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As a Pokémon freshly transferred from Kalos, Froakie had never known hunger.
Raised in the Breeding Center, it—like all starter Pokémon—was meant to accompany young Trainers just beginning their journeys, offering protection and companionship as they stepped into the wider world.
No one had ever told it that one day, it would be working on a run-down, weed-choked farm.
It had always imagined its future unfolding in the dazzling spotlight of the Pokémon League—or at the very least, the glamorous contests of the Kalos region.
Anything but this: spitting water into hole after hole filled with seeds.
The Breeding Center occasionally raised Pokémon specifically for farms—usually sturdy, hardworking species like Tauros or Miltank.
There was no rule saying Froakie had to battle… but there was also zero precedent for a starter like it ending up tilling fields.
And honestly? It was starving.
Working was one thing—but working without lunch? Unforgivable.
Froakie let out a long, dramatic sigh, its yellow eyes fixed blankly on the sky.
Then—a rich, buttery aroma drifted over.
A golden-brown loaf of bread appeared in front of its nose.
Froakie slowly turned its head.
There stood Ron, holding out the bread.
Tears of gratitude welled in Froakie's eyes.
"…Sorry I'm late," Ron said sheepishly.
Research at the library had taken longer than expected. Watching Froakie tear into the bread with teary-eyed devotion, he reached out and gently patted its head.
The bread vanished in seconds. Sated, the little blue frog flopped onto the ground with a contented sigh.
Ron needed to explore the area soon—and for safety's sake, he took another scan of Froakie with his Pokédex while finishing his own meal.
Logically, after watering each planted seed once with Water Gun, Froakie's PP should've been nearly depleted—maybe down to nine uses, at best.
But surprisingly, its PP was completely restored.
Ron rubbed his chin, pondering.
Could it be the bread?
He wasn't sure. But since this was reality—not a game—direct comparisons didn't always hold. After all, there was no Pokémon Center here.
Maybe PP wasn't a rigid counter, but more like stamina or some type of magical energy?
Run out of energy, and you couldn't use moves?
That was actually good news—because Water Gun was Froakie's only real offensive skill. He couldn't exactly rely on Growl to scare off wild Pokémon.
Of course… humans could fight too, if needed.
With that thought, Ron picked up the sickle leaning nearby.
He'd originally planned to buy Poké Balls from Pierre's—but after learning they cost 5,000G each, that idea died fast.
Besides, he had another, bolder idea.
One that needed testing.
He looked down at Froakie, still sprawled on the ground, and gave its head a light tap.
"Rested enough?"
"Froakie!"
Froakie sprang to its feet with a bounce.
After a brief hesitation, Ron held out his hand.
In a flash, Froakie leapt onto his shoulder.
Ron's shoulder dipped under the sudden weight.
Despite its small size, Froakie weighed about as much as a full-grown house cat—roughly twenty pounds.
Well… he'd invited it up. No point complaining now.
Bracing himself, Ron set off toward the foothills behind the farm.
Just as he remembered from the game, a narrow trail led north from the farm gate into the hills.
But unlike the flat, simplified path in the game, this one wound upward through towering trees, sloping gently but steadily.
And through the dappled shadows, Ron could clearly see small, swift shapes darting between the trunks—animals? Pokémon? It was hard to tell.
Fortunately, the path seemed to lie within the protective barrier Gus had mentioned. Not a single creature emerged from the woods to block his way.
If other game mechanics held true here, then type matchups probably did too—which was excellent news for Ron.
He could handle a stray Bug-type… but if a Grass-type jumped out, he'd likely wake up in the clinic having lost every last coin he owned.
…Though whether type advantages even applied here remained uncertain. After all, you couldn't till a field with a single tap anymore, could you?
Ron moved forward cautiously, grumbling internally.
Along the trail grew clusters of yellow flowers. Recognizing them as dandelions, he dug a few up.
To his pleasant surprise, the Pokédex—evidently programmed by his "grandfather"—could scan foraged items and even displayed their market value.
Familiar wild edibles from the library appeared in its database, along with new ones like spring bamboo shoots and raspberries.
It made sense, really. If wild Pokémon lived out here, they couldn't survive on leeks and wild wasabi alone—they'd have starved long ago.
Ron tucked his findings into his backpack, mentally tallying their worth as he walked.
He'd gathered quite a bit—but most items fetched low prices, even less than leeks.
All told, he'd earned only 400G.
Still, good news: at four loaves of bread per day (two meals for two mouths), that meant he could survive one more day.
Froakie tilted its head, watching Ron brush dirt from his hands while wearing a strange, hopeful smile.
They passed through the trail and reached the foothills.
To Ron's surprise, there was no Joja Corporation-caused rockslide blocking the path—as there had been in the game.
He stared at the bridge leading to the mines, pulled out his Pokédex, and double-checked.
Not only was the path clear… but the JojaMart was entirely gone.
Must be a butterfly effect from the Pokémon integration, Ron mused. Not that he minded—it was actually great news.
Because his destination was the mines.
Without hesitation, he and Froakie stepped inside.
Immediately, he spotted a scruffy-looking man standing near the entrance, recalling two Pokémon with a practiced flick of his wrist.
"Alright, that's enough for today. You've earned your rest," the man said, tossing Poké Balls that absorbed the creatures in twin flashes of red light.
Ron froze mid-step, eyes locked on one of the Pokémon.
He hadn't gotten a clear look at the other—but unless he was mistaken, that one was… Garchomp?
Hearing footsteps, the man turned. His eyes met Ron's.
He smiled knowingly. "You must be his descendant…"
"I'm Marlon," he said, "founder of the Adventurers' Guild."
Somehow, he already knew Ron's name—because before Ron could introduce himself, Marlon continued:
"Your grandfather left behind several powerful Pokémon for you… but he set a condition. If you fail to meet it, they'll belong to the Adventurers' Guild instead."
He fixed Ron with a challenging gaze.
"Ready to take on the trial?"
And with that, Marlon tossed a battered iron sword into Ron's hands.
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