After a whole night of puzzling, Ethan still couldn't figure out where the energy in his body was going. He could only chalk it up to his "Goldfinger."
He had some guesses about that Goldfinger already—mysterious, a little temperamental—but nothing more.
The good news: if he kept nibbling on Abra's cognitive-boost Energy Cubes, he might eventually develop enough to use psychic powers.
That night he ate another fingernail-sized chip of the cube and felt a distinct fullness wash through him.
Compared to Abra downing an entire cube a day, Ethan's personal "dose" was just a sliver. That actually calmed him—felt a bit more human that way, less likely to derail any… ahem… major life plans.
(Though, yes—Gardevoirs are stunning.…Maybe not human after all?Hi, I'm Ethan, certified Super-Cute (Dream)-Sheng!)
Abra had said it didn't care if its trainer had ESP; no human mind matched an Alakazam line anyway. Still, if Ethan could awaken it, even better. Once Abra realized Ethan might have potential, it tried teaching him meditation.
Ethan, hooked by the idea of teleporting, happily agreed.
They sat cross-legged on the bed all night. By dawn, Ethan's eye bags were criminal. Houndour stared at him like he'd lost it.
He never found the "focus place." In the games, Calm Mind looked like a drop of water rippling a pond; Abra's real guidance was more like a dense telekinetic presence floating in void. Ethan tried both mental images—neither clicked.
Abra didn't have a magic fix either. If Ethan couldn't "set" his mind somewhere, there was no meditating.
He splashed cold water on his face, shelved meditation for now, and went jogging with Houndour. After breakfast he grabbed his hand-lettered "Antiques Bought" sign and headed out again.
Today's target: the neighboring village. If anyone there brought out another ancient oddity like that broken Jade Pig-Dragon, and he could afford it, he'd strike gold (well, Ancient Energy).
By sundown he'd re-learned how crafty rural folks could be.
Some villagers assumed he was trying to take advantage of them, so they only brought a token handful of trinkets while hoarding their "real" pieces for some future big payday.
Others dumped everything at once—mostly chipped, rusted, worm-eaten stuff—and still tried to haggle him sky-high.
Ethan didn't bother arguing. He quoted a flat price: take it or leave it.
There were no "birthmark-pings" today—just small, steady profits—not worth bleeding for.
Closing time tally: a bit over a hundred late-dynasty cash coins, eight shards of porcelain, a rusty bronze instrument, a rotten little wooden box…
And the day's MVP: a limestone pig trough a village kid lugged in.
The thing was over 300 years old, handed down forever—a cradle for generations of piglets. It reeked of history and, apparently, Ancient Energy.
An ordinary object like that should've been worth maybe 3 points. This trough pumped out 300.
After a few days of doing this, Ethan had started to notice rules:
Circulating coins—barely cherished, barely remembered—gather almost no sentiment. Call it 1 point per century. Even a Tang-era Kaiyuan Tongbao only coughed up 13 points for its ~1,300 years.
Treasured heirlooms, passed down with meaning, hum at roughly 1 point per year. (Hello, gloriously ugly pig trough.)
Buried antiquities—pendants, jade relics—are chaotic. Five thousand years old? Maybe. Energy yield? All over the map. Same for the random bronze mirrors and hairpins: some "1 point per 10 years," some "1 per 20," zero consistency.
Bottom line: coins by volume were the best cost-to-energy grind. Enough quantity becomes quality.
He couldn't help fantasizing: if he dove into a genuine imperial tomb, wouldn't the energy haul hit tens of thousands? Royal artifacts supercharged by "mandate of heaven," destiny, whatever you called it?
Ancient history even taught that the tyrant Di Xin once "banked" ancient energy for a thousand-year Nine-Tailed Beast. Textbook stuff. Just… no details, and modern forums tiptoed around ancient Pokémon. Big taboo.
What about temples then—stone idols worshiped for centuries? Family ancestral halls? Old wells? True heirlooms? All that collective will—wouldn't it crystallize into power?
He was getting greedy.
For now, those were just thoughts. In stories from the other world, ancient mausoleums were guarded by millennia-old zombies. Here? Swap in Dhelmise, Cofagrigus, Lampent, Runerigus, Spiritomb—not exactly beginner-friendly. Going in now would be suicide.
Houndour loped ahead, glanced back at Ethan's squinty eyes and sly smile, and sighed. It dipped behind the cart and started pushing with its head so Ethan didn't have to.
Nightly count: 550 Ancient Energy. About one-eighth of day one's windfall. Expected—strangers weren't as trusting, and the Jade Pig-Dragon had made yesterday a fluke.
He marked the remaining nearby villages on his map—he'd hit each once and move on. These trickles could keep him afloat for a bit, but he'd need a long-term pipeline soon.
Once the starter egg was secured from the dojo, he'd head into the city and sniff around. Competition would be fierce—antique markets were full of sharks—but he'd try anyway. He'd also heard (from Zhao) about a special archaeological squad hunting Mega Stones. If they weren't entirely official… well. Opportunities.
Resolved, he flopped onto the bed.
Bang. A Poké Ball popped. Ethan's heart skipped.
"You idiot," Abra scolded. "Stop wasting time. Life is short. Sleep when you're dead. Up. Meditate."
…
Next morning, the eye bags were even darker. Still no mental "anchor," just a night of drowsy half-sleep. His body ached like Houndour had used him as a trampoline.
Cold water. Jog. Breakfast. Cart. Houndour. Abra (sleeping in the ball). Repeat.
Now that Abra knew it didn't need to train yet, it spent all six free hours supervising Ethan's meditation. (Tough supervisor, that one.)
Today's village had been founded by refugees a century ago. Expectations: low.
He was right. A few promising family items existed—brushes, genealogies, ancestral tablets—that nearly made him drool, but no one would part with them.
He did score one old inkstone from a young guy—unmarked, but clearly special, used by generations of students. It yielded 340 points; with a few other scraps, the day barely hit 500.
Day three, he pushed out five or six kilometers farther. Outsider vibes were strong; people clammed up. Scattered buys totaled 260.
There was better stuff in there—he could feel it—but he wasn't about to barge into homes and pry heirlooms loose.
That night, just as he forced himself back into "meditation," the phone rang. The caller ID made him grin.
Starter Day was here.
"Ethan, the Pokémon eggs arrive tomorrow night," said Mr. Zhang (the Fire lead) in his brisk, steady tone. "Pickup is the day after. Go early. Even if most folks can't judge eggs, more choices means better odds. You might spot something unusual."
He was about to hang up. Ethan hurriedly stopped him.
"Teacher Zhang, you never told me where pickup is."
Silence. A beat of awkwardness.
"…I didn't?" Zhang asked, syllables heavy with accusation.
"You did, and I forgot," Ethan surrendered. "Please repeat."
He could be flexible when Scorbunny (Libero) was on the line.
"Since the batch was brought in by the Yushi Dojo, all Gen-8 starter eggs will be distributed there. Doors at 8:00 AM the day after tomorrow. Bring your number—don't be late."
"Got it. Thanks, teacher. I'll come back with a Libero Scorbunny—count on it!"
"Heh. Big talk. When term starts, I'm testing your progress. If it's not up to my standards, I'll let my Blaziken 'coach' you for a few days."
"Cough—uh—Vice-Lead Mr. Huang is pinging me. Talk later!"
The image of that grumpy old Blaze-chicken materializing behind him was enough to make Ethan shiver. He bailed.
On the other end, Zhang Yi stroked his chin, expression tightening.
"Even if Huang says he's out of the race, who knows what his mentor is plotting. No—better be safe. Tomorrow I'll 'drop by' the old man's place and keep him busy."
A Poké Ball on his desk trembled, clearly excited by the word battle.