Chapter 113: Round Of 16
(round of 16 draw:
Iris VS Jenny =
Belle VS Malik =
Malva VS Bianca =
Rhomir VS Nicola =
Gwen VS Kim =
Chigusa VS Dariana =
Patricia VS Elsa =
Niklaus VS Ennui =)
The corridor had emptied. Most of the trainers had retreated to their quarters or to the viewing galleries, leaving only the distant echo of footsteps and the hum of the arena's cooling systems. Briv stood with his back against the wall, Patricia beside him, Nicola pacing in tight circles, Dariana leaning against the opposite wall with her arms crossed.
Nobody spoke. The silence was thicker than any crowd noise.
"They're going to announce the Round of Sixteen draw," Patricia said.
"I know."
"Any minute now."
"I know."
Nicola stopped pacing and turned to face them. Her blonde hair was still damp with sweat, her black jacket unzipped, her chest rising and falling with breaths she hadn't fully caught.
"I don't care who I get," she said.
"You should," Dariana said.
"I don't. I just won. I evolved Staravia. I'm riding a high I haven't felt in months." Nicola's eyes blazed. "I'll fight anyone."
Briv almost believed her. Almost.
A screen flickered to life on the corridor wall—one of dozens scattered throughout the arena complex. The face of the announcer filled the display, his teeth gleaming, his hair lacquered into place.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THE DRAW FOR THE ROUND OF SIXTEEN WILL BEGIN IN MOMENTS!"
Nicola grabbed Briv's arm without thinking. He didn't pull away.
The screen shifted. A giant bracket appeared—columns of names, lines connecting opponents, the architecture of destiny reduced to a flowchart.
Then the matchups began to populate.
First pairing: IRIS VERSUS JENNY.
"She's facing Jenny," Dariana said. Her voice was quiet. Thoughtful.
"Officer Jenny?" Patricia frowned. "The cop?"
"The same. She's been training in secret for two years." Dariana pushed off the wall. "I've seen her fight. She's disciplined. Methodical. The kind of trainer who turns a battle into a procedure."
"And Iris?"
"Iris is chaos. Beautiful, brilliant chaos." Dariana almost smiled. "She fights like a dragon—reckless, instinctive, impossible to predict. This match will be a collision of two entirely different philosophies."
Briv studied the bracket. Iris—wild purple hair, a smile that could light up a city—was an unknown to most of the crowd. But he had watched her dominate her qualifying rounds. She moved like water and attacked like fire.
Second pairing: BELLE VERSUS MALIK.
"Oh no," Patricia whispered.
Briv's chest tightened.
Belle. The woman in the golden gown. The one with chestnut hair and hazel eyes and a kindness that radiated like warmth from a hearth. He had seen her once, at the opening ceremony, standing near the edge of the stage with a book tucked under her arm.
And Malik. The brute. Broad-shouldered, thickly built, with a laugh that could shake the walls and a fighting style that bordered on sadism. He had crushed his opponents in the qualifying rounds without mercy.
"She's going to get hurt," Patricia said.
"She's stronger than she looks," Dariana said. But her voice was tight. Uncertain.
"How do you know?"
"I don't." Dariana paused. "But I've learned not to underestimate anyone in this tournament."
Third pairing: MALVA VERSUS BIANCA.
Nicola's jaw dropped. "Malva? As in Malva the Elite Four?"
"The same," Briv said. "The Fire-type specialist. Former newscaster. One of the strongest trainers in Elyssia."
"And she's facing Bianca?" Nicola shook her head. "That's not a match. That's a massacre."
"Bianca just beat Mert," Patricia said. "She's not weak."
"Malva isn't Mert. Malva is… different." Briv rubbed the back of his neck. "I've watched footage of her. She doesn't just win. She humiliates. She makes her opponents feel like they never had a chance."
Dariana's eyes narrowed. "Bianca's a psychologist. She'll know how to handle that."
"Will she?" Briv asked.
Nobody answered.
Fourth pairing: RHOMIR VERSUS NICOLA.
Nicola froze.
Her hand tightened on Briv's arm. Her face went pale, then red, then pale again.
"Rhomir," she breathed.
Briv's blood ran cold.
Rhomir. The man was thirty-five—eleven years older than Nicola—and built like a wall. Tall, muscular, with messy blonde hair and blue eyes that seemed to see straight through people. He carried himself with a mysterious confidence that was somehow more intimidating than aggression.
"Who's Rhomir?" Patricia asked.
"He's a climber," Briv said. "Mountain climber. But also a trainer. A damn good one."
"How good?"
"He made it to the finals three years ago. Lost to the champion at the time. Then disappeared for two years. Nobody knew where he went." Briv paused. "Now he's back, and he's fighting Nicola."
Nicola finally spoke. Her voice was quiet. Controlled.
"I can beat him."
"Nicola—"
"I can beat him." She turned to face them. Her eyes burned. "He's older. Experienced. Strong. I don't care. I just beat Drew Saturday. I evolved Staravia into Staraptor. I'm not the same trainer I was this morning."
Dariana nodded slowly. "Then act like it."
Nicola's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I intend to."
Fifth pairing: GWEN VERSUS KIM.
"Kim Possible," Patricia said. "The girl with the auburn hair. She's been tearing through her matches."
"She's a prodigy," Dariana said. "Cheerleader, martial artist, straight-A student, and a Pokémon trainer who fights like she was born in an arena. Her team is built for speed and precision."
"And Gwen?"
"Gwen is scrappy. Resourceful. She just beat John Alburth—a scientist with decades more experience." Dariana paused. "But Kim is on another level. This will be Gwen's hardest fight yet."
Briv thought of Gwen's dark clothing, her turquoise-streaked hair, her quiet intensity. She had won her last match with Umbreon—a Pokémon that didn't belong to her. She was full of surprises.
"Gwen can win," he said.
"Can she?"
"I don't know. But I wouldn't bet against her."
Sixth pairing: CHIGUSA VERSUS DARIANA.
Dariana's face didn't change. But something in her posture shifted. A subtle tension. A tightening of her jaw.
"Chigusa," she said.
"Fighting-type specialist," Briv said. "Fiery pink hair. Disciplined. Energetic. Doesn't back down from anything."
"She's also twenty years old," Dariana said. "And she fights like she has something to prove."
"And you?"
Dariana finally smiled. It was a dangerous smile—the smile of a predator who had just spotted worthy prey.
"I fight because I've already proven it."
"Will you use Gallade?"
"Maybe. Maybe not." Dariana's dark eyes gleamed. "I haven't decided yet."
Patricia reached for Briv's hand. He took it.
Seventh pairing: PATRICIA VERSUS ELSA.
The world stopped.
Patricia's hand turned to ice in his grip. Her face went slack. Her blue eyes widened—not with fear, not with shock, but with something older. Something deeper. Recognition.
"Elsa," she whispered.
Briv turned to her. "You know her?"
"I… yes. From the academy." Patricia's voice was thin. Distant. "We trained together. Before I met you. Before everything."
"Is she good?"
Patricia didn't answer for a long moment.
"She's the one who taught me how to fight," she finally said. "And then she taught me how to lose."
Dariana straightened. "Elsa's an ice specialist. Former Elite Four candidate. She turned down the position to pursue something else—nobody knows what."
"She's also Samantha's sister," Patricia said.
"Wait—Niklaus's wife?" Nicola asked.
"Yes." Patricia's voice cracked. "Niklaus is married to Samantha. Elsa is Samantha's sister. Which means if I beat Elsa…"
"You might have to face Niklaus," Briv finished.
The corridor felt colder. The lights seemed dimmer.
"I can beat her," Patricia said. But her voice was shaking.
Briv squeezed her hand. "You don't have to do this alone."
"I know." Patricia turned to him. Her eyes were wet. "But I do have to do this."
Eighth pairing: NIKLAUS VERSUS ENNUI.
The final matchup.
The names appeared on the screen in letters of gold and black.
NIKLAUS ETERNGUST. ENNUI.
"That's not fair," Nicola said.
"Nothing about Niklaus is fair," Briv said.
Ennui. The goth. The monotone, perpetually bored, chain-wearing member of Team Angry Antelopes. Briv had seen him fight once—in the qualifying rounds. He had won without changing expression. Without raising his voice. Without seeming to care at all.
And Niklaus. Cold. Calculating. Married to Samantha Eterngust. The man who had crushed his opponents with the precision of a surgeon.
"Ennui is going to lose," Dariana said.
"Probably," Briv agreed.
"Probably?"
"Ennui doesn't fight like other people. He doesn't get angry. Doesn't get scared. Doesn't care about winning or losing." Briv paused. "That kind of detachment can be dangerous. Unpredictable."
"So you think he has a chance?"
"I think Niklaus is going to have to work for it."
The screen flickered again. The bracket was complete.
Round of Sixteen. Eight matches. Sixteen trainers. Only eight would advance.
Briv looked at the names. Patricia. Nicola. Dariana. His friends. His allies. His family.
And then he looked at the others. Niklaus. Elsa. Malva. Rhomir. Malik. Trainers who would stop at nothing to win.
The corridor was silent.
Then Nicola spoke.
"We're all going to make it through," she said. "All of us."
"That's not how tournaments work," Dariana said.
"I don't care." Nicola's voice was fierce. "We've come too far. Fought too hard. Lost too much. We're not going to lose now."
Patricia stepped forward. "She's right."
Briv looked at them—his girlfriend, his rival, his friend—and felt something swell in his chest. Something dangerous. Something powerful.
Hope.
"Then let's prove them wrong," he said.
The screen above them flickered one final time. The bracket pulsed with light.
The Round of Sixteen had begun.
And the storm was coming.
=====
The corridor emptied in a slow trickle of footsteps and half-spoken goodbyes. Patricia held Briv's hand until the last possible moment, then released him with a squeeze that said everything words couldn't. Nicola was already walking toward the viewing galleries, her shoulders squared, her stride purposeful. Dariana lingered a beat longer, her dark eyes tracking each of them before she too disappeared into the labyrinth of the arena's inner passages.
Briv found his seat in the trainers' section—a raised platform overlooking the main arena, reserved for competitors and their guests. The chairs were plush, the view unobstructed, the air thick with the electric hum of anticipation. Patricia settled beside him, her blonde hair catching the stadium lights, her face a mask of composure that didn't quite hide the tremor in her hands.
The arena had transformed since the last match. The packed earth had been raked smooth, the barriers reinforced with fresh energy fields, the floodlights angled to eliminate shadows. A raised platform dominated the center—circular, polished, gleaming like obsidian under the artificial stars.
The announcer's voice erupted from every speaker simultaneously.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! WELCOME TO THE ROUND OF SIXTEEN!"
The crowd responded with a roar that shook the crystal towers of Aethelburg beyond the arena walls.
"THE FIRST MATCH OF THE EVENING! A CLASH OF DISCIPLINE AND INSTINCT! ORDER AND CHAOS! PLEASE WELCOME YOUR COMPETITORS!"
Iris emerged from the west tunnel.
She moved like wind through grass—unhurried, natural, utterly unselfconscious. Her purple hair was tied high, catching the light like a banner. Her pink-and-white robes flowed around her, embroidered with dragon motifs that seemed to shimmer as she walked. Her smile was wide, genuine, and completely devoid of fear.
Officer Jenny emerged from the east tunnel.
Her teal-blue hair was pulled back in its signature ponytail, not a strand out of place. Her navy uniform was crisp, pressed, adorned with badges that caught the light like tiny mirrors. She walked with military precision, each step measured, each movement economical. Her green eyes swept the arena once, cataloging, calculating.
They took their positions on opposite ends of the central platform.
The announcer's voice dropped to a dramatic whisper that somehow carried to every corner of the stadium.
"THIS MATCH WILL BE THREE-ON-THREE! THE FIRST TRAINER TO DEFEAT ALL THREE OF THEIR OPPONENT'S POKÉMON WILL ADVANCE TO THE QUARTERFINALS!"
Iris bounced on the balls of her feet. Jenny stood perfectly still.
"TRAINERS! BEGIN!"
Iris threw first.
"Dragonite!"
The dragon-flying type materialized in a burst of golden light and swirling wind. It was massive—easily the largest Pokémon Iris commanded—its body sleek and powerful, its wings spreading wide, its eyes burning with ancient intelligence. It landed on the platform with a thud that vibrated through the arena's foundations.
Jenny didn't flinch.
"Arcanine."
The fire type materialized in a swirl of crimson and gold. It was enormous—its mane blazing like a wildfire, its muscles rippling beneath its striped fur, its eyes locked on Dragonite with predatory focus. It didn't wait for orders. It simply growled—a sound that rumbled through the platform like distant thunder.
Iris grinned. "A fire type against my Dragonite? Bold choice, Officer."
"Strategy isn't about type advantage," Jenny said. "It's about timing."
"We'll see."
"Dragonite. Dragon Dance."
The dragon-flying type's body glowed.
It began to move—slow, sinuous, hypnotic. Its muscles coiled and released. Its wings beat in a rhythm that seemed to warp the air around it. Its attack power rose. Its speed sharpened.
"Arcanine. Extreme Speed."
The fire type vanished.
It reappeared behind Dragonite in a blur of orange and gold, its fangs sinking into the dragon's tail. Dragonite roared—more surprise than pain—and whipped around, its own tail lashing out in a counterattack.
Arcanine dodged. Barely.
"Good," Jenny said. "Again."
Arcanine attacked.
It was relentless—a storm of fangs and claws and blazing speed. It hit Dragonite from every angle, never staying in one place long enough to be countered. The dragon-flying type staggered, its body accumulating damage, its movements slowing.
"Dragonite! Outrage!"
The dragon-flying type's eyes blazed.
It erupted—a whirlwind of scales and fury, its body slamming into Arcanine with devastating force. The fire type flew backward, its massive body hitting the barrier with a crack that made the crowd wince.
But Arcanine rose.
It always rose.
"Arcanine. Play Rough."
The fire type's body glowed with fairy energy.
It lunged—faster than anything its size should have been able to move—and its paws slammed into Dragonite's chest. The dragon-flying type screamed, its body convulsing, its scales cracking.
"Dragonite! Hyper Beam!"
The dragon-flying type's mouth opened.
A beam of pure energy erupted from its body—a lance of light that screamed across the platform and hit Arcanine square in the chest. The fire type was thrown backward, its body smoking, its mane dimming.
"ARCANINE IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! DRAGONITE WINS THE FIRST ROUND!"
The crowd erupted.
Iris pumped her fist. "That's how we do it!"
Jenny recalled Arcanine.
Her expression didn't change.
"Acceptable," she said. "You've exceeded my expectations."
"I'm just getting started."
"You shouldn't." Jenny reached for her second Poké Ball. "Because now I'm going to show you what discipline really means."
She threw.
"Skuntank."
The poison-dark type materialized in a burst of purple and black. It was sleek—predatory, its fur gleaming like oil, its tail raised, its eyes gleaming with malice. It didn't move. Didn't attack. It simply stood there, watching Dragonite with patient hunger.
Iris's grin faltered.
"Skuntank," she said.
"Problem?"
"No." But her voice was tight. "Dragonite. Dragon Dance."
The dragon-flying type's body glowed.
But Skuntank was already moving.
It exhaled—a cloud of toxic gas that spread across the platform like a living thing. The poison seeped into Dragonite's scales, into its lungs, into its blood.
"Dragonite! Hyper Beam!"
The dragon-flying type fired.
But Skuntank was gone.
It appeared behind Dragonite—faster than thought, faster than light—and its claws raked across the dragon's back. Dragonite roared, its body convulsing, the poison spreading.
"Skuntank. Toxic."
The poison-dark type's body glowed.
Another cloud. Another wave. Dragonite staggered, its body failing, its eyes dimming.
"Dragonite! Outrage!"
The dragon-flying type tried.
But its body wouldn't cooperate. The poison held. The damage accumulated. It raised its head and fired—one last Hyper Beam, one last surge of defiance—and then it collapsed.
"DRAGONITE IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! SKUNTANK WINS THE SECOND ROUND!"
The crowd murmured.
Iris recalled Dragonite.
Her hands were shaking.
But her eyes were dry.
"Not bad," Jenny said.
"Shut up."
"Excuse me?"
"I said shut up." Iris reached for her second Poké Ball. "You haven't won yet."
She threw.
"Haxorus."
The dragon type materialized in a burst of green and gold. It was lean—aggressive, its tusks gleaming, its scales like armor, its eyes burning with fury. It didn't wait for orders. It simply charged.
"Haxorus! Dragon Claw!"
The dragon type's claws glowed.
It crossed the platform in a blur of green and gold and hit Skuntank square in the chest. The poison-dark type staggered, its body sparking, its fur singed.
"Skuntank. Sucker Punch."
The poison-dark type's body glowed.
It moved—faster than anything its size should have been able to move—and its paw slammed into Haxorus's jaw. The dragon type reeled, its head snapping back.
"Haxorus! Outrage!"
The dragon type's eyes blazed.
It erupted—a whirlwind of claws and fangs, its body slamming into Skuntank with devastating force. The poison-dark type flew backward, its body hitting the barrier with a crack.
"SKUNTANK IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! HAXORUS WINS THE THIRD ROUND!"
The crowd erupted.
Iris didn't celebrate. She simply waited.
Jenny recalled Skuntank.
Her expression didn't change.
But something shifted in her eyes. Something cold. Something calculating. Something that made Iris's blood run cold.
"Impressive," Jenny said. "You've forced me to use my final Pokémon."
"Damn right I have."
"Unfortunately for you..." Jenny reached for her final Poké Ball. "...my final Pokémon is the reason I'm going to win this tournament."
She threw.
"Dragalge."
The poison-dragon type materialized in a swirl of purple and green. It was elegant—serpentine, its body gliding through the air, its eyes burning with ancient malice. It didn't move. Didn't attack. It simply hovered there, watching Haxorus with patient hunger.
Iris's blood ran cold.
"Dragalge," she whispered.
She had seen this Pokémon before. Had watched it dismantle opponents with Toxic Spikes, with Sludge Wave, with Dragon Pulse. It was Jenny's signature. Her ace. Her final weapon.
"Problem?" Jenny asked.
"No," Iris said. But her voice was tight. Her hands were shaking.
"Then you won't mind if I continue." Jenny raised her hand. "Dragalge. Toxic Spikes."
The poison-dragon type's body glowed.
A storm of purple spikes erupted from its body—jagged, sharp, impossibly fast. They scattered across Iris's side of the platform, embedding themselves in the polished stone, waiting.
"Toxic Spikes," Iris said. "Hazard setup."
"Correct."
"But not smart enough." Iris pointed. "Haxorus. Dragon Claw."
The dragon type lunged.
But Dragalge was already moving.
It flowed like water, like smoke, like something that didn't obey the laws of physics. It dodged every swipe, every slash, every strike.
"Dragalge. Sludge Wave."
The poison-dragon type's body glowed.
A wave of toxic sludge erupted from its body—a tsunami of poison that engulfed Haxorus completely. The dragon type screamed, its body convulsing, its scales corroding.
"Haxorus! Outrage!"
The dragon type tried.
But the poison was spreading. Its systems were failing. It raised its head and roared—one last surge of defiance—and then it collapsed.
"HAXORUS IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! DRAGALGE WINS THE MATCH!"
The crowd erupted.
Iris recalled Haxorus.
Her hands were still.
Her eyes were dry.
But something in her chest was breaking.
"Not bad," Jenny said.
"Shut up."
"Excuse me?"
"I said shut up." Iris reached for her final Poké Ball. "You haven't won yet."
She threw.
"Goodra."
The dragon type materialized in a burst of purple and green. It was round—soft, its body glistening, its eyes bright with intelligence. It didn't move. Didn't attack. It simply stood there, watching Dragalge with quiet determination.
Jenny's eyes narrowed.
"Goodra," she said. "The dragon with the highest special defense in existence."
"He's my partner," Iris said. "And he's going to bury your Dragalge."
"We'll see."
"Goodra. Dragon Pulse."
The dragon type's body glowed.
A beam of pure energy erupted from its body—a lance of light that screamed across the platform and hit Dragalge square in the chest. The poison-dragon type staggered, its body sparking, its eyes flickering.
"Dragalge. Dragon Pulse."
The poison-dragon type fired.
But Goodra was ready.
It absorbed the attack—its body glowing, its defenses strengthening—and fired again. Another beam. Another impact. Dragalge reeled, its body trembling.
"Goodra. Sludge Bomb."
The dragon type's body glowed.
But Dragalge was already moving.
It dodged—faster than anything its size should have been able to move—and the attack missed. It hit the barrier behind it, exploding against the glass.
"Dragalge. Toxic."
The poison-dragon type's body glowed.
A wave of poison erupted from its body—a cloud, a mist, a death sentence. It hit Goodra square in the chest, and the dragon type shuddered, its body weakening.
"Goodra! Rest!"
The dragon type's body glowed.
It closed its eyes. Its breathing slowed. Its wounds healed.
But Dragalge was already attacking.
"Sludge Wave."
The poison-dragon type fired.
The wave hit Goodra square in the chest. The dragon type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes snapping open.
"Goodra! Dragon Pulse!"
The dragon type tried.
But Dragalge was relentless.
It attacked again and again—Sludge Wave, Dragon Pulse, Toxic—each strike more devastating than the last. Goodra staggered, its body failing, its eyes dimming.
And then—
"Goodra! Draco Meteor!"
The dragon type's eyes blazed.
It raised its head and roared—a sound that shook the arena, that rattled the barriers, that made the crowd gasp. The sky above the platform darkened. Meteors materialized from nothing—dozens of them, blazing with dragon energy—and rained down on Dragalge like the wrath of gods.
The poison-dragon type screamed.
The meteors hit—one, two, ten, twenty—each impact a thunderclap, each explosion a sunburst. Dragalge was engulfed in light and fire and fury.
And then—
Silence.
The smoke cleared.
Dragalge lay on the platform, its body still, its eyes closed.
"DRAGALGE IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! GOODRA WINS THE MATCH!"
The crowd erupted.
Iris stood on her platform.
Her hands were shaking.
Her eyes were wet.
But she was smiling.
She had won.
Jenny recalled Dragalge.
Her expression didn't change.
But something shifted in her eyes. Something cold. Something calculating. Something that made Iris's blood run cold.
"Impressive," Jenny said. "You've exceeded my expectations."
"I know."
"You shouldn't." Jenny turned and walked off her platform. "Because now you know the truth."
"What truth?"
Jenny stopped.
She didn't turn around.
"That no matter how hard you try," she said, "no matter how much you prepare, no matter how much you believe in yourself..." She paused. "You will never be good enough."
She disappeared into the tunnel.
Iris stood on her platform.
Her hands were still shaking.
But she was still smiling.
She had won.
And that was enough.
=====
The platform reset. The barriers hummed. The crowd settled into a restless murmur, their hunger for violence temporarily sated.
In the trainers' section, Briv exhaled.
"That was incredible," he said.
Patricia nodded. "Iris is something else. The way Goodra just—"
"Draco Meteor," Nicola finished. "I've only seen that move twice. Both times it ended the match."
Dariana leaned forward in her seat. Her dark eyes were bright. "Watch Belle," she said. "She's next."
The announcer's voice boomed across the stadium.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THE SECOND MATCH OF THE EVENING! A CLASH OF INTELLECT AND BRUTE FORCE! PLEASE WELCOME YOUR COMPETITORS!"
Belle emerged from the west tunnel.
She moved like a page turning—graceful, unhurried, her golden gown catching the light like sunlight through stained glass. Her chestnut hair was tied with a ribbon, her hazel eyes wide and curious. She carried a book under one arm—a small leather-bound volume that she set gently on the edge of her platform before turning to face her opponent.
Malik emerged from the east tunnel.
He moved like an avalanche—slow, inevitable, devastating. His broad shoulders filled the tunnel's mouth. His thick arms swung at his sides. His dark eyes blazed with mischief and malice. He cracked his knuckles and laughed—a booming sound that echoed off the crystal towers.
"LITTLE GIRL!" he shouted. "YOU READY TO GET CRUSHED?"
Belle didn't flinch.
"I'm ready to battle," she said. "Are you?"
Malik's laugh deepened.
"BEGIN!"
Belle threw first.
"Gardevoir."
The psychic-fairy type materialized in a swirl of white and green. It was elegant—slender, its gown-like body flowing, its red eyes calm, its movements precise. It didn't attack. It simply stood there, watching Malik with quiet intelligence.
Malik snorted.
"That's your Pokémon? A dancing twig?"
Belle didn't respond.
Malik threw.
"Conkeldurr."
The fighting type materialized in a burst of brown and gray. It was massive—its muscles bulging, its veins throbbing, its concrete pillars swinging at its sides. It landed on the platform with a thud that shook the barrier.
"Conkeldurr! Stone Edge!"
The fighting type lunged.
But Gardevoir was already moving.
It teleported—not fast, not dramatic, but just fast enough. The Stone Edge missed. The rocks shattered against the platform.
"Gardevoir. Psychic."
The psychic-fairy type's body glowed.
A wave of invisible energy erupted from its body—a pulse, a pressure, a force that hit Conkeldurr square in the chest. The fighting type staggered, its body trembling, its pillars dropping to its sides.
"The fuck?" Malik snarled.
"Again," Belle said.
Gardevoir fired.
Another wave. Another pulse. Conkeldurr reeled, its body sparking, its eyes crossing.
"Conkeldurr! Drain Punch!"
The fighting type tried.
But Gardevoir was already moving.
"Psychic," Belle said.
The wave hit Conkeldurr square in the chest. The fighting type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes rolling back.
"CONKELDURR IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! GARDEVOIR WINS THE FIRST ROUND!"
The crowd erupted.
Malik recalled Conkeldurr.
His face was purple with rage.
"You fucking bitch," he spat.
Belle didn't flinch.
"I'm sorry," she said. "But I don't speak to people who call me names."
She reached for her second Poké Ball.
Malik was already throwing.
"Machamp!"
The fighting type materialized in a burst of gray and blue. It was massive—its four arms flexing, its muscles rippling, its eyes blazing with fury. It didn't wait for orders. It simply charged.
"Machamp! Dynamic Punch!"
The fighting type lunged.
But Gardevoir was ready.
"Psychic."
The wave hit Machamp mid-air, and the fighting type was thrown backward. It hit the barrier with a crack, its body sparking, its arms flailing.
"Machamp! Stone Edge!"
The fighting type tried.
But Gardevoir was already moving.
"Psychic," Belle said.
The wave hit Machamp square in the chest. The fighting type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes rolling back.
"MACHAMP IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! GARDEVOIR WINS THE SECOND ROUND!"
The crowd erupted.
Malik recalled Machamp.
His hands were shaking.
"You—" he started.
"I know," Belle said. "I'm a bitch. I'm a whore. I'm whatever else you want to call me." She paused. "But I'm also winning."
She reached for her final Poké Ball.
Malik threw his.
"Conkeldurr!"
The fighting type materialized again—this time with a different look, its muscles larger, its pillars sharper, its eyes burning with desperate fury.
"Conkeldurr! Close Combat!"
The fighting type lunged.
But Belle was ready.
"Gardevoir. Moonblast."
The psychic-fairy type's body glowed.
A sphere of pure fairy energy erupted from its body—a moon, a star, a force that hit Conkeldurr square in the chest. The fighting type flew backward, its body hitting the barrier with a crack.
"Again," Belle said.
Gardevoir fired.
Another moon. Another impact. Conkeldurr reeled, its body trembling, its eyes dimming.
"CONKELDURR IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! GARDEVOIR WINS THE MATCH!"
The crowd erupted.
Belle recalled Gardevoir.
She didn't pump her fist. Didn't shout. Didn't gloat. She simply looked at Malik—calm, steady, unafraid—and smiled.
"Good match," she said.
Malik stood on his platform.
His face was purple. His hands were shaking. His mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air.
"You—" he started.
"Goodbye," Belle said.
She turned and walked off the platform.
Malik stood there for a long moment. Then he turned and stormed into his tunnel, his footsteps echoing like thunder.
The crowd cheered.
Briv watched from the stands.
His hands were shaking.
"Remind me," he said, "never to get on Belle's bad side."
Patricia laughed. "She's a reader. She probably knows exactly how to destroy you."
"That's terrifying."
"That's impressive."
Dariana nodded. "Malik's been bullying opponents for years. She just dismantled him without breaking a sweat."
"She didn't even use her other two Pokémon."
"Didn't need to."
They watched as the screens flickered again.
The bracket updated. Iris advanced. Belle advanced.
The Round of Sixteen continued.
And the storm was still coming.