The aftermath of the aptitude paper shook the Research Guild to its core. Dozens of seasoned researchers debated feverishly over the theory of sub-aptitude stratification—a concept entirely foreign until a single paper submitted by a twelve-year-old boy from Glendale shifted their paradigm.
Not long after, an official message arrived from Silph Co.
They wanted to meet the author in person.
But when they learned Ray Virel was still legally a minor, they couldn't summon him to any corporate location. The compromise? Silph Co. would come to Glendale.
Ray sat nervously in his family's living room, dressed in a clean white shirt and dark slacks, Pidgeotto perched on the windowsill behind him. Dratini remained hidden, as always, resting peacefully.
His parents flanked him, dignified but visibly protective.
The moment finally arrived.
Two sleek black sedans rolled up to the modest home. From one stepped a group of scientists in white lab coats, clipboards in hand and skepticism in their eyes. From the other exited a sharply dressed commercial agent, all polished shoes and business-smile precision.
Introductions were exchanged politely, and the lead scientist, a woman named Dr. Kael, asked for permission to discuss Ray's paper directly.
"Of course," Ray replied, nodding confidently.
They began with doubt. Mild questions meant to gently expose misunderstandings. But Ray didn't just answer—he explained, clarified, elaborated. He described how his observations of slight statistical deviations in Pokémon growth aligned with visual aptitude gradients. He gave practical examples from his own training experience and even showed mock-ups of how a new tool could measure sub-levels through pulse-wave aptitude diffusion.
By the end of the discussion, the researchers were glued to their seats.
Dr. Kael removed her glasses, stunned. "This is... genuinely revolutionary. These sub-aptitude patterns explain developmental inconsistencies we've been documenting for decades."
Even the most skeptical among them leaned in to ask Ray about his observations and measurements. All formality had faded—he was no longer "just a kid." He was a peer, maybe even a pioneer.
Then the commercial agent, a tall man named Varnes, stepped forward with a sleek tablet.
"Mr. Virel," he began with a slick smile, "Silph Co. is prepared to offer you a lump sum of one hundred thousand credits and a signed research consultant title in exchange for partial development rights to your aptitude model."
Ray's eyes widened. His hand instinctively twitched toward the contract.
But a voice called out from behind them all—
"Don't sign that."
Everyone turned.
At the doorway stood a man with gray hair, a trimmed beard, and eyes sharp as lightning behind his spectacles. He wore a long tan coat and a belt that held three Pokéballs.
A whisper swept through the room:
"Professor Oak."
The commercial agent paled. "P-Professor Oak! I—I didn't know you'd be here..."
Oak stepped forward calmly, his gaze warm as it met Ray's.
"I read your paper," he said. "And it's brilliant. It's not just a good idea—it's a breakthrough. You're not just a kid with a talent, Ray. You're a researcher in the making."
Ray blinked. "T-thank you, sir."
Oak turned to Varnes. "Your lump sum is generous, but short-sighted. If Silph Co. believes in this product, they can share the fruits. I suggest a royalty-based deal. Let's say... 20% of all net profits."
Varnes coughed. "Professor, that's not—"
Oak raised an eyebrow.
Varnes wiped sweat from his brow. "...It's negotiable."
Oak looked back at Ray. "It's your work. Your choice."
Ray hesitated. His heart pounded. This was... enormous. Bigger than anything he'd planned.
But with his parents silently nodding, and the weight of Professor Oak's support behind him, Ray gave a quiet, firm reply:
"I agree to 20%."
Varnes swallowed hard and tapped at the tablet to adjust the terms.
A few digital signatures later, it was done.
Ray Virel had just signed a historic development contract with Silph Co.—and the Pokémon world had just shifted a little more under his feet.