By the time Albert turned three, the orphanage could no longer contain him.
Its tiny library, barely more than a shelf of outdated books and borrowed manuals, had been emptied a week ago. He had devoured them all: children's storybooks, arithmetic primers, even the dusty field guide to Evergreen Island's common Pokémon.
Where the other children stumbled over letters, Albert recited passages. Where they struggled with numbers, he was already sketching evolutionary charts.
He had a secret advantage: a flawless memory.
Every word, every illustration, every stray note stuck in his mind the instant he saw it. Combined with his budding psychic powers, he could flip through a book in hours and recall it perfectly afterward. What took others weeks to learn, Albert mastered in a day.
"Too smart for this place," Sister Maribel muttered one evening, watching Albert trace a Seedot's growth cycle while the other toddlers toppled block towers. "The boy needs more than we can give."
And so, before most children his age were steady on their feet, Albert was sent to preschool in Smeltwick City.
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The difference was immediate.
Where the orphanage had offered scraps, the preschool brimmed with resources: colorful handbooks, illustrated anatomy guides, charts of ecosystems, primers on Pokémon breeding and care. For most children, they were toys. For Albert, they were stepping stones.
He absorbed everything. Pokémon diets and which berries they particularly liked. How habitats shaped a species' instincts. He filled page after page of his notebooks with observations far beyond his years.
Most children saw a Poochyena and a Zigzagoon and thought "dog" and "raccoon." Albert already explained to his teachers why one thrived in the tall grasses while the other scavenged near settlements.
And while the other children rested after a long day, Albert rarely slept. Instead, he discovered meditation.
Closing his eyes, quieting his breathing, and focusing on the ebb and flow of his psychic energy—it refreshed him as deeply as sleep, while at the same time sharpening his control.
At first, it was just an experiment. However, after a little more experience, it became his nightly ritual.
With every passing day, his psychic senses grew steadier, more precise.
Levitation came with less effort. Telepathy no longer flickered but carried intent clearly. His powers grew with him, strengthening his mind as well as his body.
The teachers whispered. The students stared. But Albert welcomed it.
He wanted to stand apart—not only for power, but for something greater: the chance to push the boundaries of knowledge.
In this world, knowledge was more than power. It was a discovery. It was the key to research that could change how trainers, breeders, and the world understood Pokémon.
And for Albert, it was also preparation—laying the groundwork for his own journey as a trainer.
So he raised his hand in class when no one else dared. He spoke when others stayed silent.
He welcomed being called strange, different, even intimidating. Every glance of awe from a teacher, every note scribbled about his brilliance, was another step toward being noticed by the right people—mentors, leaders, the very individuals who shaped the Pokémon world.
His favorite corner of the preschool library was the section on breeding. Simplified illustrations of Pokémon families, diagrams of eggs reduced to friendly symbols—childish, yes, but behind them, Albert sensed enormous depth waiting to be unlocked.
If this was what children learned at three, then he hungered to see what researchers and professors knew.
One night, sitting cross-legged in meditation, faint purple light flickering in his eyes, Albert whispered to himself:
This is only the beginning. With knowledge and discipline, I'll research, discover, and prepare. One day, I'll be a trainer who understands more than anyone else.