Her voice was loud.
Feeling Gast's excitement, Jason gave a helpless smile. He was about to agree—indulge her love of the spotlight—when he suddenly felt a sharp gaze on him.
He looked back on instinct.
At the edge of the field, Iron Valiant was watching him in silence. It said nothing, simply stood there. But its red eyes were blazing.
An invisible fighting spirit radiated from it.
Jason understood at once.
Iron Valiant wanted to fight.
Since the last battle, it hadn't made a move in quite a while. In that time, it had followed the team in silence, watching Gast shine at gym after gym. It hadn't complained or pressed—because it trusted Jason's plan.
But today, it wanted a turn.
It craved combat, the clash with the strong. That was its reason for being.
Jason met Iron Valiant's eyes and fell into brief thought.
On one hand was Gast, who loved a crowd and longed to show off. Lively and outgoing, she thrived on cheers and praise. Letting her go out would feed her vanity and make her happy.
On the other was Iron Valiant, who needed battle to prove its worth. Fighting was survival for it; being held back was a strain.
Both were his—this was a hard call.
Gast had noticed his hesitation—and Iron Valiant's stare. She stopped begging and floated off him, following his gaze. Seeing Iron Valiant, she paused. As a teammate, she knew him well: a guy who cared about nothing but battle. Usually taciturn, a machine without feelings. But she knew he'd been holding back for a long time.
The atmosphere shifted subtly with the brief silence. The stream chat felt it too.
"What's wrong? Why hasn't Jason sent a Pokémon—hesitating over who goes first?"
"Look at that Iron Valiant—those eyes are scary."
"I smell an intra-squad PK coming."
"Lol, a battlefield of love? Gengar vs. Iron Valiant—who's Jason's No. 1?"
Jason ignored the noise. He stepped forward, raised a hand, and patted Gast's head—gentle voice, gentle touch. "This time, let Iron Valiant go first."
Gast stiffened and looked up, a flicker of disappointment across her face.
"You're the finisher," Jason added.
At "finisher," her expression eased a little. She knew finishing usually meant the strongest foe, and bigger glory. Still, a little sulk lingered. She glanced over at Iron Valiant again—and read more in its look this time: not just hunger, but a near-obsessive resolve.
She wasn't unreasonable. She pouted, drifted to the sideline, folded her arms, and struck a "fine, I'll graciously let you have it" pose.
"Alright, you go first," she muttered—just loud enough for Jason and Iron Valiant to hear. "I'll see how much gap there still is between us."
It gave her a step down—and voiced her real thought. With her growth, she too wanted to know: between her and Iron Valiant, who was stronger now? Today was a good chance to watch.
Hearing her, Jason smiled. He walked up to Iron Valiant. The fighting spirit in those eyes had reached a boil. Jason didn't waste words—just issued a simple order. "Go show him everything you've got."
Iron Valiant didn't answer, only nodded. Lightblades unfolded soundlessly in its hands. Step by step, it took the center of the field.
Then—
The referee raised his flag, cleared his throat, and announced in textbook tones:
"The Medali Gym qualification match… begins now!
"The challenger: Jason, from Mesagoza! The Gym Leader: our Mr. Larry!
"Rules: singles! When all Pokémon on one side are unable to battle, the match ends! Trainers, send out your first Pokémon!"
The amplified voice carried to every corner; the stands' cheers and chatter peaked.
"Finally starting!"
"Look—Larry still looks half-asleep, lol."
"Don't underestimate him—Larry's stall-and-chip game is notoriously nasty. Plenty of challengers tilted to pieces."
"But Jason isn't ordinary—he never plays slow."
"Exactly—makes it fun!"
On the dais, Larry undid his top shirt button, loosened his tie, and let out a long breath—looking more like a salaryman settling in for a lunch nap than a gym leader about to fight.
Across from him, Iron Valiant had been motionless for a while—metallic sheen in the sun, arms down, blades not fully extended, a silent statue alien to the heated crowd.
"Alright then—show me your strength," Larry murmured, drawing a Poké Ball. No flourish; just a plain throw.
"Go, Oinkologne."
With a flash, a plump, gray Pokémon with perky ears appeared. It lifted its head and sniffed; a faint, special aroma began to spread over the field.
"Oh? Opening with Oinkologne?"
"Classic Larry start: Aroma Veil to block Taunt, then status via scent moves."
"And Aromatherapy to clear status for the whole team—key piece in Larry's system."
Veteran viewers were already breaking down the plan: steady, methodical, wearing the foe down with harassment and attrition.
Larry's gaze stayed calm. The plan was simple—use Odor Sleuth to scope the opponent's kit, then Disarming Voice, Yawn, Attract—whatever to disrupt. Slow Iron Valiant down or inflict a status and the rest gets easier.
He was about to call the first move—when Jason spoke first. He didn't even walk to the dais—just stood at the sideline, voice not loud but crisp as a knife.
"Iron Valiant—finish it."
As simple and direct as it gets.
Finish it.
On the word, Iron Valiant moved. No tell. One second, still. The next, gone. Not just high speed—that would leave air trails and blurs. This was like hopping space itself. The silver-white frame crossed a dozen meters in an instant, appearing before Oinkologne with no warning.
Too fast.
Larry's pupils pinched; his command snagged in his throat. Oinkologne startled—Odor Sleuth barely spun up; its brain was still parsing Iron Valiant's scent when there was no time left. A slash of pink-violet lit its vision—Iron Valiant's right arm already up, blade extended into a pure psychic edge.
Psycho Cut.
The blade flashed, precise as a scalpel, across Oinkologne's neck. No crash; no explosion—just a thin cutting sound. Oinkologne froze, eyes dimming, rolling up. The ample body swayed twice and toppled backward, kicking up a puff of dust.
One move. Not even a second. From Jason's command to Oinkologne on the floor—the mind could barely follow.
Uproar. Then dead quiet. Mouths hung open, stares fixed on the silver figure lowering its blade and the crumpled Oinkologne.
The stream chat stalled for a heartbeat—then detonated.
"?????"
"What just happened? Did my net lag?"
"Teleport? That was teleport!"
"One-shotted? Larry's Oinkologne got one-shotted?"
"God—the speed! The cameras can't keep up!"
"So this is Iron Valiant? That's absurd—stronger than Gast!"
The ref blinked for several seconds before raising his flag, stammering, "O—Oinkologne is unable to battle! Winner: Iron Valiant!"
Only then did the audience snap back, exploding into louder shock.
"Too strong—this isn't the same weight class."
"He said 'finish it'… and it was finished."
"You good, Larry?"
All eyes cut to the leader. The fatigue and deadpan were gone from Larry's face—his mouth ajar, a sliver of unmasked shock in his eyes. He'd imagined many openings—even Oinkologne being cracked through. He hadn't imagined… this. Not a tactical misstep—a raw power gap. Against that speed, his prep looked like a joke.
At the edge, Gast crossed her arms and sniffed. "Of course. Slowpokes like that don't need a second move," she said, proud as if it were obvious. "Though his form's still a bit stiff. If it were me, I'd finish it more elegantly."
Jason ignored her self-plug and watched Larry, waiting for the next Pokémon.
Larry drew in a deep breath and let it out. He recalled Oinkologne with a quiet "Good work," then looked up again. The slack and weariness in his gaze had mostly drained away, replaced by a sober assessment.
"So that's the level," he murmured, taking another Poké Ball. "Speed that makes tactics moot… then it has to be typing and air control."
He threw. "Come, Braviary!"
A piercing cry split the air; a massive raptor materialized overhead—white crest, sharp yellow beak, a body of corded muscle. Its spread wings cast a wide shadow; its aura quieted the crowd.
"Braviary! Flying-type!"
"Flying is super-effective on Fighting-type Iron Valiant!"
"Larry's serious now—use the sky to choke that ground speed!"
"Now there's a question—no matter how fast on the ground, can you hit what's in the air?"
Commentary flared. Braviary, Normal/Flying, had the type edge vs. Fighting—and, crucially, owned the sky. Larry's intent was clear: move the battle aloft, deny Iron Valiant its proud speed.
Braviary spiraled once, eyes pinning Iron Valiant below, and cried again with heavy menace.
"That's the spirit," Larry's gaze sharpened. "Braviary—Brave Bird!"
Wings beat; white light cloaked it. It tucked in and became a great white meteor, ripping the air as it plunged—straight for Iron Valiant.
Brave Bird: a Flying nuke, a destroyer's dive.
Hearts lodged in throats—how would Iron Valiant answer? Take it head-on or scramble aside?
All eyes swung to Jason and Iron Valiant. Jason stood as before, face unchanged. He tilted his head to glance at the falling star, then gave a calm order:
"Three steps left. Thunder Punch."
The directive stunned everyone who heard it.
Three steps left?
That precise?
~~~
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