miles to the Celadon Conference Center, ignoring the monorails hissing overhead. The walk calmed him, bitterly he realized his weekly walks with his mum.
The exam center was a colossal structure, buzzing with the nervous energy of thousands of twelve-year-olds. They stood in chattering, anxious groups with their parents, who were fussing over their hair, giving last-minute words of encouragement, and plying them with juice boxes and snacks. Jim walked through the crowd alone. He felt a familiar pang of bitterness, which he ruthlessly suppressed.
The exams were spread over four days, two papers a day, each worth 125 marks for a total of 1000. He found his assigned seat in the cavernous main hall, a single desk in a sea of thousands.
Day 1, Morning Session: Pokémon Biology. The paper was thick, the questions dense. Multiple choice on the functions of a Pikachu's electric sacs, the digestive system of a Snorlax, the photosynthetic process in a Bulbasaur's bulb. Then came the short answer questions. "Compare and contrast the skeletal structures of aerial and terrestrial avian Pokémon."Jim's hand flew across the page, his mind a steel trap of information. He filled pages with diagrams and precise terminology. The final essay question was on evolutionary stones. "Discuss the cellular-level metamorphic process induced by elemental stones (Fire, Water, Thunder, etc.) on specific Eevee-lution candidates." He wrote, and wrote , his deep reading on cellular biology paying off. He left the hall feeling drained but confident.
Day 1, Afternoon Session: General Awareness. This was a test of general knowledge. Who was the current Indigo League Champion? (Lance). Which corporation developed the modern Poké Ball? (Silph Co.). Name three of the Elite Four of the Hoenn region. (Sidney, Phoebe, Glacia, Drake). He breezed through the Kanto-centric questions. Then came the curveballs. "What historical event led to the creation of the ultimate weapon in the Kalos region?" His late-night reading on foreign history served him well. He wrote about the ancient Kalos war and the king who built the weapon. He felt a smile touch his lips. The other kids were probably guessing.
Day 2, Morning Session: Survival Skills. The paper was a mix of diagrams, scenarios, and practical knowledge. "Identify the five edible berries in this collage of ten. For the five poisonous ones, describe their effects." It was so easy it was almost insulting. He could have answered this question when he was six, admittedly he was an exception due to his background . Other questions were harder. "Your Charmeleon is suffering from severe hypothermia after falling into a frozen lake. You have no items. Detail your immediate actions to ensure its survival." He wrote about using his own body heat, about friction, about finding shelter from the wind. He drew from the harrowing memoirs he had read.
Day 2, Afternoon Session: Geography. Maps of Kanto and Johto were provided. "Trace the most efficient path from New Bark Town to the Indigo Plateau" He drew the lines with a steady hand. He answered questions on the native Pokémon of specific regions , the climate of Blackthorn City, the primary exports of Olivine's port. His knowledge of the wider world was tested again. "The Pokémon Falinks is native to which regin in the Galar region?. He knew the answer.
Day 3, Morning Session: Pokémon Identification & Movesets. This was the great filter, a purely subjective paper designed to separate the dedicated from the casual. A list of twenty Pokémon was provided. For each, they had to list its typing, common abilities, and a comprehensive list of notable moves learned through le, TMs, and at least two common Egg Moves. The list was brutal. It included common Pokémon like Pidgeot and Vileplume, but also rarer ones like Scyther, Chansey, and Lapras. The final entry was Dragonite. For Dragonite, he listed its dual typing, its Inner Focus and Multiscale abilities. He listed dozens of moves, from level-up attacks like Wing Attack and Outrage to TM moves like Ice Beam and Thunderbolt. For the Egg Moves, he wrote down Extreme Speed and Dragon Dance, the cornerstones of a competitive Dragonite build.
Day 3, Afternoon Session: Ethics. Another subjective paper. A series of moral and ethical dilemmas. "You are in a battle and your opponent's Pokémon is clearly exhausted and in pain, but your opponent orders it to continue fighting. What are your responsibilities as a trainer?" He wrote about yielding the match, about the long-term health of the Pokémon being paramount to a single victory(For a second , he nearly wrote that he would continue the fight and milk the idiot for all his money, but he refrained ). The final question was a long essay. "Discuss the moral arguments for and against the capture of wild Pokémon. Does a trainer have a right to claim ownership over a living creature?" He wrote a nuanced, balanced essay, arguing that the relationship was symbiotic, a partnership, not ownership. He argued that a trainer had a duty to provide a better, safer, more fulfilling life for their Pokémon than it would have in the wild.
Day 4, Morning Session: Law. This was widely considered the easiest paper, a straightforward memorization of rules and regulations. He defined the legal classifications of legendary Pokémon, the penalties for poaching, and so on. He finished the paper but felt some of his answers were not up to the par.
Day 4, Afternoon Session: Practical Application/Strategy. The final hurdle. A paper filled with battle simulations. "You are using a Jolteon. Your opponent sends out a Rhydon. What is your most logical course of action? Justify your choice."He wrote about the immediate switch, the danger of Rhydon's Ground-type attacks, and the futility of his Electric moves. He suggested switching to a Grass or Water type. The questions grew more complex, involving status effects, entry hazards, and weather conditions. The final question was a full, six-on-six battle simulation against a mock Elite Four team, requiring him to plan his moves five steps ahead.
He walked out of the final exam into the late afternoon sun. The thousands of other children were jubilant, their ordeal over. They were laughing, hugging their parents. Jim just felt empty. He had done it. He had poured every ounce of his being, every waking moment of the last year, into those eight papers. Now, there was nothing to do but wait.
The week of waiting was its own special kind of torture. The results would be posted publicly on a large board outside the Conference Center. The morning they were due, Jim was there hours early, watching the sun rise over the city. A massive crowd had gathered, a sea of anxious children and their parents. When the officials finally emerged to post the long, printed sheets, the crowd surged forward.
Jim was wiry and quick. He slipped through the gaps, ignoring the jostling elbows and shoulders, his eyes fixed on the lists. His heart hammered against his ribs. He scanned the 'PASS' list, his finger tracing down the alphabetized names. I… J… There.
Jim Arden. Applicant ID: 7749. Score: 83.2%.
He stared at the number. 83.2. He had done it. He was over the 80% threshold. A wave of something not joy, not happiness, but a profound, bone-deep relief washed over him, so potent it almost made his knees buckle. He had passed. He had kept his promise. He scanned the scores around his name. 81.5%, 80.8%, 82.1%, 80.2%. His score was good, solid. But it wasn't spectacular. It wouldn't get him a sponsorship or a headline.
Suddenly, a commotion erupted from the other end of the board. A ripple of gasps and excited shouts turned into a roar. Media drones, which had been hovering overhead, suddenly swarmed towards one spot. Reporters with cameras and microphones pushed through the crowd. Jim, curious, edged his way closer.
He saw the name everyone was pointing at, circled in red by an official.
Gary Oak. Applicant ID: 86321. Score: 100%.
A perfect score. It was historic, unprecedented.
The news was instantaneous. The large digital billboards atop the Celadon Department Store, which usually displayed advertisements, now flashed the headline: " GENIUS GARY OAK ACHIEVES PERFECT SCORE IN TRAINER EXAM!" A sub-headline added: "CELADON CITY SETS NEW RECORD WITH 1200 LICENSES GRANTED."
Twelve hundred. He was one of four hundred. In a city of half a million, it was an achievement. But standing there, watching the city celebrate the effortless, pedigreed genius of Gary Oak, Jim's own victory felt small and silent. He clutched the provisional license slip an official handed him. The flimsy piece of paper was the heaviest thing he had ever held. It was the key to his home, the shield for his brother, the fulfillment of his vow.
He turned and walked away from the cheering crowds, away from the flashing lights. He wasn't a hero. He wasn't a genius. He was just a boy who had traded his childhood for a chance to reclaim his past. And as he walked back towards the grey, miserable building he still had to call home for.