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Director Alt sat behind his desk, looking more troubled than ever.
For all his skill, he was a man of comfort content with routine, hesitant to take risks. That same temperament had kept him safe in a collapsing world… and trapped him in mediocrity.
His title, Head of Reception, Ignis City League Office, sounded respectable, but for a forty-seven-year-old graduate of one of the old world's top academies, it was painfully average.
Still, Alt considered himself lucky.
He had a stable job, a steady income, a caring wife, a bright little daughter, and a life that, by post-Calamity standards, was almost luxurious.
Until today.
The report from his receptionist, Fina, weighed heavily on him.
A possible re-emergence of Nightmare Pokémon, something the League had believed extinct for decades, was not the kind of news one handled lightly.
By protocol, he should have sent an immediate alert to his superiors.
But… what if it was a false alarm?
His gaze flicked toward the quiet boy seated across from him Earl, head lowered.
Alt rubbed his chin, deep in thought. Over the years, he had received countless "urgent" reports, most of which turned out to be misunderstandings.
If this one did too, he'd be blamed for wasting resources, lose his position, and his perfect little life would crumble overnight.
He shivered at the thought.
Yet hiding it wasn't an option either. If the rumors proved true and he'd covered them up, the punishment would be far worse.
He sighed. "Best… to wait and confirm."
Yes, that was safer.
If another case like Whiteleaf Town surfaced within the next few weeks, he'd compile the data, draft a proper report, and only then forward it to command.
That way, even if it turned out to be nothing, he'd look prudent and careful, not careless.
Alt nodded to himself, reassuringly.
"Good. That's how I'll handle it."
Fate, however, has a cruel sense of irony.
Three weeks later, Alt would submit his carefully prepared report and it would confirm the impossible.
The Nightmare Pokémon had indeed returned.
And had he reported immediately, humanity's high command would have gained three precious weeks of preparation.
Three weeks that could have saved countless lives.
Three weeks that might have changed everything.
But that was all still to come.
For now, back in that quiet office
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Alt cleared his throat. "Ahem."
He straightened, adopting the steady tone of a man in control.
"I've heard enough," he said. "Don't worry, the League will handle this."
His eyes turned toward Earl. "You've earned recognition from a licensed Trainer, correct?"
He glanced at Fina. "Take him to the League Academy for assessment. If he passes the basic aptitude test, he can enroll as an official trainee."
"Yes, sir," Fina replied quickly. Then, with a small smile, she gave Earl a playful wink.
Alt's gaze shifted to the dark-skinned Machop standing silently in the corner Kael.
According to League regulations, since Earl had brought the Pokémon in, keeping it with him posed no issue.
Still, Alt couldn't help thinking the boy was years away from becoming a real Trainer.
He'd need formal study, tactical training, and eventually, a bond strong enough to handle a partner Pokémon of his own.
For now, the Machop seemed better suited elsewhere.
Alt made his decision.
"Send the Machop to the Fighting Dojo."
Even in this age of ruin, the League still clung to the old tradition of maintaining city-based Gyms though their purpose had changed drastically.
Before the Calamity, Gyms were places for Trainers to prove themselves and collect Badges.
Now, they served a far more pragmatic function training centers for survival.
With most Pokémon corrupted by the Nightmare Seeds and the population of professional Trainers decimated, humanity had no choice but to mass-produce replacements.
Gone were the days of personalized mentoring and spirit-bond journeys.
In their place came regimented, high-intensity programs: information crammed, tactics drilled, instincts standardized.
Children with the "Trainer potential" were pulled from the surviving towns and sent into these academies taught fast, taught hard, taught without pause.
It worked at least on paper.
The number of Trainers rose quickly.
But something essential was lost.
Their strategies became mechanical. Their commands are predictable.
They followed battle manuals instead of instincts.
And the sacred bond between Trainer and Pokémon, the very heart of evolution and trust, grew shallow.
Mega Evolution, once born of perfect connection, became a relic of myth.
The League Tournaments were long gone, and the training pipelines had been rewritten.
But the Gyms, those old bastions of mastery, remained.
Now, they functioned more like specialized camps, where promising Pokémon were sent to train under powerful mentors until they were strong enough to pair with their human counterparts upon graduation.
Ignis City alone hosted ten of these facilities: Fire, Electric, Fighting, Steel, Ghost, and more each an anchor of civilization in a shattered world.
Alt assumed the Machop was just another underdeveloped Pokémon barely evolved, probably weak. Better to let him sharpen himself among fighters than tag along with a child.
What Alt didn't realize…
Was that Kael couldn't have agreed more.
He didn't need experience he had more than enough of that.
What he needed now was peace. A place to slow down, gather his strength, and evolve when the time was right.
The Fighting Dojo would do perfectly.
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