"You alright there, boy?" Fisher's voice cut through my thoughts. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm fine," I lied, pocketing the card. "Just... wasn't expecting that balance."
Fisher chuckled knowingly. "Oak family's got deep pockets. Your grandfather probably set you up properly for your journey. Smart man, that one."
If only he knew.
I accepted the Old Rod, feeling its weight in my hands. It was heavier than I'd expected, the reel mechanism smooth and well-oiled despite its "old" designation.
"Few tips for you," Fisher said, apparently taking my purchase as permission to offer advice.
"Cast near structures—rocks, logs, anything that provides cover. That's where the smart fish hide. Be patient with your line; yanking too early scares them off. And if you hook something big, let it tire itself out before reeling in hard."
"Appreciated. Thank you."
"One more thing." Fisher's expression became more serious. "You'll catch mostly Magikarp with that rod. They're everywhere in Kanto's freshwater. Some folks see them as worthless, but they're good eating if you know how to prepare them, and their evolution—Gyarados—is one of the most powerful Water-types in existence."
'I'm not planning to evolve them,' I thought. 'Just using them for EV training and possibly food.'
"I'll keep that in mind," I said aloud.
Fisher nodded, satisfied he'd fulfilled his mentorship obligation. "Good hunting, Samael Oak. And tell your grandfather Fisher says hello next time you see him."
"Will do."
He departed with a wave, leaving me standing in the mart with my supplies and newly acquired fishing rod.
The elderly woman at the counter rang up my purchases—herbs, oils, berries, stew base, fire-starter kit. The total came to 3,200₽, barely a dent in my absurd account balance.
CURRENT BALANCE: 99,991,800₽
I gathered everything into my backpack, the Old Rod secured to the outside with straps designed for carrying equipment. Gible watched the entire transaction with interest, particularly focused on the berries.
'Later,' I told him mentally. 'We're going fishing first. You'll get plenty to eat.'
'Fishing? We'll hunt water creatures?'
'Something like that. Come on.'
We left the mart as the sun finally disappeared below the horizon, plunging Pallet Town into early winter darkness.
Street lamps flickered to life automatically, casting pools of yellow light across snow-covered streets.
I checked my Pokédex: 6:15 PM.
Less than three hours until low tide. Time to head to the beach.
The walk south took us past the Oak Laboratory—still lit, though most staff had gone home—and down a sloping path that led toward the coast. Snow crunched under my boots, and my breath misted in the frigid air.
Gible seemed unaffected by the cold, his Steel-type constitution apparently providing resistance to temperature extremes.
He bounded ahead occasionally, investigating interesting scents or sounds, then circling back to stay close.
'This is it,' I thought as the sound of waves reached my ears. 'Prove we're strong enough. Add a strong Pokémon to the team.'
'And hope nothing goes catastrophically wrong in the process.'
The beach stretched before us, an expanse of dark sand and frozen tide pools illuminated by moonlight filtering through clouds.
To the south, I could see the cave entrance the system had marked—currently submerged by high tide but visible as a dark hollow in the cliff face.
I found a suitable spot about thirty meters from the cave, far enough not to intrude on its territory but close enough to be noticed. A cluster of rocks provided wind protection, and driftwood scattered nearby would fuel a fire once I got one started.
"Alright, Gible," I said, setting down my pack and pulling out the Old Rod. "Let's see what we can catch."
The little dragon watched with interest as I assembled the rod, attached a basic lure, and prepared to cast into the dark waters.
The ocean stretched before me, dark and restless under the clouded night sky.
Waves rolled against the shore in a steady rhythm, and the salt-heavy air stung my lungs with each breath. Ice had formed along the tide line where spray froze on contact with the frigid beach.
I'd never actually fished before—not in my previous life, and certainly not in this one. Gary's memories provided some basic knowledge, childhood trips with his grandfather to various research sites near water, but nothing extensive.
'How hard can it be?' I thought, examining the Old Rod in my hands. 'Cast the line, wait for a bite, reel it in.'
Famous last words.
My first cast went poorly. The lure sailed five meters before plunking into shallow water near the shore. Gible watched from his position on a nearby rock, head tilted in what I interpreted as judgment.
'The fisherman said to be patient,' I reminded myself, reeling in to try again.
Second cast went further—fifteen meters—and I felt the lure sink into deeper water. The rod's tip bobbed slightly with the waves' motion, and I settled into position to wait.
Fisher had said to be patient. Don't yank too early. Let the fish actually take the bait before setting the hook.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
My arms were starting to ache from holding the rod steady when I felt it—a sharp tug that nearly yanked the rod from my hands.
"Got something!" I called to Gible, who perked up immediately.
I started reeling, feeling significant resistance on the line. Whatever I'd hooked was fighting hard, pulling against the drag and making the reel whine with strain.
'Let it tire itself out,' I remembered Fisher saying.
I loosened my grip slightly, letting the fish run while maintaining tension. The line cut through the water, moving parallel to shore, then suddenly reversed direction.
I reeled frantically to keep up, trying to maintain constant pressure without breaking the line.