Chapter 107: Round of 32 - Part 1
The arena was a cathedral of light and sound.
Briv had seen it before—during the qualifiers, during the opening ceremony, during the matches that had whittled thirty-two trainers down to sixteen. But standing in the stands now, surrounded by thousands of screaming spectators, the scale of it hit him differently.
The battlefield stretched two hundred feet across, a perfect circle of packed earth ringed by glowing barriers. Above it, holographic screens floated in a ring, each one displaying different angles, different data streams, different close-ups of the trainers who stood at opposite ends of the arena.
Joel stood on the red platform.
Iris stood on the blue.
Neither of them moved.
The crowd was a living thing, a beast of noise that surged and receded with every heartbeat. Flags waved. Banners snapped. Vendors shouted from the concourse, hawking roasted nuts and League merchandise and cold drinks that sweated in the afternoon heat.
Briv sat between Patricia and Nicola.
Dariana was on Patricia's other side, leaning forward, her dark eyes fixed on the battlefield.
Samuel was behind them, his dreadlocks pulled back, his warm eyes tired but alert.
"This is going to be good," Dariana said.
"You think?" Nicola asked.
"Joel's got something to prove. Iris doesn't need to prove anything."
Briv nodded.
Iris was a dragon-type specialist—everyone knew that. The purples and pinks of her robes marked her as a trainer from the far reaches of Unova, where dragons still nested in the mountains and the old ways held power. She was one of the youngest trainers ever to earn the title of Dragon Master.
Joel was eighteen.
He had a PokeWatch.
He had nine wins.
He had a smirk that made Briv want to punch him.
But he was good.
Briv had watched his qualifier matches. Joel was fast, aggressive, and smarter than he looked. He used his Pokémon like a chess player—feints within feints, traps layered on traps.
But Iris didn't play chess.
Iris played with fire.
The announcer's voice boomed across the arena.
"TRAINERS! ARE YOU READY?"
The crowd roared.
Joel raised his hand. His smirk widened.
Iris smiled. It was a wild smile, the smile of someone who had never learned to hide her teeth.
"BEGIN!"
Joel moved first.
"Gallade!" He threw the Poké Ball.
The psychic-fighting type materialized in a flash of white light. Gallade—not Dariana's Gallade, but Joel's own, leaner and younger, its green blade-arms gleaming in the arena lights. It landed on the packed earth with a silent step, its red eyes fixed on the opposite platform.
Iris's smile didn't change.
"Good choice," she said. Her voice carried across the arena, amplified by the barrier mics. "But not good enough."
She threw her Poké Ball.
The flash of light was brighter. Bigger. The ground shook.
When the light faded, a Haxorus stood on the battlefield.
It was massive—easily eight feet from snout to tail, its green scales like armor, its tusks like axes, its eyes like molten gold. It threw back its head and roared, and the sound echoed off the crystal towers of Aethelburg.
The crowd screamed.
Briv felt the roar in his chest.
"That's a Haxorus," Nicola said. Her voice was tight.
"Yep," Briv said.
"That's a fully evolved Haxorus."
"Yep."
"Joel's Gallade is going to die."
Briv didn't answer.
He hoped she was wrong.
Joel's Gallade didn't flinch.
It stood still, its blade-arms held low, its red eyes fixed on the dragon in front of it. It was smaller. Slower. Weaker.
But it wasn't afraid.
"Close Combat," Joel said.
Gallade moved.
It was fast—faster than Briv expected. It crossed the distance between platforms in a blur of white and green, its blade-arms swinging, its body a missile of kinetic force.
Haxorus didn't move.
Gallade's first strike hit the dragon's chest. The sound was like a hammer on stone. Gallade's second strike hit its shoulder. Its third hit its jaw.
Haxorus didn't move.
It just smiled.
"Counter," Iris said.
Haxorus's tail swung.
The blow caught Gallade in the side and sent it flying. It tumbled across the arena, bounced once, twice, and slammed into the barrier. The crowd gasped.
Gallade struggled to its feet.
It was bleeding.
"Your Gallade is fast," Iris said. "But Haxorus has been fighting dragons for twenty years. He knows how to take a hit."
Joel's smirk had faded. His green eyes were hard.
"Again," he said.
Gallade charged.
Haxorus met it.
The clash was brutal—blade against scale, speed against power, precision against instinct. Gallade landed strike after strike, each one aimed at a vital point, each one meant to end the fight. Haxorus absorbed them all, its golden eyes never blinking, its smile never fading.
Then it attacked.
Its tusks caught Gallade in the shoulder and lifted it into the air. Its tail slammed into Gallade's chest before the Pokémon could fall. Its claws raked across Gallade's back as it tumbled.
Gallade hit the ground and didn't move.
"GALLADE IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! HAXORUS WINS THE FIRST ROUND!"
The crowd erupted.
Joel recalled his Gallade. His hand shook.
Iris recalled her Haxorus. She was still smiling.
"One down," she said. "Five to go."
Joel's jaw tightened.
He reached for his next Poké Ball.
The match lasted forty-seven minutes.
Joel fought like a demon. His Pokémon—Gallade, Lucario, a Sceptile Briv had never seen before, a Garchomp that nearly matched Haxorus in size—threw everything they had at Iris's team. They landed hits. They broke scales. They drew blood.
But Iris didn't break.
Her Haxorus tore through three of Joel's Pokémon before finally falling to a well-placed Dragon Claw from Garchomp. Her Salamence finished the Garchomp in under a minute. Her Dragonite—a massive, gentle-looking creature with eyes like warm amber—destroyed Joel's last two Pokémon without taking a single direct hit.
When the final whistle blew, Joel stood alone on his platform, his PokeWatch dark, his face pale.
Iris stood on hers, her dragons arrayed behind her like a wall of scales and teeth.
"YOU FOUGHT WELL," she called across the arena. "BUT YOU FOUGHT ALONE. THAT'S NOT HOW DRAGONS WIN."
Joel didn't answer.
He turned and walked off the platform.
The crowd cheered for Iris.
Briv watched Joel disappear into the tunnel.
He felt something twist in his chest.
"Poor kid," Patricia said.
"He's not a kid," Nicola said. "He's eighteen. He knew what he was getting into."
"Still."
Nicola didn't argue.
Dariana leaned forward, her dark eyes following Joel's retreating form.
"He'll learn," she said. "Or he won't. Either way, he's not our problem."
Briv nodded.
But he couldn't shake the image of Joel's face—the smirk gone, the confidence shattered, the boy who had thought he was ready learning that he wasn't.
He had been there.
He knew what it felt like.
The second match started thirty minutes later.
Alejandro vs. Rhomir.
The crowd was quieter now. The first match had been a spectacle—a dragon against a boy, power against ambition. This was something else.
This was two men who knew exactly what they were doing.
Alejandro stood on the red platform, his tan skin gleaming under the arena lights, his open shirt revealing the muscles of his chest, his green eyes sharp and calculating. He was beautiful in the way a predator is beautiful—graceful, confident, dangerous.
Rhomir stood on the blue platform. He was taller than Alejandro, broader, his blonde hair messy, his blue eyes calm. He wore a simple gray shirt and dark pants. No jewelry. No flair.
He looked like a man who had nothing to prove.
"TRAINERS! ARE YOU READY?"
Alejandro smiled. It was a charming smile, the smile of a man who had charmed his way out of more trouble than most people ever found.
"Always," he said.
Rhomir shrugged.
"Let's get this over with."
The crowd laughed.
Alejandro's smile flickered.
"BEGIN!"
Alejandro moved first.
"Roserade!"
The grass-poison type materialized in a swirl of petals. It was elegant, slender, its white rose head gleaming, its bouquets of red and blue flowers raised like weapons.
Rhomir watched.
"Interesting," he said. He threw his Poké Ball.
A Hippowdon appeared.
The ground shook.
Hippowdon was massive—easily the size of a small car, its tan-and-dark body covered in thick, armored hide, its mouth a gaping cavern lined with flat teeth. It yawned, and the sound was like rocks grinding together.
Alejandro's smile didn't fade.
"Roserade. Sludge Bomb."
Roserade raised its hands and fired a glob of purple poison at the Hippowdon. The attack hit the ground-type square in the face.
Hippowdon didn't blink.
It just yawned again.
"Earthquake," Rhomir said.
The ground erupted.
Roserade was fast—it leaped, its slender body twisting in midair, avoiding the worst of the shockwave. But the attack still caught it, still sent it stumbling, still cracked the earth beneath its feet.
Alejandro's eyes narrowed.
"Energy Ball."
Roserade recovered. It raised its hands again, and this time a sphere of green energy formed between its bouquets. It fired.
The Energy Ball hit Hippowdon in the chest.
Hippowdon took a step back.
Then it took a step forward.
"Stone Edge," Rhomir said.
Stone pillars erupted from the ground.
Roserade dodged the first. The second. The third. But the fourth caught it in the leg, and the fifth slammed into its side, and the sixth sent it crashing to the ground.
"ROSERADE IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! HIPPOWDON WINS THE FIRST ROUND!"
The crowd cheered.
Alejandro recalled his Roserade.
His smile was gone.
"You're good," he said.
"I know," Rhomir said.
Alejandro reached for his next Poké Ball.
The match lasted thirty-two minutes.
Alejandro fought with everything he had. His Pokémon were fast, clever, well-trained—a Zoroark that created illusions so perfect they fooled the arena's sensors, a Weavile that moved like a shadow, a Machamp that traded blows with Hippowdon and nearly won.
But Rhomir didn't break.
His Hippowdon destroyed the Zoroark with a single Earthquake. His Rhyperior crushed the Weavile with a Hammer Arm that cracked the floor. His Golem—a massive, ancient thing covered in moss and scars—outlasted the Machamp, taking hit after hit before finally crushing it with a Double-Edge that shook the entire arena.
When the final whistle blew, Alejandro stood alone on his platform, his chest heaving, his green eyes wide.
Rhomir stood on his, his hands in his pockets, his expression unchanged.
"YOU'RE GOOD," Rhomir said. "BUT YOU TALK TOO MUCH."
Alejandro didn't answer.
He turned and walked off the platform.
The crowd cheered for Rhomir.
Briv watched Alejandro disappear into the tunnel.
He felt something cold settle in his stomach.
"Two matches," Patricia said. "Two losses."
"For the underdogs," Nicola said.
"For the people who thought they were ready," Dariana said.
Samuel leaned forward. His warm eyes were fixed on the empty arena.
"We're all going to lose," he said. "Or we're all going to win. That's how tournaments work."
Briv nodded.
But he couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted.
The solo format had changed everything. No teammates. No backup. Just one trainer against another, one team against another, one will against another.
Joel had learned that the hard way.
Alejandro had learned it too.
Briv looked at Patricia. Her blue eyes met his.
"Tomorrow," she said. "It's our turn."
Briv nodded.
Tomorrow, he would face Chigusa.
Tomorrow, Patricia would face Jack Haywire.
Tomorrow, everything would change again.
He reached for her hand.
She took it.
The crowd dispersed. The arena lights dimmed. The crystal towers of Aethelburg glowed in the evening light, their spires reaching toward a sky that was just beginning to darken.
The tournament had begun.
And it was only going to get harder from here.
=====
The stands emptied in waves.
Briv walked with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against a chill that had nothing to do with the evening air. The crystal towers of Aethelburg caught the last light of the sun, their spires burning orange and gold before fading to violet as the shadows climbed higher.
Patricia walked beside him. She hadn't spoken since they left the arena.
Nicola was ahead, her Magnezone floating behind her like a metallic shadow. The Pokémon hummed softly, its single eye scanning the crowd, cataloguing faces, tracking movements.
Dariana and Samuel had peeled off toward the Pokémon Center.
"They need rest," Dariana had said. "Tomorrow's going to be brutal."
She wasn't wrong.
The dormitory hall was quiet when they reached it. Most of the other trainers were still in the arena, watching the remaining matches, taking notes, studying their future opponents. Briv could hear the distant roar of the crowd through the walls—a muffled thunder that rose and fell with every exchange.
He stopped at his door.
Patricia stopped beside him.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Yeah."
She looked at him. Her blue eyes were tired, but sharp.
"You're lying."
He almost smiled.
"I'm always lying. You just usually don't notice."
"I always notice."
He reached for her hand. She let him take it.
"I'm thinking about tomorrow," he said. "About Chigusa."
"She's good."
"I know."
"She's fast."
"I know."
"She's going to come at you hard. No hesitation. No mercy."
"I know."
Patricia squeezed his hand.
"You're not afraid of her."
It wasn't a question.
"No," Briv said. "I'm not."
"Then what?"
He looked at her. The dim light of the hallway caught the gold in her hair, the soft curve of her jaw, the worry in her eyes.
"I'm afraid of what happens after," he said. "If I win. If I lose. If I keep going. If I stop."
Patricia was quiet for a moment.
"Losing isn't the end," she said. "Neither is winning. They're just... points on a map. You keep walking."
"And if I don't know where I'm going?"
She smiled. It was a small smile, but it was real.
"Then you keep walking anyway. That's how you find out."
He pulled her close. She pressed her face against his chest, and for a moment, the world was just the two of them—no tournament, no rivals, no matches waiting to be fought.
Then Nicola's voice cut through the silence.
"You two done?"
Briv turned.
Nicola stood at the end of the hallway, her arms crossed, her Magnezone hovering behind her. Her expression was unreadable.
"Almost," Briv said.
"Good. Because I need to talk to you."
Patricia pulled back. Her eyes flicked between Briv and Nicola.
"I'll see you inside," she said.
She kissed Briv's cheek and walked past Nicola without a word.
Nicola watched her go.
Then she looked at Briv.
"Tomorrow," she said. "Chigusa."
"I know."
"She's not going to hold back."
"I know."
"She's going to try to break you."
Briv met her eyes.
"And?"
Nicola's jaw tightened.
"And I've seen her fight. She doesn't just beat people. She humiliates them. She makes them feel small. She makes them doubt themselves."
Briv didn't answer.
"I've seen her do it," Nicola said. "In the qualifiers. She fought a kid from Viridian—some seventeen-year-old with a Charmeleon and a dream. She destroyed him in eight minutes. He cried afterward."
"I'm not seventeen."
"I know."
"I've been fighting for years."
"I know."
"I've lost before."
"I know."
Briv stepped closer.
"Then what are you really saying?"
Nicola looked at him. Her brown eyes were hard, but something else flickered beneath the surface—something that looked almost like fear.
"I'm saying don't let her get in your head," she said. "Don't let her make you angry. Don't let her make you careless."
Briv studied her face.
"You've fought her before."
It wasn't a question.
Nicola looked away.
"Once," she said. "In the qualifiers for the Indigo League. Three years ago."
"What happened?"
A long pause.
"I lost," she said. "She didn't humiliate me. She didn't make me cry. But she beat me. And I've never forgotten it."
Briv touched her arm.
"I'm not you," he said.
"I know."
"I'm not going to lose."
Nicola met his eyes.
"Good," she said.
She turned and walked away.
Magnezone hovered for a moment, its eye fixed on Briv, its magnets crackling softly. Then it followed her.
Briv stood alone in the hallway.
The distant roar of the crowd rose again—louder this time, sharper. Another match must have started. Another trainer must be fighting for their life.
He thought about Chigusa.
He thought about Jack Haywire.
He thought about Patricia, who would face the man who had hurt Nicola, who would walk into that arena with fire in her eyes and fury in her heart.
He thought about tomorrow.
Then he opened his door and went inside.
---
The arena was a furnace of noise.
Briv sat with Patricia on one side and Dariana on the other. Nicola was behind them, her Magnezone floating above her head like a guardian angel made of metal and electricity. Samuel sat at the end of the row, his dreadlocks tied back, his warm eyes fixed on the battlefield.
Raze Stormcloud stood on the red platform.
Malva stood on the blue.
The crowd was louder than it had been for Joel vs. Iris. Louder than it had been for Alejandro vs. Rhomir. The stands were packed, thousands of spectators crammed into every available seat, their voices a tidal wave of sound that crashed against the crystal walls.
Raze looked small against the backdrop of the arena. His cocky smile was still there—Briv could see it from across the stadium—but it was tighter now. More forced.
Malva looked bored.
Her pink hair cascaded over her shoulders like a waterfall of flame. Her red-tinted glasses hid eyes that had seen empires rise and fall. She wore black, as always—a sleeveless top, diamond-patterned pants, boots that clicked against the platform like a countdown.
She had been an Elite Four member.
She had been a newscaster.
She had been a lot of things.
Now she was just an opponent.
"TRAINERS! ARE YOU READY?"
Raze raised his hand. His fingers were steady.
"Born ready," he said.
Malva smiled. It was a thin smile, sharp and humorless.
"Nobody's born ready," she said. "You just learn to fake it."
The crowd laughed.
Raze's smile flickered.
"BEGIN!"
Raze moved first.
"Staraptor!"
The normal-flying type exploded from its Poké Ball in a burst of feathers and fury. It was massive—wings spread wide, talons gleaming, its crest a banner of defiance. It shrieked, and the sound echoed across the arena like a war cry.
Malva didn't flinch.
"Talonflame," she said.
Her Pokémon appeared in a flash of crimson and gold. It was smaller than Staraptor, sleeker, its feathers like blades, its eyes like coals. It hovered in place, its wings beating a rhythm that matched the pounding of Briv's heart.
"Staraptor. Brave Bird."
Staraptor folded its wings and dove.
The attack was brutal—a missile of flesh and feather aimed directly at Talonflame's chest. The impact would have shattered stone.
Talonflame didn't move.
It waited until Staraptor was inches away. Then it twisted, its body rotating like a drill, and slammed its tail into Staraptor's side.
Staraptor careened off course. It hit the barrier with a crack that made the crowd wince.
"Flare Blitz," Malva said.
Talonflame erupted in flames.
It crossed the arena in a blur of fire and fury, its body a comet, its eyes locked on Staraptor's crumpled form. The impact lifted Staraptor off the ground and sent it spinning into the barrier again.
"STARAPTOR IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! TALONFLAME WINS THE FIRST ROUND!"
The crowd roared.
Raze recalled his Staraptor. His hand shook.
"You're fast," he said.
"I'm experienced," Malva said. "There's a difference."
Raze's jaw tightened.
He reached for his next Poké Ball.
The match lasted twenty-three minutes.
Raze fought like a cornered animal. His Pokémon—a Garchomp that moved like lightning, a Scizor that cut through the air like a blade, a Hydreigon that roared with three voices at once—threw everything they had at Malva's team. They landed hits. They broke through defenses. They drew blood.
But Malva didn't break.
Her Talonflame destroyed the Scizor in under a minute. Her Chandelure—a ghostly chandelier of purple flame—burned through the Hydreigon's defenses with a Shadow Ball that seemed to come from nowhere. Her Volcarona—a massive moth of fire and scales—outlasted the Garchomp, taking hit after hit before finally bringing it down with a Fiery Dance that lit up the entire arena.
When the final whistle blew, Raze stood alone on his platform, his chest heaving, his cocky smile gone.
Malva stood on hers, her arms crossed, her expression unchanged.
"YOU'RE GOOD," she said. "BUT GOOD ISN'T ENOUGH."
Raze didn't answer.
He turned and walked off the platform.
The crowd cheered for Malva.
Briv watched Raze disappear into the tunnel.
His stomach twisted.
Raze was his rival. His number one rival. The man who had pushed him harder than anyone, who had beaten him more times than he cared to count, who had made him better by refusing to let him be good enough.
And he had just been destroyed.
"Damn," Dariana whispered.
"Yeah," Briv said.
"He didn't stand a chance."
"No."
Nicola leaned forward. Her voice was quiet.
"Malva's been doing this for twenty years," she said. "She's fought champions. She's fought legends. Raze is good, but he's not there yet."
Briv nodded.
He wondered if he was.
The second match started forty minutes later.
Egnar vs. Elsa.
The crowd was quieter now. The first match had been a bloodbath—a young lion against an old hunter, a lesson written in fire and feathers. This was something else.
This was two trainers who had nothing to prove and everything to lose.
Egnar stood on the red platform. He was muscular, average height, his brown hair cropped short, his jaw set. He looked like a man who had spent his whole life being told he wasn't good enough—and had spent every day since proving them wrong.
Elsa stood on the blue platform.
She was regal. Poised. Her platinum-blonde hair was braided over one shoulder, her ice-blue gown shimmering like frozen light. Every movement she made left faint trails of frost in the air, tiny crystals that sparkled and faded.
She looked like a queen.
She looked like she belonged on a throne.
"TRAINERS! ARE YOU READY?"
Egnar cracked his knuckles.
"Been ready," he said.
Elsa smiled. It was a cold smile, but not unkind.
"Then let us begin."
"BEGIN!"
Egnar moved first.
"Machamp!"
The fighting type materialized in a flash of white. It was massive—four arms, each one thick as a tree trunk, its muscles rippling under gray skin. It flexed, and the crowd cheered.
Elsa didn't flinch.
"Glalie," she said.
Her Pokémon appeared in a swirl of snow. It was a floating sphere of ice and stone, its eyes hollow, its mouth a jagged crack. It hovered in place, its breath a cloud of frost.
"Machamp. Dynamic Punch."
Machamp charged.
It was fast—faster than something that size had any right to be. Its fists swung, each one aimed at a vital point, each one meant to end the fight.
Glalie didn't move.
It waited until Machamp was inches away. Then it opened its mouth and exhaled.
The ice hit Machamp like a wall.
The fighting type staggered. Its fists slowed. Its legs trembled. Frost spread across its skin, creeping up its arms, its chest, its neck.
"Blizzard," Elsa said.
The arena disappeared.
Snow exploded from Glalie's body in a wave of white. The temperature dropped twenty degrees in an instant. The crowd gasped. The barriers flickered.
When the snow cleared, Machamp was on its knees.
It didn't get up.
"MACHAMP IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! GLALIE WINS THE FIRST ROUND!"
The crowd roared.
Egnar recalled his Machamp. His jaw was tight.
"Not bad," he said.
"I know," Elsa said.
Egnar reached for his next Poké Ball.
The match lasted thirty-eight minutes.
Egnar fought with everything he had. His Pokémon—a Golem that rolled like a boulder, a Nidoking that struck with poison and fury, a Rhydon that charged like a train—threw themselves at Elsa's team with reckless abandon. They landed hits. They broke through ice. They drew blood.
But Elsa didn't break.
Her Glalie froze the Golem solid in under a minute. Her Froslass—a ghostly woman of ice and shadow—toyed with the Nidoking before finishing it with a Shadow Ball that seemed to come from every direction at once. Her Lapras—a massive, gentle-looking creature with eyes like deep water—outlasted the Rhydon, taking hit after hit before finally bringing it down with a Hydro Pump that cracked the arena floor.
When the final whistle blew, Egnar stood alone on his platform, his chest heaving, his hands clenched.
Elsa stood on hers, her arms at her sides, her expression calm.
"YOU FOUGHT WELL," she said. "BUT ICE DOESN'T BREAK."
Egnar didn't answer.
He turned and walked off the platform.
The crowd cheered for Elsa.
Briv watched Egnar disappear into the tunnel.
His hands were cold.
"Four matches," Patricia said. "Four losses for the underdogs."
"For the people who thought they were ready," Dariana said.
"For the people who weren't," Nicola said.
Samuel leaned forward. His warm eyes were fixed on the empty arena.
"Tomorrow," he said. "It's our turn."
Briv nodded.
Tomorrow, he would face Chigusa.
Tomorrow, Patricia would face Jack Haywire.
Tomorrow, Nicola would face Drew Saturday.
Tomorrow, Dariana would face Jasmine.
Tomorrow, Samuel would face Niklaus.
Tomorrow, everything would change.
He reached for Patricia's hand.
She took it.
The crowd dispersed. The arena lights dimmed. The crystal towers of Aethelburg glowed in the darkness, their spires reaching toward a sky full of stars.
The tournament had begun.
And it was only going to get harder from here.