Dawn in the wild wasn't gentle.
It didn't roll in on golden rays or whisper like lullabies. It crashed. A racket of chirps, caws, buzzing wings and brittle sunlight slicing through the trees like knives. Brutus groaned under the weight of sore muscles and stiff joints, the dew on his face doing nothing to help.
He sat up with a wheeze, shirt damp, pants crusted in yesterday's sweat and trail grime. His back ached like someone had replaced his spine with a wooden beam and then hit it with a mallet for good measure.
Clove was already awake—tail flicking, eyes sharp, crouched near the fire pit's ashes.
And not far from him… the Rattata.
The corpse hadn't moved, obviously. But it had changed. Rigor mortis set in during the night, stiffening its limbs. Flies had found it. Some sort of wild insect—maybe a Venipede—had taken a few cautious bites during the early hours, before Clove scared it off. The body was less grotesque than expected, but not something Brutus could ignore anymore.
He stared at it, the purple fur matted with dried blood. Its teeth still bared in that death-snarl.
It had died fast.
That, at least, was a mercy.
"…We can't just leave it," he muttered, rubbing his eyes.
Clove gave him a look that could only be translated as, You want to do what with it?
"I dunno. Something respectful. I mean… it's not like it was evil. Just hungry. And wild."
The Nidoran twitched an ear and snorted, clearly unconvinced.
But Brutus still stood, shoulders cracking like bubble wrap, and got to work.
There wasn't much to do. He found a soft patch of earth beneath a crooked birch, and with a sturdy stick and a lot of grunting, dug a crude grave. Not deep enough to meet any ranger standards, but enough to keep scavengers honest for a while.
The burial wasn't ceremonial. No speech. No flowers.
Just a body. Dirt. And the weight of a new reality.
---
By the time the sun had risen above the treeline, Brutus had eaten half a berry bar that tasted like regret and boot leather, washed it down with the last of his water, and finally checked the battered old PokéDex he'd inherited.
Not the fancy digital ones kids from Saffron carried. This one looked like it had survived a war. Scratched screen, half-broken hinge, dust crusted into the buttons.
Still, it turned on.
And more importantly, it had reception.
The regional news tab flickered to life—text-based, laggy, and full of typos—but legible. Brutus scrolled half-heartedly, expecting the usual League reports, wild Pokémon outbreaks, tournament coverage he couldn't afford to care about.
Then he saw it.
> "⚠️ INDIGO LEAGUE FIELD MISSIONS AVAILABLE ⚠️"
> "Trainers in Routes 1 through 3: Earn up to 300₽ per completed job. Fetch quests, herd protection, message delivery, wounded capture support. Must have active license and minimum one registered Pokémon partner. Apply via PokéDex network. Deadline: rotating daily."
Brutus blinked.
"Wait… three hundred? That's enough for a real meal."
He read it again.
Three times.
The League was offering small-scale bounties. Nothing fancy—nothing a real trainer would brag about—but enough for someone like him. Enough to afford another Poké Ball or a better sleeping mat. Maybe even a room at a cheap hostel instead of freezing under a rock next time it rained.
Clove made a noise—half curious grunt, half unimpressed sneer.
"What?" Brutus said, flashing him the screen. "It's not glorious, but I'm broke. You want berries or what?"
Clove didn't answer. But his stomach did. Loudly.
---
They walked another hour before they found a ridge overlooking the southern plains near Viridian's border. Smoke curled in the far distance—civilization, maybe a field outpost. A checkpoint.
The map on the PokéDex had all the personality of a bootleg GPS, but it told him what he needed to know. There was a Ranger Watchtower about five kilometers out, and more importantly: a League Field Post built into it.
Perfect.
But the terrain? Not so much.
It was all uneven scrub. Tall weeds. Lots of exposed root systems and crumbling soil. Dangerous footing. The kind of path that made your knees hate you and your ankles stage a mutiny.
Brutus had to stop more than once—sometimes to breathe, other times to avoid puking.
Every now and then, he'd see the glimmer of eyes in the grass. Wild Pokémon. Watching. Waiting.
But Clove kept them moving. Guarding. Tense but unafraid.
Brutus envied that.
---
By midday, the Watchtower loomed ahead—tall and skeletal against the blue sky. A single flag flapped above the ranger cabin beneath it, faded but unmistakable: the Indigo League crest. A symbol of order. Of control.
Of survival.
The cabin looked simple. Worn wood, sandbagged posts, solar panels haphazardly strapped to the roof. But it was clean. Civilized.
And most importantly—it had a water pump.
Brutus nearly cried.
He dumped his pack, ran to it like a man crawling through a desert, and pumped water into his canteen like it was liquid gold. Then, against every better judgment, he splashed cold water on his face and down his shirt.
Clove simply watched, unimpressed by the theatrics.
"You're jealous," Brutus said between gasps. "I can tell."
The ranger came out a minute later. Late twenties maybe, broad-shouldered, thick stubble, wearing a vest patched with League-grade armor and eyes that didn't miss a damn thing.
"You registered?" he asked without preamble.
Brutus nodded, flashing his PokéDex.
The ranger scanned it. Grunted. Then handed over a battered clipboard with a list of missions.
"All low-risk. Boring crap mostly. Someone's Miltank wandered off. Need a runner to deliver a package to Viridian's south gate. One's just cleaning a Tauros pen."
Brutus scanned the page. The payment line caught his eye.
He picked one.
"Message delivery. Viridian's on my way."
The ranger checked a box, handed him a sealed envelope wrapped in waterproof wax, and pointed north.
"Don't open it. Don't lose it. Deadline's sunset."
"Got it," Brutus said, pocketing it carefully.
Then, with a long exhale, he turned to Clove.
"We're officially employed."
Clove just rolled his eyes.
---
They rested for an hour at the post, letting Brutus stretch and eat and not die for a while. He used the break to do some basic exercises—push-ups that quickly became push-up singular, then planks, then mostly just wheezing.
But he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
Because now he knew the truth: the League didn't hand out victories. You didn't win by being the "main character." You won by grinding through the pain, sweating through the fear, and doing whatever it took to keep moving forward.
Even if your shirt smelled like expired cheese.
Even if your thighs were chafing.
Even if your only friend was a grumpy, purple porcupine with attitude problems.
You moved.
Because that's what survivors did.
---
END OF CHAPTER 5