They say this place hasn't changed in a hundred years.
And, standing here—bare feet pressed against the smooth tatami, incense thick in my lungs—I almost believe it.
Outside of these walls, Saffron City hums like a living machine: streets pulsating with lev-trains, holographic ads floating over rooftops, kids my age streaming Pokémon battles to thousands of viewers in real time. But inside the dojo… time stands still. The air is heavy with tradition. Every plank, every hanging banner, every echo of fists meeting flesh carries the weight of generations.
Saffron City's Fighting Dojo
My home.
I tighten the belt of my training gi and glance around the main hall. Nearly fifty disciples stand in perfect lines, the morning sun filtering through paper walls to catch the dust motes drifting between them. At the far end, incense curls lazily beside the great bronze gong.
My father—Renji Renshiro, Sensi of Saffron—stands before it, arms folded behind his back, his gaze quiet yet somehow deeper than any punch.
"The Trial of the Heir," he says in a low, steady voice, "is not a test of strength, but of harmony. As the ancients taught—"
He pauses, his eyes scanning the room.
"A true fighter strikes twice: once with his fists, and once through his bond."
A murmur runs through the disciples, reverent. I mouth the words, silently. I've heard that quote a thousand times—painted above the entrance, whispered during meditation, drilled into every lesson.
Father continues.
"First, each contender must prove mastery of their own body. Then mastery of their command. Win both, and you show balance between discipline and empathy—the foundation of our way."
His eyes find me.
"Aran. Step forward."
I breathe in slowly, bow, and then walk to the center mat. My steps creak on the polished wood.
"Three opponents await you," Father says. "Each of growing skill. Fail to balance body and bond, and you will not be ready to inherit what is yours by blood."
I almost say, I never asked to inherit anything. But I bite my tongue.
The gong sounds.
First Duel – Haru of the Second Line
Haru steps forward—a broad-shouldered apprentice two years older than me. He's all muscle and confidence, eyes glinting like polished stone.
He bows. I return the gesture.
"Begin!"
He moves first, a blur of motion. His right fist cuts the air; I duck under it, pivot, and drive my elbow toward his ribs. He blocks, but I feel the shock travel up his arm. A cheer rises from the watching disciples.
We trade blows—controlled, deliberate. No wasted movement. Haru fights to overpower; I fight to redirect. The thuds of fists on forearms echo like drums.
Finally, I see an opening.
He overextends—too eager. I step inside his guard, sweep his legs, and pin him to the mat with a thump that rattles the floor.
The gong sounds once more.
"Winner, Aran."
Haru exhales sharply, then grins, offering a hand as I help him up.
"You're always good, it sucks," he says. "Annoying to hit. Harder to stop."
"Its just luck," I tease as i brush him off.
Laughter ripples through the hall.
"Round two," Father announces. "Pokémon command."
An attendant approaches, carrying two Poké Balls on a lacquered tray. Both are marked with the dojo's seal—a golden fist surrounded by aura flames.
Haru takes his; I take mine.
With a click, the balls open, flooding the air with white light that condenses into two shapes, Haru's Machop, flexing its grey arms, and my Hitmonchan, wrapping its gloved fists with a faint blue aura.
Both bow slightly to each other before raising their guards. The audience hushes.
"Begin!"
Haru wastes no time. "Machop, Focus Energy—then Low Sweep!"
Machop's body tightens with inner light before darting low, foot slicing across the tatami. "Counter with Quick Step and Mach Punch!" I command.
Hitmonchan blurs out of range, gliding to the side with a soft thud, then drives a glowing fist into Machop's chest—THWACK!
Machop staggers, gasping. Haru calls, "Brick Break, now!"
The two collide midair, fists flashing, aura crackling in streaks of blue and white. Dust rises around them, drifting through beams of sunlight. Finally, Hitmonchan's punch lands square across Machop's guard, sending him tumbling backward into a roll.
"Enough," Father's voice cuts through the noise.
Both Pokémon freeze instantly.
He nods. "Aran—victory."
Haru bows deeply, sweat streaking his brow. "As expected, heir."
But I'm already wiping my own sweat, pulse steady. I don't want to be your heir, I think.
Second Duel – Reina, Disciple of the Iron Step
Reina's smaller than Haru, but faster—sharp eyes, quicker reflexes. She's one of the dojo's best in agility forms.
When she bows, her smile is thin but genuine. "Don't hold back just because I'm graceful," she says.
"I wouldn't dare."
We circle each other, steps light on the mats. Reina's movements are fluid—like she's dancing more than fighting. She darts in, striking with a palm thrust; I parry, block, step back. She doesn't stop—high kick, low sweep, pivot, spin.
I absorb, redirect, adjust. Our feet slide on the tatami in quick bursts of sound: shfft—thud—slap.
Then she tries a feint. I catch her wrist mid-swing, twist, and stop an inch before her neck.
Her eyes widen. "You're annoying, Aran."
"So, I've been told."
The Pokémon round starts. This time, she calls, "Hitmonlee, on me!"
Her partner appears—a lean, tall figure stretching its legs with elastic ease. I release Hitmonchan again, who cracks its knuckles in answer.
"Hitmonlee, Double Kick!"
"Hitmonchan, Counter and Fire Punch!"
Hitmonlee's kicks slice through the air with whip-crack speed—thup! thup!—but Hitmonchan deflects, aura flaring orange as its glove ignites mid-swing. The fiery blow lands across Hitmonlee's side, forcing it back a few steps.
"Jump Kick, now!" Reina shouts.
Hitmonlee rockets forward—too fast to dodge cleanly—slamming into Hitmonchan's guard. The floor vibrates from the impact. Sparks flash where aura meets aura.
"Absorb the momentum—Pivot Hook!" I order.
Hitmonchan slides with the blow, twisting in a circular arc before delivering a counterpunch square to Hitmonlee's torso.
BAM!
The taller Pokémon collapses to one knee, panting.
Reina smiles despite herself. "You've improved."
"So have you."
We bow. She recalls her partner. I do the same.
Final Duel – Daigo of the Prime Path
Only one opponent remains.
Daigo is Father's oldest disciple—strong, serious, with a streak of silver at his temple even though he's barely twenty-five. People whisper that he'll succeed Father if I ever walk away.
He stands tall before me. "You've come far, Aran," he says quietly. "Let's see if you can surpass the limits of our art."
Father's eyes narrow. "Begin."
Daigo's first strike comes like lightning. A straight jab that I barely block. The next few seconds blur—strike, block, parry, counter. Each impact vibrates through my bones. He's heavier, faster, relentless.
I stumble, catch myself, breathe. He's testing me.
I change rhythm—fake left, feint high, drive a low kick to his thigh. It lands, but he grins. "Good." He grabs my arm, sweeps my leg, and I hit the mat hard.
The crowd gasps.
But I roll backward, spring up, and counter with a spinning backfist. It brushes his jaw. For a moment, we both freeze—equal, balanced.
The gong sounds softly.
"Draw," Father declares.
Daigo nods, expression unreadable. "Now for the bond."
The attendants bring our Poké Balls—his marked with the red seal of seniority.
"Primeape," Daigo calls, voice steady.
"Hitmonchan, standby," I answer.
The hall seems to tighten around us as both Pokémon materialize—Primeape snarling, aura wild and spitting sparks of red, while Hitmonchan steadies itself, breathing slow, fists glowing faint blue.
"Begin!"
"Primeape, Close Combat!"
"Guard up, weave, return with Comet Punch!"
Primeape rushes in, fists like hammers—BAM! BAM! BAM!—each blow forcing Hitmonchan back. I grit my teeth. "Counterclockwise pivot, uppercut!"
Hitmonchan ducks under the next swing, aura bursting bright as it drives an uppercut into Primeape's jaw—CRACK!
The crowd roars. Dust fills the air.
"Stay in it, Primeape! Thrash!" Daigo shouts.
Primeape spins into a frenzy, striking wildly. One hit catches Hitmonchan's shoulder, another his ribs. He's forced back, panting.
"Focus up! Detect, then Ice Punch!"
Hitmonchan's eyes flash white—Detect activates just in time. He sidesteps the next swing and slams his frost-coated fist into Primeape's side. The temperature drops, a faint trail of mist forming around the impact.
Primeape stumbles, growling, aura flaring one last time—then collapses to a knee, breathing hard.
Father raises his hand. "Enough."
Silence filled the area.
"Aran—victor of all rounds."
The disciples bow as I exhale, chest rising and falling with exhaustion.
Daigo steps forward, offering a hand. "You fight with discipline. But your heart's somewhere else, isn't it?"
I hesitate. "Maybe."
He smiles faintly. "Then find it. The dojo doesn't need another copy of Master. It needs someone real."
His words stick with me long after the crowd disperses.
Evening falls. The dojo grows quiet. My siblings chase each other outside, their laughter echoing faintly across the courtyard. Good for them, as they already and got their pokemon eggs yesterday.
I sit by the koi pond, the city's neon reflection rippling across the water. Beyond the walls, I can hear the soft hum of lev-trains, the pulse of a world moving forward without us.
Tomorrow is the Ceremony of the Heir. Three eggs. One destiny.
But I keep staring at my reflection and wonder—
If I'm meant to carry this legacy,
why does it feel like I'm already walking away from it?