The noise of the crowd thinned behind me the moment the Gym doors closed. For a few breaths Hearthome sounded like silence, as if even the streets had been watching the battle and were holding their breath. Then the city spilled back in—bells jingling from shopfronts, the cries of merchants in the square, laughter too sharp from a group near the market. The smell of bread drifted through the air, warm and thick, mixed with incense curling from a shrine doorway. All of it was too normal. Too quick after what had just happened.
Luxio prowled at my side, sparks still bristling along his mane. Tyrunt strutted proudly down the steps, claws clicking, frost still clinging to his snout. Grotle lumbered behind, leaves trembling faintly, his breathing deep and slow. Honedge floated by my shoulder, tassel brushing my sleeve as if to remind me that even here, in the open street, he was guarding me.
For a moment, I let all four of them walk beside me. It felt good, like carrying the weight of our victory in plain sight. But heads turned. A mother pulled her daughter closer. A shopkeeper stiffened when Tyrunt's claws sparked on the cobbles. A trainer paused mid-conversation and frowned at Luxio's snapping tail.
Cities had rules. No more than one Pokémon out at a time unless it was an official match or parade. Gyms forgave spectacle, but the streets never did.
I sighed, unclipping Luxio's ball. He growled, ears flat, refusing at first. "You finished it," I murmured, low enough for only him. "But you'll set the streets on edge if I leave you out." His eyes narrowed, annoyed, but the light pulled him in.
I rested my palm on Grotle's shell. "You held. You always hold. That's why we need you." His deep grunt rumbled like agreement before the beam took him.
Tyrunt pawed the ground, tail whipping once, too proud to surrender. His eyes blazed with the same fire that had carried him through Froslass's cold. "You broke ice," I told him. "You carried centuries in your skin and you broke ice." His chest puffed, satisfied, before the red light drew him back.
When I reached for Honedge's ball, my hand brushed empty air. Of course. He had already sunk into my shadow, sliding down my arm with that soundless drift that belonged only to him. His eye blinked once from the outline at my feet, then stilled. He never needed recalling. He was always there, whether anyone saw him or not.
The street looked emptier without them, but Hearthome gave me more room now. People passed without staring. The bells above a tea shop door jingled as someone went in, ordinary and unbothered.
The badge in my pocket felt heavy, but not heavy enough to matter. Badges didn't buy growth. What we needed now wasn't just courage in a fight—it was refinement. I'd seen firsthand what a tutor could do. Luxio's Bite had been sloppy once, all lunges and missed angles. Hours under the eye of an old battler had turned it into instinct, something sharp enough to finish Mismagius. That kind of training changed battles. It also emptied your wallet. The good tutors always did.
Luxio still needed more—he had to turn his fury into precision, fangs that could cut through more than shadows. Grotle deserved more than to be only a wall; with the right teacher, he could turn the ground itself into a weapon. Tyrunt's tail needed more than my makeshift drills—he needed a regimen, conditioning, someone who understood how to shape dragons out of stubborn muscle. And Honedge… my shield, my shadow… there were rituals, bladework, things only certain mentors could teach that would let him slice through lies instead of only blocking them.
Every step forward came with a price. Tutors charged in hundreds. Items, too—the right berries, herbs, bands, and charms drained coin faster than a Tyrunt at feeding time. Some trainers solved the problem by catching new partners, filling the gaps in their teams with fresh blood instead of refining what they had. It was tempting. A fifth voice, the right one, could change the whole balance. But even that had a cost: the time to raise them, the bond to forge. Everything had a price.
I found myself staring at the job board outside the Center. New slips of paper were pinned there already, layered like scales. Lantern stringers, one hundred Poké an hour. Escort work with bells for the night streets. Contest props for seventy-five. Sparring partners for two hundred if you could take hits from Fighting-types. My eyes caught on the courier listing: a package from Hearthome Center to the daycare in Solaceon, delivery fee and tip included. That one made sense. Work and travel in the same step.
The sun was sliding down by the time I left the board. Hearthome glowed gold in the low light, lanterns swaying above narrow streets, bells chiming from doorways, incense drifting from balconies. I walked with my hands brushing the Poké Balls at my belt—three tucked safely away, and Honedge a silent weight in my shadow.
I thought briefly of Cynthia. Not her words, not even her face—just the way she always tilted her head when she looked at me, as if she could see the story I'd been telling without me opening my mouth. If she asked what story I told today, I think I'd know the answer. We didn't let Fantina write us. We wrote it ourselves. Luxio's ferocity, Grotle's patience, Tyrunt's defiance of ice, Honedge's shield.
The badge case clicked shut in my pocket. The bells above a shop door rang as someone stepped through, and for the first time all day, the sound felt like it belonged to me. The road east waited—Solaceon, the Lost Tower, Veilstone. Another test, another step forward. And I would take it with shadows at my heels and four promises tied to my belt.