Chapter 116: Patricia VS Elsa
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.
Patricia VS Elsa.
He turned to look at her. She was already on her feet, her blue eyes fixed on the display, her expression unreadable. The stadium lights caught the highlights in her blonde hair, turned them almost silver. She was wearing white tonight—a fitted athletic top, sleek leggings that hugged her hips, trainers that had seen better days. Practical. Ready.
"Patricia," Briv said softly.
"I know."
"She's—"
"I know who she is." Patricia turned, and her smile was warm and bright and absolutely fearless. "The Ice Queen. Former champion of Arendelle. I've watched every match she's ever fought."
"And?"
Patricia's smile widened.
"And I'm not afraid of the cold."
She walked toward the tunnel without looking back.
Briv watched her go, and something cold settled in his chest. He had seen Patricia 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. Precise. Relentless.
But Elsa was something else entirely.
He had watched her qualifying matches. The platinum-blonde ice specialist from a kingdom nobody had ever heard of, with a team of ice types that moved like they shared a single heartbeat. She fought with elegance, with control, with a kind of frozen fury that reminded him of winter storms—beautiful and deadly in equal measure.
This would not be easy.
"Hey." Nicola's hand found his shoulder. "She's going to be fine."
"You don't know that."
"No." Nicola squeezed his shoulder. "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 NEXT MATCH OF THE ROUND OF SIXTEEN! A CLASH OF FIRE AND ICE! PASSION AND PRECISION! PLEASE WELCOME YOUR COMPETITORS!"
Patricia emerged from the west tunnel.
She moved like sunlight—warm, unhurried, every step deliberate. Her blue eyes swept the arena once, cataloging the crowd, the lights, the polished obsidian platform. Then they settled on her opponent.
Elsa emerged from the east tunnel.
She was taller than Patricia—regal and composed, her platinum-blonde hair braided over one shoulder, her ice-blue gown shimmering like winter light. Every movement left faint trails of frost, tiny crystals that sparkled in the floodlights before melting into nothing. She didn't look at the crowd. Didn't look at the lights.
She looked only at Patricia.
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.
Elsa's expression didn't change.
"You're Patricia Crownleaf," she said. Her voice was low, cool, almost respectful. "I've watched your matches."
"And I've watched yours."
"Then you know I don't lose."
Patricia 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!"
Elsa threw first.
"Glaceon!"
The ice type materialized in a burst of pale blue and white. It was elegant—sleek, its fur gleaming like fresh snow, its dark blue markings sharp against its body, its eyes calm and intelligent. It didn't move. Didn't attack. It simply stood there, reading the battlefield, its breath misting in the air.
Patricia's eyes narrowed.
"Lopunny."
The normal type materialized in a swirl of brown and cream. It was graceful—tall and lean, its ears long and powerful, its fur soft and pristine, its eyes alert and cautious. It didn't wait for orders. It simply bounced on the balls of its feet, its body humming with nervous energy.
Elsa's jaw tightened.
"Glaceon. Ice Beam."
The ice type's body glowed.
A beam of pure frost erupted from its mouth—a stream of pale blue light that cut through the air like a blade. The attack hit Lopunny square in the chest, and the normal type reeled, its body convulsing, its fur frosting over.
But it didn't fall.
"Lopunny. Jump Kick."
The normal type lunged.
It crossed the platform in a blur of brown and cream—faster than thought, faster than breath—and its foot slammed into Glaceon's side. The ice type staggered, its body sparking, its eyes flickering.
"Glaceon! Icy Wind!"
The ice type's body glowed.
A gust of frozen air erupted from its body—a wave of cold and fury that hit Lopunny square in the chest. The normal type screamed, its body convulsing, its movements slowing.
"Lopunny! Mega Kick!"
The normal type lunged.
It was slower now—the ice weighing down its limbs, the cold seeping into its bones—but its foot still connected. The attack hit Glaceon square in the face, and the ice type reeled, its body convulsing.
"Glaceon! Ice Beam!"
The ice type fired.
The attack hit Lopunny square in the chest. The normal type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes rolling back.
"LOPUNNY IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! GLACEON WINS THE FIRST ROUND!"
The crowd erupted.
Patricia recalled Lopunny.
Her hands were steady.
Her eyes were dry.
"Good," she said. "You're fast."
"I'm just getting started."
Patricia reached for her second Poké Ball.
"Floatzel."
The water type materialized in a burst of orange and cream. It was sleek—athletic, its twin tails swishing behind it, its flotation sac inflated, its eyes bright and fierce. It didn't wait for orders. It simply bounced on the balls of its feet, its body humming with energy.
Elsa's eyes narrowed.
"Glaceon. Ice Beam."
The ice type fired.
But Floatzel was already moving.
It dodged—faster than anything its size should have been able to move—and its fist slammed into Glaceon's side. The ice type staggered, its body sparking.
"Floatzel! Aqua Jet!"
The water type's body glowed.
It launched itself forward—a blur of orange and blue, water streaming behind it—and its body slammed into Glaceon with devastating force. The ice type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes rolling back.
"GLACEON IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! FLOATZEL WINS THE SECOND ROUND!"
The crowd erupted.
Elsa recalled Glaceon.
Her expression didn't change.
"Impressive," she said. "You've exceeded my expectations."
"I know."
"You shouldn't." Elsa reached for her second Poké Ball. "Because now you know the truth."
"What truth?"
Elsa's eyes locked on Patricia's.
"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 threw.
"Froslass."
The ice-ghost type materialized in a swirl of white and purple. It was eerie—a floating figure of ice and shadow, its eyes burning with cold fire, its presence radiating something ancient and hungry. It didn't move. It simply floated, its body shimmering, its eyes fixed on Floatzel.
Patricia's blood ran cold.
Froslass. The snow land Pokémon.
"Froslass," Elsa said. "Shadow Ball."
The ice-ghost type's body glowed.
A sphere of dark energy materialized—an orb of shadow and malice—and it fired. The attack hit Floatzel square in the chest, and the water type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes dimming.
"Floatzel! Aqua Jet!"
The water type lunged.
It crossed the platform in a blur of orange and blue—faster than thought, faster than breath—and its body slammed into Froslass. The ice-ghost type reeled, its body flickering, its eyes blazing.
"Froslass! Ice Beam!"
The ice-ghost type fired.
The attack hit Floatzel square in the chest. The water type screamed, its body convulsing, its movements slowing.
"Floatzel! Crunch!"
The water type lunged.
Its teeth sank into Froslass's body—dark energy coursing through the ice-ghost type's form. Froslass screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes flickering.
"Froslass! Shadow Ball!"
The ice-ghost type fired.
But Floatzel was ready.
It dodged—faster than anything its size should have been able to move—and its fist slammed into Froslass's face. The ice-ghost type staggered, its body sparking.
"Floatzel! Aqua Jet!"
The water type attacked.
It was relentless—a storm of water and fury, each strike harder than the last. Froslass tried to dodge, tried to counter—but Floatzel was too fast, too strong, too overwhelming.
And then—
"Froslass! Thunderbolt!"
The ice-ghost type's body crackled with electricity.
A bolt of lightning erupted from its body—a stream of pure energy that hit Floatzel square in the chest. The water type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes rolling back.
"FLOATZEL IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! FROSLASS WINS THE SECOND ROUND!"
The crowd erupted.
Patricia recalled Floatzel.
Her hands were shaking.
Her eyes were wet.
But she was still standing.
"One down," she said. "One to go."
Elsa'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." Elsa's hand moved to her final Poké Ball. "You're not."
She threw.
"Ninetales."
The fire type materialized in a burst of gold and cream. It was elegant—regal, its nine tails flowing behind it like a cape of living flame, its eyes burning with ancient wisdom, its presence radiating something powerful and patient. It didn't move. It simply stood there, reading the battlefield.
Patricia's blood ran cold.
Ninetales. The fox Pokémon.
But she didn't flinch.
She reached for her final Poké Ball.
"Rampardos."
The rock type materialized in a burst of blue and gray. It was massive—powerful, its thick skull gleaming, its limbs sturdy, its eyes burning with fierce determination. It didn't wait for orders. It simply lowered its head, its body tensing, its breath coming in sharp bursts.
Elsa's eyes narrowed.
"Rampardos," she said. "The head butt Pokémon."
"He's my partner," Patricia said. "And he's going to smash through your Ninetales."
"We'll see."
"Ninetales. Flamethrower."
The fire type's body glowed.
A stream of fire erupted from its mouth—a torrent of orange and red that engulfed Rampardos completely. The rock type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes dimming.
But it didn't fall.
"Rampardos. Head Smash."
The rock type lunged.
It crossed the platform in a blur of blue and gray—faster than thought, faster than breath—and its skull slammed into Ninetales with devastating force. The fire type screamed, its body convulsing, its tails flickering.
"Ninetales! Fire Blast!"
The fire type's body ignited.
A torrent of fire erupted from its body—a storm of orange and red and gold that engulfed Rampardos completely. The rock type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes rolling back.
But it didn't fall.
"Rampardos. Zen Headbutt."
The rock type lunged.
Its head glowed with psychic energy—a shimmering corona of purple light—and it slammed into Ninetales's chest. The fire type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes flickering.
"Ninetales! Flamethrower!"
The fire type fired.
But Rampardos was ready.
It dodged—faster than anything its size should have been able to move—and its skull slammed into Ninetales's side. The fire type staggered, its body sparking.
"Rampardos! Head Smash!"
The rock type attacked.
It was relentless—a storm of stone and fury, each strike harder than the last. Ninetales tried to dodge, tried to counter—but Rampardos was too fast, too strong, too overwhelming.
And then—
"Ninetales! Energy Ball!"
The fire type's body glowed.
A sphere of green energy materialized—an orb of nature and fury—and it fired. The attack hit Rampardos square in the chest, and the rock type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes dimming.
But it didn't fall.
"Rampardos! Head Smash!"
The rock type lunged.
Its skull connected with Ninetales's chest—a thunderous impact that shook the platform. The fire type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes rolling back.
"NINETALES IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! RAMPARDOS WINS THE MATCH!"
The crowd erupted.
Patricia stood on her platform.
Her hands were shaking.
Her eyes were wet.
But she was smiling.
She had won.
Elsa recalled Ninetales.
Her expression didn't change.
But something shifted in her eyes. Something warm. Something respectful. Something that made Patricia's chest tighten.
"Impressive," Elsa said. "You've exceeded my expectations."
"I know."
"You shouldn't." Elsa turned and walked off her platform. "Because now you know the truth."
"What truth?"
Elsa 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.
Patricia 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. Nicola was beside him, her hand gripping his arm, her eyes bright with something she refused to name. Dariana was already pushing through the crowd toward the tunnel entrance.
"Patricia!" 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."
Nicola 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."
Patricia's expression softened.
"Thanks, Nicola."
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.
The Round of Sixteen was almost over.
The Quarterfinals were taking shape.
And the storm was still coming.
=====
And the storm was still coming.
The screens flickered again—sharper this time, a crystalline snap that cut through the arena's ambient hum. The bracket dissolved, re-formed, and the final slot of the Round of Sixteen filled itself with two names that made Briv's blood run cold.
NIKLAUS VS ENNUI.
"What?" Nicola's voice cracked. "That's the last match?"
"Apparently," Dariana said. Her dark eyes narrowed. "They must have been scheduled for the closing slot."
Patricia leaned forward in her seat. "Niklaus Eterngust. Eclipse Squad."
"And Ennui," Briv said. "Angry Antelopes."
The names hung in the air like frost.
The announcer's voice returned—lower now, stripped of its earlier theatrical bombast. There was something cautious in the tone, something that suggested even the host understood the weight of what was about to unfold.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN—THE FINAL MATCH OF THE ROUND OF SIXTEEN. PLEASE WELCOME YOUR COMPETITORS."
The west tunnel opened first.
Niklaus emerged.
He was tall—taller than anyone Briv had ever seen in competitive battling—and he moved with the unhurried precision of a predator who had never once needed to rush. His black hair was swept back from a face that might have been carved from marble, all sharp angles and cold symmetry. His dark-blue eyes swept the arena once, cataloging everything, absorbing everything, betraying nothing.
He wore black. Of course he wore black.
"Eclipse," Nicola muttered.
"Shh."
The east tunnel opened.
Ennui shuffled out.
He was the opposite of everything Niklaus represented—slouched, pale, his dark red hair streaks catching the floodlights like warnings. Heavy black clothing hung off his frame, chains and spikes glinting with every lethargic step. His expression was a masterpiece of disinterest, a perpetual shrug made flesh.
He yawned.
The crowd stirred.
"Did he just—"
"Yep."
The two trainers took their positions on opposite ends of the central platform.
Niklaus stood perfectly still, his hands clasped behind his back.
Ennui slouched, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
The announcer's voice dropped to a 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.
Niklaus's expression didn't change.
"Ennui," he said. His voice was soft, measured, each syllable placed with surgical care. "I've studied your matches."
"Cool." Ennui's voice was a monotone drawl. "I haven't studied yours."
A muscle twitched in Niklaus's jaw.
"No," he said. "I imagine you haven't."
"TRAINERS! BEGIN!"
Niklaus threw first.
"Weavile."
The dark-ice type materialized in a burst of black and crimson. It was lean—all sinew and malice, its claws gleaming like polished obsidian, its red crest sweeping back from a face that promised violence. It didn't wait for orders. It simply crouched low, its body humming with predatory energy.
Ennui's expression didn't change.
"Banette."
The ghost type materialized in a swirl of purple and black. It was small—a discarded doll given terrible life, its zipper mouth fixed in a permanent grin, its eyes burning with ancient resentment. It floated there, twitching, its body radiating something deeply wrong.
Niklaus's eyes narrowed.
"Weavile. Night Slash."
The dark-ice type lunged.
It crossed the platform in a blur of black and crimson—faster than thought, faster than breath—and its claws raked across Banette's body. The ghost type reeled, its form flickering, its zipper mouth gaping in a silent scream.
But it didn't fall.
"Banette. Shadow Ball."
The ghost type's body glowed.
A sphere of dark energy materialized—an orb of shadow and malice—and it fired. The attack hit Weavile square in the chest, and the dark-ice type screamed, its body convulsing, its claws scraping against the platform.
"Weavile. Ice Punch."
The dark-ice type lunged.
Its fist crackled with frost—a shimmering corona of pale blue light—and it slammed into Banette's face. The ghost type staggered, its body sparking, its eyes flickering.
"Banette. Thunderbolt."
The ghost type's body crackled with electricity.
A bolt of lightning erupted from its body—a stream of pure energy that hit Weavile square in the chest. The dark-ice type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes rolling back.
"WEAVILE IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! BANETTE WINS THE FIRST ROUND!"
The crowd erupted.
Niklaus recalled Weavile.
His hands were steady.
His eyes were cold.
"Interesting," he said. "You're better than I anticipated."
"Cool." Ennui shrugged. "You're exactly what I expected."
Niklaus's jaw tightened.
He reached for his second Poké Ball.
"Absol."
The dark type materialized in a burst of white and black. It was elegant—lean and regal, its crescent horn gleaming like moonlight, its red eyes calm and intelligent. It didn't move. It simply stood there, reading the battlefield, its presence radiating something ancient and knowing.
Ennui's expression didn't change.
"Banette. Shadow Ball."
The ghost type fired.
But Absol was already moving.
It dodged—faster than anything its size should have been able to move—and its horn slammed into Banette's side. The ghost type staggered, its body sparking.
"Absol. Night Slash."
The dark type lunged.
Its horn ignited with dark energy—a shimmering corona of purple light—and it cut through Banette's form. The ghost type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes rolling back.
"BANETTE IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! ABSOL WINS THE SECOND ROUND!"
The crowd erupted.
Ennui recalled Banette.
His expression didn't change.
But something shifted in his eyes. Something cold. Something calculating.
"Not bad," he said.
"I know."
Ennui reached for his second Poké Ball.
"Dusknoir."
The ghost type materialized in a swirl of gray and black. It was massive—a hulking figure of shadow and malice, its single red eye burning with ancient hunger, its antennae twitching with anticipation. It didn't move. It simply floated there, its presence pressing down on the arena like a physical weight.
Niklaus's blood ran cold.
Dusknoir. The gripper Pokémon.
"Absol. Night Slash."
The dark type lunged.
But Dusknoir was ready.
Its fist lashed out—a blur of shadow and fury—and it slammed into Absol's chest. The dark type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes dimming.
"Absol! Psycho Cut!"
The dark type's horn glowed.
A wave of psychic energy erupted from its body—a pulse, a force, a pressure that hit Dusknoir square in the chest. The ghost type reeled, its body flickering, its eye blazing.
"Dusknoir. Shadow Punch."
The ghost type lunged.
Its fist ignited with darkness—a shimmering corona of purple and black—and it slammed into Absol's face. The dark type staggered, its body sparking, its eyes flickering.
"Absol! Night Slash!"
The dark type attacked.
It was relentless—a storm of horn and fury, each strike harder than the last. Dusknoir tried to dodge, tried to counter—but Absol was too fast, too strong, too overwhelming.
And then—
"Dusknoir. Earthquake."
The ghost type's body glowed.
The platform shook.
A wave of seismic energy erupted from Dusknoir's body—a pulse, a force, a pressure that hit Absol square in the chest. The dark type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes rolling back.
"ABSOL IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! DUSKNOIR WINS THE SECOND ROUND!"
The crowd erupted.
Niklaus recalled Absol.
His hands were steady.
His eyes were colder now.
"You're better than I thought," he said.
"I know."
"But this is where it ends."
He reached for his final Poké Ball.
"Froslass."
The ice-ghost type materialized in a swirl of white and purple. It was eerie—a floating figure of ice and shadow, its eyes burning with cold fire, its presence radiating something ancient and hungry. It didn't move. It simply floated, its body shimmering, its eyes fixed on Dusknoir.
Ennui's expression didn't change.
But something shifted in his eyes. Something almost like interest.
"Froslass," he said. "Cute."
"Froslass. Shadow Ball."
The ice-ghost type fired.
The attack hit Dusknoir square in the chest. The ghost type screamed, its body convulsing, its eye dimming.
"Dusknoir. Shadow Punch."
The ghost type lunged.
Its fist slammed into Froslass's body—dark energy coursing through the ice-ghost type's form. Froslass reeled, its body flickering, its eyes blazing.
"Froslass! Ice Beam!"
The ice-ghost type fired.
The attack hit Dusknoir square in the face. The ghost type staggered, its body sparking.
"Dusknoir! Earthquake!"
The ghost type's body glowed.
The platform shook.
A wave of seismic energy erupted from Dusknoir's body—a pulse, a force, a pressure that hit Froslass square in the chest. The ice-ghost type screamed, its body convulsing, its eyes rolling back.
But it didn't fall.
"Froslass. Thunderbolt."
The ice-ghost type's body crackled with electricity.
A bolt of lightning erupted from its body—a stream of pure energy that hit Dusknoir square in the chest. The ghost type screamed, its body convulsing, its eye rolling back.
"DUSKNOIR IS UNABLE TO BATTLE! FROSLASS WINS THE MATCH!"
The crowd erupted.
Niklaus stood on his platform.
His hands were steady.
His eyes were cold.
But he was smiling.
It was not a pleasant smile.
Ennui recalled Dusknoir.
His expression didn't change.
But something shifted in his posture. Something almost like respect.
"Impressive," Niklaus said. "You've exceeded my expectations."
"Cool." Ennui turned and walked off his platform. "You've met mine."
Niklaus's smile faded.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Ennui stopped.
He didn't turn around.
"It means I knew exactly who you were before we started," he said. "And I knew exactly how this would end."
He disappeared into the tunnel.
Niklaus stood on his platform.
His hands were still steady.
But something flickered in his eyes. Something cold. Something uncertain.
He had won.
But Ennui had left him with a question he couldn't answer.
Briv watched from the trainers' section as Niklaus walked off the platform. His steps were measured. His face was unreadable. But there was something in the set of his shoulders—something tense, something coiled.
"He won," Patricia said.
"He did."
"Against Ennui. The guy nobody can read."
"The guy nobody can read," Briv repeated. "Except apparently, he could read Niklaus."
Dariana leaned forward in her seat. "That's what worries me. Niklaus is Eclipse Squad. He's supposed to be untouchable. But Ennui just told him—"
"That he knew exactly how the match would end."
"Exactly."
Nicola's voice was quiet. "So either Ennui is bluffing."
"Or he knows something we don't."
The screens flickered.
The bracket updated.
The Round of Sixteen was over.
The Quarterfinals were set.
Eight names remained.
Eight trainers.
One champion.
Briv looked at the bracket—at the names that had survived, at the names that had fallen, at the path that stretched ahead.
The storm was almost here.
And when it broke, nothing would ever be the same.