The morning Orion left the cabin, the sky was washed with soft gray. Not stormy, not bright—just still. The kind of quiet sky that made you want to breathe slower, to take your time folding your pack, to pause before tightening the final strap.
Tyrunt had woken early. He didn't pace or demand attention. He simply watched Orion pack from his usual spot by the fire pit, golden eyes alert and unreadable.
Everything Orion needed was stacked carefully near the door: trail rations, spare laces, water filters, a sharpened blade, a tightly rolled map sealed in oilcloth, and two pokéballs—one empty, the other clipped to his hip where Tyrunt's name might as well have been engraved.
This wasn't a trial run.
This wasn't a day trip.
He was going.
And if the tension in his chest meant anything, there wouldn't be a way back for a while.
He didn't expect Reid to be at the porch when he stepped out.
The old man had said his piece the night before. Just a nod, a hand on Orion's shoulder, and the same advice he always gave when Orion hesitated: "Don't wait for it to feel right. Nothing big ever does."
So Orion walked without another goodbye.
Tyrunt fell into step beside him, silent as ever. The forest didn't notice them leaving. No wind picked up, no animal called out. It was just two figures on a dirt trail, one taller than the other, both wrapped in the heavy air of movement.
They took the old northern ridge trail. It was rough but dependable, and Orion had walked it enough to know where the mud pulled and where the roots tried to trip you.
He hadn't mapped a specific route yet, but he knew his first long-term destination.
Oreburgh City.
It made the most sense. The League circuit in Sinnoh was well structured, and Oreburgh's gym was the logical first step for most trainers. But Orion didn't choose it just for that.
He'd considered going somewhere smaller. A town gym. A minor circuit badge. Something less visible.
But there was one problem he couldn't shake, no matter how well he planned.
Tyrunt.
Or more specifically, Tyrunt's power.
If they were going to fight in a gym, even a sanctioned, League-regulated match… Orion wasn't convinced Tyrunt could hold back. Not in the way most Pokémon were trained to.
He'd seen what Tyrunt's bite could do.
To trees. To stone. To armored opponents.
And while the dragon had grown better at listening, at watching, at waiting—there was still something raw beneath the surface. Something feral that flared when instincts took over. A switch that hadn't quite settled under his control.
Orion didn't want his first match to end with a dead opponent.
So he picked a city that would understand strength.
Oreburgh was the place for that.
The city was built into stone. Forged around the coal mines that still ran through the region like veins. The gym was run by Roark—young, experienced, sharp. A man who trained with heavyweights, who expected power and didn't flinch when he got it.
Most gym leaders were that way. Not just strong. The strongest in their city, usually. A fact not talked about much, but quietly accepted. The League funneled resources to them—equipment, staff, tech, even breeding access. They were the gatekeepers.
And each one carried multiple teams, tailored to a challenger's badge count.
Orion didn't want to face a rookie team built for a baby trainer. But he also didn't want Tyrunt biting through someone's starter like it was practice bark.
Roark, at least, would be able to handle a mistake if one happened.
Hopefully.
According to the map, if they kept steady pace, it would take about a week and a half to reach Oreburgh. Maybe two if the path ahead turned difficult or if Tyrunt's training days slowed them down.
That was the other thing.
Orion didn't just want to travel.
He wanted to train while they moved.
The first day's hike was simple. The weather held, the trail stayed dry, and no other travelers crossed their path. Tyrunt stayed close, responding to direction without complaint. Orion didn't speak much, but he kept an eye on posture, gait, reaction to terrain.
He was already building a plan.
That night, when they made camp near a quiet stream under a curve of white-barked trees, Orion sat beside the fire and opened his journal.
He didn't write a log this time.
He wrote a schedule.
Mobile Training Strategy: Phase One
Morning Movement: Directional footwork drills while walking. Gradual pacing. Deliberate slowing/speeding on verbal cue.
Obstacle Navigation: Trail agility. Rock-hopping. Fallen log sequences.
Combat Awareness: Target spotting during travel. Reaction-time drills with tossed stones.
Controlled Bite Practice: Measured force on dummy objects (wood, cloth, rope).
Rest Intervals: Strict cooldown windows. Ten minutes every hour. No exceptions.
Night Review: Reflective behavior notes. Conditioning responses. Passive command testing.
He tore the page out and clipped it into the inside flap of his pack.
Tyrunt yawned nearby, jaws snapping open so wide Orion could hear the crack in the back of his jawbone. Still not used to restraint.
But he'd get there.
Orion would make sure of it.
By day three, the rhythm had formed.
They walked at steady intervals, breaking for drills at flat stretches of road. Orion used sticks to mark challenge paths, tossed pebbles to train tracking mid-stride, even taught Tyrunt a short whistle pattern that meant "freeze," "follow," or "circle wide."
The dragon didn't always get it right.
But he was trying.
And that mattered.
They didn't see other trainers that week.
And for once, Orion was glad.
He didn't want to explain Tyrunt's origin, or answer questions about the League, or get into the politics of carrying a prehistoric predator without a full badge set. He wanted space.
And Oreburgh was still a week away.
He intended to use every hour of that time.