The sky over Hoenn cracked with the sound of rain. Thick, guttural clouds pressed down on the world like they were trying to drown it whole, and somewhere beneath them — on the edge of Slateport City's outer sprawl — a boy stood beneath a rusting awning, staring at a bank slip.
"Confirmed: Transfer Complete — ₱102,000 credited to your account."
Riven didn't smile. He just folded the slip and tucked it into the inner lining of his rain-slicked jacket like he'd done this before. Like it wasn't his entire future printed in ink.
Behind him, Echo — his Kirlia — spun in place with a quiet hum, the stone on her forehead shimmering with mild, anticipatory psychic energy. She tilted her head as if to say, You sure about this?
"I've made worse investments," Riven muttered.
The truth was, the Pokémon market was far more complicated than most people understood. Evolution stones fluctuated in price like oil stocks. Certain Pokéballs became collector's items. The Silph Co. minor leak two months ago? He'd remembered it. Sold off his shares the day before the "Silph Capsule" debacle tanked their market value. His money was real. Earned. Not hacked. Not stolen.
And now, with it, he was about to do something almost no non-sponsored Trainer could afford at 18.
He was going to buy his starter.
---
The Petalburg Licensing Hall was always full on Trainer birthday weekends. New faces. Dreams. Screams. One kid threw up from excitement. Another passed out when his Pokéball cracked open and a Scyther popped out. But Riven ignored it all.
He waited in line. Eyes low. Echo beside him, brushing her mind gently against his — not invasive, just enough to remind him she was there. A partner, not a tool.
When his turn came, the clerk glanced up from her tablet and frowned. "Name?"
"Riven Kalen."
She tapped. Paused. Frowned deeper. "No sponsor?"
"No."
"No League grant? Family sigil? Corporation endorsement?"
"No."
Her tone shifted slightly — subtle, but enough to turn warm air cold. "Then… you're here for a standard market bid?"
He nodded.
The girl sighed. "You know it's non-refundable, right? No retries. No post-capture healing included. You go in, you catch, that's that."
"I know."
She looked him up and down, clearly not impressed. "And you're eighteen?"
He reached into his jacket and handed her his license. It shimmered with the unmistakable silver-blue of a verified adult.
"Huh. You don't look it," she muttered, then handed him a single tag. "Auction Room 3. Don't die."
---
The Auction Room was less Hunger Games and more old, corporate showroom. One massive Pokéball rested on a raised pedestal in the center of a stadium-like room. Around it, twelve trainers, all first-timers — some clutching their rented Pokéballs like lifelines. One was already crying.
A robotic voice intoned:
"This session's auction is for: Species 258. Type: Water. Combat-ready. Sourced from Route 102. Bid begins at ₱15,000."
A Mudkip appeared on the pedestal.
Not shiny. Not scarred. Just a normal, confused-looking amphibian with good posture and a twitchy tail.
Perfect.
Riven didn't blink. "₱30,000."
Gasps.
A few trainers dropped out instantly. A corporate-backed kid in a tailored orange blazer upped it to ₱40,000. Riven didn't flinch.
"₱80,000."
More gasps. Someone actually whispered "he's mad."
The orange blazer hesitated. Then sneered. "Fine. Take your damn fish."
And just like that, Riven owned a Pokémon.
His first official starter.
The Mudkip blinked at him as the pedestal lowered and the ball slid into a transfer chute. Riven caught it mid-air and held it for a breath.
Then released it.
The Mudkip blinked up at him.
"Yo," Riven said.
It croaked. Looked at Echo. Back to Riven. Then sat like a dog.
Echo stepped forward. The two Pokémon stared at each other in silence.
Then, slowly, Mudkip tilted his head and let out a gurgling sound that sounded suspiciously like laughter. Echo's eyes narrowed in mock offense, and with a playful hum, she twirled around and booped him on the head with a flicker of psychic energy.
Bond: sparked.
Riven allowed himself a small smile. "You two'll get along."
---
Meanwhile, far from Slateport's rusted buildings and auction rooms, chaos was taking notes.
Zane had not stopped moving in six months.
Which was hilarious, given that his general personality could be described as "slacker with a god complex." But when Arceus dumped you into a timeline you didn't understand and gave you a quest with zero instructions and a half-sentient Clefairy named Luma, things escalated quickly.
Oh — yes. Her name was Luma now. Not Yolkie. That was Brutus's Cleffa, and the universe had enough problems without accidentally syncing destinies because two pink puffballs shared a nickname.
Anyway. Zane had a System now.
Not a game menu. Not a voice in his head. More like a HUD in his soul — a slow-drip of info, hints, warnings, the occasional "hey idiot, dodge left!" during battles.
He hadn't asked for it. He hadn't earned it.
But Arceus had whispered only two words before it disappeared:
"Counterbalance him."
So Zane wandered Hoenn, collecting breadcrumbs and leveling up via sheer dumb luck, comedic timing, and the subtle help of a divine failsafe algorithm built into his veins.
He didn't have a grand goal. Not yet.
But the System was evolving. Literally.
[Title Unlocked: Destined Wildcard]
[System Feature: Map of Mayhem – Unlocked]
[Zane's Luck: +5 temporarily while shirtless and overconfident]
He didn't understand it. But it worked.
And slowly… it was making him someone.
---
Back in Pewter City, far from the chaos of systems and auctions, Brutus stood in the rain, sweat matting his shirt to his chest, breath short, limbs aching, heart loud in his ears.
Six months.
Six months of Flint's brutal, no-shortcuts, old-school training.
No potions. No XP shares. No mercy.
Just reps. Runs. Strategy drills. Sparring. Diet plans. Mental strength. Waking up to jog the entirety of Route 3 and collapsing into bed with Yolkie humming lullabies at his side.
Clove had evolved first. Now a Nidorino, tough as nails, with a wicked Double Kick and a glare that made wild Pidgeotto flee.
Yolkie followed soon after. Now a Clefairy, her Metronome was no longer a gamble — it was artillery.
And Brutus?
He was lean. Strong. Breathing better. Moving faster. The six-pack wasn't just coming — it was there. Subtle, but visible.
More than that, he could think better.
The boy who once huffed climbing a Pallet hill now sparred with Gym trainers who didn't hold back.
Flint watched from the side with his arms crossed, lips twitching toward a smile he refused to admit was pride.
"You're ready," he finally said.
Brutus wiped his brow. "For what?"
Flint's eyes narrowed. "For the world. You ain't gonna win every fight, kid. But you won't lose 'cause you weren't prepared."
Brutus nodded.
Then the ground shook.
Distant. Subtle. But there.
Flint froze.
Brutus's eyes widened. "What the hell was—?"
And then a Scout burst through the Gym doors, panting, blood on his cheek.
"It's Mt. Moon," he gasped. "The whole ridge… it's gone. Collapsed. And Red—Red hasn't come back down."
Brutus didn't hesitate.
He turned toward the door.
"Get Clove."
---
END OF CHAPTER 17