The remaining sixty-five thousand, six hundred and seventy Poké yen was not a safety net. It was a countdown timer. Every single Poké yen spent was a calculated risk, a drop of fuel burned on a one-way trip, measured against the simple, brutal metrics of survival.
There was no margin for error.
His first stop was not the gleaming, multi-story Cerulean Department Store, but a cramped shop tucked into a side alley that smelled of ozone and damp canvas. A faded wooden sign, creaking in the breeze, read: "Route-Ready Outfitters & Supplies." It was a place for people who expected the road to fight back.
An old man with a yellowed, bushy mustache and eyes like chips of flint sat behind the counter, meticulously cleaning a disassembled fishing reel. He wore a faded, stained vest that might have once been Ranger Corps issue. He looked up as Athan entered, his sharp gaze taking in everything in a single, sweeping assessment: the worn-out clothes, the pristine, new-model Pokédex, the second-hand bag, and the alert, healthy Growlithe at his heels.
"Another one," the old man grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. It wasn't a question. It was a weary diagnosis.
"I need supplies for a trip to Pewter City," Athan said, ignoring the man's tone. His eyes were already scanning the densely packed shelves. He had a list, meticulously prioritized in his head.
First, a backpack. He saw a lightweight, ergonomic pack made of reinforced, waterproof synthetic. It had dozens of clever pockets and a supportive internal frame. The price tag was a gut punch: 18,000 Poké yen. He forced himself to look away, his eyes landing on a stack of military-surplus rucksacks in a dusty corner. They were made of thick, heavy canvas, with simple leather straps and a design that hadn't changed in fifty years. They smelled of mothballs and regret. The price was 8,500. It would be agony on his shoulders, but it would hold his world.
"You'll regret that one by the end of the first day," the shopkeeper noted, not looking up from his reel. "Shoulders will be raw. A good pack is an investment in not being miserable."
"It's the one I can afford," Athan said flatly.
Next, shelter. A two-person, all-weather tent was nearly 25,000. An impossible luxury. He found a durable, waterproof tarp and a cheap, thin bedroll instead. Total: 6,000. He'd have to learn how to rig a decent lean-to.
He added a flint and steel, a water purification filter, a small, dented cooking pot, and a coil of sturdy rope to the growing pile on the counter. Each item was a small, painful hemorrhage from his dwindling funds. He bought a week's worth of tasteless, nutrient-dense ration bars for himself and a large bag of high-energy, fat-rich kibble formulated for active Fire-types for Kiba.
Finally, the most critical supplies. Medicine. He approached the locked glass case.
"Potions are three hundred a bottle," the old man said, anticipating his question. "Super Potions are seven hundred. Antidotes are a hundred. Paralyze Heals, one-fifty." He gestured to a collection of jars filled with dried herbs. "Or I can sell you the ingredients for a basic poultice for sixty Pokéyen. Cheaper, but it takes time to brew and it won't do much for a bad wound. Good for scrapes, that's about it."
Athan didn't hesitate. In a real battle, the seconds it took to apply a Potion could be the difference between Kiba recovering and Kiba being crippled. This was not the place to cut corners.
"Five Potions," he said, the words feeling like stones in his mouth. "Three Antidotes and two repels." He'd seen enough poison type roaming around the city outskirts to know poison was a common threat.
The old man finally set down his reel parts and looked at him, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "Five Potions. Most new kids buy one Potion and a new hat. You planning on starting a war?"
"I'm planning on being prepared," Athan replied.
The man gave a short, harsh laugh. "Kid, you can't afford to be prepared. Not really." He began ringing up the items, the numbers on the ancient register climbing with terrifying speed. "This gear… it's the bare minimum. It'll keep you alive if you're smart. It won't keep you comfortable. And if something goes seriously wrong… if your Pokémon takes a Hyper Fang to the leg or gets slammed by a Graveler's Rock Throw… that little red bottle isn't gonna cut it. You'll be looking at a Pokémon Center bill in the tens of thousands."
The final total was 42,350 Poké yen. Athan's stomach twisted into a cold, hard knot.
He paid, his hands numb as he counted out the worn bills. The transaction left him with twenty-three thousand, three hundred and twenty Poké yen. It wasn't a buffer. It was a prayer. Enough to eat and run, but not enough for a single, catastrophic mistake.
As Athan struggled to pack the heavy, awkward rucksack, the old man leaned against the counter. "Route 4 is easy. A rookie path. But Mt. Moon… the mountain chews up kids like you. Stick to the League-marked tunnels. First sign of trouble, you turn back. The wild Pokémon in those deep caves, the ones that have never seen a trainer? They don't battle for sport. They battle to kill and eat."
The warning was delivered with the cold, dispassionate finality of a weather report predicting a hurricane. It was the last, stark reminder that his journey wasn't a game.
He had one last stop.
---
He walked into his mother's hospital room with the lumpy, oversized pack on his shoulders. The sight of it was an anvil, sucking the air from the room and crushing the fragile peace. Celia's face was pale, her smile brittle.
"So," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hiss of her oxygen. "This is it."
"This is it," he confirmed. He set the pack down, and it landed with a heavy, definitive thud that echoed in the small, sterile space.
There were no grand speeches. They had said everything yesterday. Instead, she reached into the drawer of her bedside table and pulled out a small, worn photograph, its edges softened by time.
It was a picture of a young man with Athan's dark hair and a wide, confident grin that reached his eyes. He wore the crisp, practical uniform of a Pokémon Ranger, and at his side stood a magnificent Arcanine, its mane a roaring inferno of cream and orange, its presence radiating power and loyalty. Hans. His father.
"He would have been so proud of you, Athan," Celia said, her voice thick with a decade of unshed tears. She pressed the photo into his hand. "He would have been terrified out of his mind… but so, so proud."
He carefully placed the photograph in the inside pocket of his jacket, the one closest to his heart. It felt warm against his skin.
"I'll be back," he promised, his voice raw. "I'll come back with good news."
He shouldered the pack. The weight was immense, a physical manifestation of his new life. It pulled him down, and he had to straighten his spine to bear it. He gave his mother one last look, memorizing the way the afternoon light caught the silver in her hair. Then he turned and walked out, Kiba at his heels. He didn't look back.
If he had, he knew he would have shattered.
---
The end of the city was not a gentle fade, but a hard, jarring line. One moment, he was on the cracked pavement of Cerulean's northernmost suburb; the next, his boots crunched onto a wide, well-worn dirt path that plunged into fields of tall, whispering grass.
This was Route 4.
The roar of the city fell away behind him, replaced by a symphony of natural sounds: the rustle of wind through the grass, the cheerful chirping of Pidgey, the distant buzzing of unseen Bug Pokémon. The air was clean, smelling of damp earth and wildflowers. In the distance, the colossal, jagged silhouette of Mt. Moon dominated the horizon, a stone titan separating him from his goal.
The bite of the rucksack straps was already a burning reality. The nervous energy that had sustained him was evaporating under the afternoon sun, replaced by the dawning, sober weight of the task ahead. This wasn't an adventure. This was a grueling march against a ticking clock.
He saw another trainer up ahead, a boy a few years younger than him, who was excitedly sending his Poliwag into a battle against a wild Rattata. The boy shouted commands, his voice ringing with confidence.
Athan instinctively slowed, pulling Kiba closer. His first thought wasn't of battle, but of cost. A challenge from that trainer was a possibility. A win might net him a few hundred Poké yen. But even a decisive victory would cost him. Kiba would expend energy. He might take a hit. That could mean using a Potion. 300 Pokéyen, gone. His carefully rationed funds were for the tournament and emergencies only. He couldn't afford to waste a single drop on pointless roadside squabbles. His plan was to arrive in Pewter City with Kiba at peak condition without any major injury, and every battle between here and there was a risk he was unwilling to take. He veered off the path, giving the other trainer a wide berth, and kept moving.
He walked for hours. The monotonous crunch of his boots on the path became a hypnotic rhythm. Kiba trotted beside him, a silent, diligent partner. His ears swiveled, tracking every snap of a twig, his nose twitching, deciphering the complex tapestry of scents on the breeze. He was no longer a pet.
He was a sentry.
The sun began to bleed across the western sky, painting the clouds in fiery strokes of orange and crimson. The shadows of the trees grew long and distorted, stretching across the path like grasping claws. A cool wind picked up, carrying the chill of the coming night.
Athan spotted a small clearing off the main path, partially sheltered by a cluster of sturdy oaks. It was as good a place as any.
"This is it for day, Kiba," he said, his voice raspy. He shrugged off the pack, his shoulders screaming in protest.
Setting up his meager camp was a clumsy, frustrating affair. The tarp fought him, and his knots were clumsy, but he eventually rigged a passable lean-to. He gathered dry twigs, his hands clumsy as he arranged them in a small fire pit. It took him several frustrating minutes with the flint and steel before a small, hesitant flame finally caught and grew, pushing back the encroaching darkness.
He spray a repel around the area hoping it would at least keep some of the wild Pokemon away
As the fire cast a circle of warm, dancing light, Athan knew he couldn't just rest. Time was his most precious, non-refundable resource.
"Alright, Kiba. Let's work."
He led Kiba to the center of the clearing. "We need to smooth out your Flame wheel. It's our strongest move, but it's unreliable. Let's try it slow. Just the roll first, then we'll add the fire."
Kiba yipped in understanding, his body tensing with focus. He tucked his head and launched into a roll. He was fast, but there was a slight wobble, a micro-correction he had to make to stay in a straight line.
"Again," Athan commanded. "Tighter. Core stronger."
WHOOSH.
A blur of brown fur shot out from the trees at the edge of the clearing. It moved with startling speed, a vicious chattering sound cutting through the night.
It was a Mankey. Wild, lean, and spoiling for a fight. It landed on all fours, its pig-like snout sniffing the air, its beady eyes locked onto Kiba's kibble.
Kiba immediately spun to face the threat, planting his feet and letting out a deep, rumbling growl that was far too menacing for his size. His Intimidate ability flared, a palpable wave of pressure. The Mankey flinched, its aggression momentarily checked, but its hunger and territorial instincts quickly won out. It bared its teeth and screeched, pounding its fists on the ground.
"Kiba, Ember! Keep it at a distance!" Athan yelled, his heart pounding against his ribs.
Kiba spat a stream of hot embers. The Mankey was shockingly agile, leaping sideways with a fluid, acrobatic motion, the embers singing the grass where it had just been. It charged, a brown and cream streak of fury.
"Bite! Intercept it!"
Kiba met the charge, his own fangs bared. The two Pokémon tumbled into a snarling, chaotic ball of fur and teeth. Athan heard Kiba yelp as the Mankey landed a scratch, its long claws surprisingly sharp. Kiba broke away, a thin line of red on his shoulder.
This was wrong. A head-on brawl was exactly what the wild Fighting-type wanted.
"Back off, Kiba! Flame wheel!" Athan shouted, hoping the power move could end it quickly.
Kiba ignited, launching himself forward in a blazing wheel of fire. But his earlier wobble was still there. Under the pressure of a real battle, it was worse. The attack wasn't a clean, straight line but a slightly erratic spiral. The Mankey, with its wild, unpredictable movements, simply hopped back, letting the attack roar past it. Kiba tumbled out of the move, off-balance and exposed.
The Mankey saw its opening and surged forward.
Athan's mind raced, adrenaline a fire in his veins. The game was gone. The theory was gone. This was real. Kiba was in danger. He couldn't out-brawl it. He couldn't out-speed it. He had to out-think it.
His eyes darted around the clearing. The trees. The pack. The fire.
The fire.
"Kiba, to me! Now!"
Kiba scrambled back, his breath coming in ragged pants. The Mankey pursued, relentless.
"Circle the fire! Keep it between you and the Mankey!"
Kiba obeyed instantly, his training kicking in. He moved to Athan's side, putting the crackling campfire between himself and his opponent. The Mankey skidded to a halt at the edge of the flames, chattering in frustration, the intense heat forcing it to keep its distance. It paced back and forth, looking for an angle.
"Good boy," Athan breathed, his mind clearing. "Now, Ember! Not at the Mankey! At the ground, right in front of it!"
Kiba fired a spray of embers into the dry leaves and grass at the Mankey's feet. They instantly smoldered, and a line of small, hungry flames sprang up, creating a second, wider barrier of fire.
The Mankey shrieked and jumped back, now trapped between the growing flames and the darkness of the woods. It was cornered, not by force, but by strategy.
"Now, Kiba!" Athan's voice was a low, commanding growl. "Stand your ground. Show it your fire."
Kiba planted his paws, inhaled, and let out a torrent of flame not an Ember, but a full-throated, instinctive gout of fire that was closer to a Flamethrower. It wasn't a move he had mastered, just pure, untapped potential unleashed by adrenaline and instinct. The roar of the flames, combined with the crackling fire pit and the advancing line of burning leaves, was too much.
The Mankey's aggression finally broke. With a final, terrified screech, it turned and fled, crashing into the undergrowth and disappearing into the night.
Silence descended upon the clearing, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Athan stood frozen for a moment, his body trembling with leftover adrenaline. He rushed to Kiba's side, pulling a Potion from his pack.
"You okay, buddy? Let me see."
The scratch wasn't deep, but it was bleeding. He sprayed the Potion onto the wound. Kiba flinched at the cold sting but stood still, licking Athan's hand in reassurance.
Athan leaned back against his pack, his heart still hammering. He looked at the used Potion bottle in his hand. Three hundred Pokéyen. Gone. On the first night. To simply drive off a single, common Pokémon.
He looked out at the impenetrable darkness that surrounded their small island of light. The old man's warning, Marco's sneer, his mother's fear they all came crashing down on him.
This was what it meant to be a trainer. Not glory, not adventure. It was a constant, desperate struggle against a world that was bigger, meaner, and far more dangerous than he had ever truly understood.
He pulled out his Pokédex, the screen's glow illuminating his pale, grim face.
Thirteen days. Now, it was twelve. And the mountain was still so very far away.