Two years.
It had been two years since Orion had woken up in the snow with no name, no memory, and no clue what kind of world he'd been dropped into.
Now he was twelve years old. Leaner. Sharper. Less likely to die from tripping over a branch.
The snow didn't sting as much anymore. The cold didn't crawl under his skin like it used to. Hunger was no longer a constant companion — just a reminder to check the traps again.
He didn't flinch at the sound of wings anymore. Or growls in the dark. He knew which ones mattered and which ones were just noise.
Reid still didn't talk much.
But he didn't have to anymore.
Orion had learned things.
Not in a classroom. Not from textbooks or lectures or downloadable PDFs. But from firelight, pain, repetition, and necessity.
And over two years, he'd begun to put together something bigger than just how to survive.
He'd begun to understand the rules of the world.
Rule One: Everything is Trying to Kill You
That had been lesson one.
Taught not with words, but with cold mornings and sharp teeth. Orion had watched a Sentret chew off its own leg to escape a trap. He'd seen a Zangoose tear open a Mankey's throat for getting too close to a den.
He learned to spot signs of aggression in wild Pokémon — tension in the shoulders, ears twitching, tails rigid, breathing too steady.
Sometimes a hiss meant "leave."
Sometimes it meant "run."
He learned the difference. Or else.
Rule Two: Strength Is a Language
Not all Pokémon were equal.
That wasn't something Reid had said, exactly. But it was something he taught in the way he reacted to different encounters.
A Bidoof, caught in a trap? No big deal. Dispatch it, harvest it, move on.
A Gengar sighting off the north ridge? Stop. Plan. Avoid. Circle wide.
Some species started strong. Others grew into monsters.
Orion had seen what fast evolution looked like: Metapods dropping from trees, Kakuna clinging to bark like dead weight before bursting open.
He'd also seen what slow power became.
He remembered the Braviary from Fallcreek. Remembered how it didn't move — because it didn't have to.
Fast power was flashy. Slow power was permanent.
Rule Three: Six Is the Number That Matters
Trainers could carry six Pokémon at a time. Not seven. Not two dozen. Six.
Not because of logistics.
Because of control.
Six was the upper limit of how many creatures a single person could realistically command without risking chaos.
Some people — Rangers, military groups — might carry more under special authority. But for everyone else?
Six was the wall.
You want to be strong in this world? Learn to make six count.
Rule Four: The League Is Real. And It's Watching.
Even out in the wild, Orion learned about the League.
Reid didn't like them. Didn't talk about them much. But he respected them in the way predators respect a bigger predator.
League presence wasn't everywhere — but it didn't have to be.
People talked. Posters showed up. Rules were followed. Not because of trust… but because the League had teeth.
Gym Leaders were respected because they had to be. Rangers enforced policies because the League gave them the badge and the permission to use overwhelming force.
Orion had seen a Ranger once tell a man to leave a campfire unattended.
The man laughed.
The Ranger's Arcanine set the whole camp ablaze ten seconds later.
Rule Five: The Wild Is the Real World
Civilization? That was the exception.
Towns like Fallcreek were rare. Dangerous. Necessary.
But everything between them? That was what mattered.
Orion knew how to filter river water through gravel and charcoal. How to stitch wounds with fishing line. How to hide his scent when something stronger was on the prowl.
He knew which Pokémon could be intimidated.
Which ones to avoid entirely.
He wasn't a trainer.
Not yet.
But he was something else:
A survivor with ambition.
Knowledge Came in Pieces
He hadn't just learned by doing.
Sometimes, on rare trips into town, Reid let him trade for books — tattered field guides, old League handbooks, a half-burned encyclopedia entry on type advantages.
Orion read them slowly by firelight, tracing the faded ink with his fingers, whispering move names to himself.
Earthquake. Dragon Claw. Will-O-Wisp. Recover.
He didn't know them all.
But he learned what they meant.
What they could mean in the hands of someone who understood how to use them.
He didn't say it out loud — not even to Reid.
But Orion had a goal now.
A real one.
He wanted strength.
Not just enough to survive.
Enough to matter.
He started watching Reid's Houndoom more closely.
Not just when it hunted, but how it moved. How it reacted to Reid's voice, his stance, even his silence.
It obeyed without question.
But it wasn't submissive. It was partnered.
Orion watched how Reid never yelled. Never needed to.
Commands were given through eye contact, gesture, tone.
And Houndoom always understood.
Orion didn't want a pet.
He wanted that.
He began tracking wild Pokémon on his own — not to fight, but to watch.
He made notes in a weather-worn notebook he kept in the inside pocket of his coat:
Geodude seen near the cliff trail. Two of them. Aggressive, but slow. Might be catchable with food distraction.
Phantump in the old orchard. Only at dusk. Doesn't approach humans. No visible attack patterns.
Zubat colony near the northern ridge cave. Feral. Useless.
He made a list.
Not a shopping list. A dream list.
Pokémon he thought might survive with him. Ones that could grow strong.
Geodude was on it. It evolved twice. Could learn Earthquake. Hardy. Reliable.
So was Growlithe. Rare. But if it ever evolved…
A part of him dared to write Gible down once. Then crossed it out.
Too rare. Too mythical.
Not realistic.
Stick to what you can find. Not what you fantasize about.
Reid hadn't said anything yet.
But Orion could tell something was changing.
The way Reid looked at him. The way he didn't correct him anymore.
The way he watched when Orion tracked something solo and brought back the data like it was nothing.
Trust was never spoken.
But it built up like pressure.
Orion could feel it rising.
Two years ago, he couldn't keep his hands from shaking when he held a knife.
Now?
He could gut a fish in the dark. Identify claw marks from five species. Navigate without a map.
He was ready.
Or at least… ready enough to try.
There was one more rule Orion had learned.
The unspoken one.
Rule Six: Nobody Gives You Power. You Take It.
The world didn't care if you were good.
It didn't care if you were smart.
It only cared if you were strong enough to stay.
So that's what he was going to bec