he bracket board clacked, wooden tiles sliding into place with a sound like bone on stone. The last two names etched across it in neat chalk:
Orion — three badges. Cynthia — three badges.
The plaza roared.
It wasn't awe, not like a Champion's name today would've brought. Cynthia wasn't that yet. She was just another young trainer, same as me. But the crowd leaned forward like they knew something. And maybe they did. She carried herself different—shoulders back, coat drifting in the breeze, eyes steady. She didn't need the title for people to feel the weight of her.
My throat tightened. I remembered walking beside her on the road weeks ago. Her voice, quiet but certain, speaking of ruins and history. Her smile when Luxio growled too loudly, when Tyrunt snapped at shadows. She'd felt just beyond reach then. Now she stood across the ring from me.
The marshal's shout cracked sharp. "Final match! Best of three! Trainers, declare your two!"
Tyrunt's ball rattled, hot with pride. Luxio's bristled, sparks stinging my fingers. They wanted this fight—needed it.
I set both into the judge's tray. "Tyrunt and Luxio."
Across the ring, Cynthia slid her choices forward. She looked up, and our eyes met. She didn't smile, but something glimmered—recognition.
The crowd chanted, stamping their feet. Dust swirled in the late light.
The ref's arm cut down. "Release!"
"Go, Tyrunt!"
"Roselia."
Red light burst into form. Tyrunt landed hard, claws scoring the dirt, roaring loud enough to rattle my chest. Across from him, Roselia touched down light as a whisper, blossoms swaying, a sweet but sharp scent curling into the hot air. Its eyes half-lidded, calm.
"Poison Sting," Cynthia said, almost softly.
Roselia flicked one blossom. A spray of glowing needles hissed across the dirt, faster than I expected.
"Tail arc!" I barked.
Tyrunt swung wide. Too wide. He clipped a few, sparks of poison scattering, but the rest struck his flank. He snarled, shaking them loose, but purple already seeped under his scales.
"Don't chase!" I snapped. "Keep it small!"
Roselia glided sideways, blossoms flicking again. Tyrunt roared and lunged anyway, jaws snapping. Roselia pivoted neatly, blossoms snapping another spray into his jaw.
"Bite down!" I shouted.
His teeth closed on Roselia's arm. The flower Pokémon cried out, vines writhing. Tyrunt whipped his tail, half-arc across its body. Dirt sprayed, the crowd roared.
But Cynthia's voice stayed steady. "Stun Spore."
The blossoms flared gold. Dust poured straight into Tyrunt's open mouth, eyes, nose. He coughed, staggered, legs wobbling. His tail faltered.
"Hold on!" I barked, heart in my throat.
"Magical Leaf."
Leaves spun out in a sharp flurry, each glowing blade weaving around his failing guard. They struck, one after another, until Tyrunt's legs buckled. He collapsed with a roar that turned to a groan.
The flag dropped. "Roselia wins!"
I recalled him fast, whispering, "You did good. Control's coming. Rest." His ball twitched, proud but weak.
Luxio's eyes burned holes in me. Sparks crawled across his mane, crackling sharp. He didn't need me to call him.
I raised the ball anyway. "Luxio—your turn."
He hit the dirt in lightning and fury, sparks bursting so bright the crowd gasped. He snarled, every line of him promising revenge.
"Poison Sting," Cynthia said again.
The blossoms flicked, needles hissing.
"Bite!" I roared.
Luxio surged, a streak of lightning. The needles struck, but he plowed through, jaws clamping down on Roselia's side. Sparks crackled deep into its body. The flower Pokémon screamed, vines thrashing.
"Release!" I snapped.
Luxio flung it down, then lunged again. His fangs closed on blossoms, dragging Roselia across the dirt. The ref's flag dropped before Cynthia's voice even rose.
"Roselia is unable to battle! Winner—Luxio!"
The crowd erupted. 1–1.
Luxio shook himself, sparks crawling, chest heaving. He was bleeding from needles, but his pride blazed brighter than the pain. His eyes were already locked on the other gate.
Cynthia lifted her last ball. "Gible."
Light burst, and the small dragon crashed onto the dirt with a snarl, teeth too big for its head, claws gouging furrows. Its body was raw power, reckless and eager.
The crowd howled, the air thick with dust and anticipation.
The ref dropped his arm.
"Dragon Rage," Cynthia called.
Blue fire roared from Gible's mouth, searing across the dirt.
"Dodge!" I shouted.
Luxio leapt, sparks trailing, the blast scorching where he'd stood. He landed rolling, snarling.
"Bite!"
He lunged, faster than the dragon expected, fangs clamping into its shoulder. Sparks danced along his mane, flaring with his fury. Gible roared, twisting, slamming him sideways into the dirt. Luxio held on, teeth grinding, refusing to yield.
"Out!" I snapped.
He tore free, leaping back, chest heaving, paws digging grooves. His eyes burned with fire.
Cynthia's voice was calm as ever. "Sand Tomb."
The ground shook. Dust and grit spiraled around Luxio's legs, pinning him, dragging him down. He snarled, sparks fighting against it, but each step grew heavy.
"Low Bite! Break through it!" I shouted.
Luxio surged forward, teeth sinking into Gible's flank again. The dragon howled, staggering sideways. Sparks burst across its hide. For a heartbeat, the crowd's roar was deafening—he had it. We had it.
Then Cynthia's hand cut the air. "Dragon Claw."
Gible's arm glowed. Claws slashed across Luxio's chest. The predator cat screamed, sparks scattering into the dirt. He staggered, legs trembling. He tried to rise again, eyes locked on the dragon. His body gave out.
The flag fell. "Winner—Cynthia and Gible!"
The plaza exploded with noise.
I dropped to my knees, recalling Luxio before he could hurt himself worse. My hand shook around the ball. "You were enough," I whispered. "I wasn't."
The announcer shouted Cynthia's name, raised her hand. The crowd roared—but they roared mine too. My Pokémon hadn't been outmatched. I had.
The prize came swift: a heavy purse of coin, weighty against my palm. A voucher stamped with the Veilstone Department seal—good for one specialty item. Second place. Almost a draw.
Cynthia approached after the dust had settled, Gible at her side, Roselia already recalled. Her eyes were calm, not gloating.
"Your Pokémon are already climbing," she said quietly. "They're pushing past their limits. They would have taken me if you hadn't faltered. Don't let them outpace you."
The words stung worse than the loss—but they rang true.
Later, after the plaza emptied and the torches burned low, we walked together down Veilstone's stone streets. Market stalls glowed faint, smoke curling from fires. I bought skewers—meat charred with vegetables—and my hands trembled handing her one.
"You fought well," she said after a bite.
"Not well enough."
Her eyes flicked to me, the corners of her mouth softening. "That's why we keep walking."
We did, past banners and towers, past the ring being swept clean. For a moment it felt like the road again, just us. My team's Poké Balls weighed warm at my side, heavy with pride. Her shadow brushed mine in the lamplight, and the thought rose sharp as Luxio's spark: maybe one day I could stand not just beside her on the road, but beside her in strength.
For now, the purse was heavy at my hip, the voucher firm in my hand, and her words in my chest:
Don't let them outpace you.