Welcome to Johto, New Save?

[Bladesunder]

Al's consciousness stirred as a gentle breeze caressed his face, carrying with it the earthy scent of grass and the distant murmur of rustling leaves. The sensation was so vivid, so real, that it pulled him from the depths of slumber. Slowly, he opened his eyes, squinting against the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy above. Towering trees stretched skyward, their branches swaying gracefully in the wind. Birds chirped melodiously, and the occasional rustle hinted at unseen creatures moving through the underbrush.


Pushing himself up, Al took in his surroundings. He was seated on a patch of soft grass in what appeared to be a dense forest. The environment was unfamiliar, yet there was an inexplicable sense of déjà vu. As he tried to piece together how he had ended up here, a sudden weight on his belt drew his attention downward.


Around his waist was a belt adorned with six Poké Balls, each polished to a gleaming finish. His heart skipped a beat. This couldn't be real. Tentatively, he unclipped one and pressed the button at its center. With a familiar whooshing sound and a flash of light, a majestic Salamence materialized before him, its wings stretching wide as it let out a resonant roar.


Al's breath caught in his throat. This was his Salamence, the very same one he had trained meticulously in his Pokémon Emerald game. But how was this possible? He reached out a trembling hand, and Salamence lowered its massive head, nuzzling his palm affectionately. The touch was warm, solid, and undeniably real.


A mix of elation and confusion surged through him. If Salamence was here, did that mean...? One by one, he released the rest of his team:

• Metagross: The steel behemoth landed with a thud, its red eyes glowing with intelligence.
  
  
• Gardevoir: She emerged gracefully, her serene gaze meeting his with a hint of concern.
  
  
• Breloom: The agile fighter bounced on its toes, ready for action.
  
  
• Manectric: Sparks danced along its sleek fur as it surveyed the area.
  
  
• Swampert: The reliable powerhouse stood firm, its eyes scanning for any potential threats.
  

Al's mind raced. This was his champion team, the very lineup he had used to conquer the League in Emerald . But instead of being confined to a game cartridge, they were here, alive and breathing in this mysterious forest.


He took a deep breath, trying to steady his thoughts. Reaching into his pocket, he found his PokéNav. The device was sleek and familiar, its screen glowing softly. Navigating to the map function, he hoped for some clarity. The display showed a detailed map labeled "Johto Region." His brow furrowed. Johto? That was the region from the Gold and Silver games. How had he ended up here?


As he pondered this, he noticed another feature on the PokéNav—a digital ID. His own face stared back at him, accompanied by the name "Al" and a Trainer ID number. Below that, his current balance was displayed, matching the in-game currency he had amassed in Pokémon Emerald.


The implications were staggering. Somehow, he had been transported into the world of Pokémon, specifically to the Johto region, with his champion team and in-game assets intact. But why? And how?


A rustling in the bushes snapped him back to the present. His team immediately tensed, ready to defend their trainer. Al held up a hand, signaling them to stand down. From the foliage emerged a young boy, no older than ten, with spiky brown hair and a red cap. He wore a backpack and had a single Poké Ball clipped to his belt.


The boy's eyes widened as he took in the sight of Al's formidable team. "Whoa! Are you a Pokémon Trainer?" he asked, his voice filled with awe.


Al hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Yeah, I am."


The boy's face lit up. "I'm Joey! I'm just starting my journey. Would you like to have a battle?"


Al glanced at his team, then back at Joey. He didn't want to overwhelm the novice trainer. "Sure, but how about a one-on-one match? You choose your best Pokémon, and I'll choose one of mine."


Joey nodded eagerly and unclipped his Poké Ball. "Go, Rattata!" he exclaimed, releasing a small, purple rodent onto the field.


Al smiled, appreciating the boy's enthusiasm. He considered his options. Choosing a Pokémon that wouldn't overpower Joey's Rattata was crucial. "Alright, go Breloom!" he called, sending out the agile Grass/Fighting-type.


The two Pokémon faced each other, the tension palpable. Joey made the first move. "Rattata, use Quick Attack!"


The Rattata dashed forward with impressive speed, striking Breloom before darting back. Breloom took the hit in stride, barely flinching.


Al nodded approvingly. "Breloom, use Mach Punch, be gentle."


With blinding speed, Breloom closed the distance and delivered a swift punch, sending Rattata tumbling. The little Pokémon struggled to its feet, determination shining in its eyes.


Joey clenched his fists. "Don't give up, Rattata! Use Hyper Fang!"


Rattata lunged, its sharp teeth aiming for Breloom. The attack connected, causing Breloom to stagger slightly.


Al decided it was time to end the match before Rattata got hurt. "Breloom, use Stun Spore."


Breloom released a cloud of golden spores that enveloped Rattata, causing it to become paralyzed. The small Pokémon's movements became sluggish.


Joey's face fell. "Rattata, try to move!"


Rattata struggled but couldn't muster the strength to continue. Joey sighed and recalled his Pokémon. "You win," he said, forcing a smile. "Your Breloom is really strong."


Al walked over and placed a reassuring hand on Joey's shoulder. "You and Rattata did great. Keep training, and you'll become a top-tier trainer in no time."


Joey's eyes brightened. "Thanks! I'm heading to Violet City for my first Gym Badge. Maybe I'll see you there?"


Al nodded. "Sounds like a plan. Safe travels, Joey."


As the young trainer disappeared down the path, Al turned back to his team. They had been with him through countless hours of grinding, and now they were here in person. The journey ahead was uncertain, but with his Pokémon by his side, he felt ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.


Recalling his team, Al took a deep breath and set off in the direction Joey had indicated. The road to Violet City awaited, and with it, the promise of new adventures in this familiar yet uncharted world.

 

[Bladesunder]

The golden light of afternoon filtered through the trees as Al walked along the well-worn trail, his thoughts as tangled as the foliage around him. The events of the morning still played over in his mind like a dream on loop. The weight of his Poké Balls on his belt felt comforting, familiar—but the world was anything but.

This isn't a game. The realization was slowly embedding itself into his consciousness with every step. Every birdcall was real, every breeze organic, and his Pokémon… living, breathing beings who looked to him not just for commands, but for trust, guidance, and connection.

He pulled out his PokéNav again, scrolling through the features. Everything seemed functional—his money, over 300,000 PokéDollars, was still accessible, his Trainer Card displayed his badges from Hoenn, and the map indicated he was just a few kilometers from Cherrygrove City.

And then there was the Pokédex—no longer a static encyclopedia, but a living database. It responded to voice queries, provided real-time feedback, even offered personality insights on his Pokémon. That level of immersion had never existed in any game.

"Alright," he muttered, stopping to sit on a fallen log. He opened his notebook—a habit he picked up during college—and began jotting down the facts.

• I'm in the Johto Region.
  
  
• I have the team from my Emerald playthrough.
  
  
• My PokéNav and Pokédex are real tools.
  
  
• Pokémon seem to know more than four moves.
  
  
• People treat Pokémon like partners, not just battlers.
  
  
• This world operates on realism, not game logic.

He stared at the last point, underlining it twice.

It made sense in hindsight. Breloom had dodged Rattata's Hyper Fang with a clever sidestep—not just a stat-based evasion but a real, physical move. Gardevoir had scanned the area telepathically when summoned earlier, not just idled like an idle sprite. Even Salamence had looked at him with something like... sentience.

"This changes everything."

His team wasn't just strong—they were intelligent. Sentient, maybe. They had fought for him in the game. But it was just a game, he'd been treating them like game pieces. Now, he needed to know them. Truly.

He stood, tucking his notebook away, and continued down the path toward Cherrygrove.

(break)

Cherrygrove City was quaint—rows of modest houses with tiled roofs, a coastline that shimmered under the lowering sun, and the familiar red-roofed Pokémon Center nestled near the heart of town. Al headed straight for it.

Inside, he was greeted by a soft hum of activity: trainers chatting, Pokémon being healed, and the familiar chime of the healing machine. The nurse smiled warmly as he approached.

"Welcome to the Cherrygrove Pokémon Center. Need your team checked?"

He nodded. "Might as well. They're fine, but…" he hesitated, "I just want to be sure."

She took his Poké Balls and placed them in the machine. "From Hoenn, huh?" she said, glancing at his ID on the screen. "Not often we see one of those."

Al smiled wryly. "Guess I'm a long way from home."

She handed his team back a minute later. "All in perfect condition. Quite the team you've got."

"Thanks," he said, then added, "I have a question. Are there different kinds of Gym Challenges in Johto? Not just the standard badge route?"

The nurse perked up. "Oh! You're probably thinking of the Star Badge Challenge."

"Yeah, that's the one," he said, surprised she knew.

"It's tougher," she warned. "Same Gyms, but the Leaders use their top-tier teams—the ones they use in the Elite circuits or exhibition matches. Most trainers don't go for it unless they're aiming to go pro or challenge the League with recognition from the Gym Committee."

That lit a fire in Al. It was a path that would push both him and his team—not just a rehash of the gym fights he knew, but a full test of strength and synergy. This was his second chance at life, he wouldn't waste it.

"I want that," he said firmly.

The nurse nodded. "Then you'll need to register officially with the League. You can do that at the Trainer Hub in Violet City. Until then, stock up—trainers who go for the Star Badges usually train hard before their first battle."

(break)

The PokéMart was just across the street. Al spent generously—buying potions, full heals, escape ropes, and even a few specialized vitamins. He grabbed a tent, cooking supplies, and field rations. If he was going to understand this world, he needed to experience it fully.

He passed through the edge of town as dusk set in, finding a small trail that led into the woods. The Ilex Forest was farther north, but this was just a modest patch of woodland—a perfect place for solitude and reflection.

He set up camp, his Salamence clearing a space with a careful sweep of its tail. As the fire crackled, Al laid out six Poké Balls before him.

"This isn't a battle tonight," he said aloud. "This is... us getting to know each other. For real."

He released his team.

Salamence curled protectively near the perimeter, alert but calm. Metagross sat like a statue, glowing eyes flickering with data. Gardevoir levitated silently, eyes reflecting the flames. Breloom stretched, then began shadowboxing nearby. Manectric prowled in a slow circle, nose twitching. Swampert planted itself near the fire, solid and warm.

Al looked at each of them in turn.

"You guys... you're not data. You're not just power levels and stat spreads.

He stood, placing his hand on his chest. "We're in a new world. It's real. You're real. I want to understand you—not just your moves, but what you want. What you feel. Who you are."

There was a long silence.

Then Gardevoir stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on his temple. A soft pulse entered his mind—a mental echo. Gratitude. Affection. Curiosity. She had understood him long before he understood her.

Manectric gave a short huff and lay beside him, head on its paws. Swampert rumbled in agreement. Breloom bounded over, giving him a mock jab to the shoulder and a grin.

Even Metagross gave a faint shimmer of approval, its metallic limbs relaxing slightly.

Al laughed softly. "Okay. One by one. Let's learn. Not just moves. But strategy. Thought. Synergy."

(break)

They began the next day.

He started with Gardevoir—training not just offensive techniques but control. She demonstrated a repertoire far beyond the standard four: Calm Mind, Psychic, Shadow Ball, Dazzling Gleam... but also Hypnosis, Misty Terrain, Healing Wish. And Teleport—she could move the entire group in a flash.

With Breloom, they focused on movement. He knew Mach Punch, Seed Bomb, and Spore, but he also showed off Counter, Leech Seed, Sky Uppercut. Together they ran drills—dodging, feinting, combo attacks.

Swampert worked on terrain control. He could shape mud into slick traps, summon localized rain, even sense vibrations in the ground to predict movement. His strength was devastating, but he was also tactical.

Manectric had a keen sense for prediction. He'd charge power with Charge or Magnet Rise, bait attacks with Double Team, then strike hard with Thunderbolt or Crunch. He could even use Snarl to weaken enemies, or Signal Beam for coverage.

Salamence's power was overwhelming—but he flew with grace. Dragon Dance boosted him into a fury, but he also had precise moves like Dragon Claw, Aerial Ace, even Fire Fang. His Roar could send lesser Pokémon fleeing.

Metagross was the tactician. Psychic, Meteor Mash, Earthquake, but also Reflect, Agility, and even Gravity—a move Al hadn't known he could learn. He could manipulate the battlefield with surgical precision.

(break)

By the end of three days, Al was exhausted—but invigorated. He'd slept in a tent, eaten campfire meals, and sparred with his team under the stars. But more than that—he'd connected. They weren't just fighters. They were friends. His new family.

On the fourth morning, he stood on a rocky outcrop overlooking the trees. Violet City shimmered faintly on the horizon. The wind tugged at his jacket as he turned back to his team.

"Let's do it," he said. "Let's take the Star Badge challenge."

His team answered not with words—but with presence. With trust.

And Al, for the first time since awakening in this world, truly felt ready.

 

[Bladesunder]

Al had spent three days training in the woods outside Cherrygrove, and though he'd come a long way in understanding his Pokémon, something still gnawed at him.


He hadn't been tested. Not really.


Most of the trainers he'd met were kids just starting out—full of fire but lacking strategy, their Pokémon untrained and battles too easy to call practice. What he needed was pressure. A real match. A situation where instincts and trust carried more weight than pre-planned combinations.


That's when he heard footsteps crunching through the underbrush.


He turned.


The guy emerging from the woods was maybe a few years older than him. Short silver hair stuck out under a dark-blue cap, and his black jacket was worn but well-kept. Six Poké Balls lined his belt. He moved like someone used to long treks and wild terrain.


Their eyes met, and without exchanging a word, Al knew.


This guy could fight. But what is this, protagonist luck?


The stranger stopped a few feet away, raising an eyebrow. "You heading to Violet?"


"Yeah. You?"


"Same." He paused. "You training for the Star Badge route?"


Al's pulse jumped. "I am."


A short nod. "So am I. Name's Riven."


"Al."


They stared for a beat. Then Riven cracked a lopsided grin. "How about we size each other up?"


Al's hand dropped to his belt. "You read my mind."


"No doubles," Riven said. "One-on-one format. Two total."


Al grinned. "Let's do it."





(break)





They cleared the space between the trees, stepping into a natural glade where sunlight streamed through in sharp beams. A faint breeze stirred the grass as the two trainers took their places at opposite ends.


"Go, Breloom!"


"Go, Talonflame!"


The forest exploded with light and noise. Breloom burst forward, bouncing on the balls of his feet, fists already clenched. Talonflame shrieked as it took to the sky in a spiral of feathers and fire.


Al's mind kicked into overdrive. Talonflame—Fire/Flying. Massive threat. Fast, aggressive. Breloom didn't have the typing to win, but maybe he didn't need it.


"Talonflame, Acrobatics!"


The firebird dove in a blur, wings glowing. Breloom barely rolled aside, a feather catching his shoulder and sending him spinning.


"Breloom, Spore!"


Breloom recovered mid-roll, releasing a cloud of pale green mist. Talonflame banked hard, avoiding most of it—but a few spores clung to its wings.


Al narrowed his eyes. He'd aimed wide on purpose. Just needed enough.


Riven frowned. "Flame Charge!"


Talonflame's wings ignited as it blazed forward, but its flight was uneven, a slight lag in its turn radius.


The spores had taken hold. Not full sleep—just fatigue. Slowed reflexes.


"Dodge left! Counter with Rock Tomb!"


Breloom darted sideways, avoiding the burning tackle. Slamming his fists into the ground, he summoned a sudden burst of stones that cracked the earth and launched into Talonflame's path.


It shrieked as a chunk clipped its wing, sending it spiraling downward.


"Mach Punch!"


In a blur, Breloom shot forward and struck the firebird mid-air. The hit knocked Talonflame into the dirt, groaning.


Riven raised his hand. "Return."


Al exhaled slowly. One down.


Riven already had his next Poké Ball in hand. "Alright. Let's see what else you've got."


"Go, Aegislash!"


Al tensed as the spectral sword materialized midair, gleaming in Shield Form. Ghost/Steel. A different challenge altogether.


Al recalled Breloom without a word and swapped to his second choice.


"Gardevoir, you're up."


She appeared in a shimmer of light, her gown fluttering in the wind, eyes already locked on the blade across from her.


Riven didn't wait. "Swords Dance."


The blade spun in midair, energy crackling along its edge.


"Calm Mind."


Gardevoir closed her eyes, centering herself in a pulse of pink-blue light.


"Shadow Sneak!"


Aegislash shifted forms in an instant—into its Sword stance—and vanished into the ground. It reappeared behind Gardevoir with a lurching slice.


"Teleport!" Al barked.


Gardevoir blinked out of existence just before the shadowy strike landed, reappearing in the air behind Aegislash.


"Moonblast!"


A radiant orb of light exploded from her hands and slammed into the steel ghost, forcing it back with a groan of metal.


Riven's eyes glinted. "King's Shield."


The shield snapped up just as Gardevoir prepared another attack, her blast fizzling against the spectral barrier. She flinched—her attack power sapped slightly.


"Shadow Ball, now!"


Before Gardevoir could react, Aegislash shot a black sphere from beneath the shield. It hit her dead-center, sending her crashing to the ground.


Al gritted his teeth. "Back up—Hypnosis!"


She staggered upright, eyes glowing softly as spiraling rings launched toward Aegislash. They hit—but the sword didn't falter.


"Ghost-types don't sleep easily," Riven said. "Shadow Sneak."


The blade vanished again.


"Teleport again—diagonal left!" Al called.


She blinked aside just in time. The sneak attack grazed her hip instead of landing a direct hit.


Al raised a hand. "Dazzling Gleam. Don't hold back."


Gardevoir glowed, then unleashed a burst of prismatic light that lit up the entire clearing. Aegislash shrieked as the blast hit full-on.


When the light faded, the sword trembled… then dropped to the ground.


Riven held up his Poké Ball. "That'll do."





(break)





The silence afterward was deep, broken only by Gardevoir's soft breathing and the rustle of wind through the trees.


Al let out a breath, walking over to his partner. "You good?"


She nodded, then gave a graceful bow, acknowledging both him and her fallen opponent.


Riven approached, wiping a smudge of dirt from his jacket. "You fight smart," he said. "Didn't rely on brute force."


"I've been training for a few days out here. Figured I needed to know my team better if I was going to survive the Star route."


"That's rare," Riven said. "Most people think strong moves and typing are all that matter. But you let your Pokémon think. Adapt."


Al extended a hand. "Thanks for the battle."


Riven shook it. "No problem. You've got the mindset. Violet's going to be a challenge, though. Falkner's elite team doesn't mess around."


"I'm counting on that," Al said with a grin.


Riven nodded once, then turned and walked back into the woods.





(break)





By late afternoon, the road led Al into the gates of Violet City.


The skyline was marked by the towering silhouette of Sprout Tower, its bells faintly audible on the wind. The city itself was quiet but charming—stone-paved streets, traditional roofs, and carved wooden signs swinging gently outside shops.


The Pokémon Center offered a welcome reprieve. Al dropped off his team for healing and then walked the few blocks to the Johto League Registry, housed in a sleek modern building nestled between old-style homes.


A clerk greeted him with a nod. "Here to register?"


Al handed over his PokéNav. "For the Star Badge Challenge."


The clerk raised an eyebrow. "That's no joke. First match will be Falkner. You sure?"


"I'm sure."


She smiled. "Your challenge is confirmed. The Gym will be ready for you tomorrow."


Al stepped outside into the evening air, the sky a wash of gold and purple.


He was ready for this. Not just because he had strong Pokémon—but because he was finally learning to be the kind of trainer this world respected.

 

[Bladesunder]

Violet City was alive with history.

Al stepped out of the Johto League Registry building and into the crisp afternoon air, his boots tapping against the cobbled stone street. The city's architecture was a mix of traditional Johto charm—sloping roofs, wooden balconies, paper lanterns—with occasional modern touches like solar panels or PokéNav charging stations nestled unobtrusively near benches.

He let himself breathe it in.

This place wasn't just pixels on a screen. It was real. And now that he wasn't sprinting through it like a speedrun, it was... beautiful.

The Pokémon Center stood near the city square, designed in the classic red-roof style but with polished stone columns and a small Zen garden out front. Al stepped inside, greeted by the warm hum of machinery, soft lighting, and the ever-reassuring voice of Nurse Joy.

"Welcome. Here for accommodations?"

"Yeah, I'll need a room for a couple nights."

She tapped a few keys. "You're registered for the Star Badge Challenge, correct?"

"I am."

She smiled. "Challengers get complimentary housing. Second floor, Room 7. Your team's ready whenever you need them."

Al thanked her and took the elevator up.

His room was simple—bed, desk, charging station, and a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the curve of the city walls and the distant outline of the Sprout Tower. He stood there for a long while, watching monks in orange robes sweep the temple's stone steps, listening to the wind carry the faint clang of ceremonial bells.

There was something humbling about it.

This world wasn't his playground anymore. It was ancient. Layered. Alive.

(break)
Later that afternoon, he took a walk through the city's winding streets. He passed a marketplace where vendors sold berries, incense, and hand-carved trinkets. A group of schoolkids practiced tossing Poké Balls into hoops. He even spotted an elderly man teaching a Growlithe how to "heel" without commands.

He stopped by the Sprout Tower gates. The tall pagoda swayed slightly in the wind—just enough to be unsettling if you didn't know it was by design. According to local lore, the tower was built to honor the balance between Pokémon and nature. Inside, monks trained Bellsprouts not for battle, but for focus and harmony.

A younger monk spotted Al lingering by the entrance. "You're here to challenge the Gym, aren't you?"

"I am," Al said.

"Falkner trained here as a boy," the monk said with a faint smile. "Still visits, some mornings. You'll see his roots when you battle."

Al gave a respectful nod. "Thanks. I'm looking forward to it."

(break)
The sun had dipped low by the time Al returned to the Pokémon Center. He grabbed a simple dinner from the cafeteria—rice, grilled fish, steamed vegetables—and then spent the rest of the evening on his bed, sprawled out with his notebook and PokéNav.

He studied Falkner's profil. Falkner was known for speed, agility, and weather tactics. Flying-types, sure, but not just the birds from the Route 30 grass. He was the son of a League Ace. He had a reputation to protect.

No substitutions. Six Pokémon each. Al would need endurance, versatility, and sharp reactions. This wasn't about countering types—it was about knowing his team well enough to trust them, to cover for each other without backup.

He ran through possible matchups in his head until sleep finally claimed him.

(break)
The next morning, the Pokémon Center buzzed with trainers, tourists, and local chatter. Al ate early, retrieved his fully healed team, and walked through the quiet morning streets toward the Gym.

The Gym stood near the heart of Violet, its design inspired by a roosting falcon—elegant curves and a tall, circular dome. The front doors slid open as he approached, revealing a reception hall of glass and stone, with a large skylight that bathed the floor in natural light.

A woman in navy League attire greeted him at the front desk.

"Trainer Al?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Falkner is waiting. Follow me."

The corridor beyond was dim and quiet, with only the distant echo of his footsteps and the soft creak of rope bridges swaying above—an aerial battleground built into the ceiling beams.

But the battle wouldn't be in the rafters today.

She led him into a central arena—a circular stone battlefield surrounded by high walls and a translucent dome that let in the sun and wind. Natural air currents swirled through the space. On the far side of the arena, Falkner stood alone.

Tall and sharp-eyed, Falkner wore the blue-and-white robes of his lineage, though his sleeves were rolled back and his scarf tucked tight around his neck like a pilot about to enter a storm. His expression was calm, unreadable.

"You're the Star Badge challenger," he said, his voice soft but commanding.

Al stepped forward. "I am."

"You'll face my elite team. Six Pokémon. No switches."

Al gave a nod, pulling his first Poké Ball from his belt. "I'm ready."

Falkner raised his own. "Then let the wind carry your resolve."

They threw their Poké Balls at the same time—two arcs of light crashing against the battlefield.


The battle had begun.

 

[Bladesunder]

The stone floor beneath Al's boots felt cool, even under the mid-morning sun streaming through the Gym's translucent dome. Wind whispered through the rafters above, stirring the air and giving the whole arena a weightless, aerial atmosphere—fitting for a Gym built on flight.

On the far end of the battlefield, Falkner stood calm and collected, hands behind his back, every line of his posture sharp with purpose. The gym leader's blue-and-white robes rippled slightly in the moving air, and his gaze met Al's with a kind of cool challenge.

"This is a Star Badge match," came the voice of the referee from the booth above. "Six Pokémon each. No switching. Each Pokémon will battle until it is defeated. Trainers, ready?"

Al exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around his first Poké Ball. "Ready."

Falkner nodded once. "Begin."

(break)

Falkner made the first move. "Swellow!"

The Poké Ball burst open in a streak of light. A sleek, steel-blue bird with crimson plumage took to the air in a sudden burst, wings slicing the wind. Its eyes gleamed with sharp instinct, and it circled above the arena in wide, rapid arcs.

Al stepped forward. "Manectric, let's go!"

The electric hound landed with a snarl, lightning crackling along its mane. Manectric crouched low, eyes tracking the airborne Swellow.

The tension between them was immediate. Speed against precision. Air versus ground.

"Agility!" Falkner called.

Swellow's body blurred, leaving a wake of motion behind it. It dove in and out of currents, nearly invisible, its acceleration spiking every second it stayed in motion.

"Charge!" Al called.

Manectric planted its paws, electricity building in arcs up its spine. Not just power—preparation. The ground hissed beneath him.

"Quick Attack—spiral dive!" Falkner snapped.

Swellow vanished into a blur and plunged straight down, then twisted midair in a tight helix to throw off Manectric's aim.

"Snarl!" Al barked.

Manectric unleashed a blast of harsh sound. It disrupted Swellow's trajectory just enough to dull the impact as it collided.

The hit still landed. Manectric was driven back, skidding across the stone floor.

But Swellow was exposed now, mid-recovery.

"Thunderbolt!"

Electricity surged from Manectric's body and arced skyward like a whip. The bolt caught Swellow full in the chest, blasting it backward into a spiraling, uncontrolled flight path.

"Don't let it recover—Thunder Fang!"

Manectric leapt, fangs charged with lightning, catching the falling bird midair with a snap of jaws and slamming it into the ground.

Swellow shuddered once, wings twitching—and stilled.

"Swellow is unable to battle."

Al exhaled slowly, heart thudding.

Manectric stood over the fallen bird, chest heaving, fur sparking.

Falkner recalled Swellow, expression unreadable. "Good read on timing," he said simply. "But you haven't seen precision yet."

He pulled out his next Poké Ball. "Noivern."

The bat-dragon erupted into the air in a burst of wind and shrieking sound. Purple wings stretched wide, ears twitching like radar dishes, and its yellow eyes gleamed with almost cruel amusement.

Manectric growled low.

Al hesitated a breath. No switches. Manectric had to see this through.

"Dragon Pulse!" Falkner snapped.

A beam of spiraling energy shot down with barely a warning. Al's instincts flared.

"Dodge!"

Manectric darted right, the beam exploding into the floor behind it. Chunks of stone flew.

"Get in close!" Al yelled.

Manectric charged, zigzagging at top speed.

"Noivern, Boomburst."

The screech that followed was apocalyptic—vibrating the very air, sending pressure rippling across the arena like a tsunami.

Manectric was blasted off its paws, skidding and tumbling in a heap.

"On your feet!" Al called, urgency rising.

The electric-type struggled up, bruised, limping slightly—but standing.

"Flamethrower," Falkner said with eerie calm.

Fire poured from Noivern's maw like a dragon's breath.

"Thunderbolt—straight through!"

Al's command was a gamble. Manectric roared, letting loose a surge of lightning that tore through the flames. The bolt struck Noivern's wing—but not hard enough.

The dragon shrieked, retaliated.

"Tailwind!"

A burst of air spiraled behind it, boosting speed exponentially.

Then it was gone—invisible in the blink of an eye—reappearing behind Manectric in mid-dive.

"Air Slash!"

The wind blade hit like a guillotine.

Manectric dropped.

Silence rang through the arena.

"Manectric is unable to battle."

Al returned his Pokémon, pressing the ball to his chest for a brief second. "You did great. You gave me a window."

Noivern circled overhead, fresh wind propelling it like a missile.

Al took his next ball.

"Then I'll take it."

He tossed it high.

"Gardevoir, you're up!"

 

[Bladesunder]

Gardevoir materialized in a shimmer of pale light, descending gracefully onto the battlefield like a falling star. Her eyes were calm but focused, her movements fluid. The moment her feet touched the ground, the psychic energy around her stirred the dust in subtle spirals.

Across the field, Noivern shrieked and flapped aggressively, circling above her like a vulture. It had taken a hit from Manectric, but Falkner's Tailwind still swirled around it, giving it terrifying speed.

Al watched Gardevoir's posture—shoulders loose, gaze locked. She was waiting. Listening. Trusting him.

"Moonblast," he called evenly.

She responded without hesitation, cupping her hands together and forming a growing orb of silvery light. It thrummed in the air, casting pale glows over her face.

"Noivern, Boomburst!"

The sound hit first—a shockwave that split the air. Gardevoir gritted her teeth, staggering back, the Moonblast faltering for a breath—

"Hold it!" Al snapped. "Steady!"

She caught herself, refocused. The Moonblast ignited like a miniature nova and fired, a pulsing comet of radiant power.

Noivern tried to juke upward, but the Tailwind had started to fade. The blast caught its wing mid-turn and exploded.

The dragon tumbled, shrieking, and crashed into the floor in a heap of wings and clawed limbs.

"Noivern is unable to battle."

Al exhaled through clenched teeth. That had been close. Too close.

Falkner said nothing as he recalled his fallen Pokémon. But his eyes narrowed.

"Let's see how long she lasts," he said. "Go, Honchkrow."

The flash that followed was dark and elegant—a bird draped in shadow, with crimson eyes and a sharp gleam of intelligence. It landed smoothly, feathers slicked back like a mob boss's suit.

Gardevoir adjusted her stance, breathing a little harder now. Al could feel her fatigue through the bond they'd built over long hours of training in the woods. But she wasn't out yet.

"Calm Mind," he said softly.

She raised her hands to her chest, drawing energy inward, her aura settling and expanding like ripples on still water.

"Night Slash," Falkner ordered.

Honchkrow vanished into a blur and reappeared above her, wing-blades glowing black.

"Teleport!"

She blinked out of sight just before the slash landed, reappearing behind Honchkrow mid-air.

"Dazzling Gleam!"

A flash of rainbow light exploded point-blank.

Honchkrow screeched, wings flailing—but it wasn't down. It twisted hard, wings wide, and dropped toward her again.

"Thunder Wave!"

Crackling psychic electricity leapt from Gardevoir's hand and struck Honchkrow mid-dive. The dark bird spasmed, its wings locking.

"Finish it—Moonblast!"

She hurled a compressed sphere of light like a cannonball. It struck Honchkrow dead center.

The crow crumpled, crashing into the arena floor and skidding to a stop.

"Honchkrow is unable to battle."

The crowd let out a gasp—two knockouts, back-to-back. Gardevoir stood, chest heaving, barely upright, but still glowing with calm power.

Al smiled faintly. "Just one more."

Falkner's lips were a tight line now. He nodded slowly and drew his fourth Poké Ball.

"Then I'll give her someone worthy of her last stand."

The next Pokémon appeared in a flash of wind and light—Togekiss.

Wide wings, shimmering white and red. Graceful and deceptively heavy. It hovered on slow wingbeats, but Al knew better than to underestimate it.

"Gardevoir, Reflect."

She summoned the protective screen, a translucent barrier between her and the opponent.

"Togekiss, Air Slash."

Wind exploded from Togekiss's wings, cutting like blades.

Gardevoir ducked, the barrier catching some of it—but she was already staggering. She'd been fighting too long.

"Try Hypnosis!" Al called.

She lifted one shaking hand and sent the spiraling psychic rings outward—but Togekiss drifted up, out of range.

"Flamethrower."

The fire wasn't searing, but the fatigue made it unbearable. Gardevoir cried out as the flame curled around her.

"Moonblast!"

She released the last of her strength into the orb. It struck true—Togekiss recoiled, wings buckling under the hit.

But both Pokémon dropped almost simultaneously—Gardevoir to her knees, collapsing; Togekiss fluttering awkwardly to the ground, dazed and unmoving.

The silence lasted a breath.

The referee raised both flags. "Double knockout!"

Al stood there for a moment, breath held, until the red light of Gardevoir's Poké Ball whisked her away.

"Thank you," he whispered again.

Across the field, Falkner returned Togekiss without a word. The expression on his face was unreadable—but there was a flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes.

"Three and three," the referee called. "Halfway."

Al wiped sweat from his brow. "Lets not drag this out, time to finish this."

He drew his next Poké Ball slowly, almost reverently. The one he'd been saving. The one who could bring it home.

"Salamence, you're up."

The sky itself seemed to bend as the dragon emerged, wings unfurling wide, tail lashing with restless energy. He let out a roar that shook the windows of the dome.

Falkner stared up at the hulking form and finally smiled—just a little.

"I wondered when you'd bring him out."

He raised his own Poké Ball.

"Then let's see what the sky's real apex predator looks like."

 

[Bladesunder]

The moment Salamence landed, the air in the Gym shifted.

The wind stirred harder. The rafters groaned. The dome above shimmered under the pressure of his presence. His wings spread wide—massive, crimson, and imposing. When he exhaled, his breath curled in the air like rising heat from an engine.

Falkner didn't flinch. He was calm, collected—even in the face of the dragon.

From across the field, the Gym Leader raised his fourth Poké Ball. "Then let's see if you're as strong as you look."

With a flash of light, his next Pokémon emerged.

Corviknight.

The steel-plated raven slammed into the battlefield like a falling boulder. Its wings beat once, twice—black-metal feathers scattering tiny sparks across the arena floor. It was taller than most, heavier. Battle-worn, with a scar running across one gleaming eye.

It didn't roar. It didn't flinch. It stared.

Falkner said only one word. "Begin."

(break)
Al didn't need to wait.

"Dragon Dance!"

Salamence rose on hind legs, wings folding, tail sweeping low. Energy coiled around his frame—speed and power amplifying with every breath. The air crackled.

"Taunt," Falkner ordered.

Corviknight screeched, its cry cutting into the silence like a blade. A wave of oppressive energy burst from its wings, aimed straight at Salamence's mind.

It struck—but Al had already planned for this.

"No more setup. Earthquake!"

Salamence's wings snapped open, and he slammed down into the ground. The entire battlefield shook—cracks raced across the stone. The vibration echoed up the walls.

Corviknight was airborne, wings flaring—minimizing the impact.

But the shockwave still hit.

The raven screeched, its flight staggered by the rolling quake.

"Steel Wing!" Falkner called.

Corviknight folded its wings in, then blasted forward like a steel missile, gleaming with kinetic force.

"Fly," Al snapped.

In an instant, Salamence launched skyward. Wind exploded beneath him, pushing Corviknight off-course as he arced toward the dome above.

The collision missed.

"Circle—dive now!"

From above, Salamence twisted in midair, banking in a tight spiral. His descent was thunder itself. A crimson comet.

"Flamethrower!"

The burst of fire left his mouth before he even touched the ground.

It hit.

Corviknight didn't dodge.

The steel bird caught the inferno point-blank, crashing into the floor with a shriek that echoed across the Gym.

The fire didn't stop at impact—it curled and rolled, licking at the battlefield and leaving scorch marks in a tight circle around the crater.

Al watched, silent, breath held.

The flames died.

Corviknight lay unmoving in a pit of cracked, blackened stone.

The referee raised her hand. "Corviknight is unable to battle."

---

Al didn't celebrate.

He didn't need to.

Salamence rose from the center of the destruction, steam curling from his nostrils, the light from above catching the sharpened edge of his wings.

Falkner returned his Pokémon, eyes narrowed but not surprised. "So you're not just strong," he said softly. "You're disciplined."

Al said nothing. His gaze stayed on Salamence. He knew that look in the dragon's eyes.

Controlled fury.

He wasn't lashing out. He was hunting.

And Falkner had only two Pokémon left.

The Gym Leader pulled his next Poké Ball slowly, almost respectfully.

"This one's never lost a sky battle."

He threw it high.

Gliscor.

The bat-scorpion emerged with a snarl, wings crackling in the wind. It landed, tail twitching, claws digging into the stone. It didn't charge.

It waited.

Falkner smiled faintly. "He likes challenges."

Salamence growled, wings spreading wider. Sparks danced along the edges of his scales.

The battle wasn't over.

But the tide had turned.

(break)
The battlefield still bore the scars of Salamence's previous clash—blackened stone, shallow craters, and soot trailing through the air like smoke from a battlefield long past.

But now, the field had grown still again. Tense.

Above it all, Gliscor hovered in a lazy figure-eight, wings wide, eyes sharp, tail twitching with barely restrained energy. Its crimson gaze never left Salamence.

Across the arena, Al stood calm. Focused. His breath slow. Measured. He knew what Falkner was doing.

He was buying time. Setting traps.

Because Gliscor wasn't just a flier. It was an ambush predator in disguise—fast, clever, and dangerously tactical.

Falkner's voice cut through the stillness. "Gliscor. Stealth Rock."

Gliscor rose into the upper dome, clicking its claws. Glowing shards burst from its wings and scattered midair—hovering, floating, and slowly embedding themselves in points along the arena's inner edge. Razor-edged. Glistening like obsidian.

"Hazards set," Al muttered. "Trying to clip future landings. No problem."

"Fly, Salamence."

His dragon surged skyward again—faster than before. His wings caught the currents around the dome, sending rippling gusts through the gym. The temperature dropped a few degrees.

Gliscor spun to follow.

"Roost!" Falkner called.

The bat dropped low, slamming down into the arena floor, wings folding tight. A glow covered its body as it absorbed surrounding energy, regaining its stamina.

But Al had seen this coming.

"Break it. Flamethrower, from above!"

Salamence wheeled in midair, lining up his angle—and released a column of fire.

Gliscor leapt away mid-Roost, flames licking the stone it had just vacated. Heat radiated across the gym floor. The burst scattered loose ash and shards of rock.

"Counter with Ice Fang!" Falkner snapped.

Gliscor soared up toward Salamence, fangs glowing pale blue, icy mist curling from its jaws. The type advantage was real—if it connected.

But Salamence wasn't some lumbering beast.

"Spin out—then Dragon Claw!"

Salamence rolled in midair, the Ice Fang slicing past his shoulder and leaving only a shallow scrape. Then he whipped his body around, glowing claws slashing in an arc.

The blow caught Gliscor across the chest.

It was flung sideways, spiraling. It caught itself mid-fall with its tail and winged hard to stabilize.

Al's eyes narrowed.

"Push it. Rain Dance!"

Salamence lifted his head and roared—not in fury, but command.

The air pressure changed immediately.

A deep rumble echoed from the dome's top, and within seconds, clouds began to swirl against the transparent ceiling. Then—rain. Soft at first. Then heavy, sudden.

Water pelted the stone. Wind surged. The floating Stealth Rocks glowed briefly before dimming under the assault of falling drops.

Gliscor's wings faltered. It could fly in rain—but not well.

"Thunder Fang!" Al snapped.

Salamence dive-bombed.

Falkner shouted, "Dig, now!"

Gliscor dropped like a stone, claws glowing, burrowing into the floor just before Salamence hit.

He struck the stone a heartbeat later, claws missing by inches—and the impact cratered the floor.

Chunks of rock flew. Rain steamed off Salamence's wings.

The battlefield looked more like a warzone now—uneven, scorched, and wet. The embedded hazards had dulled, their glow flickering.

"Get ready," Al murmured.

The ground to Salamence's right exploded—Gliscor erupting from beneath, tail-first, fangs gleaming again.

"Backdraft," Al said softly.

Salamence flared his wings and spun. The gust of wind from his rotation knocked Gliscor off-course, the Ice Fang grazing his side without digging in.

He didn't wait.

"Dragon Claw!"

He surged forward with shocking force, one massive claw slashing downward—

Direct hit.

Gliscor was slammed back into the hole it had made.

It didn't get up.

The referee hesitated—then raised her hand. "Gliscor is unable to battle."

(break)
The rain kept falling, soft but insistent. Puddles pooled in the cracks. Salamence stood in the center, wings wide, drenched but undeterred. Rain streaked off his scales in rivers.

Al stood still, hands clenched into the hem of his jacket. That had been close. Too close. But they had owned the sky.

Across the arena, Falkner returned his Gliscor. His lips were pressed in a thin line—but there was something in his eyes now. Respect.

"Most trainers fold when Gliscor starts flying," he said.

"I'm not most trainers," Al replied quietly.

Falkner reached for his final Poké Ball.

"This one doesn't fly," he said.

He paused, then added, almost reverently, "It soars."

With a flick of his wrist, the last ball exploded into light.

And from it stepped Aerodactyl.

The ancient flier let out a bone-rattling screech, wings snapping open like blades. Its eyes were burning coals. Its body gleamed with prehistoric power.

Salamence answered with a low, rumbling roar.

Two apex predators. One final clash.

(break)

The remnants of the recent downpour left the battlefield slick, puddles reflecting the overcast sky. The air was thick with the scent of rain and scorched stone, a testament to the fierce clashes that had preceded. Al stood with unwavering focus, his gaze locked onto Falkner, who mirrored his intensity from across the arena.

Between them, Salamence stood as a paragon of draconic might. His crimson scales shimmered under the diffused light, wings partially unfurled, ready to propel him into action at a moment's notice. His eyes, sharp and calculating, tracked every movement with predatory precision.

Opposite him, Falkner's final combatant took the field.

Aerodactyl.

The ancient predator materialized with a piercing screech that resonated through the gym, causing the very walls to tremble. Its leathery wings snapped open, spanning wide as it hovered just above the ground. Jagged edges of stone and bone adorned its body, a relic of a bygone era where it reigned supreme. Its eyes, cold and unyielding, locked onto Salamence with a challenge as old as time itself: dominance.

The atmosphere was electric, the weight of the impending clash pressing down on all present.

Falkner's voice cut through the tension, steady and commanding. "Aerodactyl, let's show them the power of the skies."

Al's response was a mere nod, his hand brushing against Salamence's flank—a silent signal, a reaffirmation of their bond.

The battle commenced.

Aerodactyl was the first to move, a blur of motion as it ascended rapidly, seeking the aerial advantage. Its wings beat with force, generating gusts that sent ripples across the waterlogged field.

"Stone Edge," Falkner commanded.

From its elevated position, Aerodactyl's body glowed with a pale, earthen light. With a guttural roar, it unleashed a barrage of razor-sharp stones, each projectile hurtling toward Salamence with lethal intent.

"Ascend and evade," Al directed calmly.

Salamence's powerful legs coiled before launching him skyward, wings snapping open to catch the air. He spiraled upward, the stones narrowly missing their mark, shattering upon impact with the ground and leaving jagged craters in their wake.

The two dragons now circled each other in the sky, the vast expanse of the gym's dome their battleground. They moved with a predatory grace, each assessing the other's strengths and weaknesses, searching for an opening.

Aerodactyl initiated the next exchange, diving toward Salamence with jaws aglow—a Thunder Fang aimed at exploiting any vulnerability.

"Counter with Dragon Claw," Al instructed.

Salamence met the charge head-on, talons enveloped in a cerulean aura. The two clashed mid-air, the impact resonating like a thunderclap. Sparks flew as Salamence's claws raked against Aerodactyl's rocky hide, while the latter's electrified bite grazed Salamence's shoulder, leaving a superficial scorch.

They disengaged, each retreating a few meters to reassess. The brief encounter had established a crucial fact: while Aerodactyl was formidable, Salamence held the advantage in raw power.

Falkner's eyes narrowed. "Tailwind."

Aerodactyl ascended swiftly, positioning itself above Salamence. It began to beat its wings in a rhythmic pattern, manipulating the air currents to create a supportive gale that enveloped its form, enhancing its speed and agility.

Al recognized the tactic immediately. "Stay vigilant. Use the currents to your benefit."

Salamence adjusted his wing angles, tapping into the altered airflow to bolster his own maneuverability. The two began a high-speed aerial dance, weaving intricate patterns through the gym's upper reaches. The audience below watched in awe as the dragons became blurs of red and gray, each maneuver executed with breathtaking precision.

Falkner sought to shift the battle's dynamics. "Aerodactyl, Stealth Rock."

Aerodactyl ascended to the apex of the dome, releasing a series of glowing stones that embedded themselves throughout the battlefield. These floating hazards shimmered ominously, ready to punish any misstep or grounded movement.

Al's response was immediate. "Salamence, Flamethrower—clear the field."

Salamence hovered above the field, taking a deep inhale before exhaling a torrent of searing flames. The fire swept across the battlefield, melting the embedded stones into harmless molten puddles and evaporating lingering rainwater, causing steam to rise and cloak the arena in a dense fog.

The sudden obscurity added a new layer of complexity to the battle.

"Use the mist as cover," Al advised.

Salamence folded his wings slightly, descending into the fog, becoming a shadow within the haze.

Falkner remained composed. "Aerodactyl, hone your senses. Listen for movement."

Aerodactyl hovered cautiously, ears twitching as it attempted to detect Salamence's position. The gym was silent save for the occasional drip of water and the distant hum of the building's ventilation.

Without warning, Salamence struck.

Bursting forth from the fog below, he closed the distance with alarming speed, jaws ablaze with a Fire Fang aimed at Aerodactyl's wing.

"Quick, dodge and counter with Iron Head!" Falkner reacted swiftly.

Aerodactyl twisted mid-air, narrowly avoiding Salamence's fiery bite. Its head took on a metallic sheen as it retaliated, ramming into Salamence's side with the force of a sledgehammer.

Salamence grunted, momentarily thrown off balance, but recovered with a powerful beat of his wings, ascending once more.

"Now, Outrage!"

With a deafening roar, Salamence unleashed a barrage of draconic energy, his body glowing with a savage aura that pulsed with raw power. His eyes narrowed, movements becoming faster, more aggressive. The air crackled around him as he darted forward—one strike, then two, then three in rapid succession, claws and tail moving like living weapons.

Aerodactyl tried to block the first with its forearm, but the sheer weight behind Salamence's assault broke through. It was slammed backward by the second blow, and the third sent it spinning midair, barely catching itself with a wild flap of its wings.

"Break free! Stone Edge!" Falkner shouted.

Aerodactyl roared in defiance and conjured another storm of jagged stones from the air, hurling them toward the charging Salamence.

But Salamence didn't flinch.

He tore through the stone barrage like a bullet through glass. The rocks shattered against his scales, fragments scattering across the gym in a rain of debris.

He was past the point of hesitation.

Al's knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of his belt. He knew this state—Outrage wasn't just power, it was fury unleashed. He could barely guide Salamence now, only steer that fire toward the right direction.

And Salamence had only one target.

The dragon surged forward with a roar that shook the rafters. His claws glowed with pure energy as he drove them down into Aerodactyl.

The ancient flier screamed as it was sent plummeting, slamming into the gym floor with a crash that cracked the battlefield open.

Dust clouded the impact zone.

Al stood frozen, heart hammering in his chest.

Falkner stared, jaw tight, unmoving.

The cloud lifted slowly.

Aerodactyl staggered to its feet, panting hard, wings limp, chest heaving.

Still conscious. Still standing.

But barely.

---

The glow around Salamence's body dimmed—Outrage finally spent. He landed hard, nostrils flaring, steam rising from his sides.

Al clenched his jaw. "Just one more. Let's end this clean."

Falkner didn't speak. But his eyes told the story. He knew it too.

This was the final moment.

"Aerodactyl," he said, voice low, steady. "One more try. Giga Impact."

The fossil Pokémon rose with a scream, body glowing white-hot with kinetic energy. It surged forward, straight toward Salamence, leaving shockwaves in its wake.

Al whispered, "Hyper Beam."

Salamence opened his mouth.

The golden core built instantly. Faster than he would have thought.

The two attacks fired at the same time.

Aerodactyl became a silver meteor.

Salamence's beam exploded from his throat like a cannon.

The two collided mid-field.

The blast of light was blinding. The sound was a thunderclap.

Wind tore across the gym floor. Stone tiles were flung like leaves. Even Falkner had to shield his eyes.

And then—silence.

Dust and smoke hung in the air, and for a long moment… no one moved.

Then, slowly, as the light faded—

Salamence stood.

Chest heaving. But upright. Steady.

Aerodactyl lay on the floor behind him, unconscious, body limp, steam rising from its sides.

It didn't rise.

It couldn't.

The referee raised her hand high. "Aerodactyl is unable to battle. Victory goes to the challenger, Al!"

The silence broke into a wave of gasps and scattered applause from those watching from the upper windows. Some trainees who had come to witness the elite match stood slack-jawed. Others stared in reverence.

But Al didn't turn to them.

He walked straight toward Salamence.

The dragon looked down at him, chest still rising and falling. Their eyes met—and something passed between them.

Al reached out, resting a hand against Salamence's neck.

"Thank you," he murmured. "You were perfect."

Salamence let out a low, rumbling purr. Then slowly, finally, lowered himself to the ground to rest.

(break)
Falkner crossed the battered battlefield, Aerodactyl safely in its Poké Ball, clipped back to his belt. His robes were torn in places from the explosion, but he walked with quiet pride.

"You didn't just battle," Falkner said. "You commanded. And your Salamence… fought like something out of legend."

Al looked up. "He's always been like that. I just didn't know how to let him be."

Falkner smiled faintly. He extended a small, dark-blue badge—shaped like a falcon's wing, with a silver star etched at its center.

"The Storm Star Badge. You've earned it."

Al accepted it quietly. It was heavier than it looked.

Not just because it was metal.

Because it meant something now.

 

[Bladesunder]

Falkner – Violet City Gym, Post-Battle Reflection


Falkner stood in the high roost of the Violet Gym, the morning sun casting long shadows across the battlefield below. The echoes of yesterday's battle still resonated in his mind. His Swellow perched beside him, feathers slightly ruffled—a subtle reminder of the intense confrontation with that formidable trainer.


He replayed the battle in his mind: the precision of Al's commands, the seamless synergy between trainer and Pokémon, and the overwhelming power that left his own team struggling to keep up. It wasn't just the strength that unsettled Falkner; it was the calculated restraint Al exhibited. He fought not to dominate, but to assess, to measure.


Descending the spiral staircase to his office, Falkner activated his PC and accessed the League's internal database. He input Al's Trainer ID: Hoenn-17X9-C. The screen blinked, displaying minimal information—just the recent registration and the Violet Gym victory.


No prior records. No tournament participations. No affiliations.


Falkner leaned back, a frown creasing his brow. "Where did you come from, Al?" he murmured to himself.


His thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock. His assistant poked her head in, concern evident in her eyes. "Sir, reporters are gathering outside. They want a statement about yesterday's match."


Falkner sighed, rubbing his temples. "Tell them... tell them a new challenger has appeared. One who might redefine our understanding of strength."


As his assistant left, Falkner couldn't shake the feeling that Al's arrival was just the beginning of something much larger—a shift in the very fabric of their region.


(break)


Whitney – Goldenrod City Radio Tower


In the bustling heart of Goldenrod City, Whitney lounged in the Radio Tower's break room, a pink Miltank-themed mug in hand. The city's usual hum was punctuated by the latest news segment playing on the overhead screen.


"In recent news, an unknown trainer named Al has taken the Violet City Gym by storm, showcasing a Salamence of unprecedented power. Experts are calling it one of the most decisive victories in recent memory."


Whitney's eyes widened as she watched the replay. The sheer dominance displayed by Al's Salamence was... unsettling.


She set her mug down, turning to her Clefairy who was nibbling on a Poké Puff. "Looks like we've got some serious competition heading our way," she mused. "Think we're ready for that?"


Clefairy tilted its head, eyes reflecting the same uncertainty Whitney felt.


Determined, Whitney pulled out her PokéGear and dialed a familiar number. After a few rings, a cheerful voice answered. "Hey, Whitney! What's up?"


"Lyra, have you seen the news about this Al guy?"


"Yeah, it's all over the place. Why?"


Whitney's voice lowered, tinged with genuine concern. "I have a feeling he's heading this way. We need to be prepared."


As she ended the call, a fleeting thought crossed her mind—a whisper of intuition suggesting that Al's presence might not just challenge them, but change them in ways they couldn't yet comprehend.


(break)


Bugsy – Azalea Town's Slowpoke Well


Deep within the serene confines of Azalea Town, Bugsy knelt beside the Slowpoke Well, observing the gentle creatures as they lazed about, tails dipping into the cool water. The tranquility was a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing in his mind after watching the footage of Al's battle.


He absentmindedly stroked his Scyther's carapace, the Pokémon standing alert beside him. "If he comes here," Bugsy began, more to himself than anyone else, "how do we counter such overwhelming force?"


Scyther chittered, wings fluttering in agitation.


Bugsy nodded, resolve hardening. "We adapt. We strategize. Power isn't everything."


Rising to his feet, he made his way to the Gym, Scyther trailing closely. It was time to reevaluate their training regimen.


Yet, beneath his determination, Bugsy couldn't ignore a nagging sensation—a premonition that Al's arrival signified more than just a formidable challenger. It hinted at an unseen upheaval on the horizon.


(break)


Morty – Ecruteak City's Burned Tower


Amidst the charred remains of the Burned Tower, Morty sat in meditation, the ethereal forms of his Ghost-type Pokémon drifting around him. The scent of ancient soot and decay filled the air, grounding him as he delved into the spiritual realm.


Visions swirled before him: a dragon cloaked in shadows, a trainer standing at a crossroads, and a looming darkness threatening to engulf Johto.


His Gengar materialized beside him, eyes glowing with an otherworldly light.


"You see it too," Morty whispered.


Gengar nodded slowly.


The flames of the past whispered secrets of the future, and Morty couldn't shake the feeling that Al's journey was intricately tied to an ancient cycle—one that was about to repeat.


(break)


Chuck – Cianwood City Dojo


The rhythmic sounds of fists meeting punching bags echoed through Cianwood City's dojo. Chuck, muscles glistening with sweat, delivered a final powerful punch, causing the bag to swing violently.


Pausing to catch his breath, he noticed his apprentice approaching, tablet in hand.


"Master Chuck, have you seen this?" the young man asked, showing the replay of Al's battle.


Chuck watched intently, eyes narrowing at the display of raw power.


"Hmm," he grunted. "Strength without discipline is meaningless. But this Al... he has both."


He turned to his apprentice, a grin breaking across his rugged face. "Looks like Johto's about to get a lot more interesting."


(break)


Jasmine – Olivine City Lighthouse


She glanced at Ampharos, concern flickering in her eyes. "If he challenges us, are we ready?"


Ampharos responded with a soft, reassuring hum.


Jasmine smiled faintly, but her fingers tightened around her PokéGear. Something about that trainer… Not just in how he commanded Salamence, but in how he carried himself. Always watching. Always analyzing.


She touched the lighthouse's cool glass, staring out toward the sea.


"He doesn't walk like someone chasing a dream," she whispered. "He walks like someone… chasing a memory."


(break)


Will – Elite Four Quarters, Indigo Plateau


Will stood in the observatory chamber of the Indigo Plateau, watching the screens flicker through Johto's Gym surveillance feeds. His mask was set aside, and his eyes—rarely seen by the public—were narrowed in deep thought.


Al's battle had been queued three times now. He was still watching.


The psychic signature that lingered on Gardevoir's final Calm Mind had been wrong—not in a dangerous way, but in how it resonated. Foreign. Echoing. As if her bond to her trainer carried layers that didn't quite match this world's psychic imprint.


He reached out to the projection again and brushed his fingers across the ghost-light shimmer of Salamence as it dove. The aura pulsed back with intensity.


"There's something missing," he murmured. "No emotional bleed. No subconscious drift. They move like they know the script—but weren't written into it."


From his desk, Xatu chirped.


Will turned to him. "Keep watching him. But don't interfere."


Xatu stared into the void.


And did not blink.


(break)


Koga – Fuchsia City, Kanto Border Watch


Koga, former Gym Leader and now covert League strategist, crouched beside a hidden surveillance bank inside the Viridian treeline, a silent Venomoth resting on his shoulder.


Al's name had just tripped a silent ping—marked as a flagged variance from the registration anomaly net.


His hands moved swiftly over the encrypted files. Hidden origin. Spontaneous appearance. Valid credentials, but no root ID history.


The League hadn't caught it yet. Not entirely.


But Koga had seen this pattern before—twice.


Once in Unova.


Once in Kalos.


People who appeared. With power beyond what they should have. Not just strength. Knowledge. Tactical instincts honed somewhere else.


"Translocative drift," he murmured.


Venomoth chirped.


"We have another off-worlder," Koga said.


He stared at Al's still frame—eyes level, body coiled. Not posturing. Not tense. Just… aligned.


"And if he's anything like the last two," Koga added softly, "we'll either need him when the time comes—or we'll need a way to stop him."


(break)


Champion Lance – Blackthorn Mountains, Sky Overlook


Lance stood at the edge of the Dragonite Cliffs, the sky swirling with storm-colored clouds. He didn't need to read the reports. He felt the shift.


Somewhere, the balance had tipped.


He held the file containing Al's Violet City battle—but hadn't opened it. He wanted to see the trainer before the world colored his impression. Unfiltered.


Dragonite landed beside him with a deep rumble.


Lance turned to the open air. "He's not like us."


Dragonite made a questioning sound.


He stepped back from the edge.


"When he reaches me," he said quietly, "I'll find out who he really is."


Then he mounted Dragonite.


And the wind took them both.


(break)



Unknown Observer – Deep Network Terminal, Off-Grid


In a place beyond borders, buried beneath a broken observatory on a cliffside lost to time, an old machine flickered to life. Dust scattered as a terminal pulsed for the first time in years.


A screen crackled. A single name blinked.


AL // HOENN-17X9-C


The room was lined with rot. Moss on stone. Forgotten League tech, left in the wake of a failed expansion program.


But the system still remembered.


"Entity variance detected. Interloper confirmed."


"Memory markers incomplete."


"Origin mismatch: data signature cannot be reconciled."


A mechanical voice rasped over the loudspeaker: "ANOMALY RETURNED."


Then silence.


And the soft click of a file unlocking that hadn't been accessed since the last time a Champion fell through the world instead of rising in it.

 

[Bladesunder]

The trees were tall and close-packed, roots curling through the ground like fingers clinging to the past. Al stepped over a moss-covered stone and onto a narrow clearing tucked between a bend in the river and a slope that opened to the east.

This place was hard to find.

He liked that.

Birdsong filled the air, and a lazy wind stirred the canopy above. Beneath it all, the land felt untouched. Untamed.

It was perfect.

Al dropped his pack beside a fallen log and looked around the clearing. He'd scouted the area the day before, marking spots with string and notches in the trees. It wasn't a battlefield in the official sense. But it would become one.

Because he wasn't just dropped in and passing through Johto anymore.

He was going to own it.

He unclipped three Poké Balls from his belt and released them with practiced fluidity.

Swampert appeared in a low crouch, earth crunching beneath his weight.
Manectric landed with a skidding hop, fur already crackling.
Breloom burst out spinning on one foot, grinning with energy.

They all looked at him.

He folded his arms.

"Time to earn the right to carry this team into a Gym," Al said, voice calm but firm. "You've all seen what Salamence did. But I don't want one ace."

His eyes moved across them, steady.

"I want six."

(break)
Al started Swampert's session down by the river's edge.

The flow was stronger here, narrow and fast, threading around sharp rocks and sloped banks. Al waded in up to his calves, boots sinking slightly into the muddy floor.

"Your strength's never been the issue," he said. "But you rely on footing too much. Today, we fix that."

He pointed to a cluster of large, partially submerged stones midstream.

"Jump to the third rock. Hold your stance. Then Water Gun—low angle, just enough to push back the current."

Swampert grunted and leapt. The first rock held. The second wobbled. He overcorrected mid-air, landed too hard on the third, and slipped—catching himself just before toppling into the current.

"Not bad," Al called. "But you're fighting the river instead of using it. Try again."

They repeated it. Again. Then again.

The fourth time, Swampert angled his landing better, crouched into the rock's slope, and fired the Water Gun not as a blast, but a stabilizer—shifting the current slightly to regain control.

Al smiled.

"Now circle around. You're going to wade against it, not over it."

Swampert didn't hesitate. He stepped back into the river, boots scraping bottom, and started trudging upstream. Al added calls:

"Left—rock incoming!"

"Defensive posture—simulate impact!"

"Use Mud Shot for counter-balance!"

By the end of the hour, Swampert was soaked, tired, but no longer lumbering.

He was navigating.

Using the water to aid his movements, not hinder them.

(break)
Al led Manectric into the trees—an uneven slope littered with old roots and thorn bushes, perfect for what he had in mind.

"Speed's your weapon," he said, walking ahead and cutting down a low-hanging vine. "But raw speed's useless if you can't maneuver under pressure."

He grabbed a stick and began scraping a series of X's into the dirt—one beside a half-buried root, one behind a leaning tree, one under a bramble arch.

"You're going to tag these. In order. No straight lines. Keep your pace."

Manectric pawed the ground, sparks flickering between his toes.

"Ready?"

He bolted.

Al watched with arms crossed. Manectric skidded under the bramble arch, veered too close to the tree and had to leap to keep momentum. His stride was off—too heavy on the back foot, not enough torque for the second turn.

"Again!"

Manectric ran again. And again.

Al began shouting changes mid-run.

"Reverse direction!"

"Skip the middle one!"

"Jump over it!"

Each time, Manectric's body adapted quicker. His breath came faster, but his eyes sharpened. Sparks now leapt in a tighter rhythm, his paws kicking up less dirt with each pass.

Then Al stepped forward.

"Now we do it with Breloom chasing you."

(break)
Breloom entered the training with a grin that bordered on smug.

Al didn't fault him for it—Breloom thrived on battle. But that was the problem. He always fought like he had to win in the first ten seconds. It made him vulnerable.

So, Al gave him Manectric.

"Try to tag him," he said. "No real attacks. This is pressure. You're the predator. He's the runner."

Manectric snorted, gave a playful growl.

Breloom just crouched low and darted forward.

At first, he overshot every turn. Couldn't keep traction in the leaf-scattered dirt. He used too much leg on the lunge and lost momentum.

But by the third run, Breloom was ducking under branches with less wasted motion, using roots to spring, not trip.

Al started shifting the terrain—throwing a stick to trip one, barking feint calls to test focus.

The fourth chase ended with Breloom vaulting off a stump and landing just behind Manectric, paw grazing the yellow blur.

Manectric panted, glancing back. He offered a growling smirk.

Breloom exhaled.

Didn't grin.

Just nodded.

Al stepped forward and clapped once.

"Switch it. Manectric's the chaser now. Breloom, you're the rabbit."

And so it went.

(break)
By afternoon, the team was bruised, scraped, and breathing hard.

But none of them wanted to stop.

They began sparring, two at a time.

Swampert vs. Manectric—terrain vs. agility.

Breloom vs. Swampert—precision strikes vs. wide control.

Manectric vs. Breloom—speed and dodge vs. close-quarters brutality.

Al didn't call out moves. He didn't direct them. He just watched.

He saw the difference.

Swampert was reacting less and responding more—watching the angles, not just the attack.

Breloom no longer rushed. He waited, baited, countered.

Manectric didn't run wild—he looped around enemies, used their focus against them.

And when they stood panting at the end of the last match, dirt and sweat clinging to fur and hide, Al didn't speak right away.

He walked forward and crouched beside the makeshift fire pit, started building it stone by stone.

The sound of kindling and breath was all that moved the clearing.

Then finally, Al looked up and said quietly:

"Rest now, you've earned it."

(break)
The morning came wrapped in a hush. Mist hung low between the trees like breath held too long, and dew clung to the grass in glistening beads. Al stirred quietly from his bedroll, moving without waking the others. Swampert still slumbered near the stream, Breloom sprawled out in a sunbeam not yet warm, and Manectric's ears flicked, but he remained curled, half-listening, half-asleep.

Al didn't speak.

Instead, he moved to the edge of the clearing, letting the silence settle around him like a mantle. Gardevoir stood already, poised near the old tree roots on the eastern rise, her body still but eyes open—watching, not dreaming. Metagross hovered under the canopy's edge, silent as ever, limbs tucked close, its presence more felt than heard.

Today was for them.

Not to toughen their bodies like Swampert, not to harden strikes like Breloom, or hone reflex like Manectric.

Today was about thought. Control. Coordination. Trust.

Al stepped forward, and both Pokémon turned to meet his gaze.

(break)

The forest beyond the glade offered dense overgrowth, uneven terrain, and narrow, shifting corridors framed by roots and stone. Al had spent the day before preparing it—not by altering it, but by walking it, mapping it mentally, noting the hidden hollows, the natural pinch points, the way wind tugged through one hollow but not another. The terrain would be their teacher now.

Gardevoir and Metagross took to the far edge and separated instinctively, settling into their distinct roles. Gardevoir drifted weightlessly between old roots, weaving her body with an unnatural grace, barely disturbing the leaves beneath her. Metagross didn't move so much as flow, its mass deceptive, weight distributed with such balance that the forest floor didn't even complain.

Al remained in the center, arms crossed.

"Work the terrain," he called. "Predict each other. Learn not how to win—but how to respond. No attacks. Movement only."

They began to move.

Gardevoir vanished—teleportation flickering her across a rise of stone, then to a low ridge of mossy bark. Metagross didn't track her directly. Instead, it hovered upward, gaining perspective, using the light of morning to throw shadows and highlight the bends where Gardevoir might flicker next.

She reappeared—and found herself already shadowed by the bulk of his frame.

But she was faster.

Another flicker. She moved again, this time to a high arching limb. Metagross shifted laterally, brushing aside a dead tree limb with a gentle hum of energy, recalibrating angle, distance, volume.

Al observed in silence. They weren't just practicing movement.

They were learning each other.

Fifteen minutes passed. Then thirty. Al gave no more commands. He just watched the space between them grow narrower, then closer, until they began to circle each other not in pursuit, but in orbit.

That's what he needed.

He gave a small nod.

"Now we add pressure."

(break)

Pressure came in the form of the natural world.

Al walked into the thicket near the southern edge and began to toss in small disturbances. A falling branch. A tossed rock. Sudden noise. It wasn't much—but it mimicked the unpredictability of a real battle.

Gardevoir had to stay light on her feet. Not teleport mindlessly, but intuitively—judging sound from wind, not sight.

Metagross learned to react not by calculation alone, but through anticipation of her movements. He watched where Gardevoir didn't look, moved to places she hesitated to enter, calculated against her own instincts.

Their dance evolved.

She flicked into a tight nook behind a boulder—only to find Metagross already shifting weight above, pressing down, forcing her to phase again. But she didn't go far. She reappeared behind him, not to attack, but to block his path forward.

They weren't sparring anymore.

They were testing battlefield theory. Who controlled which space. Who could create motion—without moving at all.

Al leaned back against the tree, watching them build a new language.

This was what trust looked like when spoken between titans.

(break)

By midday, he called them back.

"Break it up."

Neither looked winded. Gardevoir's glow was slightly brighter now, her shoulders relaxed but still alert. Metagross's red eyes pulsed with a deeper hum, its rotation slower and more deliberate.

Al crouched near the fire and picked up a stick, sketching simple shapes in the dirt—lines intersecting, curving away, doubling back.

He pointed.

"You're here," he said to Gardevoir, tapping one line. "He's here."

Then he drew a third mark—a circle enclosing both. "Enemy's focus will shift between you. I want you to train for that moment."

He looked up.

"You're not individuals anymore. You're a pair. A mirrored threat."

Gardevoir looked to Metagross.

And—for the first time all day—Metagross looked back.

(break)

They began again, now with deliberate pacing.

Gardevoir created pressure—low telekinetic bursts that caused leaves to rustle or small stones to hover, feints meant to force responses.

Metagross mirrored the openings. A delayed movement. A shifted limb. A non-attack that drew attention the way thunder might draw eyes skyward before the storm breaks ground.

Al began calling out changes now.

"Left flank! Change roles!"

Instantly, Gardevoir moved into a more central posture, letting Metagross circle. Her psychic field thickened—not as a barrier, but as presence, weight that could be felt.

Metagross moved quieter, flowing around her like an eclipse in motion.

"Three target points!" Al called. "Imagine one fast, one armored, one erratic!"

They didn't need illusions.

They imagined.

Gardevoir pulsed rhythmically, her 'strike' marked by sudden vertical shifts in her energy—a flare, then silence.

Metagross timed each one by waiting for the absence of movement, rather than the presence.

They were fighting the empty spaces.

(break)

Later, they broke for food. Gardevoir didn't eat, but she stayed beside Al, seated on a log. Metagross hovered close, silent and unreadable as ever.

Al watched the trees sway.

"You two will make this team dangerous," he said aloud. "Not because you hit harder. Not because you're faster. Because you think."

Gardevoir turned slightly toward him.

He didn't look back.

"Salamence overwhelms. Swampert endures. Breloom surprises. Manectric disrupts. But you…"

His voice dropped slightly.

"You control the battlefield."

She blinked once.

Metagross hummed softly, just once, a low acknowledgement.

Al tossed the last of the berry cores into the fire.

Then stood.

"Get ready. Now we simulate rescue conditions."

(break)

The final phase of training brought in the rest of the team.

Swampert and Manectric stood in one corner of the training field, waiting with light tension in their stance. Breloom crouched in the brush, bouncing lightly, eager.

Al pointed across the space.

"Gardevoir, Metagross—you're in defensive position. The others simulate a rogue ambush. Your job is not to win. It's to protect a target and hold the field."

He gestured to a marked stump with a folded scarf on it.

"That's your objective. Treat it like it's a trainer down."

Gardevoir moved beside the stump immediately, radiating calm focus. Metagross hovered forward slightly, taking the front.

Al gave a low whistle.

Breloom moved first—blitzing from the side, angled for Metagross, but pulling back last second to bait a counter.

Metagross didn't bite.

He held position, eyes flicking to Gardevoir—who caught the feint and erected a side barrier just as Manectric struck from the opposite direction, electricity skimming off the psychic field like lightning on glass.

Swampert approached last, slow and measured, and lobbed a chunk of earth—testing reaction, not trying to strike.

Gardevoir phased, Teleporting three feet upward to signal a handoff.

Metagross dropped suddenly, tanking the strike on its underside.

The coordination was flawless.

They were holding without striking back. Without panic. Each move informed by the other's.

"Fifteen seconds," Al said.

"Thirty."

"Forty-five."

Breloom looped back, attempted a dive strike—and finally Gardevoir moved.

She redirected him with a swirl of gravity, nudging his lunge harmlessly aside. Not harm. Control.

"Sixty," Al finished.

He stepped forward and raised a hand.

"All stop."

Swampert exhaled hard.

Breloom cracked his knuckles, disappointed but impressed.

Manectric sat down with a huff, sparks dimming.

Gardevoir floated back to the center, and Metagross joined her.

Neither spoke.

Neither had to.

(break)

That night, the fire burned longer.

Swampert dozed as usual, closer now to Metagross than before.

Manectric and Breloom curled up together in a patch of soft dirt, both twitching occasionally in post-battle dreams.

Gardevoir sat near the flames, hands in her lap.

Al sat beside her.

He didn't speak. Not right away.

Then:

"You're more than I deserve."

She looked up slowly.

"I didn't train you all in the traditional sense of this world." Al said.

She tilted her head.

He met her gaze.

"You scare me sometimes."

A pause.

Then, very faintly—he smiled.

"In a good way."

Metagross drifted closer, hovering behind them in quiet symmetry.

The fire crackled.

And Al watched the flames rise.

 

[Bladesunder]

The trail meandered through the dense foliage, dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy above, casting shifting patterns on the ground. The earthy scent of moss and damp leaves filled the air, mingling with the distant murmur of a river carving its path through the valley below. Al moved with a steady, unhurried pace, his boots pressing softly into the well-trodden path. The subtle changes in the environment—the thinning trees, the cooler air—signaled their approach to the rugged terrain leading toward Union Cave.

His team accompanied him, each member attuned to the journey in their own way. Breloom led the group, his movements a blend of agility and alertness. He would occasionally pause, nostrils flaring as he sampled the air, or ears twitching at the faintest rustle in the underbrush. His training had honed his instincts, making him both scout and sentinel.

Beside Al, Gardevoir glided effortlessly, her ethereal presence a calming counterpoint to the forest's wildness. Her gaze was serene, yet there was an underlying vigilance, a readiness to act at a moment's notice. The gentle sway of her gown-like form seemed almost to dance with the rhythm of the forest.

Manectric was a blur of energy, darting ahead and then doubling back, his electric-blue fur bristling with contained excitement. He would occasionally snap playfully at falling leaves or chase after fleeting shadows, embodying the spirit of the untamed wilderness.

Swampert brought up the rear, his massive frame moving with surprising grace. His webbed feet made soft squelching sounds in the damp earth, and his eyes, though half-lidded, missed nothing. There was a groundedness to him, a steady presence that anchored the team.

And then there was Salamence.

The dragon moved with a majesty that was both awe-inspiring and humbling. His wings, partially unfurled, caught the occasional breeze, causing leaves to swirl in his wake. The sunlight glinted off his sapphire scales, creating a shimmering effect that made him seem almost otherworldly. Despite his formidable appearance, there was a tranquility to his demeanor—a silent understanding of his own power and the responsibility that came with it.

As they continued, the path began to narrow, the trees giving way to rocky outcrops and uneven terrain. The distant call of a Fearow echoed through the valley, a reminder of the wildness that lay just beyond the beaten path.

It was Breloom who first sensed the presence ahead. He halted abruptly, one foot raised, head tilted slightly as he listened. The rest of the team responded in kind, their movements synchronized through unspoken communication.

Al followed Breloom's gaze and saw him—a lone trainer leaning casually against a gnarled tree at the crest of the hill. The man appeared to be in his late twenties, with a rugged appearance that spoke of countless journeys. His coat was weathered, the fabric faded from sun and rain, and his boots bore the scuffs and scratches of many miles traveled. A faint scar traced a line from his jaw to his temple, partially hidden by stubble and tousled hair.

The trainer's eyes, however, were sharp and discerning. They took in Al's team with a mixture of curiosity and respect, lingering momentarily on each member before settling on Salamence. There was no fear in his gaze, only acknowledgment.

Pushing off from the tree, the man approached with an easy gait, his hands relaxed at his sides. "Didn't expect to run into anyone on this trail," he remarked, his voice carrying the roughness of someone accustomed to shouting over winds and waves. "Name's Rhett. Six badges in, heading toward Olivine. You?"

Al met his gaze, offering a slight nod. "Al. Violet City."

Rhett's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Violet, huh? That means you've got the Star Badge." He paused, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Heard about that match. Word is, it left quite an impression."

Al remained silent, but there was a subtle shift in his posture—a quiet acknowledgment of the statement.

Rhett's eyes drifted once more to Salamence, who stood a short distance away, observing the interaction with a calm, unreadable expression. "That's a magnificent Salamence you've got there," Rhett commented, genuine admiration in his tone. "Not something you see every day."

Al glanced toward his dragon, a faint smile playing on his lips. "He's one of a kind."

A moment of silence passed between them, filled only by the ambient sounds of the forest—the rustling leaves, the distant chirping of Pidgey, the whisper of the wind through the branches.

Rhett broke the silence with a chuckle. "You up for a friendly match? One-on-one. Been a while since I've had a good challenge."

Al considered the offer, his eyes scanning his team. Before he could speak, Salamence took a deliberate step forward, his gaze locking onto Al's. There was an unspoken understanding between them—a desire, perhaps, to stretch his wings, to engage in the dance of battle.

But Al, after a brief pause, gave a subtle shake of his head. "Not this time," he murmured.

Salamence held his gaze for a moment longer before exhaling a soft huff, stepping back with a grace that belied his size. He settled onto his haunches, wings folding neatly against his back, content to observe.

Al turned his attention to Breloom, who was already bouncing on the balls of his feet, anticipation evident in his stance. "You're up."

Breloom's eyes sparkled with excitement as he moved to the center of the makeshift battlefield, muscles coiled and ready.

Rhett nodded appreciatively. "Alright then." He reached for a Poké Ball at his belt, enlarging it with a press of his thumb. "Let's see how you handle this. Flygon, let's go!"

With a flash of light, Flygon emerged, its emerald body shimmering as it hovered above the ground, wings producing a melodic hum. Its eyes, shielded by red lenses, focused intently on Breloom.

The two Pokémon faced each other, the air between them charged with anticipation. The forest seemed to hold its breath.

Rhett took a step back, giving his Pokémon space. "Whenever you're ready."

Al's voice was calm, steady. "Begin."

(break)

Breloom moved first, closing the distance with a burst of speed, his feet barely touching the ground. He feinted to the left before pivoting sharply to the right, aiming a swift Mach Punch at Flygon's midsection.

Flygon reacted with impressive agility, ascending rapidly to evade the strike. From its elevated position, it retaliated with a Dragon Breath, the purple flames cascading toward Breloom.

Anticipating the strike, Breloom didn't dodge backward—he dashed into the blast's edge, using the intensity of the attack to mask his movement. The flames grazed his shoulder, but he twisted through the heat, disappearing into the smoke with a sideways roll.

Al didn't speak. He just watched, arms folded, as Breloom's training came alive in every step. His instincts weren't frantic—they were rhythmic, measured. This wasn't a brawler's lunge. It was a tactician's timing.

Breloom emerged from the side of the smoke cloud and let loose a Seed Bomb mid-pivot. It exploded near Flygon's wings—not to deal direct damage, but to force it off-balance.

Rhett's eyes narrowed. "Smart move. Stay clear, Flygon—loop high!"

But the moment Flygon tilted, Breloom was already airborne, using the pressure recoil of his last jump to arc into a rising Sky Uppercut that clipped Flygon beneath the ribs.

The impact sent Flygon spinning. It recovered in the air but dipped low, trying to regain height. Breloom landed in a slide, then dropped low to prepare for another burst.

Rhett barked a quick command: "Dragon Tail!"

Flygon surged forward, sweeping low with its charged tail. Breloom sprang high and over—barely clearing the sweeping strike—and countered with a Low Sweep midair, catching Flygon's trailing limb and pulling it further off-balance.

Flygon crashed lightly into the ground, wings kicking up dust as it righted itself.

Then Breloom was there—one fist held high, waiting.

But he didn't strike.

He paused. Read the way Flygon moved. Read the recovery, not just the stumble.

Then he turned his hand and went low with a second Mach Punch, striking the back foot and forcing Flygon to brace with a wing.

Flygon crouched.

Breloom stepped back.

And they waited.

Rhett slowly raised a hand. "Good call. She's not out, but you've got the rhythm of this match."

Al nodded once. "That was the point."

(break)

The two trainers returned their Pokémon with silent, shared respect. No wild celebration, no boasting. Just quiet understanding between battlers who knew what it meant to study movement, timing, and the weight of a good decision.

"Your Breloom doesn't fight like most," Rhett said as they walked together for a short distance down the slope. "He doesn't just counter. He reads. And he waits."

"Learned to," Al replied. "The hard way."

Rhett nodded. "Whatever you're doing, it's working."

They parted without fanfare. Rhett headed west, Al and his team south. The trees thinned further, and soon the scent of stone and mineral filled the air.

(break)

By late afternoon, they reached the mouth of Union Cave.

The air that flowed out from it was cool, heavy, and damp. Shadows clung to the rocks, and the moss around the opening glistened faintly from long-settled dew. The stone arch looked less like an entrance and more like a wound carved into the earth.

Al stepped to one side and began checking his gear. Gardevoir and Breloom flanked him naturally. Manectric paced a few feet away, then paused when Al turned to his dragon.

Salamence stood in profile, wings half-furled, staring into the black.

Al walked up and placed a hand on his armored side.

"You're not coming in this time."

The dragon turned his head slightly. No protest. No irritation. Just a stillness that echoed something deeper than obedience.

"You'd block half the tunnels," Al continued. "And your wingbeats would echo for miles."

A rumble. Quiet. Thoughtful.

"You'd be noticed," Al said. "And we're not here to be noticed."

He held the dragon's gaze.

"I'll call when it's time."

Another rumble—agreement, this time.

Salamence lowered his head, just slightly, and Al pressed his forehead briefly to the thick ridge of his brow.

Then Salamence vanished into his Poké Ball with a glow.

(break)

Swampert and Manectric followed soon after, recalled with quiet nods. Only Gardevoir and Breloom remained, standing tall and calm.

Al stepped into the cave's mouth without a flashlight.

Breloom moved in first, stepping from stone to stone, avoiding puddles.

Gardevoir floated behind, eyes half-lidded, her psychic field brushing the walls like fingers reading Braille.

Al walked between them.

He didn't call commands.

Didn't light the path.

He trusted them to guide him forward.

Through darkness.

And into the stone.

 

[Bladesunder]

Union Cave swallowed them in silence.

Al stepped carefully across the uneven stone, boots quiet on the slick, mineral-rich ground. Behind him, Gardevoir glided low and silent, her gown-like form brushing the cool air without disturbing it. Ahead, Breloom moved with cautious rhythm, bouncing softly from stone to stone, his every motion a lesson in economy and balance.

The cave was neither hot nor cold—just still. The kind of stillness that pressed against the skin and crept into the lungs. Water dripped somewhere deep ahead, rhythmic and ancient. It echoed softly through the tunnels, too slow to track, too distant to chart. Every few minutes, the sound changed, just enough to remind them they were not standing still.

This was a place that had never been tamed.

(break)

Al let his fingers brush the wall as they moved forward. The stone was damp, slick with condensation that shimmered faintly when Gardevoir's body-light caught it. He didn't use a flashlight. Didn't need to. His eyes had adjusted quickly in the low light, and his team's presence—steady and alert—kept him from drifting too far inward.

He trusted them. Not just with battle, but with awareness.

Breloom stopped up ahead, crouched low. His posture wasn't tense—just careful.

Al slowed, motioning for Gardevoir to dim her glow.

She responded instantly, her field tightening around her core. The faint shimmer faded, and the darkness returned—close, real, and endless.

Breloom motioned with one hand.

Al crept closer, quiet as breath.

At the bend of the tunnel, where a slope opened slightly into a high cavern chamber, they saw them: a cluster of Zubat, hanging in an uneven patchwork across the upper ceiling. Hundreds of them. Silent, asleep. Their wings twitched occasionally, heads turning with invisible sounds only they could hear.

No guards. No sentries. Just instinct. Generations of it.

Al motioned for Breloom to shift left.

They moved along the edge of the cave, close to the wall, stepping only where water didn't pool.

Not a single Zubat stirred.

(break)

When they reached the far side of the chamber, Breloom glanced back and gave a low nod, half-proud. Al grinned faintly, then pressed his hand against the stone arch leading deeper.

The walls narrowed again, squeezing inward to form a ribcage of jagged stone. Gardevoir floated ahead this time, her senses brushing outward, reading the psychic tension of the air. She paused mid-tunnel, one hand rising slowly.

Al stopped. Breloom tensed.

A low shuffling sound echoed from deeper in—a dragging, gravel-heavy noise.

They waited.

Then it came into view—massive, winding slowly, its stony hide brushing both sides of the tunnel.

An Onix.

Not hunting. Just moving. Its eyes half-lidded, head low, tail dragging a small wake of rubble behind it.

Al didn't speak. While it wasn't a true threat to them, no need to risk a cave in.

Gardevoir let her field retract until it was barely a whisper against the stone.

Onix passed within two meters of them and didn't turn.

It was ancient. Scars ran along its body like rivers carved over centuries. Moss clung to its lower segments.

Then, slowly, it vanished into the dark ahead, tail scraping one final time before the sound faded completely.

Breloom let out a breath. Gardevoir blinked once.

Al waited another moment before whispering, "Let's keep moving."

(break)

They came across a natural spring chamber not long after—deep within the cave, where the walls fell away into a basin of still water. The surface was glass, reflecting faint bioluminescent algae from cracks in the ceiling.

Breloom dipped his hand in, tasting the water cautiously. He grunted approval.

Gardevoir stepped closer, then turned, her gaze fixed upward toward a glimmer of psychic energy only she could feel.

"Something?" Al asked.

She gave a small, slow nod.

Then pointed.

Across the pool, near a rocky outcropping, tiny figures twitched and scurried.

Sableye.

Three of them.

Not hostile. Watching.

Their eyes glowed faintly, but not with aggression. One of them tapped its claws against a stone, listening to the sound.

Another mimicked it.

Gardevoir stayed still, floating just above the water. Breloom crouched beside Al, ready but not tense.

They waited.

Then one of the Sableye stepped forward, extended a hand toward the spring, and dropped a single shard of crystal into it. The ripple expanded slowly—then faded.

And the Sableye turned and disappeared, the others following.

(break)

They didn't speak much after that.

The cave guided them further downward, where the rock began to shift—less jagged now, more worn. Fossils embedded in the walls. The ceiling opened slightly again, and veins of iron glinted faintly where water had carved channels through the surface.

Al paused, kneeling beside one of the channels. He traced a finger through the dirt and found something unexpected.

Claw marks.

Not recent—but not old.

Breloom joined him, crouched beside the scrape, sniffing the air.

He didn't growl. But his posture stiffened slightly.

"Not wild," Al muttered. "Not feral either. Something watched this space."

Gardevoir touched the wall with one hand and closed her eyes.

Her field pulsed briefly outward.

Then she opened them again and gave the smallest shake of her head.

Gone now.

Whoever it was.

(break)

They found a narrow alcove beneath an overhang later, just wide enough for the three of them to rest. Al sat with his back to the wall, one leg folded, his pack between his knees. Gardevoir took the left, Breloom the right.

The spring was behind them now, the tunnel ahead still silent.

He pulled out a wrapped ration and split it—offering half to Breloom, who took it without question, and placing the rest beside him. Gardevoir didn't eat, but sat with her hands folded in her lap.

Al spoke softly.

"You were good back there."

Breloom gave a nonverbal snort—of course.

Gardevoir gave him a side glance and a faint smile.

"I mean it," Al added. "You both adapted. No panic. No aggression. You read the cave."

He leaned his head back against the stone.

"This isn't just a test. This is what it means to travel in this world. No Vehicles. No referee. No safe zone."

They sat in silence for a while.

Then Al looked up at the ceiling and said, "I want to build more than a team. I want to build something that moves like this. Quiet. Precise. Dangerous without showing teeth."

Breloom nodded slowly.

Gardevoir tilted her head, thoughtful.

Then she whispered something only he could hear.

"We already are."

(break)
The darkness inside Union Cave shifted subtly as the hours passed. Though the sun above the mountains never touched this depth, the subtle pressure of time still moved. Water dripped in new places. The echo changed tones. Al felt it all, not in his skin but in his breath, in the rhythm of his team as they walked beside him.

Gardevoir floated a meter to his left, her field still pulled close and quiet. Breloom led by three paces, stepping over slick stone and ducking beneath low arches with instinctual ease. Their pace was unhurried, not because they were slow, but because they moved with full awareness. Every footfall, every pause, was measured.

They passed old battle scars in the cave wall—blackened patches from stray fire, gouges in stone where claws had raked deep. Al stopped to touch one with gloved fingers, considering its depth.

"Recent," he murmured.

Breloom glanced back, eyes narrowing. Gardevoir didn't move but tilted her head as if listening to echoes left behind.

"Not wild. Too deliberate."

(break)

A turn in the tunnel revealed another chamber, larger than the others they'd passed—oval in shape, with a gently sloped basin at its center. The ceiling soared higher than expected, and beams of soft light filtered through a crack high above, illuminating an underground spring that burbled gently in a clear, shallow pool.

It was beautiful.

Al stopped at the edge, taking in the sight—the moss creeping up the stone like painted strokes, the glimmer of silver fish darting between rocks, the faint blue glow of natural crystals near the far end of the pool.

And then, just beyond the spring, he saw the figure.

A person. Seated on a stone with their back mostly turned, one leg dangling near the water. They wore a dark traveling cloak, thick boots, and a hat that covered most of their hair. A satchel rested beside them. They hadn't moved.

Breloom tensed subtly, but Al gave a short wave—stand down.

He stepped forward with Gardevoir silently trailing.

The figure didn't react until Al was within twenty feet.

Then they turned, slowly, and lifted the brim of their hat.

It was a woman. Older than Al by a few years, with sharp, weather-worn features and tired, intelligent eyes.

She blinked once. Then offered a calm, if slightly wary, nod.

"Didn't expect company down here," she said, voice quiet but strong. "Most turn back before the spring."

Al returned the nod. "We're passing through."

The woman raised an eyebrow, gaze flicking to Gardevoir and Breloom.

"Deliberate types, then."

She gestured to a low stone across from her.

"Sit, if you like. I've got time, and the water's good."

(break)

Al didn't speak right away as he crossed the chamber and lowered himself to the rock. Gardevoir remained beside him, hovering silently, and Breloom took a position near the pool's edge, crouched and watchful.

The woman poured water from a small container into a cup and handed it over without ceremony.

"Name's Maren. From Ecruteak. I make my way slow. Usually alone."

Al accepted the drink, nodded. "Al."

She glanced at his team again. "They don't talk much."

"They don't have to."

A small smile touched her lips.

"I've seen that before. Quiet trainers. They always end up being the ones people remember."

He said nothing.

She sipped from her own cup, then looked into the water.

"This place is older than most routes above it. Locals don't chart it, but the League used to. Back before they consolidated Johto's northern border."

Al raised an eyebrow. "You study history?"

"I live in it," she said. "Walk far enough, you stop seeing time as straight. Feels more like a loop. You ever get that?"

He thought about that.

About how he'd been dropped here, fully formed in a world that shouldn't exist.

"…Sometimes," he admitted.

Maren studied him again.

Then smiled, softer this time. "You're not League."

He didn't confirm or deny it.

"But you and your team move like those who've fought more battles than he's talked about."

She set the cup down beside her and leaned back.

"Not going to ask why. I don't really care. But I will say—it's good to see someone teaching their team trust."

She looked pointedly at Gardevoir, who met her gaze without blinking.

"That one would kill for you."

Al's eyes narrowed, not in warning—but in calculation.

"She'd die for me," he said quietly. "There's a difference."

Maren let out a short, dry laugh.

"Damn right there is."

(break)

They sat for a while in mutual silence.

Breloom wandered a little, dipping his hands into the pool, curious about the fish. One of them darted close—he froze, watching. Gardevoir floated lower, almost skimming the surface. Her reflection rippled slightly, like water wasn't quite sure what to make of her.

Maren eventually stirred again.

"You going through or staying a while?"

"Through," Al said. "We're keeping quiet. Out of sight."

"Smart. There's a group about half a day behind me. Loud. Arrogant. Probably chasing a badge, not knowing what they're heading toward."

Al didn't flinch. "I'll let them pass."

"You'll pass them," she muttered, not unkindly.

Then her gaze turned more curious. "Where are you going, really?"

Al didn't answer.

Maren leaned back with a shrug.

"Well. Doesn't matter. You'll end up in the right place anyway. You've got that kind of… gravity."

She stood, dusted off her cloak.

"I'm heading back the long way. There's a root tunnel that connects to the old Ruins path. More peaceful."

Al stood as well. Gardevoir rose without a sound.

Breloom returned to his side, eyes still sharp but relaxed.

Maren adjusted her satchel and offered a final glance over the group.

"If you ever make it to Ecruteak, visit the outer shrine. Look for the stones with no names. You'll understand."

Then she walked into the dark without another word.

(break)

Al watched her disappear.

Didn't speak for a long while.

Then finally, softly:

"She was strong."

Gardevoir nodded once.

Breloom didn't comment, just began hopping forward again.

Al followed.

They passed through the spring chamber and into the tunnels beyond.

The air cooled again. The echoes returned.

But somehow, it all felt… quieter.

 

[Bladesunder]

The tunnel narrowed, then opened again.

Al could feel the change before he saw it—the weight of stone lifting, the air shifting. The moisture on the cave walls dried, the echo softened, and a faint, golden light crept over the edges of the rocks ahead. They were close.

Gardevoir floated beside him, her posture more relaxed than it had been in hours. Breloom, just ahead, moved with a sharper bounce in his step, the slope upward lending a touch of momentum.

The cave had been kind to them—no conflict, no trouble—but it had pressed in all the same. Al's shoulders ached, and his ears longed for silence that didn't echo.

Then they reached the mouth of the tunnel.

And stepped out into the sky.

(break)

It was late afternoon, sun dipped low but still strong. The world outside Union Cave was open and warm, the grass thick and tall in patches, the trees dense but soft-edged, like nature here had no need to be harsh. Wind swept across the clearing, dry and fragrant with wildflowers.

Al stopped just past the threshold, tilted his head back, and let the sun touch his face.

Gardevoir closed her eyes, face lifted to the warmth. Breloom dropped into a crouch, then sprang up with a loud, satisfied grunt—landing in a patch of tall grass and rolling in it like a child released from chores.

Al pulled four Poké Balls from his belt, one by one, and without fanfare, released the rest of his team.

Manectric exploded into view first, sparks popping off his coat as he landed mid-sprint and let out a bark that rang across the clearing. He skidded in a circle before darting off to chase his own tail, barking twice more just for the joy of it.

Swampert came next—landing with a low, satisfied rumble and stretching both arms high. He rolled his shoulders, stomped once for emphasis, and immediately flopped chest-down into the mud by a shallow nearby spring fed by cave runoff.

Metagross appeared silently, hovering three feet off the ground, red eyes pulsing slowly. He didn't move, but his weight in the air felt different—loosened, less compressed. The way he rotated just slightly, spreading his limbs wider, was his version of relaxing.

And then came Salamence.

He unfolded from his Poké Ball in a ripple of light and power, wings extending with a heavy crack of displaced air. The grass bent beneath his weight as he stepped forward, neck low, eyes half-lidded against the sun.

He inhaled deeply—then let out a long, slow breath.

And the world around him bent just a little, like it, too, knew what had returned to the sky.

(break)

Al didn't say anything at first. He watched.

Manectric chased a breeze. Swampert rolled in the shallows with a groan of contentment. Breloom stretched in the sun, arms crossed behind his head. Metagross scanned the treeline like a sentry on holiday. Gardevoir hovered quietly behind him, occasionally shifting her gaze between team members, a faint smile on her lips.

Salamence lifted his wings.

Al stepped back instinctively.

The dragon launched straight up.

The wind from his wings hit them like a heavy exhale, rustling clothes and grass. Breloom whooped and threw an arm up as dust flew past.

Salamence circled once, twice, then dove—pulling out before he touched the trees and swooping low, brushing treetops with his belly, before gliding back into the clearing.

He landed without sound. Just a whisper of impact.

Al approached him.

"I know you like to be out." he said softly.

Salamence exhaled through his nose—no complaint.

"I'll try to give you sky more often."

A pause.

Then a quiet nod.

(break)

They stayed in the clearing for a while. Long enough for the last rays of light to start dipping into orange. Al passed out water and simple protein bars—nothing fancy, but appreciated.

Even Metagross accepted a moment of stillness.

Eventually, he stood.

"Let's go."

The trail into Azalea wasn't long. A worn dirt path threaded through the trees, wide enough for carts but not paved. Birds called again overhead. The wind shifted from dry to damp as they approached the town line, where the forest thickened just before opening again.

As they walked, they passed a few other travelers—none close, but distant shapes moving along side trails. One woman paused long enough to stare in awe as Salamence emerged into view behind Al. Another, a boy with a net, nearly dropped it when he saw Metagross hovering past without a sound.

Al said nothing. He didn't slow.

But he did notice how his team's pace changed. How Swampert walked just a little straighter. How Gardevoir pulled her field in tighter. How Manectric fell into step beside Breloom.

(break)

The trees parted.

Azalea Town came into view—quaint, sunlit, surrounded by low wooden fences and the faint smell of apricorn smoke. The houses were small and spread wide, their roofs moss-touched and lived-in. A single windmill turned lazily at the town's edge. There were no skyscrapers, no neon signs.

Just peace.

And the slow beat of life.

Al stopped just outside the final gate and turned to his team.

He didn't say it out loud. But they understood.

One by one, he recalled them—Swampert with a grunt of acknowledgment, Manectric with a light protest, Breloom with a bounce and a wink, Metagross in total silence.

Gardevoir stepped forward and looked at him.

He nodded once.

She vanished in a shimmer of red light.

Last was Salamence.

The dragon looked to the town. Then to Al.

Al raised the Poké Ball without a word.

And Salamence closed his eyes.

Gone in a flash.

Al turned toward Azalea.

And walked forward, alone—for now.

(break)
The town gates were low wooden arches, framed by apricorn trees and carved with faded Johto glyphs that flaked in the sun. Al stepped through them without fanfare, boots brushing dust from the old path. The town stretched out gently before him—no crowds, no towers, no urgent noise. Just space. Just rhythm.

Azalea Town didn't sprawl. It settled.

The rooftops were a mix of clay tile and weathered shingles, homes pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with long porches and open windows. Apricorn crates lined doorways. Fletchling called lazily from the rooftops. A pair of young kids raced down the road with Poké Balls bouncing at their hips, laughing like they'd never run out of breath.

Al walked the main road in silence, his coat catching the wind in slow folds. He didn't speak. Didn't draw attention.

But attention found him anyway.

(break)

The Pokémon Center sat near the edge of town, half-buried beneath a towering tree that shaded the building in dappled green. Vines curled around the awning. The doors were carved wood instead of glass, and they creaked faintly when Al pushed them open.

Inside, it was cool and quiet. The floors were polished stone, the reception desk worn smooth by generations of hands. The scent of herbal cleaner clung to the air, not sterile—just clean.

Nurse Joy looked up from a logbook and smiled softly.

"Welcome to Azalea."

Al nodded. "Room for one. And a team to rest."

She glanced at the Poké Balls on his belt, paused. "Six?"

"Yes."

Her fingers moved with practiced speed as she typed into the terminal. "They'll be ready in two hours. You'll be in Room Four."

He handed over the six Poké Balls with quiet care.

"They'll be healed in no time," she promised.

He nodded once.

Then took the keycard she offered and slipped down the hallway without another word.

(break)

The room was small. Clean. A single bed, a desk, a small screen mounted on the wall for League updates. A narrow window overlooked the side alley, where a row of bushes shielded the building from the town's outer path.

Al sat on the bed. Didn't move for a long time.

Then finally, slowly, he pulled out his notebook and wrote two lines.

Union passed.
No encounters.

(break)

By late afternoon, he stepped back into the town's rhythm.

He wandered with his hands in his pockets, coat collar high against the breeze. The main street had begun to fill—not crowded, but busier. Farmers returning with carts of sweetroot. A young woman arranging jars of pollen and crushed apricorn in tidy rows outside a greenhouse.

Al stopped to watch a group of kids battling in the dirt near a signpost. A Mareep and a Poliwag traded basic moves—more play than combat.

The older of the two boys raised his arms and shouted, "Mareep wins again! That's four badges!"

"You don't even have a badge!" his friend yelled back.

They spotted Al watching.

Al gave a faint nod. Walked on.

(break)

The town square wasn't much—a circular clearing with benches, a water trough, and a rust-stained statue of Kurt, the famous Poké Ball crafter. The statue leaned slightly to one side, and the base had been tagged with someone's initials and a heart.

Nearby, an older man sat peeling fruit with a curved knife. His Growlithe lay at his feet, dozing.

Al sat on the far bench. Listened.

The fruit seller and another man were talking near a cart.

"…Bugsy's still turning challengers away," one said.

"Only the Star Badge ones. He's prepping something big, apparently."

"What kind of 'big'?"

"Got an Elite challenger last week. Took them six rounds. And that's someone ranked."

"You think he's training for a promotion?"

The other man shrugged.

"Could be. Or maybe he's just pissed that a Violet leader got upstaged. You heard about that one, right? Whole damn stadium shook."

They both laughed.

Al didn't.

(break)

The sun dipped lower.

Shops began to close.

The Center's lanterns flickered to life.

Al made his way back as the breeze picked up.

(break)

He retrieved his team at the front desk—each Poké Ball polished and lined in a neat row. Nurse Joy gave a tiny bow as he picked them up.

"They were quiet," she said. "But not tired. Just… patient."

Al smiled faintly.

He slipped the Poké Balls back onto his belt, one by one.

Room Four waited upstairs.

Tomorrow would bring the Gym.

Tonight, he would rest.

(break)
Morning came quiet and clear.

Al rose early, before the sun had fully crested over the treeline outside his narrow window. The Pokémon Center was still hushed, lit by low hallway lamps and the faint hum of the staff's morning routine. He dressed with steady movements, pulling on his coat, slipping his boots over dry socks, tightening his belt without thought.

Today was a Gym day.

And it started like every other day.

(break)

Outside, the town stirred slowly. The shop awnings still hung closed, morning mist lingering like smoke between the buildings. Pidgey called from rooftops. Somewhere a Tauros snorted in a pen. Apricorn smoke curled faintly from a chimney.

Al walked the old path toward the Gym.

He didn't bring his whole team out. Just the one Poké Ball.

Gardevoir.

She hovered beside him, hands folded in quiet repose. She didn't speak, but her presence was grounding—a weightless reminder that he didn't walk alone.

They crossed the square, passed the crooked statue of Kurt, and turned left onto a mossy brick path that curved through the trees.

Azalea Gym sat near the forest's edge, nestled in a natural clearing where the sun fell just right. The building was round, dome-shaped, and half-covered in creeping ivy. The roof was sloped in the style of traditional shrines, and the wood along the entrance was dark-stained, hand-carved, and perfectly clean.

The sign at the gate was plain:

AZALEA TOWN GYM
LEADER: BUGSY
SPECIALTY: BUG-TYPE
CHALLENGERS MUST REGISTER BEFORE MATCH

Al stepped through the gate.

The garden walkway rustled with the sound of low grass brushing against his boots.

(break)

Inside, the Gym smelled like old wood and fresh soil. The entryway was dimly lit, natural light filtering through a series of slatted ceiling vents. A pair of potted moss trees flanked the entrance hall. The air was quiet—no hum of fluorescent lights, no echo of loud footsteps. Just soft, focused stillness.

A woman stood behind the front desk—dark vest, neat braid, sharp eyes. Not quite hostile. But alert.

"Trainer name?" she asked as Al approached.

"Al."

She tapped a few keys on the terminal.

"You're registered from Violet. Star Badge path?"

"Yes."

The woman looked up, and for the first time her gaze changed slightly—something between curiosity and appraisal.

"You'll be Bugsy's second Star Badge match this month."

Al said nothing.

She pressed a button on the desk and a soft chime echoed deeper in the Gym.

"Confirming opponent status. You'll be assigned a challenge tier shortly. Bugsy requires all elite-level matches to follow full format."

"Six on six?"

"No substitutions. No item assists. If you lose control of the field, the match ends immediately."

Al nodded. "Understood."

"Wait here."

She disappeared behind a curtained arch.

Gardevoir hovered slightly closer, her gaze sweeping the entrance hall.

Al stood still.

He didn't feel nervous.

Just... attentive.

Like the silence in this place wasn't silence at all—but expectation.

(break)

After several minutes, the woman returned. Her posture had shifted. Less formal. More... respectful.

"Bugsy accepts. Match is scheduled for tomorrow, noon. We'll send confirmation to the Pokémon Center. You'll be expected fifteen minutes early for check-in."

She paused, then added:

"Bugsy doesn't often speak directly to staff about challengers. But he did ask one thing."

Al waited.

"He asked which one you were."

Al raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"He said... if it's the one from Violet, tell him this one will be harder."

Al's eyes narrowed slightly.

He nodded once.

And turned to go.

(break)

Outside, the morning sun had burned off most of the mist. The path back to town felt warmer now. Less distant. The kind of path you walked knowing something was behind you—and something more was ahead.

Gardevoir hovered silently beside him.

She didn't have to say it.

They both knew:

Tomorrow, it begins again.

 

[Bladesunder]

[ A/N: Short chapter. This is Bugsy POV pre-match.]


He tightened the straps of his arm guards and stepped into the training chamber.


The air was warm—heavy with the smell of moss, sweet sap, and the earthy tang of polished carapace. Light filtered in through narrow ceiling vents, catching in fine strands of silk that hung from the rafters like banners. The Gym's central floor pulsed with quiet life: the movement of webbed limbs, the skitter of claws on bark, the gentle hum of wings too fast to see.


Bugsy breathed it in.


This was his space.


And today, it had to be perfect.


(break)


He moved past the practice nets and into the core arena, where his team waited.


Scizor was sharpening its claws against the edge of a stone. The grating sound was rhythmic, focused. Ariados clung upside down to a beam overhead, still as death. Yanmega hovered in a low circle, its wings silent but ever-moving. Shuckle sat near the sunlight patch, unmoving but tracking everything with slow, deliberate eyes. Volbeat and Illumise danced their dual pattern drills along a vine-ringed training ring.


Every member of the team was in motion.


So was Bugsy.


He stepped to the side of the room and picked up his clipboard—notes written not by an aide, but by his own hand. Match durations. Efficiency margins. Movement sync. Predicted field adaptability. Every stat earned, not assumed. Every figure born from a thousand repetitions.


Because Star Badge matches weren't casual.


They didn't happen daily.


They didn't even happen weekly.


When the League approved one, it meant tons of preparation for a single battle—one that would be broadcast, analyzed, clipped into tactical breakdowns and reaction reels. League reps would be watching. Gym leader peers would be watching.


The world would be watching.


And he knew exactly what they'd see if he failed.


A kid.


A prodigy with bugs.


A historical footnote.


Not a contender.


(break)


He'd heard it all before.


"Too young to hold a badge."


"Sure, he's smart, but bugs have limits."


"Only reason he's in Azalea is because it's the safe Gym."


Bugsy didn't rage against it. Didn't lash out.


He just worked harder.


Because what they didn't understand—what they never bothered to understand—was that every Gym had a pulse. And his pulsed with silk and fangs, wings and precision. His team didn't brawl. They maneuvered. They didn't outmuscle. They outlasted. They turned the field into a weapon and wrapped opponents in it.


Web by web.


Layer by layer.


Until there was no more room to move, no more light to see.


Only the sound of wings and the tightening thread of defeat.


(break)


He tapped twice on the metal rail.


Scizor looked up.


"Synchronization drills. One full cycle."


The steel predator nodded once.


Bugsy moved to the terminal at the back wall and loaded up the simulation field. He didn't need visuals—but the lights above the arena adjusted to simulate fluctuating weather. Mist. Glare. Sudden shadow. The kind of conditions that made Star Badge battles hellish.


Good.


He watched as Scizor and Yanmega began circling. Illumise and Volbeat adjusted their patterns. Ariados dropped low, legs curled inward before releasing a net arc of silk that caught perfectly along the edge of the practice ring. Shuckle rolled forward into position, its slow motion deceptive beneath layers of held energy.


It was working.


The pattern was forming.


The web.


(break)


He didn't think about the challenger.


Not their face. Not their team.


That part wasn't his business.


He trained to win on his field.


He made them play his game.


But still, the memory of his last Star Badge fight lingered—an hour-long war of attrition that left his voice raw and two of his best partners out of rotation for a week. He'd won. But just barely.


And everyone remembered that part too.


Bugsy, the boy genius who scraped through by the skin of a String Shot.


This time wouldn't be that.


It would be clean.


Precise.


Definitive.


(break)


He walked the length of the chamber once the drills ended, moving among his Pokémon like a quiet storm. He adjusted Illumise's posture mid-glide. Nudged Scizor's claws into a tighter stance. Reset Yanmega's orbit pattern by three degrees.


No yelling. No speeches.


They didn't need that.


They needed a leader who worked just as hard as they did.


Who earned every battle.


(break)


The Gym aides met him near the observation deck with the confirmation slate.


"The match is officially scheduled," one said. "Tomorrow at noon. League broadcast will begin fifteen minutes prior."


Bugsy nodded. "Announce it. Standard visibility."


"You're cleared to use the full arena."


"Good."


The aide hesitated. "Would you like to review challenger footage?"


"No."


He paused.


"Tell the field team to clear the edges of Web Sector Three. We'll use that sequence for the finale."


The aide blinked. "You think it'll go that far?"


"I'm planning for it."


(break)


The sun was setting by the time the Gym cleared out. The Pokémon were resting. The lights dimmed.


Bugsy stood alone in the prep room, staring at the battle board—a diagram of his arena, marked with overlays for movement zones, traps, redirection lanes. He'd memorized it months ago. But he still stood there.


Still stared.


He wasn't nervous.


He was ready.


Because if the world still thought he was just a bug kid with trivia and talent—


Then tomorrow, he'd show them just how dangerous a web could be.

 

[Bladesunder]

[AN: The second part of this chapter will be posted later today and it will conclude the gym battle.]


The arena looked more like a forest grove than a battlefield.

The floor was coated in mossy stone and low-rooted ferns. Spider silk laced the rafters above, forming natural threads of white shimmer that caught and bent the light. Hanging vines curled down from elevated platforms, and narrow trees split the battlefield into uneven lines of sight. Bugsy's Gym was alive—tended, yes, but not sterile. Everything had been shaped to mimic the natural world, then twisted slightly toward something more predatory.

This was not a place of honor duels or quick contests.

This was a web.

Al stepped onto his platform as the League signal tone echoed through the chamber. The crowd, mostly silent up to this point, leaned forward behind their barriers—Johto locals, some visiting trainers, a few familiar faces from Violet. The cameras above blinked red, broadcasting live.

Bugsy walked into the far side of the arena, eyes alert but unreadable. He wore a sleeveless dark vest, legs tucked into field-ready boots, no ornamentation, no flash.

"Star Badge challenge," he said quietly. "Six on six. No swaps. Full arena integrity. No mid-battle assists or restoration."

Al nodded.

Bugsy released his first Pokémon with a whisper.

"Ariados."

The ball opened. The spider didn't land. It descended.

A thick strand of web unwound from above, and Ariados dropped slowly into view, legs flexing and clinging to strands only it could see. It reached the moss without a sound, settling between stones with a perfect stillness. The colors along its legs shimmered subtly—venom sacs fully primed. Its eyes blinked twice, then locked on Al's side of the field.

Al looked at his belt. He already knew.

He chose.

The flash released with a low hum.

Metagross hit the field like a falling god.

There was no ceremony. No wind.

Just a thud of mass meeting stone, followed by a slow lift as its magnetic field engaged. Four limbs unfolded, claws leveled out, and its core rotated half a turn. Red eyes opened. The weight of it—the psychic pressure of it—touched every corner of the arena.

Bugsy's eyes flicked once.

He said nothing.

The League official raised a hand. A pause.

Then dropped it.

"Begin!"

(break)

Ariados surged forward—not in a straight line, but diagonally, firing a stream of Sticky Web behind it in an arc to force positioning. Its goal wasn't immediate attack—it was territory. It fired a second anchor shot behind Metagross, sticking silk to a low arch near the corner.

Web strands grew like a net across the mid-field.

Metagross hovered in place, tracking Ariados but not pursuing.

Al tapped once on the railing.

"Initiate pulse. Low sweep."

Metagross hummed, then pivoted. One claw retracted slightly, gathering psychic tension before slamming down into the ground. The pressure rippled outward—a radial force, not intended to harm but to shake. The web lines across the field vibrated violently. One anchor line snapped.

Ariados re-anchored quickly, leaping onto a side beam and crouching. It launched two quick Poison Stings, spinning as it did, turning them into seeking curves.

Metagross hovered left. The first stinger grazed the edge of his plating—no penetration. The second missed entirely.

"Harassment tactics," Al murmured.

Bugsy gave a single command.

"Pressure lines."

Ariados spun to the ceiling, sending a web up to the highest rafter. It used the tension to swing down and forward, rebounding off a trunk into a skidding turn.

"Trap him."

A wide String Shot launched—coated in adhesive, not just slowing silk. It fired in a spread, not as a line.

Al narrowed his eyes.

"Vertical ascend. Disrupt field."

Metagross rose.

Not smoothly. Not gracefully.

He lifted like an elevator, claws grinding through the web-silk stuck to the bark as his body spun, dragging a ring of pressure around him. He struck a crossbeam mid-ascent, breaking it, and the field filled with falling dust and snapping threads.

Ariados recoiled, dropping lower, and was met mid-drop by a claw that lashed out with shocking speed.

It clipped a leg.

Not enough to drop it—but enough to send it skidding.

Bugsy didn't flinch.

"Recover. Delay. Lead it right."

Ariados jumped back. The web lines started tightening again.

Al didn't let him regain control.

"Advance. Drive with left."

Metagross lunged forward—not fast, but without hesitation. He rolled across the terrain in a counterclockwise spiral, keeping the edge of his mass just outside the stickier patches. His claws tore at any silk he crossed, clearing paths for future moves.

Ariados shot a Leech Life burst forward—its fangs glowing green—but Metagross deflected it by rotating a claw inward and using his own body mass as shield.

Bugsy's face changed slightly.

He knew.

The spider couldn't win in a war of attrition.

So he changed tactics.

"Aerial Web, now!"

Ariados launched itself upward, spraying a complex cross-pattern of silk that struck the ceiling, then fell like a trap—multiple strands with weighted edges. A falling net, ready to restrain and pin Metagross long enough for a direct strike.

Al tapped twice.

"Ignore debris. Clear zone with radial burst."

Metagross stopped moving entirely.

Then pulsed.

Not a sound.

Not a psychic scream.

A pressure wave.

Every piece of webbing within a three-meter radius was thrown outward. The falling trap unraveled midair. Ariados landed wrong, legs tangled briefly in its own failed net.

Al's voice stayed calm.

"Strike."

Metagross charged.

Not hovering.

Not dragging.

Charging.

He crashed into Ariados mid-recovery. A claw hammered down—not to crush, but to pin. Ariados fought—venom spraying, legs thrashing—but it couldn't get leverage.

Bugsy didn't call for retreat.

He watched.

Then raised a hand.

"Withdraw."

Ariados vanished.

The crowd exhaled.

Metagross stood at center, unmoving.

Al didn't give a command.

He didn't need to.

(break)

One down.

Five to go.

Bugsy considered his belt.

Then picked the second ball.

"Scizor."

The light flared—and red steel landed in a crouch, claws gleaming.

Bugsy raised his voice, for the first time.

"Let's see if you're still sharp after that."

Metagross turned slowly to face his next opponent.

And the real fight began.

(break)
The temperature in the Gym shifted the moment Scizor hit the field.

It wasn't the kind of heat that came from the sun or fire. It was the crackling kind—static in the air, the ripple that comes before a storm strikes. The crowd, already hushed from the brutal precision of the Ariados match, leaned forward again. They didn't cheer. They didn't speak.

They knew what came next.

Scizor crouched in the moss, wings twitching, arms loose at its sides. The glow of its body wasn't bright, but it radiated force. Each step it took forward left shallow indents in the soft stone.

It didn't posture.

It didn't wait.

Bugsy gave no command.

And it moved.

A blur of red steel surged across the field—so fast it looked like it teleported. Its first attack was silent—an X-Scissor, blades glowing as it slashed in a cross-arc toward Metagross's core.

Al didn't flinch.

"Bullet Punch. Rotate."

Metagross's claws snapped forward in a microsecond—one claw intercepting the incoming blades while his body spun clockwise, turning the clash into a redirection rather than a block.

The two metal titans disengaged in the same instant, and the arena floor bore the marks—gouges in the moss, steam from friction, dirt blown aside by the shock of impact.

Scizor landed clean, rebounded off a wall, and rushed again.

It came from the side this time—no sound.

Metagross shifted his claws just an inch.

Scizor was already feinting away, using Agility to break into a flicker-step that left afterimages. It reappeared on Metagross's blind side with an Iron Head, crashing into his frame with a sound like breaking shields.

Metagross slid two feet back.

Al didn't speak yet.

His eyes followed the timing of Scizor's wings.

Pattern, not randomness.

Again.

Scizor struck low with a U-turn, trying to fake a retreat and shift into another close-range jab.

"Anchor. Earthquake."

Metagross locked all four limbs down. The moment Scizor's feet touched down for the strike, Metagross channeled all his magnetic force down and slammed the arena floor with his weight.

The impact was seismic.

A pulse radiated outward, cracking several moss-covered stones and shattering the nearest web struts. Scizor stumbled—its speed turned against it as the shockwave hit just as it touched ground.

Al called it.

"Follow. Meteor Mash."

Metagross pushed forward, claws glowing white-hot. The weight behind the strike bent air.

Scizor ducked left, took the first blow across the shoulder, and countered with Dual Wingbeat—a rapid, slicing double-blade motion that struck along Metagross's flank.

Metal scraped metal.

For the first time, Metagross grunted—just a low vibration, but enough to register.

Bugsy snapped his fingers.

"Stick and step. Don't let it set."

Scizor fired a narrow Vacuum Wave, a pressure blast to keep Metagross from repositioning, then rushed in with another X-Scissor.

Al tapped the rail.

"Iron Defense. Counter-angle."

Metagross's body glowed faintly silver, and the next impact skidded off its reinforced frame—but it didn't hold position. He pivoted around the point of impact, using Scizor's momentum to swing into a partial Hammer Arm with the rear claw.

Scizor took the hit to the leg and recoiled hard, stumbling back across the moss.

Both Pokémon stood again.

Both were marked.

Scizor's body showed a dent near the hip. Metagross's plating was cracked along his right shoulder joint, one claw rotating slightly slower.

Bugsy didn't look concerned.

But he wasn't comfortable, either.

He raised a hand.

"Fury Zone."

Scizor's wings flared open. Not to fly.

To vent.

Its body blurred again, moving at near-invisible speeds as it attacked from three angles, feinting and striking in overlapping patterns—Iron Head, X-Scissor, a Feint, another U-turn to bounce to the ceiling before diving again.

It was faster now.

Sharper.

Every blow chipped at Metagross's frame.

One hit struck home on the side of his faceplate, causing sparks to burst and his body to dip low. The crowd gasped.

Al exhaled through his nose.

"Thunder Punch. Blind side. Don't aim—calculate."

Metagross didn't raise a claw.

He waited.

Tracked.

Then fired his arm backward at a seventy-degree angle, just as Scizor blurred in for another step. The punch didn't land clean—but it grazed the wing, and the electricity lit the entire arena for a moment.

Scizor screamed.

Bugsy didn't retreat.

"Last arc. X-Scissor. Full commit."

Scizor came again—no pretense. It threw itself forward in a whirling double-blade slash that would land center-mass.

Al raised a hand.

"Zen Headbutt. Center. Break it."

Metagross's core glowed blue.

He didn't step aside.

He stepped into the attack.

The claws raked across his plating.

But the psychic impact slammed into Scizor's chest, a pure force-burst that folded its wings and launched it across the battlefield.

Scizor hit the wall.

Slumped.

Didn't rise.

Bugsy lifted a hand.

"Withdraw."

Scizor vanished in a pulse of red.

Metagross stood in the center, one leg dragging slightly, his right claw still twitching. Cracks ran up his chassis. One red eye flickered.

He wasn't unhurt.

But he wasn't down.

The crowd broke into the first real noise of the match—shocked applause, scattered cheers, murmurs of disbelief.

Two down.

But Metagross was weakening.

Al didn't recall him.

He couldn't.

No swaps.

He just rested one hand on the rail.

And watched Bugsy select his next Pokémon.

(break)
The crowd was still murmuring as Bugsy raised his third Poké Ball.

The arena hadn't settled. Not really. Metagross stood in the center like a monument cracked by time—worn, listing slightly, one claw half-raised but twitching. The left side of his plating bore scorch marks. The right claw rotated unevenly, sparks dripping from a damaged joint. Yet his eyes still glowed, red and cold, and his presence still bent the air.

Al said nothing.

He didn't need to.

Bugsy stepped forward and whispered, "Durant."

The ball snapped open.

The flash hit the moss.

And Durant came out already moving.

It was smaller than the others—sleek, low to the ground, with armor that glinted like silver in the Gym's natural light. Its mandibles clacked once, then twice, then locked open in a clicking rhythm that echoed through the vines above.

Where Scizor had been speed and pressure, Durant was speed and precision.

Bugsy didn't give it a command.

Durant didn't need one.

It knew. This is what they trained for.

It surged forward—not in a charge, but in a darting pattern across the battlefield, weaving under roots and over stones, anchoring with each claw and launching forward with its momentum.

Metagross didn't react.

Al's fingers curled slightly on the rail.

"Brace. Right-side feint."

Durant struck from the left.

Metagross turned just late enough for the hit to land—a First Impression-style rush that slammed into his front claw and forced him backward. Metal groaned. He caught himself, rebalancing, claws digging shallow trenches as he locked back into position.

Al's voice was low. "Anchor. Thunder Punch."

Metagross lashed out. The punch didn't land, but it forced Durant to split momentum and veer to the side.

Bugsy called now, calm and sharp.

"Dig and climb."

Durant darted forward again—then dove low. Not underground. Just enough to duck beneath the next sweep, then scale Metagross's side like a living blade. Its legs clacked as it ran up his limb, mandibles already glowing with energy.

A Bug Bite—charged and targeted at the exposed joint where Scizor's earlier strike had left a crack.

The sound that followed was a hollow metallic echo—then the hiss of failing servos.

Metagross staggered.

The red in his eyes flickered.

Al's face didn't move. But his hand dropped to the platform edge.

"Center core. Earthquake."

It wasn't meant to win.

It was meant to hit something.

Metagross slammed all four limbs down, forcing the last of his weight into the ground. The arena shook—not like before, not clean—but enough.

Durant, mid-climb, was thrown.

It hit a vine post, bounced, landed on its side.

Al's next command came soft.

"Zen Headbutt."

Metagross lunged.

Slow. Dragging.

But direct.

He struck Durant just as it righted itself—an angled blow that cracked part of the field stone and sent the ant staggering.

Not a knockout.

But enough.

Durant skidded to a halt. The scratch along its left side hissed. It reoriented instantly.

Bugsy's tone shifted, subtle but certain.

"Finish it."

Durant charged again.

Faster.

Claws glowing. Mandibles open.

This time, Metagross didn't move.

Al watched as the steel ant drove forward, slicing under the defensive frame and landing a clean, two-part Iron Head directly beneath Metagross's central plating.

The titan fell.

Not in a crash.

Not in a collapse.

Just down.

A single, final exhale of magnetic field—then stillness.

The crowd was silent again.

The League rep raised a hand.

"Metagross is unable to battle. Winner: Durant."

Al took one breath.

Then lifted the Poké Ball.

The recall light shimmered—and Metagross vanished.

He didn't speak as he clipped the ball back to his belt.

He reached for the next.

And Bugsy's face changed.

No fear.

But respect.

Real.

Earned.

Al tapped the ball once.

The field waited.

And then Swampert hit the ground like a mountain sliding into place.

(break)
The floor still trembled faintly where Metagross had fallen.

And into that cratered silence stepped Swampert.

He didn't leap, didn't roar, didn't sprint. He walked—heavy, deliberate, and grounded. Every step was a low thud of muscle and mass. Moss gave beneath his weight. Roots bent. The center of the battlefield felt smaller with him in it.

Durant, still gleaming from its last engagement, didn't retreat. It crouched low, mandibles clacking, claws dug into the stone.

Bugsy's face had changed.

He knew what he was looking at now.

Not a bruiser.

Not a brute.

A wall.

Al didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

"Stealth Rock."

Swampert planted both hands into the earth and growled. The ground around him rippled, and with a heavy grind of stone against stone, spiked shards of rock erupted in a loose ring across the edges of the battlefield—angular, sharp, and waiting.

Bugsy clicked his tongue.

"Durant, Dig—move now!"

Durant dove forward and vanished beneath the surface in an instant, kicking up moss and soil as it burrowed deep.

Al didn't flinch.

"Brace."

Swampert dropped his stance and closed his eyes. His arms flexed. His legs locked. He didn't move. Not even when the ground beneath him began to tremble.

Durant re-emerged behind him, launching up with gleaming fangs in a Lunge aimed at the rear thigh.

Swampert didn't dodge.

He just pivoted—enough to meet the attack head-on with his side.

The hit landed. A clean strike.

And Durant bounced off.

Like biting into a mountain.

Al tapped once.

"Power-Up Punch."

Swampert stepped forward and drove his right fist into Durant's side, the air cracking with impact. Sparks flew. Durant was thrown back three meters and tumbled over a ridge of mossy stone.

He didn't pursue.

He stood where he was.

Bugsy's voice was sharper now.

"Agility! Cut angles, go again!"

Durant shimmered, its outline blurring slightly. It sprinted in a curve around the edge of the arena, too fast for most to track.

Swampert watched. Eyes slow. Reading.

Al tapped twice.

"Stone Edge."

Swampert reached down and slammed his fists into the dirt. In front of him, a jagged spear of stone erupted from the ground—then another, and another. Durant's arc carried it into the third spike before it could adjust.

The impact shattered stone and armor alike. Durant screamed—more vibration than sound—and skidded across the floor, stunned.

Al lifted a hand.

"Surf."

Swampert moved like a truck accelerating—slow, then unstoppable. As he charged, water began to surge around him—not from the arena, but conjured from the air and forced into momentum. His form blurred as the torrent formed ahead of him.

Durant barely managed to crawl to its feet before Swampert was there.

He didn't just hit.

He engulfed.

The Surf crashed over Durant like a flash flood. It flipped, flailed, and slammed back down in the mud.

Still conscious.

Bugsy raised his voice—quick, sharp.

"Counter with Iron Head! Go under!"

Durant surged forward one last time, crawling low, jaws glowing bright silver.

Al didn't speak.

Swampert waited.

Then—just as Durant passed under his arms—he pivoted, raised one foot, and stomped.

The ground gave.

A pulse of tremor surged out—a short Earthquake, controlled, measured.

Durant's momentum crumpled. Its legs buckled.

It fell.

Didn't rise.

The League rep nodded.

"Durant is unable to battle. Winner: Swampert."

Bugsy withdrew the ant in silence.

Swampert turned back toward Al. Said nothing. Just snorted once, ready.

But the tone had changed.

Swampert wasn't just here to win.

He was here to end it.

 

[Bladesunder]

The echoes from Durant's fall still hadn't faded by the time Bugsy reached for his fourth Poké Ball. His fingers lingered longer this time. His expression had shifted—not to fear, but to assessment. Cold, calculated assessment.


He needed to stall.


He needed to buy time, slow momentum, unravel this living wall before it broke his Gym apart.


"Volbeat," he said softly.


The Poké Ball snapped open in a streak of light that curled high before flaring into motion. Volbeat didn't land—it hovered. Light burst behind it like a gleam off a blade's edge. The soft buzzing of its wings was constant, high-pitched, weaving between a whine and a whisper.


Swampert turned toward it slowly.


There was no roar. No breath of intimidation.


He simply squared his stance. Thick arms hung low. One eye narrowed.


Al didn't even raise his hand.


The signal tone rang.


"Begin!"


(break)


Volbeat exploded into motion.


Not forward—not yet. It launched upward in a tight arc and veered left, carving an S-curve in the air as its glowing tail shimmered like a comet. With a snap of its limbs, it released a pulse of Tail Glow, amplifying its inner energy. Sparks danced behind it like stardust.


Then the second phase began.


Double Team.


Illusions split off like trailing echoes—two, four, six ghost-forms flickering behind the original. Each mimic buzzed in erratic, circling orbits. High, low, above, to the side.


Swampert didn't move.


Wide Guard shimmered faintly around him, now active.


Bugsy didn't wait.


"Confuse Ray! Signal Beam! Layer pressure!"


Volbeat pulsed once—two rays of glowing distortion flashed from opposite flanks. One bounced off a stone shard. The other struck the edge of the Wide Guard and scattered in refracted beams. Swampert's eyes narrowed slightly.


Then the Signal Beam came—a sweeping spiral of energy, cast wide to overload the barrier's edges.


Al tapped the railing.


"Brace. Right foot. Don't counter."


Swampert dug his rear foot in. The energy smashed against the dome. The field pulsed hard—but held.


The moment it ended, Al gave a sharp nod.


"Stone Edge. Random pattern."


Swampert didn't look up.


He punched the ground.


Not once. Twice. Three times.


And each time, a jagged column of razor-sharp stone erupted from the field—not in a ring, not in a wall, but in chaotic, staggered spikes. Illusions vanished instantly. The real Volbeat juked sideways, clipped one shard, and nearly lost altitude.


Swampert followed the trajectory with his eyes.


Then moved.


It wasn't fast.


It didn't have to be.


He stepped forward into the broken arena and raised both fists.


"Power-Up Punch. Trail the movement."


Volbeat looped wide. Swampert didn't chase. He swung once—missed. Swung again—missed.


But each punch was a drill, not a strike.


Each swing coiled muscle tighter.


Each motion increased pressure in his core, fed heat into his limbs.


Bugsy caught it.


"Moonlight, now!"


Volbeat veered toward the open ceiling beam and lifted its arms. The light from above caught its wings—and the shimmer of Moonlight spread across its body. Small wounds began to close. The wing strain began to fade.


Swampert's eyes narrowed.


"Roar."


He didn't raise his arms. He just opened his chest and let it out.


A wall of raw sound crashed into Volbeat, shredding its focus, slamming its body back down through its own illusions.


The Moonlight ended.


The healing stopped.


And Volbeat hit the dirt.


The entire Gym shook slightly. One webbing strand high above snapped and floated down in curls.


Swampert marched forward, stepping over stone and ice shards.


"Hydro Pump."


The beam of water he unleashed wasn't clean—it was a blast. A blunt-force cannon that tore moss off the stone, cratered a section of earth, and forced Volbeat to shield itself in a desperate scramble for height.


The blast clipped it.


Not a clean hit.


But enough.


Bugsy barked, "Agility, Break Dance—vertical!"


Volbeat veered up, spinning in a tight roll, and cast two Signal Beams behind it as it climbed. The first missed. The second hit Swampert in the shoulder and knocked him sideways a step.


He kept walking.


Didn't flinch.


Just raised his arm.


"Hidden Power."


The rings of light formed around him again—this time in pale gold, circling twice before launching upward. The pressure broke one of Volbeat's evasive loops and forced it to drop lower again.


"Brick Break."


Swampert jumped.


It wasn't graceful.


It was terrifying.


He cleared three meters of vertical space and slammed his elbow into Volbeat's midsection as it dropped into the range.


Volbeat screamed. Lights flickered.


It fell hard. Hit the stone. Tried to rise.


Al didn't speak.


Swampert landed.


"Surf."


The next attack wasn't aimed at Volbeat.


It was aimed at the terrain.


Swampert smashed his fists into the stone floor and pulled water from the cracked edges of the earth, surging up like a geyser. He channeled it up, around, through his arms—


And drove it down.


The wave crushed Volbeat into the floor again, holding it there, flooding the gouged terrain and soaking the arena.


Then he stepped back.


Let it end.


Volbeat twitched.


Tried to lift a hand.


And fell still.


Bugsy didn't raise a hand this time.


He simply closed his eyes, nodded once.


"Volbeat is unable to battle. Winner: Swampert."


The crowd erupted—less with applause, more with awe.


Swampert turned in the silence.


One hand rested on his own knee.


He took a breath.


Stood tall.


And waited.


Bugsy exhaled slowly.


"Okay," he muttered.


And reached for his next ball.


(break)


The Gym had grown quiet again.


Not the hush of anticipation—it was something heavier now. Tension. The kind that didn't sit in the lungs but pulled low in the gut, deep and growing. Four of Bugsy's team had already fallen. Swampert stood at the center of the shattered field, battered but unbowed, a titan of sweat, soil, and slow-burning calm.


He wasn't fresh anymore.


He wasn't clean.


But he was still there.


Bugsy took his next Poké Ball. Smaller, lighter. His fingers flexed once before he cast it forward.


"Illumise."


The light from the ball curved wide, flaring outward rather than collapsing into the stone. When it faded, Illumise floated mid-air, dainty, lithe, her glow cool and measured.


She blinked.


Once at Bugsy.


Then at Swampert.


The buzz of her wings was soft. Not faint, just tightly controlled—an instrument held in restraint.


Swampert stared back.


His chest rose slow. One cut along his left arm still trickled dark.


The match resumed.


(break)


Illumise darted left. Then right. A blur. Her outline shimmered and warped as she moved through the shadows above the moss-slick terrain.


"Agility," Bugsy called. "Tail Glow."


The command layered instantly.


Illumise's body lit in pulses, her core building with bioluminescent charge. Her speed tripled. She moved more like smoke than air, zipping between the snapped branches and loose rocks Metagross and Swampert had left behind.


Al tapped the rail.


"Wide Guard."


Swampert lifted his hands—not high, just enough. The shimmering dome erupted around him again. His breathing slowed, heart resetting. A fortress in stillness.


Illumise launched the first Confuse Ray, then a Signal Beam, both at opposite angles.


The Wide Guard shuddered but held.


Al waited.


Bugsy's second order came sharp.


"Double Team. Dazzle loop."


Illumise spun high and dropped again—this time leaving four, six, eight identical images, all weaving in and out of low sun shafts. Her light moved like a strobe, refracting off the stone shards across the arena. The illusions weren't solid—but they were enough to mask her position.


Swampert tracked nothing.


Only the sound.


"Brace."


Swampert dropped low. His tail coiled slightly. His knuckles scraped the ground as he crouched.


Illumise dove.


The first strike was a feint—low, right—an illusion. The second was real, a Bug Buzz fired from directly above. Swampert absorbed it to the shoulder, muscles tightening as the vibration ran through his arm like a shockwave.


He grunted. Not in pain.


But in acknowledgment.


Al called it.


"Flip Turn. Sweep wide."


Swampert twisted, coated in a thin spiral of water. He spun once, a slow arc, shattering half the illusions. The real Illumise banked away—fast.


Too fast.


"Encore," Bugsy said calmly.


Illumise flicked once midair, wings releasing a psychic pulse. Swampert jerked—instinct taking over. He began turning again, forced to repeat the last move.


But Al was ready.


"Rest. Now."


Mid-movement, Swampert dropped to his knees, arms folding inward, eyes shutting tight. A glow surrounded him—pale blue, like morning fog rising from riverbanks. His muscles began to repair. His breath deepened.


Illumise struck.


A Thunderbolt from behind—crackling, aimed straight for the spine.


Swampert shuddered.


But didn't wake.


Another beam—Signal, this time. Then a Confuse Ray to layer the trap.


He shook, twitched. His mouth opened once.


But the Rest held.


(break)


Bugsy narrowed his eyes.


"Moonlight. Reset."


Illumise spun higher, opened her arms, and channeled the golden sunlight peeking through the Gym's cracked upper rafters. Her wounds began to fade. Her energy normalized.


Al nodded once.


"Roar."


Swampert's head snapped up.


His eyes opened.


And the sound that followed wasn't a voice—it was a wave. A wall of pressure. Roar hit Illumise mid-cast, interrupting the Moonlight and flinging her across the arena like a leaf in a landslide.


She hit the moss hard.


The crowd flinched.


The wall behind her cracked.


Al lifted his hand.


"Focus Punch."


Bugsy responded faster.


"Confuse Ray. Thunderbolt. Stagger it."


Illumise twisted midair and fired. The Confuse Ray hit first, blurring Swampert's vision. His punch charge slowed, his hand trembling.


Then the Thunderbolt struck.


Electricity surged through his chest, skipping across damp skin, forcing his stance to stagger.


But he didn't fall.


Didn't flinch.


His fist still glowed.


He launched forward.


The Focus Punch missed the clean line—but clipped Illumise in the wing, and the force alone sent her into the ceiling rafters before she dropped again, tumbling like a broken star.


She hit the ground.


Swampert dropped to one knee, panting.


His chest smoked lightly.


(break)


Al tapped the rail.


"Hydro Pump. Upward. Control angle."


Swampert aimed low and angled high—firing a pressurized jet of water that hit beneath Illumise's prone form, launching her back upward again.


She caught herself midair, barely.


"Signal Beam. Dodge left."


She spun. Fired.


The beam hit Swampert's shoulder—another burn, another stagger.


He raised his hand again.


"Hidden Power."


The pale-gold rings exploded from his palm, scattered in wide arcs. Three missed. Two hit. One caught her wing again, and she dipped.


Al didn't hesitate.


"Stone Edge."


Swampert drove his palm into the moss—and a massive column of stone erupted beneath her. She twisted away too late.


It hit.


She dropped.


She didn't rise.


The league official waited three seconds.


Then five.


Then lifted a hand.


"Illumise is unable to battle. Winner: Swampert."


The arena was dead silent.


Then the crowd erupted.


But Al wasn't watching them.


He was watching Swampert.


The titan was still on one knee.


Breathing harder now.


Cracks ran up his left arm.


Burn marks scorched his side.


His chest rose. Fell. Slowly.


But he looked up.


And nodded.


One left.


(break)


The Gym floor groaned beneath Swampert's weight as he stepped forward once more, dragging his heel through moss-turned-mud. The silence between League official and crowd stretched long. Cracked stone, faint steam, and the rising scent of blood clung to the ruined battlefield like morning mist over a battlefield.


Five Pokémon down.


One left.


Bugsy didn't smile. He didn't blink.


His eyes were sharp now—cut glass calm.


He reached for the last ball at his belt.


"This is my strongest," he said.


The crowd leaned in.


The cameras twitched on their mounts, quiet whirring lost in the ambient tension.


Bugsy pressed the release button.


A flash of white light burst forward—narrow, focused.


And Heracross hit the arena like a hammer.


Its feet cracked the stone where it landed.


Dust curled upward.


Its horn angled low, then rose like a war-banner. Muscles bunched and flexed beneath its carapace—deep-blue and raw with motion. The moment it landed, it didn't roar.


It didn't pose.


It bowed its head toward Swampert.


A warrior's greeting.


Al didn't speak.


Swampert returned the nod, chest rising slow.


His left arm hung a little lower now. His back leg bent ever so slightly off-angle.


But he stepped forward. One pace.


Then another.


The League official raised a hand.


"Final round. Begin!"


Heracross exploded off the ground without a command.


Bugsy knew. It didn't need one.


"Megahorn!"


Heracross's horn glowed with green-white energy as it launched itself forward in a spiraling charge, twisting its body midair. Swampert didn't dodge.


He stepped in.


"Wide Guard," Al said.


The shimmer of protection flared, just in time.


Megahorn smashed into it.


The air rippled outward, and the sound—the shatter of force on shield—reverberated through every corner of the Gym.


The barrier cracked.


Swampert dropped to one knee. The strain across his body was visible—tightened cords, straining joints.


But the shield held.


Al didn't wait.


"Ice Punch."


Swampert lunged—short, tight.


His fist crackled with frost, catching Heracross in the abdomen as it rebounded. The blow connected solidly, chilling the air and leaving a layer of frost blooming across Heracross's plates.


It landed three meters away, feet skidding.


But it didn't fall.


Bugsy nodded.


"Close Combat."


The retaliation came instantly.


Heracross darted forward again—not like the Megahorn's straight-line burst, but zigzagging, feinting left, then slamming its knee into Swampert's hip and following with a spinning elbow into his ribs.


Swampert grunted—first from pain, then from effort.


Al barked, "Power-Up Punch!"


Swampert snapped his arm up through the combo, catching Heracross under the jaw and launching it backward with a crack of muscle and grit.


Heracross rolled. Landed in a crouch.


Bugsy's voice cut sharper.


"Swords Dance!"


Heracross's body glowed with crimson light as it crossed its arms, horn lowering. The air shimmered with the aura of rising violence. Power coiled in every limb, waiting to be unleashed.


Swampert stood panting, blood trickling down the side of his jaw. He didn't waver.


Al's voice was low.


"Rest."


Swampert collapsed to one knee.


Folded his arms.


And let go.


A soft blue glow wrapped his frame—bones resetting, bruises fading, breath stabilizing. He didn't move.


Heracross didn't wait.


"Rock Slide!"


Bugsy pointed.


Heracross drove its horn into the ground—and the stone shattered. Boulders rose and flung themselves forward, crashing in from three angles, all converging on Swampert's healing form.


"Wide Guard."


Even asleep, Swampert moved.


The shield flared once more.


Three impacts.


Three tremors.


But the dome held.


And when the dust cleared, Swampert still knelt.


Still glowing.


Still recovering.


The dust hadn't yet cleared before Heracross charged again.


Swampert was still kneeling.


Still glowing.


Still asleep.


Bugsy didn't hesitate.


"Knock Off!"


Heracross spun low, sweeping its arm wide. The limb glowed a vicious black-red as it carved through the air toward Swampert's exposed side.


The hit connected.


The glow around Swampert flickered.


Al's hand tightened on the rail.


Swampert's body shifted from the force—but didn't fall.


And then his fingers twitched.


His eyes opened.


No dramatic sound.


No sudden roar.


Just a slow, brutal exhale.


He stood.


Fully.


Every inch of his frame vibrated with tension—but it was stable now. Controlled.


"Focus Punch," Al said quietly.


Bugsy's eyes widened.


"Endure!"


Heracross dropped low, locking its body into a stance built not for defense, but for survival. Swampert's right arm glowed white-hot.


He took a step.


Then another.


Then he was upon Heracross.


The punch landed like a meteor.


The sound cracked the ceiling.


Heracross's legs buckled. The floor beneath them crumpled. For a moment, it looked like Heracross would go down—


But it didn't.


It stood.


Shaking.


Breathing hard.


But it stood.


Bugsy's voice cracked sharp.


"REVERSAL!"


Heracross exploded upward, fist drawn back and glowing with blood-red light. The counterstrike struck Swampert clean in the center of the chest.


It wasn't graceful.


It wasn't clean.


It was desperation made real.


Swampert flew backward, smashed through a stone spire, hit the moss, and bounced.


The crowd gasped.


For a moment—


Silence.


Swampert didn't rise.


Al didn't speak.


Then—


A grunt.


Low.


Ragged.


But real.


Swampert pressed one palm into the ground.


Then the other.


He pushed himself upright.


His chest smoked. His left arm hung limp.


But he stood.


Again.


Bugsy's voice trembled, not with fear—but awe.


Al finally gave a real command.


"Flip Turn."


Swampert growled—and lunged.


Water coiled around him like armor. He spun once midair, struck Heracross like a crashing wave, and rebounded into a crouch on the other side of the arena.


Heracross twisted.


Staggered.


And dropped to one knee.


Al didn't stop.


"Earthquake."


Swampert roared.


His fists struck the ground.


And the arena broke.


Not cracked.


Broke.


Chunks of stone lifted, flipped. Webbing collapsed. Spectator shields flickered as seismic energy flared outward.


Heracross tried to hold.


It screamed.


And collapsed.


The dust rose one last time.


The League official lifted a hand through the haze.


"Heracross is unable to battle. The winner is Swampert."


The Gym was silent for five full seconds.


Then the sound hit.


The crowd erupted.


But Al didn't hear it.


He was already beside Swampert, crouching low.


"Breathe," he said.


Swampert growled softly.


Then exhaled.


Bugsy walked across the broken field, feet crunching against splintered stone.


He held out the Hive Badge.


"Hell of a fight," he said.


Al nodded, taking the badge.


But his eyes were still on his Pokémon.


Swampert was barely standing.


But he was smiling.


In his way.


And Al smiled back.

 

[Bladesunder]

[AN: Short post battle chapter. Next up, Interlude 2 which will be lengthy as we see what Al's overwhelming win has stirred.]

The dust of the final blow still clung to the Gym's rafters as the League official raised her hand.

"Heracross is unable to battle. The winner is Swampert."

The cheer came late—less like an explosion, more like a release. A breath the entire building had been holding finally exhaled.

But Al didn't hear it.

He knelt at the edge of the cracked floor, meeting Swampert's gaze. His partner's breathing was ragged. His stance wavered, one knee dipping, the other trembling from effort.

But his eyes were still sharp.

Still steady.

Al nodded.

That's enough.

A flash of red light swept across the arena, and Swampert disappeared into the safety of his Poké Ball.

Al clipped it back to his belt and turned, the fractured floor giving a soft groan under his boots.

(break)

The recovery wing of Azalea's Pokémon Center was a small, quiet ward removed from the usual bustle of treatment. It was designed for Gym challengers—equipped not just to heal, but to preserve privacy.

Al stepped inside alone.

The doors sealed behind him with a soft hiss. Cool white light glowed over the recovery tank as the automated assistant reached for Swampert's ball. Al handed it over without a word.

The tank opened slowly, filling with a shallow pool of temperature-controlled water.

Swampert reappeared in a flood of red light.

The second he hit the water, his muscles uncoiled. His head tilted back. His eyes stayed open.

He wasn't asleep.

Just still.

The hydrotherapy system began to hum. Arms unfolded from the tank's edge—scanners, tension analyzers, sub-dermal massagers.

Al pulled a chair up beside the tank and sat.

For a long time, neither of them moved.

(break)

Al leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, watching the monitor scroll.

Swampert's pulse rate was already returning to baseline. Minor internal bruising. Severe fatigue. But the system marked his overall state with a green bar labeled "Stabilizing."

"Of course," Al murmured.

His reflection blinked back at him in the tank's glass.

And then—

Swampert's arm twitched.

Not from pain.

The movement was short, tight.

It looked like a punch.

Not a real one.

Just muscle memory.

A blow remembered, even in sleep.

Al didn't smile.

But he nodded, faintly.

(break)

Some time passed.

Then Al reached to his belt and tapped Gardevoir's ball.

She emerged in a soft, quiet shimmer of light.

No sound. No question.

She stepped beside the tank and laid her hand gently against the glass.

Swampert didn't stir.

She stayed there a moment—eyes closed, head slightly bowed.

Al watched them without a word.

Then, after a minute, he returned her to the ball.

(break)

As he stood to stretch, he walked over to the console in the corner and keyed in his access.

The team's vitals appeared—clean, efficient summaries, scrolling one after the other.

Al read through them all.

Then back again.

He paused on Metagross's chart.

"…We'll need a quiet place for him," he muttered to himself.

(break)

Sometime later, a quiet knock announced Nurse Joy's arrival.

She carried no clipboard—just a small data slate and a faint smile.

She glanced once toward the tank, then to Al.

"I've rarely seen muscle and healing patterns like this," she said.

Al raised an eyebrow.

"Swampert?"

Joy nodded, tapping her screen. "Him, yes. And the rest of your roster. Not just strong—they're efficient. Every system reads like they've been optimized for performance. No wasted energy. No strain beyond calculated levels."

She looked from the data to Swampert.

"There's pride in him. Not ego. Just… ownership. It's rare."

Al didn't respond.

But Joy didn't expect him to.

She checked a few boxes, then offered a small bow.

"He'll be fully mobile by tomorrow night. I'll have the final report sent to your room."

And she left.

(break)

Later, as the lights dimmed and the ward shifted into its evening cycle, Al leaned back in the chair again.

He let his head rest against the wall.

And without meaning to, a memory surfaced—

The moment Swampert had taken Heracross's Reversal.

The blast of red light. The way he staggered.

And still stood.

Al hadn't said much then.

Just one thing.

"Hold. Just hold."

He hadn't needed to say more.

Swampert had understood.

(break)

He stood a little later, collecting the team's Poké Balls from the cabinet.

As he clipped each one back to his belt, he paused on Metagross's.

The ball was cold.

But it hummed faintly when he touched it.

Alive. Waiting.

"We'll get you moving again," Al said softly.

He tucked it away and turned toward the exit.

(break)

Outside, the Pokémon Center courtyard was quiet. Moonlight lit the cobblestones and the tops of the lampposts. The town had long since settled. Even the wind was still.

Al walked slowly.

No destination in mind.

He circled the block once—hands in his coat, boots whispering against the stone.

There was nothing to say.

But he carried the silence like a badge.

Not emptiness.

Just peace.

(break)

As he reentered the Center, a trainer no older than fifteen stood by the front desk—half-asleep, still wearing a hoodie and mismatched shoes.

The boy looked up when Al passed.

His eyes widened.

He didn't say a name.

Just said "He didn't flinch."

Al paused.

Looked at him.

The boy nodded.

"Your Swampert. I watched the match. He didn't even flinch when Heracross hit him."

Al held the boy's gaze for a second longer.

Then nodded once.

And walked on.

(break)

Back in his room, the lights were dimmed.

Al placed each Poké Ball in its slot on the desk rack, pausing for just a second over Swampert's.

Then Metagross's.

He tapped the activation panel, watching the blue light pulse faintly within.

Not dead.

Just resting.

He stood there for a long moment.

Then turned off the lights.

 

[Bladesunder]

The Old Guard - Azalea Town Café, the Morning After

The smell of hot broth and steeped tea drifted through the open windows of the Azalea Café.

It was still early. The sun was just climbing past the treetops, the streets still damp with morning mist. Inside, locals had already taken their usual seats. No one rushed here. The place was old, settled, the kind of spot where conversations stretched slow and the chairs creaked comfortably beneath the weight of memory.

A small crowd had gathered around the main screen.

The broadcast was on loop—no commentary now, just raw footage. A camera angle from above the battlefield played on mute. Swampert, drenched in mud hammering Heracross through a cracked stone floor. Heracross refusing to fall. Then the moment when both Pokémon collided—Focus Punch and Megahorn—and the entire arena seemed to buckle.

From the counter, an older man stirred his tea slowly.

"Bugsy didn't embarrass himself," he said, voice low but clear. "Not one bit."

Across from him, a woman in a thick-knit shawl nodded. "Heracross almost took it."

"He had to Rest," said a younger voice nearby, a trainer barely out of his teens. "That fight drained him. You could see it."

"Still got back up," the older man muttered. He turned slightly toward the screen, where the final moments of the match played again.

"He got up," he repeated. "But so did Bugsy's team. You all forget—this was Bug-types going blow for blow with an elite-tier team. You think Scizor, Durant, Heracross made it easy? That wasn't a wipe. That was a brawl."

The teenager quieted.

The woman sipped her tea. "Swampert was terrifying."

The man nodded. "He was. But you know what? It's about time someone remembered what Bugsy's crew can do."

Someone else chimed in from across the room. "You see the replay where Illumise kept dodging? Got two clean hits in during Rest?"

"Yup," the older man said, smiling faintly. "Bugsy had them fighting like their lives were on the line. And they almost held."

The footage looped again.

This time, they all watched in silence as Swampert took Heracross's Reversal and didn't fall.

Then the hammer arm.

Then the dust.

Someone murmured, "He's not from around here."

The old man didn't answer right away.

Then he said:

"No. But I think we'll be hearing his name again real soon."

(break)

Clicks and Crits - Live Battle Breakdown

"Alright, alright, quiet in chat, we're going frame-by-frame!"

The screen split cleanly between two feeds: on the left, a paused freeze-frame of Swampert slamming through Bugsy's Stealth Web battlefield; on the right, a rapid-fire chat scroll full of emojis, capital-lettered gasps, and slow-mode warnings.

A man leaned in close to the webcam. His bright green hoodie bore the words "Clicks and Crits" across the chest. His eyes were wide with disbelief, mouth twitching between a grin and a slow shake of the head.

"This—this wasn't even the climax," he said, jabbing his stylus toward the Heracross exchange. "He used Rest. In a Star Badge match. Got pelted by Thunderbolt and Signal Beam mid-cycle, and still came up swinging. Tell me that isn't the coldest thing you've seen all month."

The chat burst again.

>"REST STRATS ARE REAL??"
> "LMAOOO that Heracross held tho"
> "Swampert's built like a truck made of other trucks"
> "LOL he is immune to thunderbolt wtf was bugsy doing"

Clicks took a breath, flipping his view to a new slide. This time, it was a still of Bugsy's face during the final Earthquake.

"People keep sleeping on Bugsy," he said. "But look—Bug-types don't last long against this kind of pressure. And he took down a Metagross, nearly dropped a Swampert that tanked three full sets of utility pressure, and made the guy actually rest in the middle of a match."

He tapped the screen once.

"Respect."

Then he switched again—this time to a rotating 3D scan of Swampert's final charge.

"Okay. Look here. That Hammer Arm? That's after a Close Combat, a Megahorn, and Reversal. He's limping. He's bleeding. But he's still punching through defense like a freight car."

He pointed.

"Watch his eyes. He never blinks."

Someone in chat typed:

>"Champion-tier composure."

Clicks paused.

Then leaned back, arms crossed.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'd believe it."

He looked into the camera directly.

"This dude? Whoever he is? He didn't come to play badges."

(break)

League Circle - Johto Gym Leader Roundtable, Private Channel

The League call was muted at first—just flickers of video feeds and the faint sound of coffee being poured.

Bugsy's face was drawn but calm, eyes sharp as ever. He'd cleaned up since the match, dressed now in a deep green hoodie with sleeves rolled past his elbows. Across from him on the screen grid, Falkner sipped something from a porcelain mug and didn't hide the frown between his brows.

"Let me just say it outright," Falkner said, voice even. "You let him take all six with just two Pokémon?"

Bugsy raised an eyebrow.

"He signed up for a Star Badge match."

Falkner's eyes didn't leave the screen. "That doesn't mean you roll over."

In another corner of the call, Whitney leaned back in a plush seat, hair in a loose braid. She kicked a sneaker up on the desk, smirking faintly.

"I think it was hot," she said. "Not like, cute-hot. But intense. That Swampert? I felt those hits through the screen."

Bugsy nodded once. "So did I. So did Heracross."

Morty hadn't spoken yet.

He sat in dim lighting, face half-shadowed. The only light came from a candle beside him and the slow flicker of the replay playing in his periphery.

When he did speak, his voice was soft.

Morty nodded. "That's not just strength. That's message. Intent."

Falkner snorted. "Or arrogance."

"Or discipline," Bugsy cut in.

There was a pause.

Whitney glanced toward the screen, where the feed paused on Swampert standing bloodied but tall over Heracross's fallen form.

"You think he'll come to Goldenrod?" she asked.

Bugsy gave a half-smile. "If he does, he's not bringing Swampert."

That drew a couple raised eyebrows.

"He told me. Quietly, after the match. He's rotating his team. Wants every one of them at the same level. No repeats unless necessary."

Falkner scoffed. "Good. Because if he throws a Salamence or Metagross into another mid-Gym, I'll file a complaint."

Whitney laughed. "You won't."

Falkner didn't answer.

Morty's gaze was fixed elsewhere now, somewhere none of them could see.

"I want to see how the others react."

Bugsy leaned back in his chair.

"They're already watching."

(break)

League Strategic Oversight - Indigo Plateau, Internal Operations

The footage played silently across a wall-sized holo-screen. No sound. Just angles. Overhead. Side view. Slow motion. Thermal.

Swampert's Hammer Arm landed.

Heracross folded.

Dust rose.

And the playback looped.

A small group sat at the far end of a dark-paneled conference room, lit only by dim overhead projectors and the quiet pulse of data terminals. Badges shimmered on their lapels—some plain, some gold, some deep black.

At the head of the table, Director Aleva narrowed her eyes.

"Pause."

The feed froze with Heracross mid-collapse.

She glanced down at the file in her lap. No last name. No origin flag. No regional transfer paperwork. No League-accredited mentorship.

Just a name: Al.

Age listed as unknown. Registration ID: Manual override from the Hoenn database. Flagged as anomalous.

"Trainer experience?"

"Unknown. There's no pre-record of his badge journey. It starts cold."

Another voice added, "No Gym tracking data prior to Falkner."

The Director stared at the frozen image on screen.

"Metagross. Swampert. Salamence. Gardevoir. Breloom. Manectric."

She recited the list slowly, like cataloging weapons.

"Half of those are League-response tier."

Silence followed.

A second analyst chimed in. "We've tagged the match under Code Gray: Unaffiliated Elite. Not a threat classification, just watchlist."

Aleva nodded.

"Leave it at Gray. No escalation."

Another pause.

Then: "What about intent?"

A third analyst shrugged slightly. "He's not grandstanding. No post-match declarations. No social tracking. Zero media presence. But…"

He flipped a screen.

"…every battle has been decisive. Clean. Minimal commands. The Pokémon aren't just powerful—they're disciplined. They've been trained to think."

Someone muttered, "Could be military. Or former League."

"No matching registry," said the analyst flatly. "None we can access, anyway."

Aleva didn't look away from the screen.

"Do we expect him at Goldenrod?"

A beat.

Then a murmur of consensus.

"Yes."

She tapped her stylus lightly against the edge of her folder.

"Fine. Assign a taskforce. Passive observation only. No contact."

She turned her gaze once more to the frozen frame on the screen—Swampert's bloodied silhouette, still upright in the dust.

"And flag it for remote trace if another Elite-type battle surfaces."

The League room remained still, the air tense with possibility.

Then a soft ping echoed across the table—a secure notification.

Director Aleva glanced down.

Her brows lifted.

She tapped her console, expanding a seal only a handful of League officials ever saw.

International Police Directive — Priority Classification: Yellow Spiral.

The room shifted.

Aleva straightened in her chair.

"This just escalated."

A voice crackled softly over her terminal. Calm. Clipped. Unmarked accent.

"Indigo Oversight. We've reviewed the Azalea footage."

Aleva didn't respond—just waited.

"We've seen teams like his before. But not untagged. Not without origin. Not without trail. You have no trainer logs. No developmental records. No League grooming or combat schooling. And you're telling me he shows up cold in Johto running a team like that?"

Aleva's eyes narrowed. "We're not saying he's hostile."

"We're not saying he is."

Another pause.

"We're sending someone."

"Under what classification?"

"Interview only."

Aleva tapped her screen once.

A list of field agents appeared.

The one selected was already en route.

The voice continued, quiet as ever.

"We need to know where he came from. Because people like him don't just appear. Not with those Pokémon. Not with that strength without any history."

Aleva closed the message and sat back.

Silent agreement passed across the table.

The League would keep watching.

But the International Police were moving.

(break)

Sinnoh – Battle Tower Observation Lounge, Fight Area

Rain tapped against the thick windows of the tower's upper floor.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of ozone and copper—disinfectants, polish, and pressure. Monitors lined the walls, each displaying high-tier replays from active League and Frontier circuits.

A woman with cropped silver hair sat cross-legged in one of the back chairs, a data pad resting on her knee.

She wasn't watching Sinnoh matches.

Her eyes were fixed on Johto.

Specifically: Azalea Gym. Star Badge Match. Unedited Cut.

The screen looped again. Swampert stepped through the Wide Guard into a full-body Hammer Arm that folded Heracross backwards. Not a lucky hit. Not brute panic.

Calculated pressure. Executed under exhaustion.

She tilted her head.

"Two Pokémon," she murmured. "Six takedowns. Star-tier."

A voice buzzed from the pad at her side—her assistant, piping in from the briefing room.

"You're supposed to be reviewing the Kalos bracket."

"I will," she replied. "After I figure out where the hell this guy came from."

Another pause.

"Do we have his League tag?"

"Nothing confirmed. Johto says he's 'Al'. That's it."

The silver-haired woman smiled faintly.

"Well then."

She leaned forward and flagged the match file under "External Tier-3 Review."

"If he crosses into Sinnoh, I want to know."

(break)

Kalos – Trainer's Lounge, Lumiose Outskirts

Sunset poured golden light through the open-air pavilion of a private trainer compound just outside Lumiose City.

A slim young man in a dark blue jacket leaned over a wall-mounted holo-screen, a glass of citrus tea forgotten in his hand.

He wasn't the kind to stare.

He'd fought in Unova. Trained in Hoenn. Watched battle footage like others breathed.

But he'd rewound this one.

Twice.

Now, as the final moments of the Azalea fight unfolded—Swampert's roar, Heracross crashing down, the field collapsing—he paused the frame and stared at the dust cloud rising beneath the blue titan's boots.

He tilted his head.

"You don't see that in Gym circuits."

A voice behind him—his coordinator—looked up from a tablet. "What?"

He tapped the screen. "This guy. Two Pokémon. Six knockouts. And not a rookie sweep. Bugsy Star Badge."

"That match was yesterday."

He set the tea down without drinking it.

Then quietly added:

"If he ever comes to Kalos, I want the first match."

(break)

Professor Elm's Lab, New Bark Town

Stacks of notes littered the edge of the terminal. Elm leaned over the main monitor, glasses perched halfway down his nose, fingers dancing across the touchpad as regional data logs flowed by in rapid succession.

He wasn't watching the battle like the others.

He was reading the raw telemetry.

Every Gym battle in Johto fed data into the regional net—movement stats, pressure calculations, biofeedback from League-monitored Pokémon. It was a treasure trove for developmental theory.

But this one—

This one had made his system stutter.

He tapped again, isolating the Swampert's vitals. Then the Metagross. Then the timestamps for how long each one remained on the field.

Thirty-nine minutes of combat.

Two Pokémon.

Six knockouts.

He squinted at the stress markers from Swampert's file.

They spiked—sharply—then leveled.

Not because damage had decreased.

Because Swampert had adapted.

Elm leaned back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"This isn't just power," he murmured. "This is stress buffering. Mental fortitude aligned with muscle memory."

Elm turned slowly to his assistant.

"Pull the neural signature data."

"From the Swampert?"

"From all of them."

The assistant blinked. "That'll take days to collate."

Elm nodded. "Do it anyway."

He looked back to the screen.

"They don't move like recent partners," he said quietly. "They move like they've known each other longer than they've been alive."

His voice dropped lower.

"I want to know where he got them."

(break)

Team Rocket Internal Monitor, Unknown Location

The room was low-lit and windowless, painted in shades of rust and gray. Screens lined the far wall, flickering with filtered League broadcasts, surveillance nodes, and coded file requests.

A single operator sat at the primary desk. No name tag. No uniform beyond a black collar shirt and a wrist chip bearing Rocket credentials. A half-empty mug of instant coffee steamed quietly next to the keyboard.

He tapped twice. Opened a flagged folder.

MATCH ID: JHT-STAR-2287
Location: Azalea Town Gym
Classification: Star Badge Challenge – Tier 3
Trainer Alias: AL
Team Composition: [Metagross, Swampert, Breloom, Manectric, Gardevoir, Salamence]

The Rocket operator narrowed his eyes.

He let the footage play—audio off. The full match, no edits. Swampert standing alone against Bugsy's last four. Roar. Rest. Wide Guard. Earthquake. Hammer Arm.

The operator said nothing.

He simply highlighted the word "Swampert" and cross-referenced every known League performance file tied to that species in the last two decades.

Nothing matched.

Not the stance.

Not the endurance curve.

Not the move set density.

Certainly not the precision.

He switched to thermal overlay.

Watched the body heat pattern remain steady even under damage load. No flinches. No spike-and-crash fatigue.

He tapped once and brought up the threat classification interface.

Target Status:
→ Non-Affiliated. Not Rocket. Not League.

Threat Potential:
→ Team Power: High
→ Tactical Sync: Unverified, likely Military or Rogue Elite
→ Strategic Value: Unknown
→ Engagement Protocol: DO NOT ENGAGE (Passive Tracking Recommended)

At the bottom of the screen, the file was tagged with a bright orange header:

UNREGULATED ENTITY — STRENGTH CONFIRMED
MONITOR AND WAIT.

He leaned back in his chair.

The match ended.

But his eyes stayed on that final frame—Swampert half-kneeling in the rubble, still awake.

And hit save.

Absolutely—perfect for a bit of levity and flavor in this otherwise serious interlude. Here's a brief POV from a random guy who made a wild bet on Al going 2-for-6 in the Star Badge match… and walked away rich.

(break)


Some Pub in Ecruteak

"Alright, alright, listen—I didn't know he was gonna win like that."

Koda grinned as he leaned back against the sticky booth cushion, pint in one hand, the other waving as three friends crowded around his table, all wearing expressions somewhere between jealousy and disbelief.

"You bet what? Like—actual coin? On a sweep?"

"No, no," Koda said, laughing. "That would've been stupid. I put down 1,000 on 2-for-6. You know, just for laughs. I figured—new face, weird name, guy walks in with a Metagross and a thousand-yard stare? Something's either gonna break him or he's gonna break the floor."

He tapped his phone and pulled up the digital slip.

Wager: AL (Challenger) defeats 6 Gym Pokémon using only 2 Pokémon.
Odds: 88.7 to 1
Payout: 89,700₽

"And what happened?" he said, raising his glass. "That Swampert came in and dug a grave with his bare fins."

His friends stared at the slip.

"You... really just guessed?"

"Swear on my Jolteon," Koda said. "I just looked at him and thought—'That dude's either gonna vanish in two minutes or commit structural war crimes.'"

One of the others groaned and slammed their head into the table.

Koda just toasted the ceiling and took another sip.

"To wild guesses," he said.

"And to the walking earthquake who made me rich."

 

[Bladesunder]

The room was quiet.


Al sat on the edge of the Pokémon Center bed, one hand resting beside his PokéNav, the other bracing a notepad against his knee. The screen glowed softly in the dim light, open to the main menu. His eyes flicked across the familiar icons. He tapped twice out of habit—expecting the PC box function.


It wasn't there.


He scrolled. Checked again. Nothing. Frowning, he opened the system utility menu, expecting an error. There wasn't one. He keyed into the support logs. A block of text populated the screen:


"Johto League protocol requires stabling for Pokémon not assigned to a trainer's belt. All non-active Pokémon must be housed in registered care facilities or private stables."


Below that, a verification query:


"Trainer stable contracts: 0."


He stared at it. No box system. No offsite storage. Just his six.


Al shut the PokéNav and sat back. Tension crept behind his eyes. He hadn't thought to check. Not once since waking up in this world. He'd assumed—wrongly—that the mechanics were the same. But this wasn't a game. There was no buffer, no digital limbo. Only what you could carry with you.


He let that settle. Not long. No point in brooding. Instead, he flipped open his notepad.


Page 1: Accessible Power Systems

• Mega Evolution
  
  
• Keystone: Required, location unknown
  
  
• Mega Stones: species-specific, not region-tied
  

Page 2: Not Available

• Z-Moves – Alola region exclusive
  
  
• Dynamax / Gigantamax – Galar-locked
  
  
• Terastallization – Likely Paldea region
  

He paused, then started a list beneath the first block.


Possible Candidates:

• Salamence (Mega confirmed)
  
  
• Gardevoir (confirmed)
  
  
• Manectric (edge case, regional?)
  
  
• Swampert (confirmed)
  
  
• Metagross (confirmed)
  
  
• Breloom (no known Mega)
  

He wrote a line underneath:
Stones and keystone unknown. Confirm presence in Johto. Determine acquisition method.


He flipped the page.


Page 3: Johto Legendary Pokémon

• Entei / Raikou / Suicune – roaming; uncertain activity
  
  
• Lugia – Whirl Islands?
  
  
• Ho-Oh – Bell Tower region
  
  
• Celebi – Ilex Forest shrine (unconfirmed)
  

Status: Real. Unscripted. Behavioral unknown.
He paused again, then added: If they're real, they can be found.


Page 4: Leads

• Ilex Forest – shrine, forest spirits
  
  
• Ecruteak – towers, monks
  
  
• Route trainers with myth knowledge
  
  
• High-tier Gym Leader access (later)
  
  
• League archives (locked?)
  
  
• Monitor battle forums for rumors
  

He set the pen down and leaned back in the chair.


After a minute, he stood and retrieved one Poké Ball from the belt rack—Manectric's. He released him in a quiet flash of light. The electric-type materialized in a half-crouch, sharp eyes scanning the room. Sparks curled faintly along his fur. Al gave him a once-over. Still sharp. Still responsive.


"Good," Al said simply.


Manectric stepped forward and nudged once against Al's side. Al reached over and scratched behind one ear, brief and wordless.


Back at the desk, Al flipped open the PokéNav again—this time navigating League articles and archived battle data. He searched for Mega Evolution sightings, battle anomalies, unverified transformations, and regional folklore. Results trickled in.


One caught his eye—a clipped report from three years prior:


"Trainer Claims Pokémon Changed Form Mid-Battle — League Denies Incident."


Attached was a grainy image of a glowing Salamence mid-air. Distorted, unclear. He tapped through the metadata. Location: Ecruteak, just outside the city. Old tower.


He bookmarked the file. No proof. But it was a start.


As the room dimmed into the night cycle, Al released Gardevoir. She appeared soundlessly, casting a faint light in the room. She didn't speak. Didn't need to.


Al didn't look at her. Just stared at the PokéNav's darkened screen.


"Should've known the boxes weren't here," he said. "Didn't think to check."


Gardevoir tilted her head but didn't pry. He nodded toward the notepad.


"Mega Evolution might be local. If not, we move."


She just stood beside him until the light faded.


(break)


Al left the Pokémon Center before the sun had fully breached the treetops. The town was still half-asleep, shutters drawn, shop signs swinging gently in the wind. His boots struck the worn stone in even strides. No one called after him. No one stopped him.


That was the way he preferred it.


The Poké Balls on his belt pulsed with faint light—internal recovery nearly complete. Swampert's was slower.


He reached the edge of Azalea without looking back. The road narrowed into gravel, then dirt. And then, into roots and leaves.


Ilex Forest waited.


(break)


He released Manectric first. The electric-type appeared in a quiet flash, shook himself, and immediately scanned the canopy ahead. Sparks trailed faintly along his tail. Gardevoir followed, calm as ever.


Neither spoke. Al didn't issue commands. They walked.


The transition wasn't sudden. Trees thickened gradually until the road seemed to disappear behind them. Shadows lengthened. Birdsong faded. The air cooled—denser, heavier. Not hostile. But watching.


Manectric's ears twitched, but no threats approached.


They found a small clearing an hour later—half-ringed with mossy stones. Dry. Flat. Good enough for a short rest.


Al sat against a stone and checked his PokéNav. No GPS. No League beacons. He pulled up an old League bulletin from Johto's research files:


"The shrines of Ilex are rumored to be sensitive to intention. Movement. Silence. Some believe only those who pass through the forest without disruption may witness the deeper paths."


He stared at it for a moment, then closed the file. He didn't believe in superstition. But he understood systems. If the forest had one, he'd learn it.


He released Breloom. The fighter appeared mid-hop, sniffed the air, then began pacing the edge of the clearing. Gardevoir moved to mirror him—not sparring. Just movement.


Al observed. Breloom adjusted constantly to the uneven floor. Gardevoir kept an exact distance, always rotating with him.


They didn't need orders. They adapted to each other.


That was enough.


(break)


By midafternoon, the forest changed.


Al heard rustling—measured, rhythmic. A group of wild Pokémon appeared on the opposite tree line. Aipom. Pidgeotto. Dustox. They didn't approach. Didn't flee. Just watched.


The forest was testing him. Not through threat. Just presence.


Al didn't react. After a moment, he looked away. The wilds could keep their distance. He wasn't here to claim ground.


That evening, he prepped camp. No fire. Just rations, a thermal mat, and enough cover for dew. He rotated the team—Breloom and Gardevoir returned. Swampert came out, sluggish but stable, crouching low near a stone. No injuries flared. Manectric patrolled slowly.


Night settled. Light fell in layered shadows. Something large moved far off, past the trees—no threat, but the air shifted after it passed.


The next morning, Al rose early. He continued east.


Half a mile into the next stretch, he saw it: stone, covered in ivy, cracked at the base.


A shrine.


He didn't approach. Just made a note and kept walking.


(break)


The next morning, Al returned to the shrine.


He followed the same route as before, cutting slightly off the main wildlife paths. The forest was damp with early dew, and the air clung to him as he moved—cool, still, and just heavy enough to notice. Drops settled on his sleeves, and condensation beaded on the edge of his PokéNav. He wiped it off with a thumb but didn't bother turning it on.


Gardevoir moved silently at his side. Manectric trailed behind, ears flicking with each shift in the leaves, but neither of them made a sound. They passed no wild Pokémon. No trainers. Just trees. Just that lingering pressure, like the woods were waiting to see what he would do.


When they reached the shrine again, the clearing felt smaller. Nothing had changed physically, but the space pressed in differently now—more focused. Like it recognized him.


The shrine itself was no more than a cracked stone arch, barely waist-high, overgrown with ivy and rooted so deeply that even the forest had shaped itself around it. No inscriptions. No League tags. Just presence.


Al stepped forward without a word. He rested a hand on Manectric's ball. The Pokémon tensed, low growl barely audible. Al glanced back—Manectric's eyes were fixed on the shrine. Alert, not fearful. Al gave a nod. "Stay."


He approached alone.


The moss underfoot was warm—not sun-warmed, but insulated, like it had retained heat overnight. Gardevoir floated just behind him, posture neutral, eyes steady.


Al stopped in front of the arch, stared at it a long moment, then knelt and touched the base of the stone.


It was rough, weathered, cold beneath the surface warmth. As his fingers settled against it, the wind stilled. The forest fell silent. No birds. No motion. Even the filtered sunlight dimmed slightly, the shadows forming a soft ring around the shrine.


Al didn't move. The air pressed in around him, not heavy but deliberate. Present.


He wasn't under threat.


But he wasn't alone.


After a few seconds, he withdrew his hand. The silence lingered, then slowly lifted. The breeze returned. Leaves rustled again. Gardevoir stepped back—not defensively, but with subtle focus, like she was watching something unseen.


Al crouched again, opened his pack, and removed a small ration bar. He unwrapped it halfway and placed it on the moss at the foot of the arch. Not as an offering of belief—just a marker. Respect. Acknowledgment.


The moss beneath it rippled slightly, like disturbed water.


He didn't react. Just stood, gave the shrine one last glance, and turned to go.


His boot clicked against something small under the moss. He paused, crouched, and brushed it aside to reveal a small, seed-shaped object. Veined with green crystal and streaked with faint copper, it was cool to the touch and lighter than it looked. Not a stone. Not a berry.


He turned it in his fingers once.


No glow. No pulse. But it didn't feel inert.


Without a word, he slipped it into a side pocket.


Gardevoir joined him as he left.


The shrine remained behind them—unchanged.


But as they moved, the forest felt different. Not colder. Not darker. Just… aware.


(break)


That evening, Al stood at the edge of another clearing. The sunlight was fading, the canopy tinted gold. Long shadows cut across the moss. He recalled Breloom with a short command. Across the clearing, a Nuzleaf that had mirrored him earlier stood and echoed the motion, then stilled.


It didn't follow.


Al didn't acknowledge it.


He packed the mat, tightened the straps on his bag, and gave Manectric a glance. The electric-type rose smoothly and fell into step as they departed.


They left the space quietly, without disturbing the wilds. The trees didn't shift behind them, but the tension returned—less welcoming now, more distant. The moment had passed, and the forest had resumed its boundaries.


He didn't look back.


Tomorrow, they'd reach the edge of Ilex.


It would be time to reenter the world again.

 

[Bladesunder]

—Gardevoir—

The forest had grown quiet again. The kind of quiet that wasn't absence but stillness. Like breath held. Like waiting.

Gardevoir stood beneath the canopy, her posture serene, veil-like arms folded loosely. Her eyes remained half-lidded—not in sleep, but in watching. The kind of watching that reached through sound, air, and motion. She didn't need sight to feel when the forest changed its rhythm.

Al sat by the base of a tree, legs drawn up, not writing. Not speaking. Just still.

That was when she understood him best—when he said nothing. His mind, shielded and disciplined, didn't offer her thoughts unless he allowed it. But there were tremors. Echoes. Not words, but weight. Fatigue not of body, but of choice.

He carried everything like it was tactical data. Pain. Memory. Worry. Categorized and shelved.

He never asked for comfort.

So she didn't offer it in the way humans did. She didn't kneel beside him or reach for his shoulder. Instead, she stood nearby. Present. Balanced. He never looked her way, but she felt the corner of his focus adjust—he knew she was there.

That was enough.

The others didn't always understand his silences. Breloom vibrated with motion. Manectric waited for permission like a held bolt of lightning. Even Swampert, reliable and grounded, responded better to structured order.

But she understood patience. She understood pauses between actions, not just the actions themselves.

When he stood and continued walking, she followed.

He didn't need to call her.

He never had.

(break)
—Salamence—

The air shifted.

Salamence opened his eyes.

His wings rustled against the rock beneath him—old stone warmed by the sun and still holding its heat. He lifted his head, sniffed once, and looked across the ridge. Far below, Al moved quietly through the brush. Alone. Not hunting. Not training.

Just walking.

Salamence didn't rise immediately. He watched.

The forest had grown quieter in recent days, but not in the way prey fell silent. This was a deeper quiet. Measured. Ancient. He felt it in his bones. In his wings. Whatever lay beneath the ground here was old enough to demand respect, and so he had given it.

But now that feeling was fading. The forest was letting them go.

He stood, stretching his wings fully for the first time in hours. His joints cracked like thunder. He rolled his shoulders, turned in a half-circle, and took a short glide down to the clearing Al had just exited.

He landed with enough force to stir dirt.

Al didn't flinch.

Salamence respected that.

This man was small. Weak in form. No claws. No armor. No wings. But he walked with precision. Measured. Never frantic. Never hesitant. That mattered.

Salamence had once been untethered. No Trainer. No commands. He remembered the wilderness—battles without meaning.

Al didn't bark orders.

He spoke with purpose.

Every command fit the moment.

And when he said nothing, Salamence chose for himself.

That was power. Shared power. Not dominance.

He could've left at any time. Could've crushed that ball in his jaw if he wanted.

But he didn't.

He fought because he chose to.

And when the time came again, when the next battle rose up like a storm over a cliff, he would stand beside this man and destroy whatever stood before them.

Because Al didn't demand obedience.

He earned it.

(break)
—Gardevoir (Later, by firelight)

That night, Gardevoir sat closest to the edge of the firelight, listening to the low sounds of the others settling around camp.

Breloom had curled into the moss. Swampert rested near the embers, half-submerged in a shallow patch of earth he'd shaped with one strike. Salamence had taken the high ground—always watching, even when at rest.

She didn't sleep. She watched Al.

He sat quietly, checking gear. His expression unchanged. But his mind was moving. That much she could always tell.

He didn't let her read him. But he didn't stop her from being near.

That mattered.

Whatever lay ahead—cities, gyms, shrines—she would walk into it with him.

And she knew, without needing to ask, that he would never take her choice for granted.

(break)
The forest had finally given way.

The path ahead stretched wide and dry, framed by low brush and grasslands. The sky, unfiltered by canopy, looked too open after days beneath trees. Al stepped out onto the packed dirt trail without a word. The air felt thinner. The wind touched his face directly for the first time in days.

Behind him, the team followed in a staggered line. Gardevoir walked just behind, silent as ever. Manectric's gait was looser now that the trees weren't boxing him in. Breloom bounced lightly on his toes, scanning the terrain as if daring something to make itself a target. Swampert moved steadily at the rear, posture relaxed but grounded.

A few hundred meters off the main route, Al found what he was looking for—flat land, dry, open, with enough cover at the edges to keep it contained. He checked the wind, then nodded once.

"This'll do."

He didn't say more. The team already understood.

(break)
Training began with precision drills.

Manectric went first, set thirty meters back from a painted target marker. Al didn't speak. No signal beyond a raised hand and the flick of two fingers.

Manectric launched. Dust kicked up behind him as he surged across the field and struck the marker dead-center. Al checked the time, logged it, and gestured again.

The second run was tighter. The third was clean.

"Good," Al said, and Manectric circled out of formation.

Swampert was next—not for speed, but impact control. Al placed markers in a loose semicircle. Each zone demanded a different force: a water burst to the left, a ground strike low center, an ice punch on a target to the right. Swampert completed the sequence with deliberate movements, controlling each output precisely.

No wasted motion. No overkill.

"Hold."

Breloom moved into position.

His drills focused on burst mobility. Short sprints, sudden pivots, explosive turns. Al adjusted his own stance during each sprint, forcing Breloom to correct his vector mid-motion.

The fighter missed a pivot once, skidded wide, then recovered in less than a second.

"Again," Al said. "Focus on the corner, not the arc."

No pushback. Breloom reset and ran it again—tighter this time.

(break)
After rotations, Al ran a short team drill: Breloom and Manectric against Swampert.

No real strikes. Just pressure. Positioning.

Breloom led with feints and lateral movement. Manectric darted in, tracing close arcs around Swampert's anchor point. Swampert shifted with each pass, making no aggressive move—just blocking angles.

Three passes. One graze.

Al raised his hand to signal the end of the round.

Reset. No one panting. No one pushed too far.

Good.

He stepped back and opened his notepad.

Swampert: recovery steady. Power distribution normalized.
Breloom: fast—needs tighter control on curved approaches.
Manectric: acceleration curve improving. Controlled bursts optimal.

He closed the file.

"Rest."

Swampert immediately dug into a patch of dry earth and settled low. Manectric trotted to the edge of the field and dropped into a crouch. Breloom climbed a low boulder and stretched out along its slope.

Al sat, opened his pack, and distributed basic rations.

There were no orders, no speech. Just a quiet reset.

But not all of them were finished.

(break)
Gardevoir stood just outside the field in her own quiet space. Around her, six small stones orbited at precise intervals, suspended in a soft psychic field. Then, in a flash of silence, she vanished—reappearing several meters away midair.

She caught the stones before they hit the ground.

Teleportation under load.

She repeated it again. And again. Each time with different angles, offsets, speeds. Sometimes she allowed stones to fall before intercepting them. Sometimes she reappeared upside-down. A test of motion and memory, not just power.

She didn't miss.

(break)
Further out, Salamence exploded into flight.

Not high—not for altitude—but in tight aerial loops around the ridgeline. He wasn't testing speed. He was testing control. Directional reversals mid-glide. Sharp climbs. Controlled dives.

Each time he passed near the southern marker, his tail clipped a boulder Al had positioned months ago. The indentations from previous training sessions were deeper now.

He didn't look toward the others.

Just banked. And launched again.

(break)
Metagross didn't move from his stone platform.

He stood locked in a square stance, each leg grounded like a pillar. At set intervals, his claws lifted and struck embedded stones with precise, repeating movements. The angles adjusted between each strike—slight changes in degree, speed, weight.

He wasn't training for power. He was training for optimization.

Every few strikes, he paused and pulsed a wave of psychic energy—recording patterns, running simulations. Scanning probabilities.

His training wasn't reactive.

It was predictive.

(break)

Al watched without speaking.

They trained not because he ordered it.

They trained because each of them understood what came next.

He didn't need to push them.

He just had to be ready when they chose to cut loose.

And Goldenrod would give them that chance.

(break)

The route to Goldenrod stretched in a slow, winding path of grass-lined dirt and packed stone. Al walked at a steady pace, the sunlight warm on his shoulders. The terrain was even, the kind that asked nothing and gave back just enough momentum to keep moving.

Gardevoir drifted silently at his side, veil-arms folding and unfolding with the rhythm of her movement. Manectric padded slightly ahead, ears rotating with every distant sound—no alertness, just habit. The rest of the team remained in their balls. There was no need for numbers out here.

They were a few hours from the edge of Goldenrod's outskirts when Al spotted a figure sitting on a sloped rock near a bend in the trail.

An older trainer, mid-fifties by the look of him. Thick boots, worn cargo pants, and a navy vest over a long-sleeved travel shirt. His white beard was trimmed close, and a sturdy walking stick leaned against the rock beside him. A red thermos sat on the ground near his feet.

As Al approached, the man looked up with an easy smile and nodded.

"Afternoon," he said. "Heading to Goldenrod?"

"Yeah," Al replied.

"Mind if I tag along for a stretch?"

Al paused, gave the man a brief once-over. No tension. No curiosity in his expression. Just the kind of calm that came with experience—and no recognition in his tone.

"Sure."

They walked together.

(break)
The trail curved gently as it climbed. The older man kept pace without trouble, his steps steady, walking stick swinging lightly at his side.

"Name's Hunter," he offered. "Been walking Johto trails since before a lot of the kids trying for badges were born. Used to travel full-time when I was younger. These days I just take a week or two each season to stretch the old legs."

Al nodded. "You still battle?"

Hunter chuckled. "Sometimes. Usually just friendly matches, nothing high-stakes. My team's half-retired. One of them still thinks she's twenty, though." He grinned to himself. "A real spitfire of a Blaziken."

Al raised an eyebrow slightly but said nothing.

Hunter didn't seem to mind the quiet.

"Goldenrod's busy this time of year. Trainers flood in trying to get a feel for city life before heading north. The department store's got a whole new shipment rotation—some rare TMs showing up. Saw someone mention Dragon Claw being on sale. That caught my attention."

His eyes flicked briefly toward Manectric.

"Nice one you've got there. Good posture. Sharp footwork. Bet he can cut tighter arcs than most."

"He can," Al said simply.

"Figured."

They walked in silence for a bit longer. The outer silhouette of Goldenrod's skyline was beginning to emerge—dark, solid shapes against the pale blue sky.

Hunter tapped his walking stick lightly against a stone as they passed.

"Gym scene's changing too. Whitney's trying to shake the old rep, from what I hear. Word is she's testing new setups—more coverage, trickier tempo plays. Not official League stuff yet, but people are paying attention."

Al took that in without a word.

Hunter kept talking, his tone casual.

"Lot of League movement in the area lately, too. Heard from a nurse in Ecruteak that they've been quietly evaluating trainers who've been asking about alternate Gym formats. Star Badge tier matches. Special clearance types."

He glanced over, as if gauging Al's reaction, then smiled again.

"Probably nothing that concerns a traveler like me."

They reached a fork in the path not long after. Hunter slowed and pointed down the smaller trail.

"My camp's off that way. Won't slow you down any more."

He offered a polite nod and a smile. "Safe travels, young man. If Goldenrod gives you a headache, take the eastern garden trails—less people, better coffee."

Al gave him a slight nod. "Thanks."

Hunter turned and walked off down the winding path, his walking stick ticking rhythmically against the ground.

Al watched him go for a second longer, then resumed his pace toward the city.

 

[Bladesunder]

The Goldenrod Gym wasn't subtle.

Its entrance was wide, set into a tiered plaza lined with glass tiles and stylized Normal-type insignias. The building looked more like a performance venue than a traditional Gym—part stadium, part showroom. Bright banners hung from the awning above the doors, advertising upcoming exhibition matches and League-sanctioned merchandise.

Al stepped through the main doors into a well-lit lobby filled with touchscreen kiosks, League banners, and a wide reception desk where a pair of Gym staff coordinated the flow of trainers and spectators.

He didn't wait in line.

Instead, he approached the nearest staffer with quiet purpose. The woman behind the desk gave him a quick once-over—coat, belt, no flash, no badge lanyard—then turned professional.

"Gym challenge inquiry?" she asked.

"Star Badge," Al replied.

That changed her posture. She didn't nod—just motioned for him to follow. "Right this way."

They passed the main waiting area and took a short hallway to a side office where a secure terminal waited behind a League-locked door. She scanned her ID, keyed a few commands, and gestured for him to step forward.

"Trainer ID?"

Al keyed it in manually.

The system took a second to process before the match intake screen loaded. The woman glanced at it, then looked back to Al. "Your team's cleared for Star Badge tier. Any changes since Azalea?"

"No substitutions."

"Preferred format?"

"Standard six-on-six. No swaps. No assist items."

She input the final entries.

"Soonest available match window is in three days. Open slots again two and a half weeks from today. Whitney's team will be rotated by then."

Al didn't hesitate. "Two and a half weeks."

The staffer raised an eyebrow. "Deliberate prep?"

Al nodded. "I want time to recondition one of my starters."

The woman finalized the entry. "Done. Match scheduled. League confirmation will be sent to your PokéNav tonight. You'll need to check in an hour before the match—standard protocol."

He nodded once.

As she stood, she paused briefly. "Star Badge trainers usually don't delay."

Al didn't answer.

He didn't need to.

(break)

The commons area behind Goldenrod Gym was less a training yard and more a garden designed for high-functioning Pokémon. Open-air courtyards, reinforced sparring circles, and a few elevated walkways crisscrossed a multi-level green space built into the back of the Gym complex. Trainers moved through at their own pace—some in casual wear, others in gear that marked them as recent victors or long-term Gym associates.

Al stood near the northern platform, where the terrain flattened into a circular field marked by practice zones. No crowds. No League reps. Just sunlight, low wind, and space.

He released his team one at a time.

Swampert took a seat near a shallow pool fed by a slow-running water line. Breloom immediately wandered to the edge of the nearest obstacle path and began testing his movement across the uneven stone. Manectric stretched his legs and sniffed the air, catching traces of unfamiliar scents. Metagross hovered in place a few meters off the ground, rotating slowly with methodical pulses of his central field.

Then Gardevoir appeared.

She landed quietly, posture steady, arms folded lightly at her side.

Al gave her a brief glance, then turned toward the inner sparring circle. "With me."

She followed without question.

The others knew what that meant. They scattered—not far, but enough to give space. Swampert closed his eyes, resting. Breloom dropped into a low rhythm against a wooden post, training strikes. Manectric paced. Metagross... watched.

Gardevoir stepped onto the field beside Al.

"You've been ready for a while," he said.

She tilted her head.

"But we haven't moved past formation drills. Not really."

Gardevoir didn't reply, but her field shifted subtly—acceptance.

He tapped his PokéNav. A timed sequence initiated: floating light markers, motion paths, projection lines. The field lit with simulated movement patterns. A complex dance of anticipation.

"Today, we train. Properly."

He stepped back, gave her the field.

"Start phase one."

She moved instantly—teleportation sweeps, control orbs circling like tethered stars. She wasn't just fast. She was exact. Each flicker of displacement aligned with the path Al had set. No wasted movement. No hesitation.

But it wasn't power he was looking for.

It was connection.

He crossed his arms. "Add a delay between phase shifts."

She paused mid-teleport. Adjusted. Reappeared half a second slower. Again. Again. Her form flickered like a heartbeat now, not a machine.

That was what he needed.

Timing aligned not to tempo—but to instinct.

He watched, eyes narrowed.

He could feel something stirring beneath the technique. Not psychic output. Not raw force.

Resonance.

Something was beginning to sync. And it wasn't from commands.

(break)

The Gym commons emptied as the sun dipped behind Goldenrod's skyline. Lights along the upper walls glowed dim yellow, casting long, slanted shadows across the training field. Most trainers had cleared out—either headed to meal halls or rest wings. Only a few silhouettes remained, sparring in near-silence.

Al stayed.

Gardevoir hovered just outside the sparring ring, arms drawn close, veil flowing lightly in the cooling breeze.

He stood across from her now—no distractions, no equipment. Just space.

"We're done training the mind."

He raised his hand, palm outward. "Now we train the link."

Her eyes glinted faintly. She stepped forward.

The battle wasn't explosive.

It was quiet. Purposeful. Gardevoir moved not in arcs of power, but intention—soft feints, short teleports, orbs flickering out just enough to push Al to step or shift. Al didn't call attacks. He moved—adjusting his own posture, gauging spacing, nodding as if answering questions only they understood.

Midway through, she dropped her next movement to half-speed.

Al moved with her—walking a line, tracing the projected arc of her strike, and ending it without impact.

They repeated that again.

And again.

Until the flow wasn't a sequence—it was a rhythm.

At one point, she hesitated. Not a mistake. Just a break in the cycle.

He stepped into the pause. No order. Just presence.

Her field pulsed—gentle, like a ripple across a pond. Not pressure. Not alarm.

Just acknowledgment.

Al took a breath and reached out—not with his hand, but with intention. He didn't command her power. He met it.

A soft pulse of psychic light gathered at her chest. Not an attack. Not a shield.

Something else.

He didn't speak it out loud.

But the thought brushed between them—an understanding. A convergence. A bond that didn't require explanation.

Whatever the future held—whatever shape that energy might take—this was the beginning of it.

They stepped back. Together.

The training session ended without a single word.

And neither of them needed one.

(break)

Gardevoir's POV

The world quieted when he stepped into the ring.

Not because of the noise—there had been little of that to begin with—but because of the intent. The shift in rhythm. The way his eyes settled, steady and unreadable, as they always were.

But this time, they weren't distant.

This time, he wasn't testing her reactions or tracking power output. He was watching her. Engaged, not as a commander, but as a partner.

She felt it the moment he raised his hand—not to order, but to meet her motion. The signal was clear. They weren't training control today. They were training something else.

Something deeper.

Each movement she made was received, not countered. When she pivoted, he shifted. When she hesitated, he waited. She projected a thread of thought—half-formed, reflexive—and he moved as if he'd heard it out loud.

It wasn't speech.

It was trust.

They had fought together before. But this was different. There was no enemy here. No victory to claim.

Just alignment.

Her thoughts reached gently—never invasive, just enough to brush against the outline of his focus. He didn't open the door. But he didn't close it, either. That mattered.

When she slowed the tempo, testing the feel of his response, he adapted without resistance. She felt the difference in his stance: not sharp, not wary. Just... open.

She knew what this was.

Bondwork. The kind of training that didn't teach techniques, but taught presence. Feel. The kind that shaped something stronger than strategies.

And then it happened.

That flicker—quiet and bright. A pulse of something nascent. Familiar. The same kind of energy she'd felt in ancient lines, myth-bound texts. Not magic. Not mystery.

Potential.

She held it for a second longer before letting it fade.

And in that silence, as they both stepped back, she understood:

He wasn't just training her.

He was trusting her to go further than they knew how to explain.

And she would.

(break)

The private field Al had reserved sat quiet beneath a low-slung sky, clouds heavy but dry. The city noise was a distant hum, muffled by hedgerows and training partitions. Gardevoir stood at the center of the grounds, veil-arms folded, feet just above the grass. Her eyes were half-closed—not in meditation, but in calculation.

Al stood fifteen meters back, one foot on the edge marker. His coat was off, sleeves rolled. He didn't speak. Just watched.

The first command came silently. A subtle hand motion—barely a flick.

Gardevoir moved.

A glimmer of psychic energy sparked around her, flaring in delicate rings before tightening into an orb no larger than a marble. It hovered midair, steady, then shot forward toward a set of balanced stones—target markers, aligned by weight.

The first burst struck clean. The top stone flew. The others remained perfectly stacked.

Al raised his hand again.

Gardevoir pivoted, sent another pulse—this one split mid-flight, two smaller projectiles cleaving off and striking paired markers on opposite sides of the field.

One left standing.

Al frowned slightly. Adjusted his stance.

"No flair. Control the recoil," he said.

Gardevoir gave a faint nod and repeated the sequence—slower this time. Her fingers moved in tight, refined gestures, as if shaping the energy instead of projecting it.

This time, all targets fell. Clean.

He nodded once. "Again."

The cycle continued—long enough for the clouds to shift overhead, for sweat to bead on Al's brow and fine tremors to start showing in Gardevoir's shoulders.

But she didn't falter.

They transitioned next into combat form drills—teleport pivots, feint illusions, energy compression. Al walked through every motion, never raising his voice, always tracking the slight delays and adjusting spacing with chalk and quiet notes.

"Left too wide on the second fade," he murmured after a sequence.

Gardevoir exhaled, adjusted.

By the time they stopped, the air around them hummed faintly from residual energy. Not dramatic. Not overwhelming. Just… potent.

They stood in silence for a long minute.

Then Al stepped forward, knelt, and drew a small curve in the dust with his finger—a training symbol from Hoenn. Focus, sharpen, repeat.

He didn't speak it aloud. Didn't need to.

Gardevoir looked down at it, then slowly mirrored the shape with her psychic field, suspending it in light.

It didn't vanish. It hung there. Stable. Shared.

Al let himself exhale.

They were getting closer.

(break)

Goldenrod City moved at a different rhythm in the late afternoon. The shops buzzed with their last wave of customers, cafés spilled quiet music into the streets, and the park near the south district softened under the gold wash of the setting sun.

Al sat on a low stone wall just off the main walking path, Gardevoir beside him, silent.

His eyes followed a group of kids running after a bouncing Skitty. They laughed—loud, unrestrained. It echoed faintly off the trees.

He said nothing at first.

Then quietly, to no one in particular: "You ever wonder how I just… did this?"

Gardevoir turned slightly toward him.

"I shouldn't be this comfortable here," he said. "This world. These rules. I shouldn't have known how to train. How to give commands. How to plan a Gym rotation."

His voice didn't waver. Just puzzled, not distressed.

"I've been here a little over a month, maybe more. No panic. No real fear. Just... adapted. Like muscle memory for a life I didn't live."

He rubbed the back of his neck, watching the kids disappear around a corner. "It's not normal. No waking up lost. No real freakout. Just me, with a full team, knowing exactly what to do."

He glanced at Gardevoir.

"You felt it too, didn't you? Like we didn't have to learn each other."

She didn't speak, but she didn't need to. The way her focus lingered said enough.

Al looked up toward the distant skyline, where the radio tower stood tall and gleaming.

"I'm not afraid of it. Just… starting to wonder what I'm missing."

He stood after a long pause.

"Come on. We've got places to be."

(break)

The days leading up to the Gym match took on a quiet pattern.

Each morning, Al rose early, stopping at the same corner vendor for fresh bread and a cup of strong, bitter coffee. Gardevoir waited with him under the café awning while commuters passed. He never spoke much, but the vendor learned to recognize him quickly enough—no fuss, just a nod, and his usual order was ready.

Afternoons were reserved for training. Not drills, not sparring—refinement. A park bench became their planning table. A fountain plaza their tracking ground. Gardevoir adjusted her control in public spaces, not hiding her presence but never overwhelming. Al followed with notes and pacing, watching her interactions with sound, space, motion.

In the evenings, they walked.

Through department store side streets, across bridges lit with soft lanterns, past outdoor food stalls that served dishes he'd never heard of but instinctively ordered. Sometimes they sat and watched street performers; once, Al gave a coin to a girl doing ribbon acrobatics with a Plusle and Minun. He didn't smile often, but something about it kept him still for longer than usual.

Once, near the greenhouse district, he paused in front of a display about the history of Johto's Gym circuit. He read the entire plaque. Then moved on without comment.

(break)

Goldenrod's nightlife glowed behind shuttered stores and train station platforms. The city wasn't loud—it was constant. Al walked along the edge of a bike path, hands in his coat pockets, gaze distant.

He passed trainers chatting on benches, Pokémon resting in the grass, a boy leaning against a lamppost practicing Poké Ball throws.

No one paid him much attention.

And for now, he preferred it that way.

 

[Bladesunder]

Goldenrod moved slow at dawn.
Not because the city was ever truly quiet—but because even a city of its size had to breathe. The overhead trams weren't running yet. The storefronts that blared music and sales pitches through the afternoon were dark and shuttered. The only sound was the soft thrum of automated delivery carts and the scrape of brooms over sidewalk brick.


Al walked with purpose, but not urgency.
He took the side path that wound through the old district—the one not meant for tourists or commercial foot traffic. It curved behind a row of independent cafés and repair shops, places that opened early for working-class regulars and closed long before nightlife ever started. Steam curled from a bakery vent, rich with flour and heat. Someone inside was kneading dough with quiet, practiced rhythm.


He passed without drawing attention.


Gardevoir just behind him. Her focus was inward, but her attention never wavered from him.


At the edge of the alley, the Gym tower came into view.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't gaudy. It was clean, professional, and built like a League asset first and a local landmark second. The white stone and glass reflected the pale morning light in broad planes. The entrance banner simply read:


GOLDENROD GYM — LEADER: WHITNEY — STAR BADGE MATCH TODAY


Al paused at the end of the road.
Didn't speak for a moment.
Then he exhaled.


"She's not going to go easy," he said softly.


Gardevoir didn't answer. But he felt her shift—not in position, but in presence. Ready.


He rolled his shoulders once. Adjusted his coat.


"She's smart. But so are we."


And then they walked forward together—toward the Gym's main gate, toward the match that had waited two weeks in the wings.


(break)


Inside, the Gym was already awake.


League staff moved briskly through digital interfaces. Trainers queued at terminals to check bracket status or register for lower-tier matches. The space was sleek—far more tech-heavy than Azalea or Violet, designed for scale, not intimacy.
But it wasn't impersonal. It just didn't linger.


Al passed through the main scanner with a muted chime—his ID syncing with the building's system automatically. Gardevoir remained at his side, the shimmer of her presence registering faintly on the field sensors. A few people glanced over—not because they recognized him, but because of how still he moved.


He reached the central desk, where an attendant tapped through a League terminal.


"Name?"


"Al. I have a scheduled match."


She checked the log. "You're early. Match confirmed for nine a.m. Whitney's team has cleared the format restrictions.


Al nodded. "No changes to my roster."


The attendant marked it down. "We've noted your previous match performance. Whitney's staff has reviewed the footage. The arena will be set to Regulation Tier 3."


A pause. Not skeptical. Just protocol.


"You're welcome to stay in the waiting hall. Or return at briefing time. Whitney will meet you fifteen minutes prior."


Al looked toward the long corridor that led to the Gym floor—just visible past a frosted-glass barrier. The lights beyond were dim, the arena unoccupied. But he could feel the weight behind it. Not dread. Just readiness.


He looked back to the desk.


"I'll step out. I'll be back by briefing."


The attendant nodded. "See you at 8:45, then."


Al turned, Gardevoir behind him once more.


As the doors slid shut behind them, he didn't look back.


(break)





Goldenrod Gym – Leader's Lounge – Whitney POV


The hum of Goldenrod City filtered through high windows, muffled but constant—a city always moving, always rising. The rhythm of traffic, the occasional blare of a distant horn, the sharp laugh of early shoppers—it all blended into the background, steady as a metronome.


Inside the lounge, Whitney sat in a low-backed chair, legs crossed, one hand absently spinning a Poké Ball between her fingers. Her other hand drummed the armrest in a restless staccato. The battle was scheduled for tomorrow. Noon. No substitutions. No mercy.


She hadn't slept much.


The Gym had been quiet this past week, but she'd kept training long after the doors closed. No media invites, no livestreams. Just her, her team, and the weight of expectation.


She stood and crossed to the trophy case. Her reflection warped in the polished glass, flanked by silver medals and a League certificate framed in white and pink.


"You don't get to stay a Gym Leader in a city like this by being cute," she muttered.


(Flashback)


It was four nights ago. The lights were off in the Gym, save for the overheads on the battle floor. She'd stood at the edge of the arena barefoot, hair tied up, sleeves rolled to her shoulders. Miltank faced her in the center, muscles tense, sweat streaking her flanks. She'd just finished tanking a brutal combo from Ursaring—a loaned training partner from the Violet rotation.


Whitney had shouted herself hoarse that night. Not out of anger—out of frustration. Out of the need to get it right. Because no matter how much she smiled on camera, no matter how many badges she gave away with a wink and a heart, she knew what people said:


"She's just normal-types." "That Gym's a breather." "Real challenges start after Goldenrod."


And now he was coming. The one who walked into Violet and Azalea and left nothing standing.


Her Clefable had watched her with soft eyes from the sidelines. No judgment. Just waiting.


"One more set," Whitney had said through gritted teeth.


They trained until dawn.


(Back to Present)


Now, staring at the battlefield through the lounge's tall windows, Whitney let the Poké Ball stop spinning. She held it still, pressed against her chest.


"Let them think I'm cute. Let them think I'm easy," she murmured.


Her eyes narrowed.


"But this time… they're gonna remember what a Normal-type can really do."


She released Clefable quietly. The Pokémon emerged with a faint shimmer, looking up at her with calm focus.


"Al's strong. He's calm. But I want him to feel what we've built here. I want him to know—this Gym isn't just some milestone."


She took a deep breath and glanced toward the challenge floor.


"He's got to earn it."


[A/N: How one sided should this battle be? should Al use 1, 2, or 3 Pokémon?]