Chapter 114: Nicola VS Rhomir
The screens flickered. The bracket shifted. The names rearranged themselves with the cold indifference of fate.
Briv watched from the trainers' section as the graphics animated across every display in the arena. The crowd's murmur swelled into something sharper—anticipation, hunger, the particular electricity that preceded violence.
Patricia's hand found his. Her fingers were cold.
"She's next," she said.
"I know."
The announcer's voice erupted from the speakers, filling every corner of the stadium with theatrical bombast.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THE FOURTH MATCH OF THE EVENING! A CLASH OF YOUTH AND EXPERIENCE! AMBITION AND MASTERY! PLEASE WELCOME YOUR COMPETITORS!"
Nicola emerged from the west tunnel.
She walked with her shoulders back, her chin high, her blonde hair catching the floodlights like spun gold. Her black jacket was unzipped, revealing the dark tank top beneath. Her boots clicked against the polished stone with each step—measured, deliberate, unafraid.
But Briv knew her too well. He saw the tension in her jaw. The way her fingers curled and uncurled at her sides. The slight quickening of her breath.
She was terrified.
She was also furious.
Rhomir emerged from the east tunnel.
He moved like a man who had nothing to prove. His stride was loose, almost lazy. His messy blonde hair fell across his forehead in careless waves. His blue eyes swept the arena once—cataloging, calculating—and then settled on Nicola with something that might have been amusement.
He was thirty-five years old. Eleven years her senior.
He was also built like a mountain.
His shoulders strained the fabric of his dark green jacket. His forearms were corded with muscle. His jaw was set, his short beard trimmed neat, his presence radiating the kind of quiet confidence that came from years of surviving things most people couldn't imagine.
They took their positions on opposite ends of the central platform.
The announcer's voice dropped to a dramatic whisper.
"THIS MATCH WILL BE THREE-ON-THREE! THE FIRST TRAINER TO DEFEAT ALL THREE OF THEIR OPPONENT'S POKÉMON WILL ADVANCE TO THE QUARTERFINALS!"
The crowd erupted.
Rhomir smiled.
It wasn't a cruel smile. Wasn't even a mocking one. It was the smile of a man who had seen this exact moment play out a hundred times before—and knew exactly how it would end.
"Good luck," he said. His voice was low, rough, almost kind. "You're going to need it."
Nicola's eyes narrowed.
"I don't need luck," she said. "I need you to shut up and fight."
Rhomir's smile widened.
"Fair enough."
"TRAINERS! BEGIN!"
Nicola threw first.
"Magnezone!"
The electric-steel type materialized in a burst of silver light and humming static. It hovered above the platform, its saucer-shaped body rotating slowly, its single red eye scanning the battlefield with mechanical precision. The air around it crackled with latent electricity.
Rhomir didn't rush.
He reached into his jacket with deliberate slowness, withdrew a Poké Ball, and tossed it underhand.
"Golem."
The rock-ground type materialized in a swirl of brown and gray. It was massive—its spherical body covered in thick plates, its arms and legs sturdy, its face set in a permanent scowl. It landed with a thud that shook the platform.
Magnezone's eye flickered. Analyzing. Calculating.
"Golem," Rhomir said. "Stealth Rock."
The rock-ground type's body glowed.
Jagged stones erupted from the platform—not attacking Magnezone, but scattering across Nicola's side of the field, embedding themselves in the polished obsidian. They waited. Hungry.
"Hazard setup," Briv muttered. "Smart."
"Too smart," Dariana said from beside him. "He's not trying to win the first exchange. He's trying to control the entire match."
Nicola saw it too.
Her jaw tightened.
"Magnezone. Flash Cannon."
The electric-steel type's body glowed.
A beam of silvery energy erupted from its eye—a lance of light that screamed across the platform and hit Golem square in the chest. The rock-ground type staggered, its plates cracking, but it didn't fall.
"Golem. Earthquake."
The rock-ground type's body glowed.
The platform shook.
Magnezone hovered above the ground, but the shockwave still hit—vibrating through its metallic body, rattling its internal components. It dipped in the air, its eye flickering.
"Magnezone! Thunderbolt!"
The electric-steel type's body crackled.
Lightning erupted from its body—a storm of electricity that engulfed Golem completely. The rock-ground type screamed, its body convulsing, its plates shattering.
"GOLEM IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! MAGNEZONE WINS THE FIRST ROUND!"
The crowd cheered.
Rhomir recalled Golem.
He didn't look disappointed.
He looked satisfied.
"Good," he said. "You're aggressive. That's useful."
"Useful for what?"
"For me." Rhomir reached for his second Poké Ball. "You've shown me how you fight. Now I'm going to show you why it doesn't matter."
He threw.
"Rhyperior."
The rock-ground type materialized in a burst of brown and gray. It was enormous—easily the largest Pokémon on the platform, its body covered in thick armor, its arms ending in massive drills, its face set in a permanent snarl. It didn't wait for orders. It simply roared.
The sound shook the barriers.
Nicola's blood ran cold.
Rhyperior. The drill Pokémon. One of the most physically powerful rock types in existence.
"Magnezone. Flash Cannon."
The electric-steel type fired.
The beam hit Rhyperior square in the face.
The rock-ground type didn't flinch.
"Rhyperior," Rhomir said. "Rock Wrecker."
The rock-ground type's body glowed.
It raised its arms—and a boulder the size of a small car materialized from nothing, wreathed in orange energy. It hurled the boulder across the platform with terrifying speed.
Magnezone tried to dodge.
It wasn't fast enough.
The boulder hit the electric-steel type square in the body, and Magnezone was thrown backward. It hit the barrier with a crack that made the crowd wince.
"MAGNEZONE IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! RHYPERIOR WINS THE SECOND ROUND!"
The crowd gasped.
Nicola recalled Magnezone.
Her hands were shaking.
"Not bad," Rhomir said. "But you're fighting like you have something to prove. That's a weakness."
"Shut up."
"It means you're predictable." Rhomir's blue eyes were calm. Almost gentle. "You're so focused on winning that you've forgotten how to adapt."
Nicola's jaw tightened.
She reached for her second Poké Ball.
"Bastiodon."
The rock-steel type materialized in a burst of gray and blue. It was massive—its body covered in thick armor, its face a shield of solid metal, its legs sturdy and planted. It didn't move. Didn't attack. It simply stood there, an immovable wall.
Rhomir's eyes narrowed.
"Bastiodon," he said. "The shield Pokémon."
"That's right."
"You think defense will save you?"
"I think you're about to find out."
"Rhyperior. Earthquake."
The rock-ground type's body glowed.
The platform shook.
Bastiodon didn't move.
The shockwave hit—a force that should have sent the rock-steel type flying—but Bastiodon absorbed it. Its body glowed with metallic energy. Its defenses held.
"Bastiodon. Metal Burst."
The rock-steel type's body glowed.
A wave of metallic energy erupted from its body—a pulse, a force, a counterattack that hit Rhyperior square in the chest. The rock-ground type staggered, its body sparking, its armor cracking.
"Rhyperior. Rock Wrecker."
The rock-ground type fired.
Another boulder. Another impact. Bastiodon absorbed it—barely—and fired again.
"Metal Burst."
Another wave.
Rhyperior reeled.
The crowd was on their feet.
"Rhyperior! Drill Run!"
The rock-ground type lunged.
It crossed the platform in a blur of brown and gray, its drills spinning, its eyes blazing. It hit Bastiodon square in the face—and the rock-steel type slid backward, its feet carving furrows in the platform.
But it didn't fall.
"Bastiodon. Metal Burst."
Another wave.
Rhyperior screamed.
"RHYPERIOR IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! BASTIODON WINS THE THIRD ROUND!"
The crowd erupted.
Rhomir recalled Rhyperior.
His expression didn't change.
But something shifted in his eyes. Something cold. Something calculating. Something that made Nicola's blood run cold.
"Impressive," he said. "You've forced me to use my final Pokémon."
"Damn right I have."
"Unfortunately for you..." Rhomir reached for his final Poké Ball. "...my final Pokémon is the reason I'm going to win this tournament."
He threw.
"Tyranitar."
The rock-dark type materialized in a burst of green and black. It was enormous—easily the largest Pokémon in the arena, its body armored in thick plates, its arms tipped with massive claws, its eyes burning with ancient fury. It didn't roar. It didn't attack. It simply stood there, a mountain of muscle and malice, and the sky above the platform darkened.
Sand began to swirl.
"Sand Stream," Dariana whispered. "His ability. It summons a sandstorm the moment he enters the field."
Briv's chest tightened.
The sandstorm intensified—a whirlwind of grit and fury that engulfed the platform. Visibility dropped. The crowd's cheers became distant, muffled, like sounds from another world.
Bastiodon was trapped in the storm.
"Bastiodon. Metal Burst."
The rock-steel type fired.
The wave hit Tyranitar square in the chest.
The rock-dark type didn't flinch.
"Tyranitar," Rhomir said. "Earthquake."
The rock-dark type's body glowed.
The platform shook.
The shockwave hit Bastiodon like a freight train. The rock-steel type screamed—its body convulsing, its defenses shattering—and then it collapsed.
"BASTIODON IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! TYRANITAR WINS THE FOURTH ROUND!"
The crowd gasped.
Nicola recalled Bastiodon.
Her hands were steady now.
Her eyes were dry.
She had one Pokémon left.
"You've done well," Rhomir said. "Better than most. But this is where it ends."
Nicola didn't respond.
She reached for her final Poké Ball.
"Tangrowth."
The grass type materialized in a burst of blue and green. It was massive—its body covered in thick vines, its eyes peering through the tangle, its arms long and powerful. It landed on the platform with a thud, and the sandstorm swirled around it without effect.
Rhomir's eyes narrowed.
"Tangrowth," he said. "The vine Pokémon."
"He's my partner," Nicola said. "And he's going to bury your Tyranitar."
"We'll see."
"Tyranitar. Stone Edge."
The rock-dark type's body glowed.
Jagged stones erupted from the platform—a storm of rocks and fury that screamed toward Tangrowth. The grass type didn't dodge. Didn't flinch. It simply raised its arms and absorbed the impact.
"Tangrowth. Giga Drain."
The grass type's body glowed.
Vines erupted from its body—dozens of them, thick and powerful—and wrapped around Tyranitar. The rock-dark type roared, its energy draining, its body weakening.
"Tyranitar. Crunch."
The rock-dark type lunged.
Its jaws closed around Tangrowth's arm—and the grass type screamed, its vines retracting, its body sparking.
"Tangrowth! Power Whip!"
The grass type's body glowed.
Its arm elongated—a whip of pure green energy—and slammed into Tyranitar's face. The rock-dark type staggered, its body trembling, its eyes crossing.
"Tyranitar. Stone Edge."
Another storm. Another impact. Tangrowth absorbed it—barely—and fired again.
"Giga Drain."
Vines wrapped around Tyranitar.
The rock-dark type roared.
The sandstorm intensified.
"Tyranitar. Earthquake!"
The platform shook.
Tangrowth staggered—its body convulsing, its vines retracting—but it didn't fall.
"Tangrowth! Power Whip!"
Another whip. Another impact. Tyranitar reeled, its body sparking.
"Tyranitar! Crunch!"
The rock-dark type lunged.
Its jaws closed around Tangrowth's body—and the grass type screamed, its vines flailing, its eyes dimming.
"Tangrowth! Giga Drain!"
The grass type's body glowed.
Vines erupted from its body—more than before, thicker than before—and wrapped around Tyranitar. The rock-dark type roared, its energy draining, its body weakening.
The sandstorm raged.
The crowd held its breath.
And then—
"TANGROWTH! POWER WHIP!"
The grass type's body glowed.
Its arm elongated—a whip of pure green energy, blazing with desperate fury—and slammed into Tyranitar's face. The rock-dark type staggered. Its body trembled. Its eyes crossed.
And then it fell.
"TYRANITAR IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! TANGROWTH WINS THE MATCH!"
The crowd erupted.
The sandstorm faded.
Nicola stood on her platform.
Her hands were shaking.
Her eyes were wet.
But she was smiling.
She had won.
Rhomir recalled Tyranitar.
His expression didn't change.
But something shifted in his eyes. Something cold. Something calculating. Something that made Nicola's blood run cold.
"Impressive," he said. "You've exceeded my expectations."
"I know."
"You shouldn't." Rhomir turned and walked off his platform. "Because now you know the truth."
"What truth?"
Rhomir 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.
Nicola stood on her platform.
Her hands were still shaking.
But she was still smiling.
She had won.
And that was enough.
Briv was on his feet before he realized he'd moved. Patricia was beside him, her hand gripping his arm, her eyes bright with tears she refused to shed. Dariana was already pushing through the crowd toward the tunnel entrance.
"Nicola!" Briv shouted.
She turned.
Her face was flushed, her hair wild, her eyes blazing with triumph and exhaustion and something that looked almost like disbelief.
"I did it," she said. "I actually did it."
Briv caught her in a hug before he could think better of it. She stiffened for half a second—then melted into him, her arms wrapping around his waist, her face buried in his shoulder.
"You were incredible," he said.
"I know."
He laughed.
"I mean it. That was—"
"I know." She pulled back, her eyes meeting his. "But it's not over. I still have to face whoever wins the next match."
"One step at a time."
"One step at a time."
Patricia appeared beside them. Her smile was warm, genuine, but there was something careful in her eyes—something that acknowledged the complicated geometry of their relationships without commenting on it.
"Congratulations," she said. "You were amazing."
Nicola's expression softened.
"Thanks, Patricia."
They stood there for a moment—three trainers, three friends, bound by something more complicated than words could capture.
Then Dariana's voice cut through the noise.
"Next match is starting."
They turned.
The screens flickered. The bracket shifted.
Gwen VS Kim.
The storm was still coming.
=====
The storm was still coming.
Gwen stood in the tunnel's mouth, her back pressed against cold stone, her breath misting in the artificial chill of the arena's underbelly. Her short black hair—streaked with turquoise—was damp at the temples. Her dark eyeliner had smudged, just slightly, from the sweat of her qualifying matches.
She could hear the crowd beyond the wall. Fifty thousand voices, maybe more, all hungry for spectacle.
Her hands wouldn't stop trembling.
"You're up."
She turned.
Kim Possible stood three feet away, arms crossed, auburn hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. Her green eyes were sharp, assessing, utterly without malice. She wore cargo pants and a fitted crop top, her gloves already on, her posture relaxed but ready.
"I know," Gwen said.
"You nervous?"
"Terrified."
Kim smiled. It wasn't mocking. "Good. That means you care."
Gwen blinked. "That's... not what I expected you to say."
"What did you expect?"
"Something cheerleader-y. Like 'you've got this' or 'believe in yourself.'"
Kim laughed—a genuine, warm sound that echoed off the tunnel walls. "I'm not a cheerleader anymore. I'm a trainer. And trainers who don't get nervous before big matches are either lying or dead inside."
Gwen studied her for a moment.
"You're not what I expected either."
"Neither are you." Kim's eyes flicked to Gwen's choker, her striped sleeves, her scuffed boots. "I watched your last match. You beat John Alburth with a Pokémon that wasn't even yours."
"Umbreon. He's a friend's."
"You fought like he was your own." Kim uncrossed her arms. "That takes something."
"Takes what?"
"Instinct. Trust. The ability to read a Pokémon you don't know and make it fight like you've been partners for years." Kim tilted her head. "Most trainers can't do that."
Gwen felt something shift in her chest.
"I just... listened to him. That's all."
"Exactly." Kim extended her hand. "Good luck out there. I mean it."
Gwen stared at the offered hand.
Then she took it.
"Same to you," she said. "But I'm not going to make it easy."
"I'd be disappointed if you did."
The announcer's voice thundered through the tunnel.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THE FIFTH MATCH OF THE EVENING! A CLASH OF PRODIGY AND PERSEVERANCE! PLEASE WELCOME YOUR COMPETITORS!"
Kim released her hand and walked toward the east tunnel entrance.
Gwen watched her go.
Then she turned toward the west.
The crowd's roar intensified as she stepped into the light.
The arena was blinding—floodlights angled to eliminate shadow, the polished obsidian platform gleaming like a dark mirror. The barriers hummed with energy. The air smelled of ozone and anticipation.
Gwen walked to her platform.
Kim walked to hers.
They faced each other across fifty feet of polished stone.
The announcer's voice dropped to a theatrical whisper.
"THIS MATCH WILL BE THREE-ON-THREE! THE FIRST TRAINER TO DEFEAT ALL THREE OF THEIR OPPONENT'S POKÉMON WILL ADVANCE TO THE QUARTERFINALS!"
The crowd erupted.
Gwen's hands were still trembling.
She reached for her first Poké Ball anyway.
"TRAINERS! BEGIN!"
Kim threw first.
"Hitmonlee!"
The fighting type materialized in a burst of brown and cream. It was lean—all muscle and tendon, its legs coiled like springs, its eyes burning with focused intensity. It didn't wait for orders. It simply bounced on the balls of its feet, its breathing controlled, its body ready.
Gwen didn't flinch.
"Umbreon."
The dark type materialized in a swirl of black and gold. It was sleek—its fur gleaming like oil, its rings glowing faintly, its red eyes calm and watchful. It didn't move. Didn't attack. It simply stood there, reading the battlefield.
Kim's eyes narrowed.
"Umbreon," she said. "Interesting choice."
"He's full of surprises."
"We'll see." Kim raised her hand. "Hitmonlee. Fake Out."
The fighting type lunged.
It crossed the platform in a blur of brown and cream—faster than thought, faster than breath—and its palm slammed into Umbreon's face. The dark type flinched, its head snapping back.
Gwen's jaw tightened.
"Umbreon. Foul Play."
The dark type's body glowed.
It moved—faster than anything its size should have been able to move—and its paws slammed into Hitmonlee's chest. The fighting type staggered, its body sparking, its momentum reversed.
"What the—" Kim started.
"Foul Play uses your Pokémon's attack power against him," Gwen said. "The stronger Hitmonlee is, the harder he hits himself."
Kim's eyes widened.
Then she smiled.
"Clever," she said. "Hitmonlee. Close Combat."
The fighting type lunged.
It was relentless—a storm of kicks and punches and flying knees, its body moving faster than the eye could track. Umbreon tried to dodge, tried to counter, but the assault was overwhelming.
"Umbreon! Protect!"
The dark type's body glowed.
A barrier materialized—a shimmering shield of green energy—and Hitmonlee's attacks bounced off it harmlessly. The fighting type staggered, its momentum broken.
"Umbreon. Dark Pulse."
The dark type's body glowed.
A wave of dark energy erupted from its body—a pulse, a force, a shadow that hit Hitmonlee square in the chest. The fighting type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes rolling back.
"HITMONLEE IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! UMBREON WINS THE FIRST ROUND!"
The crowd erupted.
Kim recalled Hitmonlee.
Her expression didn't change.
"Good," she said. "You're better than I thought."
"I'm just getting started."
Kim reached for her second Poké Ball.
"Primeape."
The fighting type materialized in a burst of white and gray. It was compact—all fury and muscle, its eyes blazing with barely contained rage, its fists clenched at its sides. It didn't wait for orders. It simply charged.
"Primeape! Rage Fist!"
The fighting type lunged.
But Umbreon was ready.
"Protect."
The barrier materialized.
Primeape's fist slammed into it—and the barrier held. The fighting type screamed in frustration, its body trembling, its rage intensifying.
"Primeape! Close Combat!"
The fighting type attacked.
It was relentless—a storm of punches and kicks, each strike harder than the last. Umbreon dodged, weaved, tried to counter—but Primeape was too fast, too furious, too relentless.
"Umbreon! Foul Play!"
The dark type fired.
But Primeape was already moving.
It dodged—faster than anything its size should have been able to move—and its fist slammed into Umbreon's side. The dark type reeled, its body sparking, its rings flickering.
"Umbreon! Dark Pulse!"
The dark type tried.
But Primeape was relentless.
It attacked again and again—Rage Fist, Close Combat, Rage Fist—each strike more devastating than the last. Umbreon staggered, its body failing, its eyes dimming.
"UMBREON IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! PRIMEAPE WINS THE SECOND ROUND!"
The crowd gasped.
Gwen recalled Umbreon.
Her hands were steady now.
Her eyes were dry.
"You're good," she said.
"I know." Kim reached for her final Poké Ball. "But this is where it ends."
She threw.
"Lucario."
The fighting-steel type materialized in a burst of blue and black. It was lean—elegant, its body rippling with muscle, its red eyes calm and intelligent, its aura radiating quiet power. It didn't move. Didn't attack. It simply stood there, reading the battlefield.
Gwen's blood ran cold.
Lucario. The aura Pokémon.
"Where did you get that?" she asked.
"Trained him myself," Kim said. "From a Riolu. Took three years."
"Three years."
"Worth every second." Kim's eyes locked on Gwen's. "Now show me what you've got."
Gwen reached for her second Poké Ball.
"Honchkrow."
The dark-flying type materialized in a burst of black and purple. It was sleek—its feathers gleaming like obsidian, its red eyes sharp and cunning, its crest rising like a crown. It didn't wait for orders. It simply launched itself into the air.
"Honchkrow! Brave Bird!"
The dark-flying type lunged.
It crossed the platform in a blur of black and purple—faster than thought, faster than breath—and its body slammed into Lucario with devastating force. The fighting-steel type staggered, its body sparking, its aura flickering.
"Lucario. Aura Sphere."
The fighting-steel type's body glowed.
A sphere of pure energy materialized—a orb of blue light, blazing with power—and it fired. The attack hit Honchkrow square in the chest, and the dark-flying type reeled, its body convulsing.
"Honchkrow! Dark Pulse!"
The dark-flying type's body glowed.
A wave of dark energy erupted from its body—a pulse, a force, a shadow that hit Lucario square in the chest. The fighting-steel type staggered, its body trembling.
"Lucario. Close Combat."
The fighting-steel type lunged.
It was relentless—a storm of kicks and punches, each strike precise, each movement calculated. Honchkrow tried to dodge, tried to counter, but Lucario was too fast, too disciplined, too perfect.
"Honchkrow! Sucker Punch!"
The dark-flying type's body glowed.
It moved—faster than anything its size should have been able to move—and its wing slammed into Lucario's chest. The fighting-steel type reeled, its body sparking, its aura flickering.
"Lucario. Extreme Speed."
The fighting-steel type lunged.
It was faster now—faster than before, faster than anything Honchkrow could track—and its fist slammed into the dark-flying type's body. Honchkrow screamed, its body convulsing, its wings failing.
"HONCHKROW IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! LUCARIO WINS THE THIRD ROUND!"
The crowd erupted.
Gwen recalled Honchkrow.
Her hands were shaking again.
But her eyes were dry.
She had one Pokémon left.
"You've done well," Kim said. "Better than most. But this is where it ends."
Gwen didn't respond.
She reached for her final Poké Ball.
"Toxicroak."
The poison-fighting type materialized in a burst of blue and red. It was lean—dangerous, its throat sac pulsing, its claws sharp, its eyes burning with cunning. It didn't wait for orders. It simply crouched, its body coiled, its poison ready.
Kim's eyes narrowed.
"Toxicroak," she said. "Interesting."
"He's not mine either," Gwen said. "But he listens."
"To you?"
"To the fight." Gwen's eyes met Kim's. "That's all that matters."
Kim studied her for a long moment.
Then she nodded.
"Lucario. Aura Sphere."
The fighting-steel type fired.
But Toxicroak was already moving.
It dodged—faster than anything its size should have been able to move—and its claws raked across Lucario's side. The fighting-steel type reeled, its body sparking, its aura flickering.
"Lucario. Close Combat."
The fighting-steel type lunged.
But Toxicroak was ready.
"Toxicroak. Poison Jab."
The poison-fighting type's claws glowed.
It moved—faster than thought, faster than breath—and its fist slammed into Lucario's chest. The fighting-steel type staggered, its body trembling, its aura flickering.
"Lucario. Extreme Speed."
The fighting-steel type lunged.
It was faster now—faster than before, faster than anything Toxicroak could track—and its fist slammed into the poison-fighting type's body. Toxicroak screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes dimming.
But it didn't fall.
"Toxicroak! Sucker Punch!"
The poison-fighting type's body glowed.
It moved—faster than anything its size should have been able to move—and its fist slammed into Lucario's chest. The fighting-steel type reeled, its body sparking, its aura flickering.
"Lucario! Aura Sphere!"
The fighting-steel type fired.
The attack hit Toxicroak square in the chest. The poison-fighting type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes rolling back.
But it didn't fall.
"Toxicroak! Gunk Shot!"
The poison-fighting type's body glowed.
It fired—a glob of toxic sludge, blazing with poison energy—and it hit Lucario square in the face. The fighting-steel type staggered, its body trembling, its aura flickering.
"Lucario! Close Combat!"
The fighting-steel type lunged.
It was relentless—a storm of kicks and punches, each strike harder than the last. Toxicroak tried to dodge, tried to counter—but Lucario was too fast, too disciplined, too perfect.
And then—
"Toxicroak! Poison Jab!"
The poison-fighting type's claws glowed.
It moved—faster than thought, faster than breath—and its fist slammed into Lucario's chest. The fighting-steel type staggered. Its body trembled. Its eyes crossed.
And then it fell.
"LUCARIO IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! TOXICROAK WINS THE MATCH!"
The crowd erupted.
Gwen stood on her platform.
Her hands were shaking.
Her eyes were wet.
But she was smiling.
She had won.
Kim recalled Lucario.
Her expression didn't change.
But something shifted in her eyes. Something warm. Something respectful. Something that made Gwen's chest tighten.
"Impressive," Kim said. "You've exceeded my expectations."
"I know."
"You shouldn't." Kim turned and walked off her platform. "Because now you know the truth."
"What truth?"
Kim 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.
Gwen stood on her platform.
Her hands were still shaking.
But she was still smiling.
She had won.
And that was enough.
Briv watched from the trainers' section as Gwen walked off the platform. Her steps were unsteady. Her face was pale. But her shoulders were squared, her chin was high, and she didn't look back.
"She did it," Patricia said.
"She did."
"Against Kim Possible."
"Against Kim Possible."
Dariana leaned forward in her seat. "That girl is something else. She fought with two Pokémon that weren't even hers and won."
"She listens," Briv said. "That's her gift. She doesn't try to control the battle. She just... responds."
"Like water."
"Like water."
The screens flickered.
The bracket updated.
Gwen advanced.
The Round of Sixteen continued.
And the storm was still coming.