The sun returned.
After a full day of cold rain and slick moss underfoot, the sky finally opened again, scattering light like gold dust across the forest floor. The damp trees glittered. Steam rose off bark and from the firepit as Orion turned a burnt branch in the ashes. Everything smelled rich and warm—earthy in a way only fresh sunlight after a storm could bring.
He stood slowly, arms heavy from the long drills of the past few days. His body felt worn in the way it only could when something was actually changing—skin tougher, hands smarter, movements more deliberate.
Across the clearing, Tyrunt lay curled in a shallow pit he'd dug himself, nostrils flaring with every breath. His tail twitched gently in his sleep.
Turtwig wasn't resting.
He was feeding.
Orion had noticed the pattern more clearly this morning. Turtwig had walked without prompt to the far side of the slope—where the moss was thick and the sun poured down in clean angles. There, the Grass-type crouched low, his shell tilted to drink in the heat.
Then the plants around him reacted.
Delicate shoots bent toward him. Threads of mist-light lifted from the moss and clung to the edge of his leaf. It was subtle, slow. Nothing like the Absorb move he used in combat. This was something older. Something quiet.
It wasn't eating.
It was drawing.
Orion watched, crouched nearby. There was no movement, no chewing, no sound. Turtwig simply existed in the light, and the forest gave back.
Orion had seen similar things in biology books—photosynthesis-adjacent behavior in certain wild Grass-types. But he'd never seen it done so purposefully.
He waited.
After ten minutes, Turtwig stood. He didn't look winded. He looked focused.
Stronger.
Full.
And then he returned to camp.
By midmorning, the drills began.
Tyrunt was slow to warm up, still sore from yesterday's brutal pace. His Rock Throw had stabilized—he could now perform it without having to be angry first—but Orion wanted more. He wanted speed. Decision. He wanted a battlefield brain.
Turtwig was ready sooner. His movements were tighter now, his footwork less bound by symmetry. He didn't wait for instructions. He didn't look to Orion for reassurance.
He stood at the edge of the ring and stared forward like he owned it.
That was new.
Orion tapped the edge of his stick on the dirt.
"You've both grown stronger. But strength alone isn't enough. The Gym isn't about power—it's about control. You've got to make decisions under pressure."
He looked at Turtwig.
"You've got Bite. Razor Leaf. Absorb. Shell Armor makes you hard to kill—but not invincible. Today, we test endurance."
Turtwig stepped forward without hesitation.
Orion turned to Tyrunt.
"You can switch now. Dragon Tail into Rock Throw. But you're too heavy on prediction. You wait for the enemy to move. I want you initiating."
Tyrunt gave a low rumble of agreement and scraped a claw through the mud.
They started with chain drills.
"Turtwig, short burst—three Razor Leafs, moving target. Then Absorb. Then Bite."
Turtwig launched his attack mid-movement. The blades arced into a bark dummy and sliced three distinct lines down its side.
"Good. Energy draw—now!"
The leaf glowed green. Light pulled from a moss patch into his shell. Then he spun and charged the dummy, biting deep into the soaked wood.
"Tighten that last movement," Orion muttered. "Too wide on the approach."
Turtwig adjusted without comment.
Tyrunt's drills were more violent.
Orion hung clay pots from tree branches and sent them swinging. Tyrunt had to hit them on the move, changing attacks between swings.
"Left—Rock Throw!"
The dinosaur spun, tail dragging a stone from the mud, and launched it with a low snarl.
"Right—Dragon Tail!"
He pivoted, body twisting with a full-body arc, and slammed the log on the opposite side of the ring.
"Again! Faster!"
By the third repetition, Tyrunt's strikes came without delay. No clumsy resets. No stumbles.
Just fury turned mechanical.
Orion watched with a tight jaw.
This was more than he'd hoped for.
The wild battle came late in the day.
A wild Tranquill, maybe blown off-course by the previous day's storm, dipped low into the clearing and let out a sharp, echoing cry. It spotted the camp—and dove.
"Yours," Orion said without turning.
Turtwig was already moving.
The bird was fast. Turtwig was faster.
It came down like a spear, wings snapping forward. Turtwig rolled under it, skidded into a bank of wet ferns, and twisted—Absorb flaring to life.
The pulse hit the bird's flank.
It screeched and pivoted midair.
Then it tried to Tackle.
Turtwig countered with a sharp upward Bite, catching the base of the wing.
Dark energy flickered through the impact. Not just physical anymore. Typed.
The Tranquill thrashed and tried to lift off—but Turtwig slammed him into the dirt and leapt away.
The bird didn't try again.
It staggered, flapped hard, and vanished into the canopy above, feathers trailing behind.
Orion knelt beside Turtwig and ran a hand down his shell.
"No scratches."
Turtwig blinked once.
Shell Armor had activated again.
This was real now.
That evening, as the light turned soft and gold across the treetops, Orion sat beside the fire with his knees drawn up, staring into the flame.
Tyrunt lay just beyond the tarp, muzzle buried in his forelimbs, tail twitching.
Turtwig sat at the edge of the firelight, not resting, not feeding—just watching the woods.
Orion exhaled slowly and picked up his journal.
He flipped back to the last full page. The one marked:
Tyrunt: Gym-Ready – 85%
Turtwig: Gym-Ready – 78%
He stared at it for a moment.
Then he scratched out the numbers.
And wrote:
Tyrunt: Ready.
Turtwig: Ready.
He didn't smile.
But for the first time in a long time—he leaned back.
And let himself breathe.