—Gardevoir—

  The forest had grown quiet again. The kind of quiet that wasn’t absence but stillness. Like breath held. Like waiting.

  Gardevoir stood beneath the canopy, her posture serene, veil-like arms folded loosely. Her eyes remained half-lidded—not in sleep, but in watching. The kind of watching that reached through sound, air, and motion. She didn’t need sight to feel when the forest changed its rhythm.

  Al sat by the base of a tree, legs drawn up, not writing. Not speaking. Just still.

  That was when she understood him best—when he said nothing. His mind, shielded and disciplined, didn’t offer her thoughts unless he allowed it. But there were tremors. Echoes. Not words, but weight. Fatigue not of body, but of choice.

  He carried everything like it was tactical data. Pain. Memory. Worry. Categorized and shelved.

  He never asked for comfort.

  So she didn’t offer it in the way humans did. She didn’t kneel beside him or reach for his shoulder. Instead, she stood nearby. Present. Balanced. He never looked her way, but she felt the corner of his focus adjust—he knew she was there.

  That was enough.

  The others didn’t always understand his silences. Breloom vibrated with motion. Manectric waited for permission like a held bolt of lightning. Even Swampert, reliable and grounded, responded better to structured order.

  But she understood patience. She understood pauses between actions, not just the actions themselves.

  When he stood and continued walking, she followed.

  He didn’t need to call her.

  He never had.

  (break)

  —Salamence—

  The air shifted.

  Salamence opened his eyes.

  His wings rustled against the rock beneath him—old stone warmed by the sun and still holding its heat. He lifted his head, sniffed once, and looked across the ridge. Far below, Al moved quietly through the brush. Alone. Not hunting. Not training.

  Just walking.

  Salamence didn’t rise immediately. He watched.

  The forest had grown quieter in recent days, but not in the way prey fell silent. This was a deeper quiet. Measured. Ancient. He felt it in his bones. In his wings. Whatever lay beneath the ground here was old enough to demand respect, and so he had given it.

  But now that feeling was fading. The forest was letting them go.

  He stood, stretching his wings fully for the first time in hours. His joints cracked like thunder. He rolled his shoulders, turned in a half-circle, and took a short glide down to the clearing Al had just exited.

  He landed with enough force to stir dirt.

  Al didn’t flinch.

  Salamence respected that.

  This man was small. Weak in form. No claws. No armor. No wings. But he walked with precision. Measured. Never frantic. Never hesitant. That mattered.

  Salamence had once been untethered. No Trainer. No commands. He remembered the wilderness—battles without meaning.

  Al didn’t bark orders.

  He spoke with purpose.

  Every command fit the moment.

  And when he said nothing, Salamence chose for himself.

  That was power. Shared power. Not dominance.

  He could’ve left at any time. Could’ve crushed that ball in his jaw if he wanted.

  But he didn’t.

  He fought because he chose to.

  And when the time came again, when the next battle rose up like a storm over a cliff, he would stand beside this man and destroy whatever stood before them.

  Because Al didn’t demand obedience.

  He earned it.

  (break)

  —Gardevoir (Later, by firelight)

  That night, Gardevoir sat closest to the edge of the firelight, listening to the low sounds of the others settling around camp.

  Breloom had curled into the moss. Swampert rested near the embers, half-submerged in a shallow patch of earth he’d shaped with one strike. Salamence had taken the high ground—always watching, even when at rest.

  She didn’t sleep. She watched Al.

  He sat quietly, checking gear. His expression unchanged. But his mind was moving. That much she could always tell.

  He didn’t let her read him. But he didn’t stop her from being near.

  That mattered.

  Whatever lay ahead—cities, gyms, shrines—she would walk into it with him.

  And she knew, without needing to ask, that he would never take her choice for granted.

  (break)

  The forest had finally given way.

  The path ahead stretched wide and dry, framed by low brush and grasslands. The sky, unfiltered by canopy, looked too open after days beneath trees. Al stepped out onto the packed dirt trail without a word. The air felt thinner. The wind touched his face directly for the first time in days.

  Behind him, the team followed in a staggered line. Gardevoir walked just behind, silent as ever. Manectric’s gait was looser now that the trees weren’t boxing him in. Breloom bounced lightly on his toes, scanning the terrain as if daring something to make itself a target. Swampert moved steadily at the rear, posture relaxed but grounded.

  A few hundred meters off the main route, Al found what he was looking for—flat land, dry, open, with enough cover at the edges to keep it contained. He checked the wind, then nodded once.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “This’ll do.”

  He didn’t say more. The team already understood.

  (break)

  Training began with precision drills.

  Manectric went first, set thirty meters back from a painted target marker. Al didn’t speak. No signal beyond a raised hand and the flick of two fingers.

  Manectric launched. Dust kicked up behind him as he surged across the field and struck the marker dead-center. Al checked the time, logged it, and gestured again.

  The second run was tighter. The third was clean.

  “Good,” Al said, and Manectric circled out of formation.

  Swampert was next—not for speed, but impact control. Al placed markers in a loose semicircle. Each zone demanded a different force: a water burst to the left, a ground strike low center, an ice punch on a target to the right. Swampert completed the sequence with deliberate movements, controlling each output precisely.

  No wasted motion. No overkill.

  “Hold.”

  Breloom moved into position.

  His drills focused on burst mobility. Short sprints, sudden pivots, explosive turns. Al adjusted his own stance during each sprint, forcing Breloom to correct his vector mid-motion.

  The fighter missed a pivot once, skidded wide, then recovered in less than a second.

  “Again,” Al said. “Focus on the corner, not the arc.”

  No pushback. Breloom reset and ran it again—tighter this time.

  (break)

  After rotations, Al ran a short team drill: Breloom and Manectric against Swampert.

  No real strikes. Just pressure. Positioning.

  Breloom led with feints and lateral movement. Manectric darted in, tracing close arcs around Swampert’s anchor point. Swampert shifted with each pass, making no aggressive move—just blocking angles.

  Three passes. One graze.

  Al raised his hand to signal the end of the round.

  Reset. No one panting. No one pushed too far.

  Good.

  He stepped back and opened his notepad.

  Swampert: recovery steady. Power distribution normalized.

  Breloom: fast—needs tighter control on curved approaches.

  Manectric: acceleration curve improving. Controlled bursts optimal.

  He closed the file.

  “Rest.”

  Swampert immediately dug into a patch of dry earth and settled low. Manectric trotted to the edge of the field and dropped into a crouch. Breloom climbed a low boulder and stretched out along its slope.

  Al sat, opened his pack, and distributed basic rations.

  There were no orders, no speech. Just a quiet reset.

  But not all of them were finished.

  (break)

  Gardevoir stood just outside the field in her own quiet space. Around her, six small stones orbited at precise intervals, suspended in a soft psychic field. Then, in a flash of silence, she vanished—reappearing several meters away midair.

  She caught the stones before they hit the ground.

  Teleportation under load.

  She repeated it again. And again. Each time with different angles, offsets, speeds. Sometimes she allowed stones to fall before intercepting them. Sometimes she reappeared upside-down. A test of motion and memory, not just power.

  She didn’t miss.

  (break)

  Further out, Salamence exploded into flight.

  Not high—not for altitude—but in tight aerial loops around the ridgeline. He wasn’t testing speed. He was testing control. Directional reversals mid-glide. Sharp climbs. Controlled dives.

  Each time he passed near the southern marker, his tail clipped a boulder Al had positioned months ago. The indentations from previous training sessions were deeper now.

  He didn’t look toward the others.

  Just banked. And launched again.

  (break)

  Metagross didn’t move from his stone platform.

  He stood locked in a square stance, each leg grounded like a pillar. At set intervals, his claws lifted and struck embedded stones with precise, repeating movements. The angles adjusted between each strike—slight changes in degree, speed, weight.

  He wasn’t training for power. He was training for optimization.

  Every few strikes, he paused and pulsed a wave of psychic energy—recording patterns, running simulations. Scanning probabilities.

  His training wasn’t reactive.

  It was predictive.

  (break)

  Al watched without speaking.

  They trained not because he ordered it.

  They trained because each of them understood what came next.

  He didn’t need to push them.

  He just had to be ready when they chose to cut loose.

  And Goldenrod would give them that chance.

  (break)

  The route to Goldenrod stretched in a slow, winding path of grass-lined dirt and packed stone. Al walked at a steady pace, the sunlight warm on his shoulders. The terrain was even, the kind that asked nothing and gave back just enough momentum to keep moving.

  Gardevoir drifted silently at his side, veil-arms folding and unfolding with the rhythm of her movement. Manectric padded slightly ahead, ears rotating with every distant sound—no alertness, just habit. The rest of the team remained in their balls. There was no need for numbers out here.

  They were a few hours from the edge of Goldenrod’s outskirts when Al spotted a figure sitting on a sloped rock near a bend in the trail.

  An older trainer, mid-fifties by the look of him. Thick boots, worn cargo pants, and a navy vest over a long-sleeved travel shirt. His white beard was trimmed close, and a sturdy walking stick leaned against the rock beside him. A red thermos sat on the ground near his feet.

  As Al approached, the man looked up with an easy smile and nodded.

  “Afternoon,” he said. “Heading to Goldenrod?”

  “Yeah,” Al replied.

  “Mind if I tag along for a stretch?”

  Al paused, gave the man a brief once-over. No tension. No curiosity in his expression. Just the kind of calm that came with experience—and no recognition in his tone.

  “Sure.”

  They walked together.

  (break)

  The trail curved gently as it climbed. The older man kept pace without trouble, his steps steady, walking stick swinging lightly at his side.

  “Name’s Hunter,” he offered. “Been walking Johto trails since before a lot of the kids trying for badges were born. Used to travel full-time when I was younger. These days I just take a week or two each season to stretch the old legs.”

  Al nodded. “You still battle?”

  Hunter chuckled. “Sometimes. Usually just friendly matches, nothing high-stakes. My team's half-retired. One of them still thinks she’s twenty, though.” He grinned to himself. “A real spitfire of a Blaziken.”

  Al raised an eyebrow slightly but said nothing.

  Hunter didn’t seem to mind the quiet.

  “Goldenrod’s busy this time of year. Trainers flood in trying to get a feel for city life before heading north. The department store’s got a whole new shipment rotation—some rare TMs showing up. Saw someone mention Dragon Claw being on sale. That caught my attention.”

  His eyes flicked briefly toward Manectric.

  “Nice one you’ve got there. Good posture. Sharp footwork. Bet he can cut tighter arcs than most.”

  “He can,” Al said simply.

  “Figured.”

  They walked in silence for a bit longer. The outer silhouette of Goldenrod’s skyline was beginning to emerge—dark, solid shapes against the pale blue sky.

  Hunter tapped his walking stick lightly against a stone as they passed.

  “Gym scene’s changing too. Whitney’s trying to shake the old rep, from what I hear. Word is she’s testing new setups—more coverage, trickier tempo plays. Not official League stuff yet, but people are paying attention.”

  Al took that in without a word.

  Hunter kept talking, his tone casual.

  “Lot of League movement in the area lately, too. Heard from a nurse in Ecruteak that they’ve been quietly evaluating trainers who’ve been asking about alternate Gym formats. Star Badge tier matches. Special clearance types.”

  He glanced over, as if gauging Al’s reaction, then smiled again.

  “Probably nothing that concerns a traveler like me.”

  They reached a fork in the path not long after. Hunter slowed and pointed down the smaller trail.

  “My camp’s off that way. Won’t slow you down any more.”

  He offered a polite nod and a smile. “Safe travels, young man. If Goldenrod gives you a headache, take the eastern garden trails—less people, better coffee.”

  Al gave him a slight nod. “Thanks.”

  Hunter turned and walked off down the winding path, his walking stick ticking rhythmically against the ground.

  Al watched him go for a second longer, then resumed his pace toward the city.