Chapter 119: Patricia VS Nicola
The stadium lights shifted.
The announcer's voice cut through the crowd noise like a blade through silk—sharp, precise, impossible to ignore.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! TRAINERS AND SPECTATORS! THE SECOND QUARTERFINAL MATCH IS COMPLETE! NIKLAUS ETERNGUST ADVANCES TO THE SEMIFINALS!"
The words hung in the air like frost.
Patricia watched Niklaus walk off the field. He didn't wave. Didn't acknowledge the crowd. Just moved with that same unhurried grace, his dark suit absorbing the light, his expression as blank as a frozen lake. He disappeared into the tunnel without looking back.
Bianca was already gone.
The screens flickered above the arena. The bracket dissolved and reformed—Dariana on one side, Niklaus on the other, their names suspended in glowing letters like a promise or a threat.
Two matches down.
Two remain.
The announcer cleared his throat.
"AND NOW—THE THIRD QUARTERFINAL MATCH OF THE EVENING! PLEASE GIVE A WARM AETHELBURG WELCOME TO OUR TRAINERS!"
Patricia's stomach dropped.
She stood. Her legs felt like water. Her hands trembled—just slightly, just enough that she had to press them against her thighs to steady them.
Nicola was already moving.
She didn't look at Patricia. Didn't say anything. Just walked past her with that familiar stride—confident, measured, each step a declaration. Her blonde hair caught the stadium lights and turned to liquid gold. Her sharp brown eyes were fixed on the arena floor.
Patricia followed.
The crowd roared.
"REPRESENTING THE AETHELBURG POKÉMON ACADEMY—THE RISING STAR WHO HAS QUALIFIED FOR THE LEAGUE IN HER FIRST SEASON—PATRICIA CROWNLEAF!"
She stepped into the light.
The scream of the crowd hit her like a wave. Thousands of faces, thousands of voices, all focused on her. She could see herself on the jumbotron—blonde hair, blue eyes, a face that looked calmer than she felt.
She took her position at the far end of the arena.
"AND HER OPPONENT—REPRESENTING THE SUNFALL BATTLE INSTITUTE—THE VETERAN WHO HAS NEVER LOST A QUARTERFINAL MATCH IN THREE SEASONS OF COMPETITION—NICOLA SUNFALL!"
Nicola emerged from the opposite tunnel like she'd been born there.
No wave. No smile. Just that same steady stride, that same unreadable expression. She wore black—always black—and the color made her look dangerous, made her eyes sharper, made the crowd's cheers turn into something closer to a hush.
She took her position across from Patricia.
Their eyes met.
Neither spoke.
The referee raised his hand.
"TRAINERS! THE RULES ARE SIMPLE! EACH OF YOU WILL USE SIX POKÉMON! THE ONE WHO DEFEATS ALL SIX OF THE OPPONENT'S POKÉMON WINS AND QUALIFIES FOR THE NEXT ROUND!"
The crowd cheered.
"ARE YOU READY?"
Patricia nodded.
Nicola nodded.
"THEN SEND OUT YOUR FIRST POKÉMON!"
Patricia's hand found her first Poké Ball. It was warm against her palm—familiar, comforting, the weight of it like an old friend.
She threw it.
"Lopunny—let's go!"
The Normal-type materialized in a flash of white—brown fur gleaming, cream-colored fluff framing her ears and wrists, long powerful legs coiled and ready. She landed with barely a sound, her elegant form catching the light, her cautious eyes fixed on the opposite end of the field.
Nicola didn't hesitate.
"Staraptor."
The bird emerged with a scream—gray and white and black, its red crest sharp against the lights, its fierce gaze already locked on Lopunny. It spread its wings and the crowd gasped at the span of them.
Staraptor. Bold. Proud. Relentless.
Patricia's jaw tightened.
The referee's hand dropped.
"BEGIN!"
Nicola struck first.
"Staraptor—Close Combat!"
The bird dove.
Patricia barely had time to breathe.
"Lopunny—dodge!"
Lopunny twisted sideways—fast, impossibly fast, her powerful legs propelling her out of the attack's path by inches. Staraptor's wings clipped the ground where she'd been standing and sent up a cloud of dust.
"Again!" Nicola's voice was sharp. Controlled. "Don't let her rest!"
Staraptor banked hard and came back around—faster this time, angrier, its claws extended and ready.
"Lopunny—Mirror Coat!"
The barrier went up just in time. Staraptor's claws hit the shimmering surface and bounced back, sending the bird tumbling through the air. It recovered quickly—too quickly—but the brief opening was enough.
"High Jump Kick!" Patricia called.
Lopunny launched herself skyward.
The kick connected.
Staraptor screeched and fell.
But it didn't stay down.
Nicola's eyes narrowed. "Brave Bird."
Staraptor's body blazed with blue-white energy. It didn't dodge. Didn't hesitate. It simply became a missile—a screaming, terrifying comet aimed directly at Lopunny's chest.
"Protect!" Patricia shouted.
The barrier caught the blow.
But only just.
Lopunny skidded backward, her legs trembling, her breathing heavy. Staraptor hovered above her, wings still blazing, eyes still burning.
"You're not going to win this way," Nicola said. "Lopunny's strong, but she's not strong enough to outlast Staraptor."
"She doesn't need to outlast her."
"No?"
"She just needs to outlast you."
Patricia raised her hand.
"Lopunny—Thunder Punch!"
Lopunny's fist crackled with electricity. She surged forward—not dodging, not retreating, just attacking—and caught Staraptor square in the chest.
The bird screamed.
And fell.
It didn't get up.
"Staraptor is unable to battle! The winner is Lopunny!"
The crowd erupted.
Nicola recalled her Pokémon without looking at it. Her expression hadn't changed. Her hands were steady.
"Not bad," she said.
"Not lucky," Patricia replied.
"We'll see."
Nicola grabbed her second Poké Ball.
"Tangrowth."
The Grass-type materialized with a wet, rustling sound—a massive tangle of blue vines and curious eyes, its long arms already stretching toward the sky. It was calm. Watchful. Patient.
Lopunny was not.
"Lopunny—Ice Punch!"
Lopunny lunged—but Tangrowth was faster than it looked. A vine whipped out and caught her mid-air, wrapping around her ankle and slamming her into the ground.
"Lopunny!"
She struggled. The vine tightened.
"Power Whip," Nicola said.
Tangrowth's free arm came down like a hammer.
Lopunny didn't get up.
"Lopunny is unable to battle! The winner is Tangrowth!"
Patricia recalled her fallen partner. Her hand shook—but only for a moment.
"Roserade," she said. "You're up."
The Grass-and-Poison-type appeared in a swirl of petals—slender and elegant, her white rose head gleaming, her green cape rustling, her bouquet hands already glowing with toxic promise. She landed lightly and surveyed the field with quiet confidence.
Tangrowth loomed across from her.
"You're not going to win this one with brute force," Nicola said.
"I wasn't planning to."
"Good."
"Roserade—Sludge Bomb."
Roserade's hands came together. A sphere of purple sludge formed between them—concentrated, viscous, reeking of death—and then she hurled it.
Tangrowth tried to dodge.
The bomb caught it in the shoulder.
The Grass-type staggered, its vines blackening where the poison touched, its eyes widening with something that might have been shock.
"Vine Whip," Nicola said.
Tangrowth's vines shot forward—a dozen of them, a hundred, a writhing mass of grasping limbs. Roserade danced between them, her movements precise, her petals gleaming, her expression never changing.
"Sludge Bomb!"
Another hit.
Another.
Tangrowth slowed.
Its vines turned black and brittle. Its eyes dimmed.
But it didn't fall.
"Solar Beam," Nicola said.
Tangrowth's body began to glow.
Patricia's blood ran cold.
"Roserade—Protect!"
The barrier went up just as the beam fired—a column of pure solar energy that hit with the force of a freight train. The barrier held. Barely.
But the rebound sent Roserade flying.
She hit the ground hard. Rolled. Struggled to rise.
"Finish it," Nicola said.
Tangrowth's vines shot forward.
But Roserade was already moving.
"Petal Dance!"
The petals came from everywhere—a storm of pink and red and white, each one razor-sharp, each one aimed with surgical precision. Tangrowth screamed as the petals sliced through its vines, its body, its eyes.
It fell.
"Tangrowth is unable to battle! The winner is Roserade!"
The crowd roared.
Nicola recalled her Pokémon. Her jaw tightened—just slightly, just enough to notice.
"Two," she said.
"One," Patricia corrected.
"Not for long."
Nicola's third Poké Ball opened.
"Magnezone."
The Electric-and-Steel-type hovered above the field—metallic gray, saucer-shaped, its single red eye tracking Roserade with mechanical precision. It didn't move. Didn't need to. Its presence alone was a threat.
Roserade was already wounded.
Patricia knew what was coming.
"Magnezone—Flash Cannon."
The beam of steel energy fired instantly.
Roserade tried to dodge.
She wasn't fast enough.
"Roserade is unable to battle! The winner is Magnezone!"
Patricia recalled her fallen partner.
"Gliscor," she said. "Let's go."
The Ground-and-Flying-type burst onto the field—purple body, bat-like wings, pincers gleaming, tail already raised and ready. It circled above Magnezone, testing the air, looking for an opening.
"Smart," Nicola said. "Gliscor's immune to electric attacks."
"I know."
"But she's not immune to everything."
"Magnezone—Metal Sound!"
The screech hit Gliscor like a physical blow—high-pitched, piercing, impossible to ignore. Gliscor faltered. Its wings stuttered. Its concentration broke.
"Flash Cannon!"
The beam caught Gliscor mid-flight.
It fell.
It didn't stay down.
"Gliscor—Earthquake!"
The ground shattered.
Magnezone didn't have time to evade.
The shockwave caught it and slammed it into the arena wall with a crunch of metal and electricity. Sparks flew. The red eye flickered.
"Again!" Patricia shouted.
Another earthquake.
Magnezone fell.
"Hit the ground," Nicola said.
"Gliscor—finish it! Fire Fang!"
Gliscor dove.
Its jaws blazed with fire.
The hit connected.
"Magnezone is unable to battle! The winner is Gliscor!"
The crowd screamed.
Nicola recalled her fallen Pokémon. Her expression didn't change—but her hand tightened around the Poké Ball.
"Two," she said.
"Two," Patricia agreed.
"We're even."
"For now."
Nicola's fourth Poké Ball opened.
"Skorupi."
The small Poison-and-Bug-type appeared—purple armor gleaming, blue eyes sharp, pincers already raised and ready. It was tiny compared to Gliscor. But it didn't flinch. It simply waited.
Patricia frowned.
A Skorupi? Against a Gliscor?
"How?" Nicola asked.
"How what?"
"How did you know?"
"Know what?"
"You've been watching me."
"No."
"You have." Nicola smiled. "You've been studying."
"X-Scissor," Nicola said.
Skorupi moved.
Not toward Gliscor—past it.
Gliscor spun, pincers reaching—but Skorupi was already behind it, already striking, its claws finding the weak point in Gliscor's shell.
Gliscor roared.
"Again."
Skorupi struck again.
And again.
And again.
"Gliscor—Earthquake!"
Skorupi was already airborne.
The ground shattered beneath it, but Skorupi landed on Gliscor's back, pincers digging into the joint where wing met shell.
Gliscor screamed.
"Poison Fang," Nicola said.
The venom sank deep.
Gliscor fell.
"Gliscor is unable to battle! The winner is Skorupi!"
Patricia stared at the fallen Gliscor. Then at Skorupi—small, battered, but still standing. Still watching. Still waiting.
"Not bad," she murmured.
"A compliment," Nicola said. "I'll treasure it."
"You should. You won't hear another one."
"We'll see."
Patricia recalled Gliscor.
"Floatzel," she said. "You're up."
The Water-type exploded onto the field—orange fur blazing, twin tails whipping through the air, yellow flotation sac already glowing with energy. It looked at Skorupi and grinned.
"Floatzel—Aqua Jet!"
Floatzel became a missile.
Skorupi tried to dodge.
It wasn't fast enough. "Skorupi is unable to battle! The winner is Floatzel!"
The crowd cheered.
Nicola recalled Skorupi. For the first time, something flickered across her face—frustration, maybe. Or respect.
"Snover," she said.
The Grass-and-Ice-type materialized—small and sturdy, white body gleaming, green markings bright, its pointed head already gathering frost.
Floatzel didn't wait.
"Aqua Jet!"
Another missile.
Snover raised its arms.
"Ice Shard."
The shards came from nowhere—a dozen of them, a hundred, each one sharp as glass. Floatzel twisted through them, taking hits but not stopping, not slowing, not giving ground.
It hit Snover square in the chest.
Snover skidded backward.
But it didn't fall.
"Wood Hammer," Nicola said.
Snover's body blazed green.
It swung.
Floatzel didn't have time to dodge.
The blow caught it and sent it flying across the arena, its yellow sac deflating as it hit the ground.
Floatzel didn't get up.
"Floatzel is unable to battle! The winner is Snover!"
Patricia recalled her partner. Her hand was steady now. Her heart was calm.
"Magby," she said. "Let's go."
The Fire-type burst onto the field—small and bright, red body gleaming, yellow markings glowing, flames already dancing above its head. It looked at Snover and grinned.
"Magby—Flamethrower!"
The fire came fast.
Snover tried to dodge.
The flames caught it in the shoulder.
Snover staggered.
"Blizzard," Nicola said.
The storm came from nowhere.
Magby disappeared beneath a wave of snow and ice.
The crowd held its breath.
The snow cleared.
Magby was still standing—shivering, but standing. The flames on its head blazed brighter.
"Fire Spin," Patricia said.
Magby raised its arms.
The vortex came from nowhere—a swirling column of fire that trapped Snover, that burned it, that didn't let it escape. Snover screamed. The storm faded. Snover fell.
"Snover is unable to battle! The winner is Magby!"
The crowd erupted.
Nicola recalled her fallen Pokémon. Her expression was unreadable now—frozen, controlled, perfect.
"Bastiodon," she said.
The Rock-and-Steel-type materialized—massive and armored, its shield-like face gleaming, its sturdy body planted firmly on the ground. It didn't move. It didn't need to. It was a wall.
Magby's flames flickered.
"Magby—Flamethrower!"
Patricia's voice was desperate.
The fire hit Bastiodon.
The wall didn't crack.
"Metal Burst," Nicola said.
The counter-attack came instantly—a wave of metallic energy that caught Magby and sent it tumbling across the arena.
Magby didn't get up.
"Magby is unable to battle! The winner is Bastiodon!"
Patricia recalled her fallen partner.
Her last Poké Ball was heavy in her hand.
"Rampardos," she said. "You're up."
The Rock-type exploded onto the field—massive and powerful, dark blue body gleaming, thick skull lowered, eyes blazing with barely contained fury. It stamped its feet and roared, and the sound echoed through the stadium like thunder.
Bastiodon faced it.
Neither moved.
"Rampardos—Head Smash!"
"Bastiodon—Protect!"
The barrier went up.
Rampardos hit it at full speed.
The shockwave shattered stone. It cracked the arena floor. It sent dust plumes into the air.
But the barrier held.
"Metal Burst."
Rampardos was thrown backward.
It landed hard.
It got up.
"Again," Patricia said.
"Foolish," Nicola replied.
"Maybe."
Rampardos charged again.
Bastiodon raised its shield.
The impact was atomic. The barrier shattered—both Pokémon thrown apart, both struggling to rise, both refusing to fall.
"Head Smash," Patricia whispered.
"Metal Burst," Nicola said.
They hit each other at the same time.
The explosion lit the arena like dawn.
When the dust cleared, Rampardos was on its knees.
So was Bastiodon.
The crowd held its breath.
The crowd held its breath.
Dust hung in the air like a curtain, thick and choking, catching the stadium lights and turning them into something almost holy. Neither Pokémon moved. Neither trainer breathed. The referee's hand hovered, ready to signal, but he didn't—couldn't—not yet.
Rampardos was on its knees.
Its massive blue body trembled, muscles twitching with exhaustion, its thick skull dragging against the cracked stone floor. Blood—thin and dark—seeped from a split above its eye. But it was still conscious. Still fighting. Still refusing.
Bastiodon was worse.
The shield-faced titan had fallen sideways, its gray armor cracked in three places, its sturdy legs splayed at awkward angles. One eye—the left one, the one that still worked—was fixed on Rampardos with something that looked like respect. Or resignation. Or both.
The dust began to settle.
Patricia's hands were white-knuckled around the edge of her trainer's box, her nails digging grooves into the metal. She could feel her heartbeat in her throat, in her temples, in every inch of her body. She could taste copper.
Nicola stood perfectly still.
Her arms were crossed. Her expression was carved from stone. But her eyes—those sharp brown eyes that had seen everything, planned everything, anticipated everything—were not looking at Bastiodon. They were looking at Rampardos. And they were calculating.
"Get up," Patricia whispered.
Rampardos's leg twitched.
"Get up," she said again, louder this time.
Rampardos's head lifted an inch. Then two. Its eyes found hers across the arena—dim, unfocused, but still burning with something primal. Something that refused to die.
"Rampardos." Patricia's voice cracked. "Please."
The Rock-type's tail scraped against the ground. Its legs bunched beneath it. Slowly, painfully, impossibly, it began to rise.
On the other side of the field, Bastiodon tried to do the same.
Its armor groaned. Its legs kicked uselessly at the air. Its eye rolled wildly, searching for purchase, finding none. It was too heavy. Too damaged. Too done.
"Bastiodon," Nicola said.
The Steel-type's head turned toward her. Just slightly. Just enough.
"Metal Burst."
The words hit the arena like a gunshot.
Patricia's blood turned to ice. Metal Burst. Bastiodon's last attack. The one it had been saving. The one that reflected damage back at the attacker with twice the force.
If Bastiodon could still move—if it could still fight—then Rampardos was dead.
But Bastiodon didn't move.
It didn't glow.
It didn't do anything except stare at Nicola with that one working eye, and then—slowly, deliberately—it let its head fall back to the ground.
The sound of metal hitting stone echoed through the silent stadium.
The referee raised his hand.
"Bastiodon is unable to battle!"
The crowd exploded.
"RAMPARDOS IS THE WINNER!"
Patricia didn't move.
She couldn't.
Her legs were welded to the floor. Her lungs were filled with concrete. Her eyes were locked on Rampardos—standing now, barely, swaying on its feet like a drunk, but standing. Standing. Blood trickling down its face. Chest heaving. Standing.
"AND THEREFORE—PATRICIA CROWNLEAF WINS THE MATCH!"
The words washed over her like water. Like light. Like something she'd been waiting for her entire life.
She didn't hear them.
She just ran.
Rampardos caught her with its head—gently, impossibly gently for something so massive—and she wrapped her arms around its thick neck and pressed her face into its blood-warm hide and let the tears come.
"You did it," she whispered. "You did it. You did it."
Rampardos rumbled something low and satisfied.
Her hand shook as she raised it, palm open toward the sky. An offering. A release.
"Return."
The red light swallowed Rampardos, and she pulled the ball to her chest and held it like something sacred. Like something she'd earned.
The stadium was still screaming.
Patricia turned.
Nicola was already walking toward her.
Her face was the same as always—sharp, controlled, unreadable. But her stride was slower than usual. Her hands weren't clenched anymore. They hung loose at her sides.
She stopped an arm's length away.
For a moment, neither spoke.
"You won," Nicola said. Not a question.
"I did."
"Barely."
"We don't get points for style."
Nicola's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
"You should have led with Rampardos."
"Rampardos doesn't play well with others."
"He plays well with you."
Patricia's throat tightened. She looked down at the ball in her hands and then back up at Nicola's face—at those sharp brown eyes that had taught her so much, challenged her so often, hurt her in ways she was still learning to name.
"Thanks," she said.
"For what?"
"For not going easy on me."
Nicola's expression flickered. Something behind her eyes shifted—a fracture in the mask, a glimpse of something raw and real and complicated.
"I never have," she said quietly. "I never will."
"I know."
They stood there, two blondes in a stadium full of noise, and for a moment the rest of the world didn't exist. Patricia could feel the heat radiating off Nicola's skin. Could smell the sweat and dust on her. Could hear her breathing—slow, controlled, but not quite steady.
Then Nicola extended her hand.
Patricia took it.
The handshake was firm. Brief. A closing door.
But as their fingers slid apart, Patricia felt something else—a flicker, a question, something unspoken that had been building between them for months and would keep building, probably forever.
Nicola turned and walked away.
She didn't look back.
Patricia watched her disappear into the tunnel—watched the darkness swallow her shape, swallow her color, swallow the last trace of her—and then she finally let herself breathe.
The announcer's voice returned.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! WHAT A MATCH! WHAT A QUARTERFINAL! PATRICIA CROWNLEAF ADVANCES TO THE SEMIFINALS!"
The crowd cheered.
The lights shifted.
The screens flickered.
Patricia looked up at the bracket, at her name settling into the empty slot beside Dariana Brightone's, and felt her stomach drop all over again.
She'd won.
She'd made it.
And now she had to fight Dariana.
Dariana—who had taken down Iris with four Pokémon left. Dariana—who danced through battles like they were choreography. Dariana—who was her friend, her training partner, the person who had taught her how to read opponents and how to move without thinking.
Dariana, who was waiting for her.
The crowd didn't know any of that.
The crowd just knew Patricia was winning.
The trainers' section was quiet. Samuel sat alone now—his dreadlocks pulled back, his colorful clothing dimmed by the stadium lights, his warm eyes fixed on the bracket above. He watched Patricia's name slide into place. Watched the semifinal lines connect. Watched the shape of the tournament become clear.
He didn't smile.
He just folded his hands in his lap and whispered something.
Patricia couldn't hear him.
But she saw his lips move.
"Good luck."
She swallowed hard.
Then she walked off the field.
The tunnel was dark and cool after the harshness of the arena, and she leaned against the wall for a moment—just a moment—letting the stone support her weight. Rampardos's Poké Ball was warm against her palm. Lopunny's, Roserade's, Gliscor's, Floatzel's, Magby's—they were all clipped to her belt, all resting, all waiting.
She closed her eyes.
When she opened them, someone was standing in front of her.
It was Dariana.
Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders. Her tanned skin glowed in the dim tunnel light. Her expression was soft, unreadable, and she was wearing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Congratulations," she said.
"Thanks."
"That was brutal."
"You saw?"
"Everyone saw. Your Rampardos is a monster."
Patricia shook her head. "It's not over."
"No." Dariana's smile faded. "It's not."
They looked at each other.
The air between them crackled with something electric—excitement, anxiety, anticipation. They'd trained together. Traveled together. Shared meals and battles and secrets. They were friends, family, something more complicated than either.
And tomorrow—or the next day—they'd try to destroy each other.
"I won't hold back," Dariana said quietly.
"I know."
"Good."
Another moment passed.
Then Dariana reached out and squeezed Patricia's shoulder.
"Get some rest," she said. "You're going to need it."
She walked away before Patricia could respond.
The tunnel went quiet.
Patricia stayed against the wall for a long time, feeling her heartbeat slow, feeling the adrenaline fade, feeling the weight of what was coming settle onto her shoulders like a crown.
She'd won.