The dust of the final blow still clung to the Gym’s rafters as the League official raised her hand.

  “Heracross is unable to battle. The winner is Swampert.”

  The cheer came late—less like an explosion, more like a release. A breath the entire building had been holding finally exhaled.

  But Al didn’t hear it.

  He knelt at the edge of the cracked floor, meeting Swampert’s gaze. His partner’s breathing was ragged. His stance wavered, one knee dipping, the other trembling from effort.

  But his eyes were still sharp.

  Still steady.

  Al nodded.

  That’s enough.

  A flash of red light swept across the arena, and Swampert disappeared into the safety of his Poké Ball.

  Al clipped it back to his belt and turned, the fractured floor giving a soft groan under his boots.

  (break)

  The recovery wing of Azalea’s Pokémon Center was a small, quiet ward removed from the usual bustle of treatment. It was designed for Gym challengers—equipped not just to heal, but to preserve privacy.

  Al stepped inside alone.

  The doors sealed behind him with a soft hiss. Cool white light glowed over the recovery tank as the automated assistant reached for Swampert’s ball. Al handed it over without a word.

  The tank opened slowly, filling with a shallow pool of temperature-controlled water.

  Swampert reappeared in a flood of red light.

  The second he hit the water, his muscles uncoiled. His head tilted back. His eyes stayed open.

  He wasn’t asleep.

  Just still.

  The hydrotherapy system began to hum. Arms unfolded from the tank’s edge—scanners, tension analyzers, sub-dermal massagers.

  Al pulled a chair up beside the tank and sat.

  For a long time, neither of them moved.

  (break)

  Al leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, watching the monitor scroll.

  Swampert’s pulse rate was already returning to baseline. Minor internal bruising. Severe fatigue. But the system marked his overall state with a green bar labeled “Stabilizing.”

  “Of course,” Al murmured.

  His reflection blinked back at him in the tank’s glass.

  And then—

  Swampert’s arm twitched.

  Not from pain.

  The movement was short, tight.

  It looked like a punch.

  Not a real one.

  Just muscle memory.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  A blow remembered, even in sleep.

  Al didn’t smile.

  But he nodded, faintly.

  (break)

  Some time passed.

  Then Al reached to his belt and tapped Gardevoir’s ball.

  She emerged in a soft, quiet shimmer of light.

  No sound. No question.

  She stepped beside the tank and laid her hand gently against the glass.

  Swampert didn’t stir.

  She stayed there a moment—eyes closed, head slightly bowed.

  Al watched them without a word.

  Then, after a minute, he returned her to the ball.

  (break)

  As he stood to stretch, he walked over to the console in the corner and keyed in his access.

  The team’s vitals appeared—clean, efficient summaries, scrolling one after the other.

  Al read through them all.

  Then back again.

  He paused on Metagross’s chart.

  “…We’ll need a quiet place for him,” he muttered to himself.

  (break)

  Sometime later, a quiet knock announced Nurse Joy’s arrival.

  She carried no clipboard—just a small data slate and a faint smile.

  She glanced once toward the tank, then to Al.

  “I’ve rarely seen muscle and healing patterns like this,” she said.

  Al raised an eyebrow.

  “Swampert?”

  Joy nodded, tapping her screen. “Him, yes. And the rest of your roster. Not just strong—they’re efficient. Every system reads like they’ve been optimized for performance. No wasted energy. No strain beyond calculated levels.”

  She looked from the data to Swampert.

  “There’s pride in him. Not ego. Just… ownership. It’s rare.”

  Al didn’t respond.

  But Joy didn’t expect him to.

  She checked a few boxes, then offered a small bow.

  “He’ll be fully mobile by tomorrow night. I’ll have the final report sent to your room.”

  And she left.

  (break)

  Later, as the lights dimmed and the ward shifted into its evening cycle, Al leaned back in the chair again.

  He let his head rest against the wall.

  And without meaning to, a memory surfaced—

  The moment Swampert had taken Heracross’s Reversal.

  The blast of red light. The way he staggered.

  And still stood.

  Al hadn’t said much then.

  Just one thing.

  “Hold. Just hold.”

  He hadn't needed to say more.

  Swampert had understood.

  (break)

  He stood a little later, collecting the team’s Poké Balls from the cabinet.

  As he clipped each one back to his belt, he paused on Metagross’s.

  The ball was cold.

  But it hummed faintly when he touched it.

  Alive. Waiting.

  “We’ll get you moving again,” Al said softly.

  He tucked it away and turned toward the exit.

  (break)

  Outside, the Pokémon Center courtyard was quiet. Moonlight lit the cobblestones and the tops of the lampposts. The town had long since settled. Even the wind was still.

  Al walked slowly.

  No destination in mind.

  He circled the block once—hands in his coat, boots whispering against the stone.

  There was nothing to say.

  But he carried the silence like a badge.

  Not emptiness.

  Just peace.

  (break)

  As he reentered the Center, a trainer no older than fifteen stood by the front desk—half-asleep, still wearing a hoodie and mismatched shoes.

  The boy looked up when Al passed.

  His eyes widened.

  He didn’t say a name.

  Just said “He didn’t flinch.”

  Al paused.

  Looked at him.

  The boy nodded.

  “Your Swampert. I watched the match. He didn’t even flinch when Heracross hit him.”

  Al held the boy’s gaze for a second longer.

  Then nodded once.

  And walked on.

  (break)

  Back in his room, the lights were dimmed.

  Al placed each Poké Ball in its slot on the desk rack, pausing for just a second over Swampert’s.

  Then Metagross’s.

  He tapped the activation panel, watching the blue light pulse faintly within.

  Not dead.

  Just resting.

  He stood there for a long moment.

  Then turned off the lights.