Without the slightest delay, the next group of people fled from Houndoom's sight, only to be driven straight into the cages. The iron doors clanged shut automatically, followed by screams that quickly faded into silence.
Each group took no more than three minutes. Those coming later felt despair creeping deeper, yet no one dared to resist Houndoom. Only Lucas remained calm, watching quietly. Houndoom's method was simple, but ruthlessly effective, made even more terrifying by the dim, oppressive environment.
Glare.
A move trainers hardly ever used—useless under ordinary circumstances—but amplified by the setting and Houndoom's mastery, it sent a chill down every spine in the room. Hundreds of people froze, terror paralyzing them completely.
Lucas recalled a lesson from a move instructor long ago: never underestimate any technique. He believed it firmly.
Half an hour passed, and out of over a hundred people, only the last group remained. Because there weren't enough people, Lucas's final group numbered only six. When the iron door opened for the last time, Lucas strode forward without hesitation, stepping into the sixth cage.
Clang!
The iron door shut behind him. A strong stench of blood hit his nostrils. The floor was slick with thick plasma, making each step treacherous. Above, a single, grimy light bulb swayed, barely illuminating the cage's interior.
Lucas's eyes scanned the room dispassionately. Nothing unsettled him—not the blood, not the screams, not the memory of what had happened earlier. Then, a Poké Ball rolled to his feet and burst open.
"Caterpie~"
A small, green Pokémon with a yellow belly and big, fluttering eyes stared up at him. Its pink antennae twitched. Lucas paused briefly, recognition flickering across his face—nostalgia mixed with the cold indifference of someone trained to survive.
Before he could react further, Caterpie launched a String Shot, its eyes now blood-red in the harsh light. Lucas sidestepped, expression unmoved, and crouched low. In one swift motion, he grabbed its antennae, restrained its head, and with the strength of his ten-year-old body…
Splat!
The antennae were pulled free, green fluid splattering across his pajamas. Lucas didn't flinch. The Pokémon twitched once, then collapsed into the sticky plasma. He wiped himself clean and waited as the others completed their tasks. When the invisible door opened, he walked out silently, never glancing back.
Even for a Golden Rank Killer, Lucas's heart wasn't cold by nature. But he could act decisively—killing even the youngest Pokémon without hesitation. He knew every creature had a weakness, and he exploited it without mercy.
Outside, he glanced at the five empty cages. The scent of blood, so potent in the confined space, had forced everyone to confront a simple truth: either you die, or I live.
This was the Ghost Ship Death Training Camp, and its bloody elimination method left no room for illusions.
"The quality of this batch is poor. Only thirty-eight out of one hundred and thirty-six passed the first round," a familiar voice said. From the shadows, the Golden Rank Killer appeared, followed by the Silver Rank Killer.
Looking at the survivors, the Golden Rank Killer's eyes glittered with excitement, a subtle terror for those who remained. Though shaken, the survivors had endured, their psychology hardened by what they had just done. Killing a Pokémon with their bare hands had changed them, whether they realized it or not.
"Congratulations. You've passed the first round. Next, we move directly to the second. Rules remain the same—kill, or be killed."
The Golden Rank Killer pressed a remote. Ten iron doors opened. Daggers gleamed on the floors of each cage.
With weapons, there's even less to fear. But the Pokémon are stronger now."
The numbers were called. Survivors stepped forward with trepidation, daggers in hand, and entered the cages. Tackle sounds, shouts, and cries echoed. Within a minute, silence fell once again.
Lucas was last. He strode to the eighth cage, a flicker of excitement in his eyes. The door slammed shut behind him. The room was drenched in darkness and blood. He cut his hand lightly with the dagger, letting a drop of blood fall.
A faint, stubborn sound came:
"Zorua~"
From the corner emerged a small black Pokémon, body low, eyes wary, tail twitching. Lucas's smile widened. This was not just any trial Pokémon—this was Zorua, the one who had survived countless trials, used and discarded, yet still alive.
Zorua had never met Lucas before. Its eyes widened with suspicion and curiosity, its body curling defensively. Lucas knelt slowly.
"Don't worry. I won't hurt you," he said softly, Dark Power beginning to flow around the cut wound. The drop of blood glimmered with shadow energy, radiating a tempting aura that only a Dark Type Pokémon could sense.
Zorua sniffed, hesitated, then slowly stepped forward. Its tongue flicked out to taste the blood.
Lucas observed it carefully. Zorua's body was scrawny, fur messy and dull, tail bare, scars marking its history of abuse. Lucas understood its past—rescued from death, kept alive only for training. A rare Pokémon, misunderstood and nearly forgotten.
"From now on, just follow me," Lucas said, brushing Zorua's messy fur. It stiffened for a moment, then accepted the gesture, a tentative trust forming.
Zorua whimpered softly:
"Zorua~"
The wound on Lucas's arm sealed naturally. Zorua rubbed against him briefly, signaling it had had enough. Lucas grinned, tapping its head.
"Zorua~"
Its eyes flickered with cunning and charm, a spark of its original playful nature intact. Though wary and hardened by life, it retained that spark—a companion worthy of trust.
The iron door opened. Lucas picked Zorua up carefully, feeling its thin frame, and walked out. Voices whispered around him:
"What is he holding?"
"It can't be a Pokémon…wasn't it supposed to be killed?"
Lucas ignored them. Zorua trembled slightly, but its heartbeat, fierce and alive, reassured him. One snarl had passed between them—a silent promise.
In that moment, a life-and-death duel had passed, and trust was forged.