Chapter 123: Final: Dariana VS Patricia
The air in the Aethelburg Arena had changed.
Not the temperature—the crystal architecture kept the space at a constant, pleasant coolness regardless of the thousands of bodies packed into the tiered seats. Not the lighting—the golden glow from the floating chandeliers remained steady and warm.
But something had shifted. Something invisible. Something electric.
The crowd wasn't just excited anymore. They were reverent.
The semi-final matches had been brutal. Niklaus had dismantled Diego in a display of cold, surgical precision that had left the audience silent and unsettled. Patricia had clawed her way past Gwen in a battle that had pushed both trainers to the edge of exhaustion and beyond.
And now—now came the final.
Patricia Crownleaf stood in the trainer's tunnel, her back against the cool stone wall, her eyes closed.
Her body ached.
Not from physical exertion—she hadn't thrown a single punch, hadn't taken a single hit. But the mental toll of commanding six Pokémon through six brutal battles had left her feeling hollowed out, scraped clean, raw.
She could still feel Rampardos's claw squeezing her hand. Could still see the tears on her own cheeks. Could still hear the crowd's roar as she'd raised that claw above her head like a trophy.
She'd won.
She was in the finals.
And now she had to do it all over again.
"Hey."
She opened her eyes.
Dariana Brightone stood at the other end of the tunnel, framed by the golden light spilling from the arena beyond. Her long brown hair was loose tonight, falling in waves past her shoulders. Her dark eyes gleamed with something that might have been amusement, might have been anticipation, might have been hunger.
She wore black—a sleek, fitted dress that hugged her curves and flowed around her legs like water. Simple. Elegant. Deadly.
"You look tired," Dariana said.
"I am tired," Patricia replied.
"Good." Dariana's lips curved. "That means you're vulnerable."
Patricia laughed—a short, sharp sound. "You think I'm vulnerable?"
"I think you just fought the hardest battle of your life," Dariana said. "I think you poured everything you had into beating Gwen. I think you left pieces of yourself on that field."
She stepped closer.
"And I think you're about to find out what happens when you face someone who's been watching. Someone who's been waiting. Someone who knows every move you're going to make before you make it."
Patricia's eyes narrowed. "You've been studying me."
"I've been studying everyone." Dariana stopped a few feet away. "That's what strategists do."
"You're not just a strategist."
"No." Dariana's smile widened. "I'm also your friend."
The word hung in the air between them—heavy with meaning, heavy with history, heavy with everything they'd shared over the past year.
Patricia thought about Briv. About the way he'd laughed when the three of them had been together. About the way Dariana had held her hand after the quarterfinals, when the reality of Briv's disappearance had finally hit her like a freight train.
About the way Dariana had looked at her sometimes—not with jealousy, not with rivalry, but with something softer. Something warmer. Something that made Patricia's chest ache in ways she didn't fully understand.
"You're not going to go easy on me," Patricia said.
"No."
"You're going to try to destroy me."
"Yes."
"Good."
Dariana blinked.
Patricia pushed herself off the wall, rolled her shoulders, and stepped forward until they were face to face.
"I don't want easy," Patricia said. "I don't want mercy. I want to earn this."
Dariana studied her for a long moment.
Then she nodded.
"Alright," she said. "Let's earn it together."
She turned and walked toward the arena.
Patricia followed.
The roar hit them like a physical force.
"AND NOW—THE MOMENT YOU'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR—THE GRAND FINAL OF THE AETHELBURG POKÉMON LEAGUE!"
The announcer's voice was a thunderclap, amplified by the crystal architecture, resonating through the very bones of the city.
"REPRESENTING THE AETHELBURG ELITE—THE DESERT ROSE—THE DANCER OF DESTRUCTION—DARIANA BRIGHTONE!"
The eastern tunnel blazed with golden light.
Dariana emerged like a knife being drawn from a sheath—graceful and deadly, her black dress flowing around her, her dark eyes fixed on the white dais ahead. She walked with the confidence of someone who'd been here before. Someone who'd won before.
She'd beaten Malcolm Vane in the round of sixteen. She'd beaten Niklaus Eterngust in the quarterfinals—a victory that had shocked the entire arena, that had silenced the Eclipse Squad's most vocal supporters, that had proven once and for all that Dariana Brightone was not just a pretty face with a pretty team.
She'd beaten him with strategy. With patience. With precision.
And now she was here.
"AND HER OPPONENT—REPRESENTING THE AETHELBURG ELITE—THE GOLDEN GIRL—THE GIANT SLAYER—PATRICIA CROWNLEAF!"
The western tunnel blazed gold.
Patricia walked into the light.
The crowd erupted.
She wore white again—the same fitted dress from the semi-final, the fabric shimmering with subtle gold thread. Her blonde hair was loose, her blue eyes bright, her posture straight and proud.
She reached the dais and stopped, facing Dariana across the white stone.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Dariana smiled.
"May the best woman win," she said.
Patricia nodded. "May the best woman win."
The referee raised his hand.
"THIS IS A FULL SIX-ON-SIX BATTLE! THE TRAINER WHO DEFEATS ALL SIX OF THE OPPONENT'S POKÉMON WINS AND QUALIFIES FOR THE NEXT ROUND!"
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"TRAINERS—ARE YOU READY?"
Dariana's hand moved to her first Poké Ball. "Born ready."
Patricia's lips curved. "Let's find out."
"BEGIN!"
The word echoed through the arena like a gunshot.
Both Poké Balls opened at the same time.
"Lopunny!"
"Gallade!"
The Graceful Pokémon materialized in a blur of brown fur and cream fluff—tall and elegant, its long powerful ears already twitching, its brown eyes scanning the field. It landed on the obsidian platform with the grace of a dancer.
Across the field, Dariana's Gallade appeared with a flash of psychic light—lean and powerful, its silver-white body gleaming, its green blade-like arms extended, its deep red eyes fixed on Lopunny with calm intelligence. It moved like a duelist, every motion deliberate, every muscle controlled.
The crowd murmured.
Gallade. Psychic and Fighting. Dariana's main Pokémon. Her partner. Her most powerful asset.
Patricia's eyes narrowed. She'd expected this—Dariana always opened with Gallade. It was her scout, her wallbreaker, her executioner.
"Gallade—Psycho Cut," Dariana said.
The blade of psychic energy shot across the arena.
Lopunny dodged—barely—and countered with a wave of its ears.
"Thunder Wave," Patricia said.
The wave of paralysis-inducing electricity spread across the arena.
Gallade tried to dodge—but the wave was too wide, too fast, too everywhere. The electricity caught it in the leg, and the Psychic-type stiffened as its muscles seized.
Dariana's eyes narrowed. "Close Combat."
Gallade lunged—fast, impossibly fast—and its blade-like arms caught Lopunny across the chest.
The Normal-type screamed.
"Jump Kick!" Patricia shouted.
Lopunny tried to counter—but its movements were sluggish, its energy depleted, its attacks predictable.
Gallade dodged easily.
"Psycho Cut again."
Another hit.
Lopunny staggered.
"Jump Kick again!" Patricia shouted.
Another attempt.
Another dodge.
"Psycho Cut."
Lopunny fell.
"Lopunny is unable to battle! The winner is Gallade!"
The crowd's roar was deafening.
Patricia recalled her fallen partner. Her hand was steady—but inside, something was screaming.
One down. Five to go.
Dariana hadn't lost a single Pokémon.
She reached for her second Poké Ball.
"Roserade," she said.
The Bouquet Pokémon materialized with the elegance of a ballroom dancer—slender and graceful, its white rose-like head gleaming, its green cape-like body swaying, its red and blue bouquet hands already raised. It looked at Gallade and tilted its head.
"Roserade—Energy Ball," Patricia said.
The sphere of green energy shot across the arena.
Gallade tried to dodge—but the paralysis was still affecting it, still slowing it down, still making its movements predictable.
The Energy Ball caught it square in the chest.
Gallade staggered.
"Psycho Cut!" Dariana shouted.
The blade of psychic energy caught Roserade across the side.
The Grass-type hissed.
"Energy Ball again," Patricia said.
Another hit.
Gallade stumbled.
"Close Combat!" Dariana shouted.
Gallade lunged—but its movements were too slow, too predictable, too hampered by the paralysis.
Roserade dodged easily.
"Energy Ball," Patricia said.
The sphere of green energy hit Gallade square in the chest.
The Psychic-type fell.
"Gallade is unable to battle! The winner is Roserade!"
The crowd erupted.
Dariana recalled her fallen partner. Her expression was harder now—the smile gone, replaced by something colder, more calculating.
"You're good," she said.
"I know," Patricia replied.
"But you haven't seen anything yet."
Her second Poké Ball opened.
"Pachirisu."
The EleSquirrel Pokémon materialized with a burst of electricity—small and fluffy, its snowy white fur gleaming, its light-blue markings glowing, its bright round eyes full of curiosity. It looked at Roserade and tilted its head.
Patricia's heart sank.
Pachirisu. Electric. Fast. And Roserade was already weakened, already tired, already struggling to stand.
"Pachirisu—Thunderbolt," Dariana said.
The bolt of electricity shot across the arena.
Roserade tried to dodge—but the bolt was fast, too fast, and it caught the Grass-type square in the chest.
Roserade screamed.
"Energy Ball!" Patricia shouted.
Roserade tried to attack—but its movements were sluggish, its energy depleted, its attacks predictable.
Pachirisu dodged easily.
"Thunderbolt again."
Another hit.
Roserade fell.
"Roserade is unable to battle! The winner is Pachirisu!"
The crowd screamed.
Patricia recalled her fallen partner. Her hand was trembling now—trembling with something that wasn't fear, wasn't exhaustion, wasn't anything she could name.
Two down. Four to go.
Dariana had five Pokémon left. Five chances to claw her way to victory.
Patricia had four Pokémon left. Four chances to hold the line.
She reached for her third Poké Ball.
"Gliscor," she said.
The Fang Scorp Pokémon materialized with a sound like leather wings unfurling—large and imposing, its purple body gleaming, its bat-like wings spread wide, its pincers already extended. It looked at Pachirisu and grinned.
Pachirisu hissed.
"Gliscor—Earthquake," Patricia said.
The ground shook.
Pachirisu tried to dodge—but the tremor was too wide, too fast, too everywhere. It caught the Electric-type square in the chest, and Pachirisu screamed as the ground-type energy tore through its body.
"Thunderbolt!" Dariana shouted.
The bolt of electricity caught Gliscor across the wing.
The Ground-and-Flying-type grunted—but held.
"Earthquake again," Patricia said.
Another tremor.
Another hit.
Pachirisu staggered.
"Thunderbolt again!"
"Earthquake!"
They traded blows—Electric against Ground, force against force—until both Pokémon were battered and breathless. But Gliscor was faster, more precise, more agile in its movements. It danced around Pachirisu's attacks, never quite where the Electric-type expected it to be.
"Earthquake!" Patricia shouted one final time.
The tremor caught Pachirisu square in the chest.
The Electric-type fell.
"Pachirisu is unable to battle! The winner is Gliscor!"
The crowd erupted.
Dariana recalled her fallen partner. Her expression was harder now—the smirk gone, replaced by something colder, more desperate.
"Vespiquen," she said.
The Beehive Pokémon materialized with a buzz that shook the arena—large and menacing, its yellow-and-black honeycomb-patterned body gleaming, its red eyes fixed on Gliscor, its crown-like head crest already glowing. It looked at the Ground-and-Flying-type and smiled.
Patricia's heart sank.
Vespiquen. Bug and Flying. That meant Gliscor's Ground-type attacks would be useless—and worse, Vespiquen's Bug-type moves would tear through Gliscor's defenses.
"Vespiquen—Attack Order," Dariana said.
The swarm of bees shot across the arena.
Gliscor tried to dodge—but the swarm was too wide, too fast, too everywhere. It caught the Flying-type across the body, and Gliscor screamed as the Bug-type energy tore through its skin.
"Stone Edge!" Patricia shouted.
Gliscor tried to attack—but its movements were sluggish, its energy depleted, its attacks predictable.
Vespiquen dodged easily.
"Attack Order again."
Another hit.
Gliscor fell.
"Gliscor is unable to battle! The winner is Vespiquen!"
The crowd's roar was deafening.
Patricia recalled her fallen partner. Her hand was steady now—steady and calm and ready. She had three Pokémon left. Three chances to survive.
She reached for her fourth Poké Ball.
"Floatzel," she said.
The Sea Weasel Pokémon materialized with a splash—sleek and athletic, its orange fur gleaming, its twin tails swaying, its yellow flotation sac already inflated. It looked at Vespiquen and grinned.
Vespiquen buzzed.
"Floatzel—Aqua Jet," Patricia said.
The Water-type disappeared in a blur of motion, slamming into Vespiquen before the Bug-type could react.
Vespiquen staggered.
"Attack Order," Dariana said.
The swarm shot toward Floatzel—but the Water-type was already moving, already dodging, already countering.
"Waterfall," Patricia said.
The cascade of water caught Vespiquen square in the chest.
The Bug-type stumbled.
"Aqua Jet again," Patricia said.
Another hit.
Another.
Vespiquen tried to counter—but Floatzel was too fast, too relentless, too determined.
"Attack Order!" Dariana shouted.
The swarm caught Floatzel across the side.
The Water-type screamed.
But it didn't stop.
"Waterfall!" Patricia shouted.
The cascade caught Vespiquen before it could recover.
The Bug-type fell.
"Vespiquen is unable to battle! The winner is Floatzel!"
The crowd roared.
Dariana recalled her fallen partner. Her hand was steady now—steady and calm and ready. She had three Pokémon left. Patricia had three. One of them was about to lose.
"Not bad," Dariana said.
"I know," Patricia replied.
"Let's see how you handle this."
Her fourth Poké Ball opened.
"Gastrodon."
The Sea Slug Pokémon materialized with a soft, squelching sound—large and bulbous, its green-and-blue body gleaming with moisture, its horn-like projections already extended, its eyes fixed on Floatzel. It looked at the Water-type and burbled.
Patricia's heart sank.
Gastrodon. Water and Ground. That meant Floatzel's Water-type attacks would be useless—and worse, Gastrodon's Ground-type moves would tear through Floatzel's defenses.
"Gastrodon—Earth Power," Dariana said.
The wave of ground-type energy shot across the arena.
Floatzel tried to dodge—but the wave was too wide, too fast, too everywhere. It caught the Water-type square in the chest, and Floatzel screamed as the ground-type energy tore through its body.
"Aqua Jet!" Patricia shouted.
Floatzel tried to attack—but its movements were sluggish, its energy depleted, its attacks predictable.
Gastrodon dodged easily.
"Earth Power again."
Another hit.
Floatzel fell.
"Floatzel is unable to battle! The winner is Gastrodon!"
The crowd screamed.
Patricia recalled her fallen partner. Her hand was trembling now—trembling with something that wasn't fear, wasn't exhaustion, wasn't anything she could name.
Three down. Three to go.
Dariana had four Pokémon left. Four chances to finish this.
Patricia had three Pokémon left. Three chances to survive.
She reached for her fifth Poké Ball.
"Magby," she said.
The Live Coal Pokémon materialized with a burst of flame—small and energetic, its bright red body gleaming, its yellow markings glowing, its flame-like features flickering with barely contained fire. It looked at Gastrodon and didn't flinch.
Gastrodon burbled.
"Magby—Flamethrower," Patricia said.
The stream of fire caught Gastrodon square in the chest.
The Water-type grunted—but held.
"Earth Power," Dariana said.
The wave of ground-type energy caught Magby across the side.
The Fire-type screamed.
"Flamethrower again!" Patricia shouted.
Another stream of fire.
Gastrodon staggered.
"Earth Power again," Dariana said.
Another hit.
Magby fell.
"Magby is unable to battle! The winner is Gastrodon!"
The crowd's roar was deafening.
Patricia recalled her fallen partner. Her hand was steady now—steady and calm and ready. She had two Pokémon left. Two chances to survive.
She reached for her sixth Poké Ball.
"Rampardos," she said.
The Head Butt Pokémon materialized with a roar that shook the arena—large and powerful, its dark blue body gleaming, its thick skull already lowered, its strong limbs planted firmly on the obsidian platform. It looked at Gastrodon and grinned.
Gastrodon didn't burble this time.
"Rampardos—Head Smash," Patricia said.
The Rock-type lunged—fast, impossibly fast for something so large—and its skull connected with Gastrodon's chest before the Water-type could react.
The impact sent shockwaves through the arena.
Gastrodon flew backward, tumbling across the crystal formations, its soft body spinning end over end.
It fell.
"Gastrodon is unable to battle! The winner is Rampardos!"
The crowd erupted.
Dariana recalled her fallen partner. Her expression was harder now—the smirk gone, replaced by something colder, more desperate.
"Glaceon," she said.
The Fresh Snow Pokémon materialized with a burst of icy wind—graceful and elegant, its pale blue fur gleaming, its dark blue markings glowing, its long pointed ears already twitching. It looked at Rampardos and narrowed its eyes.
Patricia's heart sank.
Glaceon. Ice. And Rampardos was weak to Ice-type attacks.
"Glaceon—Ice Beam," Dariana said.
The beam of cold light shot across the arena.
Rampardos tried to dodge—but the beam was fast, too fast, and it caught the Rock-type across the side, spreading frost across its blue skin.
"Head Smash!" Patricia shouted.
Rampardos tried to attack—but the ice was slowing it down, numbing its limbs, dulling its reflexes.
Glaceon dodged easily.
"Ice Beam again."
Another hit.
Rampardos staggered.
"Head Smash again!" Patricia shouted.
Another attempt.
Another dodge.
"Ice Beam."
Rampardos fell.
"Rampardos is unable to battle! The winner is Glaceon!"
The crowd's roar was deafening.
Patricia recalled her fallen partner. Her hand was steady now—steady and calm and ready. She had one Pokémon left. One chance to survive.
She reached for her final Poké Ball.
But her hand was empty.
She had no Pokémon left.
Patricia stood motionless on the dais, her heart pounding in her chest, her mind racing through everything that had happened. She'd lost. She'd lost.
Dariana had won.
The crowd was screaming—cheering for Dariana, cheering for the new champion, cheering for the woman who had defeated the golden girl.
Patricia didn't hear them.
She was still standing on the dais, still staring at the empty space where Rampardos had fallen, still trying to process what had just happened.
She'd lost.
She'd actually lost.
Dariana crossed the arena.
She walked slowly, deliberately, her black dress flowing around her, her dark eyes fixed on Patricia. She stopped a few feet away, close enough to touch, far enough to give space.
"You fought well," Dariana said.
Patricia didn't answer.
"You pushed me harder than anyone has ever pushed me," Dariana continued. "You made me work for this. You made me earn it."
Patricia's hands clenched at her sides.
"I know you're disappointed," Dariana said. "I know you wanted to win. I know you wanted to prove something—to yourself, to Briv, to everyone who's ever doubted you."
She stepped closer.
"But you don't need to prove anything, Patricia. You're already everything you need to be."
Patricia's eyes burned.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to punch something—anything—to release the pressure building in her chest.
But she didn't.
She took a deep breath.
Then she smiled.
"Congratulations," she said.
Dariana blinked.
"You won," Patricia continued. "You earned it. You were better than me today."
She extended her hand.
Dariana stared at it for a long moment.
Then she took it.
Their fingers intertwined—not a handshake, but something softer, something warmer, something that spoke of friendship and respect and everything they'd shared over the past year.
"You're going to be okay," Dariana said.
"I know," Patricia replied.
They stood there for a long moment, hands clasped, eyes locked, the crowd roaring around them.
Then Dariana released her grip and turned toward the center of the arena.
The referee stepped forward.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN—THE WINNER OF THE AETHELBURG POKÉMON LEAGUE—DARIANA BRIGHTONE!"
The crowd erupted.
Dariana raised her hand, and a golden trophy materialized in her palm—a crystal chalice that glittered with internal light, that pulsed with the energy of a thousand battles, that represented everything she'd fought for and everything she'd won.
She held it above her head.
The crowd screamed.
Patricia watched from the edge of the dais, her heart aching, her eyes burning, her smile fixed in place.
She'd lost.
But she was still here.
She was still standing.
And that, she realized, was enough.
The celebration continued long into the night.
Patricia didn't stay for most of it.
She slipped away after the trophy ceremony, after the interviews, after the endless stream of congratulations and condolences. She walked through the crystal corridors of the arena, her footsteps echoing in the silence, her mind still racing.
She found herself in a small courtyard overlooking the glowing canals of Aethelburg. The water shimmered with reflected light, and the floating bridges cast long shadows across the cityscape.
She sat on a bench and stared at the water.
She thought about Briv.
She thought about the way he'd laughed when they'd first met. The way he'd held her hand when she'd been nervous about her first League challenge. The way he'd kissed her forehead and told her she was going to be amazing.
She thought about the way he'd disappeared.
She thought about the way Eclipse Squad had used their laser on him.
She thought about the way she'd cried when she'd found out.
She thought about the way she'd sworn to win the League—to win it for him, to honor his memory, to prove that love was stronger than darkness.
She thought about the way she'd failed.
"I thought you might be here."
Patricia looked up.
Dariana stood at the entrance to the courtyard, still wearing her black dress, still holding her golden trophy. She looked tired but happy—genuinely happy, genuinely proud.
"You should be celebrating," Patricia said.
"I am celebrating," Dariana replied. "I'm celebrating with you."
She crossed the courtyard and sat on the bench beside Patricia, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.
"You know," Dariana said, "I've been thinking about Briv a lot."
Patricia's heart clenched. "Yeah?"
"He was always there for us. Always laughing. Always making jokes. Always reminding us that life was supposed to be fun."
She paused.
"I think he'd want you to be happy."
Patricia's eyes burned.
"I don't know how to be happy without him," she whispered.
Dariana reached out and took her hand.
"You start by letting people in," she said. "You start by remembering that you're not alone. You start by recognizing that you have friends—real friends—who love you and care about you and want to see you smile."
Patricia looked at her.
Dariana was looking back.
Their eyes met—and held.
The air between them shimmered.
Patricia's heart was pounding in her chest. Her mind was racing. Her body was screaming with something that wasn't fear, wasn't exhaustion, wasn't anything she could name.
She thought about Briv.
She thought about the way he'd looked at Dariana sometimes—with love, yes, but also with something else. Something softer. Something darker. Something that suggested he'd imagined a future where the three of them were together.
She thought about the way she'd felt when she'd caught him looking.
She thought about the way she'd felt when she'd realized she didn't mind.
She thought about the way she'd felt when she'd realized she wanted it too.
"Patricia," Dariana said.
Her voice was soft. Gentle. Patient.
"You don't have to pretend with me."
Patricia's breath caught.
"I know what you're feeling," Dariana continued. "I feel it too. I've felt it for a long time."
She squeezed Patricia's hand.
"But I don't want you to do anything you're not ready for. I don't want you to push yourself. I don't want you to confuse grief with love."
She paused.
"I just want you to know that I'm here. I'm here, Patricia. I'm not going anywhere."
Patricia closed her eyes.
The tears came, then—slow and steady, like a river that had been dammed for too long, finally finding its way to the sea.
She cried for Briv. She cried for herself. She cried for all the moments she'd lost and all the moments she might have.
And when she couldn't cry anymore, she opened her eyes.
Dariana was still there.
She was still holding Patricia's hand.
She was still looking at her with that same patient, gentle expression.
And Patricia realized—for the first time in weeks—that she wasn't alone.
She wasn't alone.
She had Dariana.
She had friends.
She had a future.
And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.
She leaned forward.
She pressed her lips to Dariana's cheek.
It was soft. It was tender. It was everything she needed it to be.
Dariana smiled.
"Let's go back," she said. "Let's celebrate. Let's dance."
Patricia nodded.
She rose from the bench, still holding Dariana's hand.
They walked back toward the arena together—two women, one a champion, one a fighter, both survivors, both bound by something deeper than victory or defeat.
Behind them, the canals of Aethelburg shimmered with reflected light.
Above them, the stars of Elyssia twinkled in the endless sky.
And somewhere—somewhere beyond the veil of night, beyond the reach of light, beyond the borders of time—a man who had once been everything to both of them watched and smiled.
He was not gone.
He was never gone.
He was with them.
He would always be with them.
And that—that was the greatest victory of all.