"Weedle, use Tackle!"
As soon as Hora's command fell, Weedle arched its yellow body like a small, coiled spring. It gathered all its strength and lunged toward the Farfetch'd opposite it.
But just as it left the ground by half a foot, the gentle sound of his mother waving her folding fan drifted over. "Farfetch'd, fly up to dodge. Then use Aerial Ace—only use ten percent of your power."
Before the words had even finished, Farfetch'd—holding its leek stalk in its wing—flapped once and rose gracefully into the air. Weedle's Tackle hit nothing but air, leaving the little Pokémon stumbling and swaying in place.
Before it could steady itself, a sharp white light dove from the sky and slammed solidly into its back. Weedle rolled twice across the grass before coming to a stop.
"Weedle, are you okay?" Hora rushed forward two steps, his voice full of worry.
He watched as Weedle struggled to push itself up halfway. It shook the small, sharp horn on its head and let out two crisp but stubborn hisses. There wasn't a hint of fear in its round compound eyes; instead, they seemed to burn with small flickers of fire, a surging battle spirit that nearly overflowed.
Looking at this, Hora couldn't help but nod. As expected of a Pokémon that will one day evolve into Beedrill. It's only been hatched for a week, and it already has such resilience.
"Good! Then let's continue! Weedle, use String Shot! Slow down and trap Farfetch'd!"
Upon receiving the command, Weedle stood tall. It opened its mouth and sprayed countless shimmering, fine silk threads. In an instant, they wove into a thin net, casting toward the Farfetch'd still suspended in mid-air.
Farfetch'd flapped its wings frantically to break free, but the silk had already tangled its feathers like a light veil, noticeably slowing its movements.
"Now! Weedle, use Poison Sting!" Hora seized the opportunity and shouted.
The horn on Weedle's head suddenly glowed with a ghostly purple light. Immediately, several poison needles, as fine as cow hair, shot out from the tip. Streaked with purple light, they sped toward the silk-entangled Farfetch'd.
"Controlling the field with String Shot and following up with Poison Sting... a decent idea." His mother smiled gently, her folding fan swaying again, a hint of approval hidden in her eyes. "But you're still a bit green when it comes to playing with poison in front of me. Farfetch'd, use Poison Jab."
The struggling Farfetch'd suddenly steadied itself, its gaze turning sharp. Holding its leek stalk firmly in its right wing, it slashed at the air toward the incoming needles. Two deep purple energy blades materialized like small, sharp swords, precisely striking down every single poison needle. Not a single one got through. The needles hit the grass and quickly vanished.
"Next, Farfetch'd, shred the silk. Get close and use Fury Cutter with Poison Jab—twenty percent power this time."
The command was issued, and the leek in Farfetch'd's wing spun rapidly around its body. In a flash of cold light, the silk tangled in its wings and claws was sliced into fine cotton-like bits that drifted away on the wind, completely dissipating moments later.
In the next second, its form blurred. By the time Hora and Weedle could react, Farfetch'd was standing firmly in front of Weedle. The leek stalk, wrapped in a faint purple glow, moved so fast it was merely an afterimage, repeatedly striking Weedle with perfectly measured force.
Thud! Weedle was sent flying again, hitting the grass hard. Its yellow body trembled slightly. In the spots where the "Fury Cutter Poison Jab" had landed, faint purple marks remained, looking like a thin layer of frost.
It shook its horn, struggling to prop itself up, but as soon as it lifted its body, it slumped back onto the lawn, letting out a weak, frustrated hiss.
"Alright, that's enough," his mother said, closing her fan. She walked over to Hora, her gaze turning warm as it landed on Weedle. "Farfetch'd, go rest for a bit. And pick some berries for it while you're at it."
Farfetch'd gave a crisp "Quack!", shook off the remaining silk fragments from its wings, and flew toward the fruit trees in the corner of the yard. It had only used twenty percent of its power throughout the fight and remained steady, though it gave Weedle a look like an old veteran scouting a rookie—as if saying, "You've still got a long way to go."
Hora ran over and carefully picked up Weedle. He could feel the little creature's slight tremors through his fingertips, and guilt surged through him. "Does it hurt? It's my fault... you're only a week old and I'm already rushing you into battle training..."
Weedle nudged his palm gently with its head. The purple glow on its horn dimmed, but it stubbornly tilted its head toward the direction Farfetch'd had gone, as if saying, "I can keep going."
Looking at its defiant spirit, Hora suddenly remembered the day Weedle hatched. The little guy had cracked its shell, looked at him once, and immediately stung him so hard he was foaming at the mouth. He'd spent a whole day in bed despite taking an antidote. At the time, he'd laughed at its "fiery temper," but now he realized that fire was a refusal to ever give up.
Just then, a deep green vine reached over, holding a small silver bottle of Potion spray. It was Venusaur. It had lumbered over from the flowerbed at some point, watching Weedle with gentle, round eyes.
"Apply this to its wounds," his mother's voice came. "This is a medicine neutralized with Beedrill venom sac extracts. It's specifically designed for minor injuries caused by Poison-type moves; it won't irritate it."
She paused, watching Hora's focused profile as he applied the medicine. "Your logic was sound—using String Shot to restrict movement and Poison Sting for long-range pressure is a standard Poison-type tactic. But you ignored one thing..."
"I know," Hora said, his fingers carefully avoiding Weedle's wounds. "Once I saw the silk hit, I was too eager to have Weedle use Poison Sting. I didn't consider that Farfetch'd could use Poison Jab to swat the needles away, or that it could use its speed to close the distance..."
"Not just speed." His mother knelt down, picked up a dry twig, and drew a simple battle diagram on a stone table. "Look, Weedle's String Shot was fast, but the threads were too scattered. It only tangled Farfetch'd's wings, but didn't bind its joints. If you had concentrated the silk on its ankles or the base of its wings, it would have taken an extra second to break free even if it used its leek. That one second would have been enough for your Poison Sting to hit."
She pointed to three spots on the diagram. "And the angle of the Poison Sting. You had Weedle fire directly at Farfetch'd's front; it only had to parry left and right. But if you split the needles into three paths—one for the head, one for the wings, and one for the feet—even if Weedle couldn't hit accurately yet, it would have disrupted the rhythm, making it harder to counter so easily."
Hora stared at the diagram on the stone table, the realization hitting him like a bolt of lightning. "So that's it! I was so focused on the 'Combo' that I didn't polish the details of each move..."
At that moment, Farfetch'd returned, carrying a cluster of bright red berries in its beak. It placed them gently on the stone table and pushed the largest one toward Weedle with its leek. The scrutiny in its eyes had faded, replaced by a touch of warmth.
Weedle hesitated for a moment before taking a bite. The sweet juice spread through its mouth, and its tense body finally relaxed.
"The advantage of Poison-type Pokémon has never been 'brute force,' but 'calculation,'" his mother said, handing a berry to Hora. "Your father studies Ghost-types; he relies on using the environment to hide and catch opponents off guard. But Poison-types rely on using skills to slowly whittle away an opponent's stamina, or even making them lose the ability to fight entirely through poisoning."
She pointed to Weedle, who was nibbling the berry. "It's still young. Its venom isn't strong, and its silk control is lacking. But its advantage is fast growth. As long as you train the 'details' and 'tactics' perfectly, those foundations will become its sharpest weapons once it evolves into Beedrill."
Hora looked down at the Weedle in his palm. The little guy was eating seriously, its horn occasionally flickering with purple light, as if it were silently digesting the experience from the battle.
"Mom, are we training again tomorrow?"
His mother laughed and rubbed his hair. "Of course. But next time, I'll have Farfetch'd use thirty percent of its power. You and Weedle will both have to keep up."
The setting sun filtered through the fruit trees, casting dappled light on the boy and his Pokémon. It felt warm. He suddenly understood that this "crushing defeat" was more meaningful than any easy victory.