Warmth. Comfort. Safety.
Skylar's earliest days in the Pokémon world passed in a haze of muffled voices, soft blankets, and the soothing touch of his new mother's hands. Though his infant body couldn't move freely, his adult mind remained intact, silently observing the world around him with awe and curiosity.
"I really did it… I'm here."
Everything looked so familiar yet so new. The way the nurses dressed, the subtle tech of the machines, even the painted murals on the hospital walls—icons of the Sinnoh region, Poké Balls, and famous Pokémon—confirmed it. He had been reborn into the Pokémon universe.
His name was still Skylar.
That small fact sent chills through him. Was it coincidence? Or had the god who reincarnated him preserved it on purpose?
Either way, this was his new life. And he would live it to the fullest.
As months passed, Skylar's body grew rapidly—like any normal child's—but his mind remained sharp. It was strange, living through infancy again. He had to restrain himself, holding back the desire to speak, to stand, to do. Instead, he played the part of the quiet, observant baby. But every moment he spent in this world, he analyzed.
His mother, Elena, was kind and gentle. She smelled of roses and berries, and every time she held him, he could feel genuine love. She would sing him lullabies—soft melodies about legendary Pokémon and faraway stars.
His father, Flint, was another matter entirely.
Yes, that Flint. Elite Four. Sinnoh's Fire-type master.
Flint was tall, powerful, and carried an intimidating aura, but with Skylar… he was a completely different man. He would lift him high, let him ride on his shoulders, and whisper stories about the Pokémon League and wild adventures he once had with a man named Volkner.
"One day," Flint would whisper, "you'll stand where I stood. Maybe even higher."
Skylar didn't doubt it. Not for a second.
By the time he turned three, his speech developed quickly. He began stringing words together faster than most kids. Elena was astonished, while Flint simply smirked.
"Told you the boy had fire in him," he'd say.
But Skylar knew better. He wasn't just a genius toddler—he was a grown man in a child's body. He used these years to build his knowledge. And more importantly, to feel the energy of the world around him.
Pokémon weren't just creatures. They were living forces of nature. He could sense them.
When he visited the garden, wild Pokémon occasionally appeared—Bidoof, Starly, even a cautious Shinx once peeked at him from the bushes. They didn't run. They watched him. They felt something.
"Is this… the gift the god gave me?"
Indeed, something was different. Pokémon were drawn to him, their gazes filled with strange familiarity. He didn't speak their language, not yet—but sometimes, he felt he understood their emotions, like reading feelings through a fogged window.
One morning, as he played in the back garden of their estate in Sunyshore City, a wild Piplup appeared.
Skylar stood still, heart pounding.
The small Water-type waddled toward him, chirping softly. It tilted its head, blinking.
Skylar knelt down slowly.
"Hi there, little guy…"
Piplup took another step. Then another. It walked directly to him and pressed its forehead gently against his hand.
A warm pulse surged through him.
He felt it.
Joy. Curiosity. Trust.
Tears welled up in Skylar's eyes.
"I really can connect with them… beyond the norm. This is real."
From that day on, wild Pokémon began to visit the garden more frequently. Some would perch nearby. Others would follow him as he walked. His parents chalked it up to "Trainer's instinct," but Skylar knew the truth.
When he turned five, everything changed.
That was the age when Pokémon education began in Sinnoh. Children started basic lessons about typing, Trainer etiquette, and the responsibilities of handling Pokémon. While others in his class marveled at the idea of becoming Trainers one day, Skylar was mentally leaps ahead.
He answered questions the teachers hadn't asked yet. He corrected textbook inaccuracies. He even devised potential dual-type matchups with theoretical evolutions.
By age six, his teachers began to suspect something was strange. He wasn't just gifted—he was unnatural.
Flint, however, dismissed their worries.
"He's my son. I'd expect nothing less."
Still, Skylar kept a low profile when needed. He knew being too different too soon would invite suspicion—or worse, isolation. He'd seen enough anime to know how that story ended.
At night, Skylar would sneak out to the garden and meditate. It wasn't just for focus—it was instinctual. He could feel the bond strengthening with each day. The more he opened himself to the emotions of nearby Pokémon, the clearer their presence became.
One night, a Ralts appeared.
It stood on the fence, silent, glowing faintly in the moonlight. Skylar locked eyes with it.
He didn't speak. Neither did the Ralts.
But he knew.
It was afraid. Lost. Searching.
He opened his arms, wordlessly offering sanctuary.
Ralts leapt into his arms.
Another pulse. Another connection.
This one felt deeper—almost permanent.
"Maybe… this is my first partner."
He didn't catch it. There was no Poké Ball. No battle. Just an unspoken pact.
From then on, Ralts stayed by his side.
His parents were amazed. Ralts refused to interact with anyone else. It would vanish into the shadows if anyone approached—but always reappear when Skylar called.
Flint watched them one evening during training and nodded.
"That's no ordinary bond. You didn't tame that Pokémon. You earned it."
Skylar smiled. He didn't need to be told. He felt it.
This was only the beginning.