Chapter 111: Samuel VS Niklaus
The announcer's voice cut through the murmur of the crowd like a blade through silk.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THE ROUND OF THIRTY-TWO CONTINUES WITH OUR NEXT MATCH!"
The screens flickered. Two names materialized in letters of gold and obsidian.
SAMUEL MOODSWAY
NIKLAUS ETERNGUST
Briv felt his stomach clench.
He had known this was coming. Had seen the bracket. Had studied the matchups. But seeing those names together—seeing the reggae artist's warm, flowing script beside the cold, angular letters of the Eclipse Squad's strategist—made something twist in his chest.
"Samuel," Patricia said. Her voice was tight. "He's fighting Niklaus."
"I know."
"Niklaus is—"
"I know what Niklaus is."
Briv didn't look at her. He couldn't. His eyes were fixed on the arena, on the two platforms rising from the packed earth, on the figures emerging from opposite tunnels.
Samuel came from the west.
He moved like water—loose, easy, his dreadlocks swaying with each step, his colorful clothing a riot of orange and green and purple against the arena's gray stone. He was smiling. He was always smiling. But Briv had known Samuel long enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers drummed against his thigh, the slight furrow between his brows.
He was nervous.
He had every right to be.
Niklaus came from the east.
He moved like ice—slow, deliberate, every step measured, every movement calculated. His black hair was immaculate. His cold dark-blue eyes swept across the crowd without interest, without emotion, without anything resembling humanity. He wore a tailored suit the color of midnight, and when he stopped at his platform, he didn't acknowledge Samuel at all.
He simply waited.
The crowd had gone quiet.
They had seen Niklaus fight before. Had watched him dismantle opponents with surgical precision, had witnessed the way his Dark and Ice Pokémon moved like extensions of his will. He wasn't flashy. Wasn't dramatic. He was efficient.
He was terrifying.
Dariana appeared at Briv's shoulder. Her dark eyes were fixed on the arena, her expression unreadable.
"He's going to lose," she said.
Briv didn't answer.
"Samuel. He's going to lose."
"You don't know that."
"I know Niklaus. I've studied him. He doesn't make mistakes." She paused. "And Samuel—"
"Samuel is better than you think."
Dariana looked at him. "Is he?"
Briv didn't answer.
The announcer's voice boomed across the stadium.
"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!"
Samuel's hand moved to his belt.
Niklaus's hand didn't move at all.
"TRAINERS! ARE YOU READY?"
Samuel nodded. "Yeah, mon. Ready as I'll ever be."
Niklaus said nothing.
"BEGIN!"
Samuel threw first.
"Ambipom!"
The normal type materialized in a burst of purple and cream. It landed on the packed earth with a dancer's grace, its twin tails whipping through the air, its large eyes bright with mischief. It clapped its hand-like appendages together and chittered, bouncing on its heels.
Niklaus moved.
"Weavile."
The ice-dark type appeared in a swirl of white and black. It was lean—sinuous, its claws long as knives, its eyes fixed on Ambipom with predatory hunger. It didn't move. Didn't make a sound. It simply stood there, waiting, its breath misting in the cold air that seemed to radiate from its body.
Samuel's smile flickered.
"Ambipom. Fake Out."
The normal type erupted.
It crossed the arena in a blur of purple and cream, its tails whipping, its body a missile of momentum. It hit Weavile square in the chest—once, twice—and the ice-dark type staggered backward, its claws scraping furrows in the earth.
"Good," Samuel said. "Now. U-turn."
Ambipom's body glowed.
It spun—faster than anything its size should have been able to move—and its tail connected with Weavile's jaw. The ice-dark type reeled, its eyes crossing, its body trembling.
"Now. Switch."
Ambipom vanished.
In its place, Probopass materialized.
The rock-steel type was massive—its dark blue body gleaming under the arena lights, its massive red magnetic nose pulsing with energy, its thick black mustache-like iron filings twitching. It hovered above the ground, its small floating units orbiting it like moons around a planet.
Niklaus tilted his head.
"Interesting," he said. His voice was calm. Cold. "You're using Probopass as a defensive pivot."
"Something like that," Samuel said.
"Then you've already lost."
Probopass didn't react.
But Samuel did.
His jaw tightened. His fingers curled. And for just a moment, something flickered in his warm brown eyes—something that looked like fear.
"Weavile. Night Slash."
The ice-dark type moved.
It was fast—faster than anything its size should have been able to move—its claws glowing with dark energy. It lunged at Probopass, its blade raking across the rock-steel type's body.
Probopass didn't flinch.
The attack connected—sparks flew, metal screeched—but the rock-steel type remained stationary. Unmoved. Its magnetic nose pulsed once, and Weavile was thrown backward by an invisible force.
"Probopass. Power Gem."
The rock-steel type's eyes glowed.
A sphere of crystalline energy erupted from its body—small, dense, impossibly fast. It screamed across the arena and hit Weavile square in the chest.
The ice-dark type staggered.
"Again," Samuel said.
Probopass fired.
Another sphere. Another impact. Weavile reeled, its body sparking, its claws flailing.
"Finish it. Flash Cannon."
Probopass's body glowed.
A beam of silver energy erupted from its magnetic nose—a lance of light that screamed across the arena and hit Weavile square in the chest. The ice-dark type flew backward, its body hitting the barrier with a crack, and crumpled.
"WEAVILE IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! PROBOPASS WINS THE FIRST ROUND!"
The crowd erupted.
Samuel pumped his fist. "Yeah, mon! That's how we do it!"
Niklaus recalled Weavile.
His expression didn't change.
"Acceptable," he said. "You've exceeded my expectations."
"Thanks. I think."
"You shouldn't." Niklaus reached for his second Poké Ball. "Because now I'm going to show you the difference between us."
He threw.
"Glaceon."
The ice type materialized in a swirl of pale blue and white. It was elegant—sleek, its fur shimmering like fresh snow, its dark eyes calm and knowing. It didn't move. Didn't attack. It simply stood there, its breath misting in the air, its presence radiating cold.
Probopass's magnetic field flickered.
Samuel saw it.
"Probopass. Flash Cannon."
The rock-steel type's body glowed.
But Glaceon was already moving.
It didn't dodge. It didn't run. It simply... shifted. One moment it was there; the next, it was somewhere else—a blur of white and blue, a ghost on the wind.
The Flash Cannon missed.
"Glaceon. Ice Beam."
The ice type's mouth opened.
A beam of frozen energy erupted from its body—a lance of absolute zero that screamed across the arena and hit Probopass square in the chest. The rock-steel type shuddered, its body crackling with frost, its magnetic field warping.
"Probopass. Power Gem!"
The rock-steel type's eyes glowed.
It fired—once, twice, three times—but Glaceon was already gone. It moved like water, like wind, like something that didn't obey the laws of physics. It dodged every attack, its body flowing around the projectiles like they were nothing.
"Glaceon. Blizzard."
The ice type's body glowed.
The temperature dropped.
Frost crawled across the arena floor. Ice formed on the barriers. The crowd shivered, their breath misting in the suddenly frigid air. And then—
The storm hit.
Snow and ice and wind erupted from Glaceon's body—a hurricane of frozen fury that engulfed Probopass completely. The rock-steel type screamed, its body crackling, its magnetic field collapsing.
"PROBOPASS IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! GLACEON WINS THE SECOND ROUND!"
Samuel recalled Probopass.
His hands were shaking.
"Not bad," he said.
"I know," Niklaus said.
Samuel reached for his final Poké Ball.
"Hippowdon."
The ground type materialized in a burst of tan and black. It was massive—easily the largest Pokémon on the field—its huge gaping mouth yawning wide, its thick legs planted firmly on the earth. It raised its head and roared, and the sound was like an earthquake.
Niklaus's eyes flickered.
"Interesting," he said. "You're using Hippowdon as your anchor."
"Hippowdon is my anchor," Samuel said. "And he's going to bury your Glaceon."
"We'll see."
"Hippowdon. Sand Stream."
The ground type's body glowed.
A storm erupted from its body—a swirling vortex of sand and grit that engulfed the arena. The crowd gasped. The barriers flickered. Visibility dropped to almost nothing.
Glaceon's eyes narrowed.
"Glaceon. Ice Beam."
The ice type's mouth opened.
But the sand was too thick. The beam dissipated, its energy scattered by the storm, and Glaceon was forced to dodge as a wave of sand slammed into its position.
"Hippowdon. Earthquake."
The ground type's legs glowed.
It stomped—once, twice—and the arena shook. Cracks spread across the packed earth. Barriers flickered. The crowd screamed.
Glaceon stumbled.
"Hippowdon. Stone Edge."
The ground type's body glowed.
Rocks erupted from the earth—jagged, sharp, impossibly fast. They screamed across the arena and hit Glaceon square in the chest. The ice type flew backward, its body hitting the barrier with a crack, and crumpled.
"GLACEON IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! HIPPOWDON WINS THE THIRD ROUND!"
The crowd erupted.
Samuel pumped his fist. "Yeah! That's what I'm talking about!"
Niklaus recalled Glaceon.
His expression didn't change.
But something shifted in his eyes. Something cold. Something calculating. Something that made Briv's blood run cold.
"Impressive," Niklaus said. "You've forced me to use my final Pokémon."
"Damn right I have."
"Unfortunately for you..." Niklaus reached for his final Poké Ball. "...my final Pokémon is the reason I'm going to win this tournament."
He threw.
"Umbreon."
The dark type materialized in a swirl of black and gold. It was sleek—elegant, its fur shimmering like oil on water, its golden rings glowing with soft light. It didn't move. Didn't attack. It simply stood there, its red eyes fixed on Hippowdon with predatory focus.
The sandstorm swirled around it.
It didn't seem to notice.
"Umbreon. Moonlight."
The dark type's body glowed.
The sandstorm... shifted. The clouds above parted. Moonlight streamed down from the sky—impossible, given the arena's roof—and bathed Umbreon in silver light. The dark type's wounds healed. Its body strengthened. Its eyes blazed.
Samuel's jaw tightened.
"Hippowdon. Earthquake."
The ground type's legs glowed.
It stomped—but Umbreon was already moving. It flowed like shadow, like smoke, like something that didn't obey the laws of physics. It dodged every tremor, every crack, every wave of force.
"Umbreon. Snarl."
The dark type's mouth opened.
A wave of dark energy erupted from its body—a pulse of malice that slammed into Hippowdon's mind. The ground type staggered, its eyes clouding, its movements slowing.
"Hippowdon. Stone Edge!"
The ground type's body glowed.
But Umbreon was already gone.
It appeared behind Hippowdon—faster than thought, faster than light—and its fangs sank into the ground type's leg. Hippowdon roared, its body thrashing, but Umbreon held on.
"Umbreon. Toxic."
The dark type's fangs glowed.
Poison flooded Hippowdon's veins.
The ground type screamed.
"Hippowdon! Shake it off!"
Hippowdon tried.
It stomped. It thrashed. It rolled. But Umbreon held on, its fangs buried deep, its poison spreading, its eyes blazing with cold satisfaction.
"Umbreon. Foul Play."
The dark type's body glowed.
It twisted—using Hippowdon's own strength against it—and the ground type was thrown across the arena. Hippowdon hit the barrier with a crack, its body trembling, its breath ragged.
"Hippowdon. Earthquake!"
The ground type tried.
But its legs wouldn't move. The poison was spreading. Its body was failing. It raised its head and roared—a sound of defiance, of desperation—and then it collapsed.
"HIPPOWDON IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! UMBREON WINS THE MATCH!"
The crowd erupted.
Samuel recalled Hippowdon.
His hands were still.
His eyes were dry.
He looked at Niklaus.
Niklaus looked back.
"Good match," Niklaus said. His voice was calm. Cold. Empty. "You exceeded my expectations."
"Thanks," Samuel said. "I think."
"You shouldn't." Niklaus turned and walked off his platform. "Because now you know the truth."
"What truth?"
Niklaus stopped.
He didn't turn around.
"That no matter how hard you try," he said, "no matter how much you prepare, no matter how much you believe in yourself..." He paused. "You will never be good enough."
He disappeared into the tunnel.
Samuel stood on his platform.
His hands were still.
His eyes were dry.
But something in his chest was cracking.
Briv found him in the corridor.
Samuel was sitting on a bench, his head in his hands, his dreadlocks falling around his face like a curtain. He wasn't crying. He wasn't shaking. He was just... still.
"Hey," Briv said.
Samuel didn't look up. "Hey."
"You okay?"
"No."
Briv sat beside him.
They didn't speak for a long moment. The crowd's noise filtered through the walls—muffled, distant, like the sound of the ocean in a shell. Somewhere, the announcer was calling the next match. Somewhere, trainers were preparing for battle. Somewhere, the tournament was continuing.
But here, in this corridor, time had stopped.
"He was right," Samuel said.
"About what?"
"About me not being good enough." Samuel laughed—a hollow, broken sound. "I trained for months. I studied his matches. I built my entire strategy around countering his Dark types. And he still—"
"He still won," Briv said.
"Yeah."
"That doesn't mean you're not good enough."
"Doesn't it?"
Briv didn't answer.
Samuel looked up. His eyes were red. His face was drawn. He looked older than he had this morning—like the weight of the loss had aged him years in minutes.
"I thought I could do it," he said. "I thought—if I just believed hard enough, if I just fought smart enough—I could beat him. I could prove that I belonged here."
"You do belong here."
"Do I?" Samuel shook his head. "I'm a reggae artist from a small town. I've never trained with professionals. I've never had sponsors or coaches or any of that. I just... I just love Pokémon. I love battling. I love the way it feels when everything clicks, when the music of the fight reaches its crescendo, when—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I thought that would be enough."
"It was enough."
"Was it?" Samuel looked at him. "I lost, Briv. I lost in the first round of the tournament. I didn't even make it to the final thirty-two."
"You made it to the final thirty-two."
"I lost in the first round."
"You fought Niklaus Eterngust. The strategist. The ice man. The guy who's been destroying opponents since he was fourteen." Briv paused. "You took two of his Pokémon. You forced him to use Umbreon. You made him work for it."
"It doesn't feel like enough."
"I know."
Samuel laughed again—softer this time, sadder. "You would know, wouldn't you? You lost today too."
"I did."
"How do you deal with it?"
Briv thought about this.
He thought about the arena. The lights. The crowd. The way Chigusa's Machamp had crumpled Lucario like paper. The way the announcer's voice had echoed across the stadium. The way the world had seemed to collapse around him.
He thought about Patricia's arms around him. Dariana's hand on his shoulder. Nicola's brutal honesty. The way they had all reminded him that he was more than his losses.
He thought about the tunnel. The darkness. The silence. The way he had wanted to disappear and never come back.
"I don't know," he said. "I'm still figuring it out."
Samuel nodded.
They sat together in silence.
And somewhere, in the distance, the tournament continued.
Patricia found them an hour later.
She was breathless—her blonde hair a mess, her blue eyes bright with urgency—and when she saw Samuel, her expression softened.
"Samuel. I heard—"
"Yeah," Samuel said. "I lost."
"I'm sorry."
"Thanks."
She sat on his other side. Dariana appeared a moment later, her dark eyes soft, her hand finding Samuel's shoulder. Nicola stood at the edge of the corridor, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable.
"We need to talk," Patricia said.
"About what?" Briv asked.
"About what comes next." She looked at him. "About the tournament. About the Eclipse Squad. About—" She paused. "About what we're going to do."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean we can't just let them win." Her voice was hard. "Niklaus. The Angry Antelopes. The whole lot of them. They're not just here to compete. They're here to destroy."
"We don't know that."
"Don't we?" Patricia looked at him. "You saw what happened with Ennui. What happened with Crimson. They're not fighting to win. They're fighting to hurt. To humiliate. To break."
"She's right," Nicola said.
Briv looked at her.
"Niklaus didn't just beat Samuel," Nicola said. "He crushed him. He made him feel small. He made him feel worthless. That's not competition. That's cruelty."
"So what do we do?"
"We fight back." Nicola stepped forward. "We train. We prepare. And when we face them—because we will face them—we don't hold back."
"We don't even know if we'll face them."
"We will." Patricia's voice was certain. "I can feel it."
Briv looked at her.
She was standing tall—her shoulders squared, her jaw set, her eyes blazing with something that wasn't quite anger. It was determination. It was resolve. It was the look of a woman who had decided that she was done being a victim.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay?"
"Okay. We fight back."
Patricia smiled.
It was a small smile—a fragile smile—but it was real.
And it was enough.
The arena was still buzzing when they returned.
The crowd had thinned—many trainers had retreated to their quarters, exhausted by the day's battles—but those who remained were talking, whispering, speculating about the matches to come.
Briv heard their words as he walked through the corridor.
"—did you see Niklaus? He destroyed that guy—"
"—the Angry Antelopes are terrifying—"
"—I wouldn't want to face any of them—"
He kept walking.
Patricia's hand found his.
"We'll be okay," she said.
"I know."
"Do you?"
He looked at her.
She was beautiful—her blonde hair catching the light, her blue eyes bright, her lips curved in a smile that was meant only for him. She was everything. She was the reason he kept going, the reason he kept fighting, the reason he hadn't given up when the world had seemed so dark.
"I know," he said.
And this time, he meant it.
The announcer's voice echoed across the arena.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THE ROUND OF THIRTY-TWO CONTINUES TOMORROW MORNING! TICKETS ARE STILL AVAILABLE FOR THE FINAL ROUNDS! DON'T MISS YOUR CHANCE TO—"
Briv stopped listening.
He turned to Patricia.
"Let's go home."
She nodded.
They walked together through the crystal corridors of Aethelburg, past the floating bridges and the glowing canals, past the towers that scraped the sky and the markets that never slept. The city was beautiful at night—a constellation of lights that seemed to pulse with life and possibility.
But Briv barely noticed.
His mind was elsewhere.
It was in the arena. The lights. The crowd. The way Chigusa had beaten him without breaking a sweat.
It was in the corridor. Samuel's broken voice. The way he had looked at Briv like he was drowning and Briv was the only one who could throw him a rope.
It was in the future. The matches to come. The opponents waiting. The battles that would determine everything.
He didn't know what was going to happen.
He didn't know if he would win or lose.
He didn't know if the Eclipse Squad would be stopped, or if the Angry Antelopes would tear through the tournament like a storm through wheat.
But he knew one thing.
He wasn't going to give up.
Not now.
Not ever.
Patricia squeezed his hand.
He squeezed back.
And together, they walked into the night.