The beach hadn't changed.
That was the first thing that unsettled me.
The Konkan coast had always been quiet—raw, functional, honest. No resorts. No vendors screaming at tourists. Just fishermen, nets, boats pulled up on sand that remembered more storms than footsteps.
Even now, after everything the world had gone through, it looked the same.
Men waded into the surf with practiced ease.
Boats rocked gently, tethered and patient.
Nets were being checked, repaired, cast.
Like the sea hadn't become home to creatures that could swallow ships.
For a moment—just a moment—I wondered if the reports were exaggerated. If maybe this stretch of coast had been spared. If maybe my grandparents were just… lucky.
I turned slightly toward Grandma, about to ask—
When the water split.
Not gently.
Not naturally.
The sea reared.
A massive shadow surged beneath the surface, displacing water violently as something enormous accelerated toward shore. Waves broke outward, sending spray high into the air.
My blood ran cold.
There was no warning cry.
No time for evacuation.
No chance to calculate trajectory or risk radius.
Instinct took over.
I raised my hand sharply.
"Pidgeot—"
Her wings tensed behind me.
Before I could finish—
Grandma grabbed my wrist.
Her grip was iron.
"Don't," she said.
Not loud.
Not panicked.
Firm.
I froze, shock snapping through me harder than fear.
"What—Ajji, let go, it's a—"
"Look," she said. "At its back."
I hesitated for half a heartbeat—then squinted through the spray.
The creature burst fully from the water.
Blue scales glistening.
Mouth open in a roar that shook the shoreline.
A serpentine body longer than the boats it passed.
Gyarados.
Charging straight toward the beach.
My heart slammed.
Then I saw it.
A figure.
Standing—not clinging—standing on the ridged scales just behind its head. Balanced effortlessly as waves broke against them both.
Bare feet.
Rolled-up trousers.
A familiar posture I'd seen since childhood—calm, slightly forward-leaning, like the sea itself was something to negotiate with.
As the Gyarados tore through the surf and surged closer, the spray cleared just enough for recognition to hit me like a physical blow.
"…Grandpa?"
The word came out broken.
The Gyarados didn't slow as it neared the shallows.
It adjusted.
Its momentum bled off smoothly, tail carving a controlled arc through the water. The final wave crashed against the sand—not violently, but decisively—soaking the feet of fishermen who didn't even flinch.
Because they already knew.
The Gyarados bent forward partially, head lowering a little, water cascading down its scales like a curtain.
And my grandfather stepped forward.
Onto the sand.
Calm as if he'd just disembarked a ferry.
The Gyarados lowered its head slightly behind him, massive form coiling but still—eyes sharp, alert, respectful.
I stood there, stunned into silence.
Around us, the fishermen resumed their work.
One man laughed. Another shouted something about the tide being late today. A boy waved briefly at the Gyarados before being scolded to focus on the nets.
No fear.
No chaos.
Just routine.
Grandpa looked up, spotted me—and smiled.
"Aakash," he called out. "You're here."
That did it.
The absurdity. The normalcy. The impossible reality colliding with everything I'd built systems and laws to contain.
I walked forward slowly, sand crunching under my boots, eyes never leaving the Gyarados.
"You…" I started, then stopped. Rethought. Tried again.
"You ride a Gyarados."
Grandpa chuckled, rolling his shoulders like he'd just finished a long walk.
"Ride?" he said. "No, no. That makes it sound like I own him."
He turned slightly and placed a hand against the Gyarados' scale—gentle, familiar.
"We just travel together."
The Gyarados let out a low rumble—not a roar.
Content.
I swallowed.
My systems.
My laws.
My registrations.
My carefully planned cohabitation strategies.
All of them suddenly felt… late.
Grandma stepped up beside me.
"Told you not to be impulsive," she said smugly.
I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to breathe.
"How long," I asked quietly, "has this been happening?"
Grandpa looked at the sea.
Then back at me.
"Long enough," he said, "that if we hadn't done it this way—there wouldn't be fishermen here anymore."
The weight of that settled heavily in my chest.
I glanced again at the Gyarados.
Not raging.
Not territorial.
Not hostile.
Protective.
Integrated.
Chosen.
And for the first time since the Merge, I realized something uncomfortable and profound—
Some people hadn't waited for permission.
They'd simply done what needed to be done.
And somehow…
They'd done it right.
"Grandpa how did you get gyarados? and why are you at sea it's dangerous. there shouldn't be any fishing going on here."
Grandpa waved a hand dismissively as if I'd just asked whether the tea was hot.
"Stop rambling," he said. "You sound like your father."
I opened my mouth—then closed it.
He turned toward the sea, eyes narrowing slightly, not in concern but in calculation.
"You don't need to worry," he continued calmly. "At least the coasts near Malvan aren't in danger anymore."
I stared at him. "That's a very big claim."
He snorted. "Only if you don't know what you're doing."
Then he glanced back at me. "And as for fishing—most of my fishermen buddies already have partners now."
That stopped me cold.
"…Partners?"
He nodded, counting on his fingers casually.
"Most got Poliwag. Good swimmers. Good sense for currents."
"Some got Wingull—spotters. Weather warnings."
"One fellow even got a Squirtle."
I blinked. "A civilian has a Squirtle?"
Grandpa shrugged. "He didn't keep it. Gave it to his son. Boy just finished one of those camps of yours."
That… actually made sense.
"We'll talk more later," Grandpa said, already turning away. "Watch first. Talking can wait."
He raised his hand.
The Gyarados behind him straightened.
Then it roared.
Not in anger.
In command.
The sea answered.
The surface churned violently as shapes surged upward. Nets rose from the water—heavy, straining, alive with motion. Poliwag popped up first, helping guide the nets from below. Goldeen followed, horns glinting in the sunlight as they nudged and lifted with practiced coordination.
Fishermen rushed forward immediately.
They waded into the surf, gripping the thick ropes, muscles straining as they pulled together. Pokémon and humans side by side, hauling the nets inch by inch toward shore.
When the nets finally collapsed onto the sand, men moved quickly, opening them with practiced hands.
Fish spilled out—silver and thrashing.
Then I noticed the others.
Magikarp.
Feebas.
A couple of wild Poliwag.
Two young Goldeen.
Caught accidentally.
I stiffened instinctively.
Grandpa noticed.
"Nets are made of Spinarak web and Bulbasaur vines," he explained calmly. "Strong enough to hold. Soft enough not to injure."
The fishermen gathered the stray Pokémon carefully and placed them in a loose line on the wet sand.
In front of the Gyarados.
The massive Pokémon leaned forward.
Its shadow swallowed them.
I checked instinctively—system overlay flickering in my vision.
All of them.
Below level 10.
Children, by Pokémon standards.
The Gyarados let out a low, rumbling roar.
Not furious.
Displeased.
Like a parent catching kids somewhere they shouldn't be.
The smaller Pokémon flinched.
Then—
With zero ceremony—
The Gyarados swung its tail.
WHOOOOM.
A clean, controlled arc.
The Pokémon were launched—not slammed, not crushed—flung in a wide trajectory back into the sea. They splashed down far beyond the breakers, tumbling but unharmed, quickly disappearing beneath the waves.
Silence followed.
Then the sea settled.
Fishermen returned to sorting their catch.
Poliwag slipped back into the water.
Goldeen flicked their tails and vanished.
Like this was just another workday.
I stood there, staring.
"…You didn't even ask them if they wanted to stay," I muttered.
Grandpa finally looked at me again.
"They're too young," he said simply. "Sea's big. Plenty of time to choose later."
I swallowed.
My laws.
My systems.
My registrations.
All necessary.
All important.
But this?
This was lived-in balance.
Earned trust.
Daily discipline.
Respect enforced without cruelty.
Grandpa clapped a hand on my shoulder, rough and warm.
"You build rules for a country," he said. "Good. Someone has to."
Then he nodded toward the fishermen, the Pokémon, the calm sea.
"We just make sure life keeps working."
For the first time since arriving—
I didn't have an argument.
Only a quiet, humbling realization:
Some foundations didn't come from policy.
They came from people who'd already learned how to listen to the world—long before it learned how to roar.
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