Enzo and Proton stepped out of Room 202 and walked down the plush hotel corridor to Room 200.
Enzo didn't knock. He signaled Proton. Proton hammered his fist against the wood three times.
"Ronnie! Move it!"
A shuffling sound came from inside, followed by a loud thump, as if someone had fallen out of bed. A moment later, the door creaked open.
Ronnie stood there. His hair was sticking up in four different directions. He rubbed his eyes, yawning.
"What time is it? Is the building on fire?"
Enzo stared. Proton stared.
Ronnie wasn't wearing a tactical uniform. He wasn't even wearing normal sleeping clothes. He was wearing a bright orange onesie. It was covered in a print of splashing Magikarps. And to make matters worse, the hood—which was currently draped over his shoulder—had googly fish eyes and a floppy fin.
Silence stretched in the hallway.
Proton looked at Ronnie's chest, then down to his feet (which were encased in fuzzy slippers), and then back up to his face.
"Is that..." Proton started, his voice dripping with disgust. "Is that a tail?"
Ronnie looked down at his pajamas, then shrugged shamelessly.
"It's comfortable, okay? Don't judge the drip. It breathes."
Enzo sighed, a long, suffering exhale.
"You have two minutes," Enzo said coldly. "Get dressed. Uniforms. We are going to the League Center."
Ronnie blinked. "The League? Like... officially?"
"Two minutes, Ronnie," Enzo repeated. "Or I'm telling Proton to burn that onesie while you're still wearing it."
Ronnie's eyes widened. He slammed the door shut.
From inside, they heard the sounds of frantic scrambling, crashing objects, and a zipper being forced.
Exactly one minute and fifty seconds later, Ronnie burst out of the door. He was wearing his civilian disguise clothes, boots tied, and hair somewhat flattened.
"Ready!" Ronnie saluted, breathless.
Proton shook his head. "I'm never going to unsee the fish."
They walked through the streets of Cerulean City.
The city was bustling. Trainers, tourists, and businessmen filled the sidewalks. The Cerulean League Center stood in the middle of the district—a massive building of glass and blue steel, radiating authority.
Enzo stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
"Wait here," Enzo ordered.
"We're not coming in?" Ronnie asked.
"No," Enzo said. "Prodigies don't travel in packs. 'Enzo Vance' is a solo act. You two hanging around me just looks like I have bodyguards or friends. Neither fits the image I need right now."
Proton nodded, understanding the play. "We'll watch the perimeter. Get a coffee."
Enzo fixed his jacket, adjusted his expression from 'Rocket Leader' to 'Serious Young Professional,' and walked up the stairs alone.
The interior of the League Center was air-conditioned and smelled of floor wax. It was crowded. Dozens of trainers were lined up at various counters—some registering for Gym challenges, others checking rankings.
Enzo bypassed the main lines and went to the desk marked TOURNAMENT REGISTRATION.
Behind the glass, a clerk—a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a badge that said 'Stan' was typing furiously on a keyboard. He didn't even look up when Enzo approached.
"Name and Trainer ID," Stan said, his voice monotone. "If you're here for the Gym Challenge, you're in the wrong line."
"I'm here for the Kanto Junior Tournament," Enzo said calmly.
The clerk stopped typing. He sighed, a heavy, tired sound. He finally looked up, eyeing Enzo with blatant skepticism.
"The Junior?" Stan adjusted his glasses. "Kid, do you know how many applications we get a day? Every trainer with a Charmander thinks they're the next Professor Oak. We have strict requirements. You need sponsors. You need a verified record."
He waved a hand dismissively.
"Go get a few badges first. Come back next year."
Enzo didn't move. He didn't get angry. He simply reached into his pocket and placed two things on the counter.
The black League ID card. And the Letter of Recommendation.
"Check the signature," Enzo said softly.
The clerk groaned, picking up the letter like it were a waste of his time. "Look, I don't care if your mom wrote a note, we don't accept—"
His voice died in his throat.
Stan froze. His eyes locked onto the embossed thunderbolt seal at the top of the page. Then they dropped to the bottom.
Lt. Surge.
The clerk swallowed hard. He looked at the letter, then at Enzo, then back at the letter. The boredom vanished instantly, replaced by a sudden, frantic politeness.
"I... my apologies, Mr. Vance," the clerk stammered, straightening his tie. "I didn't realize... I mean, a recommendation from the Vermilion Leader directly... that's... rare."
"Is it sufficient?" Enzo asked.
"More than sufficient. It's a priority pass," the clerk said quickly.
He typed rapidly on his computer, his attitude completely transformed. A printer whirred to life behind him.
"You are in the system, Mr. Vance. Confirmed."
He slid a heavy registration form across the counter, along with a digital pamphlet.
"Now, listen carefully to the regulations," the clerk explained, his tone respectful. "The Tournament begins in exactly one month. Thirty days from today."
Enzo nodded. One month. Good.
"The format is strict," the clerk continued. "You are allowed a roster of Four Pokémon. No more, no less."
"To ensure fairness in the Junior bracket, the average level of your registered team cannot exceed Level 38. If your average is 38.1 on check-in day, you are disqualified." the clerk said.
The clerk pointed to a date on the form.
"You have one month to prepare. On the day of the opening ceremony, you must present your belt at any League Center—here, Saffron, or Indigo Plateau—to have your team scanned and locked. Once scanned, you cannot change the roster."
"Understood," Enzo said.
"Good luck, Mr. Vance," the clerk said, offering a nervous smile. "If you're half as good as Surge... you'll go far."
Enzo took the papers.
"I plan to."
Enzo walked out of the League Center and into the bright sunlight.
He took a deep breath. The cool air tasted like opportunity.
One month.
He had expected a week. Maybe two. But thirty days? Thirty days in a System-governed world was an eternity. It was enough time to grind. Enough time to hunt.
He walked down the stairs to meet Proton and Ronnie.
As he walked, his mind raced with calculations. With a month of dedicated training, he didn't just have to rely on capturing new Pokémon.
He thought of the Deino. The dragon was young. Blind. Reckless. But its potential was massive. Currently, it was too weak and undisciplined for a tournament. But in thirty days?
If I push him, Enzo thought. If I use the System to optimize his growth... I might be able to make him viable.
If he could get Deino combat-ready, that filled his third slot. That meant he wouldn't need to scramble for two new recruits.
He just needed one. One final Pokémon to complete the narrative. One final "misunderstood monster" to round out the team of Enzo Vance.
He reached the bottom of the stairs. Ronnie was eating a pretzel he bought from a street vendor. Proton was cleaning a knife with a napkin.
"Done?" Proton asked, putting the knife away.
Enzo held up the registration form.
"Done," Enzo said, a sharp glint in his eyes. "We have thirty days. And I know exactly how we're going to use them."
He opened his mouth to explain the training schedule, to tell them they were going to scour the routes north of the city.
Buzz.
The vibration against his thigh cut him off. It wasn't the polite chime of his new civilian phone. It was a harsh, rhythmic pulse.
Enzo stopped mid-sentence. His expression hardened instantly.
He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out the Shadow Device—the matte black, encrypted communicator Nero had issued them.
The screen was dark. Enzo pressed his thumb against the biometric scanner.
Beep.
Red text scrolled across the display.
[ INCOMING TRANSMISSION ] SENDER: EXECUTIVE NERO
Enzo tapped the message. It was short. No greetings. No codes. Just orders.
LOCATION: NUGGET BRIDGE. NORTH SECTOR. TIME: 23:00. STATUS: MANDATORY.
Enzo stared at the coordinates. Nugget Bridge. The famous "challenge road" north of Cerulean. At night, it was empty. Perfect for a gathering that didn't want to be seen.
"Enzo?" Ronnie asked, dropping the rest of his pretzel. "Bad news?"
Enzo slid the device back into his pocket. The excitement of the tournament faded, replaced by the cold reality of their true job.
"Change of plans," Enzo said, his voice dropping to a whisper.
He looked at Proton and Ronnie.
"Forget the training for tonight. We just got the call."