John point of view:
A few hours had passed since we took off, and things had settled into a quiet rhythm. The sky beyond the windows had dimmed, casting the cabin in a warm golden glow. Mama had finally dozed off beside me, curled up in one of the reclining seats with a soft blanket draped over her shoulders and one hand still resting protectively near mine.
I looked at her for a moment. Peaceful. Gentle.
My mama.
The one I had begged for during that strange negotiation with the cosmic lady who yeeted my soul back into this world. I had asked for someone kind, someone who wanted a child with all her heart—and by Arceus, I got her.
And now here I was.
Sitting in the lap of luxury.
In a freaking private jet.
Watching a cartoon about a Growlithe who wanted to be a chef. It was weirdly compelling, actually. There was something satisfying about a fire-type trying to cook without burning the food.
Still, as I leaned back in my chair, I knew I couldn't get too comfortable.
Because despite everything I had seen and done, no matter how calm I acted around Pokémon or how well I pretended to be just an average little kid...
...I had one fatal flaw.
I didn't know jack about how to act around rich people.
I mean sure, I could fake it. Mimic movie characters. Smile politely. Bow a little when I remembered.
But I didn't know the rules.
The rituals.
The invisible lines you weren't supposed to cross when dealing with nobility, estates, families with titles. And from everything I'd picked up through sheer observation... Mama was definitely from that kind of family.
And if I showed up at their doorstep looking like some clueless gremlin who'd been raised by berries and Butterfree?
I'd embarrass her.
And that... that I couldn't let happen.
Okay, time for damage control.
I glanced around the jet.
Most of the staff were asleep in the back cabin or tucked away in those fold-down bunks built into the walls. The co-pilot had long since left to take a break after the flight stabilized. The pilot was in the cockpit doing whatever pilots do. Gengar and Butterfree were still in their Pokéballs, probably napping or watching me through whatever weird half-aware state Pokéballs kept them in.
Only one person was still awake.
A maid.
Mid-twenties maybe? Calm, alert, but not rigid. She had dark hair tied back in a bun, simple and neat, and she was lightly humming while reorganizing the cutlery and gently adjusting folded napkins on the dining setup we'd used earlier.
Perfect.
I slid out of my seat as quietly as I could—because while I was a two-year-old by Terra's standards, I had the soul of someone who had survived teenagehood once. And that meant sneaking was an art form.
I padded softly across the carpeted floor, careful not to trip or make any loud noises. I'd watched too many spy movies not to nail the stealth approach.
The maid turned as I got close, blinking in mild surprise.
"Oh—young master?" she said gently, standing up a little straighter. "Did you need something?"
I shook my head quickly, then hesitated.
"...Well. Yes. Kind of," I admitted, scratching my cheek.
She blinked again, clearly not expecting that.
I took a deep breath.
"I need help," I said in the most serious tone I could manage for someone under three feet tall. "I don't want to look like an idiot when we get wherever we're going. I don't know how to stand or talk or bow or anything like that. I just... I want to make sure I don't embarrass Mama."
There. It was out.
The maid's eyes widened slightly—but not in judgment. More like... quiet admiration?
Then she knelt down to my level, her expression softening.
"You're very thoughtful, young master," she said after a moment. "Most children wouldn't worry about that."
That's because most children don't remember being judged at banquets for putting their fork in the soup bowl, I thought darkly.
"...Will you teach me?" I asked, earnest as I could be.
She smiled then. A warm, genuine smile. "Of course. But only if you call me Lilia."
"Lilia," I repeated, nodding solemnly.
She tilted her head. "And what should I call you?"
I straightened up a bit, doing my best to look dignified. "John. John Silver."
Lilia chuckled. "Well then, Master John. Let's begin your emergency etiquette training."
I grinned.
Step one of my Not-Looking-Like-a-Forest-Goblin plan: engaged.
Lilia point of view:
When I was first informed of Master John's existence, I was told three things.
One: that he was the only child of Mistress Yua Silver.
Two: that I would be assigned to him as his personal maid and educator, effective immediately.
And three: that under no circumstances was I to speak of him to anyone outside the Silver family or trusted estate staff.
I had assumed he was delicate. Perhaps fragile in body or mind. The secrecy, the urgency, the appointment from Lady Silver herself—it all pointed to someone who required extraordinary care.
And now here I was. On a private jet, reorganizing dinner settings after a late in-flight meal, when a two-year-old child walked right up to me and asked, with complete seriousness, to teach him how not to embarrass his mother.
It was, admittedly, the strangest request I had ever received from someone still in diapers.
And yet, I didn't laugh. Not even once.
Because the look in his eyes—calm, sharp, determined—belonged to someone far older than his little body suggested.
And so, I agreed.
"Let's begin your emergency etiquette training," I said, crouching to his level.
I thought we would start slow. A basic greeting. The proper way to address nobility. Perhaps posture and where to place your hands when standing still.
I was wrong.
He absorbed everything.
And I do mean everything.
Within minutes, he had already memorized the correct way to bow when greeting a person of equal status, and how to adjust that bow based on social rank. He picked up the difference between a formal and informal handshake just by watching me demonstrate it twice. He even repeated the correct dining order of utensils like it was some sort of game—forks to the left, knives and spoons to the right, working from the outside in.
I'd taught children before. I'd taught adults too. Some took weeks just to stop slouching during formal meals. Others could barely grasp the concept of polite silence.
John listened to me once, tried it once, and got it.
It was... unsettling.
Impressive, of course. But also unsettling.
"Back straight, eyes neutral," I said gently. He adjusted before I even finished the sentence.
"No fidgeting with your sleeves during introductions," I added. He tucked his hands neatly behind his back.
"Speak clearly. Don't mumble, and never interrupt." He nodded, waited until I'd finished, then asked, "What if someone interrupts me first?"
I blinked.
"...You pause. Look at them. And if it was unintentional, resume. If not, then excuse yourself politely and disengage."
He nodded again, then practiced the scenario. Perfectly. Without stuttering. With poise.
At some point, I found myself checking the time.
Two hours.
Two hours, and I had reached the end of the material I usually used to teach six-year-olds.
That's when he looked up at me, face bright with curiosity, and asked, "Do you have more?"
I stared at him. He was two. Two years old. And he was asking for more.
I didn't say that to him, of course. I didn't tell him that most children his age were still learning how to form proper sentences, let alone grasping the nuance of eye contact and conversational spacing in upper-class society.
I also didn't tell him that, usually, we didn't even begin etiquette training until five.
Because he was learning. Joyfully. Gleefully.
And I wanted to see how far this brilliance of his would go.
So I leaned back, folded my hands behind me, and asked, "Do you want to learn how to host a formal tea setting?"
His eyes lit up. "Yes!"
And so we went on.
I taught him how to seat guests, where the host should sit at a small table versus a long banquet. How to offer refreshments. How to excuse oneself from conversation with dignity. How to defuse tension at a table. How to give a compliment without overstepping.
He struggled with none of it.
He practiced the movements and mannerisms with the easy grace of someone imitating rather than learning. As if he'd seen it all before.
At one point, I watched him gently set a folded napkin on a plate with almost theatrical precision. It was flawless.
And I found myself wondering—not for the first time—Who are you, little one?
Not in the sense of his name or title.
But in the deeper, stranger sense.
He wasn't just intelligent. He was aware. Self-conscious in a way no child his age should be. Intentional with every word and gesture. And that thought nagged at me, quietly, in the corners of my mind.
I shook it off and knelt beside him again.
"You've done incredibly well, Master John," I said softly.
He beamed at me, pride evident in his little smile.
"There's still much to learn," I added. "But you've done more in two hours than most do in two months."
He gave a small, formal nod. "Thank you, Lilia."
It was so polished, I almost forgot I was speaking to a toddler.
Almost.
But the way he yawned right after—big and messy, arms flopping—reminded me. He was still a child. A brilliant, unnaturally sharp, and disturbingly talented child...
...but a child nonetheless.
And that meant it was my job not just to train him—but to protect him.
Even from himself.
Especially from what might be hidden within himself.
That was the thought that clung to me like dew clings to leaves at dawn—soft, subtle, but impossible to ignore.
The truth was, something about Master John unnerved me. Not in a bad way. Not in a way that made me fear him. But in the quiet, goosebump-raising kind of way one might feel when standing before an ancient tree or sacred altar.
As though he wasn't just bright—he was meant to shine.
Still, etiquette was only half of what I had been instructed to provide. As his personal tutor, I would eventually be responsible for his academic instruction as well. Typically, we wouldn't begin formal schooling until a child turned five, or in some exceptional cases, four.
But John had already surpassed what most five-year-olds struggled with. And more importantly—he was hungry for knowledge.
So I decided to test the waters. Just a little.
We had roughly three hours left in the flight. Mistress Yua was still asleep, breathing evenly with her head tilted gently toward the window. The hum of the jet was steady and soothing. The perfect time for a quiet trial.
I pulled out a small leather-bound booklet from my bag—a teaching aid I had used countless times with noble children of various backgrounds. The cover was plain, but inside were vibrant hand-drawn letters, each paired with an associated Pokémon. It was a classic primer: the Pokémon Alphabet.
He noticed it immediately and leaned forward with open curiosity. "What's that?" he asked.
"This," I said, opening to the first page, "is how we begin learning to read."
I pointed to the first letter, elegantly inked in red. "A is for Abra," I explained, showing him the simple drawing of the psychic-type curled into its classic meditative pose.
He blinked once. "Abra," he repeated... and then added, "Like that one movie where an Abra kept teleporting his trainer to the wrong battle arena."
I raised an eyebrow. "You've seen that one?"
He nodded solemnly. "Twice. Mama said it was based on a true story."
I chuckled despite myself. "That's... questionable. But yes, very good."
I flipped the page. "B is for Buneary."
"Buneary... and also Beldum!" he offered quickly. "From that scary show with the haunted cave."
"C is for Chimecho," I said.
"Chikorita," he countered, tongue poking out slightly in concentration.
And so it went.
He didn't know every Pokémon, of course—his knowledge was spotty, clearly based on movies and shows he'd seen. Some letters stumped him entirely, and he'd frown in frustration when he couldn't recall another match.
But when he did remember one, he said it with confidence. Unpracticed, yes. But determined. Engaged.
I hadn't expected it to go so smoothly.
By the time we reached the halfway point—M through N—he was leaning over the booklet with focused eyes, repeating every letter back to me, trying his best to pronounce the names correctly.
His mistakes weren't from lack of ability. They were from lack of exposure. And even those faded quickly.
In another child, I might have assumed early development or a hidden aptitude. But John's progress wasn't just fast—it was flawless. There was no hesitation between learning and applying. His mind worked with an efficiency I had only seen in highly trained psychics... or those blessed with unnatural awareness.
And that's when the doubt turned into certainty.
This child was different. No—gifted. But not in the usual way. Not the "his parents practiced with him early" way. This... this was deeper.
By the time we had reached "Z is for Zangoose," John was already pointing out subtle inconsistencies in the drawings. "His claws are usually longer, right?" he asked, squinting at the page. "They're supposed to curve more."
I stared at him.
Yes. They were. Barely—but he had noticed.
"Have you ever learned to read before?" I asked cautiously.
He blinked, then shook his head. "No. I don't think so."
"You're sure?"
"Mhm. I only know some of the letters 'cause of signs and movie intros. And I recognize names 'cause they say them a lot in shows."
So no structured learning. No schooling. And yet...
I closed the book and rested it on the small table beside us.
That was enough.
I needed to know for sure.
I glanced around. Mistress Yua was still asleep. The cabin was quiet, only the hum of air systems surrounding us.
Time to act.
As a certified high-level psychic, I had methods for detecting latent psychic potential—energies dormant in the minds of children that sometimes awakened during puberty or traumatic events. It wasn't invasive, and with someone so young, it would be more like brushing the surface of their spirit.
Just a light check. A whisper against the aura.
I reached out gently with my senses—not to enter, but to feel. Even before touching him, I could already sense the surface level of his life energy, and it shimmered like a slow-burning star, cloaked in instinctive calm.
But to do a proper scan of both life energy and mental pathways, I'd need physical contact. Especially with a child. And the best way to do that was through hair. Soft, natural, and closest to the mind's spiritual core.
I leaned slightly closer, brushing back a lock of hair from his forehead as if fixing a stray strand. His hair was... surprisingly silky. A cool silver-black, not unlike his mother's but with a softer luster that shimmered faintly under the cabin lights.
"Master John," I said gently, smiling, "May I touch your hair for a moment? I just want to fix it a little."
He blinked, then nodded. "Okay."
I moved my fingers slowly, threading them carefully through the strands—preparing myself to look deeper.
And then, I reached out with my mind.
I focused—not into his mind, but around it. Just a surface-level scan, gentle and harmless. I expected resistance, maybe static, the usual signs of undeveloped potential.
What I felt instead made my heart skip.
It was... alive.
Not in the metaphorical way. Not in the "everyone has energy" way.
Alive—like moss growing in moonlight. Like rain kissing leaves. Like deep roots stretching beneath untouched soil.
The life energy around him was impossibly vivid, ancient in feeling yet childlike in rhythm. It pulsed like a heartbeat, steady and calm, but radiating a warmth that felt more natural than anything I had ever touched.
Forest.
That was the only word that came to mind.
Free. Wild. Caring. Embracing.
I almost lost my grip on the connection then and there, my breath catching in my throat.
What is this?
And then I saw it—behind the forest.
Another energy.
No... a second source.
Cold. Ordered. Silent as space.
It wasn't awakened, not fully—but it was massive, coiled like a serpent in slumber, waiting. It shimmered in iridescent threads, refined and sharp like crystalized starlight.
Psychic energy.
And not just a little.
Vast.
So vast that I had to pull back for fear of overstepping, lest I trigger something I couldn't control.
I opened my eyes slowly, heart thudding in my chest, my fingers still in his hair.
He hadn't noticed a thing.
Because John Silver—my student, my master, this two-year-old enigma—was purring.
Actually, physically purring.
Like a Meowth curled in a sunbeam.
His eyes were closed, his lips curled slightly in a blissful smile, and a faint, rumbling vibration escaped his chest with each breath.
"...Little master~" I said, letting the amusement slip into my voice.
His eyes snapped open. His whole body froze.
He looked up at me, face already turning red. "I-I wasn't—"
But I gently resumed stroking his hair, letting my fingers move with idle grace.
Prrrrr...
The sound returned instantly. Stronger.
"Oh my," I said softly, laughing under my breath. "That's adorable."
"Mmm... it's not proper..." he mumbled, cheeks puffed, as he weakly tried to squirm away.
I didn't let him. With a smooth motion, I picked him up and settled myself onto the plush carpeted floor, resting him in my lap. He was so small. Light as a feather.
"This," I whispered, pulling him gently against me, "is my reward for being an excellent teacher today."
He sighed—a long, dramatic sigh that only children and theater actors could manage—then muttered, "Fine..."
And then he leaned into my touch.
Just like that.
His head rested beneath my chin, and I felt him relax completely, a puddle of soft limbs and warm purring in my arms.
I didn't speak for a long while. I simply ran my fingers through his hair, watching the colors shimmer—black with threads of violet and deep plum under the cabin lights. So unusual. So striking.
So perfectly him.
And yet, the sensation of those twin energies still echoed in my mind.
The psychic force I recognized—great and latent, protected by a subconscious seal. But the other? The forest-light? That... I had no name for.
It was older than any aura I'd felt. Not aura in the traditional sense. Not even the primal chaos of dragonkind.
It was something more. A whisper of wind through leaves. A lullaby from the roots of the earth.
And John—my little master—sat with it so naturally, so unconsciously, it was as if he'd never not had it.
I lowered my voice and spoke aloud to myself, though he couldn't hear me.
"You're going to change everything, aren't you?"
His response?
Prrrrrrr...
I smiled again.
Whatever mysteries surrounded him... whatever truths would one day come to light...
For now, he was just a boy.
A sweet, brilliant, ridiculous little boy purring like a spoiled Meowth in his tutor's lap.
And for now—
That was more than enough.