Chapter 6: Breathe
The road out of Sandgem wasn't much at first—just a narrow dirt trail carving a lazy path through fields freckled with wildflowers and the occasional Starly hopping between branches. Ren walked it with light steps and a heart pounding with quiet fire.
Bidoof trudged beside him, tail swaying like a metronome. Its little brown feet kicked up tufts of dust with each step.
They hadn't spoken much since their chat about Ren's dream two days ago. That awkward moment when Bidoof had laughed—dismissive, but not cruel—still hung in the air between them like a puff of unspoken tension.
Ren didn't hold it against him. Dreams were heavy things. And few people, let alone Pokémon, believed in ones that hadn't been done before.
He reached into his bag and pulled out a homemade berry bar. He broke it in two and offered half to Bidoof.
It looked at the food, then at Ren. The hesitation lasted just a breath before it accepted and munched quietly beside him.
They sat on a log under a wind-bent tree, watching a Kricketot wobble through the grass across the trail.
"I know it sounds impossible," Ren said finally. "Being the first Normal-type Elite Four member. But it's not just about the title."
Bidoof didn't answer, just kept chewing.
Ren leaned back, eyes skyward. "It's about proving that Normal isn't... average. That it means adaptable. Steady. That even without type advantages or flashy moves, we can win through guts, patience, and—"
"Doof."
Ren blinked. Bidoof was staring at him, the crumbs of the bar still on its whiskers.
"Doof," it said again, nodding slowly. Not agreement. Not disbelief.
Curiosity.
Ren grinned.
---
They made camp near a stream that evening. The air smelled of wet soil and pecha blossoms.
While Ren unrolled his sleeping mat, Bidoof was practicing a basic Tackle on a rotting log. The move was decent—strong for a Field-class Pokémon—but still lacked follow-through. It lacked… breath.
Ren watched, arms crossed.
> Field Class… that's where most Pokémon start. Wild ones. Rookie trainers' teams. Basic battles—nothing fancy, just instinct and effort. It's where everyone learns how to lose with grace.
Ren had studied the unofficial scale back in the Trainer School. Bronze-class was where real trainers began to shape their partners with strategy, and Silver-class was where Gym Leaders lived. But Field? Field was home. It was honest.
And he didn't mind starting there.
"Reset your stance, Bidoof," Ren called. "You're leading with your shoulder too early."
Bidoof grunted and lined up again. He charged, slammed into the log—and this time, bark cracked loose.
"Better," Ren said.
"Doof." There was pride in the little beaver's voice. Not smugness. Just a flicker of belief.
---
Later that night, Ren stared into the fire, his body sore but spirit buzzing.
He thought of his mom.
Of how, when he was little and afraid of the dark or angry after a schoolyard loss, she'd kneel beside him, place a hand on his shoulder and whisper just one word:
> "Breathe."
It wasn't a command. It was a rhythm. A call to be still when the world shouted.
He closed his eyes, let the crackle of the fire slow his thoughts.
Breathe in.
Hold.
Breathe out.
In that silence, beside a grumpy beaver and under a sky flung wide with stars, Ren didn't feel so far from his dream after all.