They walked like ghosts.
No heavy footfalls. No loud conversation. Even Shinx, somehow, had gotten the memo and kept his weird chirping to a minimum. The only sound was the quiet rustle of leaf litter and the occasional distant cry of something Orion did not want to identify.
Because somewhere, nearby, was a goddamn Charizard.
Not just any Charizard. A wild one. Rogue. Angry. The living reminder that some Pokémon weren't just stronger than you—they were bigger than you. The kind of thing that burned forests and didn't even realize it was doing it.
They didn't even make a fire the night before. No scent trail. No bright lights. Just cold food, cold wind, and cold fear.
So now, here they were.
Creeping through brush like they owed the trees money.
Orion kept one hand on Tyrunt's Poké Ball.
Turtwig walked close to his boots, unusually stiff, head low, not even nibbling on plants.
And Shinx?
Shinx walked like this was a game.
Orion watched him bounce between ferns and moss patches, tail flicking like a metronome, completely unbothered by the threat of a murder-lizard that could turn them all into barbecue in less time than it took to blink.
"You," Orion muttered, "are going to be the death of us."
Shinx paused. Turned. Headbutted his shin.
Then trotted off again like he was training for a cheerleading competition.
Orion sighed.
They didn't see the Charizard that day.
But they felt it.
They passed three different sections of forest that looked like they'd been struck by lightning and then stomped on by something the size of a small truck. One clearing smelled like ash and ozone. Another had bone fragments.
No wildlife. Not even bugs.
Just quiet.
At one point, Tyrunt growled low, and Orion actually held his breath for six straight seconds until he realized it was just a shifting tree branch.
They didn't stop for a real break until late afternoon, when the trail finally twisted away from the last known burn zone and into a long, shallow gully.
The trees were denser here. The air smelled like wet bark instead of danger.
Safe? No.
Safer? Barely.
But enough to rest.
Orion dropped his pack and sat on a rock that looked like it hated being sat on.
He let out all three of them.
Turtwig walked in a slow circle, sniffed a patch of grass, and flopped down with the full force of a small log.
Tyrunt sniffed the air, clawed a mark in the dirt, and then lay down like a paranoid dragon trying to pretend he wasn't paranoid.
And Shinx?
Shinx rolled onto his back and started swatting at a leaf like none of this was even happening.
Orion watched him, still not sure if he wanted to laugh, scream, or scream-laugh.
"You're made of electricity," he said flatly. "You're a walking hazard sign. You can literally tase a grown man off his feet."
Shinx kicked the leaf into the air and pounced it mid-fall.
"And somehow," Orion continued, "you're also a house cat."
Shinx chirped and climbed halfway up Orion's leg before tumbling backward in an awkward spiral of paws and tail.
"You're defective," Orion muttered.
That was when Turtwig stood up.
And tackled Shinx.
Not hard. Not aggressively. Just... playfully.
Shinx growled—somewhere between a meow and a generator hum—and sprang back.
Then tackled Turtwig.
They tumbled once.
Turtwig rolled and popped up fast—faster than he had all day.
Shinx lunged again, this time going for the leaf.
Missed.
Turtwig headbutted him sideways.
Shinx yipped, rolled, and bounced back.
Tyrunt watched from the side, unimpressed.
Orion was about to break it up—just to avoid more noise—when something changed.
Turtwig stopped.
Just froze.
His body went stiff. Legs spread wider. Shell pulled low.
Then he shuddered.
Not like a twitch. Not like pain.
Like pressure was building under his skin.
Orion stood slowly.
"Oh no."
Turtwig made a sound—not quite a grunt, not quite a growl.
His legs trembled.
His shell began to expand.
Orion took a half-step forward, then stopped himself.
There was no glow.
No light beam. No sparkles. No flashy aura of magical bullshit.
Just... change.
Turtwig's body pushed outward. Muscles widened. The shell deepened. The leaf on his head thickened, bent, and started to split.
The sound it made was something between a crack and a wet tear.
It was not elegant.
It was raw.
Like watching a snake shed its skin—and replace it with armor.
Turtwig fell forward, caught himself, and roared.
Not loud. But deep.
The kind of sound that didn't come from his throat, but his chest.
He grew six inches taller.
He gained fifty pounds of muscle and shell in thirty seconds.
Orion's jaw hung open.
Tyrunt sat up.
Shinx ran in a circle around the newly evolved form and then climbed onto his back like this was the best thing that had ever happened.
Grotle blinked once.
Then started chewing the same leaf he'd been chewing earlier—completely unfazed.
Orion finally found his voice.
"You—what—what the actual hell just happened?!"
No one answered.
Of course.
Because apparently, in this world, Pokémon could evolve not with a bang, not with a beam of light, but by just deciding to stop being small.
Like flipping a biological switch labeled become tree-tank.
Orion rubbed his eyes.
"No warning. No prep. Just... oh hey, I'm bigger now."
Grotle yawned and kept chewing.
Orion looked at Tyrunt.
Tyrunt looked back like: You're next.
Orion sat down and wrote in his journal:
Turtwig = now Grotle. Evolved via spontaneous nightmare biology. Training plan must adapt: bigger shell = slower movement, stronger attacks, worse agility. Bite now terrifying. Razor Leaf probably upgraded. Need to observe changes. Also: holy crap.
He closed the journal.
Shinx jumped back into his lap.
And Grotle—newly grown, newly dense, newly terrifying—walked over and lay down next to them like this was any other day.
Orion shook his head.
He didn't ask for this.
But the forest didn't care.
The journey didn't care.
And apparently, neither did Grotle.
Because evolution didn't wait for you to be ready.
It just happened.
Like getting punched by a forest.
Wrapped in a shell.
Wearing a leaf crown.
And purring.