The cabin had become more of a staging ground than a home over the last week.
Orion had repacked his travel bag three times, adjusted his maps twice, and rechecked his pokéball latches daily. It wasn't that he didn't trust his own preparation—it was that everything felt like it could shift at any second. Tyrunt, for his part, was treating the entire situation like a countdown to something exciting. He was chewing more aggressively, pacing more often, and watching Orion with a kind of alert patience, as if waiting for the moment the door would open and the real journey would begin.
Orion could feel it, too. The change in the air. Something pulling at him, like a trailhead just over the horizon, still hidden behind trees, but undeniably the.re.
That morning, after their run and a few strength drills, Orion sat down in the cabin with Reid at the table. A map lay between them. Tyrunt napped by the hearth, his tail flicking every so often as if dreaming of the hunt.
Reid poured himself water from the tin pitcher and sat down heavily.
"You're getting close," he said. "Closer than most at your age."
Orion looked up from his notes. "Most kids don't leave at twelve?"
"Some do. Usually the ones with backing. Or connections." He tapped the edge of the map. "You're good. Sharp. But you'll still be out there alone. And you're going to be competing with kids who've had trainers in the family for three generations. Or who bought their teams outright."
Orion frowned. "Bought them?"
Reid gave him a long look, then leaned back in his chair.
"Guess it's time we talked about pedigree."
It wasn't a topic covered in any of the League study packets. Not formally, at least. The exam questions didn't ask about bloodlines or breeding quality or inherited drive. But Reid knew the world better than the League booklets, and once he started talking, Orion just sat and listened.
"Not all Pokémon are equal," Reid said simply. "That's the part most kids don't hear."
"You mean, like… base stats?"
"No. I mean blood."
He gestured vaguely toward the window. "You catch a wild Growlithe in the woods, and it's got a shot at being a good partner. It might even evolve strong if you work with it long enough. But if you buy a Growlithe that's the fifth generation down from an Elite trainer's Arcanine, you're getting something different. Not just in stats. In temperament. Intelligence. Adaptability. These things pass down."
Orion narrowed his eyes. "You mean like instincts?"
"That's the polite way of putting it. The League calls it inherited potential. Breeders call it pedigree. And the higher the pedigree, the stronger the base your partner starts with. Doesn't matter if it's a Pidgey or a Dratini—if it came from proven stock, it's going to rise faster. Hit harder. Evolve cleaner. Obey earlier."
Orion leaned forward slightly. "And people can… buy that?"
Reid nodded once. "If you've got the money. And the contacts. It's not illegal. Just expensive. You don't walk into a breeder's barn and ask for a champion-line Machop unless you've got six figures to throw around. Some of those kids you'll be facing on the circuit? Their families have teams bred for them before they even apply for licenses."
Orion didn't say anything for a long moment.
He glanced over at Tyrunt, still dozing by the fire, then back at Reid.
"So what does that make him?"
Reid smiled faintly. "A fossil. A dragon. A miracle. A problem."
Orion raised an eyebrow.
"He's strong. Stronger than most things you'll run into for the next year. But he's not bred for obedience. Not bred for the League. He doesn't have protocols burned into his instincts. And he sure as hell doesn't have a trainer bloodline behind him telling him how to act."
"I noticed."
"That makes him unpredictable. Maybe unreliable. But it also makes him yours in a way those kids with pedigreed partners won't understand."
Orion folded his arms and leaned back. "So I'm at a disadvantage, then."
Reid shrugged. "In some ways. But you've also got something they don't. You earned your partner. You tamed him. Not bought, not gifted. That matters. It's not measurable, but it shows."
Orion stared at the map between them, where he'd drawn faint lines connecting each gym on the circuit.
"How many of those kids get to fight with Pokémon that would've happily eaten them before the first command?"
"Not many," Reid said with a dry grin. "But I doubt you'll get points for style."
The rest of the day passed in quiet preparation. Orion adjusted the tightness of his straps, oiled the blades of his utility knife, and checked the seals on his trail rations. He took Tyrunt out into the woods for another short run—no commands, just movement. They practiced dodging, responding to gestures, and spotting targets through brush.
It wasn't perfect.
But Tyrunt listened more than he used to.
He no longer barked when corrected.
He growled when he didn't understand, but he tried again instead of ignoring the instruction.
Progress came in steps.
And it was starting to show.
That night, as Orion sat on the porch cleaning mud from his boots, he thought again about the pedigree thing.
The way it shaped expectations.
The way it put some kids on a path with fewer obstacles and more praise, simply because their family could afford a six-figure egg from a licensed breeder.
Tyrunt didn't have a breeder tag. No lineage chart. No IV score. No behavioral implants.
He was ancient, messy, wild, and only half-tamed.
But he was his.
Orion didn't need a pedigree when his Pokémon had fangs carved by extinction.