Dawn – Route Between Auroria and Obsidian Peak
Skylar's breath misted gently in the chilly morning air.
The first rays of sunlight crept through the forest canopy, glinting off dew-covered leaves. A well-made campfire crackled steadily in a ring of stones, its smoke drifting lazily upward.
Around the clearing, his team was already hard at work:
Lucario maintained a fluid battle stance, eyes closed, flowing between forms with perfect focus.
Gardevoir floated above a still pond, her aura extending through the water like silk.
Scizor, freshly evolved, sparred at high speed against Darkrai, their blows clashing like lightning and shadow colliding.
Gyarados arched and twisted within the river's bend, displacing huge waves with each movement.
Skylar sat cross-legged on a smooth rock, notebook open on his lap. He scribbled notes, reviewed patterns, and gave the occasional nod or command.
This wasn't just a break.
This was how a champion was forged.
What he didn't know—
Was that someone was watching.
Someone who had followed him for days.
From behind the trees.
From beneath the brush.
From every cold, muddy, branch-smacking, poorly-buried root along the way.
Her name—
Giselle.
60 Meters Behind, Somewhere in a Bush
"I hate every single part of this."
Giselle hissed through gritted teeth as she pulled herself out of yet another patch of mud-streaked leaves.
Her once-pristine academy uniform was wrinkled, stained, and vaguely smelled like wild Oddish sap. Her boots—custom-fitted, imported—were caked with something that squelched when she walked. Her elegant braid looked like it had been chewed on by a Pidgeotto.
She stood slowly.
Tried to brush herself off.
Only to get slapped in the face by yet another low-hanging branch.
She froze.
Eye twitching.
Then whispered, "Calm down, Giselle. You are a graduate of the Royal Pokémon Academy. You are not going to scream again. Not this time—"
CRACK!
She stepped on a twig.
Immediately, a flock of Taillow scattered nearby.
Skylar, still visible in the distance, didn't even turn.
"How is he so damn natural at this?"
She ducked back down behind a bush, fumbling for her mirror.
Her reflection looked like a horror film cameo.
There were scratches on her cheeks, dirt on her forehead, and her mascara had turned into smoky war paint.
She blinked.
Then muttered darkly, "Have I always looked this... homicidal?"
She took out her travel ration bar and chewed it slowly, glowering across the clearing.
Skylar, oblivious, was now flipping pancakes over the fire with serene ease.
Pancakes. Berry-glazed, perfectly golden.
Gardevoir gave a nod of approval as he plated them.
Her stomach growled.
She glanced down at her "rations": half of a crumbled protein biscuit, a shriveled Oran Berry she was pretty sure wasn't toxic, and warm, algae-flavored water.
She whimpered internally.
"No. No. No. This is fine. You are Giselle. You are order. You are discipline. You aced Type Synergy Calculus and led the Academy Battle Simulation League for three consecutive years."
She took a step forward, determined to reestablish some grace.
And promptly slipped on a mossy rock.
Face. First.
Later That Day – On the Ridge Above
Skylar continued his journey through varying terrain—wet cliffs, overgrown trails, shifting riverbanks—setting up and breaking camp each night with his team in perfect harmony.
He adapted his training daily.
Switched match-ups.
Altered terrain tactics.
Even adjusted to Gyarados's growing defensive instincts.
His Pokémon improved with him.
And he, with them.
Giselle?
She followed.
Desperately.
And suffered.
She had:
Walked through a patch of invisible Stun Spore (and limped for an hour).
Accidentally sat on a wild Gulpin (it screamed).
Eaten a wrong berry and spent half a night bent over whispering death threats to her own stomach.
Gotten her hair caught on a tree branch—then her sleeve—then her other sleeve—then her shoe.
At one point, she actually had to fight off a curious Bidoof with a comb.
Laying on her back after one such defeat, Giselle stared at the sky and groaned:
"He lives like this. He enjoys this. He's not even trying to be a showoff and he's doing it better than me!"
She sat up, shaking.
Her pride frayed but still burning.
She looked at her dirtied notebook.
Still filled with diagrams, maps, battle notes.
She had been tracking his routines.
His team rotations.
Even predicting when he would shift to aura-focused training.
Despite the chaos, she had learned.
And that—
That meant she was winning.
Even in the mud.
"You think you're better, Skylar," she muttered."You think your instincts and your emotional speeches and your outdoor survival techniques make you a real trainer."
She stood shakily.
Wobbled.
Then fixed her collar and straightened her shoulders.
"But knowledge is power. Order is power. Discipline is power."
She turned toward the next ridge, eyes blazing with fury and intellect.
"And I will show you—once and for all—that you are nothing but a talented amateur."
She tripped on a vine.
Tumbled down a short hill.
Hit a rock.
Landed in a bush.
And whispered in total defeat: "I hate nature so much."
But the next morning—
She was still following.
Still writing.
Still planning.
Still burning with pride.