The rain came in bursts.
It wasn't heavy—just enough to slick the leaves and turn the forest floor into a patchwork of glistening dirt and mud. Orion knelt beside the fire pit under a hastily pitched tarp, stirring the last of their dried root mash into a dented tin pot. Steam rose, caught the light, and twisted away into the breeze.
Across the clearing, Turtwig stood at the edge of the ring, unmoving, raindrops clinging to the curve of his shell. He blinked slowly, methodically, like the rain didn't matter.
Tyrunt pawed at the dirt behind him, shifting impatiently.
They were rested.
Well-fed.
It was time to push harder.
Orion stood and crossed into the ring, rain trailing from his sleeves. He tapped his stick against the stone in the center.
"Turtwig, you're leading today."
Turtwig turned toward him at once.
"You've learned to bite. You've learned to drain. And you've taken hits. But you've never had to fight something built to crack your shell wide open."
He pointed toward the southern woods.
"We're going hunting."
It took them just under an hour to find the right opponent.
A Rufflet, half-buried in a thicket, fluff soaked with water but wings sharp and alert. Its eyes met Orion's, and it flared its feathers wide—challenge accepted.
"Yours," Orion said.
Turtwig stepped into the clearing, leaf twitching.
The Rufflet came fast—wings tucked, talons forward.
Turtwig didn't dodge.
The impact was clean and brutal—beak slamming into the front of his shell.
Orion stepped forward, heart rising—
—but Turtwig didn't flinch.
The sound of the hit echoed.
And that was all.
The bird reeled back, beak scraped and trembling. Turtwig stood motionless, then lowered his head and charged, slamming into Rufflet's chest with a full-body Tackle.
The bird squawked and scrambled away.
Shell Armor.
Orion's brain lit up.
He knew the theory, of course: Shell Armor—an ability that nullified critical hits by diffusing damage across the shell's surface. It didn't make the attack lighter. It just made it ineffective.
The Rufflet screamed and launched again.
This time, Turtwig bit.
No leaf. No drain. Just teeth.
Orion saw the flash—dark energy for a split second—right before Rufflet shrieked and flew off, tail dragging in the underbrush.
Turtwig stood in the rain, jaw tight, mud sliding down his legs.
Orion walked forward slowly.
"You just tanked a predator's dive with your face."
Turtwig didn't respond.
But he looked proud.
And Orion felt it like a surge behind his ribs.
Tyrunt's drills that day were vicious.
The rain soaked his tail. Made his claws slip. But that didn't stop him.
Orion set up a training dummy made from tree bark and rope—suspended from a branch by heavy twine. It swung like a threat. He paced around it, tapping the wood with his stick.
"Today we learn to shift mid-strike. You've got two weapons now. Use them."
Tyrunt lowered his body and coiled.
Orion struck the dummy to send it swinging.
Tyrunt lunged with Dragon Tail—the now-familiar twist, the full-body arc.
But at the last second, Orion shouted: "Switch!"
Tyrunt hesitated—then roared and twisted his hips, snatching a rock from the ground with his tail and flinging it straight into the dummy's center.
The rope snapped.
The dummy dropped.
Orion blinked.
"Was that instinct or decision?"
Tyrunt growled and stepped forward, crunching the bark beneath his claws.
"I'll take it."
They ran it again. And again. Ten more repetitions. Sometimes Dragon Tail connected. Sometimes the Rock Throw sailed wide.
But twice—only twice—the switch worked seamlessly.
That was enough.
By late afternoon, Orion was soaked to the bone and covered in dirt. He sat under the tarp, watching steam rise from Turtwig's shell as the Pokémon lay curled beside the fire.
Tyrunt paced outside, unable to stop moving, tail still twitching from the adrenaline of the last hit.
Orion looked down at his hands.
They were calloused now.
Not just from tools. From training. From commanding.
He wasn't asking these Pokémon to follow anymore.
He was forging them.
There was a difference.
And when Tyrunt finally lay down for the night, and Turtwig finally closed his eyes, Orion didn't write in his notebook.
He just listened to the rain tapping against the canvas above.