*** This is translated work , edited and polished by yours truly. It's an urban Pokemon fic that's quite hilarious and interesting. When Pokemons merge with our world , how much does it change the history and way of living? This book explores it in a comedic way that will keep you laughing 😂
The original story and author name is below. Mad resprect for the dude.
都市精灵:这训练家浑身都是反骨
Author: Wave
Now I know what most of you are thinking, another mtl crap that might give you aneurism, filled with usual crap 💀
But throw those fears away, cz Virtuoso is here for the rescue! So, buckle up in your seats, get your tissues ready (Not for that purpose), and for your sake, don't drink or eat anything while reading, you will probably choke or splurt out laughing .
I always try to provide something good, and you won't be disappointed . This story will be uploaded here regularly , and also might be a part of my Patreon package later on. capitalism for the win, eh?
Now without further nonsense, Enjoy!
***
Pacific City Pokémon High School – Third Year, Class 1
The classroom was bright and buzzing with heat—not just from the late morning sun pouring in through the windows, but from the concentrated energy of thirty teenagers pretending to care about Charmander while definitely not caring about Charmander.
At the front of the room stood Melissa.
Ms. Melissa, to be exact. Homeroom teacher. Biology specialist. Pokémon breeding expert. Cold-blooded tyrant during exams. And currently, the number one cause of "accidental" nosebleeds among the boys of Class 1.
She didn't need to shout to get attention. She just stood there—tall, composed, and looking like she walked straight out of a movie poster titled Strict but Stunning. Her uniform was sharp, the kind with a corseted waist that probably wasn't school-issued, and her glasses sat perfectly on the bridge of her nose.
She had the look of someone who had never once in her life misplaced a Poké Ball.
"The most important thing," she said slowly, lips barely parting, "when raising a Charmander... is to carefully monitor the temperature of the environment."
The way she said it was like she was delivering an ancient secret. A sacred truth. Most students were furiously scribbling notes, though half of them weren't writing down anything useful. Just things like "Charmander likes it hot. So do I?" or "Why is she hotter than a Rapidash?"
A few desks back, a kid actually had steam coming out of his nose. He was biting down on his pencil like it owed him money.
Then there was David.
David sat by the window, the only one not melting under Ms. Melissa's deadly combination of academic authority and magazine-model energy. He was half-listening, mostly staring outside at the playground where a group of kids were letting their Magikarps flop around in the sandbox. He wasn't sure if it was a class or just poor supervision.
The wind tugged at his hair. His face, which might have qualified as handsome if he ever smiled, remained blank.
He sighed.
David, eighteen. Male. Interested in female.
Single—extremely single. Painfully single.
He wasn't like the other boys in class. He wasn't daydreaming about getting detention just to spend extra time with Ms. Melissa. (well, he kinda hid his boner) He wasn't trying to show off a shiny Charmeleon to look cool. No, David was busy thinking about life, the universe, and how it had somehow decided to throw him into a parallel world where Pokémon were real and gym class involved dodging Hyper Beams.
You see, David had a secret. A stupid, weird, borderline ridiculous secret.
He wasn't from here.
Eighteen years ago, he was just a regular guy on Earth. Ate cereal. Rode a bike. Played video games. Then one day, he wasn't on Earth anymore.
He woke up in a crib with a Pikachu mobile spinning above his head and a woman calling him her "my sweet little trainer."
Since then, he had grown up in a world where humans and Pokémon lived side by side. Schools like this one didn't just teach math or history—they taught how to raise a Bulbasaur and how to tell if your Eevee was about to evolve.
David had adapted, sort of. He walked the halls like everyone else. He took his notes. He nodded when teachers spoke. But sometimes, like now, he just drifted—caught between memories of another life and the reality of this one.
Now he was stuck here—Pacific City, where kids did math, history, and "Basic Pokéball Mechanics" on alternating days. Everyone just assumed he was a normal kid. No one knew he had memories of microwaves, elevators, and the horrifying taste of canned spinach.
Back in class, Ms. Melissa clicked a button on the projector, and an animated Charmander appeared on the screen doing jumping jacks.
"Charmanders are sensitive to cold," she continued. "If the flame on their tail dims, it means they're sick. Or worse."
At the word "sick," someone in the back made a fake cough and dramatically collapsed across their desk. The class chuckled. Ms. Melissa didn't flinch. She just adjusted her glasses and gave him the kind of glare that could kill a Tauros at thirty paces.
David sighed again.
This was his life now. A school full of hormonal teens, fire-breathing lizards, and a homeroom teacher that could probably be banned in ten regions for being too effective at capturing male attention.
Another boy in the front row dropped his pen, and instead of picking it up, he leaned forward as if getting closer would somehow make the lesson more personal.
David blinked slowly.
He didn't write anything down. He didn't raise his hand. He didn't even look at the board.
He just kept staring out the window, the breeze tugging gently at his hair.
This world was very different, and he felt like a stranger, a cosmic prank being played on him.
***
Thousands of years ago, long before Poké Balls, Gym Badges, and vending machines that sold Max Potions, something strange happened.
A secret land descended—no one really knew how or from where, but suddenly, boom—giant mysterious creatures started showing up. These weren't your cute little critters doing tail wags and bubble beams. No, these things were walking natural disasters.
Some of them could set entire forests on fire just by sneezing. Others caused tsunamis so big, coastal villages moved inland just to avoid getting slapped by waves every Tuesday. One or two were basically living thunderstorms with teeth.
Back then, people didn't call them "Pokémon." They called them "monsters." Not the "aww, how adorable" kind, but the "please don't destroy my village again this week" kind. Understandably, humans were terrified.
But humans are also stubborn. After a lot of running, hiding, and probably panicking, someone realized something: not all of these creatures were deadly. Some were... well, manageable. Not every "monster" could level a mountain. Some just liked warm laps and snacks.
One day—no one remembers exactly when—humans figured out that certain monsters were actually friendly. They understood commands. They had special powers that could be useful. And, most importantly, they didn't try to burn you alive the second you turned your back.
That was a game-changer.
People started calling them Pokémon instead of monsters. They started forming bonds. Training them. Using their abilities to help with farming, travel, construction, and, of course, settling disputes. Suddenly, a guy with a fire lizard could tell another guy with a rock snake, "Back off, I've got this handled."
Before long, a new profession emerged: the Pokémon Trainer. Humans and Pokémon, teaming up. Sounds noble, right?
History started recording these partnerships. When the First Emperor Ying Zheng rose to power—yes, the big scary one from Qin—it was said that a mighty sky dragon named Rayquaza acknowledged him as ruler of the world. No one dared argue. Mostly because arguing with someone backed by a weather-controlling dragon is a terrible idea.
There was also the tale of a kind beggar who hated seeing people suffer in war. Somehow, this beggar got endorsed by Ho-Oh, the literal phoenix of legends. Next thing you know, that beggar overthrew empires and started a peaceful dynasty. Ho-Oh really had an eye for talent.
And let's not forget Wang Mang. A weirdo in the history books. Some thought he was from another world entirely. Others believed he had a pact with Dialga, the Pokémon that controls time. Either way, the guy had a knack for timing things very badly, but that's another story.
Ever since Pokémon appeared in human history, they've been a constant part of it. And as Pokémon stuck around, the role of Trainers evolved too.
There's a whole ranking system now, just to keep things neat and competitive.
Starting from the bottom, you've got:
Amateur: Basically someone who knows how to hold a Poké Ball without dropping it.
Professional: Someone who can battle without embarrassing themselves.
Elite: Trainers who start getting respect.
Gym-level: Trainers strong enough to run a town's Gym and hand out badges like candy.
Quasi-Elite and Elite (yes, again, it's a bit redundant): Basically people with more badges, better Pokémon, and flashier coats.
Champion: The top dog. These people usually have statues, fan clubs, or at the very least, a cape.
***
But before anyone can even dream of climbing that ladder, they need to start somewhere. That somewhere? High school.
In the second half of their final year, students who want to become Trainers get their first chance to own a Pokémon legally. Not a wild one—those bite. But a young, well-behaved one from a breeding house. These Pokémon are specially raised to be friendly, obedient, and most importantly, house-trained.
The catch? They cost money. A lot of it.
Even the cheapest starter Pokémon—the kind people actually want, like Bulbasaur or Charmander—start at around one million coins. And that's for the basic models. If you want a Charmander with high potential—like quasi-Elite-level genetics—you're looking at ten to twenty million coins. Championship-tier Pokémon? Forget it. You'd have better luck finding a shiny legendary in your backyard.
Thankfully, the Pokémon Alliance isn't completely heartless. They've also made plenty of affordable options available for the common folk. Things like Rattata, Caterpie, or even a very sleepy Slakoth. These go for forty to fifty thousand coins. Still not pocket change, but much better than the million-dollar fire lizard.
There's just one problem.
David didn't have fifty thousand.
He didn't even have five.
David, eighteen years old, male, single, and most importantly—broke. As broke as a Poké Ball flung at a level 100 Mewtwo with full HP.
He wasn't just low on money. He was running on fumes. No savings. No fancy family connections. No mysterious sponsor stepping out of a limousine to say, "You're the chosen one." None of that.
David grew up in a welfare institution. No parents. No siblings. Just other kids like him, sharing hand-me-downs and hoping the cafeteria didn't serve mystery stew again.
Every coin he ever earned as a kid went toward surviving school. He did part-time jobs cleaning parks, sorting Poké Mart inventory, and even dressing up as Pikachu at birthday parties. Yes, he still had emotional damage from that.
All of that—every single coin—went toward paying tuition at Pokémon Middle School. Because if he didn't go, he'd never even be allowed to think about becoming a Trainer.
And now, after all that, he was still here, at the edge of graduation, with no Pokémon, no money, and no plan.
The others in his class were already shopping around for their first partners. Comparing stats. Arguing about which starter was cooler. Flexing about how their dads promised them an Egg from a certified breeding lab.
David just nodded along and smiled like it didn't bother him.
But it did. A lot.
He wanted to be a Trainer more than anything. Not for the fame. Not even for the money. Just because… ever since he came to this world, Pokémon were the only thing that made it feel a little less lonely.
Too bad he was priced out of the dream.
Not to mention buying a starter—David couldn't even afford the cheapest, bottom-of-the-barrel Pokémon available. Even a scruffy little Rattata, the kind that chewed wires and lived in alleyways, was way out of his budget.
Forty thousand coins? That might as well have been four million to him.
So yeah, becoming a Pokémon Trainer the "normal" way? Not happening.
But that didn't mean it was completely impossible.
David wasn't stupid. The moment he set foot in Pokémon Middle School, surrounded by kids already comparing Poké Ball designs and bragging about which Egg their parents had reserved for them, he knew the odds were stacked against him. So he made a plan.
It was a sad plan. A desperate plan. But it was still a plan.
The thing is, the Pokémon Alliance didn't have any official law carved in stone that said a new Trainer must buy a starter from a breeder.
Sure, that was the recommended way. The safe, clean, pre-approved, "no legal trouble" way. But if you could somehow get your hands on a Pokémon legally—say, through a trade, a gift, or by catching one yourself—then congratulations! You were in.
Of course, no breeder was about to hand out free Pokémon out of the kindness of their heart. And no rich kid was going to just give David a spare Charmander because "you look like you have main character energy."
But the loophole existed, and David clung to it like a drowning man to a floating Magikarp.
So every day after class, while his classmates chatted about which accessories they'd buy for their future partners, David quietly studied. Not Pokémon battle strategies or item combinations—no, that stuff could come later. First, he had to understand one thing: how to catch a Pokémon without ending up in jail or the hospital.
That meant reading everything the school library had on wilderness safety, local Pokémon species, low-level habitats, and how not to get poisoned, shocked, burned, or pecked in the face. He read field guides like they were sacred texts. He memorized maps of nearby forests and cross-referenced migration patterns of weak Pokémon—stuff even the nerdy clubs didn't bother with.
Because if he was going to catch his first Pokémon, it had to be weak, slow, and most importantly, not immediately hostile.
Of course, this wasn't exactly a guaranteed strategy. There was a reason most people just saved up and bought from breeders. Wild Pokémon were unpredictable. They didn't come with manners, battle tutorials, or trust issues resolved. Half the time, they just ran away. The other half, they attacked.
But David didn't have money. He didn't have connections. What he did have was time, stubbornness, and the willpower of a guy who'd eaten discount noodles for lunch every day for the past three years.
So while his classmates dreamed of Dragonite, he dreamed of finding a Pidgey that didn't hate him on sight.
It wasn't glamorous. It definitely wasn't easy. But it was his only shot.