The loud bang of Drake kicking open the door still vibrated in the air of the meeting room, its echoes lingering.
A sharp whistle pierced this frozen atmosphere. Sidney propped one hand on the table, stood up from his chair with a lazy push, and stretched broadly, his joints letting out a series of crisp pops.
He glanced at the still-swaying alloy doorframe at the entrance, a grin on his face that suggested he enjoyed watching the world burn.
"Oh my, the old man is getting serious. Now this is going to be a good show."
He glanced at the scattered documents on the table; the official jargon printed on the papers made him wrinkle his nose.
"Since everyone's gone, I have no interest in staying here to smell this rotting bureaucratic stench. I'm heading out too. Little Vincent, I'll leave this mess to you."
Sidney winked at the dazed assistant in the corner, shoved his hands into his pockets, and sauntered off with a swaggering gait while whistling an out-of-tune melody, as if the volcano-like argument just now had been nothing more than a boring play.
In the meeting room, it was so quiet that a pin drop could be heard.
*Snap.*
With a soft sound, Glacia closed the hardcover manual in her hand, which was embossed with the League's emblem.
The movement was devoid of any heat, as elegant as if she were closing a book of poetry rather than a file containing League secrets.
She shifted her gaze from the manual to the face of the assistant, Vincent. Her emerald eyes held no warmth, like two bottomless ancient wells.
"Though Drake's words were harsh, they are the truth."
Her voice was soft, yet it was like an Icicle Spear, stabbing into Vincent's heart word by word.
"Vincent, tell the higher-ups,"
Glacia stood up, her tall figure casting a long shadow that completely enveloped Vincent,
"If this continues, the Elite Four will no longer be the League's shield."
"We will become... the hammer that shatters that shield."
After speaking, she didn't give Vincent another look and turned to leave.
Her high heels clicked against the polished floor—'clack, clack, clack'—each sound feeling like a step on Vincent's frayed nerves until the noise vanished at the end of the hallway.
In the vast meeting room, only Vincent remained.
Along with the mess all over the floor.
He slumped into a chair, feeling as if all the strength had been drained from his body.
Vincent looked up, his eyes involuntarily drawn to the giant display screen on the wall.
The screen was still on.
Frozen on it was the very source of Drake's rage—the tragic state of Blue Sea Cliff.
Vincent now felt like his head was about to explode.
Those fat-headed fellows in the League's top brass—what on earth were they thinking?
What did they think the Elite Four were?
Pets they kept in a cage, to be pacified or deceived at will?
Drake's roar, Sidney's mockery, Glacia's ultimatum—they replayed in his mind over and over.
These people standing at the pinnacle of the Hoenn region's power weren't just provoked.
They were completely ignited.
Vincent shook his head powerlessly and reached out to turn off the screen, but his fingertips stopped the moment they touched the switch.
He suddenly had an absurd and terrifying thought.
Would the League make a change?
They would, they definitely would.
But not because they found their conscience, nor because they had a sudden epiphany.
It would be because of fear.
Because they finally realized that when the shield tires of protecting, it can become a blade turned against them at any time.
The situation in Hoenn, much like the cliff in that photo, was already standing on the edge of collapse.
And he, a lowly assistant, was standing right in the middle of the crack, watching helplessly as the abyss opened its bloody maw toward everyone.
He wondered where the first sound of this collapse would ring out from.
...
South of Lilycove City, there was an uninhabited island deliberately erased from the nautical charts.
The salty sea breeze carried the waves, washing over the black reefs again and again with a dull roar.
The afterglow of the setting sun dyed the sea surface into a sheet of broken gold, and the light cast long, distorted shadows on the jagged rock walls.
Ariel stood within those shadows, his back to the noisy training ground behind him.
The black Team Rockets uniform he wore didn't have a single wrinkle; he was like a sharp blade sheathed, his aura restrained yet unable to hide its edge.
"Lord Ruth."
Yuki's voice came from behind him, carrying a hint of professional respect.
She held a thin data pad in her hands, its screen flowing with blue data streams.
"Regarding the Gyarados captured in the last mission—besides the ten distributed to the squad members, the rest and other Water-type Pokémon have all been exchanged through internal channels. A total of 3,000 points was gained."
"Following your instructions, the points have been exchanged for eleven sets of the latest phantom combat suits and a large amount of Pokémon cultivation resources. All supplies have been put into storage."
Ariel did not look back, his gaze still fixed on the boundless sea.
He gave an "Mm" in response.
Yuki paused, seemingly weighing her words:
"My Lord, regarding that Gyarados reserved for you... I am a civilian staff member mainly responsible for intelligence and logistics, I don't really need—"
Before she could finish, Ariel finally turned around.
His eyes were calm, without a ripple, but Yuki involuntarily shut her mouth.
Beneath that calm was a pressure that made her heart race.
"Being non-combat personnel doesn't mean you lack combat capability."
Ariel's voice wasn't loud, but it reached Yuki's ears clearly.
"Yuki, you are very smart; your brain is your weapon. But if one day your weapon fails, what will you use to save your life?"
He raised his hand and pointed toward the nearby beach where people were sweating profusely.
"Go, join them."
Yuki's gaze followed the direction of his finger.
On the beach, a training session that could be described as self-torture was underway.
A burly man codenamed 'No. 1' was carrying a massive granite rock as heavy as a Munchlax, running through the ankle-deep sand with heavy, uneven steps.
Sweat had long since soaked through his combat vest, clinging to his body and outlining muscles as knotted as rocks.
With every step he took, he breathed out a puff of hot white air. His eyes were bloodshot, looking like a madman.
Not far away, the smallest member, 'No. 7', was engaged in unrestricted combat with her new Pokémon—a Kingler with arms like iron pincers.
She used no weapons, relying only on her physical body to repeatedly dodge the massive claws capable of snapping steel bars, looking for openings to strike the Kingler's hard shell with her elbows and knees.
Every collision produced a dull, tooth-aching thud.
Further away, several team members were dodging energy beams fired by high-speed training robots. Although the beams weren't lethal, a single hit was enough to tear skin and leave the body paralyzed.
They rolled and jumped clumsily, but their movements became increasingly agile through each limit-pushing evasion.
This was the devilish training Ariel had custom-designed for 'Team Evil'.
Here, the boundary between human and Pokémon was blurred, and physical limits were repeatedly broken and reshaped.
Everyone had to be a qualified warrior first, and then a qualified Trainer.
Yuki watched those faces, distorted by pain yet filled with determination, and her throat felt dry.
She was used to being in the safe rear, tapping on a keyboard, manipulating data, and winning battles from thousands of miles away.
That kind of savage training involving blood and sweat was too far removed from her.
"Um... My Lord,"
She protested softly, almost in a whisper,
"Actually, I... I really can just rely on my brain..."
"Hmm?"
Ariel merely let out a soft grunt from his nose, his eyelids lifting slightly.
With just that, Yuki shuddered all over, feeling as if an invisible giant hand had seized her throat.
All the words she wanted to say were instantly blocked, leaving only instinctive fear.
She turned around stiffly, her arms and legs moving out of sync, and took small, hurried steps toward that living hell.
"Reporting! Clerk Yuki, here to report!"
Her voice carried a sob, yet she didn't dare not make it loud and clear.
'No. 1', who was instructing the team members, stopped and looked back at this frail-looking girl with glasses, then glanced at the expressionless Ariel in the distance. He grinned, revealing a row of white teeth, his smile full of schadenfreude.
"Commander Yuki? Very good. See that rock over there? The smallest one. Pick it up and run ten laps around the beach. If you don't finish, no dinner for you."
Yuki looked at that 'smallest' rock, which was at least half a person tall, and her face turned pale.
She looked toward Ariel for help, but saw only a cold back.
Ariel looked out at the sea again. The sunset had faded, and the night had begun to shroud the land.
The sea breeze ruffled his clothes, bringing a hint of chill.
He could feel behind him that the smart girl was using all her strength to let out a wail, followed by the rustling sound of the rock being barely dragged across the sand.