he Veilstone Gym didn't look like much from the street—stone walls, plain banner, a door better suited to a warehouse. Inside, the air pressed down. Not silence, but weight. Every fighter moved to the same unseen rhythm, their footfalls and breaths syncing with chalk circles drawn on the floor.
I signed my name: Orion. Three badges. Challenger. The aide nodded at the mats. "Warm up. Quiet."
Luxio hit the floor first, sparks skittering along his mane. I clipped the Shell Bell to his collar. "Two-step," I said.
A Machoke swept low. Luxio slid sideways instead of leaping, teeth snapping at where calf would be. The bell chimed. His eyes narrowed.
"Again."
This time sparks spat forward, a short jagged arc that scored the chalk line. Not Thunderbolt. Not yet. But range. The bell rang again, clear and cool. Luxio growled, but it was hunger now, not frustration.
Tyrunt took the chalk next, tail already twitching. "Half arcs," I ordered. "Kiss the line. Nothing more."
He snarled, swept his tail clean, the bell singing sharp. On the next arc, he tried faster—too fast. No chime. He growled, breath ragged.
"Again. Rhythm, not rage."
We worked until his tail trembled. He mixed in half-swipes at scattered pebbles, hints of the Rock Throw drills we'd started days before. His aim was still wild, but he was learning that distance wasn't pride—it was survival.
"Enough," I said. He huffed, but obeyed.
Grotle lumbered forward, vines twitching. I strapped the bell along his shell. A Meditite aide struck, palm hard. Grotle tilted, let it slide, tapped the wrist with a vine. Chime.
"Scatter," I ordered.
He rumbled, dug claws deep, and shook his shell. Leaves burst outward, messy and violent. The fence rattled with sharp cracks. Not Razor Leaf. Not yet Leaf Storm. Something in between. The bell sang steady. His eyes gleamed.
Honedge uncoiled from my shadow last, tassel wrapped tight around my wrist. "Reduce," I murmured, staff in my other hand.
He met the first strike flat, redirecting it with the ease of practice. The bell rang.
"Further," I said. His shadow stretched, licking the fence post. He snapped upward, striking wood with a clang. The bell chimed again, bright.
I nodded. "One more. Harder. Angle."
Honedge's tassel flexed, pulling me forward as he swept out, faster than before. For a blink I thought it was Shadow Sneak—until the air itself split with the motion, a clean arc of force that cracked across the mat and slammed into the post with a whip-crack.
Not shadow. Not flat. Aerial Ace.
The bell shrilled, higher than I'd heard it, clear as glass.
I froze. "That… wasn't Sneak."
Honedge's eye blinked once, unblinking otherwise. He hovered, blade gleaming in the light.
I let out a slow breath. "You've been holding that back."
The tassel tugged against my wrist. Not denial. Agreement.
"A sword that cuts air itself." I couldn't help the small smile. "Good. Very good. We'll use that."
Honedge's tassel tightened, just once. A pact.
By the time the drills ended, my shirt clung to me, sweat stung my eyes, and my voice was hoarse from commands. Luxio's arcs burned black lines across the mat. Tyrunt's tail left grooves where it had checked its power. Grotle's scatter leaves littered the ground in sharp-edged piles. Honedge's last str
ike still hummed in my bones.
The aide approached, arms crossed. He looked at the mat, then at me. "You'll have your match. Forty-eight hours. Closed ring. No theatrics. If you can't hold them, you don't leave with them."
I crouched, touched Tyrunt's jaw. His breath shuddered against my hand. "He answers me."
The aide held my stare another moment, then nodded.
That night, in the small hostel room, I set the Shell Bell on the table. My team gathered close, still humming with the day's work.
"Listen," I told them. "Fighting-types want close. We don't give it to them. Distance first. Rhythm always. Every note earned."
Luxio's tail twitched. Grotle rumbled. Tyrunt's eyes burned. Honedge pressed his tassel tight against my wrist.
The bell stayed silent. But the weight of the room was answer enough.