Morning came earlier than either of them wanted.
Ash stirred first, woken by the faint grey light leaking through the curtains and the soft rustle of feathers as Pidgeotto shifted at the foot of the bed. Pikachu was already awake, ears pricked, watching the window as though he could sense the weight of the day waiting outside. Beside him, Yellow stirred, her hair a sleepy tangle, while Doduo blinked unevenly — one head still drowsy, the other already alert.
The air still carried the warmth of the night before — the mingled scents of linen and Pokémon — but beneath it ran a quiet current of anticipation. Ash eased himself upright, careful not to disturb Eevee, who had somehow migrated to his lap during the night.
They dressed in silence, the sort of silence born not of distance but of thought. Yellow sat at the table, fingers absently tracing the flute's smooth surface, while Ash checked his belt, each Poké Ball clicking into place. When he caught her watching, he gave her a small, reassuring smile.
"My team and I are ready. It'll be fine."
Whether he was saying it to her or to himself, neither of them could truly tell.
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By the time they reached the streets, the sun was already well above the rooftops, spilling golden light across the stone-lined lanes. Judging from the shadows, it had to be somewhere between nine and ten — late enough that Pewter had shaken off its sleep, early enough that the air still clung to the cool edge of morning.
The city was busier now than on their last walk through. Shopkeepers leaned in doorways, sweeping dust from their thresholds. The smell of baking bread drifted from a corner bakery, mixing with the sharper tang of stone and metal from a smithy down the lane. A Machop hauled a cart of quarried rock toward the industrial quarter, muscles bunching and straining against the weight.
The road ahead widened, the low buildings falling away to reveal their destination. The Pewter Gym.
In the morning light, it seemed less a building than a fragment of the mountain itself, carved and shaped into purpose. The walls were slabs of grey stone, rough in places, smoothed in others by the touch of countless hands over countless years. The low roofline blended seamlessly into the rocky rise behind it, as though the gym had grown from the earth rather than been built upon it.
Broad stone steps led up to a pair of heavy double doors, iron-banded and scarred with use. Above them, the Gym's insignia — a stylised boulder split cleanly in two — caught the sunlight, the carved lines casting sharp shadows that made the symbol pulse with quiet strength.
And waiting at the doors was Flint. Still in disguise, hat brim shading his eyes, but watching all the same.
Ash slowed at the base of the steps. Pikachu's ears twitched forward, tail flicking once. Beside him, Yellow's gaze lingered on the insignia, her fingers tightening around the flute.
Without a word, they climbed the steps.
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Flint didn't move. He stood with the immovable ease of a boulder that had weathered centuries of storms. The brim of his hat kept his eyes hidden, but the weight of his gaze pressed down all the same.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke. The city sounds seemed to fall away — the distant clang of the smithy, the chatter of shopkeepers — until only the faint whisper of mountain wind remained.
At last, Flint inclined his head. A small gesture, but heavy with meaning.
"He's waiting," he said, his voice low, even.
Ash returned the nod, short and certain. Pikachu's cheeks sparked faintly, catching the edge of the tension. Yellow shifted beside him, still clutching the flute, the wood warm beneath her fingers.
Flint stepped aside. His hand brushed the iron bands as he pulled the doors open. The hinges groaned, releasing a breath of cool air tinged with dust, stone, and something older.
Ash drew in a steady breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped inside. Pikachu padded at his heel, tail high. Yellow followed, Doduo's talons clicking softly against the stone.
The doors shut behind them with a deep, resonant thud.
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Inside, the world was shadow. The air was cool and dry, carrying the faint scent of stone. For a long moment, their eyes found nothing but outlines — floor, wall, ceiling — swallowed by gloom. Pikachu's fur bristled, ears twitching, static running in a low crackle across his body.
Then a voice rolled through the darkness, deep and steady, echoing from every wall at once.
"Who goes there?"
The words lingered like a challenge, dissolving slowly into stillness.
Ash squinted into the dark, but the speaker remained unseen. Yellow's grip on her flute tightened. Doduo shifted uneasily, talons scratching stone.
A sharp click.
Light flared to life overhead, one bank at a time, scattering shadows into corners. The arena revealed itself piece by piece: the wide, packed-earth floor, the jagged boulders strewn like the aftermath of a rockslide.
At the far end stood Brock. Arms folded, eyes sharp, his presence calm and unshaken — the gaze of someone who had stood in this place a hundred times before. Behind him, Onix stirred, the massive coils grinding like mountains waking.
The gym was awake now. And waiting.
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All eight souls in the gym gathered at the center of the field.
Flint knelt, lifting the case that waited on the ground. His voice was steady, but there was a ritual weight to it.
"I know we already agreed," he said, looking from Brock to Ash, "but the League demands clarity. Shall I go over the rules again?"
Both nodded.
The latches snapped open with two sharp clicks that echoed through the cavernous gym. Inside lay a pair of flags — one red, one green — a small, worn whistle, and two folded papers with pens laid across them.
"The Pokémon League is old," Flint began, fingers brushing the whistle as though it carried memory of countless matches. "Its battles take many forms. The one you all know best is Standard. One Pokémon against another. Trainers rotate their teams — anywhere from one to six — until victory is decided. This is the format you've seen at Gyms, at conferences, at friendly duels in the street. Clean. Controlled. Fair. That's the face the League shows the world."
He paused, eyes shadowed beneath his brim. "But there are other modes. Older ones."
Ash felt Pikachu stiffen by his leg. Even Brock's posture shifted, just slightly.
"The second mode," Flint said, his tone dropping, "is Survival. Few speak of it now. Fewer still use it. Trainers fight alongside their Pokémon. You command — and you bleed. The enemy's attacks can strike you as easily as your partner. You may strike back with your own hands, if you dare. Anything goes, so long as no one dies. It's dangerous. Brutal. Criminals favor it still. Once, it was how battles were meant to be fought."
Yellow's fingers tightened around the flute in her lap. Ash felt his stomach twist, the words dragging up images of fire and claws aimed not just at Pokémon, but at people.
"And then," Flint went on, "there is the rarest of all — Dual. A test of both. Two sets. The first, fought in Standard. The second, in Survival, with different teams. Almost no Gym Leaders even know this clause exists. Buried in old paperwork. Forgotten by design."
He shut the case with a soft thud.
"To invoke Survival or Dual, a trainer must first be recommended by a Gym Leader. If they fail their first Survival battle, they are barred from trying again unless another Leader deems them worthy. Many never recover. Those who succeed… they earn the right to push further. To fight in Dual."
He lifted the folded papers and held them out. "These are waivers. Once you sign, neither party may sue for damages. Not for injuries. Not for broken bones. Not for scars. The League protects itself. The rest… is up to you."
Flint's gaze shifted between them. "Do you both understand? Do you agree?"
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Flint's words hung in the air, weighty as stone. The stillness that followed pressed down like an unseen hand.
Ash's hand clenched at his side. His pulse drummed in his ears — part fear, part something else. Not dread, exactly, but the sense of standing on the edge of something irreversible. Pikachu shifted closer, fur prickling with static as if sharing the tension.
Brock met his gaze evenly across the field. There was no bravado in his eyes, no hidden malice. Just calm acceptance — a leader prepared to test, and to be tested.
"We agreed on Survival," Brock said at last, his voice steady as the stone beneath their feet.
Flint's expression didn't change, but he studied them both for a long moment. Then, with the faintest of nods, he set the waivers down between them.
"Then it is decided. Sign."
The pens felt heavier than they should have when Ash and Brock each took one. The scratch of ink on paper seemed to echo unnaturally loud, sealing something that could not be undone.
When Flint snapped the case shut, the sound rang final. He turned to Yellow.
"As per protocol, the companion will be escorted out. You will hold the spare Poké Balls until called."
Yellow blinked, startled by the sudden attention, but nodded. Her fingers closed tightly around the three Poké Balls Ash pressed into her hands. For a heartbeat she looked at him, searching his face — but the moment passed with no words spoken. Only the small, brave nod they exchanged.
She turned, following Flint's gesture toward a side door. Doduo padded close behind.
The door closed behind her with a hollow click. To Ash, it sounded louder than the case shutting. Louder than any stonefall. The last tether was gone.
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The room Yellow entered was smaller, dimmer, alive with the faint hum of machinery. A row of monitors lined the wall, one already lit with the live feed of the gym floor.
Waiting there were Brock's siblings. They turned as she entered, wide-eyed, their gazes darting between Yellow and the screen where their father and brother faced Ash like figures carved in stone.
Without speaking, Yellow released the Poké Balls she carried. Butterfree, Pidgeotto, and Spearow emerged in soft bursts of light, their forms flickering against the screen's glow. Pikachu's teammates, benched but far from absent.
Together, they settled into the room. The children huddled close, hands gripping one another. Yellow sank cross-legged onto the floor, the flute resting across her knees, the Pokémon clustered protectively around her.
The hush was heavy. The soft hum of the monitors, the faint static of the live feed — nothing else. The vigil began.
And in that hush, every heart — human and Pokémon alike — was bound to the same fragile hope.
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Back in the gym, the air was taut as a bowstring.
Flint stood between Ash and Brock, the case closed and locked at his side. His voice carried across the stone floor, crisp and solemn, echoing off the cavernous walls.
"This will be a three-on-three match, conducted under Survival rules. Victory is achieved when one side can no longer continue. Injury, exhaustion, surrender — all are valid conclusions. The referee's call is final."
His gaze shifted from one trainer to the other, weighing them like steel against stone.
"Are you ready?"
Brock gave a single, firm nod.
Ash drew in a breath, steadying his pulse. This was Survival — not just a test of skill, but of endurance, of courage, of whether he and Pikachu could stand shoulder to shoulder against something older and darker than the League wanted the world to see.
Pikachu flexed his paws, static flickering between his cheeks like restless sparks.
Flint lifted the flags, one red, one green. His stance was immovable, a sentinel of stone.
"Trainers, send out your Pokémon!"
Brock's Poké Ball burst open in a blaze of white. Ash didn't need to throw his — Pikachu was already at his feet, stepping forward with ears high.
The flags dropped.
"Begin."
The Gym Challenge had officially begun.
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(AN: Well… I think I might be a bit more overzealous than what many would expect. Ladies and Gentlemen, we are now in near uncharted territory with this. I will either fumble so hard that I will die of shame or it will be good enough for you all.)