"Excuse me, is the boss here? We'd like to rent the battle area—"
The red-haired boy leading the group stopped mid-sentence, his eyes widening at the sight of me—grinning, slightly sweaty, and carrying a hundred-pound filter pump on my shoulder like it was a gym bag.
Seeing customers walk in, my eyes lit up. I strode forward, hand extended in welcome. "Guests? Oh, welcome, welcome!"
Behind me, Squirtle—currently operating the MK-II maintenance robot—snapped to attention in a perfect salute. Unfortunately, this meant the robot's arm froze mid-action, and the waterproof glue it was dispensing curved into a comical smiley face on the pool wall.
The three students instinctively stepped back. In their defense, I was standing there with a massive pump on my shoulder, looking more like a construction worker than a gym leader.
"Oh, look at my memory," I said, lowering the filter pump onto the ground with exaggerated care.
"Boss, we were here to rent the battle area," the red-haired boy said, eyeing the cracked tiles and rusted railings. "But, uh… your place looks like it's still under renovation, so… sorry to bother you." He turned as if to leave.
I couldn't let them go. Not now. Not when the register was emptier than my fridge.
"Sir, please—stay!"
I reached out and patted him on the shoulder. The boy froze instantly, as if a Snorlax had decided to nap on him.
While keeping my polite smile, I quietly flicked open the system's Management tab. For the first time since inheriting this dump, it showed customer intent levels. Unfortunately, the gauge told me these three weren't particularly interested.
That wouldn't do. These kids were walking, talking wallets—my ticket to a warm dinner tonight.
"Ahem, let me explain. Our training ground uses immersive practical teaching, very different from the standard facilities you're used to."
The red-haired boy glanced toward the battle zone. "But the protective nets are broken."
"This," I said, raising my voice dramatically, "is part of the special training!"
I plucked Squirtle off the ground and set him on my shoulder. "Crisis awareness in a real battlefield environment—fifty Alliance Coins per hour here. That's the same price other places charge for boring, risk-free sessions. I'm practically bringing warmth to the people!"
Squirtle, catching on, fired a well-timed Water Gun at the damaged electric fence. Sparks danced along the wires, refracting through the mist to form a faint rainbow in the sunlight.
The students stared, wide-eyed. Their "interest level" bar on my system's panel shot up to 90%. Time to seal the deal.
With a flick of my wrist, I produced three Training Ground Registration Forms like a magician pulling scarves from his sleeve. They pulled out their wallets without hesitation, probably convinced they were watching some avant-garde performance art.
The "battle" that followed was… chaotic. Squirtle gave it his all, dashing and spraying water with surprising flair. I, however, didn't have much else to showcase.
After some thought, I decided to test the system's gifting feature. From my inventory, I tossed Squirtle the Assistant Engineer entry—Mechanical Maintenance Efficiency +15%.
"You seem to work well with the MK-II," I told him. "From now on, maintenance duty is yours." This decision was, of course, made purely for efficiency. Definitely not because I wanted less work.
The white light sank into Squirtle's shell. His eyes brightened, and without hesitation, he seized my repair toolbox. The box was big enough for him to hide inside, but he insisted on balancing it on his bald head instead.
It was… adorable. And ridiculous.
Just then, the MK-II twitched, its robotic arm scribbling odd, looping symbols onto the pool wall. Squirtle stared at them, tail swaying unconsciously to the pattern's rhythm.
"Leave it for later," I said, scooping him up again. "We have sponsors to attend to."
The three students were huddled by the rusted fighting stage, scanning the faded rules card with their phones. That's when I noticed the Odyssey Academy crest on their uniforms—a prestigious school whose students were basically walking ATMs.
Suddenly, fifty Alliance Coins per hour felt criminally underpriced.
"The equipment's ready!" I announced, flipping the main power switch.
The battered transformer groaned like it was on its last legs. Sparks leapt from the gaps in the netting, setting a pile of dry leaves smoldering in the corner.
The red-haired boy looked at me through the haze of smoke and sunlight. To my surprise, there was admiration in his eyes, as if he were staring at a mysterious hermit master.
[BEEP—]
[Temporary Mission Triggered: Rookie Trainer's Awe]
Goal: Win three matches using unconventional methods
Reward: Unlock entries based on the level of shock achieved
Originally, I'd planned to get back to repairing the pool. But system rewards were hard to resist.
Still… they'd already paid for the venue. If I went overboard, I might scare them off.
Just as I was weighing my options, the red-haired leader stepped forward again. "Boss, do you offer sparring services?"
It was like someone handing me a pillow just as I was about to fall asleep.
"Of course," I said smoothly. "Unfortunately, my other Pokémon are all traveling right now. Only Squirtle's here." I gestured toward my partner, who was still trying to wedge his head into the repair box.
For some reason, the boy looked at me as though I'd just said something suspicious.
"It's fine, boss," he said. "We're all freshmen. Each of us only has one novice-level Pokémon. And Squirtle's rare—yours must be at Normal level at least, right?"
Normal? I thought indignantly. I have blue skies and white clouds ahead, and you call me normal?
I swallowed the retort. A proper gym leader didn't argue about tiers with clients. Instead, I leaned forward and asked, "Why don't you tell me the level classifications for Pokémon?"
They eagerly explained:
Novice: Newly caught or hatched; about level 5. Normal: Basic combat-ready; about level 15. Elite: Skilled and adaptable; about level 25. Gym Leader Level: Can hold their own; about level 35. Quasi-Elite: Near-elite power; about level 50. Elite: Capable of fighting champions; about level 65. Champion Level: Regional champion-tier; about level 80.
I nodded sagely, as though I'd known all along. Squirtle, at level 10, was technically between Novice and Normal. That'd do.
"Alright then," I said, "let's see your Pokémon."
Three Poké Balls opened in flashes of red light.
I grinned. This was about to get interesting.