The exam week arrived with a kind of quiet dread that settled over the entire first year like a fog that refused to lift. Even Hearthome University, which usually buzzed with restless energy and the constant movement of students preparing for practical sessions, felt strangely subdued. The corridors no longer rang with laughter or early morning excitement. Instead, you heard low murmurs of revision, the occasional frustrated groan, and the steady rhythm of anxious footsteps. Aaron felt all of it, but he carried it differently. He had always been disciplined, even before he arrived here, but the past three months had sharpened him far more than he expected. His confidence wasn't arrogance; it came from evidence, from the stack of neatly arranged notes on his desk, from the daily study sessions with classmates, from the late nights where he and Gible went over every concept until he could teach it himself. It was still basic competence, nothing extraordinary yet, but it was consistent.
On the morning of the first exam, he sat by the window of his room, running his thumb absentmindedly across Gible's head. The little dragon was half asleep, making a soft rumbling noise that sounded like someone trying to purr but not entirely sure how. Aaron had tried training Gible for short bursts each morning, sticking to beginner routines. Nothing dramatic, just stamina walks around the University grounds, basic coordination drills, and exercises Professor Mara recommended for dragon-types at a novice level. Gible took to it with the stubborn enthusiasm only its species could manage. It wasn't strong yet, not even close, but it listened. Most days.
Aaron breathed slowly, watching sunlight catch on Gible's scales. Then he stood, straightened his blazer, and headed out.
The exam hall looked nothing like he imagined. It was grand and old, built long before the university earned its place among the world's best, with polished wooden beams that stretched across the ceiling and tall arched windows letting in cold winter light. Students filed to their seats with a mixture of tension and resignation, clutching pens as if expecting them to fail mid-sentence.
Day one was Pokémon Biology and Field Ecology. The moment the paper landed on his desk, he felt a small jolt of confidence. Much of it was material he had gone through repeatedly. The first essay, describing the biological differences in early development among dragon, steel and fairy types, seemed almost too familiar. He wrote without hesitation, drawing diagrams where necessary, while most of the hall scratched their heads or chewed their pens. Halfway through, he glanced up briefly; some students already looked defeated. He returned to his paper. There was no point worrying about anyone else.
The second section covered field ecology. That one tested subtlety rather than memory: how certain Pokémon responded to seasonal shifts, how habitats influenced behavioural patterns, how environmental balance could collapse with a single species removed. Aaron worked through each question methodically, recalling the long discussions with Professor Yeung, whose calm voice had a way of making even the driest material feel meaningful. By the time the call for pens down came, Aaron exhaled quietly. One day done.
The second day was Tactics and Battle Theory under Professor Rourke. This one mattered more to him, not because he wanted to be a battler but because it was the foundation for understanding how Pokémon learned, reacted and adapted. Rourke's lectures had been intense; he had zero patience for guesswork. More than once he had stopped mid-sentence to stare down a student who answered sloppily, grilling them until they either corrected themselves or admitted ignorance. But Aaron respected him for it. People who demanded standards produced students who met them.
The paper was exactly as brutal as expected. Scenario-based questions on terrain shifts, calculations involving move efficiency, psychological factors in inexperienced Pokémon, counter strategies for sudden weather changes, and analysis of famous battles from the last two decades. Aaron found himself writing quickly, mentally replaying Gible's training sessions and applying logic he didn't even realise he had internalised. His answers weren't perfect, but they were structured. That mattered.
On day three, the exam was Trainer Ethics and Intercultural Pokémon Relations. Most students dreaded this subject. It required sensitivity and precision in thought, something many took for granted. Professor Mirella had emphasised that the greatest trainers were not defined by strength but by restraint, empathy, and the ability to navigate complex moral choices. She had a habit of staring at students with narrowed eyes whenever she suspected someone memorised instead of understood.
The paper asked for analysis of hypothetical dilemmas, the relationship between tradition and modernisation in training communities, and the evolving role of trainers in multicultural regions. Aaron tapped into memories of conversations with his parents. His father's stories about habitat protection as a ranger. His mother's insistence that even the most temperamental Pokémon responded to respect first, commands second. He wrote with a steady clarity, not rushing, not dragging.
By day four and five, exhaustion had settled across everyone. Even Aaron felt it. His eyes burned after every page and his notes were starting to blur. Gible would nudge him gently when he studied into the late hours, a small act that felt grounding.
Day four's exam was Historical Frameworks of Training Civilisations with Professor Takeda, who spoke as if every sentence carried the weight of centuries. His exam was dense: essays on ancient training rituals, the formation of early leagues, the sociopolitical role of elite trainers during wartime periods, and comparative studies of champion lineages. Aaron took longer on this paper than any of the others, but he never felt lost. He simply needed more time to phrase things exactly as they needed to be.
Day five was Statistical Analysis for Trainer Performance Metrics. It was numbers, graphs, distributions, prediction models, battle outcome probability metrics and assessment algorithms. Half the class broke mentally within an hour. Aaron did not enjoy this one, but his maths background from childhood helped far more than he expected. It was tedious rather than difficult. By the end of the day, he was drained.
The final two days were electives: Pokémon Nutrition and Care, and Environmental Hazards and Safety Protocols. Smaller subjects, but still demanding. He finished both with the quiet confidence that he had not wasted a single hour of the past three months.
When the exams finally ended, the entire campus collapsed into collective relief. Some students went to the courtyard and lay flat on the grass. Others dragged themselves to the dining hall and ate like they hadn't seen food in days. Aaron simply returned to his room, dropped his bag on the floor, and sat beside Gible, who climbed onto his knee with no hesitation. He stroked the little dragon's head and let the silence wash over him.
The results came exactly one week later, posted digitally but also printed on an old wooden notice board outside the main hall, a tradition carried on for generations. Students gathered in a thick crowd, shoulders pressing against one another as they tried to spot their names.
Aaron walked up with no rush. If he did well, good. If he didn't, he would improve. That was the mindset his parents drilled into him.
He scanned the list calmly until he found his name.
Top of every module.
Silence hit him first, then a faint tightening in his chest, followed by something close to disbelief. He reread the scores. Ninety six. Ninety five. Ninety seven. Ninety four. Ninety eight. All high, all consistent, all marked with the small gold symbol indicating top performance in the cohort.
Students nearby whispered.
"That's Roberts again."
"First term and he's already doing that."
"Is he some kind of prodigy or what?"
He ignored all of it. The truth was simple: he wasn't special. He was disciplined. There's a difference. His skill was still basic, nowhere near what a real trainer required, but it had direction. He understood fundamentals, he studied properly, and he didn't waste time pretending talent replaced actual work.
He walked away from the board, pulling out his holo device and opening a call home. When the screen lit up and Lila's excited face filled half of it, shouting his name before anyone else got the chance, Aaron finally let a tired, genuine smile break through.
And that was his first term finished. Strong, steady, and exactly the kind of start he needed.