The conversation with my parents stayed with me.
Even after the tea cooled.
Even after the sun dipped behind the trees.
I lay awake that night, Pidgey roosting quietly on the towel-covered perch near my window, watching the stars.
He had no Poké Ball.
No formal contract.
But still, he stayed.
And now I understood the weight of that choice.
By law, I could only have one companion Pokémon as a civilian.
And if I truly chose Pidgey—as I had, heart and soul—then until I turned six, I couldn't bond with another. Not unless I gave him up.
But I wouldn't.
I couldn't.
Not after everything.
The rules were clear: One Pokémon without a Poké Ball.
And I'd made my choice.
So now, the only thing left… was to grow together.
The morning after, I sat with Pidgey in the backyard, the warm breeze rustling the apple blossoms overhead.
His wing was fully healed now, and he hopped easily between perches, testing his balance.
He stretched, flapped—hovered a bit, even—but hadn't flown in full yet.
I watched him from the garden bench, notebook open on my lap.
Then I closed it, looked him straight in the eye, and asked:
"Do you want to train with me?"
He blinked.
"I mean really train. Not just fly again. I'm talking about becoming stronger. Smarter. The best."
He tilted his head.
I smiled.
"Do you want to become the strongest Pokémon in the world?"
He paused.
Then slowly, firmly… nodded.
And so we began.
The first lesson was simple: mobility.
Statsight gave me immediate feedback, though I didn't always need it now. I could see subtle improvements through experience alone—but the aptitude readings helped me shape the how.
Pidgey – Yellow (Deep)Primary Need: Wing reinforcement. Improved wind resistance. Core focus on air maneuverability and stamina over speed.
We focused on gliding practice first.
Each day, I'd climb the short slope behind our house and set up makeshift perches at different heights—tree stumps, stacked crates, even a pile of hay. Pidgey would launch from one, glide to the next, land, repeat.
He fell. A lot.
But he always got back up.
By the second week, I introduced resistance training.
My father lent me small, adjustable cloth weights—nothing dangerous, just enough to increase Pidgey's wing strength. I tied them around his legs and lower wings while he flapped in place or performed short bursts between perches.
It wasn't glamorous, but it worked.
His posture improved. His wings grew steadier.
And every few days, Statsight updated:
Wing Strength: Improved by 8%Stamina Recovery: Slight increaseSuggested Focus: Controlled bursts > sustained flaps
We also practiced focus training.
Sometimes, Pidgey's biggest struggle wasn't strength—it was distraction.
So I created obstacle courses.
Branches with hanging leaves. Ropes that shifted in the breeze. Hanging berries that dangled just out of reach.
He had to fly through, touch all the marks, then land on target.
If he lost focus, he'd miss. If he hesitated, he'd land short.
He got better. Slowly. Patiently.
Aptitude Note: Cognitive flexibility improving. Encourage pattern learning.
I even added verbal cues—simple ones like "Loop," "Hover," and "Turn."
He didn't always respond.
But when he did, he chirped excitedly, proud of himself.
We high-fived. (Well… wing-five.)
Sometimes, we trained alone.
Sometimes, Mira watched from the windowsill, ringing like a coach's bell.
Once, my mother came out with poké-snacks and said, "You two are becoming quite the team."
We were.
We are.
Each night, I updated my notebook.
I tracked every flap, every stumble, every new breakthrough.
Not just stats, but feelings. Motivation. Reactions to success and failure.
Because Pidgey wasn't a tool.
He was my friend.
And I knew—without ever needing a scanner or permission—that his Yellow aptitude didn't limit him.
It defined how he'd grow. Not how far.
One evening, as the sun dipped behind the trees, I lay on the grass, arms behind my head.
Pidgey perched on my chest, feathers ruffling gently in the breeze.
"You know," I whispered, "this is just the beginning."
He chirped softly.
I smiled.
"Someday, we'll fly across regions. We'll take on the strongest Trainers in the world. Maybe even meet a Pokémon with Aurora aptitude."
He puffed up at that—proud and curious.
And even though he wasn't registered, wasn't captured, wasn't officially mine…
He was.
More than any Poké Ball could define.