Chapter 109: Jasmine VS Dariana
The stands had thinned by the time Briv found his seat again. Bodies pressed close in the upper tiers, trainers and spectators alike crammed into every available space, but the lower boxes had emptied somewhat. The wealthy patrons had retreated to their lounges. The corporate sponsors had vanished into their private suites. Only the diehards remained—the ones who had come for blood and glory, not champagne and networking.
Patricia sat beside him, her knee bouncing. She hadn't stopped moving since her victory over Jack. Her fingers drummed against the armrest. Her eyes kept flicking to the tunnel mouth, to the screens, to the arena floor where the cleanup crews were still repairing the damage from the previous matches.
"You okay?" Briv asked.
"I'm fine."
"You're lying."
She stopped bouncing her knee. Forced her hands to still. "I'm fine," she repeated. "I'm just…"
"Wired?"
"Something like that."
Nicola sat two rows behind them, her Magnezone hovering at her shoulder like a metallic sentinel. She hadn't spoken since her defeat. Hadn't looked at anyone. Her jaw was still tight, her eyes still hard, but something had shifted in her posture—a softening at the edges, a weariness that hadn't been there before.
Briv wanted to go to her. Wanted to say something. But he didn't know what.
What do you say to a woman who just lost?
What do you say to a woman who watched her friend beat the man who assaulted her?
The announcer's voice cut through his thoughts.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THE ROUND OF THIRTY-TWO CONTINUES!"
The crowd stirred. The screens flickered.
"PLEASE WELCOME OUR NEXT TWO TRAINERS!"
Two names burned in letters of turquoise and forest green.
JASMINE
DARIANA BRIGHTONE
Briv felt his heart lurch.
Dariana.
She was already standing, already moving toward the stairs, her dark hair swaying behind her like a curtain of silk. She wore her signature outfit—the fitted black top, the leather pants, the boots that hugged her calves. Her face was calm. Her eyes were sharp.
She looked like a woman walking to her execution.
Or her coronation.
"Dariana!" Briv called.
She stopped. Turned.
Her eyes met his. For a moment, something flickered in their depths—fear, maybe, or doubt. Then it was gone, replaced by that familiar, seductive confidence.
"Wish me luck," she said.
"You don't need luck."
"I know." She smiled. "But it's nice to hear."
She disappeared into the tunnel.
Patricia reached over and squeezed Briv's hand. "She'll be fine."
"You don't know that."
"No," Patricia admitted. "But I know her. She's stronger than she looks."
Briv nodded.
He thought about the night before—the quiet conversation in the hallway, the way Dariana had looked at him with those dark eyes and said, "I'm not afraid of losing. I'm afraid of disappointing everyone."
He hadn't known what to say then either.
Jasmine emerged from the opposite tunnel.
She was stunning—tall and regal, her long black hair flowing over her shoulders like a waterfall of ink, her bronze skin glowing under the arena lights. She wore a turquoise outfit adorned with golden jewelry and sapphire gemstones, and she moved with the grace of a woman who had spent her entire life in the spotlight.
The crowd cheered.
Jasmine smiled.
It was a warm smile, a genuine smile, but there was steel beneath it. The smile of a woman who had fought her way through life and had the scars to prove it.
She stopped at her platform.
Dariana stopped at hers.
"TRAINERS! ARE YOU READY?"
Jasmine nodded. "Let's have a good match."
Dariana tilted her head. "Define 'good.'"
"One where we both give everything."
"Then I hope you're prepared to lose."
Jasmine's smile widened. "We'll see."
The announcer's voice boomed across the arena.
"THIS ROUND WILL BE A THREE-ON-THREE MATCH! THE ONE WHO DEFEATS ALL THREE OF THE OPPONENT'S POKÉMON WILL WIN AND QUALIFY FOR THE NEXT ROUND!"
Dariana's hand moved to her belt.
Jasmine's hand moved to hers.
"BEGIN!"
They threw simultaneously.
"Gallade!"
"Ampharos!"
The psychic-fighting type materialized in a flash of silver and green. It was tall—taller than Briv remembered—its blade-like arms gleaming, its red eyes calm and calculating. It landed on the packed earth with a dancer's grace, its body still, its mind already calculating angles and distances and probabilities.
The electric type appeared in a burst of yellow light. It was massive—larger than any Ampharos Briv had ever seen—its wool like clouds of gold, its tail gleaming with red light, its eyes bright with intelligence.
The crowd gasped.
"A Gallade against an Ampharos?" someone muttered. "That's suicide."
Briv shook his head.
It wasn't suicide.
It was strategy.
Dariana knew exactly what she was doing. She had trained Gallade for months—had pushed it to its limits and beyond, had taught it to move like water and strike like lightning. She had studied Jasmine's techniques, her patterns, her tendencies.
She had prepared for this.
Jasmine moved first.
"Ampharos. Thunderbolt."
The electric type's tail glowed.
Lightning erupted from its body—a torrent of yellow and white that screamed across the arena like a living thing. It hit Gallade square in the chest, and the psychic-fighting type staggered, its arms raised, its body smoking.
But it didn't fall.
"Gallade. Psycho Cut."
The psychic-fighting type recovered.
It moved like a dancer, like a duelist, like something that existed between the spaces of time. Its blade glowed with psychic energy as it crossed the arena, leaving afterimages in its wake.
Ampharos tried to dodge.
It wasn't fast enough.
Psycho Cut caught it in the side. The electric type stumbled, its wool singed, its eyes clouding with confusion.
"Gallade. Close Combat."
The psychic-fighting type lunged.
Its blades sang through the air, each strike precise, each movement deliberate. It hit Ampharos once, twice, three times—a flurry of blows that drove the electric type back toward the barrier.
"Ampharos. Discharge!"
The electric type roared.
Electricity exploded from its body—not a single bolt, but a wave, a storm, a hurricane of light. It washed over Gallade, searing its flesh, scrambling its senses, sending it skidding across the arena.
Gallade hit the ground hard.
It didn't get up.
"GALLADE IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! AMPHAROS WINS THE FIRST ROUND!"
The crowd roared.
Dariana recalled Gallade.
Her face was calm.
But Briv saw her hands tremble.
"She's okay," Patricia whispered. "She's got two more."
Briv nodded.
He wasn't sure he believed it.
Dariana reached for her second Poké Ball.
"Gastrodon!"
The water-ground type materialized in a swirl of green and blue. It was massive—heavier than Gallade, slower, its soft body rippling as it settled onto the arena floor. It raised its head, its small eyes fixed on Ampharos, and made a sound that was somewhere between a croak and a sigh.
Jasmine narrowed her eyes.
"Gastrodon," she said. "Interesting choice."
"Ampharos. Thunderbolt."
The electric type's tail glowed.
Lightning screamed across the arena.
Gastrodon didn't move.
The electricity hit its body and… stopped. The soft, squishy flesh absorbed the attack like water into sand, and when the light faded, Gastrodon was still standing, its eyes blinking slowly, its body unharmed.
"What—" Jasmine started.
"Storm Drain," Dariana said.
The crowd gasped.
Storm Drain. An ability that drew in water attacks. But it had another effect—one that Dariana had exploited before, one that she had trained Gastrodon to use with surgical precision.
Water Pulse.
But not from Gastrodon.
From Ampharos.
"Gastrodon. Mud Bomb."
The water-ground type's body rippled.
A sphere of mud erupted from its mouth—a missile of dirt and grit and ancient sediment. It hit Ampharos square in the face, and the electric type cried out, its eyes blinded, its senses scrambled.
"Ampharos. Thunderbolt!"
The electric type's tail glowed.
It missed.
Gastrodon had already moved—sliding across the arena like a living landslide, its body low, its eyes fixed on its target.
"Gastrodon. Earth Power."
The ground erupted.
Ampharos screamed.
The electric type collapsed, its legs giving out, its body sinking into the earth. It tried to rise—tried to fight—but Gastrodon was already there, its soft body crashing into Ampharos like a wave.
"AMPHAROS IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! GASTRODON WINS THE SECOND ROUND!"
The crowd erupted.
Jasmine recalled her Ampharos.
Her face was unreadable.
"Impressive," she said.
"I know," Dariana said.
Jasmine reached for her next Poké Ball.
"Staraptor!"
The normal-flying type materialized in a burst of brown and gray. It was massive—larger than any Staraptor Briv had ever seen—its wings spread wide, its crest sharp, its eyes burning with predator's intensity. It threw back its head and screamed, and the sound echoed across the arena like a battle cry.
Gastrodon blinked.
"Staraptor. Brave Bird."
The flying type erupted.
It crossed the arena in a blur of brown and white, its body a missile, its eyes locked on Gastrodon's soft form.
"Gastrodon. Recover."
The water-ground type's body rippled.
Energy flowed through it—green light, warm light, healing light. Its wounds closed. Its eyes cleared. Its body expanded.
Staraptor hit it.
The impact shook the arena.
Gastrodon slid backward—six feet, twelve feet, eighteen feet—its body rippling, its eyes wide. But it didn't fall. It didn't even seem hurt.
"Storm Drain," Dariana said.
Jasmine's eyes widened.
"No—"
But it was too late.
Staraptor's momentum had carried it too close. Gastrodon's body rippled, and a wave of water erupted from the ground—canal water, arena water, water that had been seeping through the soil since the tournament began. It slammed into Staraptor and sent the flying type tumbling across the arena.
"Gastrodon. Ice Beam."
The water-ground type's body glowed.
A beam of frozen light screamed across the arena.
Staraptor tried to dodge. It wasn't fast enough. The beam caught its wing and encased it in ice, and the flying type screamed as it spiraled toward the ground.
"Gastrodon. Earth Power."
The ground erupted.
Staraptor hit the barrier.
The impact cracked the stone. The flying type crumpled, its wings folding, its eyes closing.
"STARAPTOR IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! GASTRODON WINS THE MATCH!"
The crowd exploded.
Dariana stood on her platform, her chest heaving, her eyes burning with triumph.
Jasmine stood on hers, her face pale, her hands clenched into fists.
"You win," Jasmine said.
Dariana nodded. "I know."
Jasmine smiled.
It was a strange smile—half sadness, half respect. "You're stronger than I thought."
"I know."
"You're also arrogant."
"I know that too."
Jasmine laughed.
It was a warm sound, a genuine sound, and it cut through the tension like sunlight through clouds.
"Good luck in the next round," she said.
Dariana's eyes softened. "Thank you."
She turned and walked off the platform.
The crowd cheered.
Briv was already running.
He hit the arena floor at a sprint, his shoes slipping on the debris, his heart pounding in his chest. Gastrodon slid aside as he approached—slow, steady, its eyes blinking lazily—and Briv reached Dariana just as she stepped off the platform.
She was shaking.
"You did it," he said.
"I did."
Her voice was steady, but her hands were trembling, and her eyes were wet with tears she refused to shed.
"You did it," he repeated.
"I know."
She pulled him into a hug.
It was fierce and sudden, and Briv felt her heart pounding against his chest, felt the tension in her shoulders, felt the tears she had been holding back for hours. He held her tight—tighter than he had held anyone in a long time—and let her breathe.
When she pulled away, her eyes were dry.
"I need to sit down," she said.
"Okay."
"I need to eat something."
"Okay."
"I need to—" She stopped. Looked at him. "I need to tell Patricia she was right."
Briv frowned. "About what?"
"About everything."
She walked past him, toward the tunnel.
Briv followed.
Patricia was waiting at the tunnel mouth, her blue eyes bright, her smile wide. She opened her arms, and Dariana walked into them, and the two women held each other without speaking.
Nicola stood behind Patricia.
Her face was still hard.
But something in her eyes had changed.
Briv watched them—these three women who had fought and bled and lost and won—and felt something warm settle in his chest.
They were stronger than him.
They were stronger than anyone.
And they weren't done yet.
The announcer's voice boomed across the arena.
=====
The announcer's voice boomed across the arena.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THE ROUND OF THIRTY-TWO CONTINUES WITH TWO SIMULTANEOUS MATCHES ON THE AUXILIARY FIELDS!"
The screens split. Four names burned in letters of copper and jade, of rose and obsidian.
COURTNEY VERSUS KIM
BELLE VERSUS MALCOLM
Briv stopped walking.
Dariana turned, her eyes still red-rimmed, her breathing still uneven. "What?"
"Malcolm," Briv said.
The name hung in the air like frost.
Patricia's hand found his arm. "You know him?"
"Eclipse Squad."
Nicola stepped forward, her Magnezone humming at her shoulder. "Malcolm Vane. Twenty-six. Specializes in dark and ghost types. He's been in the circuit for three years. Never lost a match in the qualifiers."
"How do you know that?" Dariana asked.
"I studied everyone." Nicola's voice was flat. "Everyone who might be a threat."
"Malcolm's more than a threat," Briv said. "He's Eclipse Squad. That means he fights dirty."
Patricia's grip tightened. "Belle's a sweet girl. She doesn't deserve—"
"Nobody deserves Eclipse Squad," Nicola cut in. "But they're here. And we have to deal with them."
The crowd's roar swelled as the two auxiliary fields activated. Crystal barriers shimmered into place, dividing the arena into two separate battlegrounds. The northern field gleamed with copper light. The southern field pulsed with deep violet shadows.
Courtney emerged from the eastern tunnel.
She was fit—compact and sharp, her tan skin glowing under the arena lights, her brown hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She wore a collared shirt and dark shorts, practical and neat, and she walked with the precision of a woman who had spent her entire life following rules.
Kim Possible emerged from the western tunnel.
She was taller than Courtney—leaner, more athletic, her auburn hair flowing freely over her shoulders. She wore cargo pants and a crop top, her gloves fitted tight over her knuckles, and she moved with the easy confidence of someone who had never met an obstacle she couldn't overcome.
They stopped at their platforms.
On the southern field, Belle emerged from the northern tunnel.
She was graceful—delicate, almost fragile-looking, her chestnut-brown hair tied back with a ribbon, her golden gown flowing around her like liquid sunlight. She held a book in one hand and a Poké Ball in the other, and she walked with the quiet determination of a woman who had spent her entire life being underestimated.
Malcolm emerged from the southern tunnel.
He was lean—wolfish, his dark hair cropped short, his eyes the color of slate. He wore black from head to toe, no insignia, no decoration, and he moved like a predator—slow, deliberate, each step measured, each breath controlled.
He stopped at his platform.
Belle stopped at hers.
"TRAINERS! ARE YOU READY?"
Courtney nodded once. "Always."
Kim cracked her knuckles. "Let's go."
Belle clutched her book tighter. "I'm ready."
Malcolm said nothing.
"BEGIN!"
Both fields erupted.
Courtney moved first.
"Donphan!"
The ground type materialized in a burst of gray and brown. It was massive—armored, its tusks gleaming, its body rolling forward like a boulder. It trumpeted, and the sound echoed across the copper field.
Kim responded instantly.
"Hitmonlee!"
The fighting type appeared in a flash of brown and cream. It was lean—all legs and muscle, its coiled springs ready to unleash, its eyes fixed on Donphan with predatory focus.
Kim struck first.
"Hitmonlee. Blaze Kick!"
The fighting type erupted.
It crossed the field in a blur, its leg igniting with flame, its body a missile of heat and fury.
"Donphan. Rollout!"
The ground type curled into a ball.
It rolled forward, faster than anything its size should have been able to move, its armored body a battering ram of stone and momentum.
They collided.
The impact shook the field.
Hitmonlee's kick connected with Donphan's rolling form—flame against stone, speed against power. For a moment, neither gave ground. Then Hitmonlee's leg buckled, and the fighting type was thrown backward, tumbling across the field.
"Hitmonlee. Close Combat!"
The fighting type recovered.
It lunged—punching, kicking, striking with every limb, its body a whirlwind of violence.
Donphan uncurled.
It met the assault head-on—tusks swinging, body slamming, each blow countering Hitmonlee's strikes with brutal efficiency.
Courtney's voice cut through the chaos.
"Donphan. Earthquake!"
The ground type roared.
It slammed its feet into the earth.
The field erupted.
Hitmonlee screamed as the shockwave hit it, and the fighting type was thrown into the barrier. It crumpled, its body twitching, its eyes closing.
"HITMONLEE IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! DONPHAN WINS THE FIRST ROUND!"
On the southern field, Belle moved first.
"Togekiss!"
The fairy-flying type materialized in a swirl of white and blue. It was elegant—rounded, serene, its wings spreading wide, its eyes bright with intelligence. It chirped, and the sound was like bells.
Malcolm didn't react.
"Spiritomb."
The ghost-dark type appeared in a burst of purple and green. It was a swirling mass of shadows, a keystone at its center, its face a mask of malevolent glee. It laughed, and the sound was like broken glass.
Belle flinched.
"Togekiss. Air Slash!"
The fairy-flying type's wings glowed.
A blade of wind screamed across the field.
Spiritomb didn't move.
The attack passed through it.
"Spiritomb. Shadow Ball."
The ghost type's keystone glowed.
A sphere of darkness erupted from its body—slow, deliberate, inevitable. It hit Togekiss in the chest, and the fairy-flying type cried out, its light dimming.
"Togekiss. Dazzling Gleam!"
The fairy-flying type's body blazed.
Light erupted from its form—pink and white and gold, a wave of radiance that washed over the field. Spiritomb screamed as the light burned through it, its shadows recoiling, its keystone cracking.
"Spiritomb. Dark Pulse."
The ghost type recovered.
Its keystone pulsed.
A wave of darkness erupted from its body—not slow this time, not deliberate. It was fast, brutal, a torrent of shadow that slammed into Togekiss and sent the fairy-flying type tumbling across the field.
"Togekiss is unable to battle!" the announcer called. "Spiritomb wins the first round!"
Belle recalled Togekiss.
Her hands were shaking.
On the copper field, Kim reached for her second Poké Ball.
"Machamp!"
The fighting type materialized in a burst of gray and blue. It was enormous—four arms, rippling muscles, its eyes burning with determination. It pounded its fists together, and the sound was like thunder.
Courtney didn't flinch.
"Donphan. Rollout!"
The ground type curled into a ball.
It rolled forward—faster than before, its momentum building, its body a comet of stone and fury.
"Machamp. Dynamic Punch!"
The fighting type's fist glowed.
It punched.
The impact stopped Donphan mid-roll.
The ground type uncurled, its eyes wide, its body trembling. It tried to recover—tried to fight—but Machamp was already moving, its four arms raining down blows.
"Machamp. Close Combat!"
The fighting type erupted.
It struck Donphan again and again—punching, slamming, crushing. The ground type tried to defend itself, tried to roll away, but Machamp was relentless.
"Donphan is unable to battle!" the announcer called. "Machamp wins the second round!"
Courtney recalled Donphan.
Her jaw was tight.
"Skolipede!"
The bug-poison type materialized in a swirl of purple and gray. It was massive—armored, its many legs clicking, its eyes gleaming with cold intelligence. It raised its head, and poison dripped from its fangs.
Kim didn't hesitate.
"Machamp. Stone Edge!"
The fighting type's fists glowed.
Pillars of rock erupted from the ground.
Skolipede dodged the first. The second. The third. But the fourth caught its leg, and the bug-poison type stumbled.
"Machamp. Dynamic Punch!"
The fighting type lunged.
Its fist connected with Skolipede's head.
The bug-poison type crumpled.
"Skolipede is unable to battle! Machamp wins the match!"
The copper field erupted.
Kim stood on her platform, her chest heaving, her eyes burning with triumph.
Courtney stood on hers, her face pale, her hands clenched into fists.
"You win," Courtney said.
Kim nodded. "I know."
On the southern field, Belle reached for her second Poké Ball.
"Gardevoir!"
The psychic-fairy type materialized in a swirl of white and green. It was elegant—slender, its gown-like body flowing, its eyes calm and calculating. It raised its head, and the air around it shimmered with psychic energy.
Malcolm's eyes flickered.
"Gardevoir," he said. "Interesting."
"Gardevoir. Moonblast!"
The psychic-fairy type's body glowed.
A sphere of lunar energy erupted from its chest—silver and white and beautiful. It screamed across the field and hit Spiritomb square in its keystone.
Spiritomb shattered.
"SPIRITOMB IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! GARDEVOIR WINS THE SECOND ROUND!"
The crowd gasped.
Malcolm recalled his Spiritomb.
His face was unreadable.
"Not bad," he said.
"I know," Belle said.
Malcolm reached for his next Poké Ball.
"Tyranitar."
The rock-dark type materialized with a roar that shook the arena.
It was massive—easily the largest Pokémon on the field, its green armor gleaming, its red eyes burning, its tail lashing behind it like a whip. It stomped the ground, and the earth cracked.
Belle's face went pale.
"Gardevoir. Moonblast!"
The psychic-fairy type's body glowed.
The attack hit Tyranitar in the chest.
The rock-dark type didn't flinch.
"Tyranitar. Crunch."
Tyranitar lunged.
Its jaws closed around Gardevoir's shoulder. The psychic-fairy type screamed as the rock-dark type shook it like a rag doll, its teeth sinking deeper, its grip tightening.
"Gardevoir. Psychic!"
The psychic-fairy type's eyes blazed.
Energy erupted from its body—raw, desperate, powerful. It slammed into Tyranitar's mind, and the rock-dark type roared in pain, its jaws loosening, its grip failing.
Gardevoir pulled free.
It staggered backward, its shoulder bleeding, its eyes dim.
"Tyranitar. Stone Edge!"
The rock-dark type recovered.
Pillars of rock erupted from the ground.
Gardevoir tried to dodge. It wasn't fast enough. The first pillar caught its leg. The second caught its side. The third caught its chest.
"Gardevoir is unable to battle! Tyranitar wins the second round!"
Belle recalled Gardevoir.
Her hands were steady now.
She reached for her final Poké Ball.
"Goodra!"
The dragon type materialized in a swirl of purple and green. It was massive—soft-bodied, its eyes gentle, its body glistening with moisture. It raised its head and made a sound that was somewhere between a purr and a sigh.
Malcolm tilted his head.
"A dragon," he said. "How quaint."
"Goodra. Dragon Pulse!"
The dragon type's body glowed.
A beam of draconic energy screamed across the field.
Tyranitar didn't dodge.
The attack hit its chest and washed over its armor like water.
"Tyranitar. Ice Punch."
The rock-dark type's fist glowed.
It lunged—faster than anything its size should have been able to move—and its fist connected with Goodra's face. The dragon type cried out as ice spread across its body, freezing its scales, locking its joints.
"Goodra. Fire Blast!"
The dragon type's body heated.
Flames erupted from its mouth—white-hot, desperate, powerful. They washed over Tyranitar, and the rock-dark type roared as its armor cracked, its scales blackening.
"Tyranitar. Crunch."
The rock-dark type lunged.
Its jaws closed around Goodra's neck.
The dragon type screamed.
"Goodra. Dragon Pulse!"
The dragon type's body glowed.
Energy erupted from its form—not a beam this time, but a wave, a storm, a hurricane of draconic fury. It slammed into Tyranitar's body and sent the rock-dark type flying.
Tyranitar hit the barrier.
The impact shattered the crystal.
The rock-dark type crumpled.
"TYRANITAR IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! GOODRA WINS THE MATCH!"
The southern field erupted.
Belle stood on her platform, her chest heaving, her eyes burning with tears.
Malcolm stood on his, his face pale, his hands clenched into fists.
"You win," he said.
Belle nodded. "I know."
Malcolm's eyes glittered.
"This isn't over."
He turned and walked off the platform.
Belle watched him go.
Then she collapsed to her knees.
Briv was already running.
He hit the southern field at a sprint, his shoes slipping on the debris, his heart pounding in his chest. Goodra slid aside as he approached—slow, gentle, its eyes blinking lazily—and Briv reached Belle just as she tried to rise.
She fell into his arms.
"I did it," she whispered. "I did it."
"You did," he said. "You did."
She sobbed against his chest—great, heaving sobs that shook her entire body. Briv held her tight, tighter than he had held anyone in a long time, and let her cry.
When she pulled away, her eyes were red.
"I was so scared," she said.
"I know."
"He's Eclipse Squad. He's—"
"I know."
"But I won."
"You won."
She laughed.
It was a wet sound, half tears and half relief, and it echoed across the arena like music.
The crowd cheered.
Patricia appeared at the edge of the field, Dariana and Nicola behind her. They ran toward Belle, their faces bright with joy, their arms open wide.
Belle rose to meet them.
The four women embraced.
Briv watched them—these warriors who had fought and bled and won—and felt something warm settle in his chest.
They were stronger than him.
They were stronger than anyone.
And they weren't done yet.