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Building An Empire - Chapter 10 - Cracking The Doors
🕑 Added 2026-02-08 21:35:08 +0000 UTCBuilding An Empire - Chapter 10 - Cracking The Doors
Team-
Ashford - Arcanine
Bastille - Tyranitar
Damascus - Machamp
Abrams - Slowbro
Melusine - Dragonite
Hrunting - Scizor
LB
Bastille, of course, was my first option.
It was the obvious choice. Outside of Abrams, he was my tankiest pokemon. Add to that the chance that Karen’s leader pokemon might be threatened against it due to type advantage, it was the obvious choice, one that Karen should have seen coming.
Which is why I was surprised to find a Weavile on the other side of the field.
“A Weavile to face a Tyranitar? A bold choice, if I may say so myself, Brenda.”
For once, I agreed with the commentators. I knew how Karen thought. She did have pokemon in her team that countered Tyranitar well. Weavile was not one of them.
Yet, the smirk on her face, the looseness in her body language, it all spoke of confidence. I didn’t understand it. Weavile was a sweeper, and not a very good one at that, it was no Sneasler. Hell, this world didn’t even know what a Sneasler was.
Fuck, where was I gotta get a Sneasler for dire claw shenanigans?
I was getting sidetracked, but Bastille was not. He looked at the Weavile and snorted, purple energies rising around him. Dragon Dance, the move he’d learned from Melusine. It was a free setup, because what could that Weavile do against him?
I’d expected an attack, Bastille probably did too. What neither of us expected was for the Weavile to just rub his sharp claws against each other. Hone Claws. The bastard was setting up on us.
But why?
Bastille seemed to be of the same opinion, but instead of wonder, he was angry. A speed boost and an attack boost was nothing but numbers when it came to the game. In real life, though, it was as much an ego boost as a stat boost.
Bastille was already moving. He roared, a guttural sound of pure, unadulterated Tyranitar fury. Then, with a mighty stomp, the ground beneath his feet cracked, sending fissures outwards. Sharp, jagged stones shot up from the ground in a terrifying, spiraling volley aimed directly at the Hone Clawing Weavile.
The Weavile, however, was already reacting. It didn’t look up, didn’t seem to panic, instead simply blurring into motion. The volley of stones was fast, but the Ice/Dark-type was faster. The Weavile utilized its natural speed, not dodging backward or laterally, but sprinting directly towards Bastille, using a series of sharp, almost impossible feints.
The Stone Edge, meant to be a wide-area strike, tore up the patch of earth where the Weavile had been moments before, the jagged projectiles shattering upon landing, kicking up a massive cloud of dust and debris. The Weavile zipped through the gaps between the incoming stone shards, an arrogant dark blur closing the distance.
Yet, it took a few glancing hits. Even though it could have dodged those. Even that much seemed to damage it to a ridiculous level, opening lacerations, but never in a location that could cause a knockout. Then, it was in front of Bastille, and instead of using an ice-type move, it hit back with a move I’d never seen on a Weavile set in my entire life.
It hit Bastille with an Attack-boosted Reversal.
The force behind the move should have been impossible for the Weavile to generate, even with multiple attack boosts. Yet, that was the beauty of Reversal. The lower the user’s HP, the stronger the attack got. That was why the Weavile had taken some of the stone edge, because without it, there was no way the Weavile would be able to generate such power.
Combine that with a four times weakness? There was no way Bastille could survive it.
Bastille roared as the pure, unadulterated fighting energy slammed into his chest, the force of the strike sending a sickening crack echoing across the battlefield. The massive Tyranitar, who could withstand only so much, stumbled backward, his colossal frame momentarily airborne before he crashed down onto the cracked earth with a deafening crash.
Dust billowed up around him, but when it cleared, Bastille lay still, a groan rattling deep in his chest. His eyes glazed over, the purple energy of Dragon Dance fading to nothing.
The referee’s arm shot up. "Tyranitar is unable to battle! Weavile wins!"
A wave of astonished murmuring swept through the stands. A Tyranitar, one of the elite Four's finest, taken down by a single, calculated strike from a frail Weavile.
Karen’s Weavile executed a sharp, icy flip, landing neatly on the ground. It didn't look tired, just satisfied, even though injured. It raised its sharp, three-clawed hand towards the fallen behemoth, a motion that somehow managed to convey utter disrespect.
And so did Karen’s taunting smirk. Yet, all I could feel was surprise, not at Karen’s strategy, but at my own humbling. No, strategically, my options were solid. Yet, my logic was based on the game. Stone edge did have the chance to miss, yet, I hadn’t considered that it was a move that could be made to miss. Speed wasn’t just an offensive stat in real life, it was an evasive one as well.
So was the fact that glancing hits were a thing. Strategically taking and trading damage had always been a part of the game. Yet, it always happened in absolute values.
Karen had figured out the way I thought, the blind spots in my logic, and her Weavile was her way to showcase that.
It was fucking exhilarating.
LB
Karen POV
He was still smiling.
I had just taken down one of his strongest pokemon for practically free. It should have crushed his confidence. Yet there he was, grinning like a madman, staring at me expectantly even as he pulled out a second ball from his belt.
Something had changed, I could feel it in the air. Even more so when he didn’t throw out his Arcanine or Machamp. No, he threw out his Slowbro, a pokemon completely and utterly countered by my Weavile.
“It seems our dark horse is unfazed by Karen’s incredible strategic dominance. Why! He’s doing exactly what she did mere moments ago!”
Irritating fucking commentators. I hated them. Yet, they had a point. Alex was deviating, and not in a way I could predict. Yet, I’d expected this, to some extent. There was no way Alex would be a one-trick pony, after all.
Yet, this left me at an impasse. I could stay in, could get a quick kill. My Weavile had an attack boost. Yet, one look at Alex’s Slowbro told me that if I took the bait, if I deviated from my plan, I could be in hot water.
No, the strategy I’d created used a move that was barely ever used in competitions. A simple move that allowed me to swap pokemon faster than usual. It had only one advantage over just a plain ‘ol switch. It allowed me to keep the boosts that currently affected my pokemon.
And that was the one aspect of Baton Pass I needed to pull off my strategy.
“Weavile, time to dip!” I commanded. Even as my Weavile looked at me with a slightly miffed expression, he obeyed nonetheless. It felt like it could have taken out the Slowbro, but I couldn’t risk it.
The Baton pass, even as it went off, didn’t surprise Alex though.
On the contrary, it seemed to make him happy, if the genuine smile he gave me was any indication of his mood. There was pride in his expression, almost like I’d exceeded his expectations.
I fucking hated it.
Anywhere else, any other time, I would have loved it. There was such genuine happiness in his expression that I would have given him a kiss. In this specific circumstance though? All I wanted to do was beat him up.
I wanted him to look lost. I wanted him to capitulate. Nothing less would do.
“Go, Absol!” I yelled as the pokeball cracked open on my belt, the red beam delivering Absol to the ground. The entire swap took less than a few seconds, yet, Slowbro was already moving, negating the time advantage I got from the Baton Swap.
Absol didn’t hesitate. It shot forward, a blur of dark fur and sharp white edges, closing the gap with terrifying speed. Its horn and claws crackled with black energy, ready to deliver a devastating Night Slash.
Yet, as it neared the lumbering Slowbro, a subtle, disorienting shift occurred. The air around the battlefield seemed to twist and thicken, colors momentarily warping. A faint, violet sheen shimmered into existence, enclosing the immediate area in a strange, psychic room.
Trick Room.
Absol's blinding speed, its greatest asset, suddenly felt like a weight, slowing its powerful charge to a crawl. It wasn't moving slowly, but the world around it was moving too fast.
Honestly, I should've seen it coming. But I was so cocky that I completely blew off the idea of Alex bringing out Slowbro against my team of Dark types. Trick Room wasn't even on my radar when I was getting ready.
The Slowbro, usually placid and unhurried, moved with impossible alacrity. As the Trick Room settled, the Shellder on its tail glowed blue, and a hardened, steel-like shell enveloped Slowbro’s body. Iron Defense. The move went off in the time it took Absol to cover the last few feet.
Clang!
The Night Slash landed, a powerful, critical strike aimed at the center of Slowbro's chest, but the attack hit the newly reinforced barrier. The damage was minimal, a mere scratch against the now-fortified defenses. Slowbro hadn't even flinched. The ground around the pokemon took more damage than the pokemon itself, blowing up a cloud of dust.
Leaving Absol wide open for a counterattack.
The fact that Absol had the presence of mind to get as far away as it could was my only saving grace. Yet, Slowbro didn’t attack. In fact, when the dust from the Night Slash faded, the pokemon awaiting Absol wasn’t a Slowbro at all.
but a Machamp, its four arms a blur of motion, descending from the cloud of dust and debris.
"Damascus! Close Combat!" Alex's voice rang out, sharp and triumphant.
Damascus, the Machamp, was now inside the violet sheen of the Trick Room, and the result was startling. A creature known for its powerful, deliberate movements suddenly moved with a terrifying, impossible speed. Its four fists became pistons, blurring into an onslaught of fighting energy aimed squarely at my retreating Absol.
Absol, its natural quickness now a liability, could barely raise its head to see the attack coming, much less react effectively. The first punch, a devastating blow to the side, spun the Disaster Pokémon around. The second, third, and fourth followed in rapid succession, a flurry of Close Combat strikes to the ribs, the head, and the chest. Each impact resonated with sickening force, the pure fighting-type energy tearing through Absol without mercy.
Absol cried out, a sharp, pained wail, before being lifted entirely off its feet and flung backward, skidding across the dirt and coming to rest in a crumpled heap near the dais I stood on.
My Absol was done for, and so was my baton pass boost.
And now, I had a Machamp to deal with, a Machamp that was within Trick room, where it was faster than anything my team could offer, except my hidden card.
A pickle, indeed. Yet, the look of expectation on Alex’s face left me with no option, as I threw the ball I was saving for later early.
It was time for my next gambit
LB
Alex POV
Umbreon was the next pokemon to hit the field, much to my surprise.
“It seems to be a theme of this match, for both trainers to pick pokemon that match up badly against their opponents, does it not, Brenda?”
And it was, but I could see at least three plays the Umbreon could do that would be painful to play against. Yet, Damascus was already taking matters into his own hands.
Damascus roared, his four fists coiling back, muscles bunching with coiled power. The Trick Room was still active, lending his heavy movements an impossible velocity. He lunged at the newly arrived Umbreon, a target he knew would be extremely vulnerable to fighting-type moves, and one I intended to knock out immediately.
His fist, charged with pure Fighting energy, arced in a devastating blow aimed at the Umbreon's center mass. Dynamic Punch, the attack which I’d trained Damascus to master to the point where missing was an impossibility.
But before the attack could connect, a shimmering, translucent green barrier flickered into existence around the Dark-type fox.
Clang!
The Dynamic Punch struck the wall of energy with a deafening sound, the force rippling outward, causing the ground beneath the Umbreon to tremble, but the attack was completely blocked by a Protect from the Umbreon.
Damascus rebounded slightly, his attack wasted, but he was already compensating. He didn't drop his guard for a second, trying to reposition and transitioning immediately into a relentless, high-speed assault.
"Close Combat! Keep the pressure!"
The four arms became a whirlwind of motion, a flurry of punches and kicks designed to overwhelm the Umbreon's defenses now that Protect was expended. Umbreon, however, was as calm as a stone. It simply planted its paws, the golden rings on its body flashing, and a doll-like decoy of itself materialized a few feet away, absorbing the first few blows of Damascus's onslaught.
The Substitute popped, shredded by the intense Close Combat strikes, but it bought the Umbreon the crucial moment it needed. As Damascus's focus was momentarily diverted by the exploding decoy, the real Umbreon used the distraction to execute an attack that, to most watchers, would not be as worrying as it really should be.
The Umbreon had landed a Yawn, and even as he moved, Damascus was sluggish again.
Umbreon capitalised on Damascus's momentary sluggishness. The rings on its body pulsed with a faint, soothing light, and a calm, purple energy enveloped the Dark-type fox. In the brief pause before Damascus could reorient himself and close the gap, Umbreon initiated Calm Mind, raising its Special Attack and Special Defense.
Damascus, fighting against the creeping lethargy of the Yawn, finally lunged forward, his fists primed to smash the foe, but just as the first punch was about to connect, Umbreon vanished in a sudden, silent poof of black and gold energy.
It had executed a second Baton Pass, trading places with its next teammate while preserving the boost from Calm Mind.
The Fighting-type struggled valiantly against the creeping lethargy of the Yawn, his powerful muscles twitching, but the Trick Room's temporary advantage was not enough to overcome the debilitating status. With a heavy thud, Damascus collapsed onto the cracked earth, his eyes fluttering shut, the purple light of the Trick Room doing nothing for his now-dormant state.
The referee's hand remained down, a clear signal that Damascus was simply asleep, not knocked out, but unable to battle effectively. In the games, I could have utilized him further, could have let him be knocked out to get a free switch in.
Here, I could spare him the pain, this was a reset, much more humane.
Another wave of murmurs, this one more sympathetic than astonished, rippled through the stands. I had lost one Pokémon and had a second one out of commission. Karen was in the same boat. That Weavile of hers did not have much health left, and her Absol was out.
An even match, something neither side’s supporters had expected.
Even as Damascus crashed to the ground, asleep, I couldn't help but feel exhilarated. Karen had executed a devastating combo,and I'd been thoroughly outplayed. My logical blind spots, the ones she'd exposed with Weavile, had been mercilessly exploited by the Umbreon.
There were no turn orders in war, after all.
I quickly returned Damascus's pokeball, giving it a grateful pat.
“Rest up, friend. You did what was asked of you and then some.” I spoke, even though I knew he couldn’t hear me.
Karen's smirk had widened now, carrying a triumphant edge that had been absent before. She knew she had me on the ropes, but she also knew I wasn't done yet.
"You aren’t the only one with tricks, Alex," she called out, a genuine challenge in her voice as she threw her next Pokeball.
The red beam solidified, and from the flash of light emerged a Pokémon that brought the whole arena to a hush. It was a mass of twisted, dark purple smoke and shadow, from which 108 spirits, eyes, teeth, and spectral remnants, swirled, coalescing into a single, haunting form bound to a keystone.
A Spiritomb.
A Ghost/Dark-type. Immune to Fighting and Normal moves, and with only one weakness which was unknown to the populace. A perfect check to almost any special attacker, and a formidable opponent under any circumstances, but especially now that it had a calm mind buff could sweep.
I felt a surge of adrenaline. This was her hidden card, the anchor of her team, and she was bringing it out while I was down a man and with my premier counter threat asleep.
“Well played, Karen. Well played indeed.”
I drew my third Pokeball, the smile on my face growing wider. It was time for a new strategy, one that played completely outside the box.
"Ashford," I whispered, "It’s time to show our dominance."
LB
Karen POV
Ashford burst out of the Pokeball, not just a flash, but a blinding blaze of golden-white fire that momentarily dimmed the stadium lights. The Arcanine landed with a solid thud, his coat a magnificent, shimmering gold, looking like he was cast from pure, molten metal. His stripes were a deep, dark black, and his eyes had this intense, almost royal look.
Honestly, a cold knot hit my stomach. I was genuinely, unexpectedly scared. Tyranitar? Machamp? No problem. But this was different. I knew I'd face Ashford, and I had a plan, but not now. Not right after I brought out my own ace.
Alex was supposed to save Ashford for last. It was the only logical move, keeping his best, most powerful Pokémon for the cleanup.
This wasn't just a move; it was a statement of overwhelming force. He wanted to end this.
Even Spiritomb, usually just a blob of shadow and malice, seemed to flinch a little, its wisps pulling closer to the keystone. It had seen Ashford, and even if subconsciously, registered it as a threat.
Ashford let out a low growl that I felt deep in my chest. It wasn't a challenge; it was a declaration of dominance, cutting through the strange quiet of the fading Trick Room like a hot knife. Alex's Arcanine, his ace, was here, and he looked totally ready to torch everything to win.
Spiritomb tried to retaliate, but it didn’t have the same presence. Not many pokemon did, and most of those pokemon were not the type that a trainer could catch, much less control.
This was no longer my sweep. No, this was a raid battle. I still had a very slight advantage, and I still had my ace, my win condition, yet to be used. No, my strategy had to change again.
If I could take out Ashford, my ace could wrap up the rest of the fight. In fact, sending out Ashford this early spoke of desperation, something that was hard to believe the moment I took a look at the mad grin on Alex’s face.
This was a gift, and If I could use it well, I could win here.
"Spiritomb! Curse!" I yelled, my voice ringing with sudden urgency. I needed to damage Ashford, to make any subsequent attack easier for my ace.
The Spiritomb complied instantly, its form contracting, the surrounding shadows condensing around the keystone. The malicious energy ripped through its very essence, tearing its vitality in half, the dark power spiking outward, but before the lingering Curse energy could even touch the magnificent Arcanine, Ashford moved.
He didn't run, he didn't charge; he simply appeared right in front of the keystone, a golden blur covering the distance in a fraction of a second, his speed unhindered by the lingering effects of the fading Trick Room.
Before Spiritomb could unleash the curse, before the psychic drain could be established, Ashford was already attacking. His jaw opened in a silent snarl, and a swirling mass of soft, pastel-pink energy coalesced around his teeth. It wasn't Fire, nor was it Normal, Dark, or Fighting. It was a physical strike made of pure, raw, otherworldly power.
The Pink-energy-charged crunch hit the Spiritomb with the force of a train, striking the keystone at its core. A sickening CRACK echoed through the arena, a sound that spoke of shattered malice and overwhelming force.
The referee's hand shot up. "Spiritomb is unable to battle! Arcanine wins!"
The commentator’s voices were a shocked, sputtering mess, and the crowd was silent, reeling from the sudden, brutal knockout. Spiritomb, Karen’s seemingly invincible ghost, gone in a single, unrecognized move.
My eyes widened in genuine disbelief, not just at the speed, but at the attack itself. That wasn't a standard move. That wasn't even an Outrage or a Crunch. It was something new, something terrifying. Something Alex had been hiding.
Something that Spiritomb was weak to.
Yet, I saw Ashford wince. The curse was unavoidable, and it was doing damage. It was slow, but it was consistent. Even as it was completely overwhelmed, Spiritomb had exacted its pound of flesh. It gave me a chance.
"Honchkrow, let’s go!" I roared, throwing my fourth Pokeball.
The Honchkrow materialized, a towering, regal figure of dark feathers and a sharp, black hat, a picture of smug confidence. It looked ready to unleash a torrent of powerful attacks, to capitalize on the damage Ashford had just sustained.
But Ashford wasn’t going to give it the chance. He was already moving, before the Honchkrow’s feet even touched the ground, before I could utter a single command. With a soundless whoosh, the Arcanine ignited, his entire body engulfed in a blazing corona of golden-white fire. He didn't run; he rocketed forward, a searing golden missile, tearing across the field in a devastating Flare Blitz.
Honchkrow, however, was a seasoned veteran, its instincts honed by years of battling. It reacted to the sheer, overwhelming threat of the attack, not the command. Its eyes, sharp and predatory, locked onto the incoming blaze, and a surge of dark, retaliatory energy gathered around its beak and claws.
Ashford slammed into the Honchkrow with the force of a dying star. The Flare Blitz was brutal, a direct, critical hit that utterly crushed the Honchkrow's defenses and sent a shockwave of heat and force radiating outwards. The air screamed as the Honchkrow was engulfed, then flung backward.
Yet, even as it was sent tumbling, Honchkrow had lashed out. The built-up retaliatory power, born from the shock and magnitude of Ashford’s attack, erupted in a powerful, dark physical strike. The move, a desperate, instinctive Comeuppance, slammed back into the Arcanine.
The counterattack was devastating. Ashford roared in pain, the blow rattling his massive frame and forcing him to skid to a halt. The Comeuppance had capitalized on the high damage of the Flare Blitz, ripping away a substantial chunk of Ashford’s remaining health.
Honchkrow finally landed with a sickening thud, sliding to a stop near my dais. The initial shock of the Flare Blitz had done its work, but it was the lingering, intense heat of the Burn that sealed its fate. The dark feathers smoked, the life draining quickly from its eyes. It twitched once, a faint, metallic scent of ozone and burnt feathers filling the air, before collapsing entirely.
The referee’s hand shot up for the third time in quick succession. "Honchkrow is unable to battle! Arcanine wins!"
I grit my teeth. It was a massive loss, but it wasn't for nothing. Ashford had won, but at a terrible, self-inflicted cost. He was burning, his health was low, the curse was still ticking. The combination of the Curse, the Flare Blitz recoil, and the Comeuppance had brought him low, but not low enough.
Thankfully, I had one more card left, an old friend, come to make one last mark on this fight.
“Go, Weavile!” I yelled, throwing his ball.
The bruised Weavile, its fur slightly matted and tiny lacerations still weeping from the earlier Stone Edge onslaught, landed with a defiant snarl near the center of the field. It was clearly hurt, breathing hard, but the fire in its sharp, dark eyes burned with an unwavering, desperate resolve.
The last of the violet sheen from the Trick Room vanished entirely, leaving the arena in its natural state.
Ashford, weakened by the Curse, the burn, and the accumulated damage, didn't hesitate. He was too low on health to wait, and the ticking damage of the Curse was a clock counting down his final moments. A primal roar tore from his throat, and he exploded forward, not in a blaze of fire, but a crackle of pure, white kinetic energy.
Extremespeed, one last hurrah.
The Arcanine was a white-gold flash, an arrow shot from a bow, attempting to use his formidable base speed and the priority move to end the battle before the Curse or the burn took him. But this time, without the disorienting, gravity-warping effects of the Trick Room, the nimble Weavile had the edge it needed.
The Weavile’s predatory instincts screamed danger, and it moved not with thought, but pure reaction. Before the Arcanine could connect, the Weavile ducked low, its eyes narrowing to lethal slits, and its claw shot out in a sudden, preemptive strike. The move was fast, fueled by adrenaline and honed instinct, a calculated surprise that capitalized on the opponent's aggressive charge.
"Sucker Punch!" I yelled, a note of frantic hope in my voice.
The Dark-type physical blow slammed into Ashford's chest with brutal, sickening force. It was a clean hit, catching the Arcanine mid-lunge and almost ripping away the last critical sliver of his health.
Ashford bucked, his Extreme Speed charge momentarily faltering as the Sucker Punch impacted. A sharp, pained whimper escaped him, and the white energy surrounding his body flickered, threatening to die out. Yet, the momentum of the priority charge was too immense to be entirely stopped.
The Extreme Speed, though drastically weakened by the blow, carried through. The Arcanine's massive frame connected milliseconds later, a final, despairing tackle of raw speed that crushed the already fragile Weavile.
The Weavile cried out, a sharp, dying yelp, before being flattened beneath the weight and speed of the Arcanine, skidding several feet across the dirt. It lay still, its body unmoving, the battle-light in its eyes finally extinguishing.
The referee's hand shot up first. "Weavile is unable to battle!"
Ashford staggered, his golden coat smoked from the burn, his sides heaving, and his body trembling violently from the accumulated damage and the curse. He fought against the black spots clouding his vision, dug his claws into the dirt, and somehow, miraculously, remained on his feet, standing defiant over the fallen foe. He was heavily injured, barely holding on, but he was standing.
He’d taken out three of my pokemon, yet, this was okay. I still had two more. My faithful Umbreon, the one I’d started my journey with.
And the monster I’d tamed at the end of it.
“Go, Ruiner, end this.” I whispered, throwing out the ultra ball that stuck out like a sore thumb on my belt.
The Ultra Ball cracked open, unleashing a surge of deep, unsettling darkness that momentarily swallowed the harsh stadium lights. The red beam solidified, and in a puff of ominous shadow, Ruiner appeared.
It wasn't a mountain like Alex's Bastille; Ruiner was smaller, leaner, more finely sculpted, like a weapon honed to a lethal edge.
Where Bastille was brute force backed with discipline, Ruiner was contained menace, every ridge and plate of its armor suggesting tightly coiled, barely restrained power.
Its eyes were the worst part: not the enraged ones of a typical Tyranitar, but a cold, predatory set of black pools, constantly scanning, assessing, calculating the quickest path to destruction.
Ruiner didn't roar; it stood in a posture of perfect, lethal stillness, a silent promise of violence. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the ground beneath its feet, not from clumsiness, but from the sheer gravitational weight of its dark, rock-solid presence.
It looked less like a Pokémon and more like the end of the world, packaged into a compact, devastating form. This was my true ace, the result of years of careful training and the one monster even I had trouble fully understanding.
Ruiner had been tamed, yes, but its nature remained utterly unchanged. It surveyed the battlefield, its cold gaze falling on the battered Ashford, and the faintest hint of a cruel smile seemed to pull at its massive jaws.
I couldn’t even deny the fact that the same smile had appeared on my own face. It was my turn to pay Alex back, after all.
Only for Alex to withdraw Ashford, completely ruining the moment.
Motherfucker.
LB
Alex POV
She’d already lost, but didn’t have the presence of mind to see it.
Sure, she still had her Umbreon, but it was useless. I’d seen her calm mind baton swap setup. Even if she was to try and do that again, it would be useless for her Tyranitar.
No, this was no longer a battle. Sure, on paper it could be considered one. There was not much that Abrams could do. Sure, a good scald could do good damage to the Tyranitar, but that would be me trying the same self-destructive strategy she’d try to employ against me.
I mean, if she was so dead-set on using a sacrificial strategy to take me down. Why not use Destiny Bond? Even Perish Song could have worked, especially given the fact that she had already showcased the ability to stall.
No, it was foolish to expect that from her. She had taken to my strategies, sure, but she wasn’t quite ready for ‘Wolfey con Perish’ yet.
An involuntary shudder went up my body as I realized that maybe, just maybe, some demons were best not let loose on this world.
She assumed that now that my Trick Room and Ashford were neutralized, she had the win. Melusine was probably the threat she was still waiting for, as she eagerly awaited me to throw out my next pokemon with a hungry expression on her face.
Kinky, but terrifying.
Sadly, in her hunger for a win, she’d forgotten about one core component of my team, the final pokemon I’d gotten, the one who had taken the most knockouts in my journey through the conference.
The pokemon who had grown the most as a result, the one who I’d trained the hardest in the break. The one who I could have thrown out on turn one if I didn’t want to make this entire fight into a spectacle.
I allowed myself a small chuckle. I didn’t want to be a sore winner, but, in reality, this match could have finished the moment it had started.
“End it, Hrunting.” I commented with a laugh, as I watched the victorious, hungry expression on Karen’s face fade.
Oh, it was beautiful to see.
LB
Karen POV
Fuck.
I had planned for the Scizor. I knew I had. I’d planned for it to be one of the earlier pokemon Alex sent out. It was the weakest one in his team, the stop-gap that often allowed him to pick up knockouts on tired pokemon and then allow him time to regroup and send out his stronger pokemon.
So why the fuck was it exuding the same kind of pressure as Ashford?
It stood there, looking at Ruiner like it was unimpressive. It made sense why as well. This Scizor trained with Bastille. The only thing Ruiner had on Bastille was its cruelty, and that wasn’t something the Scizor cared about.
It was only natural that my gaze locked onto the Scizor. The pressure it was emitting was disorienting, a quiet, controlled storm that didn't match the Scizor I'd scouted. This was a different beast entirely.
Ruiner didn’t see any of that. All it saw was the unimpressed look Scizor gave it, and it hated that.
Ruiner acted, not on my command, but on instinct. Its jaws snapped open, and the air around its massive maw began to shimmer with intense, building heat. A torrent of crimson fire, hot enough to melt stone, was about to erupt in a devastating Flamethrower. A move not even I had taught it, yet one it had clearly learned in the wild.
"Ruiner, no! Wait for my command!" I screamed, but the Tyranitar was already committed.
Yet, before the fire could even be unleashed, the Scizor was already gone.
With a soundless, impossible burst of speed, the Scizor vanished from where it stood, a dark-red blur of metallic movement. It didn't attempt to dodge or jump back; it utilized its superior reaction time to exploit the Tyranitar's momentary, self-imposed vulnerability.
The Scizor reappeared directly underneath Ruiner’s massive, flame-coalescing jaw. Its metallic claw snapped out, not with the full, sweeping power of a Bullet Punch, but with the focused, piercing force of a Mach Punch. The force was channeled into a single, devastating impact aimed precisely at the Tyranitar's lower jawline.
CRACK!
The blow wasn't meant to knock out, but to disrupt. The Mach Punch, a blur of red-hot kinetic energy, slammed into Ruiner's chin, an unexpected, lightning-fast uppercut. The shock was total, forcing the Tyranitar's massive jaws violently shut with a sickening, audible snap of rock and muscle.
Ruiner's planned Flamethrower, seconds from release, had nowhere to go. The intense, superheated plasma of Fire energy was instantly contained within its own throat and mouth.
A guttural, choked roar of pain tore from Ruiner's chest. Its eyes bulged, and a plume of thick, black smoke and superheated steam erupted from its nostrils and the tiny gap between its forced-shut jaws. The Tyranitar staggered backward, its colossal frame convulsing, the raw, uncontrolled power of its own attack tearing through its internal structures. It was violently, internally burned by its own flames.
The Scizor, having delivered the surgical strike, was already gone, reappearing in its original position with the same unnerving stillness, its metallic coat utterly pristine.
The whole sequence, the disobedience, the vanish, the strike, and the resulting self-infliction, took less than two seconds. Ruiner stumbled, a grotesque tremor running through its body, before it collapsed onto its side, wheezing, the smell of burnt flesh filling the air.
The referee's hand shot up. "Tyranitar is unable to battle! Scizor wins!"
I could only stare, my mouth hanging open in complete shock. My ace, my monster, taken down in a single, audacious move by Alex's weakest pokemon.
It was utterly humiliating. Ruiner hadn't lost to a power move; it had lost to a moment of arrogant indiscipline and an unbelievably fast, calculated counter by a trainer who had out-thought every single move I had made.
And a pokemon who had gone from being the weak link in Alex’s team to something that could very well be called a second ace.
I fell on my knees. I still had Umbreon left, yet what good would that do? Even if I somehow ended up taking out the monster in front of me, I still had that Dragonite to deal with, and if somehow I won that too, I knew that Alex’s Slowbro had regenerator.
And if I won that? I was sure that Ashford had at least one more Extremespeed left in him.
So, I did the one thing I had chosen not to do, no matter what, especially not against Alex. I didn’t want to show him such weakness, but I wanted to put my starter out to try and fight an impossible fight even less.
So, I raised my hand.
The referee, startled by the sudden, dramatic turn of events and my's gesture, turned toward the dais. Seeing my raised hand, the universal sign of forfeit, he didn't hesitate.
"The challenger, Karen, has forfeited! The victor of the match is the dark horse, Alex!"
The pronouncement echoed throughout the silent stadium. For a moment, the silence held, heavy with disbelief and the residual tension of the battle. Then, the crowd erupted. It wasn't the joyous roar of a predicted victory, but a mixture of astonishment, relief, and awe at the sheer brutality and speed of the final sequence.
The Scizor, Hrunting, finally allowed itself a minute deviation from its stillness, its metallic head tilting slightly toward the dais where Karen knelt, a posture of perfect, lethal victory.
As was its right. I shrunk from it. Retreating further as I stepped down from my dais, only to find myself glomped by none other than the very man who’d brought me to my knees.
I wanted to hate it, I wanted to hate the contact. Yet, the smile on his face was only for me. Not for his victory, not for the fact that he’d won the indigo conference. No. It was that same proud smile he’d given me when I’d taken down his Tyranitar.
And now, when all was said and done, it felt good. So, I did exactly what I’d said I’d do earlier, I planted a quick kiss on his lips. I would have done more, but that was the most I could do while on national fucking TV.
Choke on that, Lorelei.
LB
This ends the tournament arc. Up next, we'll get the Elite 4s humiliation, after a short epilogue.
Please look forward to it!
Cold Daylight
