“Why did you choose to i a farm?”

  This was a question Natsume had been asked tless times retly.

  The answer was always the same:

  Because he felt he might have some talent for it.

  Because it was somethi behind by his te uncle.

  And most importantly, because there was a farm to i.

  If, back then, he had bee with a major corporation instead, Natsume would have ied that too. After all, supaypically have well-established ma systems—he’d just o avoid any catastrophic decisions and he’d live fortably.

  Of course, this was just wishful thinking. There was no corporation for him to i.

  “Something like that,” Natsume replied casually. “Besides, I don’t think I’m smart enough to be a great trainer.”

  As he teased the aloof, tsundere Snivy, Natsume spoke in a rexed tone.

  In this world, being a top-tier trainer requires more than just passion. It demands intelligence.

  Type matchups, ce strategies, the oppo’s potential movesets, and their lineup order all had to be calcuted.

  One’s own team needed stant adjustment based on the enemy’s position.

  For each battle, there was an overwhelming amount to sider.

  Those who charged forward with nothing but raw determination were often outmaneuvered by veteran trainers as soon as they stepped out of school.

  This world might ck many things, but it certainly wasn’t short of people who found amusement in "camping" at beginner-level areas just to crush newers.

  Natsume had once aspired to be a schor-level trainer, but reality said otherwise.

  Crossing dimensions might ge your appearance or habits—turning a 1.8-meter-tall man into a 1.5-meter albino with red eyes—but intelligehat remaiubbornly fixed.

  The idea of someone going from a scatterbrained uy student to a calm, calg genius plotting against brilliant minds was nothing but fantasy.

  Besides, Natsume had always lived by the principle that brains were meant to rust.

  Realizing his limitations, he decisively switched career paths.

  “Got it.” Mei houghtfully, then sighed nostalgically.

  “Ba school, we had to memorize so much. The battle css teacher even made us watch battle videos and write analysis reports for homework. It was exhausting, especially after te-night study sessions.”

  “Exactly, right?”

  In no time, the two bonded over shared frustrations about their school days.

  For students—or ret graduates—pining about school is the perfect icebreaker.

  You think your school was bad? Wait till you hear about mine!

  This kind of versation naturally pulls out all the absurd stories from one’s school life, bringing both sides clether.

  So long as no one insults each other’s alma mater, of course.

  After a round of shared grievaheir retionship had noticeably warmed.

  “But Mr. Natsume, you’re really amazing,” Mei said with genuine admiration. “In just a couple of months, you turned an abandoned farm into this.”

  She g a group of Zigzagoon scampering across the fields and couldn’t help but marvel.

  While she cked any farming experience—being the textbook example of a high schooler with zero practical life skills—starting a farm from scratch sounded exhausting.

  “It’s nothing, really. The townsfolk were very supportive,” Natsume replied modestly.

  A lie, of course.

  The truth was that after arriving at the farm, Natsume had transformed from a slightly introverted high school boy into a full-blown shut-in.

  If unnecessary, he wouldn’t step out of the farm. Even now, most people in town barely knew who he was.

  Even the mayor, busy with his own responsibilities, didn’t have time for idle chats. Uhe leisurely, e-toting vilge elders in anime, real-world mayors were far busier.

  “Still, it’s impressive,” Mei insisted.

  “And you’re doing great too,” Natsume said. “For a rookie trainer, you’re off to a fantastic start.”

  Their versation naturally veered into mutual pliments.

  Looking at Mei, once a "protagonist" of sorts, Natsume felt surprisingly calm.

  He didn’t feel excited, let alone overwhelmed with adoration.

  Instead, he saw her as an unfamiliar acquaintaneoeresting but not idolized.

  Sure, he felt some fooward her, but nothing so intehat he’d throw himself at her.

  After all, Natsume was a "reserved man" (or so he cimed).

  “By the way, Mr. Natsume, I buy some Pokéblocks from you?” Mei asked suddenly.

  Her primary reason for visiting, besides the battle challenge, was to purchase some of Natsume’s renowned Pokéblocks.

  The forums were abuzz with praise for his creations, g they were eveer than what some top-tier professionals could make.

  “Of course! What type are you looking for?” Natsume asked, his business instincts kig in.

  “I have a Snivy, Dewott, and Tepig in my team. Do you have any reendations?” Mei replied thoughtfully.

  As she spoke, a Zorua quietly crept up owo of them.

  “Zor?”

  Seeing Natsume and Mei walking side by side, the Zorua skidded to a halt, then dived elegantly into a nearby bush before being noticed.

  Peeking out from its hiding spot, the Zorua studied the pair mischievously. Its expression hi a cheeky pn f in its mind.

  Pink energy enveloped its small body, and in the blink of ahe Zorua vanished into the foliage.

  “Hm?”

  “What is it, Mr. Natsume?” Mei asked curiously.

  “Nothing,” Natsume replied, gng back at the bush where the Zorua had been hiding. Something about it felt off, but he decided to let it go.

  Gcell