The days continued to move forward with an almost unsettling calm, even as anticipation surrounding the Academy Entrance Exam grew heavier with each passing hour, spreading across cities, villages, and online spaces alike until it became impossible to ignore.
Blogs, forums, and news sites were flooded with speculation, half-informed analyses, and confident predictions delivered by people who spoke as if certainty itself could substitute for knowledge. Everyone wanted answers, yet no one truly had them. The lack of information only fueled the obsession, pushing aspiring trainers and anxious parents alike to cling to rumors, leaks, and secondhand claims that changed shape every few days.
The theory exam, at least on the surface, appeared familiar enough to give people something solid to hold on to. Study guides appeared overnight, many written by individuals with real experience, but far more produced by opportunists hoping to profit from fear and ambition. "Guaranteed success" packages circulated widely, promising shortcuts, memory hacks, and insider logic that supposedly cracked the exam's structure, even though most of them were little more than recycled material stitched together with persuasive language.
Some candidates prepared earnestly, focusing on fundamentals and long-term understanding, while others chased shortcuts that didn't exist, convinced that cleverness alone could carry them through. In truth, the theory exam was never meant to identify brilliance or strength; it existed to filter out carelessness, impatience, and those unwilling to put in sustained effort.
Yet almost no one was talking about the theory exam anymore.
All attention had shifted to the practical.
No rules had been released, no official structure announced, and no clear description of what the candidates would face had been provided, creating a vacuum that speculation rushed to fill. Survival challenge, capture-based competition, psychological endurance test, large-scale combat evaluation—every possibility found supporters, each louder and more confident than the last.
There was only one confirmed detail.
The practical exam would be broadcast live.
That single announcement altered everything.
Parents debated endlessly whether their children should even be allowed to participate, while aspiring trainers oscillated between excitement and dread, their confidence rising and falling with every new rumor. Content creators dissected the announcement frame by frame, analysts speculated about political motives, and darker corners of the internet whispered about the exam being designed to break people rather than test them.
What none of them truly understood was that the practical exam was never meant to reward raw power or technical perfection alone. It wasn't designed to crown prodigies or punish the weak. It was built to expose judgment, restraint, and the ability to make decisions when no one explained what the correct answer looked like and the consequences were real.
As public anticipation reached a fever pitch, one thing became increasingly clear to anyone paying attention.
This was not just an entrance exam.
It was the first moment in the new era where the entire world would watch, unfiltered and unedited, as a generation stepped forward to define how humans and Pokémon would move together into the future.
Governments monitored developments closely, organizations prepared for fallout, and extremist groups like Earth Liberation scrutinized every detail for opportunities to twist the narrative. Meanwhile, ordinary people waited—some hopeful, some afraid, many uncertain—aware on some instinctive level that once the broadcast began, nothing could be taken back.
Fifteen days before the entrance exam, battle arenas and Pokémon Centers across Mumbai—and gradually throughout the rest of Maharashtra—were officially opened again, though with strict limitations. Access was granted only to military personnel, law enforcement units, and students who had successfully registered for the Academy Entrance Exam, a decision that immediately ignited fresh waves of speculation and anxiety.
The effect was instant.
Students crowded the battle arenas from early morning until late at night, watching military trainers spar, observing medical staff treat injured Pokémon, and trying to glean any hint—any pattern—that might reveal what awaited them in the practical exam. Even those barred from entry lingered outside the facilities, sharing rumors, theories, and secondhand accounts that grew more elaborate with every retelling.
If the authorities' goal had been to reduce speculation, it had failed spectacularly.
Ten days before the exam, I summoned all ten core members of the Pokémon Department for a closed-door meeting. When I entered the room and saw them assembled, I felt something close to relief for the first time in weeks. The changes were obvious, not just in numbers or reports, but in posture, confidence, and the quiet competence with which they carried themselves.
Every one of them had grown.
All of their primary Pokémon had crossed level thirty, a benchmark that wasn't merely about strength but about discipline, endurance, and consistent training under pressure. The room carried the subtle energy of people who had been tested repeatedly and hadn't broken.
Mama stood out immediately.
His Arcanine had grown massive, its presence alone enough to make the air feel warmer, and the reports backed up what my instincts already told me. Mama and his team had done exceptional work maintaining stability in Mumbai, responding quickly to Pokémon-related incidents, preventing civilian casualties, and—just as importantly—rooting out Earth Liberation destabilizers before they could gain momentum in the city.
They hadn't made headlines.
And that was precisely why they'd succeeded.
Captain Sethi had changed as well, both physically and mentally. Training alongside the strike force for a month had hardened him, sharpening his instincts in ways no classroom ever could. His Aron had evolved into Lairon, its steel armor bearing fresh scuffs and marks that spoke of real combat rather than controlled exercises. More interestingly, he had acquired a third Pokémon.
Carvanha.
He'd taken my advice, despite knowing how difficult it would be.
The evidence was written plainly across his arms, where fading bite marks told the story of a partnership still being negotiated through pain, patience, and stubborn refusal to give up. He wasn't in control of Carvanha yet—but he hadn't been rejected either, and with Pokémon like that, survival itself was progress.
Among all of them, however, the most striking improvement belonged to Rohan.
His Fletchling had evolved into Fletchinder, and unlike some evolutions that felt abrupt or forced, this one carried an unmistakable sense of harmony. The way the Pokémon perched calmly near him, responding to subtle gestures and shifts in tone, spoke of a bond forged through trust rather than pressure. They moved together naturally, instinctively, like partners who no longer needed to think about coordination.
The others had improved too—some in power, some in control, some in judgment—but what mattered most was that none of them looked reckless anymore. They understood the stakes now. They had seen chaos up close, watched ideals clash with reality, and survived long enough to learn from it.
Today's meeting wasn't called just to bring everyone together or to acknowledge how far we'd come.
It was about responsibility.
Once everyone was seated and the room settled into silence, I laid out the assignments for the entrance exam. There was no ceremony to it, no dramatic buildup—just clear roles, clearly stated. This wasn't a test only for the students. It was one for us as well.
"Kavya," I began, turning toward her, "you'll be handling the theory exam. Question integrity, evaluation oversight, and ensuring there are no leaks or external influences. I want it clean and unquestionable."
She nodded immediately, already mentally sorting through logistics.
"Ritu," I continued, "you'll be in charge of broadcasting and hosting. This exam will be watched by the entire country, possibly the world. Control the narrative, keep panic from spreading, and make sure what people see reflects what this academy stands for."
Ritu smiled slightly, confidence evident. "Leave it to me."
"Mama Kadam," I said next, meeting his gaze, "you'll be in charge of student security. Bhavesh and Rohan will be working directly under you. Your priority is prevention, not reaction. No heroics. No unnecessary confrontations."
Mama gave a firm nod, the kind that meant he had already started planning patrol routes in his head.
"Imran, Tanisha, Meera," I finished, "you three will oversee medical and healing operations. Pokémon and human injuries alike. Assume exhaustion, injuries, and shock will be common. I don't want a single participant permanently harmed under our watch."
All three acknowledged the responsibility without hesitation.
With that, the structure was in place.
No one argued. No one questioned the assignments. Everyone understood what was coming and what was expected of them.
I stood, signaling the end of the meeting. Preparations would continue, coordination would tighten, and contingency plans would be revised again and again until there were no gaps left to fill.
Now, all that remained was time.
Time for rumors to grow.
Time for expectations to rise.
Time for the examinees to convince themselves they were ready.
And when the exam finally began—
We would see who truly was.