By the time I turned two, I was already fluent enough to pass for a slow five-year-old—which, in toddler standards, made me a certified genius.
I could string full sentences together, ask questions, bargain for extra food, and express complex emotions like "bored" or "I don't want a nap, I want a Growlithe."
My parents had long stopped treating me like a normal baby. I caught them whispering things like "Maybe he's gifted?" and "Should we have his Aura tested?" more than once.
I wasn't about to correct them. Let them believe I was a miracle baby. It was easier than trying to explain reincarnation via celestial bureaucracy and a smug admin with a bowtie.
"Ray, sweetie, use your spoon, not your fingers," my mother said, gently nudging the utensil into my hand.
Her name was Lina Virel. She worked part-time as a Pokémon Nutritionist, mixing berry-based feed formulas for local breeders. Our kitchen was often filled with the scent of pecha syrup, sitrus stew, or her special poképuffs that were so good I once caught a Meowth trying to steal one from our window.
She was kind, sharp, and one of the most patient people I'd ever met—well, besides when she stepped on a wooden Pokéblock barefoot. Then she went full Gyarados mode.
My father, Darin Virel, was a Ranger Liaison, working as a part-time field guide for trainers needing safe routes through the nearby Glimmerwood Forest. He wasn't officially part of the Ranger Corps, but he had a license for escort and habitat guidance.
He wore practical leather vests, always had a compass on his hip, and could whistle like a Fearow. His partner Pokémon was a no-nonsense Arcanine named Rook, who obeyed him like a soldier and snored like a lawnmower.
Rook both terrified and fascinated me.
That morning, my father was packing his gear at the doorway.
"Papa, can I come with you today?" I asked, clinging to the edge of his bag.
Darin smiled and ruffled my hair. "Not yet, little explorer. Glimmerwood's no place for a two-year-old."
"I'm two and a half," I muttered, sulking.
"And still small enough to ride on a Bidoof," he chuckled.
That was… technically true.
Instead, I spent the day with my mother and her assistant, a curious little Chingling named Mira. Mira floated around the room chiming with glee whenever she tasted a new batch of pokéfeed. I'd taken a liking to her—she was the first Pokémon that didn't seem afraid of me or confused by my staring.
Because that was the thing.
Even though Statsight hadn't fully activated yet, I could feel it simmering beneath my senses. Like a sixth sense trying to blink into existence. Every time I looked at a Pokémon, my eyes tingled. Sometimes my heartbeat quickened for no reason. Like I knew there was more to see—but couldn't access it yet.
It was frustrating. Like being handed a key without a door.
But that day something changed.
Later that afternoon, while my mother was grinding dried kelpsy roots, Mira hovered beside me, spinning slowly in circles like she was bored.
"I wish I could understand you," I said aloud.
Mira paused.
Then floated lower, pressing her tiny bell body against my forehead.
I blinked.
A flash of color. Faint. Barely visible.
[Yellow – Core]Stable, emotionally sensitive. Grows best through sound-based companionship and routine exposure to peaceful music.
The words flashed in my mind like a dream and vanished just as quickly.
I froze.
I saw it.
It wasn't fully activated. Not stable. But it was the first glimpse.
"Statsight…" I whispered.
Mira tilted her head, letting out a soft driiiiing.
The rest of the day, I couldn't stop watching her. I repeated the words I'd seen under my breath, again and again. I wasn't imagining it. The color. The text. It had felt real.
It was coming.
That night, during dinner, I looked over at Rook, my father's Arcanine, resting near the fireplace. His mane glowed faintly in the dim light, and his breath came in heavy, rumbling snores.
I focused.
But nothing came.
No color. No message.
Still… my fingers twitched.
Soon.