Chapter Forty-Eight: Building Blocks and the Art of Puzzle Surgery

It was completely normal that food delivery wasn't allowed in the testing zone; after all, not eating inside was a basic rule. Forget ordinary students and professors—even if Dr. Oak himself tried something as bizarre as cooking instant noodles over a spirit lamp, it could still end in disaster.

“But the dormitory area should be fine, right, Lapras?”

Lapras let out a soft whine. Bamboo Winter, embracing a slothful mood, hugged Lapras’s neck and couldn't even be bothered to move.

The first day of classes ended just like that. The schedule was intense compared to the Pokémon world, but for Bamboo Winter, it was a breeze.

On the second day, he and Lapras continued their “lift-high” training routine.

“Go play by yourself. I’ll come get you after class. Don’t get into any quarrels,” Bamboo Winter advised earnestly. “Of course, if anyone picks a fight, hit them with a Water Gun.”

“If it gets too much, use Ice Beam to make yourself a platform, or run to the little island on the lake and give them a taste of Thunderbolt.”

He’d checked—there weren’t any Swamperts or Quagsires in the lake that could resist electricity. Lapras’s Thunderbolt was definitely a game-changer here.

Oh, and there was also that Gyarados he’d seen before—the one that could do everything, with coverage that made anyone envious.

Everyone knows that a quadruple weakness is usually the mark of a powerhouse. Take the Hydreigon that once dominated its region—it was silenced the moment Fairy-types appeared, but its fearsome reputation as a dragon cannon remained.

Real battles aren’t governed by matchmaking algorithms; you won’t always encounter teams perfectly countering your own.

There was only one class this morning, or rather, it took up the whole morning session.

It was a lesson in building blocks—but the three-dimensional kind. They also had to do a bit of needlework.

To Bamboo Winter, this felt like surgery practice. The course was titled “Cocoon Repair and Maintenance.”

As everyone knows, Bug-type Pokémon typically undergo a chrysalis stage, like Metapod or Kakuna. Sometimes, accidents cause damage to their shells. While it wasn’t as fantastical as “life energy leaking out of a broken cocoon,” it was definitely detrimental to a Bug-type’s growth and evolution.

The cocoon’s purpose is to lock in nutrients and nurture new life, creating a sterile incubator suited to its species. Any damage could cause serious problems.

That’s why cocooned Bug-types instinctively learn moves like Harden, using them daily to strengthen their shell—not so they can be wielded as bricks by trainers, but to increase the cocoon’s durability and ensure a safe evolution.

If a cocoon evolves while damaged, unforeseen issues might arise. In the case of a protagonist’s Pokémon, perhaps a bond or a speech could turn adversity into a source of strength, but that’s rare.

The “abandoned but stronger” trope is usually reserved for main characters—and even then, not every companion fits the bill.

Yes, Ash, I’m talking about you!

In every generation, there’s always that one character. Bamboo Winter’s take was that when writers ran out of ideas, they’d just bite a lighter for laughs.

But from a nurse’s perspective, especially for a Joy, healthy growth matters most.

Thus, this “building blocks” surgery became a required course for all Joys. If someone brought in cocoon fragments for treatment, that was ideal—it meant no risk of rejection once sterilized. If not, they had to use synthetic materials.

And this wasn’t a free service for minor injuries—no matter your rank, even champions would pay the same fee.

Each student’s desk had a cocoon model. Not only were the damaged areas different, but the species varied as well.

Bamboo Winter’s was based on Kakuna—the golden cocoon that evolves into Beedrill. He peered inside; its structure was simple, with weighted material to match the real Kakuna’s heft.

Say what you will about Legendary or Mythical Pokémon data, but the Pokédex stats for the rest are pretty reliable.

He didn’t rush in. First, he examined the damaged areas, especially the tricky corners. It was easy to paint the main body, but the edges required finer work.

Once he’d identified the hardest spots, the rest was simple. He adjusted the metal frame on his desk, securing the model with the damaged side facing him.

He picked up a fine drill and recalled each step from the demonstration video—drilling anchor points around the damage, laying down a layer of medical material for support, then piecing the puzzle together.

The final step was threading silk through the holes to secure everything, then sealing the holes with potent adhesive medicine.

After the adhesive dried, a disinfection process followed, marking the completion of this puzzle surgery.

Once the cocoon was placed in a nutrient-rich recovery area, it would naturally repair itself. However, this delayed evolution, since healing had to come before progress.

He also had to remind trainers not to color the medical area for aesthetics. If the site got stained, the difficulty of the surgery would increase, and any sensible doctor would want to throttle the idiot trainer responsible.

Spending a whole morning on this class made sense, given the lengthy demonstration video. Only afterward did the students get their turn.

After the models were handed out, a team of Joy teachers entered, each supervising a section to provide quick feedback.

Propping his chin on his hand, Bamboo Winter leaned back and suddenly understood why some trainers wanted to paint over the patches. For anyone with OCD, those obvious “clothing patches” would be maddening.

“Bamboo Winter, you pass.”

The Joy teacher inspected the wound. “The material coverage is uneven. Fix that, and you’ll have an excellent grade.”

Uneven material meant that some areas were too thick, others too thin, making it harder for the injured Pokémon to adapt and lengthening recovery time.

“Thank you, teacher.”

Bamboo Winter didn’t mind; he was no expert mason and preferred a “brute force” approach—like using a Heavy Ball to solve problems.

He needed more practice; at least it would help him master his strength control.

The Joy teacher smiled gently. “You could try taking up needlework as a hobby—it would help you improve.”

Needlework, huh?

Like making a protective cover for his Beiming Ball?

“I’ll try. Thanks for the suggestion.”

Bamboo Winter’s needlework skills were stuck at the patch-and-mend level from his past life. The old saying about three more years of patchwork might be exaggerated, but holding out a little longer was no problem.

This class wasn’t physically demanding, but it was mentally draining. And this was just the most basic “level-one repair”—with only one damaged site.

He couldn’t imagine what advanced repairs were like.

In theory, such severe cases were rare, but that’s the point of being a doctor—you don’t ignore research on rare conditions just because they’re uncommon.

If you walk through the doors of a Pokémon Center seeking help for your partner, Joy’s mission is to weld the doors shut, hit the accelerator, and do everything to restore your partner’s health.

Standing beneath the teaching building, Bamboo Winter rubbed his face.

“I feel like those Psychic-types and so-called supercomputers could be brought in as assistants for fine surgeries. With enough training, a Pokémon like Alakazam or Metagross could even wipe your brow with telekinesis.”

He shook his head, feeling as if he were hallucinating—he even wanted to patch up an open trash can.

“If it’s about repairing cocoons, I guess you can’t use another Pokémon’s silk. No wonder they use synthetic materials.”

Not everything is interchangeable, like swapping laptop parts into a desktop for perfect compatibility—not likely at all.

Even silk from the same species probably wouldn’t work; Pokémon aren’t products on an assembly line.

“This afternoon—oh, no, it’s not PE.”

Labor was plentiful in the Pokémon world. With a little training, Pokémon could be reliable gardeners, so students didn’t have to weed or clean—Pokémon did it all.

Everyone knows that what energizes Ash the most is battle.

The best way to anger a Minccino is to throw a handful of dust at it.

Then you’ll get schooled in the true art of consecutive hits.

Is it unreasonable for both abilities to exist at once?

Not really. The power of rage can break through species limits—at least until you’re beaten to a pulp, that Minccino will maximize its output.

“This afternoon’s class is warehouse management—food and medicine?”

It seemed that Team Rocket had raided those storerooms plenty of times, like mice in a rice vat.

“What’s the second session…?”

Bamboo Winter suddenly wondered if he’d traveled back in time.

The last class of the afternoon was called, in short, “Career and Entrepreneurship Guidance.”