Hoenn League Headquarters, the top floor of the Ever Grande City Administrative Tower.
This building was absurdly tall.
The meeting room at the top of the tower hung on the edge of the cloud layer. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the clouds surged like a sea, completely suppressing the outline of the city below. Occasionally, a gap would appear, revealing a dense patch of gray rooftops.
The indoor temperature control was locked at twenty-four degrees. A handwritten note was stuck to the air conditioning vent, the handwriting neat and sharp:
Adjusting the temperature privately is prohibited; violators are responsible for the consequences.
Sidney suspected this piece of paper was specifically aimed at him.
He propped his feet up on the conference table, his loose red vest wrinkling with the movement.
The soles of his leather boots rubbed against the ebony tabletop, leaving a faint mark.
He saw it but didn't move.
He flipped a coin in his hand, caught it, and flipped it again, the rhythm steady.
The edges were heavily worn, and the pattern on the front had long since blurred.
He had used this coin to decide many things—so many that he couldn't even be bothered to count them.
Opposite him, Glacia, the Ice-type Elite, brought a cup of black tea to her lips.
Her blonde hair was tied up tightly, without a single strand out of place.
Her jade-green eyes rested on the air in front of her, looking neither at Sidney nor out the window, as if she were specifically keeping her gaze fixed on a spot that could maintain her expression.
The hem of her long purple dress spread across the chair, even the folds perfectly symmetrical.
Sidney flipped the coin, his gaze sweeping over her.
The two of them had worked together for nearly three years, and he had never seen her wear that dress anywhere outside the meeting room, nor had he seen her drink anything else.
There was a vending machine at the corner of the seventh-floor corridor. Every time he went to grab a canned cola, he would bump into someone walking toward him holding a bone china teacup, which always made him feel like the logic of this world didn't quite add up.
Ten minutes passed on the wall clock.
Vincent, an advanced assistant to the League, stood before the projection screen, motionless, holding a folder. His forehead was sweating for the third time.
In his seven years on the job, having attended hundreds of meetings, he had never had this problem.
The issue wasn't fear; it was that these two people were on completely different wavelengths. Caught in the middle, he had to consider both directions before saying anything—stepping on a landmine on either side was more than he could handle.
He flipped the folder to the first page and then back again. It wasn't necessary; he had long since memorized the contents, but his hands needed something to do.
"How much longer do we have to wait for this boring report?" Sidney tucked the coin into his pocket and leaned back against the chair. "My Mightyena is about to chew my boots to pieces."
Glacia set down her teacup, the bottom meeting the table silently.
"Etiquette is an extension of strength, Sidney. If you can't sit still, you can go to the corridor and spar with the security guards."
"Good idea." Sidney tilted his chin toward her. "Are you coming?"
"Unnecessary."
"Afraid of losing to a security guard?"
Glacia didn't respond. She picked up her teacup again, her movements exactly the same as when she had set it down—slow, steady, and radiating an attitude of "I am not speaking to you."
Sidney didn't follow up either; he pulled out the coin and flipped it a few more times.
Actually, he wasn't really complaining about boredom.
To be precise, it was this place that made him uncomfortable.
Twenty-four degrees, a sea of clouds, ebony wood, bone china teacups.
Every single thing about this League headquarters setup reminded him that this wasn't where he belonged.
He was never the type of person to sit on the top floor of a skyscraper in a suit and tie; he wasn't seven years ago, and he wasn't now, even with the "Elite" label slapped on him.
But here he was, sitting here.
It was a bit funny.
Vincent made a mental note: For the next meeting, it is suggested that the distance between the two Elites' seats be increased to over seven meters.
Vincent aligned the items in his hands once more and stood up straight.
Sidney stopped his hand from flipping the coin.
The only sound in the room was the faint "shoo-shoo" of the chip between Sidney's fingertips rubbing against the air, and the crisp clink of porcelain against the saucer whenever Glacia occasionally picked up her teacup.
Oppressive.
Utterly oppressive.
Finally, Sidney stopped his movements and pressed the chip onto the table with a "snap."
"I say, did the old man fall into the sea to feed a Wailord? He's the fucking last one to arrive every time."
Glacia's gaze finally moved away from her teacup. She gave him a cold glance but said nothing, though the temperature in that look was enough to drop the air in the room by several more degrees.
Just then.
"Rumble—"
The heavy alloy doors were pushed open from the outside, the sound like muffled thunder echoing through the empty room.
The floor clearly reflected the light from the corridor outside, until a tall, burly silhouette completely swallowed the light.
Drake, the Dragon-type Elite, stepped inside.
He didn't just walk in; it was more like his own presence compressed the entire space inward.
He had a robust build. Even at over sixty years old, his muscular lines still filled out his signature captain's cloak.
The edges of the cloak were somewhat worn, bearing the marks of sea breezes and the erosion of time.
His graying beard was trimmed like steel needles, each hair distinct.
He looked at no one, his gaze fixed straight ahead. Every step he took on the floor made a dull "thud, thud," carrying a sense of stability unique to an old sailor, capable of treading through wind and waves.
With his entrance, the air pressure in the room seemed to rise instantly.
Sidney subconsciously pulled back his feet and sat up straight.
He felt his fingers, which had just been spinning the chip, go a bit stiff. It was the instinctive reaction of a small animal being stared down by a more powerful predator.
Damn, this old guy's pressure has gotten stronger again.
Sidney cursed in his mind, though that cynical smile remained on his face.
Glacia also set down her teacup, her previously relaxed back stiffening further, like a birch tree preparing to face a Blizzard.
Assistant Vincent almost jogged over to meet him, bowing deeply:
"Lord Drake, you've arrived. Now everyone is here."
His voice carried a hint of imperceptible trembling, as if he had finally unloaded a thousand-pound burden.
Sidney looked around; the one empty seat was particularly conspicuous.
He raised an eyebrow and deliberately raised his voice, as if questioning or looking for trouble:
"Everyone's here? What about that girl who deals with ghosts all day? Why isn't Phoebe here? Didn't her precious ghosts tell her there was a meeting today?"
Vincent was taken aback by the question:
"Lord Phoebe... she set off for Mt. Pyre half a month ago."
"Mt. Pyre?"
Sidney sneered.
"What's she doing in that godforsaken place? Weeding those old-fashioned tombstones?"
"It is said that the spiritual fluctuations there are abnormal,"
Vincent explained humbly, not daring to look at any of the Elites' faces.
"Lord Phoebe said she must personally oversee the cultivation there to appease the restless spirits, so... so she cannot get away to attend this routine meeting."
Drake ignored their conversation and walked straight to the seat at the head of the table. With a flick of his cloak, he sat down steadily.
The chair, carved from a single massive piece of wood, let out an overburdened groan.
After he sat down, the center of gravity of the entire meeting room seemed to shift toward him.
"In that case, let's begin."
Drake's voice was hoarse, like a rock polished by sea winds.