Ocre City. A secret base nestled deep within the Ironridge Peaks.
The air was thick with the scent of ozone and scorched earth. Explosions thundered through the canopy, punctuated by the high-pitched screech of electric discharge. This wasn't a sanctioned match or a friendly spar between rookies—this was a war zone.
The site had served as a temporary stronghold for a notorious poaching ring operating out of Ocre City. Now, it was a slaughterhouse.
The Zenith League's Security Officers had finally cornered them, backed by a handful of local contractors recruited for the raid. The poachers were breaking. Some were apprehended in the chaos; others were reduced to cinders or encased in jagged blocks of ice during their desperate last stands.
A few "clever" survivors, banking on their knowledge of the rugged terrain, slipped away through a narrow, hidden path behind the base. They were deep in the Ironridge Peaks. If they could just put a few hundred yards of dense jungle between themselves and the cops, not even an Arcanine's nose would find them.
But the Security Officers hadn't traveled a thousand miles to let the big fish slip through the net. They had accounted for every rat-hole.
Before the escapees could take ten steps, they found their path blocked.
A thin, pale youth—maybe fourteen or fifteen—was squatting in the middle of the dirt road. He was holding a random tree branch, using it to poke rudely at a motionless Metapod in the grass.
His name was Luke Rhodes. He was a rising star in Ocre City's contractor scene, though he was better known for his "tactical efficiency" than his sportsmanship.
Seeing the poachers stumble into his clearing, Luke tossed the branch aside with a look of mild annoyance, abandoning his career of bullying local bugs.
"The road ahead?" Luke said, a mocking edge to his voice. "Let's explore that some other time."
"Kid? Get out of the way if you want to keep breathing!"
The poachers didn't waste time with dialogue. They released their partners and gave the order for a direct hit. In a real battle, the first rule was simple: Target the Trainer.
An Electabuzz's Thunderbolt, a Cloyster's Icicle Spear, and a Carnivine's Razor Leaf all screamed toward Luke simultaneously. If those hit, there wouldn't be enough of him left to bury.
Suddenly, a shimmer of pink energy manifested in the air. The three attacks hit an invisible wall six meters in front of Luke, stalling as if time itself had frozen, before detonating in a useless cloud of smoke.
As the haze cleared, a massive shadow stepped out from the treeline. The poachers stared, their jaws dropping.
It was a Nidorino—mostly. It had the light purple hide, the dark triangular patches, and the prominent horn. But no "legal" Nidorino was the size of a jeep.
The contrast between the thin youth and the prehistoric behemoth was jarring. Luke reached up, stroking the creature's jagged head to soothe it.
"Easy, Arno. Don't be mad. I'm sure they didn't mean it."
It was a constant struggle. As Arno's level climbed, his mass increased, and his temperament became increasingly volatile. Nidorino were already famous for their hair-trigger tempers—wild ones were known to headbutt boulders just to vent. Luke knew he needed a Moon Stone to stabilize him through evolution, but rare stones cost a fortune.
That was why he was here. He needed the bounty.
The poachers were visibly sweating. In the Pokémon world, "Special Individuals" usually meant "Team Wipers." Worse, that pink shield was clearly Confusion—a move a Nidorino couldn't learn through standard training. It was an Egg Move, a mark of elite breeding and terrifying potential.
Desperate, the poachers realized long-range attacks were useless against a Psychic-type barrier. "Rush him!" the leader screamed. "Melee! Now!"
They charged—three Pokémon and three men, screaming about "bonds" and "survival" with reckless abandon.
Luke covered his face with one hand. Half out of embarrassment for them, the other half because he didn't want to watch the carnage.
The lead Electabuzz stepped on a small, purple bubble hidden in the mud. A viscous toxin traveled up its leg at high speed, flooding its nervous system. The ferocious beast suddenly stumbled, its movements becoming sluggish and weak.
"Watch out!" the leader panicked. "That's Venom Drench!"
Before the warning could land, he stepped on one himself. Luke hadn't just been "poking a Metapod"—he had turned the entire path into a minefield.
Those who hit the Venom Drench traps were the lucky ones. It was a debuff, not a death sentence. The real nightmare started when the air itself began to shimmer with invisible Toxic Spikes.
Human or Pokémon, it didn't matter. As soon as they brushed against four or five of the floating, malicious needles, the toxins took hold. Fever and paralysis set in instantly, leaving them wide open for Arno to pick them off with Confusion from a safe distance.
The conscious leader lay in the dirt, gasping for air. "This... this isn't Toxic Spikes," he wheezed, his skin turning a sickly shade of violet. "No one's poison is this potent. You're cheating... is that thing even legal?"
Luke just checked his watch. The Cultivation System was straightforward: it turned a Pokémon into something completely unreasonable. For Luke, sportsmanship was a luxury he couldn't afford.
He had invested every cent he owned into Arno's venom potency. People already called him a dirty fighter now—he could only imagine the look on their faces once he finally evolved Arno into a King.