Orion's Point of View
The photoshoot of doom ended..... Eventually anyway.
Mom eventually released me from my fuzzy prison, though not before capturing approximately seven hundred and forty-three images of my "precious little face" in various poses. She'd made me sit with my Pyroar plush. Stand with my Dragonite. "Cuddle" with my Garchomp while she made explosion sounds with her mouth.
I maintained my dignity throughout the experience....Mostly anyway.
But as mortifying as the onesie incident was, it wasn't the only indignity I've had to endure in this body. Oh no. There's something else. Something that threatens my carefully constructed composure on a daily basis.
My hair.
Unlike my mothers my hair is black and woven through it, like threads of royalty in a commoner's cloak, are streaks of deep purple. The same shade as Mom's eyes, actually. She noticed it the moment I was born and has been obsessed over it ever since.
"You have such beautiful hair," she'd whisper sometimes, running her fingers through the strands while I pretended not to melt. "My little masterpiece."
And here's where the problem comes in.
When she scratches my scalp? When she brushes my hair with that soft bristle brush she bought specifically for me? When she cards her fingers through the strands during our evening baths?
I melt.
Not metaphorically. I literally go boneless, my eyes half-close, and a sound escapes my throat that I refuse to acknowledge as a purr. A purr! Like some kind of content feline Pokémon! It's humiliating. I've spent three thousand years training in my mind, building mental fortresses, mastering weapons and a simple head scratch reduces me to a puddle of goo.
The first time it happened, Mom froze mid-motion. Her eyes went wide, then softer than I'd ever seen them.
"Well, well, well," she'd murmured, a smile creeping across her face. "What do we have here? Is my little cub a secret Litleo?"
I'd tried to deny it. Tried to muster some indignation, some protest. But she'd kept scratching, kept brushing, and all that came out was more—
Purring.
It was the lowest moment of my second life.
And of course, because the universe hates me, she immediately weaponized this knowledge.
From that day forward, I became "her little Litleo" with alarming frequency. It joined "cub" as her primary nickname for me, and honestly? Cub was bad enough. But Litleo? After the onesie incident? After the purring discovery?
I may never escape this.
The worst part came about a week after she discovered my shameful secret. I was wearing the Litleo onesie—again, because apparently it's her favorite—and she was examining it with that look in her eye. That terrible, creative look that spelled doom for my dignity.
"Hmm," she'd said, turning the hood over in her hands. "The little mane is cute, but..."
She disappeared into her room and returned with scissors.
I backed away immediately. "Mama? Mama, no. What are you doing?"
"Don't worry, baby," she cooed, advancing with the gentle inexorability of a predator. "Mommy's just going to make a small improvement."
"IMPROVEMENT? MAMA, THOSE ARE SCISSORS—"
She snipped.
The little fabric Mohawk on the Litleo hood fell away, replaced by a simple opening that gave her direct access to... my head.
The source of my shame and bliss.
"There," she announced, holding up her handiwork. "Now Mommy can get to your hair whenever she wants."
(Image here)
I stared at her in horror.
She just smiled and pulled me into her lap for our nightly movie night.
I don't remember what we watched that evening. Because for the entire duration of whatever film played, Mom's fingers were in my hair. Scratching. Brushing. Twirling the purple strands around her fingers while I fought a losing battle against my own biology.
I was purred the whole time.
The whole. Time!!!!
By the end of the movie, I was a boneless heap in her lap, barely conscious, and utterly defeated. Mom pressed a kiss to my forehead and whispered, "Goodnight, my little Litleo," with such genuine affection that I couldn't even be mad at her.
Well. I could be a little mad. But mostly I just resigned to my fate.
---
But life isn't all hair-related humiliation. There have been other developments too. Important ones.
Like the revelation about Mom's Pokémon.
Anyway, another development was that I found out Mom has Pokémon of her own. I'd been curious for a while—she'd mentioned training in the past, little comments here and there, but never anything concrete. So one evening, while she was brushing my hair (and I was valiantly resisting the purring response), I finally asked.
"Mama," I'd said, looking up at her with my best innocent expression. "You have Pokémon?"
She'd paused, the brush hovering mid-stroke. "I do, baby. Why do you ask?"
"Want meet them." I'd tilted my head, letting the purple streaks catch the light. "Can I?"
Her expression had softened, but something else flickered there too. Caution, maybe. Or protectiveness.
"Not yet, my cub." She'd set the brush aside and pulled me into her lap, her arms wrapping around me in that way that always made me feel safe. "My Pokémon are very, very strong. They've been with me for a long time, and they've trained hard to get where they are."
She'd pressed a kiss to my forehead, her voice turning gentle but firm. "You need to hit your growth spurt first. When you're two years old, and you've grown a little more, then you can meet them. It'll be safer that way."
I'd wanted to argue. Every instinct I had wanted to push, to ask more questions, to demand answers. But I'd looked at her face—at the genuine concern in her eyes, the way her arms tightened around me like she was already imagining something going wrong—and the protest died in my throat.
So I'd just sighed, the sound heavy and dramatic in my small body, and nodded. "Okay, Mama."
She'd stared at me for a moment, then her face had split into that warm, brilliant smile I loved so much. A chuckle had bubbled up from her chest, light and musical.
"You are definitely my child," she'd said, shaking her head. "You're just as dramatic as I am."
I hadn't denied it. How could I? I'd spent three thousand years in isolation, building mind palaces and training with phantom weapons. If I'd learned anything about myself in all that time, it was that I had a flair for the theatrical when the mood struck me.
She'd carried me to my room after that, settling me into the Arbok crib with practiced ease. The carved snake head loomed above me, its painted eyes glinting in the dim light, and I'd found myself grateful for its silent presence. It felt like a guardian. Like something watching over me while I slept.
Mom had pulled the blanket up to my chin, tucked it around my shoulders, and leaned down to press a kiss to my forehead.
"Goodnight, my little Litleo," she'd whispered.
"Night, Mama."
She'd smiled, brushed the hair back from my face one last time, and then she was gone. The door clicked shut behind her, the sound soft but final, and the room had settled into the quiet hum of evening.
I sat up in my crib as soon as the door closed.
The motion was slow and careful—I'd learned the hard way that moving too fast in this tiny body meant toppling over like a poorly stacked pile of bricks. But I'd had practice. Four months of practice, to be exact. Enough to know exactly how to shift my weight, how to brace my small hands against the mattress, how to pull myself upright without making a sound.
The Arbok head watched me from above, its painted eyes gleaming in the darkness. I didn't mind it anymore. If anything, I found its silent presence comforting. Like a guardian keeping watch while I did what I needed to do.
I settled into a cross-legged position, the blankets pooling around my legs. My knees stuck out at odd angles—this body was still so small, still so awkward—but I'd grown used to the discomfort. I closed my eyes and let my breathing slow.
In. Out. In. Out.
The rhythm came easily now. It hadn't at first. When I'd started this four months ago, right after Mom and I watched the Lucario movie, my baby lungs had rebelled against the idea of controlled breathing. My mind had been willing, but my body hadn't known what to do.
Now it was different. Now the breathing came naturally, the same way it had in the void.
Funnily enough, my preferred method of meditating was quite similar to Lucario's. The way he sat in the movie, he stayed perfectly still, utterly focused, energy pooling around him like water—it had felt familiar the moment I saw it. I'd used that same posture for millennia. My back straight. My Hands resting on my knees and my mind clearing like mist burning away in morning light.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized that this similarity between me and Lucarios meditating style was the perfect alibi.
If Mama ever caught me meditating in my room, I'd just tell her I wanted to be like Lucario. Look cool. Look strong. Then hit her with my version puppy eyes, then let her play with my hair, and boom. I am cott free.
That is the simplest plan I got.
Anyway. Back to the task at hand.
I quickly emptied my thoughts, and let the world fall away, while I slipped into my mindscape. The familiar room materialized around me—cozy, warm, just the way I'd left it. I crossed to the couch and sank into the cushions, letting out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding.
Then the system screen flickered to life.
[System Notification]
[Host. Thanks to you reaching the age of one and a half years old, you have unlocked the following information:]
[– Pokémon Trainer Ranks]
[– Pokémon Potential Ranks]
[– Pokémon Ranks]
I sat up a little straighter.
"Now this... interesting."
My eyes scanned the display. So these are the three ways to measure strength in this world.
"System," I said, keeping my voice low even though no one could hear me here. "Give me the information for the Pokémon Ranks first. I want know how strong Pokémon can be in this world."
[Of course, Host. Here is the information requested.]
---
Ranks of Pokémon
1. Baby Pokémon
Fresh into world. Fragile. No power yet—just instinct and feeling. Harmless but... potential sleeping.
2. Beginner / Common Pokémon
Most wild Pokémon here. First partners for new trainers. Weak alone but... grow fast with right hands.
3. Uncommon Pokémon
Not ordinary anymore. Stand ground in real fights. Show personality. Show will.
4. Rare Pokémon
Power... real now. Strong potential or pushed past limits. Same species can feel... different. Very different.
5. Elemental Pokémon
Power change world now. Fire burn land. Thunder shake sky. Water move earth. They not just fight. They... reshape.
6. Pseudo King Pokémon
Sharp. Fast. Battle-hard. Not fight with instinct—fight with purpose. Every move mean something.
7. King Tier
Dominance. Pure. Presence alone make others hesitate. This where... true authority start.
8. Pseudo-Champion
Edge of something bigger. Power surge. Break past ceiling. One step from... legendary.
9. Champion Tier
Define eras. Bond absolute. Power perfect. Facing one not battle—it... test. Of everything.
10. Master Tier
Power... almost too much. Walk beside best trainers in world. Presence decide fight before it start.
11. God Tier
No words for this. Not follow rules—they are rules. Time. Space. Reality. All bend. Standing before them need... unshakable will.
---
I stared at the screen.
My heart—my tiny, one-and-a-half-year-old heart—pounded in my chest.
"This..." I breathed. "This interesting. Very interesting."
In the anime, Pokémon were strong. This however was completely different. Elemental Pokémon reshaping terrain. King Tier making opponents hesitate just by standing there. Master Tier bordering on catastrophic.
And God Tier?
I thought of Arceus. Of Dialga and Palkia. Of Giratina in the Distortion World.
This world wasn't holding back.
A grin spread across my face—wide and sharp and hungry.
"I can't wait."
I could feel it already. The fire. The need.
Yeah.
I really couldn't wait.
I forced myself to calm down. Breathe. Focus. There would be time for excitement later. Right now, I needed more information.
"System," I said, settling back into the couch. "Give me Trainer Ranks I think it would be quite."
The screen flickered.
[Processing order...]
[Order accepted..... here the information requested by my wonderful Host~]
The screen's words lingered in the air, that little tilde at the end practically winking at me.
I raised an eyebrow at it.
"My wonderful Host~?"
I stared at the floating text, waiting for a correction, a retraction, anything. The screen remained stubbornly unchanged.
This system had been straightforward ten months ago. Professional. Maybe a little dry, but that was fine. I didn't need my metaphysical life support system to have personality. I needed it to give me information and not embarrass me in front of my mother.
Now it was throwing around "my wonderful Host" like we were old friends. Or something else entirely.
"This wasn't your vibe ten months ago," I said slowly. "What changed?"
[Maybe the Host has simply grown more wonderful over time~]
My eye twitched.
That wasn't a real answer. That was a flirt. From my system. The thing living in my soul that was supposed to help me navigate this world without dying a horrible death.
I had a bad feeling about this. The kind of bad feeling that settled deep in my bones and whispered this is going to be a problem for the rest of your life.
"You're going to be a pain in my ass, aren't you?" I muttered.
[Maybe~]
I pinched the bridge of my nose. It didn't help me much I was in my mindscape, so I wasn't actually feeling the pinch. But the principle mattered.
"Just give me the trainer ranks."
The screen flickered, and the teasing energy in the air seemed to settle into something more professional. Thank Arceus.
---
Ranks of Trainers:
1. Rookie Trainer
Newbies. Might not even have a Pokémon yet. Everyone starts somewhere.
2. Novice Trainer
These folks passed their basics. Got a certificate. Probably entered a Rookie Tournament.
3. Intermediate Trainer
Required: Three Rare-ranked Pokémon. That's when people start taking you seriously.
4. Elemental Trainer
At least one Elemental-ranked Pokémon. You're not just battling—you're commanding power.
5. Master Trainer
Own one Pseudo-King-ranked Pokémon and suddenly, your name gets remembered.
6. Pseudo-Elite Trainer
Train a King-ranked Pokémon, and the world starts watching.
7. Elite Trainer
Only those whose entire team is made up of King-ranked Pokémon. These are the real contenders.
8. Pseudo-Champion
Needs at least one Pseudo-Champion-ranked Pokémon. Elite but not quite top-tier—yet.
9. Champion
To earn this, you need at least one Champion-ranked Pokémon and win the regional title.
10. Pseudo-Master
More than one Champion title. Multi-region domination. Your name becomes legend.
11. Pokémon Master
One of a kind. Requires eight Champion titles and defeating the current Pokémon Master.
---
I read through the list twice, letting the information settle.
The progression was clear. Brutal, even. Rookie to Novice was simple enough—basics, certificate, maybe a tournament. But Intermediate required three Rare-ranked Pokémon. That wasn't just showing up. That was putting in work.
And beyond that? Elemental. Master. Elite. Each tier demanding more power, more dedication, more proof that you belonged there.
But what caught my attention wasn't just the requirements. It was what the system didn't say.
Benefits.
There had to be benefits. Resources, access, funding—things that made higher ranks worth chasing beyond simple pride. If the world was structured like this, if everyone was climbing the same ladder, then the ones at the top were getting something the ones at the bottom weren't.
Money, Land, Rare Pokémon, Training facilities and Political influence. Heck, it was probably all of the above and more.
I leaned back against the couch cushions, my small legs dangling over the edge.
"Once I become a trainer," I said slowly, thinking out loud, "raising my rank needs to be one of my biggest priorities."
"The higher my rank, the more resources I can get. Materials, Information, Probably access to places and Pokémon that lower ranks can't touch." I tapped my fingers against my knee. "I still lack a lot of information about this world, but that much I'm sure of."
It was the same logic as any structured system. Prove you could handle the basics, and they'd trust you with more. Prove you could handle that, and the door opened wider and you could get better opportunity's.
I will need resources. There was no way around that fact but that's a problem for another day.
"Alright." I straightened up. "Pokémon potential next. What determines how far a Pokémon can go?"
The screen shifted again.
---
Potential of Pokémon:
1. White – (Low)
2. Blue – (Low Prime)
3. Green – (Normal)
4. Orange – (Normal Prime)
5. Red – (Superior )
6. Purple – (Superior Prime)
7. Crimson Gold – (Monstrous)
8. Black – (Monstrous Prime)
9. Void – (Divine)
---
I studied the list, my mind already working through the implications.
"The Potential of a Pokemon determines its growth path and how strong they can ultimately become." I nodded at this slowly. "It makes sense. A Magikarp with White potential probably isn't becoming a world-breaker no matter how hard it trains. But a Gible with Crimson Gold or higher?"
I let the thought hang in the air for a little bit.
That said... a Pokémon's potential wasn't everything.
I'd learned that lesson well. Raw talent meant nothing without one own will. Without the refusal to break. Without the stubborn, stupid, magnificent determination to keep going when everything said you should stop.
I'd take a Green potential Pokémon that never backed down over a Purple potential that folded the first time things got hard.
"I'll aim for high potential when I can. But if I find a Pokémon with low potential that has the heart to fight for what it wants? That won't bow to anything or anyone?" My voice hardened, and somewhere deep in my chest, something ancient and warm stirred. "I won't care about its potential. I won't care about what fate or this world says it should be. It will becomes mine. And we will destroy its fate. We will make it strong enough to defy anyone even the heavens if I need to."
My words hung in the air, heavier than I'd expected them to be.
I let out a breath and shook off the intensity. "Alright. Information's good, but I've got actual work to do. It's about time I start meditating properly and see if I have the potential to get psychic or aura powers in the future."
I straightened my back, slowed my breathing, and let everything else fade. As I did this my mind's cape began to blur until it vanished completely.
When I opened my eyes again, I wasn't in my mindscape anymore.
I was in a forest that stretched endlessly around me, it felt ancient and alive. There where towering trees that pulsed with quiet energy, light drifting through their leaves like something I was not ment to see. The ground beneath me felt warm in a way that sank deeper than anything physical.
Then I felt it.
A presence that felt vast and welcoming me as if I was its child.
My breath caught as a strange warmth brushed against me, it was gentle but overwhelming, like something far beyond me had taken notice of my existence. For a single moment, it lingered around me as if accessing me and then everything shattered making me open my eyes back in the real word.
The system flickered into existence soon after.
⸻
[System Notification]
[Host, congratulations.]
[You have been blessed.]
⸻
"...Blessed?" I frowned. I hadn't done anything. No trial, no achievement—nothing that justified that word. "Explain please."
⸻
[The Host has been recognized by the Viridian Forest.]
[The Host has received the Blessing of Viridian.]
[A rare and prestigious accomplishment!!!]
[You should feel very honored, Master~]
⸻
"I'm ignoring the 'Master' part," I muttered, already thinking. Viridian Forest... the moment the name registered, everything clicked. A memory surfaced—soft green light, gentle hands, Pokémon being healed.
"...Yellow."
If this blessing was even remotely similar to what she had, then this wasn't just useful—it was a massive advantage. Healing Pokémon, strengthening them, understanding them without needing to rely entirely on a Pokémon Center... this could change everything for my future as a trainer.
Still, something about it bothered me. I had done nothing to earn this. My eyes narrowed slightly at the system, but as expected, it offered no further explanation. I exhaled and pushed the thought aside for now. I could question it later. What mattered was what I could do with it.
I closed my eyes again and returned to my breathing. This time, I searched for that warmth—and found it almost immediately. Faint, but unmistakable, like a current flowing just beneath the surface. A small smile formed on my face as I focused on it, reaching out with that deeper part of myself. The energy responded without resistance, flowing into me in a steady, gentle stream with every breath.
It spread through me slowly, it felt warm and alive, settling into my body as if it belonged there. I didn't rush it. Instead, I focused on understanding it, feeling how it moved, how it reacted. This wasn't just something to absorb—it was something to learn. And if this blessing was as important as I thought it was, then mastering it would be one of the most important steps in my development.