Chapter 115: Chigusa VS Dariana
The screens flickered.
The bracket shifted.
The names rearranged themselves with the cold indifference of fate, and Briv felt his stomach tighten as he read them.
Chigusa VS Dariana.
He turned to look at Dariana. She was already on her feet, her dark eyes fixed on the display, her expression unreadable. The stadium lights caught the highlights in her long brown hair, turned them almost golden. She was wearing black tonight—a fitted tank top, athletic shorts that hugged her hips, sleek trainers. Practical. Ready.
"Dariana," Patricia said softly.
"I know."
"She's a fighting-type specialist. That's—"
"I know." Dariana turned, and her smile was sharp and bright and absolutely fearless. "I've been watching her all tournament. She's good. Really good."
"And you?"
Dariana's smile widened.
"I'm better."
She walked toward the tunnel without looking back.
Briv watched her go, and something cold settled in his chest. He had seen Dariana battle before—countless times, in training and in tournaments and in the quiet hours before dawn when neither of them could sleep and the only thing that made sense was the rhythm of combat. She was brilliant. Elegant. Deadly.
But Chigusa was something else entirely.
He had watched her qualifying matches. The pink-haired fighter from a small town nobody had ever heard of, with a team of fighting types that moved like they shared a single heartbeat. She fought with discipline, with precision, with a kind of controlled fury that reminded him of Nicola at her most dangerous.
This would not be easy.
"Hey." Patricia's hand found his. "She's going to be fine."
"You don't know that."
"No." Patricia squeezed his fingers. "But I know her. And I know she doesn't lose."
Briv wanted to believe that.
He really did.
The announcer's voice erupted from the speakers, filling every corner of the stadium with theatrical bombast.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THE FINAL MATCH OF THE ROUND OF SIXTEEN! A CLASH OF GRACE AND FURY! ELEGANCE AND POWER! PLEASE WELCOME YOUR COMPETITORS!"
Dariana emerged from the west tunnel.
She moved like water—fluid, unhurried, every step deliberate. Her dark eyes swept the arena once, cataloging the crowd, the lights, the polished obsidian platform. Then they settled on her opponent.
Chigusa emerged from the east tunnel.
She was smaller than Dariana—compact and muscular, her short pink hair spiked with sweat, her brown eyes burning with focused intensity. She wore a red and black fighting gi, the sleeves rolled to her elbows, her knuckles wrapped in white tape. She didn't look at the crowd. Didn't look at the lights.
She looked only at Dariana.
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.
Chigusa's expression didn't change.
"You're Dariana Brightone," she said. Her voice was low, rough, almost respectful. "I've watched your matches."
"And I've watched yours."
"Then you know I don't lose."
Dariana smiled.
It wasn't cruel. Wasn't even mocking. It was the smile of a woman who had spent years learning exactly how dangerous she was—and exactly how to use that knowledge.
"Neither do I," she said.
"TRAINERS! BEGIN!"
Chigusa threw first.
"Machamp!"
The fighting type materialized in a burst of gray and blue. It was massive—easily seven feet tall, its body rippling with four muscular arms, its face set in a permanent scowl. It didn't wait for orders. It simply flexed, its muscles bunching, its breathing controlled.
Dariana's eyes narrowed.
"Gallade."
The psychic-fighting type materialized in a swirl of white and green. It was elegant—lean and tall, its blade-like arms gleaming, its red eyes calm and intelligent. It didn't move. Didn't attack. It simply stood there, reading the battlefield, its every motion deliberate.
Chigusa's jaw tightened.
"Machamp. Bullet Punch."
The fighting type lunged.
It crossed the platform in a blur of gray and blue—faster than thought, faster than breath—and its fist slammed into Gallade's chest. The psychic-fighting type staggered, its body sparking, its eyes flickering.
But it didn't fall.
"Gallade. Psycho Cut."
The psychic-fighting type's body glowed.
Its blade-arms ignited with psychic energy—a shimmering purple light that cut through the air like a scythe. The attack hit Machamp square in the chest, and the fighting type reeled, its body convulsing.
"Machamp! Close Combat!"
The fighting type lunged.
It was relentless—a storm of punches from all four arms, each strike harder than the last. Gallade tried to dodge, tried to counter, but Machamp was too fast, too strong, too overwhelming.
"Gallade! Protect!"
The psychic-fighting type's body glowed.
A barrier materialized—a shimmering shield of green energy—and Machamp's attacks bounced off it harmlessly. The fighting type staggered, its momentum broken.
"Gallade. Zen Headbutt."
The psychic-fighting type lunged.
Its head glowed with psychic energy—a shimmering corona of purple light—and it slammed into Machamp's chest. The fighting type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes rolling back.
"MACHAMP IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! GALLADE WINS THE FIRST ROUND!"
The crowd erupted.
Chigusa recalled Machamp.
Her expression didn't change.
"Good," she said. "You're fast."
"I'm just getting started."
Chigusa reached for her second Poké Ball.
"Hitmonchan."
The fighting type materialized in a burst of brown and cream. It was lean—all muscle and tendon, its fists wrapped in red gloves, 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.
Dariana's eyes narrowed.
"Gallade. Psycho Cut."
The psychic-fighting type fired.
But Hitmonchan was already moving.
It dodged—faster than anything its size should have been able to move—and its fist slammed into Gallade's side. The psychic-fighting type reeled, its body sparking.
"Hitmonchan! Thunder Punch!"
The fighting type's fist crackled with electricity.
It lunged—faster than thought, faster than breath—and its fist slammed into Gallade's chest. The psychic-fighting type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes dimming.
"Gallade! Close Combat!"
The psychic-fighting type lunged.
It was relentless—a storm of blade-strikes, each one precise, each one deadly. Hitmonchan tried to dodge, tried to counter—but Gallade was too fast, too disciplined, too perfect.
"Hitmonchan! Ice Punch!"
The fighting type's fist glowed with frost.
It lunged—and its fist slammed into Gallade's chest. The psychic-fighting type staggered, its body trembling, its eyes flickering.
But it didn't fall.
"Gallade! Psycho Cut!"
The psychic-fighting type's body glowed.
Its blade-arms ignited—a shimmering purple light that cut through the air like a scythe. The attack hit Hitmonchan square in the chest, and the fighting type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes rolling back.
"HITMONCHAN IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! GALLADE WINS THE SECOND ROUND!"
The crowd erupted.
Chigusa recalled Hitmonchan.
Her hands were steady now.
Her eyes were dry.
"You're better than I thought," she said.
"I know."
"But this is where it ends."
She reached for her final Poké Ball.
"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.
Dariana's blood ran cold.
Lucario. The aura Pokémon.
"Where did you get that?" she asked.
"Trained him myself," Chigusa said. "From a Riolu. Took four years."
"Four years."
"Worth every second." Chigusa's eyes locked on Dariana's. "Now show me what you've got."
Dariana recalled Gallade.
Her hands were steady.
Her eyes were dry.
She reached for her second Poké Ball.
"Gastrodon."
The water-ground type materialized in a burst of green and blue. It was massive—soft-bodied, its form rounded and sturdy, its eyes calm and unbothered. It didn't move. Didn't attack. It simply stood there, absorbing the light, reading the battlefield.
Chigusa's eyes narrowed.
"Gastrodon," she said. "Interesting choice."
"He's full of surprises."
"We'll see." Chigusa raised her hand. "Lucario. Aura Sphere."
The fighting-steel type's body glowed.
A sphere of pure energy materialized—an orb of blue light, blazing with power—and it fired. The attack hit Gastrodon square in the chest, and the water-ground type reeled, its body rippling.
But it didn't fall.
"Gastrodon. Earth Power."
The water-ground type's body glowed.
The platform shook.
Jagged pillars of earth erupted from below—a storm of stone and fury that slammed into Lucario. The fighting-steel type staggered, its body sparking, its aura flickering.
"Lucario! Close Combat!"
The fighting-steel type lunged.
It was relentless—a storm of kicks and punches, each strike precise, each movement calculated. Gastrodon tried to dodge, tried to counter—but Lucario was too fast, too disciplined, too perfect.
"Gastrodon! Protect!"
The water-ground type's body glowed.
A barrier materialized—a shimmering shield of green energy—and Lucario's attacks bounced off it harmlessly. The fighting-steel type staggered, its momentum broken.
"Gastrodon. Scald."
The water-ground type's body glowed.
A jet of boiling water erupted from its mouth—a stream of scalding liquid that hit Lucario square in the chest. The fighting-steel type screamed, its body convulsing, its aura flickering.
"Lucario! Extreme Speed!"
The fighting-steel type lunged.
It was faster now—faster than before, faster than anything Gastrodon could track—and its fist slammed into the water-ground type's body. Gastrodon reeled, its body rippling, its eyes dimming.
But it didn't fall.
"Gastrodon! Earth Power!"
The water-ground type's body glowed.
The platform shook.
Jagged pillars of earth erupted from below—a storm of stone and fury that slammed into Lucario. The fighting-steel type staggered, its body trembling, its aura flickering.
"Lucario! Aura Sphere!"
The fighting-steel type fired.
The attack hit Gastrodon square in the chest. The water-ground type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes rolling back.
But it didn't fall.
"Gastrodon! Scald!"
The water-ground type's body glowed.
A jet of boiling water erupted from its mouth—a stream of scalding liquid that hit Lucario square in the face. The fighting-steel type staggered, its body sparking, 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. Gastrodon tried to dodge, tried to counter—but Lucario was too fast, too disciplined, too perfect.
And then—
"Gastrodon! Earth Power!"
The water-ground type's body glowed.
The platform shook.
Jagged pillars of earth erupted from below—a storm of stone and fury that slammed into Lucario. The fighting-steel type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes rolling back.
"LUCARIO IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! GASTRODON WINS THE MATCH!"
The crowd erupted.
Dariana stood on her platform.
Her hands were shaking.
Her eyes were wet.
But she was smiling.
She had won.
Chigusa recalled Lucario.
Her expression didn't change.
But something shifted in her eyes. Something warm. Something respectful. Something that made Dariana's chest tighten.
"Impressive," Chigusa said. "You've exceeded my expectations."
"I know."
"You shouldn't." Chigusa turned and walked off her platform. "Because now you know the truth."
"What truth?"
Chigusa 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.
Dariana 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. Nicola was already pushing through the crowd toward the tunnel entrance.
"Dariana!" 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."
Dariana'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 Nicola's voice cut through the noise.
"Next match is starting."
They turned.
The screens flickered. The bracket shifted.
The Round of Sixteen was over.
The Quarterfinals were set.
And the storm was still coming.
---
And the storm was still coming.
The screens flickered.
Not the clean, decisive flicker of a bracket update. This was different. A stutter. A crackle of static that made the crowd's murmur shift into something uncertain.
Briv looked up.
The display showed the Round of Sixteen bracket—eight names, eight winners, all advanced. Dariana's name sat at the bottom, glowing softly. The Quarterfinals bracket was already populated. Everything was set.
Then the screen went black.
A collective intake of breath swept through the arena. Fifty thousand people, suddenly silent. The floodlights dimmed—not off, but lower, casting the polished obsidian platform in amber shadow.
"What the hell?" Nicola muttered.
Patricia's hand found Briv's arm. "Is this supposed to happen?"
"I don't think so."
The announcer's voice returned—but it wasn't the same theatrical bombast from before. It was lower. Sharper. Almost apologetic.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN—WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE DELAY. DUE TO A SCHEDULING IRREGULARITY, THERE IS ONE REMAINING MATCH IN THE ROUND OF SIXTEEN."
The crowd stirred.
Briv's stomach dropped.
"Wait," Dariana said. "What? I thought I was the last one."
The screens flickered back to life.
The bracket shifted—names sliding, realigning, making room. A slot at the top of the Round of Sixteen, previously blank, suddenly filled.
MALVA VS BIANCA.
Briv felt the air leave his lungs.
"Malva," Nicola said. The name came out flat. Dangerous. "As in Malva from the Elite Four?"
"The same," Dariana said. Her voice was quiet. "She was Kalos Elite. Fire-type specialist. Former newscaster."
"And she's here? In this tournament?"
"Apparently."
Patricia's grip on Briv's arm tightened. "Who's Bianca?"
Briv shook his head. He didn't know. The name was familiar—faintly, distantly, like something half-remembered from a dream. But he couldn't place it.
The announcer's voice returned.
"FANS OF EYLLSIA—PLEASE WELCOME YOUR COMPETITORS!"
The west tunnel opened.
Bianca stepped into the light.
She was smaller than malva waited, in the tunnel's mouth, and watched Bianca cross the platform. The crowd's noise meant nothing to her. The floodlights meant nothing. She saw only the woman on the other side—small, blond, soft-faced, but with eyes that didn't flinch.
Malva's fingers tightened around her first Poké Ball.
Time to burn.
She threw.
"Talonflame!"
The fire-flying type materialized in a burst of orange and red. It was lean—all speed and fury, its wings razor-sharp, its eyes blazing, its feathers streaming behind it like trails of living flame. It didn't wait for orders. It simply launched itself into the air, its body igniting, its wings spread wide.
Bianca's hands were steady.
"Musharna," she said softly.
The psychic type materialized in a swirl of pink and purple. It was round—soft-bodied, floating gently above the platform, its dreamy eyes half-closed, its connection to the dream world visible in every line of its body. It didn't attack. It simply floated, its presence calm, its aura radiating peace.
Malva's eyes narrowed.
"Musharna," she said. "A psychologist's Pokémon."
The crowd was silent.
Malva raised her hand.
"Talonflame. Brave Bird."
The fire-flying type lunged.
It crossed the platform in a blur of orange and red—faster than thought, faster than breath—and its body slammed into Musharna with devastating force. The psychic type reeled, its body rippling, its eyes flickering.
But it didn't fall.
"Musharna. Psychic."
The psychic type's body glowed.
A wave of telekinetic energy erupted from its body—a pulse, a force, a pressure that hit Talonflame square in its core. The fire-flying type screamed, its body convulsing, its wings faltering.
Malva's jaw tightened.
"Talonflame. Flare Blitz."
The fire-flying type's body ignited.
It lunged—faster than before, faster than anything Musharna could track—and its body slammed into the psychic type with the force of a collapsing star. Musharna reeled, its body convulsing, its eyes rolling back.
But it didn't fall.
"Musharna. Dream Eater."
The psychic type's body glowed.
Dark energy erupted from its body—a pulse, a hunger, a force that sank into Talonflame's consciousness. The fire-flying type screamed, its body spasming, its energy draining.
"Talonflame! Flare Blitz!"
The fire-flying type attacked again.
Its body ignited—orange and red and gold—and it slammed into Musharna with overwhelming force. The psychic type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes rolling back.
And then it fell.
"MUSHARNA IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! TALONFLAME WINS THE FIRST ROUND!"
The crowd erupted.
Bianca recalled Musharna.
Her hands were steady.
Her eyes were dry.
"Good," she said. "You're strong."
"I know."
Bianca reached for her second Poké Ball.
"Cinccino."
The normal type materialized in a burst of gray and white. It was elegant—sleek, its fur gleaming like silk, its tail swishing behind it, its eyes bright and curious. It didn't wait for orders. It simply stood there, reading the battlefield.
Malva's expression didn't change.
"Talonflame. Flare Blitz."
The fire-flying type attacked.
But Cinccino was already moving.
It dodged—faster than anything its size should have been able to move—and its tail slammed into Talonflame's side. The fire-flying type staggered, its body sparking.
"Cinccino. Tail Slap."
The normal type's body glowed.
Its tail moved—faster than thought, faster than breath—and it struck Talonflame again and again and again. Each impact was precise, controlled, devastating.
"Talonflame! Brave Bird!"
The fire-flying type lunged.
It crossed the platform in a blur of orange and red—faster than anything Cinccino could track—and its body slammed into the normal type with overwhelming force. Cinccino reeled, its body sparking, its eyes dimming.
But it didn't fall.
"Cinccino. Rock Blast."
The normal type's body glowed.
Rocks materialized from nothing—a storm of stone and fury—and they slammed into Talonflame. The fire-flying type screamed, its body convulsing, its wings failing.
"Talonflame! Flare Blitz!"
The fire-flying type attacked.
Its body ignited and it slammed into Cinccino with the force of an explosion. The normal type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes rolling back.
And then it fell.
"CINCCINO IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! TALONFLAME WINS THE SECOND ROUND!"
The crowd erupted.
Bianca recalled Cinccino.
Her hands were steady.
Her eyes were dry.
"Two down," she said. "One to go."
Malva's expression didn't change.
But something shifted in her eyes. Something cold. Something calculating.
"You're calm," she said. "Most trainers aren't, when they're losing."
"I'm not most trainers."
"No." Malva's hand moved to her second Poké Ball. "You're not."
She threw.
"Pyroar."
The fire-normal type materialized in a burst of red and gold. It was regal—massive, its mane blazing like a solar corona, its eyes burning with ancient fury. It didn't wait for orders. It simply roared.
The sound shook the barriers.
Bianca's blood ran cold.
Pyroar. The royal Pokémon.
But she didn't flinch.
She reached for her final Poké Ball.
"Espeon."
The psychic type materialized in a burst of lavender and pink. It was elegant—sleek, its fur gleaming like amethyst, its gem glowing faintly, its eyes calm and intelligent. It didn't move. It simply stood there, reading the battlefield.
Malva's eyes narrowed.
"Espeon," she said. "The sun Pokémon."
"He's my partner," Bianca said. "And he's going to outlast your Pyroar."
"We'll see."
"Pyroar. Hyper Voice."
The fire-normal type's body glowed.
A wave of sound erupted from its mouth—a roar, a force, a pressure that hit Espeon square in the chest. The psychic type staggered, its body sparking.
"Espeon. Psychic."
The psychic type's body glowed.
A wave of telekinetic energy erupted from its body—a pulse, a force, a pressure that hit Pyroar square in the chest. The fire-normal type screamed, its body convulsing.
"Pyroar! Flamethrower!"
The fire-normal type's body ignited.
A stream of fire erupted from its mouth—a torrent of orange and red that engulfed Espeon completely. The psychic type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes dimming.
But it didn't fall.
"Espeon. Morning Sun."
The psychic type's body glowed.
Light erupted from its body—a wave of golden energy that healed its wounds, restored its strength. The psychic type stood taller, its eyes brighter.
Malva's jaw tightened.
"Pyroar. Hyper Voice."
The fire-normal type fired.
But Espeon was ready.
It dodged—faster than anything its size should have been able to move—and its body glowed.
"Espeon. Psychic."
The psychic type fired.
A wave of telekinetic energy erupted from its body—a pulse, a force, a pressure that hit Pyroar square in the chest. The fire-normal type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes rolling back.
"PYROAR IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! ESPEON WINS THE THIRD ROUND!"
The crowd erupted.
Malva recalled Pyroar.
Her expression didn't change.
But something shifted in her eyes. Something cold. Something calculating.
"Impressive," she said. "You've forced me to use my final Pokémon."
"I haven't forced anything." Bianca's voice was quiet. Steady. "You're just losing."
Malva's eyes flashed.
"Chandelure."
The fire-ghost type materialized in a swirl of purple and black. It was eerie—a floating chandelier of glass and flame, its eyes burning with cold fire, its presence radiating something ancient and hungry. It didn't move. It simply floated, its flames flickering, its eyes fixed on Espeon.
Bianca's blood ran cold.
Chandelure. The lure Pokémon.
"Chandelure," Malva said. "Shadow Ball."
The fire-ghost type's body glowed.
A sphere of dark energy materialized—an orb of shadow and malice—and it fired. The attack hit Espeon square in the chest, and the psychic type screamed, its body convulsing, its gem flickering.
"Espeon. Shadow Ball."
The psychic type's body glowed.
A sphere of dark energy materialized—an orb of shadow and fury—and it fired. The attack hit Chandelure square in the face, and the fire-ghost type reeled, its flames flickering.
"Chandelure. Fire Blast."
The fire-ghost type's body ignited.
A torrent of fire erupted from its body—a storm of orange and red and gold that engulfed Espeon completely. The psychic type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes dimming.
But it didn't fall.
"Espeon. Morning Sun."
The psychic type's body glowed.
Light erupted from its body—a wave of golden energy that healed its wounds, restored its strength. The psychic type stood taller, its eyes brighter.
"Chandelure. Shadow Ball."
The fire-ghost type fired.
But Espeon was ready.
It dodged—faster than anything its size should have been able to move—and its body glowed.
"Espeon. Psychic."
The psychic type fired.
A wave of telekinetic energy erupted from its body—a pulse, a force, a pressure that hit Chandelure square in the chest. The fire-ghost type screamed, its body convulsing, its flames flickering.
"Chandelure! Fire Blast!"
The fire-ghost type attacked.
It was relentless—a storm of fire and fury, each strike harder than the last. Espeon tried to dodge, tried to counter—but Chandelure was too fast, too strong, too overwhelming.
And then—
"Espeon. Shadow Ball."
The psychic type's body glowed.
A sphere of dark energy materialized—an orb of shadow and fury—and it fired. The attack hit Chandelure square in the face, and the fire-ghost type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes rolling back.
"CHANDELURE IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! ESPEON WINS THE MATCH!"
The crowd erupted.
Bianca stood on her platform.
Her hands were shaking.
Her eyes were wet.
But she was smiling.
She had won.
Malva recalled Chandelure.
Her expression didn't change.
But something shifted in her eyes. Something warm. Something respectful. Something that made Bianca's chest tighten.
"Impressive," Malva said. "You've exceeded my expectations."
"I know."
"You shouldn't." Malva turned and walked off her platform. "Because now you know the truth."
"What truth?"
Malva 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.
Bianca 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 Bianca 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 Malva. An Elite Four member."
"Former Elite Four," Nicola corrected. "But yeah. Against Malva."
Dariana leaned forward in her seat. "That girl is something else. She fought with a psychic type that shouldn't have been able to take those hits and won."
"She's a psychologist," Briv said. "She understands the mind. Maybe that's her gift. She doesn't just train Pokémon—she understands them."
"Like a therapist."
"Like a therapist."
The screens flickered.
The bracket updated.
Bianca advanced.