Silver Mountain Range, Johto Border,
"Ability Activate: Red Hammer."
Gazei gave out the order with the clipped precision of a battlefield commander, and Maggie responded with a guttural roar that rolled through the clearing like a war drum—measured, defiant, and impossible to ignore. In an instant, the forest around them dimmed, as if holding its breath. Her aura ignited—deep crimson threaded with molten gold—crackling around her compact, battle-scarred frame. Fire-type energy began to spiral from her core, funneling along her right arm, which tensed like a primed spring.
Her claws spread wide, arcs of flame dancing between each digit before gathering into a focused helix of blazing force. The very ground beneath her paws fractured, small veins of scorched stone erupting beneath her feet, as though the earth itself feared what was about to be unleashed.
The Neo Charmander grinned—feral, beautiful, and terrifying in the way only born fighters could be. Her eyes narrowed with the thrill of righteous violence as she turned toward her opponent: the 'rock'—a corrupted Onix variant with jet-black scales, twitching segments, and a half-digested skull still fused to its outer carapace. Her flaming claw drew back.
And then she struck.
The blow connected with a thunderous crack, like a tectonic plate snapping in half. Flames exploded outward in a brilliant shockwave of pressure and force, lashing at the surrounding trees and warping the very air with heat distortion.
[Red Hammer]:Transformed the user's dominant arm into a living conduit of fire-type devastation. The user receives recoil damage equal to ⅓ of the total inflicted. 10% chance to apply True Burn status (Bypasses immunity and inflicts cumulative damage).100 DMG | Physical | PP: 8
"Die!" she snarled as the full weight of her fist sank into corrupted stone. A tremor surged through the forest, not from her motion, but from the pressure shock of the attack reaching its peak. The heatwave was so intense that the canopy above ignited in streaks, leaves combusting mid-air. Even wild Pokémon as far as seven kilometers away flinched or fled, the primal sense of danger triggering before the sound even reached them.
Maggie advanced—not fast, but heavy. Every step she took warped the ground, the soil beneath her paws flash-firing into glass-like shards. Her claw arced high, and as it fell, so too did a wave of dread. The 'rock' let out a grinding hiss, eyes widening just before her burning fist collided again in a follow-through strike, sending molten cracks spiraling through its segmented body like fault lines before a quake.
There was no question who held the battlefield now. Only silence and smoke answered.
Then, from Maggie's shoulders, small burns began to flare up—internal recoil surging back through her nervous system like backlash from a railgun. She winced but refused to show more. A third of that damage pulsed through her like knives dipped in fire.
But she stood.
And the Onix did not.
Gazei studied the aftermath, arms crossed as heat still shimmered in the air like ghosts of the strike. The scorched clearing had become an open wound in the forest, its edges curling with smoke and char. Nothing moved. Nothing dared.
"Gym battles are out of the question," he muttered, gaze fixed on the deep, blackened trench that Maggie had unintentionally carved into the terrain.
Well maybe...
He wasn't even shocked. Red Hammer was the weakest of her new moves—and the results were still on the high end of overkill. If this was her baseline output, the implications were... problematic.
"How far is that?" he asked aloud, not even bothering to calculate the destruction radius himself.
With a cheerful ping, Computer answered. Its screen lit up nearby, the voice coming through in a dry Cockney accent, chipper and unimpressed in equal measure.
"Well then, lucky lady managed to barbecue fourteen square miles of perfectly innocent woodland. Wiped out a bit of elevation, too—built a lovely new trench while she was at it. Proper scorched-earth artistry. Nice work, mate. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got firewalls to tickle and an encrypted toaster to yell at."
Gazei sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Computer was pleased with his lack of progress on removing his wives firewalls. One is fucking Cortana, and one of them E.D.I and Roll. Computer is just one A.I man he is so screwed.
The past week had been—if nothing else—civilized. Beds with memory foam. Hot water. Ceilings that didn't leak. For the first time in months, he and the Dragon Crew had been able to relax. Eat meals. Nap. And more naps.
But now it was time to get back to work.
And therein lay the problem.
The Dragon Crew was ready. Hell, they were eager—but every time they tried to use a standard Pokémon move, the results were catastrophic. No scaling. No finesse. Just… explosions. Thunderbolt would short-circuit trees for acres. Aqua Tail would uproot terrain. Flamethrower didn't throw anything—it detonated.
And don't even mention the custom moves.
It was fine on the cultist and their evil abominations and what not but now they had to get badges because that's only way Computer to gain admin access to its damn files.
Ciel handywork no doubt.
The custom moves are just plain broken to be used. Every attempt ended the same: the area destoryed, new effects being made (True Fire burns HP, stamina, PP, and bypasses immunity). Borderline unfair.
"God damn…" Gazei muttered, tilting his head lazily to the left—
—snap-CRACK.
A bullet screamed past, shaving heat off the air an inch from his temple.
"Again? Really…" he sighed, sounding more inconvenienced than threatened. More bullets whined through the trees, but he didn't even flinch. Each one he weaved around with casual, almost bored indifference, as though they were bothersome gnats rather than death projectiles. "Ya know, shootin' at me's a waste of ammo. Do ya have—"
A machine gun stuttered like a broken rhythm section, cutting him off mid-sentence. Gazei lifted his right arm lazily and caught every single bullet in his bare hand like he was plucking marbles from the air. When the smoke cleared, he exhaled through his nose and asked, "Mary wearin' pink again today?"
"FUCK YOU!"
The shout was fierce and ragged, laced with frustration—and just the barest hint of embarrassment. Gazei chuckled under his breath. He'd recognize that voice anywhere. Mary is trying to capture him again. Like in the games she is a sharpshooter supreme, and as always, too stubborn to aim for anywhere that might actually kill him.
Behind him, a presence flickered.
Gazei didn't even look—his back foot swept up sharply, heel connecting with cold steel mid-swing. Sparks flew as blade met boot, the impact sending a tremor up the attacker's arm. He kept catching bullets in his hand as if this was all part of the same warm-up routine.
The new assailant was close now.
Tan skin shimmered under the dappled forest light. Her bob-cut hair, silken and bone-white, framed sharp cheekbones and glossy lips pulled into a smirk. The outfit she wore was equal parts battlefield scandal and tactical armor—white lace hugging curves with strategic orange accents that dared the eye to look, and yet never quite gave away the full picture. A zig-zagging orange chord laced the chest shut like a barely-contained secret. The loincloth fluttered behind her, revealing flashes of high-slit leg and tight, tailored underlayer. Her boots—white, high-heeled, and cruelly elegant—clicked against stone and root with purpose. Feathered shoulder pads rippled as she moved in for another slash.
"Oi, is Mary the only bird wearin' the Darkcom getup?" Gazei drawled as he blocked the sword strikes one-handed, his posture so relaxed it was practically disrespectful.
The woman didn't respond with words. Just a smile. Wide, sharp, and hungry.
Gazei sighed again, eyes flicking to the glowing blue tag etched into her collarbone.
"Gloria Mors," he said, as if greeting a passing acquaintance in a café. "Unovan. One-oh-two Valkyrie Squad. Let me guess—Banes sent ya 'cause he's bored, not 'cause you're actually gonna do somethin' useful, yeah?"
She tilted her head, feinting a strike that never came.
"You're quick on your feet, puppy," she purred. "But you still bleed red."
"Yeah, and you still ain't blinked since I caught your blade." Gazei's voice was low and amused. "Your mascara's gonna run if you keep tryin' to stare me into submission."
Gloria's eyes narrowed. Her blade flicked again, this time aiming lower, feinting high, angling for his ribs.
"Tell Banes if he's gonna send eye candy, he better sweeten the deal. Or at least send snacks next time."
"Then you'll love me…"
The voice was velvet soaked in venom—sultry, smug, and coming from directly above.
Gazei barely looked up. One finger rose like a bored emperor granting audience—clang. A blade, way too big for the woman wielding it, crashed against his outstretched digit and stopped cold. The sheer force cracked the stone beneath his feet, but he didn't budge an inch.
She landed gracefully, all curves, heels, and combat intent.
Long blonde hair framed her face, the new longer bangs brushing across her eyes like she'd just walked off a magazine cover and into a warzone. Her corset, always criminally tight, now had a jagged lightning-bolt-shaped opening in the front that exposed more skin than armor. Not that she seemed to care. Black leather pants clung to her hips like a second skin. High-heeled boots clicked against the broken ground. Twin belts slung low across her waist, and a silver choker gleamed beneath her throat. Her wrists glittered with metal cuffs, something between jewelry and weapon mounts.
"Heya, Trish," Gazei said with a lazy grin. "Still mad abou—"
He stopped mid-sentence on purpose, just to watch her reaction.
Oh, there it was.
That twitch in her eye. That cute little lip snarl. That sharp inhale through the nose.
God, it reminded him of his French wives back on Earth. The second one, especially. Always threatening to stab him when she was turned on.
Trish didn't disappoint.
She pushed down on her sword, applying pressure with slow, deliberate dominance. "You stop that sentence one more time and I swear I'll wear your spine like a scarf."
Gazei, still only using one finger to hold the blade, leaned forward ever so slightly. "You'll have to ask Mary's permission. She called dibs."
"BITCH, I HEARD THAT!" came Mary's voice somewhere in the trees, followed by the unmistakable clack-clack of a rifle reloading in fury.
"Oh, she's really mad now," Gazei mused aloud, chuckling. "You should thank me, Trish. I brought your girls back together."
Gloria had retracted her blade and taken a half-step back, watching with a curious smile. "You always this mouthy in a three-way?"
"Nah," Gazei said, now dodging a blade swing and a bullet at the same time while checking his nonexistent watch. "Usually I'm a lot more tied up by now."
Trish let out a growl, spun, and slashed again, this time low and fast—an angle designed to maim. Gazei backstepped, letting the blade nick the hem of his jacket.
"Oi! That was vintage!"
She lunged.
He caught her by the throat—gently, but firmly—his hand radiating a faint shimmer of Aura, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind.
"Easy, sugar," he said, voice dropping an octave. "If you're gonna roleplay 'angry ex,' you gotta buy me dinner first."
Gloria burst out laughing.
Even Trish cracked a grin. "You haven't changed."
"Neither have you," Gazei replied, releasing her with a smirk. "Still swinging first, thinking later."
A moment of silence.
Then Gloria sighed. "So, do we kill him now, or are we still pretending this is foreplay?"
A branch snapped to the side. Gazei's head tilted lazily.
With a smirk and an almost casual shrug, Gazei pivoted, gripping the blonde by her corset and hurling her bodily to the side—not hard enough to break her, but enough to make a statement. The throw sent her crashing through a thicket of roots and brush, leather scraping bark, curses flying with every branch snapped on the way down. The impact echoed like thunder as she slammed into a tree trunk and rolled into the dirt, dazed but alive.
Gazei didn't wait to admire the arc. His body rotated again, this time exhaling a forceful gust of Aura-infused air from his lungs—almost like a dragon's sigh, except wrapped in mockery and menace. The blast swept across the clearing like a horizontal cyclone, the pressure wave sharp enough to knock over another Valkyrie who had just begun her charge. She spun out like a ragdoll caught in a hurricane, limbs flailing, blades scattering in the wind.
Gloria was 'lucky' to crashing into a tree trunk.
But the third one—her, she was different.
Tall and lithe, with the lean muscle and grace of a panther, she planted her feet the instant the gale hit. Her tan skin glistened with a sheen of heat-born sweat, but her balance remained perfect. Crimson hair, braided tightly over her left shoulder, cracked like a whip in the wind, refusing to fall across her sharp-featured face. A short white cape billowed behind her, fastened by a neat lattice of brown leather clasps that matched the rest of her battlewear—midriff exposed, blades holstered, throwing knives strapped at the hips, boots worn from travel but not weakness. Her emerald eyes sparkled with defiance and calculation, watching every twitch in Gazei's posture like a hawk watches a field mouse.
The blast lifted her off her feet, but she didn't panic.
As the others flew, she twisted in midair, extended both legs outward, and hooked her heels around a low-hanging tree branch. The motion was so fluid, so practiced, it looked choreographed. Her body swung forward with momentum, then slowed as her boots braced against the limb, keeping her anchored like a red-leafed pendulum defying the wind.
With a deep inhale, she pressed two fingers to her lips, channeling Aura into the gesture. Her whistle rang out—not shrill, not desperate, but deliberate. Almost melodic.
It hung in the air for a moment.
And then the sky answered.
The clouds above cracked open—not with rain, but with divine judgment. Arrows, each forged from condensed lightning, began to pierce the heavens. They didn't fall all at once. No, they hunted their way down, tracing his outline like judgment being written into the earth with each bolt.
Gazei looked up, eyes narrowing just a fraction. His smile didn't fade, but it lost some of its smugness.
"Ah," Gazei muttered, rolling his neck with a faint pop that echoed louder than it should have. His eyes flicked skyward, watching the lightning bolts pierce through the storm clouds like divine javelins. "So Pinky showed up."
Another thunderbolt slammed into the ground mere meters from him, igniting the soil and erupting into a brief inferno of sparks and molten debris.
"I heard that, asshole!" a voice snapped back, sharp as a whip crack.
"No shit!" Gazei barked with a laugh, already snapping his fingers. In an instant, the sky obeyed—not hers, his—and the falling lightning vanished mid-strike, warping into dust with a sizzling pop of dispelled Aura. "Let's see if you're wearin' that skirt cause I lov—"
He turned just in time to see her.
Like Mary. Like Claire Farron or Lighting to everyone that knows her besides her sister. Like every hard-faced beauty who walked like a sword blade and stared like judgment, she didn't need to say a thing to be terrifying. She was the sentence. The pinkette stood poised on a raised slab of cracked earth, pale aqua eyes locked on him like twin barrels of a divine rifle. Her rose-colored hair, wavy and pulled over one shoulder, whipped slightly in the breeze—a contrast of softness and steel.
She wore a tailored variation of the Darkcom Guardian Corps uniform, but hers was far from regulation. A white, sleeveless coat snapped around her narrow frame, the ankle-length crimson cape on her left side fluttering behind her like a bloodstained banner. A light brown miniskirt revealed long, powerful legs braced to lunge, every muscle humming with coiled tension. Her boots and bracers glinted with metallic inlays, built not for looks but for pure battlefield utility. A burgundy leather pouch hung from her thigh—more weapon than fashion, holding knives, flash rounds, and smoke seeds.
Gazei whistled low, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grin.
"Damn, I mean look at you, Pinkie," he drawled, pacing sideways like a bored tiger behind glass. "You really leaned into the hot policwoman power girl fantasy, huh? Sure, you don't got the tits for that getup—bit of a tragedy, really—but man, that uniform? That outfit makes even monks stare. They'll die regretting it, but they'll still stare."
Lightning didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
Instead, she pushed her Aura down into her legs—a rush of power that cracked the stone beneath her feet—and launched herself forward in a blur. Her body streaked across the clearing like a bolt freed from the clouds, trailing a distortion wave behind her that shattered branches and scattered leaves in a wide arc. She moved with purpose. Precision. Rage.
As Tactical Commander of the Valkyrie Division, and one of the few operatives who can freely use their Aura in battle. Their mission had been clear: subdue and capture Gazei alive. Extract everything he knew about One-Eyed Jack and his cult.
But Lightning never enjoyed leaving a mark.
Today, she was making an exception.
Gazei chuckled even as he spun backward, boots gliding over the dirt with a lazy grace. He could feel her fury vibrating the air around them like the hum of an overcharged conduit.
"Y'know," he said, raising one arm as though to stretch, "if I had a coin for every woman that tried to kill me in leather and a cape, I'd be rich enough to buy decency. But I'd still choose to piss you off."
Lightning's blade appeared in her hand with a flash—a sudden, seamless transformation from sheath to steel, Aura-etched and hot with intent.
And she swung.
Gazei caught the edge of the blade on his forarm, the thin layer of his skin screeching as Aura met Aura. Sparks exploded between them, illuminating his grin and her glare.
He leaned in, voice just low enough for her to hear over the clash.
"Go on, Pinkie. Make me feel somethin'."
The ground shattered beneath Lightning's first swing, a wide arc of compressed Aura flattening the nearby terrain like a bomb blast. But Gazei wasn't there. He'd already flipped backward, his boots tapping the air mid-tumble, leaving afterimages and scattered gravel in his wake.
"Execution Warrant: Priority Black. Squad Four, engage."
From the ridge above, she made her descent.
Military dress blues whipped in the rising frost, the long tails of her officer's coat fluttering like a war banner caught mid-charge. Her white corset was reinforced with polar-steel fibers, cinched tight beneath crimson lapels and a blood-red tie that snapped like a blade in a crosswind. Platinum hair trailed behind her like silk drawn through snow. Her expression betrayed nothing but a glacial calm.
On her hip hung a saber with a hooked cross-guard and a grip of fossil-ice leather, its aura humming with lethal restraint. Her heels—polished, impractical to the untrained eye—carved into the frost-laced incline with each precise, echoing step.
Field Marshal. Executioner-Class Zero. Esdeath.
A Valkyrie of the old guard. One of the Empire's (Pokemon League's Allies) war-forged elite. Trained in subzero dominion, psychological attrition, and ultrahigh-pressure suppression. A walking theater of war condensed into a woman wrapped in blue and white.
"Yo, German lady," Gazei called down, lazily. Hands in his coat pockets. Half-lidded eyes. That same casual smirk curling across his face. "Nice shoes. You plan to freeze me to death or step on me to death?"
Esdeath didn't blink.
She descended one more step.
And smiled. That same cold, indulgent curve of the lips that had preceded over twenty-seven confirmed battlefield annihilations. Her boots touched down at the base of the slope, and for the briefest moment, the entire field dropped several degrees again—just enough to cloud breath, to stiffen fingers.
"Don't flatter yourself," she said, her voice as smooth as chilled vodka poured over a corpse. "You'll be begging for either long before I'm done."
Then, without warning, she moved.
Ice cracked.
Not in arcs. Not in spirals. In spears. A ring of pale-blue lances erupted from the ground beneath Gazei's feet—each one jagged, flawless, and aimed for arterial strikes.
"Your footwork is elegant," she said. "But elegance doesn't save you from absolute difference in power."
With a twist of her wrist, the entire battlefield shifted. Glacial spikes erupted in a perfect ring around Gazei's feet—no warning, no visible telegraph. Only pure, brutal precision.
He dodged. Just barely. His coat tore as he flickered across the frost in a sliding escape, boots skimming inches from impact. The man moved like smoke in a crosswind, ducking and weaving with uncanny grace.
He grinned as he spun into a backwards slide. "Still not hitting me."
But her saber was already drawn.
She was behind him.
One flash. One stroke. A cleave of pure cryo-pressure meant not to slice—but to puncture the atmosphere itself.
Gazei blocked it with his forearm guard, boots dragging trenches through the stone as he was hurled backward by sheer kinetic force.
And yet—no injury.
No mark.
Only friction and frost.
"Commander Esdeath. Reinforcements en route," came the next voice—crisp, younger, threaded with energy crackling just beneath the words.
The sound of ignition followed—like turbines winding up.
And then—
She arrived.
A sonic boom cracked the sky as a war-suit dove from the upper stratosphere in a controlled burn. She landed in a kinetic burst that rippled outward like a localized quake.
Lieutenant Colonel Ciel Anemone. Shockblade Division.
Her uniform wasn't standard. A black tactical bodyglove hugged her frame, reinforced at the joints with brushed-chrome smart armor. Over it, a cropped officer's coat—high collar, silver trim, half-cape trailing down one arm. Her twin shockblades were already alight, humming with pulse-static, the ends glowing cerulean with overclocked plasma. Jet-black bob cut. Expression unreadable. Movement, already measured.
"Squad Four. Formation Trident," she said through comms. "Lock his vector. Force him center."
She wore an obsidian jacket adorned with riot-grade pauldrons, lace skirt plated with impact-gel weave, and carried—of all things—a cannon longer than she was tall. One-handed. No recoil.
Without a word, she raised it.
A shell dropped.
The explosion did not boom. It compressed. Everything around it folded inward—like a detonation in reverse. Gazei barely flickered away from the pull before gravity righted itself and the air thunderclapped outward.
"Ok I'm done." Gazei yawned, stretching his arms like he was getting ready for a nap, not a warzone. He tilted his head, cracking his neck. Chapter's draggin'.
He turned his head lazily, eyes narrowing.
And then the world shifted.
A low hum of turbines, crackling energy, high heels clacking like distant gunfire. The horizon bloomed with movement—rows of women in distinct colors, gear, and killing intent spilling into formation across ridgelines, rooftops, transport bays, teleport sigils, and rising wind. Light shimmered off chrome, armor, and skin-tight suits. The very air bent with pressure and beauty.
They were here. All of them.
The Valkyrie Corps.
Fuckin' hell Rin did you really have to pull the hottest girls in gaming and anime? Gazei can only prey that the crazy he'd married is planning the stupid harem again.