The sun barely crested the treetops when Orion stepped into the clearing, staff in hand, Tyrunt at his side.
The dragon kept its distance—close enough to follow, far enough to avoid direction. It wasn't obedience. Not yet. But it was something.
Maybe respect.
Maybe curiosity.
Or maybe Tyrunt just wanted breakfast.
Orion could work with any of those.
He crouched near a patch of frost-laced moss and tugged it free, letting the roots snap in his palm. Tyrunt sniffed at it, then recoiled and grumbled like it had been insulted.
"Yeah, I didn't think so," Orion muttered. "Fine taste for something that eats rocks."
He stood, turned toward the cabin.
Reid was already waiting.
Inside, the fire crackled low. Steam drifted from a dented tin kettle over the coals. The scent of boiled pine and old jerky filled the room.
Reid was sharpening his smaller knives—the ones he used for skinning and gutting. His expression didn't change as Orion stepped in.
Tyrunt hesitated at the threshold.
Still unsure about the man with no scent of fear.
Still watching.
Reid didn't look up. "He still doesn't trust me."
"He doesn't trust anyone."
"You're not anyone."
Orion took a breath, kept his tone neutral. "I want to take him to Fallcreek."
That made Reid pause.
Then set the knife down.
"Why?"
"He needs a checkup. A real one. I've read everything we have, and half of it's torn, outdated, or full of fantasy garbage. I don't know what his body's been through. What's stable. What isn't. He's moving better, eating more, but he doesn't sleep through the night. He twitches like he's stuck between instincts and panic."
Reid listened. Let the words hang.
Then: "Fallcreek's not cheap."
"I've got money."
Reid raised an eyebrow.
"From the pelts. The meat trades. I've saved for two years. Never spent it on anything unless I had to."
Reid didn't argue.
But he didn't agree.
Not yet.
Orion waited.
Tyrunt growled softly from the doorway, like it could sense tension but didn't know who to lunge at.
Reid looked up.
"You know they'll ask questions."
"I won't answer."
"They'll want to scan him. Maybe keep him."
"Then I say no."
"They won't accept no from a kid with a stick and a stubborn look."
Orion exhaled. "Then I lie. Say he's a rare variant. Say he was gifted. Say I don't know where he came from."
"They'll still test him."
"And I'll be there when they do."
Reid studied him again.
Longer this time.
Then, finally, he nodded.
"You get one night. One center. You stay near the door, you watch everything they do, and if they so much as raise their voices, you leave."
Orion nodded back.
"I will."
The next two days were prep.
Orion packed light but strategic: tradeable goods, backup tools, the best knife Reid had ever let him use, and enough food for both him and Tyrunt. The Pokéball stayed on his belt, but he didn't plan to use it unless he had to.
Tyrunt hated confinement.
He still didn't understand the ball—only that it made the world vanish.
Reid handed him a pouch of sealed credits and a fold of hand-written notes.
"They'll ask for background."
"I'll say I don't know my family."
"You're not lying."
"Convenient, huh?"
Reid gave him a long, unreadable look.
Then handed him a flask.
"Don't drink it unless you need to stay awake."
Orion tucked it into the side of his pack without a word.
They left at dawn.
Tyrunt didn't walk beside him. Not exactly.
He scouted ahead, stopping every so often to dig, sniff, headbutt rocks that looked at him funny. Orion didn't stop him. He let him burn off energy. Let him own the path.
Fallcreek was two days away.
Enough time to think.
That night, they camped just outside the ridge path. Orion didn't light a fire. Tyrunt curled up against a slab of warm stone, not quite touching him, but close enough to feel safe.
Orion stared at the stars.
Still unfamiliar.
Still sharp.
He wondered what Tyrunt saw when he looked up. If the sky in his time had been the same.
Maybe it had been clearer.
Maybe he didn't even know what stars were.
They reached Fallcreek by noon the next day.
The town hadn't changed.
Same worn paths. Same sloping rooflines and mismatched signage. Same smoke trails and guarded eyes. But this time, Orion wasn't watching from the shadows.
He walked through the gates with Tyrunt at his side.
People stopped and stared.
Some flinched.
Some whispered.
One merchant dropped a bundle of firewood.
Orion kept walking.
He didn't meet their eyes. He didn't say a word.
Let them look.
Let them wonder.
Reid had taught him that silence was sometimes louder than shouting.
The Pokécenter was built into the side of the northern hill—a converted watchtower with iron supports and a reinforced door. No neon. No glass. Just wood, stone, and steel.
Orion stepped inside.
The scent hit first: antiseptic, oil, fur, and dried blood. Not unpleasant—just honest.
The woman behind the counter looked up from a clipboard. Mid-thirties. Tired eyes. Callused hands.
She saw the kid.
Then saw the dragon.
And stiffened.
"Name?"
"Orion."
"Guardian?"
"No one alive."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Species?"
"Rock and Dragon-type. Name's Tyrunt."
That made her pause longer than expected.
"Tyrunt?"
"Yeah."
"Never heard of it."
"Not common."
"You have documentation?"
"No."
She stared.
He stared back.
Finally, she gestured toward the side hallway.
"Exam Room Two. Keep him leashed."
"I don't have a leash."
She didn't argue. Just scribbled something and pressed a buzzer.
A door clicked open.
He walked through.
Tyrunt followed.
The room was cold. Clean. Metal table. Restraint brackets. Sink. One large ceiling lamp.
Orion didn't sit.
He stood in the corner while the assistant came in.
Younger than the woman outside. Probably twenty. Nervous energy. Kept glancing at Tyrunt like it might explode.
"Vitals?"
"Strong."
"Diet?"
"Meat. Smoked and fresh. Some root. Refuses grain."
"Behavior?"
"Wary. Defensive. Proud."
"…Proud?"
"You'll see."
They ran scans.
Nothing invasive. Pulse check. Light pressure on the ribs. Muscle stimulation test.
Tyrunt growled once, but Orion raised a hand and the dragon froze.
That moment changed the whole tone.
The assistant's eyes widened. He didn't say anything else for a while.
Finally, he handed Orion a printed readout.
"Vitals are stable. Growth rate is abnormally high. Bone density... off the charts. More like a mid-stage evolution than a base."
"Muscle mass?"
"Hyperreactive. He's... not built like anything I've seen before."
Orion didn't react.
Just folded the paper.
"Thanks."
They left by evening.
No overnight stay.
No questions asked.
But the stares hadn't stopped.
As they crossed back into the market square, Orion noticed a man near the bulletin board watching them. Clean boots. Short beard. One Pokéball on his belt.
He wasn't smiling.
Orion made sure his hand stayed near his staff.
Tyrunt didn't look.
But his tail twitched.
They camped outside town that night.
Orion didn't speak much.
He read the report again.
Tyrunt was stronger than he had any right to be.
He wasn't a revival clone.
He was something older.
Something purer.
And now, Orion understood just how much weight that carried.
This wasn't just about raising a powerful Pokémon.
It was about protecting him from a world that would never stop asking:
Where did you get that?
And more dangerously:
Do you deserve it?