Chapter 110: Briv VS Chigusa
The announcer's voice cracked through the arena's speaker system like a whip.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THE ROUND OF THIRTY-TWO CONTINUES WITH OUR NEXT MATCH!"
The screens flickered. Two names burned in letters of crimson and cobalt.
BRIV AMBERTONE
CHIGUSA
Briv felt his stomach drop.
He had known this was coming. Had seen the bracket. Had studied the matchups. But seeing his name on those screens—seeing her name beside his—made it real in a way that spreadsheets and predictions never could.
Chigusa.
The fighting-type specialist from the small town. The woman with the fiery pink hair and the stubborn streak a mile wide. The woman who had clawed her way through fifteen challenges with nothing but grit and determination.
She was good.
She was really good.
Patricia's hand found his. "You've got this."
"Yeah."
"You don't sound convinced."
"I'm convinced." He forced a smile. "I'm just… thinking."
"About what?"
"About how she fights. About how she thinks. About—" He stopped. Shook his head. "About how she's going to come at me with everything she's got."
Patricia squeezed his hand. "And you'll be ready."
He hoped she was right.
Dariana appeared at his elbow, still flushed from her own victory, her dark eyes bright. "Chigusa's aggressive. She leads with pressure. Don't let her set the tempo."
"I know."
"And she's got a Hariyama. Big one. Hits like a truck."
"I know."
"And her Machamp—"
"I know, Dariana."
She stopped. Looked at him. "You're scared."
"I'm not scared."
"You're something."
Briv didn't answer.
Nicola appeared on his other side, her Magnezone humming softly behind her. She didn't speak. She just looked at him with those sharp brown eyes, and something passed between them—an understanding, maybe, or a warning.
Don't lose.
He nodded.
She nodded back.
The tunnel loomed ahead, dark and narrow, and Briv walked toward it with his heart pounding in his chest.
The arena opened before him like a wound.
The lights were blinding. The crowd was deafening. The air smelled of sweat and ozone and something electric—the residue of the battles that had come before, the anticipation of the battle yet to come.
Briv stopped at his platform.
Chigusa was already there.
She looked exactly as he remembered—short pink hair spiked with gel, her athletic frame wrapped in a fitted black tank top and cargo pants, her stance wide and balanced. She was smiling. It was a confident smile, a predator's smile, and it made Briv's skin prickle.
"Ambertone," she called. "I've been waiting for this."
"Have you?"
"Since the qualifiers started." She cracked her knuckles. "I've watched every one of your matches. Studied every one of your Pokémon. You're good. Really good."
"Thanks."
"But you've got a weakness."
Briv's eyes narrowed. "Do I?"
"You rely on speed. On momentum. On overwhelming your opponents before they can react." Her smile widened. "But what happens when you can't overwhelm them? What happens when they hit back harder than you expected?"
Briv didn't answer.
Chigusa laughed. "We're about to find out."
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!"
Briv's hand moved to his belt.
Chigusa's hand moved to hers.
"TRAINERS! ARE YOU READY?"
Chigusa nodded. "Born ready."
Briv took a breath. Let it out slow. "Ready."
"BEGIN!"
They threw simultaneously.
"Infernape!"
"Hariyama!"
The fire-fighting type materialized in a burst of orange and gold. It landed on the packed earth with a warrior's grace, its flame burning bright, its eyes fixed on its opponent with predatory focus.
The fighting type appeared in a swirl of brown and cream. It was massive—easily the largest Hariyama Briv had ever seen—its thick body rippling with muscle, its hands like slabs of meat, its eyes small and mean.
The crowd gasped.
"That thing's huge," someone muttered.
Briv didn't flinch.
"Infernape. Close Combat."
The fire-fighting type erupted.
It crossed the arena in a blur of orange and gold, its fists blazing, its body a missile of heat and fury. It hit Hariyama square in the chest—once, twice, three times—and the fighting type staggered backward, its feet digging furrows in the earth.
"Good," Chigusa said. "Hariyama. Fake Out."
The fighting type's hands moved.
It clapped them together—a thunderclap of force that slammed into Infernape's skull. The fire-fighting type reeled, its eyes crossing, its body freezing in place.
"Now. Force Palm."
Hariyama's palm glowed.
It struck Infernape in the chest and sent the fire-fighting type tumbling across the arena. Infernape hit the ground hard, rolled, came up gasping.
"Are you okay?" Briv called.
Infernape nodded. Its flame burned brighter—a surge of determination, a refusal to yield.
"Good. Flamethrower."
The fire-fighting type's mouth opened.
Flames erupted—white-hot, blinding, a torrent of fire that screamed across the arena.
"Detect," Chigusa said.
Hariyama's eyes flickered.
It dodged. Not by much—just a single step to the left, just enough to let the flames pass by and scorch the barrier behind it.
"Now. Close Combat."
Hariyama moved.
It was faster than anything its size should have been able to move—a blur of brown and gray, its palms striking with surgical precision. It hit Infernape in the ribs. The shoulder. The jaw. The fire-fighting type stumbled, its flame flickering, its eyes clouding.
"INFERNAPE IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! HARIYAMA WINS THE FIRST ROUND!"
The crowd erupted.
Briv recalled Infernape.
His hands were steady.
"You're more technical than I expected," he said.
"I told you," Chigusa said. "I've studied you."
Briv reached for his second Poké Ball.
"Empoleon."
The water-steel type materialized in a swirl of blue and silver. It was regal—tall, its crest gleaming, its flippers sharp as blades. It raised its head and made a sound that was somewhere between a cry and a command.
Chigusa tilted her head. "Empoleon. Interesting."
"Empoleon. Aqua Jet."
The water-steel type erupted.
It crossed the arena in a blur of blue and white, its body wrapped in water, its crest lowered like a lance. It hit Hariyama square in the chest and sent the fighting type tumbling across the arena.
"Focus Energy," Chigusa said.
Hariyama's eyes blazed.
The fighting type rose, its breathing steady, its muscles tensing. It looked different now—sharper, more dangerous, like a blade that had just been honed.
"Now. Close Combat."
Hariyama lunged.
It moved like a hurricane—palm strikes, elbow jabs, knee kicks, every limb a weapon, every movement precise. It hit Empoleon in the chest, the shoulder, the head. The water-steel type staggered, its crest cracking, its flippers flailing.
But it didn't fall.
"Empoleon. Drill Peck."
The water-steel type's crest glowed.
It spun—faster than anything its size should have been able to move—and its crest connected with Hariyama's gut. The fighting type doubled over, its breath leaving its body in a rush.
"Empoleon. Hydro Pump."
The water-steel type's flippers opened.
A torrent of water erupted from its body—a fire hose of pressure, a river of force. It hit Hariyama square in the chest and sent the fighting type flying.
Hariyama hit the barrier.
The impact cracked the crystal.
The fighting type crumpled.
"HARIYAMA IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! EMPOLEON WINS THE SECOND ROUND!"
The crowd roared.
Chigusa recalled Hariyama.
Her face was calm.
"Not bad," she said.
"I know," Briv said.
Chigusa 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 cold determination. It pounded its fists together, and the sound was like thunder.
Briv's blood ran cold.
He had seen Machamp fight. Had watched Chigusa's matches on replay, had studied every punch and kick and grapple. This Machamp was her ace. Her closer. The Pokémon she trusted to finish fights that Hariyama couldn't.
"Empoleon. Aqua Jet."
The water-steel type erupted.
It crossed the arena in a blur of blue and white.
"Machamp. Dynamic Punch."
The fighting type's four fists glowed.
It punched.
The impact stopped Empoleon mid-flight.
The water-steel type reeled backward, its crest shattered, its body trembling. It tried to recover—tried to fight—but Machamp was already moving, its four arms raining down blows.
"Empoleon. Hydro Pump!"
The water-steel type's flippers opened.
Water erupted from its body.
Machamp didn't dodge.
It walked through the torrent like it was nothing—like it was rain, like it was mist, like it was a minor inconvenience. Its fists glowed. Its eyes burned.
"Machamp. Close Combat."
The fighting type erupted.
It struck Empoleon again and again—punching, slamming, crushing. The water-steel type tried to defend itself, tried to counter, but Machamp was relentless.
"EMPOLEON IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! MACHAMP WINS THE SECOND ROUND!"
Briv recalled Empoleon.
His hands were shaking.
He reached for his final Poké Ball.
"Lucario."
The aura type materialized in a flash of blue and black. It was lean—athletic, its eyes calm, its spikes gleaming. It raised its head and looked at Machamp without fear.
Chigusa frowned.
"Lucario," she said. "Your starter."
"Yes."
"The one you won the League with."
"Yes."
Chigusa's eyes narrowed. "This should be interesting."
"Lucario. Aura Sphere."
The aura type's paws glowed.
A sphere of blue energy erupted from its chest—small, dense, impossibly fast. It screamed across the arena and hit Machamp square in the chest.
The fighting type staggered.
"Machamp. Dynamic Punch!"
The fighting type recovered.
Its four fists glowed.
It lunged—faster than anything its size should have been able to move—and its fist connected with Lucario's chest. The aura type flew backward, its body sparking, its eyes wide.
"Lucario. Extreme Speed."
The aura type recovered.
It moved—not fast, not quick, but instant. One moment it was at the edge of the arena; the next, it was behind Machamp, its paw glowing with dark energy.
"Lucario. Close Combat."
The aura type erupted.
It struck Machamp in the back—once, twice, three times—and the fighting type roared in pain, its body twisting, its arms flailing.
"Machamp. Revenge."
The fighting type's eyes blazed.
It spun—faster than anything its size should have been able to move—and its fist connected with Lucario's skull. The aura type crumpled, its body hitting the ground like a stone.
"Lucario is unable to battle! Machamp wins the match!"
The announcement echoed across the arena.
Briv's heart stopped.
Lucario was down.
Lucario was down.
The crowd was roaring—cheering for Chigusa, cheering for the upset, cheering for the woman who had just beaten the reigning League champion.
Briv recalled Lucario.
His hands were still.
His eyes were dry.
He looked at Chigusa.
She was smiling. It was a triumphant smile, a victorious smile, and it made Briv's blood boil.
"Good match," she said.
=====
"Good match," she said.
Briv nodded. The word "good" tasted like copper on his tongue.
Good.
He had studied her for weeks. Had watched footage until his eyes burned. Had mapped her patterns, her preferences, her tendencies under pressure. And she had still found the crack in his armor and driven a fist through it.
The crowd was still cheering. Still celebrating. Their noise cascaded down from the upper tiers in waves of thunder, and Briv stood in the center of it all, absorbing the sound like a man absorbing a blow.
Chigusa crossed the arena. She moved with the easy confidence of someone who had never doubted the outcome, and when she stopped at the edge of his platform, her eyes held something that might have been respect.
"You're the best I've ever fought," she said. "That Lucario—I've never seen anything move like that."
"She's special," Briv said.
"She's incredible." Chigusa extended her hand. "I hope we get to do this again someday."
Briv took her hand. Her grip was firm, honest, and there was no mockery in it. Just the quiet satisfaction of a woman who had survived a storm and come out standing.
"I hope so too," he said.
He walked off the platform.
The tunnel swallowed him whole.
Patricia was waiting at the mouth of it, her blue eyes bright with unshed tears. She didn't speak. She just opened her arms, and Briv walked into them, and for a long moment, neither of them moved.
"You're okay," she whispered.
"I'm okay."
"You're lying."
"Maybe."
She held him tighter. Her heartbeat was steady against his chest—a rhythm he had memorized in the quiet hours of the night, a sound that had become synonymous with safety.
"I'm proud of you," she said.
"I lost."
"So did I. Remember?" She pulled back and looked at him. "In the semifinals last year. I lost to that guy from Saffron. And you told me something that night."
Briv remembered. "I told you that losing doesn't define you."
"Exactly." She touched his cheek. "So take your own advice, champion."
The word hit him harder than Chigusa's Machamp.
Champion.
He had been the champion. Had worn the crown for a year. Had stood on the highest platform in the region and held the trophy above his head while thousands of people screamed his name.
And now he was out of the tournament before the final rounds.
Dariana appeared at Patricia's shoulder, her dark eyes soft. She didn't speak—just placed a hand on his arm and squeezed. Nicola stood behind her, arms crossed, her Magnezone hovering in silence.
"Don't," Briv said.
"Don't what?" Nicola asked.
"Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm a wounded animal."
Nicola's jaw tightened. "I'm not looking at you like anything. I'm looking at you like a rival who expected to face you in the finals and is now annoyed that she won't get the chance."
Briv almost smiled. "You're angry at me for losing?"
"I'm angry at you for letting a fighting-type specialist out-punch you." She shook her head. "What were you thinking with that Empoleon matchup? Hydro Pump against a Machamp with No Guard? You might as well have handed her the win."
"I didn't—"
"Your Empoleon was outmatched from the moment it hit the field. You should have saved it. Switched to Lucario earlier. Given yourself a chance to—"
"Nicola," Patricia said.
Nicola stopped.
Briv stared at her. His hands were shaking again, but this time it wasn't from nerves. It was from something hotter. Something that tasted like resentment.
"You think I don't know that?" he said. "You think I haven't already replayed every decision in my head?"
"I think you're too close to it to see clearly."
"Then help me see." He stepped closer. "Tell me what I did wrong. Don't just throw it in my face."
Nicola's eyes flickered. Something shifted in her expression—a crack in the armor, a glimpse of the woman beneath the competitor.
"You led with Infernape," she said. "That was fine. But when Hariyama started landing hits, you should have switched. Brought in Lucario earlier. Used Infernape as bait to tire out Hariyama's detection."
"I tried."
"You didn't try hard enough."
"I—"
"The Briv I know wouldn't have let that happen. The Briv I know would have sacrificed Infernape's momentum to set up Lucario for a clean sweep." She paused. "The Briv I know would have won."
The words hung in the air.
Briv felt them settle into his chest like stones.
"You're right," he said.
Nicola blinked.
"You're right," he repeated. "I got caught up in the moment. I wanted Infernape to prove something. I wanted Empoleon to show its strength. I wanted—" He stopped. Shook his head. "I wanted to win my way. And my way cost me the match."
Nicola didn't answer.
Patricia squeezed his hand.
Dariana stepped forward. "What matters now is what you do next."
Briv looked at her. "What do you mean?"
"I mean the tournament isn't over for all of us." She gestured at Patricia. "She's still in. I'm still in. Nicola's still in." Her eyes softened. "We're going to need you. Not as a competitor—as a strategist. As someone who's fought these people and knows their weaknesses."
Briv considered this.
She was right. He had studied the bracket. Had analyzed every trainer in the upper rounds. Chigusa had beaten him, but she had also revealed her weaknesses. Her Machamp was fast, but it couldn't take sustained damage. Her Hariyama was technical, but it lacked endurance. Her third Pokémon—whatever it was—would be her wildcard.
He had information.
He could still help.
"Okay," he said.
Dariana smiled. "Good. Because I'm facing Kim Possible in the next round, and I need someone to help me plan."
"You're facing Kim?"
"According to the bracket." She shrugged. "She's tough. Fast. Uses a lot of aerial maneuvers."
"She has a Talonflame," Briv said. "And a Gliscor. Both are speed-focused."
"So how do I counter that?"
Briv thought for a moment. "Glaceon. Ice attacks would slow them down. Force them to engage on your terms."
Dariana nodded slowly. "I like it."
"Let me help you with the specifics. Give me an hour to review the footage."
"You've got thirty minutes." She pointed toward the arena. "The next match is starting."
Briv turned.
The announcer's voice echoed across the stadium.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THE ROUND OF THIRTY-TWO CONTINUES WITH ANOTHER MATCH!"
The screens flickered. Two names burned in letters of obsidian and burgundy.
ENNUI
CRIMSON
Briv's blood ran cold.
These names meant nothing to most of the crowd. They weren't champions. Weren't prodigies. Weren't even particularly well-known beyond their small town.
But Briv recognized them.
He had seen them at the registration desk. Had watched them train in the corridors. Had felt the cold that followed them like a shadow.
Angry Antelopes.
Two of them.
"Ennui," Patricia said. "And Crimson." She looked at Briv. "Do you know them?"
"The goth guy and the goth girl," Briv said. "They're part of that group. The one that's been running roughshod over the qualifiers."
"What group?"
"Angry Antelopes. Six trainers. All from the same town in the north." He paused. "All of them do whatever it takes."
Dariana's expression darkened. "Anything?"
"One of them—a guy named Andre—he's the leader. Nobody talks about him. But the others follow him like a religion. They fight dirty. They fight hard. And they don't stop until their opponents are broken."
Nicola crossed her arms. "Then this should be interesting."
The crowd was still murmuring, still confused, still trying to process the names on the screen. But there was a different energy in the air now—a tension that had nothing to do with the previous matches.
The announcer continued.
"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!"
The arena lights dimmed.
Two spotlights blazed to life—one in the western tunnel, one in the eastern. They cut through the darkness like blades, and at the edge of each light, two figures emerged.
Ennui came from the west.
He was tall. Pale. His dark red hair streaks caught the light and glowed like embers. He wore black—heavy boots, torn jeans, a long coat that fluttered behind him like a banner. Chains hung from his belt. Spikes adorned his shoulders. He walked slowly, deliberately, and his face held no expression whatsoever.
The crowd fell silent.
Ennui stopped at his platform.
Crimson came from the east.
She was small. Compact. Her dark red dress swayed like a promise, her fishnet tights glistening under the spotlight, her boots clicking against the arena floor with each step. Her hair was black as ink and fell past her shoulders in straight curtains. Her face was pale, almost porcelain, and her eyes—dark, sharp, calculating—swept across the crowd like she was cataloging threats.
She stopped at her platform.
The two of them stood facing each other.
Neither spoke.
The silence stretched. Ten seconds. Twenty. The crowd began to shift, to murmur, to wonder if something had gone wrong.
Then Ennui shrugged.
It was a slow, lazy movement, as if he couldn't be bothered to expend the energy. "Let's get this over with."
Crimson tilted her head. "In a hurry?"
"I'm always in a hurry to leave."
"Then leave."
"I can't. I have to beat you first."
"You can't beat me."
"Then I'll have to try harder."
The announcer's voice cut through their exchange.
"BEGIN!"
They moved simultaneously.
"Sableye!"
"Banette!"
The ghost-dark type materialized in a swirl of purple and shadow. It was small—barely waist-high—but its crystalline eyes gleamed with malice, and its grin was a row of knives. It clapped its hands and laughed, and the sound was like glass shattering.
The ghost type appeared in a burst of black and red. It was taller than Sableye—floppy, stitched, its zipper mouth grinning wide. It held a doll in its hand and swung it back and forth, and the doll's eyes followed Ennui's Sableye with predatory focus.
The crowd drew in a collective breath.
"Ghost types," Dariana said. "Both of them."
"This is going to be quick," Briv said.
"Or very long."
Ennui moved first. "Sableye. Shadow Claw."
The ghost-dark type's claws glowed.
It lunged—small, fast, its crystalline eyes blazing. It slashed at Banette, and the ghost type recoiled, its doll swinging wildly.
"Banette. Will-O-Wisp."
The ghost type's mouth unzipped.
Blue flames erupted from its body—ethereal, flickering, hungry. They swirled around Sableye, latching onto its shadow, burning with cold intensity.
Sableye screamed.
But it didn't fall.
"Sableye. Knock Off."
The ghost-dark type recovered.
It lunged again, its claws glowing with dark energy. It hit Banette square in the chest, and the ghost type's doll flew out of its hand, skittering across the arena.
Banette roared.
"Banette. Phantom Force."
The ghost type vanished.
It reappeared behind Sableye—faster than thought, faster than light, faster than anything the ghost-dark type could track. Its claws sank into Sableye's back, and the smaller Pokémon crumpled, its body dissolving into shadow.
"SABLEYE IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! BANETTE WINS THE FIRST ROUND!"
Ennui recalled Sableye.
His expression didn't change. "Fine."
He reached for his second Poké Ball.
"Weavile."
The ice-dark type materialized in a swirl of white and black. It was lean—sinuous, its claws long as knives, its eyes fixed on Banette with predatory hunger. It raised its head and trilled, and the sound was like a blade being unsheathed.
Crimson didn't react.
"Banette. Shadow Ball."
The ghost type's mouth unzipped.
A sphere of shadow erupted from its body, screaming across the arena. It hit Weavile square in the chest, and the ice-dark type staggered, its body flickering.
But it didn't fall.
"Weavile. Night Slash."
The ice-dark type's claws glowed.
It lunged—faster than anything its size should have been able to move—and its claws raked across Banette's body. The ghost type shrieked, its stitches tearing, its doll burning with black fire.
"Banette. Sucker Punch!"
Banette moved.
Its fist connected with Weavile's jaw before the ice-dark type could react. Weavile flew backward, its body hitting the barrier with a wet thud, and crumpled.
"WEAVILE IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! BANETTE WINS THE SECOND ROUND!"
The crowd was starting to wake up. They were seeing something they hadn't expected—a battle between two ghost specialists, a duel of shadows and whispers, a match with no heroes and no villains.
Just two trainers who understood darkness better than anyone else.
Ennui recalled Weavile.
His face was still blank. "Okay."
He reached for his final Poké Ball.
"Spiritomb."
The ghost-dark type materialized 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 spun—a slow, deliberate rotation—and the shadows around it thickened like oil.
Crimson tilted her head.
"Spiritomb," she said. "Your ace."
"Yes."
"How predictable."
"We'll see."
"Banette. Destiny Bond."
The ghost type's eyes blazed.
A pulse of invisible energy rippled through the arena. It latched onto Spiritomb, wrapping around the ghost-dark type like chains, binding them together.
Briv's blood went cold. "Destiny Bond."
"She's setting up a trade," Nicola said.
"No. She's setting up a sacrifice."
Ennui saw it too. His eyes narrowed—the first real expression he had shown all match. "Spiritomb. Dark Pulse."
The ghost-dark type's keystone glowed.
A wave of darkness erupted from its body—a torrent of shadow that screamed across the arena and hit Banette square in the chest. The ghost type shrieked, its body dissolving, its eyes closing.
"BANETTE IS UNABLE TO BATTLE!"
But the Destiny Bond held.
A pulse of dark energy rippled back through the arena and slammed into Spiritomb. The ghost-dark type screamed—a sound like breaking glass—as its own attack reflected back upon it.
"Spiritomb is unable to battle!" the announcer called. "The match is a draw!"
The crowd erupted.
Ennui stood on his platform, his hands at his sides, his face a mask of calm. He had one Pokémon left. So did Crimson. But the round had ended in a stalemate—a mutual annihilation that left neither trainer with an advantage.
Crimson smiled.
It was a cold smile, a knowing smile, and it made Briv's skin crawl.
"Draw," she said.
"Draw," Ennui echoed.
The announcer hesitated.
"Uh—ladies and gentlemen, we have a situation. Both trainers are down to their final Pokémon, but the round has ended in a draw. According to tournament rules, this match will be decided by—" He paused. "—a sudden death round."
The crowd roared.
Ennui shrugged. "Fine."
Crimson tilted her head. "Fine."
They reached for their final Poké Balls.
"Absol."
"Mimikyu."
The disaster Pokémon materialized in a swirl of white and black. It was elegant—its blade-like horn gleaming, its eyes calm and knowing, its fur rippling in a wind that didn't exist. It looked at Mimikyu without fear.
The disguise Pokémon appeared in a burst of yellow and shadow. It was small—barely knee-height—its rag costume ragged, its eyes peering through the cloth with desperate hope. It looked at Absol and the cloth shuddered.
The crowd held its breath.
"A battle of two ghost-adjacent trainers," Briv said. "One who commands disaster. One who hides in a costume."
"Which one wins?"
"Absol has the speed. Mimikyu has the mystery."
Ennui moved first. "Absol. Night Slash."
The disaster Pokémon's horn glowed.
It lunged—faster than anything its size should have been able to move—its blade raking across Mimikyu's costume. The disguise shuddered, tore, but didn't fall.
"Mimikyu. Play Rough."
The disguise Pokémon's eyes blazed.
It lunged, its tiny body slamming into Absol with surprising force. The disaster Pokémon staggered, its fur rippling, its eyes widening.
"Absol. Sucker Punch!"
Absol moved.
Its paw connected with Mimikyu's costume, and the rag finally tore—revealing a small, shadowy creature beneath. The true Mimikyu screamed, its body blazing with purple energy, and the entire arena felt colder.
"Mimikyu. Shadow Claw."
The disguise Pokémon lunged.
Its claws raked across Absol's flank, and the disaster Pokémon cried out—a sound like breaking glass, like distant thunder, like something ancient and terrible.
Absol didn't fall.
"Absol. Psycho Cut."
The disaster Pokémon's horn glowed.
It lunged—faster than thought, faster than hope, faster than anything Mimikyu could track—and its blade connected with the smaller Pokémon's body. Mimikyu screamed as it was thrown across the arena, its body hitting the barrier with a crack.
"MIMIKYU IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! ABSOL WINS THE MATCH!"
The crowd exploded.
Ennui stood on his platform, his hands at his sides, his face unchanged. He had won. He had beaten Crimson. But there was no triumph in his eyes—only the same quiet indifference that had been there from the start.
Crimson recalled Mimikyu.
Her hands were steady.
"Good match," she said.
Ennui shrugged. "Sure."
He turned and walked off the platform.
Crimson watched him go.
Then she smiled.
Briv saw that smile. Saw the way it didn't reach her eyes. Saw the way her fingers curled at her sides like she was already planning her next move.
She wasn't done.
She was just waiting.
"What was that?" Dariana asked.
"That," Briv said, "was a warning."
"To who?"
"To everyone. The Angry Antelopes are here. And they're not leaving until the tournament is over."
Patricia's hand found his. "We'll be ready."
"Will we?"
"We have to be." She looked at him—really looked at him—and her eyes were bright with something that wasn't quite hope. "Because if we're not, they'll tear us apart."
The announcer's voice echoed across the arena.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THE ROUND OF THIRTY-TWO CONTINUES!"
Briv turned away from the field.
He had work to do.