Flying-type Tera energy surged in front of Flamigo, compressing into a thick beam that looked like it could punch a hole through the sky.
Under the overwhelming pressure of that Flying power, the entire arena began to tremble faintly.
This strike carried all of Elite Larry's honor—its power cranked to the maximum.
For the first time, the ever-casual Jason grew solemn. Watching the terrifying lance of energy, he gave the order.
"Miraidon."
"Let them see—give them a taste of future tech."
"Charge in—Volt Tackle, full power!"
Miraidon flicked him a glance, voice edged with impatience. "I know how to fight. Don't need you to teach me."
Jason chuckled. "Trust me—you won't go wrong. I'm a top-tier Trainer, remember."
"Rooaar!"
Miraidon stopped talking and threw back its head with a roar that shook the air. Every component, every circuit within it lit up at once. The Electric Terrain responded to its call and boiled over—the hexagonal grid across the floor flared several levels brighter. Endless electrical energy, finding its outlet, rushed into Miraidon's frame.
In this field it created, it was the sole ruler.
Lightning gathered and compressed on its body, condensing into a pure purple lance of destructive power. Then, with not a hint of evasion, it drove straight at the aqua Tera beam.
Purple thunder. Cyan pillar. They met dead-center.
No expected thunderclap—at the instant of collision, all sound died. Vision filled with white—so bright it hurt to open your eyes. The light swallowed everything—field, stands, the entire interior of Medali Gym.
A heartbeat later—
BOOM!
The delayed blast blew in, beyond hearing—more a physical shock. The stout energy shields visibly warped, groaning under the strain. Dust sifted from the dome.
People on the stands threw up their arms to shield eyes and ears, bodies pinned to their seats by sheer pressure.
The glare held for ten long seconds, then thinned. Gasps rippled as eyes refocused on the field. The specially reinforced Flying arena was unrecognizable—ground crazed with spiderweb cracks, a gargantuan crater charred black and seemingly bottomless at center.
On one side, Flamigo lay quiet—Tera crown shattered, crystal shell gone, eyes rolled white—clearly out cold.
On the other, Miraidon still stood. Purple sparks still popped over its plating; its chest heaved—proof that the clash had cost it too. Its strength was still far from peak—but even so, ending a Flying-Tera Flamigo was no great task.
The result was decided.
After a half-minute of absolute silence, the gym erupted into a tidal cheer.
"He won! Jason won!"
"Dear god—what did I just watch? That's a legendary—I saw a legend with my own eyes!"
"So strong! Iron Valiant, Gengar, and now—this mount! Every one of Jason's Pokémon is absurd!"
"From today, I'm Jason's die-hard. No one's talking me out of it!"
Larry stared at the field a long moment before exhaling like dropping a boulder. He recalled Flamigo. There was no bitterness on his face, no dejection—only the satisfied smile of someone who'd given and gotten everything.
He'd lost—thoroughly, without complaint.
He stepped down, picked his way through the torn-up floor, and stopped in front of Jason. He looked at the youth—and at the purple legend beside him—then offered his hand.
"Congratulations." Relief and genuine respect warmed his voice. "Your partners are truly remarkable."
He paused, a wry, regretful quirk to his mouth. "A pity."
"I never even managed to force you to fight in person."
…
Glaseado Town had its own style. Snow clung to the hillsides year-round, the air cooler than elsewhere. Yet within the city there was nothing cold or bleak—more like buzzing, even loud.
The air mixed two main scents: a sticky sweet blend of perfumes and the industrial bite of paint. Tangled with the hip-hop pounding from shopfront speakers, they set the city's unique tone.
Graffiti covered the walls—bright colors, wild lines. Pokémon appeared, exaggerated into art: a Bellsprout with a giant afro; a Snorlax in shades on a skateboard; a Meowth spraying "Glaseado No. 1" across a wall.
"Jason, Jason! Look at that!"
Gast's voice cut into his art gawking. He turned to see her floating at a storefront window, stubby hand pointing at a necklace—solid gold, shaped like a Cubone gnawing a bone; heavy, vulgar, and dazzling in the lights.
"I want it! Buy it for me!" she said, practically drooling.
"You're a Gengar—what would you do with that? You don't even have a neck," he drawled.
"I can wear it on my hand! So much drip!" She waved her tiny arm. "Your arm's thinner than the chain," he said. "It'd droop right off."
"I don't care! I want it! If you don't buy it, I'm sleeping on your face tonight!" Her go-to threat.
Jason sighed—well-used to her antics. He chose to ignore the gremlin—for now.
Iron Valiant followed in silence, not curious about the city. His focus stayed on the flow of energy. Since entering town he'd sensed a faint wave in the air, oddly in step with the music's beat—enough to make his internals hum.
They passed streets packed with streetwear and audio gear and finally found the goal—Glaseado Gym. Honestly, if not for the giant neon Ghost badge over the door, Jason would've thought it a new nightclub.
The façade was one huge graffiti wall; the heavy metal doors were studded and stickered, handles shaped like microphones. No receptionist—just two massive speakers pumping out relentless kick drums.
Jason slid off Miraidon and heaved the door open. A wave of heat and even louder music crashed over them.
Inside was far bigger than it looked—laid out like an underground livehouse. A standard battle stage stood in the center; around it, no stands—just high stools and bars. Strobes cut the darkness into slices.
At the far end, a DJ in an oversized hoodie worked his rig. And on the battle floor, an old woman stood—thick knit cap pulled low, baggy tracksuit, metal chains layered around her neck, hand gripping a stand mic, swaying with the beat, eyes closed—lost in her world. Short, hunched—but the absolute center of the space. Light, sound, rhythm—everything seemed to serve her.
Hip-hop, huh.
This was MC Ryme—the Ghost-type mistress of Glaseado. But next to Ryme stood another woman—severely out of place in the scene's swagger. Makeup immaculate; every line precise. A tailored gala dress, silk gloves, movements steeped in elegance and hauteur.
Jason knew her too—Alfornada's gym leader, the Psychic specialist, Tulip. What was she doing here?
As he watched, the beat flipped; Ryme's eyes snapped open—sharp, not a hint of age's haze. She ignored the other Trainers; her gaze cut straight over the crowd and locked on Jason.
"Yo, Trainer Jason—you finally showed!"
Her voice was husky, carried by breath, and fell naturally on the downbeat—each word exactly riding the drums.
"I've been waitin' a long time, brother."
Before he could answer, Tulip turned with a graceful motion, as if choreographed. Her cool, professional eyes studied Jason from face to Gengar to Iron Valiant.
"Oh? So it's you," she said, chill and slightly critical. "The Trainer Geeta and Larry won't stop praising. I'd like to see what's so special—firsthand."
Jason rubbed his nose. This could be fun. Two gym leaders at once wasn't standard gym fare.
He walked over with Gast and Iron Valiant. "Leaders Ryme, Tulip—hello. I'm here to challenge Glaseado Gym," he said calmly.
"A challenge? Always welcome," Ryme grinned, a flash of gold teeth. "But bad timing, I got a guest today." She jerked her chin toward Tulip. "Tulip says my battles ain't 'artistic' enough—came to swap notes. We were mid-chat when you rolled in."
Tulip's faint hum didn't confirm or deny it. Her gaze slid back to the two Pokémon—Gast poking at a strobe's pool of light on the floor, delighted; Iron Valiant a statue—but his optics flickered faster, battle systems warming.
"Gengar—and Iron Valiant," Tulip narrowed her eyes, encyclopedic knowledge humming. "Both top-class, both well-trained. No wonder you've made it this far."
A small smile tugged her lips as a bold thought clicked. "Since we're all here, why not play something more interesting," she said, eyes moving from Jason to Ryme. "Ryme—how about we team up?"
"Huh?" Ryme blinked, a step behind Tulip's leap.
"Double battle—two-on-two," Tulip continued, each word clear. "You and I together, against our challenger. If he wins, he takes both our badges."
Even the DJ slipped, scratching a squeal. Two leaders teaming for a double? That had probably never happened in Paldea's history.
"And if he loses?" Ryme asked, intrigued.
~~~
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