The second time Orion stepped through the gates of Fallcreek, no one stared.
Not openly, anyway.
He was taller now. Sharper. There was weight in the way he moved. And Tyrunt, who followed at his side with his usual stomp-stomp-snap gait, didn't growl unless someone got too close.
They had learned how to move through the world without making noise—but not without being noticed.
Which was fine.
Orion wasn't here to stay hidden.
Not today.
The license office was a squat, reinforced structure near the center of town, wedged between the Pokécenter and a half-boarded tax assessor's lodge. The sign above the door read REGISTRY & TESTING – TRAINER CERTIFICATION. Underneath, someone had scrawled "GOOD LUCK" in charcoal.
Inside, it smelled like sweat, paper, and dried Pokéball lubricant.
There was a line.
Of course.
Orion waited quietly behind a young woman with a Riolu that couldn't stop vibrating. A few places ahead, someone's Charmeleon was getting scolded for trying to burn a clipboard.
Tyrunt waited by the door.
Eyes watchful. Still. No growling.
Progress.
When his turn came, the clerk barely looked up.
"Name?"
"Orion."
"Age?"
"Twelve."
The clerk tapped a few keys on a battered keyboard. "Guardian on file?"
"No."
A pause. Then: "Type of registration?"
"Trainer. Full license."
Now the clerk looked up.
"Got a partner?"
Orion stepped aside slightly, gesturing to the door.
Tyrunt stepped forward, claws scraping tile.
The clerk froze.
"That's a…"
"Dragon-type," Orion said calmly.
"Is it… trained?"
"Enough."
Another pause. The man's eyes narrowed slightly, then he reached under the desk and handed Orion a clipboard.
"Fill this out. Wait over there. Someone'll call your name for the test."
The test wasn't written.
That part came later.
The first test was control.
Proof that you could direct your Pokémon in a real-world context—not just play fetch with a Growlithe or feed berries to a Pidgey.
No commands?
No license.
And if your Pokémon injured a staff member during evaluation?
Permanent ban.
The testing field was behind the center, a fenced-in pit with practice dummies, sandbags, and scuffed walls covered in old claw marks.
Orion stepped into the ring.
A woman in grey armor stood at the far end, arms crossed, Pokéball on her belt.
"Name?"
"Orion."
"Partner?"
"Tyrunt."
She raised an eyebrow but didn't comment.
"Commands allowed. Verbal and physical. One task: Demonstrate control. Start when ready."
Tyrunt stood beside him, waiting.
Orion took a breath.
Then pointed to the center of the ring. "Go."
Tyrunt walked.
No hesitation.
"Bite that," Orion said, pointing to a hanging sandbag.
Tyrunt looked at it.
Then him.
Then lunged.
The bite tore through the bag like it was filled with feathers. Sand spilled in a slow waterfall. The snap echoed off the walls.
"Back," Orion said.
Tyrunt returned to his side.
The examiner scribbled something on her slate.
Then nodded.
"That's enough."
He passed.
Not with fanfare.
Not with praise.
Just a stamped form and a schedule for the written exam next month.
But that stamp meant something.
It meant he was no longer a kid with a wild Pokémon.
He was a trainer.
Back inside the center, the clerk handed him a thin packet with the League seal.
The cover read: TRAINER LICENSE: PHASE ONE COMPLETE
Inside were instructions. A copy of the local circuit. Gym locations. Deadlines.
And a note in bold:
Free healing is only available after official gym matches.
Housing is provided at accredited Pokécenters while participating in the circuit.
Trainers who miss scheduled matches may lose housing eligibility.
He turned to the back page.
Season begins: End of Summer
Deadline for registration completion: One week before circuit opens.
Outside, Tyrunt paced near a dry fountain.
Orion sat on the edge and flipped the packet over again.
"You know what this means, right?"
Tyrunt grunted.
"It means we can't stay out in the woods forever."
The dragon didn't seem concerned.
Orion exhaled and leaned back.
"I don't even know if I want to be part of the League."
Another grunt.
"But if we're going to be hunted anyway, we might as well be strong enough to push back."
He bought supplies before leaving town.
Maps.
A proper travel kit.
A trainer's journal—thicker, more durable, with waterproof pages.
He didn't buy a badge case.
Not yet.
But he looked at one for a long time.
The trip home was quiet.
No followers this time.
No sense of being watched.
But he couldn't shake the feeling that the world had shifted beneath his feet again.
Like he'd stepped onto a path that couldn't be undone.
Tyrunt walked beside him the whole way.
Didn't even bite anything.
Reid was on the porch when they arrived.
He didn't ask for the stamp.
Orion showed it anyway.
Reid took the form, glanced at it, then passed it back.
"Ready to go?"
"Not yet."
"But you will."
"Yeah."
They didn't talk about it that night.
They just sharpened blades, fed the fire, and listened to the forest settle.
But Orion could feel it now.
That pull.
That road.
Waiting.